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The Brooding Stranger
Maggie Cox
Step into a world of sophistication and glamour, where sinfully seductive heroes await you in luxurious international locations.A shocking proposition! Karen Ford is seeking refuge from her past when she rents a cottage in Ireland. She has no intention of getting involved with any man – especially not the brooding stranger she meets one fateful day…Unfortunately there’s no getting away from Gray O’ Connell – the reclusive businessman turns out to be Karen’s landlord! Gray is known for his coolly aloof behaviour, so Karen’s startled when her rugged neighbour makes her a shockingly intimate proposition…




‘One kiss,’ he said hoarsely.
Startled, Karen was still gathering her wits as he stepped towards her and hauled her against his chest. The sensation of heat and damp from his sweater enveloped her, even as the wild fresh scent of the sea and the Atlantic air invaded her senses so profoundly that she suddenly felt dizzy as well as exhilarated.
Then, as suddenly and abruptly as he had pulled her into his arms, Gray released her.
‘Are you okay?’
He voiced his concern almost grudgingly, as if he couldn’t wait to be gone. Karen suddenly wanted him gone too. Now she understood why hate and love were so closely intertwined.
‘Why should you care?’ she tried, but was unable to prevent the sob that accompanied her words.
‘I do care, damn you!’
Shaking her head, Karen blinked up at him through eyes that were helplessly brimming with tears. ‘No, you don’t. Just go. Please … just go.’

About the Author
The day MAGGIE COX saw the film version of Wuthering Heights, with a beautiful Merle Oberon and a very handsome Laurence Olivier, was the day she became hooked on romance. From that day onwards she spent a lot of time dreaming up her own romances, secretly hoping that one day she might become published and get paid for doing what she loved most! Now that her dream is being realised, she wakes up every morning and counts her blessings. She is married to a gorgeous man, and is the mother of two wonderful sons. Her two other great passions in life—besides her family and reading/writing—are music and films.

THE BROODING
STRANGER

MAGGIE COX





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




To the wonderful Conar and Sandy, and the equally
wonderful Luke and Mia, with my everlasting love.

CHAPTER ONE
TO KAREN, the thumping tread thundering in her direction sounded like a herd of wildebeest on the rampage, and for a few vivid seconds she imagined she had somehow stumbled into some other dimension. Lord knew it couldn’t be beyond the bounds of possibility in these deep, labyrinthine scented woods she’d recently taken to wandering in. A lively imagination was bound to go haywire. And right now Karen’s imagination was doing just that. She regretted taking the sleeping pills she’d swallowed last night to help her drop off—especially when her head felt as though every percussion instrument in the world was being played inside it. Her wits needed to be razor-sharp—not dulled by medication of any kind.
As the thumping tread drew nearer, she glanced through the tangle of trees and foliage, fear coating her mouth as surely as if her dentist had numbed her in preparation for a filling. She couldn’t run. The bones in her legs had turned to water and it was impossible to think straight. Her gaze swept down desperately to the sensible walking boots she wore that were liberally caked in mud. She told herself she could sprint if she had to—but from what? She had yet to find out. Oh, Lord! Don’t let me faint … anything but that. Please don’t let me lose consciousness. Her desperate silent plea was bordering on a mantra as she waited for whatever was coming towards her, ice-cold terror jack-knifing through her heart.
Seconds later, a fawn-coloured monster hurtled out of the trees into the clearing where Karen had turned to stone—heading with a great lolloping gait towards her. A strangled gasp left her lips as she came face to face with the unseen terror that had halted her morning walk with such spine-tingling fear, her heartbeat mimicking an increasingly loud drumroll in her ears. He was a beast and no mistake! What idiot would let such a creature loose? Left alone to roam and terrify and possibly attack at will? At the thought of the latter possibility, she made her gaze home in anxiously on the huge fawn head and wide mouth, saw the creature’s long tongue, lolling and wet as he panted heavily, and felt physically sick.
A commanding shout rang out that took them both by surprise. The beast pricked up his ears as though he were a transmitter receiving a signal, and came to an abrupt stop only bare inches from her, his ears cocked, his intimidating energy streaking between them like lightning.
‘Oh, God!’ Karen covered her mouth with her hands and cursed the foolish tears that hazed her wide blue eyes. It was going to be all right, she told herself. The creature had an owner. Irresponsible clod he must be, but he hadn’t let the beast out on its own. Thank God for small mercies.
When he appeared from out of the trees, the man appeared as shocked to see her as Karen had been at the sight of his animal—shocked but apparently unrepentant … That much was evident even in the space of just a few seconds. Pausing briefly to assess the situation, he immediately gave her the impression that he was the one who held the upper hand, and something told Karen that apologies or concern for another didn’t come easily to him. Remorse was probably just as alien. There was something innately proud and overbearing in his lean rugged stance that immediately raised her hackles and put her senses on high alert.
Tall and unquestioningly commanding, with black hair that edged untamed and untrimmed onto his shoulders in arrogant defiance of trend or convention, he had a hard, unforgiving face that even at a distance looked forbiddingly incapable of any notion of kindness whatsoever. Perhaps it would have been better if she had fainted, Karen thought wildly. Here she was, at not much past seven o’clock in the morning—despite her sleeping pills—alone in the woods with an intimidating dog and his equally intimidating owner. If only she had listened to the instincts of her tired, aching body and succumbed to an extra hour or so in bed. But, no … As usual she’d had to push herself to the limit. Past events might have taken their toll, but no one would accuse her of being lazy or idle. Maybe she’d have cause to revise that opinion later, she fretted now, her gaze fixed on the dominating individual striding towards her. She’d have to wait and see.
As he walked there was a kind of reined-in anger in his tread, and his boots were crunching through the carpet of twigs and mulch as if tolling a death knell on Karen’s peace of mind. When he came to a stop just behind the animal, he reached out and roughly stroked the oversized head.
‘Good boy.’ He stopped petting the dog, then pushed his hand deep into the pocket of the battered leather jacket he wore, which might have been a high fashion item for the mouth-watering effect it had on that hard rangy body. Nonetheless, Karen all but shook with the effort of trying to contain her rage.
‘Good boy?’ she echoed in a disbelieving rasp, ‘Your damn dog—if that’s what he is, and I have my doubts—scared the living daylights out of me! What do you think you’re doing, letting him run loose like that?’
‘This is a free country. You can walk for miles in these woods without meeting a soul. Besides, Chase wouldn’t hurt you … not unless I told him to.’
A glint crept into eyes that were the winter-grey of an icy lake. Strangely light. Teamed with that rich, cultured voice, they were potent enough to cause a ripple of unease in anyone.
‘Chase? That’s his name? How apt. What is he, exactly?’ Karen plumped for bravado to waylay the pulsing thud of fear that was rolling through her in increasingly disturbing waves.
‘Great Dane.’ He spat the words out as if only a fool would have to ask him that.
‘Well, he still shouldn’t be off the lead.’ Ignoring his obvious contempt, she folded her arms defensively across her thick navy fleece, silently cursing his innately masculine ability to intimidate and belittle—and amazed by her temerity in pursuing a conversation with such a man for even a second longer than necessary. His accent was rather more clipped than the softer lilt she had became used to from the locals.
Just in front of her, Chase breathed heavily in a cloud of steam, his ears still pricked, as if waiting for the next instruction from his master. Karen kept a wary eye on him in case he should suddenly make a lunge, despite what his owner had said. Right now she trusted neither one of them.
‘The problem seems to me to be strangers in the woods making a fuss over nothing.’ An innate arrogance angled his jaw, highlighting the high, sculpted cheekbones and the disdainful slash of his mouth. ‘Come on, Chase. It’s high time we headed home.’
The dog leapt away at his master’s words and Karen knew she had been dismissed—dismissed and discarded as nothing more than a trifling annoyance, a gnat on the end of his battered leather sleeve. He hadn’t even offered her the most grudging apology for frightening her half out of her wits.
Okay, perhaps she’d overreacted a little at the idea of his dog being off his leash, when these woods weren’t exactly overpopulated with folk out for a stroll … but even so. Her body tight with indignation, she was even more unsettled when the stranger turned back to regard her with a glance that could easily have matched the temperature in a deep freeze.
‘By the way, if you’re planning on coming this way tomorrow I can assure you we won’t be taking this route again. We value our privacy, Chase and I.’
‘Do you seriously imagine I’d want to come this way again after the fright I’ve just had?’ Karen’s chin jutted forward, her blue eyes challenging the cutting arrogance in the stranger’s hostile glance, despite her desire to escape as soon as possible.
The corners of his lips curled upwards in an almost wicked caricature of a smile. Karen blanched.
‘Nothing surprises me about the female species, little girl. Now, run along—and if anyone asks why you look so pale, you can tell them that you just bumped into the big bad wolf in the woods. Be thankful he didn’t eat you for breakfast.’ And, smiling his cold unnerving smile, he turned away.
‘Very funny,’ Karen murmured under her breath, but silently acknowledged it was anything but.
A nearby branch whinnied and creaked in the wind, almost making her jump out of her skin. Alarmed, and shaken by the anger that still lodged like a red-hot stone in her chest, she stomped off in the opposite direction from the dark, hostile stranger, furious with herself because she was crying again. Only this morning she’d promised herself that today was the day she would finally turn off the waterworks for good. Fat chance of that after that highly unpleasant little encounter!
That reference of his about the ‘big bad wolf’ had chilled her to the bone. Had he been referring to that beast of a dog, or himself? Most definitely himself, she decided, shivering, and walked on.
Back at the old stone cottage where she had hidden herself away for the past three months, she saw with satisfaction that the fire she’d started in the ancient iron grate was well underway, the peat and twigs hissing and crackling nicely. It was amazing how small, everyday things like that gave her such a sense of achievement these days. She supposed it was because she’d had to learn how to do them all by herself. The heat that started to permeate from the blaze lent some much needed warmth to the chill damp air that clung like frosted mist round the old place—that seeped into its very walls.
Sometimes it even made her clothes feel damp when she put them on in the morning. And at night it was so cold that Karen had taken to wearing both pyjamas and a dressing gown in bed. Her mother would absolutely hate such an abode. She’d probably ask just what she was trying to prove by living in such primitive conditions. Just as well, then, that she wasn’t around to comment.
Shivering, Karen stripped off her rain-dampened fleece and hurriedly laid it over the back of a chair. Lighting the gas burner on the stove, she filled the slightly dented copper kettle and plunked it down with a sense of something vitally important being accomplished … tea. She couldn’t really think until she’d imbibed at least two or three cups. This morning she was even more in need of it than usual, since that horribly frightening incident with the man in black and his beast of a dog.
Great Dane, indeed—he was more like a slavering cave troll! Just who was that hostile stranger, and where was he from? She’d been living in the area for three months now, and hadn’t heard mention of him from anyone. Mrs Kennedy in the local shop was the font of all wisdom, and even she hadn’t mentioned the strange well-spoken Irishman and his huge dog—at least not in Karen’s hearing. Sighing, she registered the sound of the kettle whistling, and hurriedly put the makings of her tea together with a determined purpose that had definitely been absent when she’d forlornly left the house to venture into the woods.
Her fellow walker might have been unpleasant, antisocial and taciturn, but, recalling his image now, Karen wondered if his unsettling demeanour wasn’t some kind of shield that cloaked some deep, personal unhappiness. Even though he’d probably not cared that both he and his dog had frightened her, the morose expression in those unusual compelling grey eyes of his had somehow haunted her. What had put it there? she wondered. Was he recovering from some terrible shock or sorrow? Karen could relate to that. Not least because in the past eighteen months she’d been to hell and back herself.
In fact, she was far from certain whether she’d returned yet. There were days when she was so dark in spirit that she almost couldn’t face waking up in the morning. But slowly, inch by inch, she’d begun to see that the possibility of healing her wounded spirit in this beautiful place in the west of Ireland was real and not just wishful thinking. With its wild mountain backdrop, mysterious woods and the vast Atlantic Ocean only a short walk from her door, its beauty had started to penetrate the gloom that had overshadowed her since the tragedy. The wildness and isolation of her surroundings had provided a welcome sanctuary to help ease the fear and heartache that so often deluged her, and she’d learned there was a good reason why people referred to the healing powers of nature.
One day when she was whole again, she told herself, she might find the courage to go home. One day … but just not yet.
Gray O’Connell couldn’t seem to get the image of the pretty blonde stranger who had lost her temper with him out of his head … feisty little thing. He grimaced. With every step he took on the route back to the house, her exquisite features—particularly her lovely blue eyes—became clearer and more compelling. Who in blazes was she? There were a few Brits in these parts who had holiday homes, but in the midst of October the homes usually stood empty and forlorn.
Then he remembered something that made him stop and shake his head with a groan.He should have kept on top of things better. Instead he’d been progressively letting things slide, he realised.It certainly wasn’t the sharp, incisive mindset that had helped him make his fortune in London.
Suddenly aware of who the girl might be, he wondered what made her stay here when in another month winter would bite hard, quickly replacing the mellow autumnal air and making even the local inhabitants long for summer again. Perhaps she was a loner, like him? he reflected. What if personal circumstances had driven her to take refuge here? Gray of all people could understand the need for solitude and quiet—though a fat lot of good it seemed to be doing him lately.
Not wanting to explore that particular line of thought, and irritably snapping out of his reverie, he lengthened his stride and determinedly headed for home … .
‘And I’ll take some of that lovely soda bread, if I may, Mrs Kennedy?’
Standing on the other side of the counter from the ebullient Eileen Kennedy, Karen was in silent admiration of how such a plump, elderly woman could still be so robust and also graceful on her feet. Bustling here and there, reaching up to sturdy home-made shelves that had probably been there for ever, rooting amongst tins of fruit and packets of jelly and instant sauce mixes to supply Karen’s grocery list, she kept up a steady stream of chat that was strangely comforting. The trouble was Karen had grown so used to being on her own here that there weren’t many people whose company she could tolerate for long. The grandmotherly Irish woman was a definite exception.
‘Now then, me darlin’, is that all you’ll be wanting today?’ The groceries piled up on the counter between them, Eileen smiled warmly at the young woman who for once didn’t seem in a particular hurry to rush away.
Holding out her money, Karen felt a faint flush stain her cheeks at being the recipient of such unstinting warmth. ‘That’s all, thank you. If I’ve forgotten anything I can always come back tomorrow, can’t I?’
‘Indeed you can. You’ll be as welcome as the flowers in May, and that’s the truth—though I can’t help thinking it must be awful lonely, living up there in Paddy O’Connell’s old cottage all on your own. You’ve been here for quite a while now, haven’t you? What about your family? Sure, your poor mother must be missing you something awful.’
Smiling uneasily, Karen said nothing. Who was she to disenchant this lovely old lady of the idea that her mother must be missing her? The truth was that Elizabeth Morton was probably glad that her tragic daughter had moved to Ireland for the foreseeable future. That way, she wouldn’t have to deal with all the messy, ‘inconvenient’ emotions she so clearly detested and that Karen’s presence would inevitably bring up. With Karen settled in Ireland for a while, Elizabeth could fool herself that all was still well in the world. A world where she’d become a master at keeping up appearances and disguising her feelings—a realm where she could continue socialising and lunching with her friends as though tragedy had not hit her only child like a tidal wave and all but dragged her under.
Eileen Kennedy was too astute a woman not to see that the reference to her mother had unsettled Karen. Her reluctance in commenting easily conveyed that something had gone on there. Not that Karen blamed the shopkeeper for being curious. She’d often sensed that the locals she bumped into in the small but buzzing Irish town were curious about the ‘aloof’ English girl who had rented ‘Paddy O’Connell’s old place’, as it was regularly referred to—not least of all the local lads who whistled and tried to engage her whenever she passed by. All Karen wanted was some peace and quiet, but people wouldn’t know why unless she told them. And she wasn’t ready to do that. Not by a long chalk.
‘Now, love …’ Carefully arranging the groceries in Karen’s large wicker basket, Mrs Kennedy rang up the amount on the old-fashioned till—another charming relic from long ago. The cosy corner shop set-up was much more appealing to Karen than a soulless supermarket. As the elderly lady counted out her change, her watery blue eyes seemed to consider her unsmiling expression sympathetically. ‘Please forgive me if you think I’m being too forward, but I get the distinct feeling that you could use some cheering up—and I have a suggestion. There’s music and dancing down at Malloy’s Bar just off the high street on Saturday night, and you’d be made as welcome as if you were one of our own. Why don’t you come and join us? I’ll be there about eight or so, with my husband, Jack, and we’d love you to come and sit with us. Sure, a bit of music and dancing would do you the world of good. Put the bloom back into those lovely cheeks of yours.’
Music … Inwardly, Karen sighed with longing. How she had missed it. But how could she return to it with any enjoyment after what had happened to Ryan? It had been eighteen months—eighteen long months since she’d even picked up her guitar. What if she couldn’t sing again? What if the tragedy had robbed her of her voice for good? What was the point anyway? Karen’s singing career had been her and Ryan’s joint dream. Now that her husband was no longer living, she didn’t have the heart to pursue it on her own. ‘Tragic Princess of Pop’ the local papers had dubbed her. Maybe that would always be the case. That was one of the reasons why she had eventually fled to Ireland—Ryan’s homeland—selecting the most westerly and rural location she could find, where no one would have heard of the singer who had been starting to make a name for herself back home in Britain.
Now she sighed out loud, wishing with all her heart that she didn’t feel so emotionally ambushed by a simple kind invitation to an evening out. If only she could be normal again—if only she could reply easily and with pleasure at the thought of being amongst people having a good time again. Her gaze focusing on the neat row of canned baked beans and tinned tomatoes behind Eileen Kennedy, she willed herself to say something. Anything. Before the kindly shopkeeper concluded she had lost her manners. But the lady behind the counter didn’t seem in a hurry for a reply. All the shopkeepers Karen had met here had easily transmitted to her that there was nothing they liked better than passing the time of day with a customer.
Finally, sighing again deeply, she found the words she was searching for. ‘I don’t think so, Mrs Kennedy. It’s very nice of you to ask me, but I’m—I’m not very good around people just now.’
‘And sure, no one will expect anything different, sweetheart. They understand you’ve come here for your own private reasons. My guess is to get over something … or someone, maybe? No one expects you to be the life and soul of the party. If there’s any nonsense from anyone my Jack will give them short shrift and no mistake! Come on, now—what could it hurt?’
That was the six-million-dollar question as far as Karen was concerned, and one she still hadn’t figured out the answer to. What was certain was that she definitely wasn’t ready to socialise yet—the way she was feeling she’d sooner jump out of a plane without a parachute. ‘I can’t. I appreciate you asking me, I really do, but right now I.I just couldn’t.’
‘Fair enough, dear. You come and join us when you’re ready. We’re always at Malloy’s on a Saturday night, me and Jack, so we are.’ Eileen rubbed her hands down her wraparound apron, its worn cotton fabric quaintly adorned with sprigs of red berries on a faded pink background, and smiled.
‘Mrs Kennedy?’
‘Yes, my dear?’ The old lady leaned across the counter at the unexpected lowering of the younger woman’s voice, resting her well-covered forearm on the scratched wooden surface.
Karen cleared her throat to give her courage. She respected everybody’s right to privacy, she really did—she hated hers being invaded—but she suddenly had an imperative need to know about the man in the woods. The ‘big bad wolf’, as he’d sardonically dubbed himself.
‘Is there a man in the area who owns a huge fawn-coloured dog? A Great Dane, he said it was.’
‘Gray O’Connell,’ Eileen replied without hesitation. ‘His father lived in the very cottage you’re staying in.’
‘His father? You mean his father is Paddy O’Connell?’ Karen frowned as a wave of shock shuddered through her.
‘Was, you mean … Yes, Paddy was a fine man until the drink did for him—God rest his soul.’ The old lady crossed herself, then leaned conspiratorially towards Karen. ‘His son owns practically everything of any worth around here—including your cottage, of course. Not much pleasure it brings him, either. ‘Tis a wonder he hasn’t gone the way of his father himself, with all that’s happened. But there, I expect he finds solace in his own way, with his painting and such.’
‘He’s an artist?’
‘Yes, dear … a good one, too, by all accounts. My friend Bridie Hanrahan works up at the big house, cleaning and cooking for him. If it wasn’t for Bridie we wouldn’t hear anything about the man at all. Turning into a real recluse, he is. ‘Tis true that money doesn’t buy happiness. More than true in Gray O’Connell’s case, I would say.’
Karen said nothing. It wasn’t her business to pry, or to try and tease more information out of the effusive Mrs Kennedy. She’d heard enough to know that the man had good reason to keep himself to himself, and she of all people could respect that.
‘Well, I’d better be going now. Thanks for everything, Mrs Kennedy.’
‘Do you mind if I ask why you wanted to know about Gray O’Connell?’
Colouring hotly at the question, Karen let her glance settle momentarily on the fat barrel of rosy-red apples by the door, their overripe scent filling the shop.
‘I take an early-morning walk in the woods sometimes. I bumped into him and his dog, that’s all.’ She wouldn’t tell the other woman that she had been scared out of her wits at the sight of the pair of them.
‘He’s an early riser, too, so I hear.’ Eileen shrugged one plump shoulder. ‘I daresay he managed to keep a civil tongue in his head?’
‘Just about.’ Karen’s expression was pained for a moment. ‘I don’t think he was feeling very sociable, either.’
‘That sounds like your man. Don’t pay any mind to his dark ways, will you? Once upon a time he was an entirely different kettle of fish, I can tell you, but tragedy has a way of knocking the stuffing out of folks, and that’s the truth. Some are never the same again.’
I can vouch for that, Karen acquiesced silently. ‘Well … thanks again, Mrs Kennedy. I’ll be seeing you.’
‘Take care of yourself, love. See you soon.’
And with the clanging of the bell behind her, Karen stepped out of the snug little shop, climbed into her car, and hurriedly headed home … .
She didn’t venture into the woods over the next few days. Instead she walked along the deserted beach, wrapped up warmly in sweater and jeans, waterproof jacket and gloves. It rained most mornings—a fine, drizzly affair that the locals lyrically referred to as a ‘soft’ rain—and the truth was Karen didn’t let the weather bother her. It suited her sometimes melancholy frame of mind, and if she waited for the day to be fine she’d never get past the front door.
She’d taken to collecting shells here and there. Her gaze naturally gravitated to the delicate pretty ones, but lately she’d added a couple of bigger specimens to her collection. Taking them back to the cottage, she’d arranged them on the window-sills, and she swore the scent of the sea still clung to each one. But mostly she just walked along the fine white sand until her legs ached, with nothing but the infinitely wise music of the ocean and the gulls screeching above to keep her company.
Often, her thoughts turned to Ryan. Most days she thought sadly how much he would have loved sharing her morning walks. How he would have been keen to share his knowledge of local plants and wildlife with her and fuel her hungry imagination with tales of old Ireland, of kings and storytellers, of myths and magic. She learnt afresh that she’d lost her best friend as well as her husband and manager.
One morning on the beach she discovered she wasn’t alone. Transfixed by the huge paw-prints dug deep into the sand, Karen felt her heart start to gallop. Shielding her eyes with her gloved hand against the diamond-bright glare of the sun, she glanced up ahead. There they were, just on the horizon, the ‘big bad wolf’ and his sidekick, Lurch. Karen grinned. She hadn’t found much to laugh at during the past interminable few months, and it was strangely exhilarating feeling this sudden desire to dissolve into mirth.
Grinning again, she kicked at some seaweed, then strolled slowly across the wide expanse of sand to the edge of the beach. As the foamy sea lapped at her booted toes, she determinedly resisted the urge to glance up ahead again and see if the man and his beast had gone. Instead, she fixed her sights on the horizon, on the pair of little boats that bobbed up and down on the waves—fishermen, most likely. Men who regularly braved the vagaries of the sea to make their living. There was definitely something heroic about them, she decided. After idly watching them for a while, she silently wished them a good day’s catch and turned to go.
She sucked in a surprised breath when she saw Chase pounding across the sand towards her. Behind him strode his master, and even with the distance between them Karen could see he was not best pleased. Tough, she thought, bracing herself for another terse encounter. But she was completely amazed and almost bowled over when Chase came to an abrupt halt just inches away from her. He sat back on his haunches with a look of such expectancy in his great dark eyes that Karen actually found herself smiling at the beast.
‘You silly hound,’ she murmured, reaching out to pat his head. To her relief, he didn’t try and bite her hand off, but instead made a sort of contented gurgling sound in his throat almost like a cat purring. It made her laugh out loud.
‘So … Little Red Riding Hood tames the beast.’ Gray O’Connell stopped about a foot away from them to regard Karen with a half-amused, enigmatic glance.
Immediately wary, she stopped fussing over the huge dog and dug her hands deep into her waterproof. All of a sudden the urge to laugh at anything suddenly deserted her.
‘Which beast are you referring to?’ she asked boldly.
A dark eyebrow lifted mockingly. ‘It would take more than a slip of a girl with pretty blue eyes to tame me, Miss Ford.’
‘You know who I am, then?’ Ignoring what she thought of as a distinctly backhanded compliment, Karen frowned.
‘I should do. You’re staying in my father’s old cottage. I’m your landlord.’
If he’d thought to shock her, Karen had the advantage—thanks to Eileen Kennedy. ‘So I learned the other day, Mr O’Connell. And, by the way, I wish you’d stop referring to me as a girl. I’m twenty-six and very definitely a woman.’
She’d never meant for the latter part of her statement to sound petulant and annoyed, but somehow it did. All that was missing was the stamping of her foot. To her complete and utter embarrassment, Gray O’Connell threw back his dark head and laughed out loud. Whether that laugh had genuine humour in it was another matter. To Karen’s mind, as she studied the handsome, sardonic profile, it sounded mockingly cruel.
‘I’ll take your word about you being a woman and not a girl, Miss Ford. Who can tell what’s underneath that shapeless garment you’re wearing?’
Karen’s cheeks burned with indignation. ‘There’s no need to be so rude. It’s just a waterproof. You’d hardly expect me to walk on the beach in this weather in something wispy and diaphanous, would you?’
The unsettling mercurial grey eyes insolently swept her figure. His jaw rose fractionally with undeniable challenge.
‘It would take more than that to tame the beast in me, Miss Ford—but I feel myself warming to the idea by the second …’
‘You’re completely impossible!’ This time, to her complete dismay, Karen did resort to stamping her foot. As soon as she’d done it she felt immensely foolish, and frustratingly too close to tears to say anything else. In front of her, Chase cocked his head, as if he understood and sympathised. It was funny how she was quickly warming to the dog and not the man.
‘I’m afraid you’re not the first woman to make that accusation,’ Gray muttered darkly, ‘and I’m damn sure you won’t be the last. By the way, it’s rather fortunate that we’ve seen each other today. There’s something I wanted to tell you.’
‘Oh?’ Karen’s brows knit worriedly beneath her honey-blonde fringe. ‘And what would that be, Mr O’Connell?’
‘I’m giving you notice to quit the cottage. Two weeks as of today. It’s no longer available to rent.’
Thunder roared in her ears as she stared at Gray O’Connell’s darkly implacable face in disbelief. He wanted her to leave the cottage? In just two weeks? Her plans had not been carved in stone, but she’d counted on staying where she was for at least another couple of months or so. To uproot now, when she was just starting to feel a part of this place … It was upsetting and unthinkable—and all because her devilish landlord had apparently taken an instant dislike to her!
‘Why?’ When the word came out she sounded winded, as if she’d been running. Disappointment and hurt tugged at the corners of her mouth, pulling it downwards.
Gray O’Connell shrugged one broad shoulder encased in battered black leather. ‘As far as I’m aware I’m not legally bound to explain my reasons.’
‘No, but it’s common courtesy, surely?’
Those strange fey eyes of his glittered with chilling frostiness, openly scorning her indignation. ‘Go back to your nice, safe little world in British suburbia, Miss Ford. Don’t be fooled by the scenery or the supposed peace of this place. There is no peace to be had around here. Only heartache and tragedy and that’s a fact. A place like this—a life like mine—has no time for such petty considerations as common courtesy!’
His words were released with such savagery that for a moment Karen didn’t know what to do. There was one part of her that wanted to run away—to hasten back to the cottage and pack—yet there was also something perverse in her that willed her to stay and face him out, make him see that he wasn’t the only one who was hurting. Not that he’d listen to her, of course. Not when he’d already clearly dismissed her as a silly little girl.
‘Then I feel very sorry for you, Mr O’Connell.’
Her gaze lingered dangerously on the cold, unfeeling glance that was bereft of anything remotely akin to human warmth, then moved curiously down to the strongly patrician nose. It was a work of art, that was for sure. A fraction lower and her glance finally came to rest on the perfectly sculpted brooding mouth, whose upper lip was an uncompromising line of bitterness and hostility. With jolting awareness she saw that in spite of its currently bleak outlook he had a face that could be quite devastating in its beauty.
‘I feel sorry for you … yes, sorry. It seems that you’ve forgotten what it is to be entirely human. My guess is that you’re angry about something … hurt, too. But rage only creates more rage, you know. It hurts you more than it hurts anyone else. I don’t know what’s tormenting you, but I like your father’s cottage. I’d really like to stay there for a little while longer. If it’s more rent you want, then—’
‘Keep your damn money, woman! Do you think I need it?’
He glanced bleakly out to sea for several long seconds, his jaw hard and angled with rage, his eyes glittering—a prisoner in his own morose, walled-off world. A man who had deliberately isolated himself from the rest of humanity and the comfort he might get from it. Karen was chilled right down to the bone. He was like an iceberg—remote, glacial and impervious. If she’d hoped to appeal to his better nature it was becoming glaringly obvious that he didn’t have one.
That established, she started to turn away, surprised when Chase followed her for a few steps, whimpering as if he didn’t want her to go.
‘You’ve put a damn hex on my dog, you little witch.’
Gray’s next words stopped her in her tracks. Karen sucked in an astonished breath.
‘The sooner you go, the better, Miss Ford. Two weeks. then I want you gone!’
He pivoted and strode off up the beach. The long legs that were encased in fitted black denim jeans hinted at the powerful muscle in his thighs, and Chase, after one more sorrowful glance at Karen, turned and raced after him …

CHAPTER TWO
THE day after Karen’s second unfortunate encounter with Gray O’Connell, the cold that had been brewing for days arrived with a vengeance. Having had very little in the way of sleep the night before, she decided to be sensible for once and stay indoors. After a tiring struggle to get the ultimately feeble fire going, she flopped down wearily into the one worn, tapestry-covered armchair with its lacy antimacassar, nursing her mug of hot water and lemon, trying not to succumb to a strong wave of self-pity—a challenge when her eyes were droopy and red from lack of sleep and her nose was stinging and sore from blowing it.
Outside, the rain increased with sudden force, the branches of the trees creaking eerily beneath the weight of it. It was a desolate, lonely sound, but surprisingly it didn’t bother her. Not when she was despondent because of something much more disturbing to her peace of mind. She didn’t relish the thought of leaving this old stone cottage. It was so unfair when Gray O’Connell had only demanded she leave because he’d taken a personal dislike to her. What other reason could there be, when he hadn’t even thought it necessary to explain?
Well, perhaps it would end up being for the best in the long run—his ill-mannered ways certainly didn’t bode well for future encounters if she stayed. Even so, Karen would now have to search for another property to rent in the area. Whatever happened, she wasn’t ready to return home yet. Not when the inevitable questions and perhaps criticisms from family and friends would be waiting for her. She wasn’t nearly ready to explain her feelings or her actions to anyone. The truth was she didn’t know if she’d ever be ready for that. She’d struggled for over a year, pretending she was handling things, and in the end had realised she just had to get away.
Sometimes it had been hard to breathe, staying surrounded by the same old people and the same old scenery. She’d longed to escape.
Putting aside her drink, she sniffed gingerly into her handkerchief, doing her utmost not to irritate her already sore nose. The next instant the sniffing somehow manifested as a muffled sob, and before she knew it her heart was breaking once more. She missed Ryan so much. He’d been her constant companion, her rock. Her heart was submerged in a drowning wave she didn’t have the strength to kick against. He’d been taken from her so suddenly and cruelly that they hadn’t even had the chance to say goodbye. Her mind and body had been incarcerated in ice ever since. No one could comfort her. Not her mother, any of her family, or even well-meaning friends. No one but Ryan.
She held her arms across her middle, as if to comfort herself, but knew it was an ultimately useless exercise. Nothing could heal her heartache. Only the passing of time might blunt the edges of sorrow, and eventually when she was ready, the letting in of people who genuinely cared. The crumpled square of linen in her hands quickly became soggy with more tears.
When the knocker hammered in a staccato echo on the front door she froze in her seat, silently willing whoever it was calling on her in this foul weather to go away. The truth was, the way she was feeling, even stirring out of her seat required a colossal effort she didn’t feel up to making right now.
When she didn’t rise to see who it was the knocker hammered again. The sound cut like a scythe through Karen’s already thumping head, making her wince. Hastily wiping her face with the damp, crumpled handkerchief, knowing miserably that she must look a wreck, she reluctantly roused herself to answer it.
Outside in the rain, droplets of water coursing down his coldly handsome face, his arms folded across his chest, Gray O’Connell leaned impatiently against the doorjamb. As Karen stared up at him in surprise, he straightened and jerked his head. ‘Can I come in?’
Frankly amazed that he hadn’t just barged in anyway, Karen nodded dumbly. Inside, the sitting room’s crackling fire blazed a cosy welcome, despite the definite lack of sociability on the part of the house’s tenant. Resignedly making her way back to the armchair, Karen resumed her seat. If only she wasn’t feeling so pathetic she’d tell him to go away—even if he did own the house. She still had some rights as a tenant. Slowly Gray approached the fire. His jacket dripped onto the stone flagged floor. It was partially covered with a hand-woven rug that must have been beautiful and vibrant once, but was now a dull shadow of its former self.
Reluctantly Karen made herself speak. ‘You’d better take off that jacket. You’re soaked.’ Heaving herself back onto her feet again, she forced herself to wait patiently as he reluctantly took it off. He handed it to her without a word, and she took it and hung it on the peg at the back of the door. It smelled of the wind, the rain and the sea, and for a wildly unsettling moment Karen fancied she could detect the arresting male scent of its owner, too. Surreptitiously she allowed her fingers to linger a little longer than necessary on the soft worn leather.
Turning back into the room, she was immediately struck by the intensely solitary picture that her visitor made. He was holding out his long-fingered hands to the fire and his handsome profile was marred by a look of such unremitting desolation that Karen’s heart turned over in her chest. Why had he come here? she wondered. A feeling of desperation clutched her chest. What did he want from her? He’d already told her that he didn’t want her as a tenant. There was no need to tell her again. She’d received the message loud and clear.
‘I couldn’t paint.’ Turning briefly to regard her, almost instantly he returned his gaze to the fire, as though locked deep inside the prison of his own morose thoughts. ‘Not today. And for once I didn’t want to be alone.’
‘I heard that you were an artist.’
‘And I’m sure that’s not all you heard. Am I right?’ He shook his head disparagingly.
In spite of her innate caution, Karen moved hesitantly towards him, surprise and compassion making her brave. Suddenly the inexplicable need to offer this man comfort overshadowed everything—even her personal feelings of misery and pain.
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’
‘Help what? Free me from this incessant gloom that follows me everywhere? No. There’s nothing you can do to help.’
His voice harsh, Gray pivoted away from the fire and started to pace the room. He was an imposing broad-shouldered man, with hair as black as tar—a dramatic hue that gleamed fiercely as though moonlight was on it—and his very stature made the already small room appear as though it had shrunk. The two of them might have been occupying a dolls’ house.
‘There’s nothing you can do except maybe refrain from asking questions and be silent,’ he uttered less irritably. ‘I appreciate a woman who knows how to be silent.’
Intuitively Karen understood his need for quiet. She’d already registered the turmoil reflected painfully in his eyes and in the grim set of his mouth. This time she wasn’t offended by his sharp words. On soft feet encased only in the thick white socks she wore beneath her jeans, she made her way back to the armchair and sat down. Gathering up the book that earlier on she’d been attempting to lose herself in, she laid it on the coffee table beside the chair and offered him a weak and watery smile.
‘Okay … no questions, and I’ll just sit here quietly.’
She might have meant it when she’d told him, that but it didn’t stop Karen’s mind from teeming with questions and speculations about her taciturn landlord. And heaven knew it was nigh on impossible to concentrate on anything else, with his brooding figure moving restlessly round, up and down in front of her.
‘Why were you crying?’
The question pierced the silence that by mutual agreement had enveloped them. The sound of it reverberated through Karen like the shattering of glass.
‘I wasn’t crying,’ she quickly denied, picking up her book again and staring unseeingly at the cover. ‘I’ve got a cold.’ She sniffed into her handkerchief as if to emphasise the point.
‘You were crying,’ Gray reiterated, his gaze steely. ‘Don’t you think I’m capable of knowing when a woman’s been crying?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know anything about you.’ She blinked sorrowfully down at the pale cold hands that covered the book in her lap and a shudder of distress rippled through her. Why did he have to call on her today of all days? It was said that misery loved company, but if only he would just go and leave her to her own misery in peace.
‘I don’t want you to know me, either.’ He shook his head, as if warding off further unsettling thoughts, then glared at her.
Karen retreated even more inside herself. Wrenching her glance away, she stared back down at her book. She hadn’t a hope in hell of reading any more of it today—at least not while her brooding landlord was taking up space in the house.
Gray exhaled deeply. ‘You’re probably thinking that’s hardly fair, when I’ve invaded your own peace and quiet and you’re clearly upset.’
‘If you need to talk … just to have someone listen without judging or commenting … then I can do that,’ she answered softly, her heart racing a little because she didn’t know how he’d react.
‘All right,’ he said aloud, almost to himself. ‘All right, then. I’ll talk.’ He breathed deeply, gathering his thoughts. ‘My father lived in this house for five years before he died.’ He stopped pacing to address her, his distant storm-tossed gaze restless and preoccupied. ‘He’d never let me put things right. Liked it just as it was, he said … didn’t want my money. He was mad at me because I didn’t stay and work the farm that he used to own—until it got too much for him. The farm that his father and grandfather had owned before him. He didn’t understand that those days were gone. Working the land wasn’t in my blood like it was in his. I had other dreams. Dreams I wanted a chance at. Besides, a man can barely scratch a living out of farming these days—not when the supermarkets can undercut him at every turn and fly in cheap vegetables from Peru rather than buy them from local farms.’
His expression was scornful for a moment, and pressing his fingers hard into his forehead, he twisted his lips angrily. ‘What had my fancy university education and my cleverness done for me? my father asked once. As far as he could see all it had accomplished was to send me away from this place—away from home.’ He paused, as if weighing up the wisdom or indeed lack of it in proceeding with his story. In the end it seemed he’d decided to throw any caution he might be feeling to the wind. ‘He wasn’t interested that I’d made a fortune on the stockmarket. He asked me, “How much money does a man need to live a useful life?” I’ve been pondering that question ever since. I’m not sure how useful it is, but eventually I did find something to do with my life that gave me even more pleasure than making money. I discovered that I loved to paint, and lo and behold it turned out I had some skill at it! My desire to pursue it in the place I grew up finally brought me home, but it was too late for Paddy and me to be reconciled. He was too bitter and too full of regret at what he had lost, and the man was dead from drink three months after I returned. I found him dead down on the beach one morning, a half-bottle of whiskey in his pocket. He’d fallen against a rock and smashed his head.’
A lone tear splashed onto the cover of Karen’s book. Gray’s raw desolation merged with hers, welling up inside her like a dam strained to bursting. Missed opportunities, families torn apart, lost loves—it was all too much to bear.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘There’s no need to be sorry for me. What I did … everything that happened … was down to my own selfish actions. Oh, hell!’ Raking his fingers through the thick black mane that was still sodden from the rain, he shook his head. ‘I don’t know why I’m even telling you all this. I never did believe the adage that confession is good for the soul. Put it down to a momentary descent into madness and despair, if you like.’
‘Sometimes it helps to talk.’
‘Does it? I’m not so sure about that. But I can see how tempting it might be for a man to confide in you. That soft voice and quiet way you seem to possess suggests you might be capable of easing pain … for a while at least. Not that I’m looking for that.’ He regarded her suspiciously for a moment, his voice scathing.
‘Believe me … I’m no expert at healing anybody’s pain, and I wouldn’t pretend that I was.’ Stung, Karen dipped her head.
‘Then we’re even, aren’t we? Because I’m not looking to be healed. So don’t make the mistake of thinking that’s what I came for.’ Throwing her a brief warning glance, Gray O’Connell stalked to the door and grabbed his still wet jacket almost violently off the peg.
Ignoring the insult, Karen immediately got to her feet, her book tumbling unheeded to the floor. ‘Perhaps—perhaps you’d like to stay and have a cup of tea with me?’ she offered uncertainly, her smile unknowingly engaging.
The stark expression of raw need in those startling grey eyes impaled her to the floor. A red lick of heat kindled and grew inside her—heat that transcended her cold and the feeble state her body was currently in and put twin flags of searing scarlet into her cheeks.
‘Tea’s not what I need, Miss Ford. And something tells me you’re not the kind of woman who’d be willing to offer me exactly what it is I do need right now …’
He didn’t need to explain. The force of his desire was as palpable as a storm about to break.
He pulled on his dripping jacket, then yanked open the door with unnecessary force. ‘And, by the way, you can stay here as long as you like. Stay or go—it’s up to you. I don’t really care one way or the other.’
Catching the edge of the door, Karen unhappily watched him go, head down, striding off into the rain, like a man whose broad shoulders were weighted down with the cares of the world. Shockingly, she wished she knew a way to make him stay. The thought made her heart thump hard inside her chest. If her landlord had descended into temporary madness then apparently so had she. It was jolting to realise that craving bold glance he’d shot her just now had had the power to make her feel aroused. Or was it just that it had been so long since a man had regarded her with desire in his eyes?
After Ryan had died she’d told herself she’d never want or need a man again. And it was hard to believe Gray O’Connell of all men wanted her … especially in her current unappealing state. Her usually glossy fair hair had lost its lustre, whilst her cold made her resemble some half-starved waif who needed to be tucked up in bed with a hot water bottle and a steaming bowl of broth—never mind a man with winter-grey eyes and a look fierce enough to quell even the indomitable Queen Boudicca.
Her body grew warm at his assessment that she wasn’t the kind of woman who could offer him exactly what he’d needed right then. How did he know that she couldn’t? Spending night after night cold and lonely and hurting in her bed was apt to make a grieving woman slightly crazy.
Karen sucked in a startled breath as she realised she could even contemplate such a thing with a man who was practically a stranger—especially when only minutes before she’d been breaking her heart over Ryan. Reluctantly closing the door, she leant back against the wooden panelling and shut her eyes. Any port in a storm—that was all Gray O’Connell was looking for. And maybe at the end of the day so was she. The man she’d loved and married was long gone. Maybe any port in a storm was all she could hope for now?
But at least her brooding landlord had said she could stay—even if he had thrown his decision at her like a scrap of meat from his plate. There was really no need for her to feel so stupidly grateful but the fact remained that she was. she was.
On Saturday, Karen made a more prolonged visit to the thriving local town. Elated by her landlord’s grudging permission to let her stay on at the cottage, she vowed she’d celebrate by buying some new bits and pieces to cheer the place up. When she left she’d leave them for whoever came after her, but while she was there they would help make the house feel more like home.
With that thought in mind, she browsed contentedly around the quaint narrow streets and thoroughfares, dipping in and out of enticing little craft shops and bookshops, sampling textures, scents and colours, sometimes buying—sometimes not.
Much of the time her exploration was accompanied by the uplifting Irish tunes that drifted out from many of the pubs she passed. The music stirred her soul, as it had always done. It made her happy and sad simultaneously. Happy for the fierce joy it brought her, and sad because she’d probably left that way of life behind for good. But still the fingers that curled round the strap of her shoulder bag itched to pick up a guitar and play, and she had a brief vision of the instrument tucked away beneath her bed.
Squashing the thought, Karen drifted into a coffee shop for a latte and a Danish pastry, content to sit amongst strangers with lilting Irish voices and enjoy her refreshment in peace.
When she came out again the light was slowly fading, and people were starting to head home. On a last-minute impulse she dived into the bookshop she’d spied on the way across the street to the coffee shop and purchased a little book that had given her some much needed consolation in the months directly after Ryan’s death. Unfortunately she’d left her copy back in the UK. Tucking the book carefully into her bag, she made her way tiredly but contentedly back to where she’d parked the car.
Lifting the lid on the simmering pot of stew, with its delicious and mouthwatering aroma of braised lamb and fragrant herbs, Karen took a deeply appreciative sniff, hearing her stomach growl in response. Her day out had given her the appetite of a Titan, and she was so glad that she’d thought to make dinner the night before, because now all she had to do was let it properly heat through and enjoy it.
In the tiny sitting room scented candles flickered on almost every surface, the mingled scents of sandalwood, musk and vanilla creating a soothing ambience of warmth and relaxation, which was exactly what Karen had hoped for. Now that she’d got over her cold she was fully committed to taking much better care of herself—not just eating sensibly and taking regular exercise, but learning how to relax properly. Something she had never really done up until now.
Her life with Ryan had been wonderful, but the last couple of years before he’d died it had been pretty much commitment after commitment, with barely a blank space in the diary to call their own. Touring up and down the country had taken its toll, and Karen had for ever been promising herself that one day she would definitely make more time for herself. Well, now she had the opportunity.
The atmosphere in the cottage was strangely evocative. It brought to mind images of past times—of an older, more simple way of life, when people had worked the land and, even though they’d struggled to make ends meet, there had been a real sense of community and pulling together to help each other. A sense of sadness lingered in the rooms, too—a melancholy air that was like the wisp of smoke after a candle had been blown out. Karen yearned to do everything in her power to dispel that sadness if she could.
The story of Gray O’Connell’s father Paddy had been on her mind ever since he’d related it, and she had an ache in her heart that hadn’t left since she’d heard it. It was all too easy to imagine the man living here alone, with nothing but his memories and his whiskey to keep him company. No doubt Paddy had sorely missed his son when he’d left to make his fortune. In his case, accomplishing exactly that. In all probability the older O’Connell had been proud of his son’s achievements, but maybe he just hadn’t had the words or the courage to tell him? It was a shame that Gray was torturing himself over what had happened.
At the end of the day everyone had a choice in how they responded to life’s challenges, Karen reflected, and if his father had sought solace in whiskey then that had been his decision and was nothing to do with his son. That said, Gray O’Connell was clearly a troubled man himself.
He was so different in every way from her gentle loving Ryan. She tenderly recalled how her husband had had a real talent for communicating with people, and had always been able to find an encouraging word for anyone downhearted or in despair. In the music business, a temperament like his had been rare. She was so lucky to have had him in her life, if only for all too brief a time.
Exhaling a long, slow breath, she was gratified to see that her efforts at building the fire that evening were impressive, to say the least. Right now the flames were licking high and fierce into a really good blaze, rendering the room snugly warm as a result. In the background Karen’s portable radio added muted sounds of conversation and laughter, and for the first time in a long time she was genuinely at ease. By that she meant she wasn’t yearning for anything—not even company.
Her gaze roamed the room with satisfaction. The three small prints she’d purchased, of three different but equally beautiful traditional stone cottages, all set in the emerald-green landscape of the country, had been carefully arranged side by side above the fireplace. Sitting gracefully in a simple but elegant glass vase she’d found in a junk shop were a mixed bunch of cream and red roses, their evocative, fragrant scent mingling gently with the aromatic candles. They were just small, perhaps insignificant things in themselves, but the pleasure they gave Karen was immense.
Combing her fingers through her newly washed honey-gold hair, she glanced ruefully down at the faded blue jeans and red sweater she was wearing. Both items had definitely lost a little of their shape after several washes. The clothing had taken on the comfortable qualities of a dear old friend. Not that she had many ‘dear old friends’ to call upon since Ryan had gone. She grimaced. It was strange how bereavement either brought people closer or pushed them away.
Shaking off the thought, she wondered if she shouldn’t make more than a passing concession to her new mood of optimism and change into something a little more feminine. There were two very nice Indian cotton dresses in her wardrobe—one dark green with a red velvet inlay on the bodice, and the other a rich luxurious purple that she’d bought in Camden Market back home. It might be nice to wear one of them to highlight all the good things she’d done for herself that day.
Contemplating a quick visit to the bedroom to change, she nearly jumped out of her skin when someone rapped on the door. Lifting the latch, she was greeted by the night, the bitter cold air and a handsome if austere Gray O’Connell.
‘I came by to tell you that I’ve bought some things for the cottage. Is it okay if I drop them round in the morning?’
He addressed her without preamble, not even saying hello. Karen stared, feeling an answering jolt in her stomach when her glance collided with his. She’d never seen such heartfelt loneliness in a person’s eyes. It didn’t help that she knew some of the reasons for that achingly distant look.
‘Sure—of course. Tomorrow morning’s fine.’ What he’d bought and why she couldn’t guess, but somehow that seemed irrelevant right now.
‘Good.’ He turned away, not even bothering with goodbye, and for reasons she couldn’t begin to analyse Karen found herself reluctant to let him go.
‘I’ve made some stew for supper.’ She faltered over the words as hectic colour suffused her face, fully aware that she had his attention more completely than a hunter fixing his sights on his prey before aiming his gun. Inwardly, she gulped. ‘There’s more than enough for two—that is if you haven’t already eaten?’
‘Is this a habit of yours?’
‘What? ‘
‘I mean do you normally extend spontaneous invitations to people you hardly know?’ Gray demanded irritably, booted feet firmly set on her doorstep like a captain at the helm of his ship.
‘You showed up the other day and came in without me inviting you. Is that any different?’
‘I asked you if I could come in and you said yes.’
‘Of course I did … you’re my landlord. So I do know you, don’t I?’
‘Damn it, woman, you’re on your own out here!’
He spoke as though she was far too relaxed about her personal safety for his liking. Karen was taken aback by the vehemence in his tone. Anyone who didn’t know them would think that he cared whether she was safe or not—which was utterly ridiculous when one considered the facts.
‘I know I’m perfectly safe here.’ She kept her voice deliberately soft. ‘I’ve only felt anxious once, and that was when I inadvertently crossed paths with the “big bad wolf” in the woods one day.’
For a moment a muscle tensed, then relaxed again in the side of Gray’s high sculpted cheekbone. One corner of his mouth quirked upwards in the beginnings of a smile. The gesture made him sinfully, dangerously attractive, and Karen had cause to question her wisdom at so recklessly inviting him to join her. Just then she remembered an adage she’d once read that the most dangerous wolves were the ones who were hairy on the inside. Maybe she’d be wise to remember that?
‘And he let you go?’ Gray parried dangerously.
Karen caught her breath. ‘Yes … he let me go.’
‘One day those big blue eyes are going to get you into a barrel full of trouble, little girl.’
‘I’m not a little girl, so stop calling me one. I’m a woman … a woman who’s been married, for goodness’ sake!’
‘Have you? Are you telling me you’re divorced now, then?’ With an impenetrable glint in his eye he shouldered past her into the sitting room.
Mentally counting to five, Karen slowly closed the door on the cold, rainy night outside. She shivered hard, but it was nothing to do with the weather. Glancing across at her visitor, she saw that he’d taken off his jacket and thrown it casually across the threadbare arm of the couch. Once again he moved across to the fire and held out his hands to its warmth—though Karen privately thought it would take a lot more than even a hundred blazing fires to warm the icy river that must pass for blood in Gray O’Connell’s veins.
‘I’m a widow.’ Finally commanding his full attention, she lightly shrugged a shoulder as he turned to survey her.
‘How long since you lost your man?’ It sounded almost poetic, the way he phrased it.
‘Eighteen—nearly nineteen months ago.’ She unfolded her arms to thread her fingers nervously through her hair, mentally bracing herself to receive some sort of barbed reply from this enigmatic man who clearly had so many defences that it was a wonder anything could pierce even a chink of his heavy armour. Not that she was looking for sympathy or anything.
‘Is that why you came here?’ His eyes raked her figure from head to foot, then returned to her face, where they reflected a provocatively unsettling interest in her mouth.
Karen grimaced uncomfortably. ‘Now, about that stew … I hope you’re hungry—’
‘How did he die?’ Though he stood-stock still, Gray’s relentless gaze ate up the distance between them as though channelling electricity—probing her reluctance to give him the information he sought with all the steely-eyed determination of a professional interrogator.
‘I don’t—I don’t really want to talk about it.’ She dipped her head, twisting her fingers into a long burnished strand of hair, then impatiently pushing it away again. Her troubled gaze studied the once colourful swirls woven into the homespun rug at her feet with exaggerated concentration.
‘I seem to remember you advising me that it sometimes helps to talk?’
Glancing up at him, Karen was inexplicably annoyed that he should throw what had, after all, been genuine compassion and concern back in her face.
‘You didn’t buy that idea when I offered it to you—why should you expect me to be any different in return?’
‘In my own case I knew it wouldn’t be of any use. You, however, are an entirely different case, Miss Ford. By the way, what is your first name?’
‘You obviously know that it’s Karen. You’re my landlord. The letting agents must have informed you.’
‘Perhaps I wanted to hear it from your own lips.’ Curling his fingers round the thick black leather belt he wore round his jeans, Gray seriously considered her. ‘You barely look old enough to have been married—let alone widowed.’
‘You know how old I am. I’ve already told you. And Ryan and I were married for five years. His death came as a terrible shock. There was no warning, so I wasn’t prepared. He hadn’t even been ill. He worked hard … too hard. Long hours, with not enough rest—but that’s the culture nowadays, isn’t it?’
Her eyes glazed over with distress. ‘The culture we’re all taught to so admire. As if there’s such virtue in working hard and dying young! My husband suffered a massive heart attack at the age of thirty-five. Can you imagine that? When he went, I wanted to die, too. So don’t stand there and tell me I don’t look old enough to be married, because in the space of those five short years with my husband I lived more life than most people do in ten times as long!’
She was shaking, emotion slamming into her like a train, appalled at giving in to such a passionate display in front of a man who probably regarded such outbursts as a certain sign of weakness … or at least a serious character flaw. If only she could take the words back, keep them private and unsaid, but it was clearly too late for that.
His handsome visage a cool, impenetrable mask of enforced self-control, Gray retrieved his jacket from the couch and wordlessly shrugged it on. As Karen struggled to regain even a shred of her former equilibrium, he came towards her, his expression grim. With her heart in her mouth she automatically stepped back. She saw the glimmer of disquiet in his gaze when she did, as if it took him aback that she might be afraid of him.
‘I’m sorry for your trouble, Miss Ford, and sorry that I clearly intruded where I had no right. I didn’t come here to make you revisit painful memories and upset you. I’ll see you in the morning as arranged—if that’s still all right? If not, we can leave it for another time that’s more convenient.’
Nodding miserably, Karen plucked the material of her soft wool sweater between trembling fingers, twisting it into a knot. ‘Tomorrow morning will be fine.’
‘Good. I’ll wish you goodnight, then.’ Gray’s glance greedily swept her pale solemn face, the distressed China-blue eyes with their long dark blonde lashes that reminded him of a fawn, and the full, almost pouting, trembling lips devoid of so much as a trace of lipstick. A man would have to go a long way to find such innocent unaffected beauty in a woman, he thought.
Karen heard him go to the door, lift the latch and step outside. As he went, her body seemed suddenly to move of its own volition, and she found herself hurrying after him. Out into the rainy night she ran, her eyes squinting up at the water that splashed onto her face, ignoring the cold, ignoring the wind that tore into her hair, sweeping the long sun-kissed strands into a dishevelled cloud.
‘Gray!’
The voice that called out his name was full of anguish and something else—something that Gray registered in his mind with tight-lipped control. Heat seared him like a brand at the realisation, making him rock-hard with need. He turned to survey her. Even in the dark he knew his light-coloured eyes burned as brazenly as a cat’s.
‘What is it?’
‘I just—I just want you to—’
‘Don’t ask me to stay, Karen. I’ll only end up hurting you. Trust me.’
Her lip wobbled as she struggled for the words to tell him what she felt. ‘I want—I need—Dear God! Do I have to spell it out for you?’
She was crying even as she spoke, her tears mingling with the rain. Why was it so hard to just say what she wanted? She missed the physical side of married life. She missed having someone to hold her and touch her and make her feel like a woman again. She didn’t want a relationship with Gray O’Connell. He was the last man on earth she could ever want that with. He was too angry—too wounded to be kind. But they’d both been hurt by life. Why shouldn’t they find comfort in each other’s arms for a little while? It didn’t have to mean any more than that, did it?
‘It would only be sex, sweetheart,’ Gray asserted coldly, as if intuiting her thoughts. ‘Nothing else. Not “making love”, not hearts and flowers and violins. Just sex. Screwing, plain and simple. Would you really settle for that?’
Shock slammed into Karen at his words. The strength seemed to drain out of her legs completely. Yet she stood her ground, blinking back tears, blinking back the rain that had already left a fine damp sheen on her sweater, soaking its way onto her skin.
‘Were you always this cruel?’ she asked boldly into the night. ‘I’ll bet you pulled the wings off dragonflies when you were a boy. I’ll bet you laid traps for poor defenceless animals … I bet you broke your poor mother’s heart!’
In two strides Gray was in front of her, his dark face just inches away from hers, his warm breath fanning her face, making little clouds of steam in the rain. ‘My mother took her own life when I was three. Maybe having me was to blame? Who knows? But whether it was me or my father I’ll never know, and I have to live with that every day. So my advice to you, Karen, would be to think twice before you make such a throwaway comment again, damn you!’
The impact of the bitter words made Karen go rigid. Then, hardly realising what she was doing, she slowly raised her hand tentatively to touch his lips with her fingertips. They were infinitely soft to the touch—soft, but inherently stubborn. Velvet clad in iron. But right then she saw past the anger of the man, past the torment of the grown-up who didn’t know where to go with his pain, and instead saw the small three-year-old boy who had been abandoned by his mother and ultimately abandoned by his father, too. Grief twisted her heart.
Gray grabbed her wrist to wrench her hand roughly away. Before she could react he wove his hands through the damp tresses of her hair to crush her lips beneath his mouth in a bruising, destroying kiss that made her body go limp with dazed reaction and turned her blood into a river of seething, molten desire so hot she thought she would be consumed by the sheer, staggering ferocity of it.
His tongue mercilessly swept the soft warm recesses of her mouth, taking brutal hostage of her flesh and her senses with all the insatiable relentless hunger of a man who’d gone without meat or drink for days—tearing into her with passion, demanding everything, sparing her nothing, until her heart pounded in her chest as if she was riding in a speeding car bent on crashing. When his hands left her hair and moved downwards to drag her hips hard against his, his manhood surged like steel against the giving flatness of her belly, leaving Karen in no doubt of the heat and the hardness in him. A kind of drugging sensuality rolled over her like a wave, robbing her of the power to think, to rationalise, to remain sane.
‘Was it like this with your husband, Karen?’ As he tore his mouth from hers Gray’s eyes burned down at her as though in the grip of a fever. He ignored the rain that was soaking them both as though it didn’t even exist. His midnight lashes blinked the moisture away temporarily.
It took several moments for Karen even to register the question. Her lips were aching and bruisingly tender from his passion, her body crushed against his hard, lean length as his arms held her captive, and it was hard to even remember who she was. Tragic Karen Ford from suburban England—a woman who wrote lyrics about passion, who sang songs all about the kind of love that consumed body and soul but had never personally experienced herself.
The shocking realisation was both a revelation and a trauma. It was as though she was utterly betraying Ryan’s memory by even contemplating it. A sudden vision of her husband’s tender smile imposed itself on her mind, cutting through the sensual fog that enveloped her. It made her twist urgently out of Gray’s embrace to call a halt to the madness. Disgusted with herself for almost succumbing to nothing more than base lust, Karen wiped the back of her hand across her still throbbing lips.
Moving several steps away from the man who had only moments ago taken her body hostage, she anxiously straightened her sweater, pushed back her hair to tidy herself, and tried desperately to summon back the woman who always strove to do the right thing, who didn’t give way to wild, uncharacteristic impulses that threatened to land her in a cauldron of hot water that would scar her for ever and play havoc with her soul.
‘My husband was a good, kind man.’
‘But it’s plainly not kindness you want from me, Karen—is it?’
Gray’s lips twisted mockingly, and Karen felt a shaft of pain pierce her heart like a hot red spike.
‘Don’t.’
‘Don’t what?’ he demanded derisively, hands either side of his hips, an imposing dark figure dressed in black, his sombre face a pale, startling contrast in the eerily atmospheric light of the moon. ‘You’ve got to decide, Karen. Either you’re just a girl or you are a woman. When you know the answer perhaps we can come to some mutually satisfying arrangement?’
‘I don’t want—I mean I’m not interested in—’

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