A Very Passionate Man - Maggie Cox

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his shoulder as she’d seen it many times before, such an integral part of him. The equipment was almost a metaphor for Greg’s personal philosophy that, no matter how heavy your load, you just got on with life because after all, wasn’t it a bonus that we were here at all? And, with that wicked boy-scout grin that could crowd her chest with warmth, he’d walked out of her life and into an oncoming car as he crossed the road to join the rest of his crew in the television-news van.

      Rowan swallowed hard, willing herself to move before she took root where she was standing—just like one of the scrubby weeds she’d been so intent on removing. She’d never get anything done around here if she kept sabotaging her efforts like this. It wasn’t just the garden that needed tending. The house also needed work to make it more habitable, even if she was destined to enjoy its comfort alone since Greg wasn’t around any more to share it with her. The neglected little cottage, just a short walk away from the beach down a winding country lane, had captured their imaginations as soon as they’d seen it. They’d started making plans for its improvement the very moment they’d jumped out of the car to examine it. It would be their mission to return it to its former glory, they had vowed. In no time at all it would be the quintessential English country cottage, roses round the door and all. Hardly unique, but then they hadn’t been planning on winning any prizes for originality—just making a home together. After Greg had gone, it was the only place that Rowan could bear to be. Although it had been their dream, Greg had never actually lived in the house with her and so she wasn’t going to be constantly reminded of his presence. Everything he’d owned she’d passed on to family, friends or charity shops and now, free of any physical reminders of the man who had been her husband, Rowan hoped to make a new life. ‘Hoped’ being the operative word. As yet she didn’t seem to be getting very far.

      The straw hat came bowling towards him as Evan lengthened his stride past her house. Another fierce gust of wind lifted it high above the broken wooden gate that leaned drunkenly on one rusty hinge and as he automatically reached out to grab it, he felt his sweater catch on one of the pointed wooden slats. Cursing softly, he unhooked himself, then raised his gaze to the slender figure in white drifting gracefully down the concrete path towards him. Evan’s first glimpse of the woman’s face without the protective shield of the hat told him that she was pretty, but unremarkable. As she drew nearer and he saw the tinge of pink shading her cheeks and the deep shyness reflected in soft, sherry-brown eyes he elevated his opinion to ‘almost beautiful,’ but his intention of keeping contact brief and strictly to the point didn’t change. No sense in sending out the message that the aliens were friendly when Evan was feeling anything but.

      ‘Thank you. Lucky for me you were passing just at the right moment.’

      She flashed him a smile to accompany the soft, velvet voice that stroked over his nerve-endings, and a stab of heat caught him unawares. His black brows drew together in a scowl.

      ‘Hardly the weather for straw hats, I would have thought.’ As Evan handed over the recalcitrant hat he saw her smile quickly disappear to be replaced by a new, guarded look. Good. She’d got the message, then. Impatient to continue his walk, he turned away until her soft voice unexpectedly lured him back.

      ‘Look around you.’ Glancing up towards a cloudless blue sky, she was shielding her eyes from the almost too-bright glare of the sun. ‘It’s spring and soon it will be summer. Doesn’t that make you want to acknowledge it in some way?’

      Glancing at her long, pale arms in her white sleeveless dress, Evan angled his hard jaw disdainfully. ‘I’d put on some more clothes if I were you. You’ll catch your death out here in this cold wind.’

      Ignoring possibly the most forbidding glower she’d ever seen, Rowan defiantly stuck out her hand towards him. ‘I’m Rowan Hawkins. I moved in a few weeks ago and I’m very pleased to meet you. I was wondering when I’d meet my neighbours. Have you been away on holiday?’

      ‘Look…what exactly do you want from me?’

      Stunned, Rowan nervously licked her lips. ‘I beg your pardon?’

      ‘If you’re expecting me to be all cosy and neighbourly then I’d like to set the record straight right now. I’m not the cosy or neighbourly type, Miss Hawkins, so save that annoyingly sunny smile of yours for someone else who might appreciate it. Do I make myself clear?’

      Saying no more, Evan proceeded down the road, his broad shoulders squared against the fierce breeze that had gathered strength as they’d exchanged words, his hands dug deep into his jeans pockets. Watching him go, his long-legged stride carrying him purposefully away, Rowan felt her stomach sink like a stone. What an arrogant, unpleasant man! The hostility in those startling green eyes of his had genuinely shocked her. She wasn’t used to eliciting such animosity in people and now, when she was feeling possibly at her most fragile, it was a double blow. That darkly handsome face of his certainly didn’t invite a repeat introduction at a later date, and she would just have to console herself that she’d found out how unpleasant he was sooner rather than later. At least now she would be able to give him a wide berth when she saw him again. Trust her luck to live next door to a man who would make Genghis Khan seem like your average friendly neighbour!

      Glancing down at the straw hat clenched tightly between her fingers, Rowan drew her softly shaped brows together in an anxious frown. Joking aside, how was she supposed to make a new start when even her closest neighbour didn’t want to know her? With no heart to continue her pitiful attempt at gardening, she turned towards the house with a purposeful stride of her own—feeling not the slightest bit of remorse when she banged the front door noisily shut behind her.

      The sound of Rowan Hawkins’ broken gate swinging eerily back and forth on its solitary hinge damn near drove Evan to distraction that night. Unable to find sanctuary from his foul mood in sleep, he pushed to his feet, dragged back the filmy gauze curtain from the window that overlooked the moonlit garden next door, then glared at the offending gate as though his gaze alone could make it burst into flames.

      Trouble was, it wasn’t just the gate. Even the slightest thing seemed to irritate him out of all proportion these days. Anyway, you’d think her husband or boyfriend would fix the damn thing for her. She certainly didn’t strike him as the type of woman who’d be happy to get her hands dirty doing anything practical like DIY. And who the hell dressed in white to do gardening? The woman clearly didn’t have the sense that she was born with. Annoyed that his pretty neighbour was occupying more of his thoughts than she ought to be, Evan stalked into the kitchen to make a drink. When he discovered he was out of coffee his frustrated curse punctuated the air. Tunnelling his fingers through black hair, that if left long would have a distinct wave in it, he shut his eyes for a moment in a bid to calm down, but failed miserably as a stray memory of his ex-wife infiltrated its way stealthily into his mind. If Rebecca hadn’t stung him for most of his wealth in their divorce settlement, he wouldn’t have spent the past two years working himself into the ground to build up his fitness business again. Two gruelling years when he had sacrificed damn near everything—his home, his friends, his social life—to claw back most of what he had lost. It was testament to his blind single-mindedness that he had succeeded. The business was doing even better than ever. With over twenty fitness outlets all bearing the Evan Cameron name dotted round the country, he could afford to take things a little easier now. When he hadn’t done any such thing, a three-week bout of influenza had made the decision to slow down for him. Slow down? Evan grimaced bitterly at the thought. Bring him to his knees, more like. In all his thirty-seven years he had never been so ill or so mentally and physically battle-scarred. To tell the truth, it had scared him rigid. How ironic that a man who promoted health and fitness had succumbed to illness all because of self-neglect.

      Forcing himself to breathe more evenly, Evan opened a cupboard above the plain white counter in search of a malt drink. He should know better than to crave caffeine in the middle of the night, anyway. Five minutes later, his mood slightly improved and his drink made, he sought out the big, squashy sofa in the comfortably furnished living-room then reached for the remote and switched on the TV. As he strove to concentrate on yet another rerun of The African Queen unfolding before him, he tried to blot out the sound of Rowan Hawkins’ rickety gate creaking noisily back and forth.

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