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Just Say Yes
Caroline Anderson
Matthew had fallen for Georgia the moment he sat opposite her on a train. Accidentally walking off with the wrong mobile phone gave him the ideal opportunity to see her again.After her late husband had left her with a pile of debts, Georgia had a phobia about having a man in her life. Matthew Fraser might have been rich, he might have been wonderful with her kids, he might have continually come to her rescue… But no, she wouldn't be swayed; she wouldn't let this man under her skin.But Matthew was a patient man, and equally determined…
“Matt—”
“Georgia—
“I was going to apologize. Not for kissing you, because I don’t regret it for a moment, but for making you feel uncomfortable.”
She didn’t regret the kiss, either—just the fact of who he’d been, who he was.
“Come round the farm with me.”
“No more kisses?” she challenged, and he smiled, a cockeyed smile that softened the strain in his eyes and made her forget who he was.
“No more kisses,” he said, and his voice was full of teasing regret.
“Okay,” she found herself saying, and wondered if she was quite mad, or if it was Matt’s job to finish sending her round the bend!
Dear Reader,
Do you have the slightest idea what we, the authors, subject ourselves to in the name of research? No, I don’t mean the love scenes! No, I don’t mean delightful, cozy dinners à deux. No, I don’t mean popping down to London for the Chelsea Flower Show and sniffing roses in a country garden.
I mean Fear. Terrifying, paralyzing, mind-numbing fear. Clammy hands. Cold sweat breaking out all over. Adrenaline like you wouldn’t believe. Nausea. For days. Invalidation of life insurance.
And why? Because it has to be Real. Because, in my infinite wisdom, I decided my hero would take my heroine up in a microlight. Hah! Foolish woman. It’s a mistake I won’t repeat, and I doubt she will, either! So, dear reader, please do me a favor. If you don’t suffer from a fear of heights, if you don’t mind sudden, unpredictable movements or handing control of your life to someone you’ve only just met, don’t get motion sick or suffer from panic attacks, spare a thought for those of us who do, and would suffer them anyway, for you, for the sake of authenticity!
I aged ten years the day I went up in a microlight and got to know my weaknesses in intimate detail. I hope you feel it was worth it! Enjoy the book, with my love.
Just Say Yes!
Caroline Anderson
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE (#u0d76ae80-ad1c-5bea-9ef0-90896ba780d9)
CHAPTER TWO (#u3e3e4c31-cb4b-5f5c-bc0e-0586bdd96a83)
CHAPTER THREE (#u8c3f5f1a-dbce-5776-87e1-9ca2517518a9)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
GEORGIA was exhausted.
She must have walked ten miles round that blasted building site if she’d walked an inch, and if she didn’t get her shoes off soon she thought she was probably going to scream.
She dropped her bag on the table, slid her portfolio into the gap between the seats and sat down with a plop. Then with a sigh of relief she kicked off her shoes under cover of the table.
Bliss! She squirmed her toes and sighed again. Thank goodness it was over, she thought, and stared out at the bustle of the railway station, reliving her fruitless and irritating day.
It wouldn’t have been as bad if the design hadn’t been so far advanced before the client had changed his mind, but no, he’d seen a video of the previous Chelsea Flower Show and been inspired. Could she use more metal? And how about a bigger water feature? Reflective, perhaps—or then maybe not. Perhaps a rill—a little falling streamlet—or better still a waterfall—on a flat site, already horribly over budget!
She’d had her teeth clenched all day so hard her jaws ached. How could the client be so vacillating and still be alive? She would have thought he would have been murdered by now, he was so infuriating!
Still, at least she wouldn’t have to speak to him for a few days. Maybe by then she’d have got her temper back—and maybe her hair wouldn’t be red any more!
She dropped her head back against the prickly cushion and winced. Damn. Hairclip. She squeezed the wings together and opened the wicked jaws of her favourite clip—the Venus fly-trap, she called it, which, with its vicious teeth, was about the only sort man enough to restrain her wild curls.
She shook her head and they broke free and tumbled down her back. Yet again she sighed with relief, and threading her fingers through her hair, she combed it out roughly, then leant back against the cushion again, comfortable this time. At least she had the little table to herself for a moment. No doubt that state of affairs wouldn’t last long, but in the meantime—
She wriggled her feet again, stretched her legs out under the table and propped her heels on the edge of the other seat.
Wonderful. Five minutes like this and she’d stand a chance of feeling human again…
Damn. It was almost full. Still, there was a small table by the window, occupied by a woman with foaming red hair. He chuckled to himself. Occupied, as in taken over completely. A bag as big as a bucket was dominating most of the tabletop, the contents threatening to splurge out—and on the other seat, sticking up like tiny sentinels, were the daintiest, cutest little feet he’d seen in a long time.
She was asleep, her lashes lying in dusky curves on the smooth cream of her cheeks, her mouth soft and rosy and vulnerable. Now in a fairytale, he thought, he would have to wake her with a kiss—
Matthew cleared his throat, pulling himself together. ‘Excuse me. Is this seat taken?’
Her lids flew up, revealing wide green eyes hazed with sleep, and she scrambled back into a sitting position and hooked her feet down, to his disappointment.
‘I’m sorry. No—no, I was just stretching out. I must have dozed off. I’m sorry.’
She was embarrassed, dragging the bag towards her and colouring delicately along those rather interesting cheekbones. Her mouth, a little too wide and slightly vulnerable, curved fleetingly into a wry smile as she pushed the bag down at her feet, red hair tumbling wildly around her head.
Matthew squeezed himself into the space between the seat and the table and tried not to fantasise. He put his briefcase down and flipped it open, pulling out the papers he intended to go over again, then snapped the locks shut and slid it behind his legs. Their feet collided, and apologising, they both withdrew to their own sides again.
‘There’s not much leg-room, is there?’ he said, bizarrely conscious of the warm place under his thigh where her feet had been, but she was staring out of the window again, ignoring him.
Just as well. She had a wedding ring on. If she hadn’t had, he might have persued the conversation, but it was pointless. Pity. She was rather attractive in a fresh and slightly chaotic sort of way.
He settled down to the papers in front of him, trying unsuccessfully to keep his legs to himself. He had to sit with his knees apart to accommodate hers, and the posture was strangely intimate and made him uneasy.
He hated the train. Given the choice he would have driven, but parking in London was a nightmare.
His phone rang, and he answered it absently, dealt with the call then made another, a follow-on call to clear up some of the unanswered questions, all the time trying not to think about that soft, wide mouth and the firm little knees between his own.
Georgia rested her head against the seat-back, closed her eyes and tried not to let her knees drop against his. It was just too—intimate, really, too personal. Too much.
She shifted in her seat, turning towards the window more, and her knee brushed his again.
They murmured apologies and she shifted back, trying not to eavesdrop on his conversation.
It was impossible not to hear, but it didn’t sound all that riveting anyway. Something about political unrest and financial insecurity and government intervention. She looked at him curiously. Arms? Probably plastic document wallets, she thought with a stifled smile—or loo paper.
He had an interesting face but not the face of a criminal. Not conventionally handsome, but somehow attractive. His chin had a little cleft in it, and when he laughed at something the other person said, his eyes creased with humour and she found herself smiling too.
He switched off the phone and put it down, picking up the document on the table and flicking through it, making quick notes in a sharp, jagged hand that fascinated her.
She tried not to stare, but her eyes kept drifting back towards him, to the way the soft lock of hair at the front kept falling forward when he leant over to consult the document. Then he looked up and speared her with those startling ice-blue eyes, and she tried nonchalance for a moment and then dropped her eyes, as guiltily as if she’d been caught with her hand in the biscuit tin.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw his mouth tip in a smile, and colour teased her already warm cheeks. Damn. By the age of thirty she should have learned to control that childish reaction!
She was relieved when the refreshments trolley was wheeled in and she could find something to busy herself. ‘Tea, please. White,’ she said, and fumbled for her purse.
The paper cup was set down in front of her, she was parted from an extortionate amount of change, and the trolley moved on.
She saw he’d bought a bar of chocolate and a can of some gaudy tropical carbonated drink that would strip his teeth of their enamel in minutes and do disgusting things to his insides. She shuttered inwardly and stared out of the window again at the advertising hoardings that towered over the grubby little houses, wedged up cheek by jowl against the railway line, crammed with people trapped in the bowels of the dirty city. She could see into their bedrooms—see the unmade bed in one, someone undressing in another. So little privacy.
She closed her eyes. It was too awful to contemplate. How she’d lived in London at all she found quite incredible, even if it had been Knightsbridge. It held no attraction for her at all now, and she couldn’t wait until she got home and could wash off the grimy smell and change out of her ‘city’ clothes into her jeans and soft, baggy old sweatshirt that said ‘World’s Best Mum’ on it in faded white letters.
She thought longingly of a hot bath and a cold glass of Chablis, followed by some light and delicate dish, something clever with fruit and parma ham, seasoned to perfection and exquisitely presented by a discreet and well-trained slave—
In her dreams! It would probably be frozen pizza again, and no doubt that would have to be slotted in round the children’s homework, sorting out a load of washing and doing a hundred and one other things that working women did that their spouses thought happened almost by accident.
Not that she had a spouse, not any more, thank goodness. Not for ages, now. Three years. It seemed much longer since her reprieve.
People had commiserated with her when Brian had died, and been puzzled when she hadn’t been heartbroken. All except her closest friends, who’d had an inkling of their unhappiness.
Georgia snorted softly. They hadn’t known the half of it.
Still, it was over now, over and done with and well behind them. She had a career to be proud of, a lovely house, two gorgeous children that she adored, and the rest of her life to look forward to.
Strange, then, how sitting with her knees between the warm, hard legs of a personable man made her so painfully aware of the emptiness that lingered in the shadows of her crowded and busy life.
She shifted further back on the seat, drawing her legs towards her and away from him, away from temptation and all that wicked sex appeal that she would do well to ignore…
She’d gone to sleep again, her legs falling against his as she relaxed, making him inescapably aware of the soft warmth of her knees pressed against the inside of his thigh.
Still, it gave him a chance to study her without fear of being caught, and as he did so, something teased at the back of his mind. Some occasion when they’d met, but he couldn’t place where. She’d been unhappy, though. He could remember those beautiful green eyes welling with tears—and his anger. He remembered the anger, the frustration of not being able to help her, but nothing more.
He tried again, but the memory was too elusive. It was too long ago, too insignificant an event to have registered.
A muffled electronic jingle gradually penetrated his awareness, and Matthew leant forwards and shook her arm gently. ‘Excuse me—is that your phone?’
Her eyes flew open and she sat up, her knees withdrawing from his as she scrambled for her bag under the seat. The hideous noise grew louder and she came up flushed and triumphant, phone in hand, and pressed a button, flashing him a smile of thanks that did strange and unexpected things to his heartrate.
‘Hello? Joe? Hello, darling. Are you all right?’
Her voice was soft, warm and rich and slightly deeper than he’d expected. A little husky.
Sexy.
Oh, hell. He wondered who Joe was, and tried not to eavesdrop. Fat chance in those close confines. There wasn’t much to glean, anyway. It was all trivial household stuff—probably her other half asking the ‘What’s for supper?’ question.
He wondered if she knew how her voice softened as she spoke, and wished he had someone to call who would respond so warmly.
‘You’re losing it, Fraser’ he told himself.
The journey was endless. They sat outside Chelmsford for half an hour, held up by a broken-down train ahead of them, and then finally pulled into Ipswich station three quarters of an hour late.
The train lurched as it came out of the tunnel, sending the dregs of her tea cascading towards her. With a startled shriek she leapt up, swiping wildly at the spreading stain on her skirt, and he stood up and blotted her with an immaculate linen handkerchief.
The feel of his hand against her thigh made her blush, and grabbing the handkerchief from him she gave the wet patch a couple more swipes and then handed it back. ‘Thank you,’ she said, kicking herself for sounding breathless and sixteen and totally out of control.
He smiled, the crinkling of his eyes softening the strangely icy colour, warming it.
‘My pleasure. Are you getting off here?’
She nodded, her feet chasing round under the table after her shoes, and finally locating them as the train eased to a much more civilised halt. ‘Yes, I am. Oh, where’s my portfolio?’
She pulled it out from between the seats, scooped up her bag and phone and left, vaguely aware of him following suit in a much more orderly and dignified fashion.
Georgia was past being dignified. Her skirt was soaked, her feet hurt, her baby-sitter would be edging towards the door and Joe and Lucy would be vile by now.
And if her client hadn’t fiddled about and changed his mind for the hundredth time, she would have been on the earlier train and in the bath by now! She ran down the platform and over the bridge, out of the doors and across the road to the car park, fumbling for her keys.
Aha! Finally locating them as she arrived at the car, she let herself in, started the engine and pulled away into the evening traffic. Ten minutes and she could have the wine, if not the bath, the gourmet dinner and the slave! She whipped round the inner ring road, out into the country, and was just turning into her lane when an orchestra struck up in her bag.
She stared at it dumbstruck for a second, then pulling over, she rooted about for the source of the noise and came up with her phone.
No, not her phone. His phone. Hers absolutely never spouted classical music!
She pressed a button and held it cautiously to her ear.
‘Hello?’
‘Oh—hi. It’s Simon here—can I speak to Matt, please?’
