Single Dads Collection - Lynne Marshall Mills & Boon e-Book Collections

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knew all the joys in store instead of a hormonal youth who simply hoped to find out. And the knowledge was almost enough to destroy his self-control, to push him over the edge.

      But then, just as he was about to let her go, when his mind was already pulling back even as his hand curled against her breast, she lifted her head away, her eyes confused, and said, ‘Kizzy.’

      Kizzy? What had Kizzy to do with it?

      And then he heard her crying, her screams getting louder by the second.

      He jerked himself to his feet, strode towards the door and bounded upstairs, his heart racing and his body clamouring to turn round and go back and finish what they’d started…

      Emily sagged back against the cushions and lifted her hand to her lips. Had it really always felt that good? And if so, how on earth had they ever stopped?

      She closed her eyes and waited for her heart to slow, listening to his voice, a soft rumble on the stairs as he carried Kizzy down. Her cries subsided for the moment, a cuddle enough to comfort her for now.

      Emily nearly laughed aloud. A cuddle from Kizzy’s father was nothing like enough to comfort her. She wanted more—much more—but she’d be insane to let this crazy situation go any further, because whatever else she knew about Harry, she knew that Yoxburgh wouldn’t be enough to satisfy him for long.

      He’d always talked about seeing the world—a result of his restless upbringing, trailing round the globe in the wake of his parents who had been too busy to pay attention to their little son. So although he’d never had their love, he’d had experiences in spades, and the wanderlust that was a part of his father’s make up was part of his also.

      And so he’d go—maybe not now, maybe not for a while, but eventually, when it all got too dull and easy and the world beckoned. And she’d be left, broken-hearted as Pete could never have left her, because although she’d thought she’d loved Pete, she knew full well that an affair with Harry had the potential to bring her far more joy and far more sorrow than Pete could ever have done, because he’d never had that unerring capacity to touch her soul.

      So she simply wasn’t going to go there, not now, not ever. And if they’d got scarily close on the night of his grandmother’s funeral, they weren’t getting that close again. No way. It was far too dangerous.

      She could hear him in the kitchen, hear Kizzy starting up again, and taking a deep breath to steady her, she got to her feet and went through. ‘Want a hand?’

      ‘I’m OK,’ he said, his back to her and his voice tight.

      Damn.

      ‘I’m going to do some work, then,’ she said, and went into the study and shut the door a little more firmly than was quite necessary, just to be on the safe side.

      ‘Oh, Kizzy, what did I go and do that for?’ he murmured, staring down at his tiny daughter with regret. ‘We were getting on so well, and now I’ve gone and screwed everything up, but she was just there, you know, and I just wanted to kiss her. Nothing else. What a silly daddy.’

      He took the bottle out of her mouth and propped her up against his shoulder, rubbing her back until she burped gloriously in his ear, then he gave her the rest of the bottle, cuddled her for a minute and then took her back up, changed her and put her down in the travel cot Em had found in the loft.

      Kizzy went out like a light, without a murmur, which left him nothing to do but go back downstairs and sit and watch the study door and wonder if Emily was mad with him.

      He paused in Freddie’s doorway, staring down at the sleeping boy. He was huge compared to Kizzy, but he was still a baby really, his steps sometimes unsteady, his chin only too ready to wobble if things went wrong. Beth wasn’t that much older, either, but quite different, bright and beautiful and full of mischief, her sparkling eyes just like Em’s.

      Beth was lying sprawled across the bed, too close to the edge, and he shifted her back and covered her again before heading downstairs with all the enthusiasm of a French aristo going to the guillotine.

      He owed Em an apology, and he wasn’t sure if he dared be in the room with her long enough to make it. At least not without a table between them to keep them apart.

      He went into the kitchen, made some tea and tapped on the study door. ‘Em?’

      ‘Come in,’ she said, turning towards him with a wary look in her eyes as he pushed the door open and went in, tray in hand.

      ‘I’ve brought you tea.’

      ‘Thanks.’

      He hung on to the tray, because if it was in his hands he couldn’t do anything else with them. ‘My pleasure. And we haven’t eaten. Want me to cook something?’

      She swivelled her chair a little farther and reached for the tea. ‘What can you cook?’

      He laughed. ‘Probably nothing English. What have you got to work with?’

      ‘All sorts. I did a big shop the other day. Go and have a look. I just want to finish this off and I’ll come and give you a hand.’

      He nodded and went out, sighing with relief that the awkwardness seemed to have gone and their friendship was back on track.

      Unless he poisoned her! He opened the fridge and studied the contents. Peppers, chicken breast, onions, tiny cherry tomatoes, salad, apples in the fruit bowl, couscous in the larder cupboard and spices in the rack next to the hob.

      Excellent.

      ‘Smells good.’

      He jumped, turning towards her with a laugh lighting up his eyes and the knife pointing towards her threateningly, but she didn’t feel threatened. ‘Do you have to creep up on me?’

      ‘Sorry.’ She grinned without remorse and perched on the stool at the breakfast bar. ‘Found all you need?’

      ‘I think so. Did you get your drawing done?’

      ‘Yes. I was just making a few changes to the planting. So what are you cooking?’

      ‘Moroccan chicken and couscous. I wasn’t sure if you liked things spicy, so I haven’t made it too hot, but it’s fruity so it takes the edge off it. Here—try a bit.’

      And he held out a fork with a little pile of couscous on for her to taste. She leant forward, closed her lips around the fork and wondered if he’d been tasting it, if his lips had closed on the prongs of the fork, too, if he’d…

      ‘Wow! That’s gorgeous!’

      ‘Not too hot for you?’

      She shook her head, putting her hormones back in their box and concentrating on the food. ‘No, it’s lovely.’

      ‘Good. I’ll just finish off the chicken and I’ll be done.’

      ‘Want a hand?’

      ‘No. Just stay there and keep me company.’

      So she sat there, watching him work, her eyes drawn to the muscles in his shoulders flexing as he stirred and flipped the chicken in the pan, his buttocks taut when he shifted from foot to foot, crouching to lift out the plates from the oven and then straightening, thighs working…

      Damn. She was going to drool in a minute.

      He threw the chicken into the couscous, scraped the juices into the mixture and stirred it through then piled it into the bowls and set them down on the breakfast bar in front of her, hooking his foot round a stool and drawing it closer before sitting opposite her.

      Their knees brushed and she pulled away, just as he did, and he apologised automatically and then he met her eyes and smiled wryly. ‘Actually, I’m sorry for all of it. For landing on you like this—for kissing you.’ Then he shook his head and laughed softly under his breath. ‘No, that’s a lie. I’m not sorry. I’m sorry I’m not sorry, if you see what

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