The Rich Man's Love-Child. Maggie Cox

nursery was empty and cold, and Flynn had finally locked it up—unable to bear even glancing at the door that led into the room where his little boy had slept.

      Now, today, after a mostly sleepless night spent thinking about Caitlin’s visit, he was irritable and on edge. That was why he’d had to get out of the house early and expend some energy with a brisk ride in the hills. The glacial air had chased away most of the fogginess in his head and the tiredness in his limbs, and now his body was thrumming with renewed purpose and anticipation. He probably shouldn’t be giving Caitlin the time of day after the way she’d treated him, but she’d hooked him by telling him there were things she should have told him when she’d left, and he couldn’t help but be intrigued.

      And somewhere in amongst his feverish thoughts was her accusation that he had been ‘impervious’ to feelings. It had prompted a curiously defensive reaction in him, because he intuited that her statement skirted too close to the truth. He knew he would have to maintain his usual rigid guard throughout their encounter. The force of Flynn’s attraction for Caitlin hadn’t diminished over the years…it had simply been lying dormant, like a silent but ever-flowing and forceful river.

      Having showered and combed his hair, he wrapped a towel round his lean, hard middle and crossed the huge high-ceilinged bathroom to the marble vanity unit on the other side. Squaring his jaw, he stood in front of the gilded antique mirror, preparing to shave. Seeing the ridiculous gleam of hope and excitement flaring in his green eyes, he turned impatiently away to mutter a harshly voiced oath…

      * * *

      Caitlin had visited Flynn’s private quarters at Oak Grove before, of course, but it intimidated her no less to visit the grand, imposing house again. Standing in his elegant sitting room, with a good fire blazing in the exquisite fireplace, surrounded by gracious, comfortable furniture and with fine paintings adorning the walls—each no doubt valuable beyond belief—she felt a little like Alice in Wonderland after she’d drunk the potion that had rendered her so impossibly small.

      The contrast between his wealthy background and the impoverished one of her personal humble beginnings had never stared back at her with such clarity. Thinking of her father’s damp, rundown cottage all but brought tears to her eyes. Then, quickly remembering that she had nothing to be ashamed of—she’d come from staunch, hard-working stock—Caitlin lifted her chin a little and declined Flynn’s less than warm invitation to sit down.

      ‘I won’t stay long,’ she asserted, her blue eyes nervously arresting on his sombre face. ‘I’m busy sorting out some of my dad’s things to give to the church for their next jumble sale. Not that there’s a lot to give. He wasn’t one for acquiring material things. There was only himself after I went, and as long as he could listen to the racing on the radio and buy himself a pint now and again he was happy.’

      Was that true? Caitlin’s stomach seemed to plunge to her boots at the realisation that she hardly knew if her father had been happy or not. He had had too much anger and resentment in him to be happy. After her mother had died, she had rarely seen him even smile.

      ‘Come and stand near the fire.’ Moving towards her, Flynn intensified his gaze. ‘You’re shivering.’

      ‘I’m all right.’ Her lips trembled on a little half-smile, but the gesture was quickly gone again as Flynn drew level with her. Now she experienced a different kind of intimidation. Her awareness of his daunting masculinity and strength almost robbed her of the power to speak…especially knowing what she had yet to reveal to him.

      ‘You’re not coming down with a chill after yesterday?’ he demanded, his expression surprisingly concerned.

      ‘No…no, I’m not. Flynn, I—’

      ‘You cut your hair.’ His voice had lowered to the hypnotic nap of luxurious velvet, and Caitlin sensed her whole body tighten in exquisite response.

      ‘It’s more practical for work to wear it short. Easier to manage,’ she murmured. ‘I see you’ve grown yours.’

      He was staring at her and didn’t look away. ‘I’m viewed as quite the bohemian these days.’

      ‘You always went your own way, as far as I could tell.’

      ‘You didn’t seem to mind.’

      ‘I liked it that you were…different.’

      ‘So, tell me…do you still have a penchant for older men, or have your tastes changed since you’ve been in London?’

      ‘That was unnecessary!’

      To Caitlin’s consternation Flynn reached out and touched her hair, completely immune to her discomfort at his definitely barbed comment. Her heart went wild as he drew his palm over its softness.

      ‘What do you do in London, by the way?’

      ‘Do? I—I work in a bookstore.’

      She saw an interested gleam in his aquamarine gaze. Yes, she knew about his books—and she had thrilled to see them, to see his photograph on the inside jacket sleeve. For a while it had given Caitlin the confirmation she’d yearned for. He still inhabited the world safely. He was now a much-admired author and clearly doing well.