She was silent for a moment. ‘Very close. Beth was too.’
He found he wanted to know more. ‘What were they like? As parents, I mean.’ He wanted to picture her as a little girl.
She glanced at him, a small, uncertain look. ‘They were great,’ she said awkwardly.
Suddenly he understood. ‘It doesn’t hurt to hear about other people’s parents,’ he lied softly. ‘Tell me, if it’s not too painful to talk about them,’ he added quickly.
‘No, Beth and I talk about them often.’ She bit her lower lip, her small white teeth worrying the flesh for a moment. ‘Where do you want me to start?’
His eyes had flared at the action, but he didn’t betray the desire it had induced in his voice when he said, ‘The beginning. You as a little girl in pigtails and white lace.’
She smiled, as he’d wanted her to, and relaxed a little. ‘I so wasn’t a white lace sort of child.’
‘But you had pigtails? Cute little red pigtails and freckles?’
She nodded. ‘Plenty of freckles.’
‘Pigtails and dungarees, then, and scabby knees and ink-stained fingers. And those sandal things, jelly beans, aren’t they?’
‘Now you’re nearer the truth.’ She took a sip of her beer and began, ‘Well, Mum was a stay-at-home mother and Dad had a nine-to-five job, very traditional…’ She talked about her home, their family holidays, how she and her sister had smuggled home a ‘pet’ crab because they’d been desperate for a pet, after which their parents had bought them a hamster each…
He listened, fascinated, but consciously untensing his jaw several times as the scenes her words invoked brought the old familiar longing tightening muscles.
The subject came to a natural conclusion when the waitress brought their meals, but for a few moments the feeling he’d grown up with—that of being on the outside looking in—was strong before he slammed the lid on what he considered weakness. Being shunted around various relatives who grudgingly took him in for a few months at a time, ignored, neglected, shouted at, was a better deal than some poor kids had, and the independence that had been forced on him at an early age had got him to where he was now. Without that early training he wouldn’t have made it.
He repeated the words that had become his mantra to focus his mind on the positive as he ate, and within a minute or two he was back on an even keel. He didn’t need anyone, he’d managed on his own for over three decades and that was the way he liked it. No, he didn’t need anyone, but wanting physically was a different matter and entirely natural. And he wanted Willow. More and more every moment he was with her. He didn’t know what it was about this defensive, wary, honey-skinned woman that made him ache with want, but whatever it was, it had knocked him for six. He admitted it. In fact it was a relief to admit it.
But it brought its own set of problems. The main one of which being he was dealing with a vulnerable young woman here, not the sort of woman he usually favoured who was capable of being as ruthless as him, in bed and out of it. Whatever had gone on with this idiot of a husband of hers, it hadn’t been pleasant and the scars hadn’t healed. Not by a long chalk. He had to walk away from this one. At least for a while.
Morgan’s eyes narrowed but otherwise his face was impassive, displaying no emotion. This ability he had of hiding his feelings was what had made him so successful in business.
The trouble was, he didn’t know if he could walk away. A pang of desire struck, low and deep. And that left him…where? Between a rock and a hard place, as Kitty would say.
‘…mine, it’s pretty wonderful.’
Too late he realised Willow had spoken and he hadn’t caught most of it. Pulling himself together, he said, ‘Sorry?’
‘I said, if your pork is as good as mine, it’s pretty wonderful, ’ she repeated quietly, clearly slightly put out he hadn’t heard her the first time. Which was understandable.
Cursing himself, he said smoothly, ‘It’s so good I always lose concentration for the first few mouthfuls—it’s the glutton in me. Shameful, I admit it.’
She smiled, but a faint shadow remained in the green eyes. He didn’t like that he’d put it there, nor the uncertainty that went with it. Which was crazy, he told himself grimly. When had he ever cared to that extent? It was further proof, if any were needed, that he had been right. He had to walk away now and stop flirting with disaster. There were plenty of Charmaines out there, nice and uncomplicated without any baggage. Why go looking for trouble?
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘SO YOU slept at his place after he’d charged in on his white horse—’