death…
Beth was too nervous, as she waited for Nick Steele to come back down the stairs after putting Bekka to bed, to sit down on the gold brocade sofa in the elegantly furnished sitting room of the three-storey London townhouse. A room dominated by a lavishly decorated Christmas tree with dozens of foil-wrapped parcels beneath that made her own meagre pile beneath the small tree in her apartment look slightly ridiculous.
As ridiculous as the idea of her spending Christmas Day here!
As ridiculous as her being here now.
Not that Nick had given Beth any choice in the matter; he had just driven straight here, Beth’s earlier refusal obviously completely forgotten. Or just ignored.
Most likely the latter, Beth accepted irritably. As she already knew, this man was a law unto himself—a man who refused to take no for an answer. Arrogance personified, in fact.
Well, Beth didn’t appreciate being manipulated in this way, and she would tell Nick so as soon as he returned from putting Bekka to bed.
In the meantime, Beth couldn’t resist walking over to look at the numerous photographs that adorned the top of the shiny black piano standing in the bay window that looked out onto the now moonlit garden. Dozens of photographs. All of them featuring Bekka. From babyhood to now.
Nick was easily recognisable in a lot of the photographs. His hair had been slightly longer when Bekka was a baby, his expression more relaxed then too, not as hard and cynical as it was now.
Several of the photographs also showed a tall and beautiful blonde-haired woman. Obviously Bekka’s mother, Janet Steele—short blonde hair surrounding a face dominated by pale blue eyes, a short, perfect nose, and full and pouting lips above a slightly rounded jaw.
‘I see you’ve discovered the rogues’ gallery,’ Nick rasped behind her.
Beth gave a guilty start as she turned to face him, frowning slightly as she saw the laden silver tray he carried. ‘I told you I don’t drink coffee this late at night.’
‘Which is why I made you tea,’ Nick said as he placed the tray down on a low coffee table in front of the sofa before straightening.
He had removed his jacket and tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, the open neckline revealing the start of the dark hair growing on his chest, Beth noted with some alarm. Just as she noticed the way the pale blue silk shirt was fitted to the muscled width of his shoulders and the flatness of his abdomen and tapered waist.
Dear Lord, this man was gorgeous!
Nick’s dark brows quirked as he saw Beth Morgan’s obvious discomfort. ‘Would you like to be mother…?’
She swallowed hard. ‘I—yes. Just one cup, and then I really have to go,’ she muttered awkwardly. As she moved to sit on the sofa to pour coffee and tea, a beautiful marmalade-coloured cat curled up on the cushion beside her.
‘No cream or sugar for me, thanks,’ Nick dismissed as he eased another cat aside, so that he could drop down into one of the armchairs to study Beth from a distance. ‘And are you? A mother?’ he enquired as she pushed back that silky curtain of auburn hair to look across at him questioningly.
‘I—no.’ She turned away. ‘Ben and I had decided to wait for a while before starting a family, and—No,’ she repeated abruptly as she crossed the room to hand him the cup of coffee.
Nick took the cup. ‘Ben was your husband…?’
‘Yes.’ Her face was slightly pale as she moved to sit back on the sofa, absently stroking the marmalade-coloured cat as it stretched lazily beside her.
‘Just push him away if he’s being a nuisance.’
She looked startled. ‘What…?’
‘The cat,’ Nick replied. ‘Bekka has collected a menagerie of pets in the last ten months. The insane dog is shut in the kitchen.’
Beth shrugged narrow shoulders as she continued to stroke the purring cat. ‘I like animals.’
‘You must have been very young when you married…?’
She frowned as Nick reverted to the previous subject. ‘Twenty-one,’ she acknowledged stiffly.
‘Were you married for long…?’
‘Three years.’
‘When did your husband die?’
‘Two years ago,’ she answered tersely. ‘Look, Mr Steele—’
‘Did you still love him when he died?’
Beth stood up abruptly. ‘What sort of question is that?’
‘A valid one.’ Nick Steele shrugged those broad shoulders. ‘Janet and I were married for seven years—by the end of it we could barely stand the sight of each other!’
‘Oh.’ Beth wasn’t quite sure what to say in response to that remark. ‘Bekka seems to have adjusted well since her mother died…’
‘She has, yes,’ Nick acknowledged indulgently. ‘I, on the other hand, am still floundering around in the dark, trying to be both mother and father to her,’ he acknowledged ruefully.
‘Then maybe you should stop trying…?’
‘Sorry?’ Nick gave a perplexed frown.
‘Maybe I’m interfering, but—’
‘Oh, by all means interfere, Beth,’ Nick invited.
She chewed on her bottom lip with small white teeth as she formulated her reply. ‘You can’t actually be both mother and father to Bekka,’ she finally murmured softly. ‘And I’m not sure you should even try…’ She gave a rueful grimace. ‘At the moment Bekka is still a lovely and adorable little girl, but—’
‘But she may not continue to be so if I don’t stop trying so hard?’ Nick finished.
‘Exactly.’ Beth Morgan looked deeply relieved that he had understood what she was trying to say without her actually having to say it.
And what she had to say did have merit, Nick realised. Bekka was becoming more and more demanding, rather than less so, as the days, weeks, months passed. A fact Nick had noted himself only two days ago, and had attributed to Bekka being more like Janet than he had realised, when his young daughter had slammed out of his car when he’d refused to invite her biology teacher to join them for Christmas Day.
He looked across at Beth Morgan in consideration. ‘That’s a very wise observation for one so young…’
‘Sometimes it’s just easier to see something looking in, rather than being involved in it yourself.’
Nick stood up slowly to cross the room and stand only inches away from Beth, his gaze searching as it rested on the fragile beauty of her face. ‘And you don’t get involved, do you…?’ he said slowly.
‘What…?’
