The Pregnant Tycoon

She needed time—time to think. Time to get her ducks in a row and her heart back under control before she said or did something stupid.

Oh, Lord. Will…

CHAPTER TWO

WILL was stunned. He wouldn’t have imagined in a million years that Izzy would be here. Of all the places, all the ways he’d imagined meeting her again, this hadn’t even been on the list. Somebody was pressing a drink into his hand, somebody else was slapping him on the back, saying how good it was to see him again, but all he could think about was Izzy.

His Izzy.

No. Not now. Not any more. Not for years—not since he’d betrayed her trust—

Hell, why hadn’t Rob warned him? Would he still have come?

Fool. Of course he would have come. Wild horses wouldn’t have kept him away. He needed to speak to her, but first he had to greet all these people who were so pleased to see him—good people who’d supported them through the nightmare of the last few years. So he smiled and laughed and made what he hoped were sensible remarks, and when he looked up again, she was gone.

Inexplicably, panic filled him. ‘Excuse me,’ he muttered, and, squeezing his way through the crowd, he went through the doorway at the back of the room that led out to the side hall. It had been the door nearest to her, and the most likely one for her to have used to make her escape, but he couldn’t let her go until he’d spoken to her. He was suddenly afraid that she would have slipped out and gone away, that he wouldn’t have a chance to speak to her, and he had to speak to her.

There was so much to say—

She hadn’t gone anywhere. She was standing in the side hall looking lost, absently shredding a leaf on the plant beside her, her fabled composure scattered to the four winds. The powerful, dynamic woman of the glossy society magazines was nowhere to be seen, and in her face was an extraordinary and humbling vulnerability. His panic evaporated.

‘Hello, Izzy,’ he said softly. ‘Long time no see.’

Her smile wavered and then firmed with a visible effort. ‘Hello, Will,’ she replied, and her voice was just as warm and mellow and gentle as he’d remembered. ‘How are you?’

‘Oh, you know,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘Still farming.’ He ran his eyes over her elegant and sophisticated evening trousers and pretty little spangled top, and his gut tightened. ‘You’re looking as beautiful as ever—not the least bit like an assassin.’

‘Still the old sweet talker, then,’ she murmured, her lips kicking up in a smile that nearly took his legs out from under him. ‘Anyway, I’m surprised you remember. It’s been a long time—twelve years.’

‘Eleven since I saw you last—but I’ve got the newspapers and the glossies to remind me, lest I should forget,’ he told her, trying to keep his voice light and his hands to himself.

She rolled her eyes expressively, and a chuckle managed to find its way out of the constricted remains of his throat.

‘So—how’s Julia?’ she asked, and he felt his smile fade. Oh, hell. There was no easy way to do this.

‘She’s dead, Izzy,’ he said gently. ‘She’s been dead a little over two years. She had cancer.’

Even though his words were softly spoken, he felt their impact on her like a physical blow. Her eyes widened, her mouth opening in a little cry as her hand flew up to cover it. ‘Will, no—I’m so sorry. I had no idea. Oh, Will—’

If he’d had any sense he would have kept his distance, but he couldn’t. She looked so forlorn, so grief-stricken. He took one step towards her, and she covered the ground between them so fast he barely had time to open his arms. She hit his chest with a thud, her arms wrapping tightly round him in a gesture of comfort that was so typically Izzy it took his breath away.

Dear God, he thought wildly. She felt the same—she even smelt the same. It was almost as if the last twelve years had never happened—his marriage to Julia, the two children, her slow, lingering death, the long fight back to normality—all that swept away with just one touch.

Her body trembled in his arms, and he tightened them reflexively around her. ‘Shh—it’s all right,’ he murmured softly, and gradually her trembling body steadied and she eased away from him. Reluctantly, yet knowing it was common sense, he let her go and stepped back.

Her hand came up and caught a tendril of hair, tucking it back behind her ear, and her smile was sad. ‘I’m sorry. I really had no idea, Will. It must have been dreadful for you all. Why didn’t Rob tell me? I can’t believe it—I’m so sorry I brought it up like that, spoiling the party.’

He laughed, a rough, scratchy sound even to his ears, and met her anguished eyes with a smile. ‘You haven’t spoilt the party. I hate parties anyway, and besides, mentioning Julia doesn’t change anything. We talk about her all the time. Her death is just a fact of life.’

He wanted to talk to her, to share the huge number of things that had happened for both of them in that time, but people were coming through the hall, heading for the cloakroom or the kitchen, and they all paused for a chat.

He felt the evening ebbing away, and panic rose again in his chest. He couldn’t let her go again without talking to her, properly, without constant interruptions. There was so much to say—too much, and most of it best left unsaid, but still—

‘Look, it would be really nice to catch up with you—I don’t suppose you’ve got any time tomorrow, have you?’ he suggested, wondering as he said the words whether he himself could find any time in the middle of what was bound to be a ridiculously hectic schedule.

‘I’m staying at the White Hart for the night,’ she said. ‘I was going to head back some time tomorrow, but I don’t have any definite plans. What did you have in mind?’

He crossed his fingers behind his back and hoped his father could help out with the children. ‘Come for lunch,’ he suggested. ‘You’ll know how to find the farmhouse—it hasn’t moved.’

His smile was wry, and she answered with a soft laugh. ‘That would be lovely. I’ll look forward to it.’

They fell silent, the sounds of the party scarcely able to intrude on the tension between them, but then the door opened behind him yet again and Rob came out, punching him lightly on the arm.

‘Here you both are! Come and circulate—you can’t hog each other, it’s not on. Everyone wants to talk to you both.’

And without ceremony he dragged them back into the party and forced them to mingle. They were separated from each other within moments, and when Will’s phone rang to call him back to a difficult lambing, she was nowhere to be found. Still, he’d see her in the morning.

He shrugged his coat on, said goodbye to Rob and Emma and went back to the farm. It was only later, as he crawled into bed at three o’clock with the lambs safely delivered, that he realised they hadn’t discussed a time.

Izzy pulled up outside the farmhouse and stared around her in astonishment.

Well, it was certainly different! The house looked pretty much the same, and the barns behind it, but beyond the mellow old brick wall dividing the house from the other side of the farmyard there had been some huge changes.

The weatherboarding on the old farm buildings was all new and freshly stained black, sharp against the soft red of the tiled roofs, and on the front of one was a sign saying, ‘The Old Crock’s Café’. There was a low fence around an area of tables and chairs, and though it was still only April, there were people sitting outside enjoying the glorious sunshine.

There were other changes, too, beyond the café. The farm shop beside it seemed to be doing a brisk trade, and on the other side of what was now a car park the big building that she was sure had once been the milking parlour now housed an enterprise called Valley Timber Products. She could see chunky wooden playground toys and what looked like garden furniture in a small lawned area beside it.

There was a basket shop, as well, selling all sorts of things like willow wreaths and planters and wigwams for runner beans, as well as the more traditional baskets, and she could see that, at a quarter to eleven on a Saturday morning, the whole place was buzzing.

A thriving cottage industry, she thought, and wondered who ran all the various bits and pieces of this little complex and how much of it was down to Will. He probably let all the units to enterprising individuals, she reasoned. There wouldn’t be enough hours in the day to do anything else.

She turned back to the house, conscious of the fact that it was still not eleven o’clock and she was probably rather early for lunch, but she’d been asked to vacate her room by ten, and after driving somewhat aimlessly around for half an hour, she’d decided to get it over with and come straight here.

Get it over with, she thought. Like going to the dentist. How strange, to be so nervous with Will, of all people, but her heart was pounding and her palms were damp and she hadn’t been so edgy since she’d held her first board meeting.

At least then she’d had an agenda. Now she was meeting the widowed husband of her old schoolfriend, father of the child whose conception had been the kiss of death for their relationship.

Bizarre.

‘If you’re looking for Will, he’s in with the lambs,’ a woman called, pointing round the back of the house, and with a smile of thanks, she headed round towards the barns.

‘Will?’ she called. ‘Are you there?’

A dog came running up, a black and white collie, grinning from ear to ear and wagging at her hopefully, then it ran back again, hopping over a gate and heading into a barn.

She eyed the mud thoughtfully, glanced down at her Gucci boots with regret and picked her way over to the gate.

‘Will?’

‘In here,’ a disembodied voice yelled, and she wrestled with the gate—why did farm gates never swing true on their hinges?—and went through into the barn. It took her eyes a moment to adjust, and when they had, she spotted him crouched down on the far side of the little barn with a sheep. It was bleating pitifully, and as she picked her way across the straw bedding, Will grunted and glanced up, then rolled his eyes and gave a wry smile.

‘Hi,’ he said softly. ‘Sorry, didn’t realise it was you. Welcome to the mad house. You’re early.’

‘I know. I’m sorry—do you want me to go away?’

He shook his head. ‘No. Can you give me a minute? I’m a little tied up.’

She suddenly realised what he was doing, and for a moment considered escaping back to the café to give him time to finish, but then the ewe tried to struggle to her feet, and with his other hand—the one that wasn’t buried up to the elbow in her back end—he grabbed her and wrestled her back down to the straw.

‘Anything I can do to help?’ she found herself asking, and he gave her a slightly incredulous look and ran his eyes over her assessingly.

‘If you really mean that, you could kneel on her neck,’ he said, and she could tell he expected her to turn tail.

She did, too, but then, to her own amazement as much as his, she gave a little shrug, dropped her Louis Vuitton bag into the soiled straw and knelt down in her Versace jeans and Gucci boots and put her knee gently on the ewe’s neck.

‘By the way, good morning,’ she said, and smiled.

Will was stunned.

If the paparazzi who hounded her for the glossy society mags could see her now, he thought with an inward chuckle, they’d never believe it.

‘Morning,’ he said, and then grunted with pain as the ewe contracted down on his hand and crushed a sharp little hoof into his fingers. Well, at least he knew where one leg was, he thought philosophically, and the moment the contraction eased, he grabbed the offending hoof, traced it up to the shoulder, found the other leg, tugged them both straight and then persuaded the little nose to follow suit.

Moments later, with another heave from Mum and a firm, solid tug from Will, twin number one was born, followed moments later by the second.

And the third.

‘Triplets?’ she said, her voice soft and awed, and he shot her a grin and sat back on his heels, using a handful of straw to scrub at the soggy little morsels with their tight yellow perms and wriggling tails.

‘Apparently so.’ They struggled to their feet, knees wobbling, and made their way to their mother, on her feet by now, and Will got up and looked ruefully at his hands.

‘I’d help you up, but—’

She grinned up at him, her soft green eyes alight with joy, and his heart lurched, taking him by surprise. She stood easily, brushing down her knees with a careless hand. ‘That was wonderful,’ she said, the joy showing in her voice as well as her eyes, and he wanted to hug her.

Instead he took a step back, gathered up his bucket of hot water and soap and towel, and quickly made a pen around the little family.

‘We’ll leave them to it. They’ve got all they need for now.’

‘Why isn’t that one feeding?’ Izzy asked, staring worriedly at the lambs as one of them stood by bleating forlornly and butting its mother without success.

‘They’ve only got two teats, but she’s had triplets before. They’ll take turns and she’ll sort them out. She’s a good mother. Come, Banjo.’

He ushered her towards the back door, the dog at his heels, and, kicking the door shut behind them, he stripped off his padded shirt and scrubbed his arms in the sink.

‘Don’t mind me,’ she said dryly, and he looked up, suddenly self-conscious, to find her laughing softly at him across the kitchen.

He felt his mouth quirk into a grin, and he shook his head. ‘Sorry. Didn’t think. Actually, I could do with a shower. Can you give me five minutes?’

‘Of course.’

‘Make yourself at home,’ he told her, and then, as he ran up the stairs, he remembered the photos of Julia and the children all over the piano in the corner.

He shrugged. What could he do? She’d been his wife, the mother of his children. She deserved to be remembered, and he couldn’t protect Izzy from that reality any more than he could have prevented Julia’s death.

She looked around the kitchen, so much as it had been all those years ago, and felt as if she was caught in a time warp.

Any minute now Rob and Emma and Julia, and maybe Sam or Lucy, would come through that door from the farmyard, laughing and chattering like magpies, and Mrs Thompson would put the kettle on the hob and pull a tray of buns out of the oven.

She’d always been baking, the kitchen heady with the scent of golden Madeira cake and fragrant apple pies and soft, floury rolls still hot in the middle. She’d fed everybody who came over her threshold, Izzy remembered, and nobody was ever made to feel unwelcome.

And at Christmas they’d always come here carol-singing last, and gather round the piano to sing carols and eat mince pies hot from the oven.

With a tender, reminiscent smile still on her lips, Izzy turned towards the piano—and stopped dead, her heart crashing against her ribs. Slowly, as if she had no right to be there but couldn’t help herself, she crossed the room on reluctant feet and stood there, rooted to the spot, studying the pictures.

Julia and Will, laughing together on the swing under the apple tree. Julia with a baby in her arms and a toddler leaning against her knee. Will on the swing again, with the toddler on his lap, laughing, and another one with the baby, nose to nose, his expression so tender it brought tears to her eyes.

What am I doing here? I don’t belong! This is her house—her husband.

She turned, stumbling blindly towards the door, and Will caught her and folded her into his arms, cradling her against his chest as the sobs fought free and racked her body.

‘Shh. I’m sorry. I should have realised it would upset you. I’d forgotten how much you loved her.’

Loved you, Izzy corrected silently, but she couldn’t speak, and anyway, it didn’t seem like the smartest thing to say under the circumstances.

Her sobs faded as quickly as they’d come, the shock of her reaction receding in the security of his arms, and gently he released her and stood back, looking down at her with worried eyes.

‘OK now?’

She nodded, scrubbing her nose with the back of her hands, and he passed her a handful of kitchen roll and waited while she blew her nose and mopped her eyes and dragged out that smile.

‘Sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘Too many memories.’

He nodded and turned away, his face tight, and she could have kicked herself. If she had too many memories, what on earth did he have?

‘Tea?’

‘Please.’

He put the kettle on, then turned and propped himself against the front rail of the Aga and studied her thoughtfully. Uncomfortable with his scrutiny, she studied him back and fired off the first salvo.

‘You’ve changed,’ she said, her voice almost accusing.

He snorted softly. ‘I should hope so. I was a puny kid of nineteen the last time you saw me. I’ve grown two, maybe three inches and put on a couple of stone. I work hard—physical stuff. That builds muscle.’

It did, and she’d seen the evidence for herself just a few moments ago when he’d stripped off at the sink. Putting the disturbing memory away, she shook her head, studying the lines on his face, the lingering trace of sadness in his eyes. ‘I didn’t mean that,’ she said, and then gave a short, hollow laugh. ‘I’m sorry, I’m being a real idiot here. Of course you’ve changed, after all you’ve been through. Who wouldn’t?’

His smile was wry. ‘Who indeed? Still—it’s all over now, and we’re moving on.’ He cocked his head on one side and his smile softened. ‘You don’t look any different,’ he said, his voice a trifle gruff, and she rolled her eyes.

‘All that money, all that sophistication, and I don’t look any different?’ She’d meant to sound a light note, but instead she sounded like a petulant little toddler. How silly, to feel hurt. After all, she probably hadn’t changed that much. Nothing had touched her as it had touched him.

Not since he’d gone away.

But Will was looking embarrassed, and she wanted to kick herself again. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and gave an impatient sigh. ‘I meant—oh, hell, I don’t know what I meant, except it wasn’t an insult—or not intended to be. I’m sorry if it came over like that.’

His eyes were full of remorse, and she shook her head and reached out, laying a gentle hand on his arm. ‘Of course it didn’t. I just feel different, and I suppose I thought it might be reflected in my face, but a sensible woman would be flattered. Anyway, I wouldn’t want my money to have changed me, and I certainly don’t want to look like Godzilla, so perhaps I should just be grateful!’

His mouth lifted in a wry smile, and his eyes swept her face, their expression tender. ‘I suppose you have changed, a little, but you’re still you, every bit as beautiful as you ever were, and it’s really good to see you again. That’s what I was trying to say in my clumsy, inept way.’

She laughed, her turn now to be embarrassed, and shook her head. ‘I’m not beautiful—’

‘I’m not going to argue with you,’ he said, but his thumb came up and brushed away the last remnant of her tears, and the tender gesture nearly brought her to her knees. Then he dropped his hand and stepped away, ramming it into his pocket, turning away.

When he spoke, his voice was gruff. ‘It’s a bit of a shock, really, seeing you again—takes me back all those years. But that’s never a good idea, and you can’t really go back, can you? Too much water under too many bridges.’

And just then some of that water came pouring into the kitchen in the form of a tidal wave of giggling and chasing and high-pitched shrieks that skidded to a halt the moment they saw her.

The little girl she was ready for—dark-haired, blue-eyed, the image of her father. The boy, though—he stopped her in her tracks. His colouring was almost the same, but it was the shape of his face, the expression, the vulnerable tilt to his mouth.

Julia.

Will straightened up, looking down at them with pride in his eyes.

‘Izzy, meet my children—Michael and Rebecca. Kids, this is Isabel. She was at school with me and your mother. Say hi.’

‘Hi,’ they chorused, and then their four eyes swivelled back to him and mischief sparkled in them again. ‘Grannie says can we ask you for some more eggs, because everybody wants egg sandwiches today and she’s run out,’ Rebecca said in a rush.

‘And Grandad’s sold a climbing frame and a tree house this morning, and you know old Mrs Jenks?’ Michael said, his eyes alight. ‘She’s having a willow coffin. She’s going to have a woodland burial, and her son’s up in arms. I heard Grannie telling Grandad. They were arguing about it in the café, and she said it was her body, she could do what she wanted with it. And Grannie said to tell you there’s roast pepper flan today,’ Michael added inconsequentially, and Izzy felt her lips twitch.

Will was smiling at them, ruffling Michael’s hair and slinging a casual, affectionate arm around his daughter’s shoulders, and Izzy felt suddenly empty.

I’ve got nothing. Thirty years, and I’ve got nothing. Nothing to hand on except money, and no one even to give that to. No wonder I haven’t changed.

The kettle boiled, its shrill whistle fracturing the moment and freeing her.

‘I’ll make the tea—you get the eggs,’ she said, and opened the cupboard the mugs had always lived in.

‘Try the dishwasher,’ he said over his shoulder as they went out, and she pulled down its door and found mugs—lots of mugs, unwashed, even though the machine was full. She put powder in the dispenser, shut the door and set it going, then washed the two mugs she’d rescued and made the tea, lifting out the teabags just as he came back in.

‘Find everything?’

‘Just about. I put the dishwasher on.’

‘Oh, damn,’ he said. ‘I meant to do that.’ His grin was wry. ‘I meant to do all sorts of things, but you were early and the ewe was late, and—’ He broke off, the grin widening as he shrugged, and then he sighed and wrapped his arms around her again, and hugged her briefly against that wonderfully solid chest that she had no rights to.

‘It really is good to see you again,’ he murmured, releasing her to look down searchingly into her eyes. ‘Are you OK? Really OK?’

She found that smile somehow, and the lie to go with it. ‘I’m fine. How about you? You’ve had so much more to contend with.’

His eyes tracked away, then back, and his smile was fleeting. ‘Yes. I’m OK now. It’s been a rough few years.’

‘Tell me,’ she said softly, and he picked up his mug and pulled out a chair for her, then sat in the carver at the head of the table, his father’s chair if she remembered right, and stared down into his tea.

‘It was nearly three years ago. She’d been having difficulty swallowing, and she felt as if there was something stuck in her throat, so she went to the doctor. He referred her to the hospital, and they diagnosed cancer of the oesophagus. She had treatment, but it was only to make it less uncomfortable for her. We knew that right from the beginning. She reckoned it was because of the chemicals in our food, and she’d had concerns about that for some time, so by then we were already eating only organic stuff and the farm was in the process of going organic.’

‘And there was nothing they could do for her?’

He shook his head. ‘Only short-term and then it was all down to the Macmillan nurses and ultimately the hospice. It was agony to watch.’

Izzy could hardly imagine it. ‘Did the children know?’ she asked, thinking of the bright, bubbly young things who’d burst in on them just a few minutes earlier and chattered about coffins, of all things, and he nodded.

‘Yes. Eventually. We told them she was sick, and then when it was inevitable and the end wasn’t far away, we told them she was dying. She made them scrapbooks—snippets of herself for them to keep, memories they’d shared, things they’d want to know about themselves that only she could tell them. Some of it will only make sense to them when they’re older, of course—things about their births, philosophical stuff about being a mother and what it meant to her—but lots of it was very ordinary and just things she’d treasured about them.’

Something splashed on Izzy’s hand, and she blinked and swallowed. Tears. Tears for Julia, who’d always wanted to save the world, and for the children—and for Will, his voice quiet and thoughtful, telling her about Julia’s last days. He had loved her, she realised with shock. Really, genuinely loved her. She hadn’t wanted to believe it, but now she did.

She blinked again, squeezing the tears from her eyes and letting them fall, and then he made a soft, clucking noise with his tongue and handed her another fistful of kitchen roll.

She sniffed, scrubbing her nose with the tissue. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just all so sudden. I mean—I didn’t even know until last night, and now, talking to you like this—it’s all so real.’

‘It seems light years ago,’ he said gruffly. ‘We move on. Time heals, Izzy. The kids don’t stop growing just because their mother’s died, and they’ve dragged me with them. I’ve had to cope because of them, and we’ve got through it together. It’s been very positive in a lot of ways.’

‘And all I’ve done is make rich people even richer and rescue reputations that probably didn’t deserve rescuing, and acquire some of their wealth along the way. My God.’

Her voice sounded hollow, and it seemed appropriate. That was how she felt inside—hollow and empty and worthless.

‘I shouldn’t be here,’ she said, the tears welling again, and then his arms were round her again—again!—and he was cradling her against his body, standing in front of her so her cheek was pressed against his board-flat abdomen, just above his belt, the buckle cold against her chin.

‘Don’t be silly,’ he murmured gruffly. ‘Of course you should be here. It’s lovely to see you, Izzy. It’s been too long.’

It had, she thought sadly. Much too long. So much too long that it was years too late.

Too late for what?

She didn’t want to think about it—not with his belt buckle pressing into her chin and his arms around her and the solid beat of his heart sounding through that wall of muscle. And then his stomach rumbled, deafening her, and she laughed a little unevenly and eased away.

‘You sound hungry.’

He laughed with her, propping himself on the edge of the table just in front of her and staring down into her eyes. ‘I am. I missed breakfast—and, come to think of it, I don’t know if I ate last night. I missed the food at the party. Come on, we’ll go over to the café. Mum’ll feed us.’

‘In the café?’

‘Mmm—the Old Crock. That’s what she calls herself, and it seemed like a bit of fun to call the café the same thing. She runs it—and the farm shop. Dad’s in charge of Valley Timber and the willow business.’

‘The climbing frame and the tree house and the coffin,’ she said, remembering Michael’s words, and she wondered uneasily where Julia was buried. The churchyard, probably, since her father had been the vicar. She’d have to ask him some time—but not now. Now she’d heard and seen enough, and she needed time out to absorb it all and put it into place in her head. And her heart.

‘He makes more than coffins. He broke his leg and was in hospital, and he did basket weaving for occupational therapy. He loved it, but it was a bit time-consuming and not really cost-effective, and then he discovered willow hurdles. It’s all come from there, really. But it’s not just him; there are lots of people working for him, many of them disabled. It’s a thriving business and it puts something back into the community, and we’re all really proud of it. Come on. I’ll show you round after we’ve eaten.’

He held out a hand, large and strong and callused, so different from the soft city hands she was used to, and pulled her to her feet.

‘It’s changed so much,’ she said as they went out into the yard and she looked again at all the new enterprises.

‘Not really. Not in the ways that matter. It’s still home.’

Home. Could he have found a word more calculated to tear a hole in her heart? She thought of her apartment, high up in the polluted air above London’s Docklands, with the deli and coffee shop and restaurant just inside the entrance, the health complex in the basement, the home shopping service, the weekly delivery of organic vegetables in a box to her kitchen, the concierge to run errands and fix stuff that went wrong—was that home?

A cow mooed, and under the bushes just in front of them chickens were scratching in the leaves.

No, she thought. Not home. This is home.

But not yours. Never yours.

‘You’re lucky,’ she said to him, suddenly choked again. ‘To live here, surrounded by all this.’

‘I know,’ he said softly, and she could see the pride and the affection in his face. Then he turned to her and grinned. ‘Come on, come and see Mum. She’ll be delighted to see you again. She loved you.’

You loved me. Or I thought you loved me. I loved you—

‘I’ll be delighted to see her again, as well. She’s a darling,’ Izzy said firmly, and, straightening up, she threw back her shoulders and headed across the yard beside Will.