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Last Chance Marriage
Rosemary Gibson
KIDS & KISSESA brief encounter…and a second chance!For Clemency Adams, one disastrous marriage was enough. She'd decided to focus on her career in the future, and that meant trying to ignore the instinctive attraction she felt for the man next door–an attraction that started with a brief encounter five long years ago.For Joshua Harrington, one wife who had chosen her career over her family was more than enough. He'd decided to concentrate on his four-year-old twin sons, rather than pursue the woman next door who had awakened some compelling memories in him.It looked as though they were destined to throw away their last chance of happiness. Until two adorable little boys decided they wanted their father to get to know Clemency–a lot better!Kids & Kisses–Where kids and romance go hand in hand
“No strings.” His eyes moved over her face. “No commitment.” (#u91e6d06c-69b5-58f0-81d3-d0abf1f94cb8)About the Author (#u1a1f6dbf-3a38-54d0-81bb-4bdd37fe8eed)Title Page (#u040f7545-cebd-5517-ad40-dcd87ecdfd46)CHAPTER ONE (#ucb6ce45f-da49-5df1-ba9d-f742d50d71bf)CHAPTER TWO (#u429c6290-3a58-5c95-bcd2-9a07b01c216c)CHAPTER THREE (#u0a39a336-3635-5eef-894f-66a094f88754)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)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“No strings.” His eyes moved over her face. “No commitment.”
He didn’t have to keep spelling it out as if she were some dewy-eyed teenager. She hadn’t thought for one moment that he felt anything more for her than a transitory physical desire.
“You haven’t slept with anyone since Simon, have you?”
“That is none of your damn business!” Regardless of her response, he was the one who had instigated the kiss, not her. And he was the one who had drawn back first, a taunting little voice reminded her.
“No, it isn’t,” he agreed. “Would you like your strawberries now?” He glanced over a broad shoulder. “I’ve some ice cream in the freezer.”
“Give mine to the twins,” she said curtly.
“What do you want me to do?” he said quietly, his eyes moving over her rigid face. “Apologize for kissing you?”
“Don’t be so ridiculous.”
“Or apologize for not taking you to bed?”
“I don’t want a casual, meaningless affair with you, and I certainly don’t want anything more, if that’s what you’re so terrified of,” she said steadily, her eyes never wavering from his. “But I had hoped we might be friends. I was wrong,” she concluded simply, and started to walk toward the door.
Rosemary Gibson was born in Egypt. She spent the early part of her childhood in Greece and Vietnam, and now lives in the New Forest. She has had numerous jobs, ranging from working with handicapped children and collecting litter, to being a gas-station attendant and airline ground hostess, but she has always wanted to be a writer. She was lucky enough to have her first short story accepted eight years ago and now writes full-time. She enjoys swimming, playing hockey, gardening and traveling.
Last Chance Marriage
Rosemary Gibson
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHAPTER ONE
WEED or seedling? Trowel in her hand, Clemency crouched over the green shoots with thoughtful grey eyes. She’d scattered a packet of mixed annuals around about here in a fit of horticultural zeal last October, she recalled. Leave them alone and see what happens, she decided tranquilly, the spring sunshine glinting on her short copper curls multiplying the smattering of tiny freckles across her neat, straight nose. It was hotter than she’d realised. Dropping the trowel, she picked up the wide-brimmed sun hat that she’d discarded earlier and placed it firmly back on her head.
‘Dammit all, I moved down here to the country for some peace and quiet!’
Startled, Clemency rocked back on her heels and then realised that the deep, vehement male voice wasn’t addressing her, but issuing from the other side of the thick, high boundary hedge.
‘Peace!’ There was a loud, derisive snort. ‘I’ve been here barely one week and already every prying, interfering female in the village—no, the whole of Dorset—has been round...’
‘Now, stop exaggerating, Joshua, dear,’ a serene female voice broke in, adding musingly, ‘And I rather thought you moved here to be nearer to your father and I.’
‘Handing out advice, offering to babysit for the twins, suggesting I join this, that and the other club...’ There was the rhythmic sound of sawing.
‘They’re just being kind, dear. Welcoming you into the community.’
‘I have no desire to be part of the community, absolutely no desire to take up bell ringing, join the wine tasting circle, the gardening club or the local amateur dramatics association...’
Clemency raised her eyebrows, pushing the large sunglasses back on the bridge of her nose. The local societies would probably survive without him, she thought. Feeling a little uncomfortable eavesdropping, even though it wasn’t intentional, she tugged up a dandelion and rose to her feet, brushing off the mud from the knees of her jeans.
‘What’s your neighbour like?’ said the female voice.
Another disdainful snort. ‘Single. Chartered accountant. Works for a commercial bank in Poole.’
Clemency’s mouth curved as she tossed the dandelion into the bucket. The good old village grapevine.
‘No male in evidence. Compensates for her lack of social life by working long hours. Mid-twenties with her biological body clock beginning to start ticking.’
Well, really! Indignation and amusement warred for supremacy as Clemency picked up her trowel and bucket of weeds.
‘You’ve met her? That top branch looks dead too, dear.’
‘Not as such. She appeared on the doorstep yesterday morning with Jamie’s football. Why the hell she couldn’t have just tossed it back over the hedge...’
Clemency’s eyes sparked. Because she’d decided that it was about time she made some sort of welcoming gesture to her new neighbours, and also let them know that they were perfectly free to come and collect stray balls at any time.
‘I didn’t bother to answer the door and she left the ball on the front step.’
There was a little sigh. ‘You were always so polite as a boy, Joshua.’
‘And I saw her peeping at us from an upstairs window yesterday evening.’
She’d been closing her window, that was all, had done nothing more than glance into the next-door garden at the tall, dark-haired man playing cricket with two identical small boys. Pity that he’d chosen that precise minute to glance up. Clemency looked thoughtfully down at her trowel and decided regretfully that it might well miss the intended target.
‘Don’t you think you’re being a little arrogant, dear? Assuming every single woman has designs on you?’
Clemency’s eyes danced with repressed, delighted laughter.
‘It’s not me they have designs on. It’s the twins. I’m just part of the package.’ There was a fleeting note of self-mockery in the deep voice and then it hardened again. ‘The twins are not looking for a mother and I most certainly am not looking for a wife. This is an all-male household and that’s the way it intends staying.’
Clemency gave a muffled snort. What sane woman would want to infiltrate that household?
‘Yes, dear. When your father gets back from swimming with the twins, I should ask him to have a look at that wisdom tooth.’
‘Dad won’t want to go into his surgery on a Sunday afternoon. I’ll make an appointment with him for tomorrow.’
‘He was planning to go in anyway for a couple of hours to catch up on some paperwork, and you might be able to last out until tomorrow but I don’t know whether the rest of us can.’
There was a moment’s silence and then the stillness was broken by a rich, deep chuckle. ‘Have I been that impossible this morning?’
‘You haven’t exactly been suffering in silence,’ the gentle voice observed dryly, but the underlying affection was marked. ‘Shall I hold the ladder?’
Forewarned, Clemency had plenty of time to beat a hasty retreat, but refused to be driven out of her own garden and glanced up with a sunny smile as a dark head and wide, powerful shoulders appeared in her line of vision through the branches of the huge ash tree.
‘Hello,’ she began cheerfully, and stopped, her breath catching in her throat, the hairs stiffening on the back of her neck as she absorbed the hard, chiselled male features.
It couldn’t be him.
Slowly she expelled her breath, berating herself for her idiocy. Even after all these years, she thought wryly, the sudden glimpse of a well-shaped head, of a square, tenacious chin, a certain inflection in a deep male voice could still catch her completely off-guard, could still make some part of her leap in half-remembered recognition.
But of course this man wasn’t him. That other man belonged to the past, and she’d known that night they’d parted that she would never see him again.
Her eyes jerked upwards again. There was a slight facial resemblance, that was all, she convinced herself uneasily, but this man looked tougher, more formidable. His face could have been carved out of granite, gave nothing away, the hard, unyielding contours etched by a world-weary cynicism.
‘Clemency Adams,’ she introduced herself swiftly. Mid-thirties, she judged. It couldn’t be him, she denied again. It was impossible. He could not be her new neighbour. She wasn’t even sure how clear her recollection of him was any more, anyway. The image of the dark face still haunted her sleep sometimes but, when she woke with that inexplicable aching sense of loss, the image had blurred. Their time together had been so fleeting.
If he’d noticed her momentary agitation, he gave no indication of it, the blue eyes showing no more than idle curiosity as they swept speculatively down the length of her slight frame from the top of her sun hat, over the baggy pink T-shirt, to her sandalled feet with a dismissive assurance that made her stiffen with inexplicable resentment. He wasn’t sure whether she’d heard or not. Didn’t much care if she had.
‘Joshua Harrington,’ he returned crisply, the straight mouth unsmiling. The bare arms revealed by the short-sleeved blue shirt were as tanned as the strong, lean fingers holding the saw.
‘How are you settling in?’ she enquired blithely, her heart giving an uncomfortable thud. So that was his name. ‘I’m sure you’ll enjoy village life, being part of such a small, friendly, close-knit community.’
The corners of the firm mouth quirked, the unexpected smile transforming the harsh, forbidding face so dramatically that Clemency’s stomach turned an involuntary somersault, the terrible, unwelcome sense of familiarity gripping her again, this time leaving her in no doubt—it was him.
‘I’m sure I shall, Miss Adams,’ Joshua Harrington drawled, the amusement in the discerning blue eyes leaving her in no doubt that he knew she’d overheard his earlier tirade and was now deliberately baiting him.
‘Mrs Adams,’ Clemency corrected immediately, wondering why on earth she had done so. When she’d first moved to the village, to her intense relief, it had been generally assumed that she was unmarried. She’d neither confirmed nor denied the mistaken assumption, just grateful to be spared the necessity of explaining about Simon.
‘Mrs Adams,’ he repeated slowly, the blue gaze concentrated on her face with heart-stopping intensity, as if, for the first time, he was mentally stripping her of the camouflaging hat and sunglasses. His mouth suddenly tightened, his eyes narrowing as they lingered on the short copper curls peeping out from beneath the wide-brimmed hat, and then abruptly he turned away, the muscles in his shoulders tautening as he swiftly and efficiently began sawing through the rotten wood.
Averting her own gaze just as abruptly, Clemency pushed the wheelbarrow to the end of the garden to empty the contents. She’d corrected Joshua Harrington because being dismissed as a workaholic spinster had struck a raw nerve, she admitted slowly. Especially as there was more than a grain of truth in it.
Work, initially an antidote to Simon, had slowly come to dominate her entire life to the exclusion of all else, she reflected with uncomfortable honesty. She squared her small chin. Well, unlike her marriage, she was at least making a success of her career, had heard only on Friday that she’d been short-listed for the vacancy in the international audit team, invited for a second interview in London next week.
The chief attraction of the coveted post was the travel involved. Mostly in Europe, but with occasional trips to Canada, Australia and the Far East. A chance to see much of the world, all expenses paid. Determinedly Clemency tried to recapture the enthusiasm that had made her apply for the position in the first place but was aware only of a tiny, dull emptiness inside her. No one to miss her when she went overseas, no one to greet her rapturously when she returned from each trip.
Snap out of it, Clemency! She could block off Joshua Harrington’s words but it was impossible to dismiss the man himself.
Stretched out lazily on the lounger after a late lunch, she tried to concentrate on her novel, but the disturbing image of strong, assured male features seemed to be superimposed on every page. It was all too easy to understand how his advent in the village had made such an impact on the local female populace, she conceded uneasily, overwhelmingly grateful that she was now safely immune to all members of the male sex. Her stomach started to churn; her hands felt clammy. Had he recognised her? She squeezed her eyes shut. Was he divorced? Widowed?
‘Hello.’
Her eyes shot open. Two small boys, distinguishable only by the differing colours of their T-shirts, stood by the lounger, studying her solemnly.
‘Hello,’ she returned with equal gravity, pushing herself upright. About four years old, she hazarded. No, she thought, her stomach muscles constricting. She didn’t need to guess—knew almost to the week exactly how old Joshua Harrington’s sons were.
‘What are you doing?’ Red T-shirt enquired, removing a twig from his tousled dark hair.
Thinking about your daddy. ‘Reading,’ Clemency said firmly.
‘Why?’
She was momentarily nonplussed. ‘Because I like reading.’
‘I can read. What’s your name?’
‘Clemency. What’s your name?’
‘Jamie.’
‘I’m Tommy.’ Blue T-shirt chipped in, looking down admiringly at the grass stains on his jeans.
‘Does your daddy know where you are?’ Clemency asked gently. Silly question. She hardly imagined Joshua Harrington had passively watched his offspring tunnelling their way through the hedge into her garden.
‘He’s gone out with Grandpa.’
Of course. The wisdom tooth.
‘And Granny’s making a cake.’
Doubtlessly innocent of the fact that her two enchanting grandsons had decided to go exploring. Swinging her long, slim legs to the floor, Clemency slipped on her sandals and rose to her feet. The sooner she herded these two escapees home, the better.
‘Why?’ both Tommy and Jamie enquired in unison when she explained her intention.
‘Because your Granny will worry when she finds you’re missing.’
‘She won’t mind,’ Tommy said airily. ‘Have you got a cat?’
Clemency’s lips twitched. Somehow she didn’t quite share his optimism. ‘No.’
‘Anna has two cats,’ he informed her, adding grandly, ‘When I’m big, I’m going to have ten cats.’
Who was Anna? ‘Are you?’ Clemency murmured, looking suitably impressed as she guided the two small boys down her front path and up the drive of the adjacent cottage. Originally a farm labourer’s dwelling, like her own, it had been extended by a previous owner but still retained its simple charm.
‘Have you got a dog?’ Jamie took over the interrogation.
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it wouldn’t be fair to leave it on its own all day while I go to work.’
‘My daddy doesn’t go to work.’
‘He just draws,’ Tommy contributed vaguely.
‘Does he?’ Clemency said casually, determinedly masking her curiosity as she pressed the doorbell.
The woman who answered the door matched the voice she’d heard earlier to perfection. Slight, her dark hair sprinkled with grey, her gentle, serene face evinced momentary surprise and concern.
‘What have you two scamps been up to?’
‘We’ve been next door to see Clemency,’ Tommy announced innocently.
His grandmother frowned. ‘That was very naughty of you both,’ she said quietly. ‘You know very well you’re never to leave the garden on your own.’
