The Secret Sinclair by Cathy Williams

set aside once he had what he wanted: some sort of ongoing relationship with his son. But she was aghast at the prospect of having him there in
her
life. How on earth was she ever going to get to that controlled, composed place of detachment if she was continually tripping over him in the kitchen as he attempted to bond with his son over fish fingers?
    Perhaps he had exaggerated, she thought, soothing her own restless, panicked mind. He was still smarting from Oliver’s less than exuberant reception of him. Right at this very moment this was the only plan he could see ahead of him, and Raoul was big on plans. He would not be taking into account the simple fact that when children were involved plans could never really be made. In a day or twohe would probably revise his ideas, because she very much doubted that he wanted to spend quality time with
her
in the picture.
    ‘And the whole house issue …’ she continued faintly. ‘You have your
people
working on it?’
    ‘Here’s one of the things I’ve discovered about having money: throw enough of it at a problem and the problem goes away. Right now they’re in the process of drawing up lists of suitable properties. I will be giving them until the end of next week. So,’ he drawled when she failed to respond, ‘are we on the same wavelength here, Sarah?’
    ‘I can’t just move into a house
you
happen to choose. I know you probably don’t care about your surroundings, but
I
care about mine …’
    ‘Don’t you trust me to find somewhere you’d like?’
    He’d used to be amused at her dreamy, whimsical ideas. From where he had stood there had been little use for dreams unless you had the wherewithal to turn them into reality, and even then he had never made the mistake of confusing dreams with the attainment of real, concrete goals. What was the point in wishing you could own a small island in the middle of the Pacific if the chances of ever having one were zero? But her dreams of cottages and clambering roses and open fires had made him smile.
    ‘True, the thatched cottage with the roses and the apple trees might be a little troublesome to find in London …’
    Sarah blushed, unsettled by the fact that he had remembered her corny youthful notion of the perfect house. Which she recalled describing in tedious detail.
    ‘But I’ve got them working on the Aga in the kitchen, the garden overlooking water, and the fireplaces …’
    ‘I can’t believe you remember that conversation!’
    She gave a brittle laugh, and went an even brightershade of red when he replied softly, ‘Oh, there’s a lot I remember, Sarah. You’d be surprised.’
    He didn’t miss the flare of curiosity in her eyes. She might have made bold statements about not wanting anything to do with him, about shoving that kiss they had shared into a box at the back of a cupboard in her head, where she wouldn’t have to confront it, but every time they were in each other’s company he could feel that undercurrent of electricity—a low, sizzling hum that vibrated just below the radar.
    ‘Well, I don’t actually remember all that much,’ Sarah responded carelessly.
    ‘Now, I wonder why I’m not believing you …’
    ‘I have no idea, and I don’t care. Now, if you wouldn’t mind getting to work on those onions, I’ll go and fetch Oliver.’
    She disappeared before he could continue the conversation. When he looked at her like that she would swear that he could see right down into the very depths of her. It was an uncomfortable, frightening sensation that left her feeling vulnerable and exposed. Once she had gladly opened up to him—had told him everything there was to know about herself. She had taken him at face value and turned a blind eye to the fact that while she had been falling deeper and deeper in love with him, he had pointedly refused to discuss anything that involved a future between them. He had taken everything she had so generously given and then politely jettisoned her when