With This Baby.... Caroline Anderson

      CHAPTER TWO

      CLAIRE heard the car coming long before it pulled upon her drive.

      Of course, if things had been going right, she wouldn’t have heard it at all, but she’d hit something in the long grass in the meadow behind the barn and the cutting deck on the little tractor mower had collapsed, and so it was silenced.

      Silenced and broken, yet another thing in her life that was going wrong.

      Hot and cross from struggling about underneath the mower to try and see what had happened, she rolled over and stared up—and up. Up endlessly long legs clad in immaculately cut trousers, up past a sand-washed silk shirt in a lovely soft green-grey the colour of his eyes, up to a face she hadn’t expected to see again quite so soon.

      Great. Just when she was looking her dignified best!

      ‘Mr Cameron.’

      ‘Ms Franklin.’

      She scrambled to her feet, taking advantage of his outstretched hand to haul herself up, and gave her back a cursory swipe to dislodge some of the chopped grass that was no doubt sticking to it like confetti.

      There on her drive again, like a bad penny, was Amy’s car come back to haunt her—and haunt Patrick Cameron, if the look on his face was anything to go by. Oops. He didn’t look as if he’d enjoyed his journey.

      ‘Where’s the baby?’ he asked without preamble, and she felt the hairs on the back of her neck bristle. Just like the dog’s—only the useless thing was sleeping inside with Jess, and ignoring her duty with not a bristle in sight.

      ‘She’s asleep. Why?’

      He shrugged, but there was nothing casual about his incisive tone. ‘Just wondered. I mean, you’re out here—who’s looking after her?’

      ‘I am,’ she retorted, the irritation spreading from the back of her neck to permeate her voice. ‘I’m hardly far away. Do you have a problem with that?’

      ‘I just expected you to be right beside her, within earshot.’

      ‘I am right beside her. She’s in the house, about thirty yards away, and the dog’s with her.’

      Or she had been until that moment. Pepper, belatedly cottoning on to the arrival of their visitor, came barrelling out of the back door, barking furiously.

      ‘It’s OK, Pepper,’ she said, and the lurcher skidded to a halt, lifted her head and then ran to the car, jumping up and scrabbling at the door.

      ‘Ah. Dog,’ he said, and Claire felt her eyebrows shoot up.

      ‘Dog?’

      He gave a slight, humourless smile. ‘In the car. My dog. Well, my brother’s dog, actually. It was as far as we ever got with naming him. Will Pepper be OK if I let him out?’

      ‘She’ll be fine, she loves other dogs. She’s too trusting. Is he OK, though? I don’t need a vet bill.’ To add to all the other bills on her list.

      ‘He’s fine. We meet other dogs in the park all the time.’

      He went over to the car and released the dog called Dog, and he and Pepper sniffed round each other and wagged cautiously.

      Claire, used to Pepper with her shaggy blonde coat and little neat ears, stared at Dog in amazement. Black, with a white splash on his chest, and smaller than Pepper, he had the biggest ears she’d ever seen except on a German shepherd, and his body couldn’t seem to decide if it was terrier, Labrador or collie.

      Pepper didn’t seem to care, however. She was just enjoying the attention and his lineage was obviously the last thing on her mind.

      ‘So much more direct than people,’ his owner said, watching them circle with their noses up each other’s bottoms, and she laughed, surprised by the dry flash of humour.

      ‘I think I’ll settle for being human.’

      His smile was slow and lazy, and crinkled his eyes. It crinkled her stomach, too, and she felt as if she’d been punched by the force of that latent sexual charm. Good grief! No wonder Amy had fallen for him.

      Amy. That’s what this was all about, she reminded herself before she could get totally sidetracked by his charm. Amy.

      She brushed her hands together and looked up at him again. ‘Um—you brought the car. Thank you. What do I owe you?’

      ‘Owe me?’ he said, sounding surprised. ‘You don’t owe me anything. I had to get here somehow.’

      ‘And getting that heap out of the pound and driving here in it was your preferred choice of transport? Give me a break!’

      He chuckled softly. ‘OK. I’ll admit I’m glad I don’t have to drive it back, but it made it, which I have to say surprised me.’

      It surprised Claire, too, but she wasn’t telling him that! It would no doubt collapse on her the very next time she took it out—just like the mower and the strimmer and everything else.

      ‘Having problems?’ he asked, jerking his head towards the mower, and she rolled her eyes and sighed.

      ‘You don’t want to know. I hit something, and the cutting deck’s dangling now. Goodness knows what I’ve broken. I’ll get John to look at it.’

      ‘John?’

      ‘A mechanic-cum-miracle-worker. He keeps my bits and pieces going.’ When I can afford to pay him, she added to herself silently. ‘By the way, George wouldn’t take any money from me on Monday for bringing me back, so I owe you for that, too, and the cash you gave me.’

      He shrugged. ‘I’ll let you pay it back in kind. I didn’t dare stop the car in case it wouldn’t start again, and it’s been a long morning. I reckon a cup of coffee should settle the score.’

      ‘That’s a very expensive cup of coffee,’ she told him, ‘and anyway, you’re in luck because I haven’t got any. I’ve only got tea, but no milk, so you’ll have to let me pay you back.’

      ‘Tea will be fine,’ he said, cutting her off. ‘Shall we?’

      He held out a hand, gesturing for her to lead the way, and with a shrug of defeat she took him into the house through the boot room—as untidy and scruffy as ever—and through to the kitchen, where Jess was beginning to stir in the pram. ‘Have a seat,’ she said, pushing the cat off the only decent chair, and he sat and looked around curiously.

      ‘What a lovely kitchen,’ he said, and she nearly choked. It was ancient, the cupboards were all chipped and scratched, and it needed a match taking to it—or at the very least a bucket of hot, soapy water followed by a paintbrush.

      ‘I thought you were an architect,’ she said with a thread of sarcasm, and he chuckled that lovely, deep, sexy chuckle again.

      ‘I am. I spend my life specifying high-tech glass and stainless-steel kitchens, somewhere between an operating theatre and the control room of a spacecraft, and you daren’t touch them for fear of leaving a fingerprint. You could come in here with a muddy dog and feel at home—it reminds me of my childhood, visiting my grandmother. Homely. Restful. Soothing.’