Second Chance For Love - SUSANNE MCCARTHY

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for, was anything that suggested the presence of a wife or children in the house. She had only the impression of an exclusively male atmosphere—the shelf above the fireplace was merely a convenient place to put anything that didn’t have an immediate home, none of the roses from the garden had found their way indoors, and the curtains were purely functional and slightly in need of a wash.

      With a wry smile she acknowledged to herself that such interest in the details of his domestic arrangements was really rather silly. But maybe she just needed a shred of romantic fantasy, to cushion the shock of the abrupt ending of her marriage. And maybe she was looking to him for just the smallest reassurance that she might still have some attraction for a man because it was so long since Colin had shown the least interest in her.

      With a sigh she eased herself gingerly up on the pillows. If it was flattery she was seeking, she was wasting her time with Tom Quinn. Maybe he reserved all his warmth for the animals he cared for—he seemed to have little to spare for the human species, or at least for the female half of it.

      But then what did she expect? Maybe five or six years ago she might have been able to make some impression, but she was going to have to take herself seriously in hand if she was ever going to expect any man to be attracted to her again. If it wasn’t already too late; she was getting dangerously close to her sell-by date.

      Goodness, she felt stiff. Every inch of her body ached, her head was sore, and her wrist was both throbbing and numb at the same time. And she was dying for a cigarette. Forming the thought brought the familiar craving, and she knew that somehow she was going to have to get out of bed to reach the packet, which was on the dressing-table on the far side of the room.

      Tears of self-pity rose to her eyes. It was an exhausting effort even to move, and the dressing-table seemed a hundred miles away. But that raw need wouldn’t let her have any peace. Tossing aside the quilted bedcover with an exclamation of impatience, she swung herself round and put her feet on the floor.

      Dark pain swam before her eyes, and she had to wait a moment for it to clear. Then gritting her teeth she tried to stand up. She had managed about three steps when the door opened, and Tom appeared on the threshold, a breakfast tray in his hands.

      ‘What the devil are you doing getting out of bed on your own?’ he demanded brusquely.

      ‘I…I was trying to get my cigarettes,’ she explained, giving up and sinking back on to the bed.

      ‘Why didn’t you call me?’

      ‘I thought…you’d probably be busy or something,’ she mumbled. Suddenly she was all too acutely aware of the way the dipping neckline of her silk nightdress revealed the gaunt hollows of her shoulders, while the pale ivory colour did absolutely nothing for her washed-out complexion. She crawled back under the bedclothes, drawing them up over her. ‘I’m sorry.’

      A flicker of impatience crossed his face. ‘You don’t have to keep apologising,’ he grated, setting the tray down on a low pine chest beside the bed. He moved across and picked up the cigarettes, tossing them on to the bed with undisguised contempt. ‘Eat your breakfast,’ he advised tersely. ‘It’ll do you more good than those things.’

      ‘I…I don’t know if I can eat very much,’ she stumbled, eyeing the laden tray without appetite. ‘I don’t usually have breakfast.’

      ‘No.’ The wry twist of his mouth conveyed what he didn’t actually say—that she was too thin. He stood looking down at her in critical appraisal as she lit her cigarette, drawing on it deeply in relief. ‘How many of those do you smoke a day?’ he asked bluntly.

      ‘Oh…only about twenty or so.’ She shrugged, unable to meet his eyes. ‘I know they’re no good for me, and I’ve tried giving them up, but I just can’t.’

      ‘You could if you wanted to.’

      She slanted him a resentful look from beneath her lashes. It was easy enough for him to say that—he’d probably never smoked. He didn’t look the sort of man who had ever suffered from a lack of will-power. ‘Yes, well…I’ll give them up some time,’ she promised vaguely. ‘But not just at the moment—they say you shouldn’t try to give up when you’re under stress.’

      ‘That’s the best time to do it,’ he persisted with ruthless insistence. ‘If you can cope without them now, you’ll be able to cope without them any time.’

      Those stupid tears were stinging the backs of her eyes again. ‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled thickly, and then, remembering that he had told her not to keep saying she was sorry, she apologised for that too. ‘I’m sorry.’

      He laughed drily. ‘Eat your breakfast,’ he repeated, and went out, closing the door behind him.

      Josey leaned back against the pillows, closing her eyes. How had she ever let herself sink into such a mess, that she couldn’t start the day without a cigarette? It was no wonder that Tom treated her with such disdain.

      Wearily she turned to the breakfast tray he had brought her. There was far more food than she could ever manage, even if she had been feeling more like her usual self. With a groan she realised that she wouldn’t be able to manage half of it—and Tom was going to be even more annoyed with her.

      He had every right to be, of course—she had been nothing but a nuisance to him since she had all but smashed up his car last night. It would be better if she just took herself off to a hotel somewhere, out of his way. Holding that thought resolutely in her mind, she rolled herself painfully out of bed.

      There was a small sink in the corner of the room, and she dragged herself over to it and had a sketchy wash, and then with some considerable difficulty got dressed. She had just finished, and was struggling one-handed to re-fasten her suitcase when Tom came back into the room.

      ‘What do you think you’re doing now?’ he demanded. ‘I told you not to try getting out of bed on your own—and you haven’t even touched your breakfast.’

      ‘I know—I’m sorry.’ Damn—he had told her not to keep saying that. ‘You’ve been very kind to me, and I’m very grateful, but I can’t trespass on your hospitality any longer. If I could just use your telephone, I’ll ring for a taxi, and find a hotel somewhere.’

      ‘Don’t be silly,’ he rapped, his patience strained. ‘You’re as weak as a kitten. Get back into bed.’

      ‘No—I’m leaving,’ she insisted, though already just the effort of getting dressed and packing her bag had left her feeling exhausted. ‘I’m just a nuisance—you don’t want me here…’ Oh, damn—why did her voice have to waver so pathetically? She tried to pick up her suitcase, but it was loaded with bricks, and she slumped to her knees, tears of frustration stinging her eyes.

      ‘Get back into bed,’ he repeated, the sudden gentleness in his voice so unexpected that it made her sob harder. ‘You’re in no fit state to go anywhere today.’ His strong arms came around her, helping her to her feet, and he led her over to the bed, sitting down beside her, still holding her comfortingly close. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel so unwelcome.’ The taut note in his voice made her wonder just how rare it was for him to apologise. ‘I suppose I’m more used to four-legged patients than two-legged ones.’

      ‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled, her mind half-drugged by the evocative male muskiness of his skin. ‘I must be in your way. You’ve got work to do, and I’m taking up your time, running around after me, making my breakfast…’

      ‘Vi made your breakfast,’ he corrected her drily. ‘She couldn’t bring it up herself—she’s got a touch of arthritis, and can’t manage the stairs.’

      ‘Oh…’ She managed to stifle her tears, helped by a strong dose of curiosity. It didn’t seem very likely that this Vi was his wife, if she was old enough to suffer from arthritis. ‘Who’s Vi?’ she asked, trying to sound as if she had no more than a casual interest.

      ‘My housekeeper.’

      ‘Oh.’ She flickered

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