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Her rejection had only fuelled his determination to change her mind, make her as hot for him as he was for her. Until last night.
Last night Laura had informed him that Allie was back in London, and in her gentle, roundabout way had told him that she was sorry, really sorry, but he was wasting his time. Her daughter wasn’t interested in men.
The implication had been plain.
Alissa Brannan was gay.
He had stumped back through the twilit streets blisteringly angry—more with himself for being such a twit than with Allie herself—and railroaded Harry into accepting him as a sleeping partner and a fat injection of cash.
‘Expansion’s the name of the game. Buy a respectable, reliable van, get your name and phone number on the sides, take on a school-leaver and train him up—a mere half of the enquiries I had to turn down last week because there simply wasn’t the time to fit them in would pay a lad’s wages. You’ll never do more than just scrape by if you don’t.’
His accountant would swing things so that the in-flow of capital into Harry’s business didn’t dry up, and ensure that the elderly man never discovered that the money came out of Jethro’s own personal account. Nanny Briggs’ future would be more secure.
That taken care of, and today Harry out inspecting the good-as-new van he’d seen on the forecourt when he’d taken his old one in for a clutch job, he was trying to rake up the energy and enthusiasm to take that deferred break, pack his bags and clear out.
And forget Alissa Brannan.
But Nanny Briggs had other ideas. She told him tartly, ‘You should tidy yourself up, Master Jethro. Wear something decent when you go calling. Take her some flowers and a nice box of chocolates.’
Nanny telling him how to woo a lady was beyond bearing, and short of telling her to put a sock in it, that up until now he’d had no trouble getting women into his bed, and more than a little keeping them out of it, there seemed to be no stopping her.
He’d have bought Allie a chocolate factory and a field full of flowers. He would have given her the moon! But, misguided sucker that he was, he’d stuck to the fiction of struggling to make a living. His self-admittedly cynical view of women had told him that his millions would make his pursuit, and her capitulation, a damn sight easier. But, blind fool that he was, he hadn’t wanted that. He’d wanted her to want him for himself, not for his wealth.
That had been before he’d learned that she was gay. He felt like the world’s biggest fool.
He swallowed the last of his coffee and snapped to his feet. He was out of here! Nanny, looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, was fussing around the room, tweaking the net window drapes back into place, doubtlessly thinking up another snippet of advice on how to arrange his love life.
He was about to announce his intention to collect his Jag, head for the hills, when Nanny’s voice rooted him to the spot. ‘Your pursuit doesn’t appear to be as one-sided as we thought it was. The young lady you’re interested in is about to ring the doorbell.’
Allie had never felt this strung up before in her entire life. Ever since she’d turned the corner and seen Jethro’s old van parked outside 182 she’d been pacing up and down, trying to find the courage to face him.
She’d meant to make it easy on herself, leave a message with his grandmother, ask him to call round after he’d finished work because she had a favour to ask him.
Some favour!
She knew he lived with his grandmother because she remembered asking him, over supper that night, if he lived locally. He’d said, ‘At the moment I’m staying with Nan—’ biting off the word, as if he were ashamed of having to live with a relative at his age, not being able to afford a place of his own.
And she knew where his gran lived because that day when Allie had been driving her mother to the local supermarket in Fran’s car, Laura had put a hand on her arm and urged, ‘Do stop, Allie. There’s that nice young man who took me home after I fainted in the street. I know I didn’t thank him properly, and I’d like to do it now.’
The little white-haired old lady who’d been standing at the foot of the ladder, issuing instructions, telling him to get right into the corners, had glowed with pride when Laura had explained what had happened and called her thanks up the ladder. Allie had added hers, because anyone who was kind to her mother got her vote, and the man on the receiving end had looked as if he’d gone into shock. It had been left to the old lady to agree that her Jethro had his heart in the right place, had been brought up to know what was what. They must excuse him for not coming down the ladder, she’d said, because he was new to the window-cleaning business, but a very quick learner.
Allie had switched off at that point. Jethro had appeared unable to say a word for himself. He was obviously painfully shy, and probably not very bright. She had felt deeply sorry for him.
There he’d been—in his early thirties, she guessed…up a ladder trying to learn how to be a window-cleaner when with his looks, that soft near-black hair, that deeply attractive, very masculine face, that perfect physique, he could earn himself a fortune as a male model.
Gently she’d urged her mother away, to spare him any further embarrassment.
Her opinions had done an abrupt turnaround when he’d called by with a huge bunch of flowers for her mother, relaxed and extremely self-assured. Every time he’d looked at her he’d eaten her with his eyes, and each time he’d tried to date her she’d turned him down,
and hoped he’d got the message that she wasn’t interested in what he had in mind.
And now she was going to have to ask him to marry her!
Her stomach lurched and began to ache. She wrapped her arms about her middle for comfort and tried to stand confidently at his front door.
It would have been so much easier to leave a message. That would have given her loads more time to get herself together, work out what to say and how to say it. So why wasn’t he out on his rounds?
Too lazy to get out of bed? Lost all his customers through incompetence? Or perhaps that awful old van had finally died.
