it, balancing it on the palm of his hand. ‘That’s quite a kick.’ His glance measured the distance from the broken panes of the greenhouse roof to the top of the wall. ‘For a girl.’ And he grinned up at Clover, who was still clinging to her tree top perch. ‘Is your dad a professional coach?’
‘No, my daddy’s in heaven.’
Well, as conversation-stoppers went, that took some beating. ‘Clover, if you don’t get down right now,’ Stacey warned, turning away from the disturbing sight of the man’s muscle-packed shoulders, ‘I’ll leave your ball over here.’ Mike had had shoulders like that. All brawn and no brain, her sister had said. Dee had always been the smart one.
While she never learned.
Clover disappeared.
‘I bet she’s a handful.’
‘Oh, no, not really. Just football-mad.’ Other women had dainty little girls who yearned for satin pointe shoes and a starring role at the Royal Ballet. She was usually torn between pride and mortification that her first-born had ball skills that put the boys at her primary school to shame and whose most ardent yearning concerned a pair of football boots way beyond the means of the widow’s mite. His teasing ‘For a girl…’ brought her firmly down on the pride side, for once. ‘She’s captain of the school team.’ Then, ‘Was there much damage?’
‘Damage?’ He needed prompting, too, it seemed.
‘To the greenhouse.’
‘I don’t think one pane more or less will be noticed, do you?’ The grin softened into a smile.
‘N-no, I suppose not…’ she stuttered. A smile like that should be licenced. Then, ‘Oh, Lord, you weren’t…I mean…’ No, of course he wasn’t hurt. She could see for herself that his golden skin was unblemished. Well, apart from the faint white line of an old scar across his collarbone.
Then she saw the sun glint off a shard of glass clinging to his hair and without thinking she reached up and picked it off.
CHAPTER TWO
STACEY stared at the sharp sliver of glass she was holding between her fingers and felt herself go hot all over.
She couldn’t believe she had done that. What on earth was she going to do now?
Despite the fact that she was totally unable to meet his eyes, the hunk seemed to understand her predicament because he dropped the ball and, grasping her wrist to steady a hand that was unaccountably shaking, carefully extracted the sliver of glass from between her fingers. Then he dropped it on the path and ground it to powder beneath his heel.
‘Thanks.’ Her voice was shaking as much as her wrist had done.
‘I think I’m the one who should be thanking you.’ He was still holding her wrist, his long fingers circling it, heating it, melting the bones. For a long moment he kept her his prisoner before suddenly dropping it as if he too were burning, raking his fingers through his hair as if needing to keep them occupied. Then he looked at his hand. ‘See, I’m always doing that. I could have got a nasty cut.’
She shrugged, awkwardly. ‘It’s being a mother,’ she began. ‘You just can’t help yourself.’ She swallowed, and tried to ignore the dangerous tingle where his fingers had touched her wrist. She wasn’t feeling motherly. Oh, no. Not one bit. ‘I, um, helped myself to a few strawberries,’ she said, bringing up the subject before he did. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
‘I thought you were very restrained not to take more. Were they good?’ He’d been standing there watching her? Her face competed with the poppies again.
‘Mummee!’ Another desperate plea.
‘I think the captain of the team wants to get on with the game,’ he said, stooping to pick up the ball, offering it to her.
‘What? Oh, no, that’s Rosie. She’s only seven. Clover makes her play in goal. She’s not very good.’ She took the ball, tucking it under her arm. ‘I’ll try to keep them under control, but when they’ve been in school all day…’
‘No problem. I’ll be around for a day or two. If the ball comes over again, just give me a shout and I’ll throw it back.’
‘You could be sorry you said that.’ She forced her legs to make a move, to put some distance between her and the temptation to stay and just look at him, but he walked alongside her as she headed back to the wall.
Was he going to offer her a hand up? She tried not to think about his hands around her waist, his breath on her neck.
‘What’s going to happen to this place?’ she asked quickly. To distract herself. ‘Do you know?’ She looked back. ‘I heard it was going to be sold to some awful developer.’ He didn’t say anything. ‘Oh, Lord, is that you?’
‘Would that be a problem?’ The corner of his mouth tugged up into a smile as he glanced sideways at her.
She wished she’d done more than tie her hair back with one of the girls’ bobbles. And put on some mascara. Lipstick even.
To paint a door? Get real, Stacey; this guy is a Grade A hunk and you’re a mother of two with the muscle-tone to prove it...
‘We’d miss the view,’ she said, quickly. Not that it would be hers for long. One wild-flower meadow at the local primary school, no matter how much admired, did not a career make. She really had to stop kidding herself that she could make a business out of her passion for wild flowers and get the house into shape so that she could sell it. He glanced across the garden to the fields rising away to the hazy hills in the distance. ‘Maybe they won’t get planning permission,’ she said, hopefully.
‘They already have.’
‘Oh.’ She’d expected it, but it was still a blow. ‘Houses?’ she asked hopefully.
‘Industrial units.’
‘Oh,’ she repeated dully. Then, ‘Are you working for the developers?’
He shook his head. ‘Just for myself. Nash Gallagher,’ he said, introducing himself, stopping to offer his hand before realising that, between the strawberries and the ball, her hands were now fully occupied. It was probably just as well. She hadn’t recovered from the hand around the wrist yet. Palm to palm was going to leave her reeling. And incapable of climbing that wretched wall.
But she could hardly deny him her name. ‘Stacey O’Neill. And you’ve probably gathered that the nuisances are Clover and Rosie.’
‘Well, I’m glad to have met you. As I said, I’ll be staying here for a few days, in case you see a light and think someone might be up to no good and call the police.’
‘Staying? You mean you’re camping? Here?’ She looked around, saw the small one-man tent pitched in a shady corner and wondered if he had permission. Then decided that it was none of her business.
‘This is the height of luxury compared to some of the places I’ve lived,’ he assured her, evidently mistaking her concern. ‘It’s got running water, plumbing—’
She wanted
