Connor figured it probably wasn’t his place to point out the cat couldn’t talk. ‘Here.’ He pulled out a spare set of keys from his pocket. ‘You’ll want these to get the kittens now, as they’re too little to be on their own for long.’
‘Why, that’s awfully sweet of you,’ she said, taking the keys.
‘They’re in a cupboard in the kitchen,’ he added. ‘Is Daisy around?’ he asked, awkwardly. ‘I need to speak to her.’
The old lady’s eyes widened as she put the keys in the pocket of her gown. ‘You know Daisy?’ she asked, sounding a lot more astonished about that than she had been about her tomcat’s kittens.
‘Sure, we’re friends,’ he said, colour rising in his cheeks under the old woman’s scrutiny. It wasn’t a lie. If what they’d got up to that morning didn’t make them friends, he didn’t know what did.
‘Well, I never did,’ she said. ‘After all the nonsense Daisy’s said about you in the last few weeks.’
What nonsense? She hadn’t even met him until last night.
‘Daisy’s such a dark horse.’ The old woman gave him a confidential grin, confusing him even more. ‘I always thought she might have a little crush on you, the way she could not stop talking about you. Little did I know she’d been fooling us all along. So, did you two have a lovers’ tiff? Is that why she said all those awful things?’
‘No,’ he said, totally clueless now. And not liking the feeling one bit. ‘What things?’
The old woman waved her hand dismissively. ‘Oh, you know Daisy. She’s always got an opinion and she does love to voice it. She told us all how you were rich and arrogant and far too self-absorbed to care about a missing cat. But we know that’s not true now, don’t we?’
Connor’s lips flattened into a grim line. So she’d badmouthed him, had she, and before she’d even met him. Wasn’t that always the way of it? As a boy it had driven him insane when people who barely knew him told him he’d never amount to a thing. That he’d turn out no better than his Da.
But Daisy’s bad opinion didn’t just make him mad. It hurt a little too. Which made him more mad. Why should it bother him what some small-minded, silly little English girl thought?
Was that why she’d bolted? Because she’d decided he wasn’t good enough for her? If she thought that she was in for a surprise.
‘Is Daisy in her room? I need to speak to her.’ Make that yell at her.
‘Of course not, dear,’ the old lady said quizzically. ‘Daisy and Juno are working on The Funky Fashionista.’
‘The what?’
The woman gave him a curious look. ‘Her stall in Portobello Market.’
‘Right you are,’ he said hastily. Not knowing what Daisy did for a living probably made his claim to be a friend look a bit suspect. He took a step down the stairs, keen to get away.
Portobello Road Market was round the corner. It shouldn’t take him too long to track her down—and give her a good piece of his mind.
‘But, Mr Brody…’ The elderly woman called him back. ‘How will I get your keys back to you?’
‘Don’t worry about them,’ he said, a smile playing across his lips as the kernel of an idea began to form. ‘You keep them. If I lock myself out, it’ll be useful for you to have a set.’
He waved and hopped down the last few steps to the pavement.
He mulled his idea over as he strode down the street towards the Bello. And the more he mulled, the more irresistible the idea became. Sure what he had in mind was outrageous, and Daisy wasn’t going to like it one bit, if her disappearing act that morning was anything to go by. But if ever there was a way to kill two birds with one stone, and teach a certain little English girl how not to throw said stones in glass houses, this had to be it.
After the shoddy way she’d treated him, it was the least she deserved.
Daisy Dean owed him. And what he had in mind would make the payback all the sweeter.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘NO WONDER you’re knackered. It’s called compassion fatigue.’ Juno scowled as she placed the last of Daisy’s new batch of silk-screen printed scarves at the front of the stall. ‘You didn’t need to spend the whole night there looking after him. You don’t owe that guy a thing. And I bet he didn’t even thank you for it.’
Oh, yes, he did.
The heat suffused Daisy’s cheeks as she recalled how thoroughly Connor Brody had thanked her. She ducked behind the rack of cotton dresses and prayed Juno hadn’t noticed her reaction.
‘Why are you blushing?’
Daisy peeked over the top of the rack to see Juno watching her. Did the woman have radar or something? ‘I’m not blushing. I’m rearranging the dress sizes.’ She popped back behind the rack. ‘It never ceases to amaze me how out of order they get,’ she babbled, shoving a size fourteen in between two size eights.
‘Daze, did something happen I should know about?’ Juno asked quietly, appearing beside her. She placed her hand over the one Daisy had clutching the rack. ‘If he did something to you, you can talk to me—you know that, right?’
The concern in Juno’s eyes made Daisy’s blush get a whole lot worse as embarrassment was comprehensively replaced by guilt.
It had taken her less than twenty minutes of angst after bolting out of Connor Brody’s house that morning to get over her panic attack. She wasn’t even sure what she’d got so worked up about now. Okay, so she’d jumped him, but who wouldn’t in her situation? She’d been exhausted. She’d spent the whole night in close proximity to that beautiful body of his. She’d seen him at his most vulnerable plagued by those terrible nightmares and it had created a false sense of intimacy. So what? He hadn’t exactly objected when she’d demanded he make love to her. And she’d never be idiotic or delusional enough to fall in love with a man like Connor Brody. A man who was so totally the opposite of the nice, calm, settled, steady, average guy she needed.
All of which meant she could rest assured that what had happened in Connor Brody’s bed that morning hadn’t suddenly turned her into her mother. Because that had always been her mother’s mistake—not the pursuit of good sex, but the belief that good sex meant you must have found the man of your dreams. Daisy knew that good sex—even stupendous sex—had nothing whatsoever to do with love.
The relief she’d felt had been immense.
But the one thing Daisy hadn’t been able to get past—or to justify—was the scurrilous way she’d treated Connor Brody. Not just after they’d made love—but before she’d ever met him. Was it any wonder Juno thought something bad had happened at Brody’s house when Daisy had spent the last few weeks assassinating his character to anyone who would listen?
And on what evidence? None at all. She’d judged him and condemned him because he was rich and good-looking and, if she was being perfectly honest with herself, because she’d fancied him right from the first time she’d laid eyes on him and she’d resented it.
She’d broken into his home, all but accused him of killing a cat he’d actually been looking after and then—after trying to make amends during the night by nursing him through his fever—she’d ruined it all by seducing him first thing the following morning and then freaking out and running off.
Thinking about the way she’d brushed off his perfectly sweet attempts to calm her down made her cringe. He’d been a nice guy about the whole thing—had even offered to talk about it, and how many guys did that