Excerpts of Work

Mortgaged Hearts
(Book 2 in the Burton Dale Brides series)

Cosy. Warm. Cosseted.

A whisper of breath against the sensitive skin of her neck sent tiny ripples of pleasure through her.

It felt good to be wrapped in …

Abby Hamilton’s eyes flew open as her brain finished the sentence … a man’s arms.

What?

The blinding glare of morning sunlight, through a crack in the curtains, sent a spear of pain to her temples, forcing her eyes to squeeze shut again. Her woolly mind struggled to make sense of what was going on; what had happened.

The only male who’d come anywhere near her bed over the last five years was her son, Barney. But, the hard chest pressed against her back, the muscular legs entwined with hers and the arm curved around her waist told her this wasn’t an eight year old boy who’d crawled into her bed during a thunderstorm.

Shocked, Abby wrenched herself out of the warm cocoon of the man’s arms. She grabbed the faded and crumpled Manchester United t-shirt she normally slept in, slipped it over her head and made a dash for the bedroom door. As she eased it open, she dared a glance at the man in her bed.

Who…?

With his head turned away, she couldn’t make out his identity. Though there was something vaguely familiar about the tousled dark hair. The duvet had slipped, revealing a lean, taut back with well-honed muscles. From nowhere, an image flashed into her mind of her caressing that back. Her fingertips tingled. Warmth pooled deep within her.

Oh hell.

Her breath caught as he moved. She remained motionless, like a rabbit caught in headlights, as he wrapped his arm around a pillow then was still. A soft mumble jolted her into action. She slipped out of the bedroom, heading for the bathroom.

Inside, she sank to the carpet and forced her groggy brain to click through hazy memories of the previous night.
She’d attended the monthly fund-raiser for the church roof at the village hall. Everyone had been there; it was expected in this conservative Yorkshire village. Missing these events was severely frowned upon. And, thanks to her ex-husband Doug, she needed as much support from the villagers as she could muster.

Pictures flickered through her mind as if played on an old-fashioned film projector. It had been hot; the air filled with the delicious smell of cooking sausages and onions. Nursing a glass of wine, she’d chatted to various people and taken part in some of the penny games they’d set up. She’d had a fierce game of Shove Ha’penny against the vicar and had lost several rounds of Penny Slide to her good friends Scott and Dreena Devlin. Then she’d had a toe-to-toe, nose-to-nose, blazing row with …

Oh. My. God.

Ryan Jackson was in her bed. Naked.

Which meant the buttoned-up headteacher of her son’s school had seen her naked. In fact, he’d … they’d … omigod!

Abby groaned as more memories came flooding back.

Heat filled her cheeks as she recalled her body plastered to his as they’d kissed against the front door. Recalled his hands caressing every inch of her. Her heart skipped, then danced wildly as she remembered the way they’d raced up the stairs, stumbled into her bedroom and torn each other’s clothes off.

Horrified at her out-of-character wanton behaviour –- she’d never been like that with Doug –- she pressed her fingers to her still-swollen lips.

What was she going to do?

How was she going to face Ryan?

The distant chimes of her grandfather clock broke into her increasingly panicked thoughts.

Nine o’clock. Barney would be back soon from his sleep-over.

She had to get his headteacher out of her bed.

Now.

Taking a deep breath she hurried back to the bedroom.

As the door banged against her chest of drawers, Ryan’s eyes snapped open.

For a moment she was bewitched by the slumberous heat in the depths of his chocolate-brown eyes and the slow, sexy way his lips curved into a half-smile.

Her mouth went dry.

Are you crazy? her mind screamed, jolting her out of her reverie. What if Doug found out? Her ex-husband would love to use this against her; a perfect example of an unfit mother.

Ryan’s gaze skimmed over her -– setting off tingles across her skin as if he’d touched her -- before beginning a slow perusal of the room. Then he sat up, frowning; the duvet bunched around his waist leaving his broad chest bare.

Despite her panic, her fingers itched to explore the smooth skin and crisp curls.

“Abby?” He massaged his temples.

Her stomach clenched at his posh, cut-glass accent. Her throat burned as the sun glinted off the signet ring, etched with his family crest, on his little finger.

Gorgeous or not, she’d already paid the price once for falling in love with someone upper class -– was still paying it -- and nothing would convince her to go down that road again.

She glared at him. “You need to leave,” she said, pleased her voice sounded calmer than she felt. “Right away.”

He quirked an eyebrow at her demand.

Abby stared back coolly, waiting.

Then her deliberately casual image was shattered as she sneezed. Several times. Loudly.

“Bless you.” His sleep-husky voice had an edge to it.

“Thank you.”

Abby reached for the tissue box on the bedside table, only to find it had dropped onto the floor. Next to her lacy bra and his boxers. Oh hell.

She blew her nose, aware all the while that he was studying her. God, she must look a sight. Probably had pillow creases on her face, her hair sticking up and now a red nose.

She turned to him. When he said nothing, she swallowed hard and said again, “You need to leave.”

Ryan’s dark gaze met hers. “What am I doing here? This is the last place I expected to be.”

Bristling at his dismissive tone, Abby retorted, “Well, you’re the last person I expected to find in my bed.”

He rubbed his hand across his forehead, then massaged his temples. “I remember disagreeing with you about …” he paused. “… something.” He paused again. Swallowed. The tips of his ears turned pink. “And then we seemed to be in perfect … agreement.”

Her cheeks burned as she got his meaning.

They’d been at loggerheads since the day he’d taken over as headteacher of Burton Dale School, usually because her forward-thinking ideas didn’t fit with his ultra-conservative plans. Last night had been no different.

But, if her memories were right, there was no denying how good the loving had been once the fighting had stopped.

“I don’t understand why it happened,” Abby said, trying to ignore the heated images of passion that kept flashing through her mind. “I only drank one glass of wine.”

She’d been very careful about that. Besides, she’d needed to keep her wits about her when dealing with Ryan.

“What about the glass you had while we were cleaning up?”

“I didn’t have …” Her voice trailed off.

But she had. Because of him. Because of the effect he’d had on her. Sparks seemed to fly between them when they argued, but she usually managed to disregard the accompanying pin-pricks of attraction that teased her body.

Last night, for some reason, her awareness of him had been heightened; her senses attuned to his presence. Several times, she’d caught herself picking out the sound of his deep voice or her gaze fixed on his broad back.
It had grown worse when they’d remained behind with a few others to help tidy up the village hall. As she’d helped him fill black bin-bags with rubbish, their hands had brushed. Her fingers had tingled. Her pulse had skipped. It had been the last straw. She’d broken her self-imposed rule and grabbed another glass of wine.

“You’re right,” she admitted. “That explains a lot.”

“For you perhaps, but I only had that punch.” Ryan frowned. “I deliberately avoided anything stronger -- it would hardly do for the villagers to see me drunk. They are wary enough of me, not being from around here.”

 “The fruit punch?” Abby bit her lip to prevent a grin from escaping. “Oh dear.”

“What do you mean, oh dear? That old lady, Geraldine made it. How bad could it be?” Her expression must have given him the answer, as he groaned. “That bad?”

“She has a reputation for being heavy-handed with the rum. And the vodka. Most of us know to steer clear. Didn’t anyone warn you?”

He shook his head. “As you said, that explains a lot.”

It didn’t explain the fire that had erupted between them.

“I hate to sound like a broken record, but you really do have to go. Barney will be home soon.”

“He’s not here?”

She crossed her arms across her chest. “He’s staying the night with his friend, Marty.” Her chin lifted. “You don’t think I’d let you … us …,” she waved a hand airily to indicate what had happened, “with him just down the hall, do you?”

“Not intentionally, perhaps. But, we were both the worse for wear …” His voice trailed off as his dark eyes studied her.

“I wouldn’t dream of leaving him alone while I went out.”

“I’m not attacking your parenting skills, Abby.” Irritation sharpened his tone.

“I’m sorry. I know you’re not.” Some of the tension drained out of her and her shoulders slumped.

Neither of them spoke for a moment or two. As the silence stretched out, Abby became keenly aware that she was only wearing a well-washed t-shirt.

And that Ryan was naked beneath the covers. Which, in turn, reminded her of how he’d got that way. How she’d helped him get that way. How much did he remember?

Heat filled her cheeks. “We should finish this conversation downstairs, once we’re more suitably … dressed.”

He started, as if just realising their state of undress. “Good idea.”

She couldn’t get changed with him watching her. He might have seen her in all her ‘glory’ last night, but it wasn’t the same in the bright light of day.

Abby picked up her scattered clothes. “I won’t be a moment. Feel free to use the bathroom when I’m done. First door on the left. There are clean towels in the airing cupboard.”

Ryan nodded. “Thanks.”

Slipping her feet into a pair of pink fluffy slipper socks, Abby dashed out.

As she splashed water on her face, brushed her teeth and tidied up her hair, a growing anxiety churned her stomach.

Okay, so she’d had a one-night fling with Ryan. There was no point crying over spilled milk. What was done, was done. It can’t happen again she vowed as she zipped up her jeans, then pulled on her sweatshirt. She had to present an image that was whiter-than-white. Any further dealings with Ryan would have to be strictly impersonal.

That decided, she left the bathroom.

And bumped into Ryan. A half-dressed Ryan. All he had on was a pair of unsnapped jeans.

For a man who spent most of his life behind a desk, he had a pretty impressive body. Actually, a very impressive body.

“I’m sorry. I thought you’d already finished,” he said, stepping back to let her by.

Dragging her gaze away from the broad expanse of his chest, and her mind away from thoughts of how she’d explored that smooth skin, Abby mumbled something about getting the kettle on and slipped past him.

She should focus on what she was going to say to him.

It was important they keep what had happened to themselves. She couldn’t afford for even a hint of last night to reach Doug. Ryan wouldn’t want it known either –- hardly the best way to impress locals already wary of someone not born in Yorkshire.

No, best they pretend it never happened.

Abby switched the kettle on, then went to the front door to get the pint of milk left by the milkman.

The milk-bottle wasn’t the only thing on the front door-step. Her best friend stood there, hand raised as if to knock.

And from the expression on Dreena’s face, it looked like Abby’s goose was cooked.

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