A Very Passionate Man Page 5

  ‘If you need any help doing anything else round here, let me know.’ He pushed his fingers through his curling, damp locks and stared deeply into her upturned face, his suddenly blazing green eyes speaking to her in a language without words. Heat sizzled along Rowan’s spine and silently imploded.

  ‘That’s nice of you to offer. Thank you.’

  ‘So polite, just like a good little girl.’

  ‘It’s how my parents brought me up.’

  She hated his clearly mocking tone, but heat still engulfed her and made her giddy because she was in such close proximity to him in a confined space that suddenly seemed no bigger than the inside of the blanket box at the end of her bed. There were faint traces of humour in Evan’s eyes that told her he probably thought she was kind of quaint—a bit of an oddity, perhaps? Definitely not a woman who understood the kind of sophisticated games that adults could sometimes play.

  Good, Rowan thought defiantly, because she wouldn’t want to give the impression she was something she wasn’t. If Evan had thought to be nice to her because it had suddenly occurred to him that she might prove a handy diversion whilst he stayed at the cottage, then he had another think coming. She was going to be nobody’s port in a storm—least of all for an angry, embittered man who couldn’t even trouble himself to make half-decent conversation with another human being.

  But something was happening between them. Something that, once realised, couldn’t be denied. This something seemed to fill up the space between them and made it hard to breathe. Now Rowan’s gaze was fixed on the impossibly sexy cleft in the centre of Evan’s chin and the two little shaving nicks he’d made beside it, and the words she tried to form in her brain wouldn’t seem to make the necessary journey to her lips.

  ‘You’d better go.’

  ‘I think perhaps I’d better.’ Reaching out, he tugged a sleek, curling tendril beside her cheek and for a moment his knuckle grazed her skin, stirring the air into living electricity around them. ‘Thanks for the tea. The apple pie was great too.’

  When the front door closed behind him, Rowan put her hands up to her burning face and breathed deeply into them. ‘Oh, God…’

  For a whole week Evan managed to avoid his distracting neighbour. When he saw her digging in the garden or setting out for a walk or returning in her car from a shopping trip, he told himself it was none of his business what she got up to, that he should just concentrate his energies on getting back to full fitness. At least his appetite had returned. But thinking of food automatically made him think about Rowan’s heavenly apple pie, and then naturally that led to him thinking about the woman herself.

  It was too cruel what had happened to her husband. It didn’t seem right that a woman like her should be on her own. If Evan’s intuition was right, she had a nurturing instinct a mile wide and by rights should have a brood of happy, noisy kids to take care of by now. How old must she be? Twenty-nine? Thirty?

  He was too restless to sit, so Evan’s long legs carried him to the window overlooking Rowan’s garden. The lady had been busy, he saw. She’d mown the wild grass and dug over the borders and an old green wheelbarrow stood to the side with two sacks of compost in it. The weather had turned appreciably warmer today and he speculated whether she’d be tempted to don that white dress of hers, along with that ridiculous straw hat. His lips twisted in derision. Why on earth should she, when he’d been so disparaging about her wearing them the first time they had met?

  About to turn away, Evan stood perfectly still as Rowan suddenly came into view. She carried a big aluminum watering-can that water sploshed out of as she walked, and she was wearing old jeans, a white T-shirt and green Wellington boots that looked at least two sizes too big. If it weren’t for those distinctly feminine curves, she’d have reminded him of a little girl lost in a world of her own, oblivious to anything else going on around her but the task she’d set herself.

  Before he even had time to question the wisdom of what he was about to do, Evan strode back across his living-room, then out into the hallway to his front door.

  Enjoying the feel of the sun on her back as she liberally watered her newly sown plants, Rowan barely glanced up as she heard the front gate squeak open. Lost in thought, she couldn’t quell the growing sense of satisfaction that was taking root inside her at just how much she’d managed to accomplish both in the house and the garden this week. She’d been sleeping better too, because her body had been so physically tired by the time she crawled into bed each night that she’d fallen asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow.

  When the sound of the doorbell permeated her musing, Rowan glanced round in shock, her heartbeat skidding like a roller skater heading for a fall. It couldn’t be who she thought it was, could it? It was obvious that Evan had deliberately kept out of her way since that provoking little encounter in her hallway a week ago, and she told herself she was glad. What business did she want with a man who was clearly exorcising demons of his own, who seemed to find it hard to tolerate the company of another human being, let alone ordinary conversation?

  She took a deep breath, then silently counted to ten before unlocking the front door.

  ‘I thought you might need some help.’

  It seemed typical of the man that he casually waded right in, as though a whole week hadn’t just gone by without them so much as wishing each other good morning. Clamping down her surge of irritation, Rowan wiped her hands down the thighs of her jeans then tucked her hair behind her ears. Despite his apparent disregard for the usual conventions, she couldn’t help being overwhelmed by the mere sight of him. Even dressed casually as he was, in a dark blue sweatshirt and black jeans, Evan Cameron was a disconcerting force of nature that knocked her sideways. All that powerful masculinity contained in a hard, lean body honed to awesome perfection was enough to make a grown woman weep. Now where had that thought come from? Guiltily, her brown eyes shied away from direct confrontation with his.

  ‘I’m—I’m fine, thanks.’

  ‘Could you use some help or couldn’t you?’ Leaning against the door jamb, Evan didn’t look as if he intended to let her brush him off so easily.

  ‘What sort of help are you offering, Mr Cameron?’ Thinking about all the work that needed doing in her presently emptied front room, Rowan was having second thoughts about refusing his assistance so abruptly. Just yesterday the industrial sander she’d hired to do the downstairs floors had arrived, but as she was in the middle of working on the garden she’d decided that the floors would have to wait until she was ready.

  ‘I can turn my hand to most things. Whatever a lady needs a man around the house for, I can do.’ He shrugged, then grinned unrepentantly, his green eyes suddenly acquiring a devilish gleam at Rowan’s helpless blush. Clearing her throat, she stepped back into the hallway to indicate he should come in. ‘Actually, you might have called at a most opportune moment. How are you at sanding floors?’

  It was worth clogging up his lungs with dust for the day to be rewarded with a mug of tea and a generous, mouthwatering slice of Rowan’s home-made cherry pie, Evan concluded as he took a break with her in the small galley kitchen. They’d closed the door to prevent wood-dust coating everything else, and Evan sat at the pine table in the alcove watching Rowan as she busily wiped down surfaces then straightened the cookery books on the small wooden shelf on the window-ledge as though her hands couldn’t keep still.

  ‘I think I’ve become addicted to your baking,’ he commented, licking a small splurge of cherry juice off his thumb. Transfixed by the sight, Rowan slowly let out her breath and stopped what she was doing.

  ‘Home cooking is always nicer—whether it’s cordon bleu or just plain old bangers and mash. Did your wife—?’ Stricken by her bad faux pas, Rowan covered her mouth with her hand. At the table, Evan took an outwardly calm sip of tea before replying.

  ‘Rebecca didn’t cook much. She was far too busy employing her dubious talents elsewhere.’ Like his best friend’s bed, Evan gri
mly recalled. His gaze settled thoughtfully on Rowan. The poor woman looked as if she wanted the ground to open up and swallow her. He knew he had to put her out of her misery. It wasn’t her fault that his wife had had the morals of an alley cat—not to mention the claws too, sharp enough to put him off marriage for life, in fact. ‘Don’t give her another thought. Believe me, she isn’t worth it.’ Getting to his feet, he reached for the door-handle, but Rowan stopped him in his tracks.

  ‘She—she must have hurt you badly. You seem so…bitter.’ Her softly shaped brows drew together as if she couldn’t bear to contemplate a husband or wife being cruel to their spouse. It almost made Evan want to shield her from the harsher realities of life…almost, but not quite.

  ‘Rebecca was a clever, manipulative woman who used men to get what she wanted in life. When I cottoned on to her…not so admirable qualities, shall we say?—she moved on to my best friend. I only found out later, after she’d got the courts to award her most of my assets, that she’d done the same thing to another poor jerk before me.’ Briefly dipping his head, Evan let go of the door-handle. Rowan could almost see the tension that locked his back and shoulders. It took a supreme effort on her part not to reach out and massage that tension away. She came to her senses with a shock at what she’d actually contemplated doing.

  ‘But how did she get the court to award her most of your assets?’ she heard herself ask instead.

  ‘She was pregnant at the time our divorce was petitioned. She swore the baby was mine.’

  ‘And it—it wasn’t?’

  ‘No, it wasn’t. And her lawyer argued a convincing case so that she didn’t have to submit to tests to prove it.’ With a dark glower Evan grimly moved his head from side to side, then wrenched open the door. ‘I’d better get back to sanding the rest of that floor. Another hour, I’d say, and the job will be done.’

  She knew she ought to know better, but Rowan followed him out into the living-room just the same. The windows were thrown wide open to help disperse the dust and the sun poured in to illuminate every beautiful sanded floorboard. Evan had worked hard and she was immensely grateful. Up until a few moments ago in the kitchen he’d seemed to relax into an almost companionable silence with her, but now he was angry and tense and Rowan wished she knew a way to restore some harmony between them. How could his wife have cheated on him? she wondered. Evan Cameron was surely more than enough man for most women?

  ‘Did you want children?’

  ‘What?’ His green eyes flashed a warning, as if she had already gone too far, but Rowan determinedly stood her ground. No wound left to fester ever healed, and it didn’t take a psychotherapist to deduce that that was exactly what Evan had been allowing his emotional wounds to do.

  ‘I asked if you wanted children.’

  The question cut him to the quick. He remembered the joy he’d experienced when Rebecca had come back that afternoon from the doctor’s…the plans he’d made about buying them a bigger house, upgrading her car to the latest model with all those brand-new hi-tech safety features… His gut clenched as though deflecting a blow.

  ‘The subject isn’t up for discussion.’ Grimly he strode towards the sander, where he had left it, then reached across to the mantelpiece to retrieve his protective mask.

  Rowan steeled herself. ‘I’m sorry that your wife hurt you so badly and that—and that the baby wasn’t yours. But you’re a young, attractive man and there’ll be other relationships. Hopefully one day you’ll find someone who truly loves you for yourself and you can have all the children you want. One thing I’ve learned is that we must never let the pain of the past blind us to the possibilities of the future.’

  ‘Quite the little philosopher, aren’t you?’ Turning on her, Evan drew the paper mask in his fist into a tight ball. ‘What would you know of betrayal, hmm? You, with your no doubt perfect marriage to Mr Wonderful? Just keep your misguided sympathies out of my business, Rowan, and let me deal with my life in my own way.’

  Switching on the sander, he drowned out further discussion with the noise, leaving Rowan with no option other than to make her way back out into the garden to tend to her plants.

  Had she had a perfect marriage? Crouching low over some bulbs she was planting, Rowan scratched her head and sighed. Greg had been a wonderful partner, a warm, funny, insightful and caring man who’d never given her one moment’s cause to regret marrying him. But their marriage hadn’t been perfect. How could it have been? How could anyone’s? They’d had their ups and downs like everyone else; regrets too. For instance, how often had they put off having a child of their own in deference to furthering their careers? Well…his career in particular. Rowan absorbed the little niggle of resentment in her chest and shook her head.

  Her thoughts ran on. How many nights had she spent alone when Greg had been abroad, filming some insurgent uprising or war? How many times had she feared for his life in those anxious situations? And yet he’d come home after every one, thrilled to see her but just as eager to be off again to some other potentially explosive situation in some remote part of the world—thousands of miles away from his lonely wife. Had she been lonely? God, yes. No matter how many times Greg had gone away, she’d never quite got used to it. Many were the nights Rowan had cried herself to sleep because she’d missed her husband, yearned for him to be there with her in their cosy little flat, longed for him in their bed…

  Heat seeped up her neck and into her cheeks. Why did men think they were the only ones who had needs? Just because she was a widow now, it didn’t mean she was suddenly dead from the waist down, did it? Her throat tightened and she impatiently started to dig again with the little green trowel. Damn Evan Cameron and his surly ways. No wonder his wife had left him for someone else if that was how he’d carried on! Swallowing down her hurt, she let go of the trowel and eased up onto her feet. A wave of remorse washed over her. She shouldn’t say that. It was plain that he was a man in an immense amount of pain. Only hurt people were angry. It made Rowan wonder what he had been like before the betrayal. She sighed. If only he could learn to smile a bit more, to laugh, if only—

  ‘Rowan.’

  He appeared at the back door, hands on hips, handsome face unsmiling and pensive. Rowan’s heart sank to her boots.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Want to come round to my place for a bite to eat tonight?’

  His question floored her. She stared. ‘I—I…’

  ‘Don’t get too excited…it’s only stir-fry.’

  ‘Well, I—what time do you want me round?’ she heard herself ask, and couldn’t suppress the leap of inexplicable hope in her chest.

  ‘Eight o’clock is fine.’

  ‘Want me to bring dessert?’

  ‘Any cherry pie left?’ Evan grinned back.

  Rowan nodded, an answering smile tugging at her mouth that just wouldn’t be tamped. ‘Plenty. I’ll bring some home-made custard as well.’

  ‘You’re a dangerous woman, Rowan Hawkins…anyone ever tell you that?’

  Her toes were still curling as he turned and went inside.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  IN DEFERENCE to Rowan’s visit, Evan put a cloth on the table and lit a candle. Then, thinking better of such an uncharacteristic impulse, he blew out the candle and shoved the little brass holder back into a cupboard. What was he thinking of? And what on earth had possessed him to invite the woman to dinner? As soon as the invitation was out of his mouth he’d regretted it. Her sherry-brown eyes had gone from sad to hopeful in an instant, and that wasn’t what Evan had planned at all. What he’d planned on doing was keeping Rowan Hawkins at a distance until he went back to London. But now—unless he took another deliberate U-turn and alienated the woman even more—he’d have to extend the hand of friendship indefinitely, at least while he was staying at the cottage.

  Briefly leaning his head against the wall, he tried desperately to gain some sense of control over what was happening. All along he’d told himself he didn’t need company
. Nor did he need comfort, come to that, and certainly not from a woman who could surely use a little of that commodity herself.

  He straightened, staring at the sizeable wok he’d placed on the unlit stove and the assorted dishes of vegetables and herbs he’d chopped up and placed in readiness on the counter beside it. He glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall, registering that it was just after eight, then lifted his hands to examine them. No shakes… That was good. Thank God for small mercies. So he’d cook the meal he’d planned, offer her a glass of wine, make a little light conversation as best he could, then hopefully once they’d eaten she’d take the hint and not outstay her welcome. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to encourage her friendship after all in that case. Why not just let her think he was moody and unpredictable? Heaven knew it wasn’t far from the truth. Then from tomorrow onwards Evan could affect a little more distance again. Maybe tell her he was going to be busy for the next couple of weeks and do his best to keep a low profile. Confident he had things under control again, he switched on the radio and turned to the cooker.

  She came into his house like a princess bearing gifts, a creamy pashmina shawl draped around her shoulders over a long white calico dress, her arms full of plastic storage boxes and a bottle of wine. After instructing him on the heating procedure for the pie and the custard, she turned a becoming shade of pink when he merely grinned and relieved her of her booty, then became suddenly silent as Evan placed everything on the counter and turned back to study her. Her delicate fragrance wafted round her, filling his nostrils and invading his senses with pleasure as though he stood in an orchard somewhere with the scent of new-mown grass and sunlight warming his back. Relaxing his gaze and folding his arms across his chest, he was in no hurry to sully the magical moment with needless conversation.

  Heat prickled all the way down Rowan’s spine as Evan studied her, and it felt as though every part of her body suddenly became much too sensitive. She pulled her shawl more securely around her shoulders and attempted a smile. She’d had her doubts about coming to his house and now his unsettling behaviour merely confirmed them. Why was he looking at her like that? Didn’t he like what she was wearing? If only he’d known how she’d anguished as to what to put on, anxious not to make it look as if she wanted to please him in some way with her appearance—to somehow set the tone just right. Now she knew she must have got it wrong. Back in London she frequented antique shops and the stalls in Camden Market for her clothing, and her style, if she had one, was probably what might be termed a little old-fashioned—Laura Ashley meets hippy chick. Greg had claimed to love it, but Evan Cameron, with his steely, toned biceps and fierce green eyes, clearly didn’t.