Part-Time Father

CHAPTER THREE

KIMBERLEY left Brockbank House mixed up, het up and downright angry with herself at the way she’d handled Harrison. To say nothing of the way he’d handled her—both literally and figuratively, she thought disgustedly.

She walked home by a circuitous route, and by the time she’d reached her mother’s cottage she had calmed down enough to realise that she hadn’t hurt more than her pride—and since only one person knew about it, and she wasn’t planning on seeing him again, then, so what?

She had managed to avoid him successfully for two years, and if she managed to avoid him for the rest of her life, then the situation need never arise again. He rarely visited Woolton—she knew that. He was only here now, she presumed, because Duncan was bringing over his new fiancée to meet the family, and once he’d celebrated the engagement Harrison would be off again, to France or Germany or wherever it was he lived, pulling off the kinds of huge deals her mother kept harping on about.

The way to avoid him would be simple. She might actually have to come clean with her mother. Not exactly telling her the whole truth—that would be far too upsetting—but perhaps explaining to her that for very personal reasons she simply couldn’t stand the man, and she would like to be informed if he was planning any trips home. Then she would just avoid setting foot in the village to visit her mother until he was safely on his way again.

And, for the moment, she wished for two things. That her mother’s ankle would heal very quickly, so that she could escape from the danger of his close proximity. And that something horrible would happen to Harrison Nash. Perhaps he could go bald and lose all his money?

Kimberley bluntly told her mother that she had no intention of cleaning the Nashs’ house while Harrison was there. ‘Let him do it!’ she declared.

Mrs Ryan had been brought up in a very different generation from her daughter. ‘But he’s a very important executive, dear,’ she said reprovingly.

Kimberley glowered. ‘And so am I, Mum. So am I!’

The next couple of days passed uneventfully. She took her mother out for long drives, she cooked meals, and they had companionable chats over a couple of glasses of wine in the evenings.

She saw Harrison just once—when she went shopping one day and spotted him just pulling to a halt in the fiendishly expensive black car which had nudged her out the fast lane on the motorway the day she’d arrived. She should have guessed it was him at the wheel of such an outlandishly expensive piece of driving equipment, she thought resentfully.

She saw him climb out. He wore black jeans and a black polo-neck sweater, with a black leather jacket protecting him against the cold of the December day, and he looked suitably diabolical, thought Kimberley. He was unshaven, and the thick black hair was ruffled by the breeze. He glanced up and her heart seemed to still with the sheer physical impact of his presence. It was like being given a solid punch to the solar plexus, robbing her of air and of comfort, and then, suddenly and devastatingly, he smiled.

There was no malice in that smile today, not even desire. Kimberley would have challenged anyone in their right mind to have resisted that smile, and she had to fight hard with herself to maintain the cool, haughty look she was giving him. Yet she couldn’t look away; something kept her staring at him.

She felt the wind lift up the heavy silken tresses of her hair, and it tugged at the hem of the short tartan mini-skirt she wore, revealing the slim length of her thighs, encased in ribbed woollen tights. She saw the dark eyebrows rise fractionally, and she turned hastily and almost ran into the local grocery store.

Conversation stilled immediately. It was a small enough village for memories to be long, and Kimberley’s inexplicable jilting of Duncan had kept the locals in gossip for a good few months.

After replying politely but in a restrained manner to the curious questions of Mrs Spencer—the owner—she had bought her eggs and her bread, and the fresh fruit her mother had asked for, when the tinkling of the shop-bell behind her announced that someone else had come in behind her. She only had to look at the barely concealed excitement on Mrs Spencer’s face to know just who that someone was.

‘Can I help you, Mr Nash?’ asked Mrs Spencer obsequiously.

‘No, thanks,’ came the deep voice. ‘I came to give Miss Ryan a hand with her shopping.’ The grey eyes were shuttered. ‘I’ll give you a lift home, Kimberley.’

He thought that he had her out-foxed. He was probably assuming that she cared too much for what others thought of her to resist him, that she would meekly agree to the lift.

Well, he was wrong.

‘I have my own car, thank you,’ she answered coolly. ‘I’ve never had to rely on men for lifts.’

His mouth quirked a little. ‘Very commendable. I’m sure that you make a lot of men feel very redundant. And I realise that you have your own car, but you’ve left it sitting outside your mother’s house. It’s a small red thing, isn’t it?’

Calling Kimberley’s beloved MG a ‘small red thing’ was tantamount to asking her if she knew how to change a plug, and her breathing quickened in temper.

‘It’s a damn sight better than that ridiculous monstrosity which you drive!’ she retorted. ‘But then women don’t have the need to use a car as a substitute for any areas in which they might beer—lacking.’

She had allowed herself to get carried away, and as soon as the words were out she regretted them— not just because Mrs Spencer was bristling with undisguised indignation, though frankly Kimberley doubted whether she’d actually got the gist of what she’d been saying, but also because Harrison’s sickeningly sardonic smirk left her in no doubt that he knew and she knew that he didn’t have any areas in which he was lacking.

‘Are you quite sure you won’t change your mind?’ he mocked softly, and Kimberley knew that he wasn’t just talking about giving her a lift home.

She blushed madly. ‘No, thank you,’ she reiterated. ‘I’ll walk.’

She heard Mrs Spencer’s sharp intake of breath, as though she was indignant that someone like her, a little Miss Nobody, should have the temerity to turn Mr Nash down—and on more than one occasion!

‘You can’t walk—it’s started to rain.’

He didn’t give up, she would say that for him. She knew exactly what he wanted—to get her in his car so that he could begin to seduce her again. At least here, in the shop, she was safe from that. And she doubted that Harrison would be desperate enough to follow her home. Ice-blue eyes were turned disdainfully and decisively in the direction of the grey glitter of his. ‘I don’t care. I like the rain.’

His eyes flickered over the brief little tartan mini, with its short matching jacket. ‘I’m quite sure you do. But, exquisite though you may look, you’re hardly dressed to combat the elements,’ he said softly.

‘Let me be the judge of that!’ she answered coolly, and walked out of the shop.

He walked directly behind her, staying her with a hand on her arm, and she had to steel herself not to respond to the fleeting contact. He bent his head close to her face, and she was caught up in the dazzle from those glittering grey eyes. ‘I told you,’ he said softly, ‘that we had some unfinished business to settle.’

‘Oh, go to hell!’ she said exasperatedly, infuriated when he laughed at her, and she stalked off in the direction of her mother’s.

Even so, she wondered if he’d follow her. But he didn’t, and she walked home with the steady drizzle slowly soaking the woollen fabric of her suit until it clung to her in a soggy mass. Her hair was dripping; the egg-box was drenched, and the bread was virtually inedible—but her mother hardly noticed; she was bobbing up and down with excitement when Kimberley walked through the door.

‘Should you be hopping around on your bad ankle like that?’ observed Kimberley mildly.

‘Oh—it’s almost better, darling. Dr Getty says I’m as fit as a flea. Listen—they’ve just delivered an invitation from Brockbank. Margaret Nash is throwing a party to celebrate Duncan’s engagement tomorrow night. I’m invited—and so are you!’

Kimberley put the shopping on the kitchen table and eyed the invitation her mother was proffering. ‘I’m not going,’ she said flatly.

Her mother’s face fell. ‘Oh, Kim—why ever not?’

Kimberley sighed. ‘Just think about it, Mum. If I go it’ll just put people’s backs up—especially his new fiancee. I’m sure that if I were her I wouldn’t particularly want his ex-fiancée turning up. People would be bound to make hurtful comparisons—and I don’t expect that Duncan would want to see me either. In fact, I’m surprised that I was included on the invitation.’

But she wouldn’t even admit to herself the real reason why nothing would make her set foot inside Brockbank House again.

‘You go. You’ll have a great time.’ Kimberley picked up a towel and began to rub at her sopping hair. ‘Will you ring up and RSVP for me?’ she asked. ‘Please?’

Mrs Ryan’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’ve a feeling there’s more to this than meets the eye, but, yes, darling— if you’re absolutely adamant.’

‘I am.’ She stared down at her mother’s ankle. ‘And if you’re feeling better now, Mum, then I’ll have to think about getting back to London.’

Mrs Ryan sighed. ‘I can’t say I wasn’t expecting it. Such a pity, though—I could quite get used to having you around the place again.’

Kimberley had planned to leave the following afternoon. She had just finished packing after lunch when there was a knock at the front door. Thinking it might be her mother, who had insisted on hobbling next door to see her neighbour, just to prove she could do it, Kimberley opened the door. Before her stood a young woman in her early twenties— someone Kimberley didn’t recognise.

She had shiny shoulder-length fair hair, which was cut into a bob, and she wore a superbly cut pair of trousers in an immaculate but very unseasonal cream colour, with a matching cashmere jacket. Gold gleamed discreetly at her ears and neck and she exuded a kind of confidence which only money could give you. And lots of it, too.

‘Can I help you?’ asked Kimberley uncertainly.

The girl creased her eyes into a frown. ‘Are you Kimberley Ryan?’ Her voice was American—cultured and direct.

‘Yes, I am—but I’m afraid I don’t——’

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