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‘Not that there’s any hurry.’ He reached for the remote on the coffee table in front of the settee and flicked the television on. ‘Sit down and relax for a little while. Let’s see what we’ve got—ah, movies. Are you a fan?’
‘Sometimes,’ she admitted. ‘Now that is one of my favourites,’ she said about an Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant classic.
‘Let’s watch it. Comfortable? Curl up if you feel like it. What we need is popcorn, which I’m pretty sure we don’t have, but another small tot of brandy won’t go amiss.’
In the end, Alex did fall asleep on the settee in the den although this time it was Max Goodwin not Margaret Winston who slid a pillow under her head and covered her with a warm rug.
She’d been enjoying the movie, and his company, but two thirds of the way through the emotional excesses of the evening got to her and she couldn’t keep her eyes open.
She was not to know that her temporary employer stood looking down at her for a long time after he’d covered her up, then found himself doing some serious thinking. Nothing could have prepared her for the consequences of it.
To complicate matters, Nicky woke up with a fever the next morning.
‘I think it’s chicken pox,’ Alex said to Max in the breakfast room. She was already showered and ready for the golf day—she’d done all that before Nicky had woken—wearing three-quarter khaki trousers and an Argyle sweater, Margaret’s choice, not hers.
Max was also already dressed for golf in navy trousers and a pale blue polo T-shirt. He’d just come down for breakfast.
He paused in the act of pouring his coffee. ‘Think?’
‘Mrs Mills has sent for the doctor, but we both think that’s what it is. He’s running a temperature, he’s got a couple of itchy spots and it explains the way he suddenly got tired be
fore I would have expected him to, last night.’
Max stirred and she could see him thinking back.
‘The other thing is, he doesn’t want to let me out of his sight.’ She stared at Max Goodwin, her expression concerned and anxious. ‘Six-year-olds are not essentially sensible when they don’t feel well. They usually want their mothers pretty badly.’
‘I’ll come up and see him now. How are you?’
‘I’m fine, thank you. I apologize for falling asleep on your settee, yet again,’ she said ruefully. ‘But I don’t quite know how we’re going to handle this.’
He took in her tied-back hair and the delicate blue shadows beneath her eyes, then he looked away abruptly and squared his shoulders. But all he said was, ‘Let’s go and see him.’
‘Just a moment—have you had chicken pox?’
That brought him up short. He narrowed his eyes. ‘If I did, I can’t remember it.’
‘Is there any way of checking up? Your mother, maybe? Although, if you haven’t had it you are most likely going to get it now, but at least you’ll be forewarned.’
Max Goodwin folded his arms and looked down at her somewhat grimly. ‘Have you got any more good news for me, Miss Hill?’
Alex chuckled. ‘I’m sorry, but it is better to be prepared.’
‘As they say in the Boy Scouts.’ He pulled his mobile out of his shirt pocket. ‘My sister Olivia will know—my mother passed away last year.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Thank you—Livvy, Max,’ he said into the phone. ‘Did I have chicken pox as a kid?’
He ended the call a few minutes later. ‘You’ll be glad to know, well, I’m certainly glad to know, that I did have them. We had them at the same time actually, but, whereas my sister Olivia was a model patient, I was a shocker. Same old story.’ He looked at her expressionlessly except for the wicked little glint in his eyes. ‘It’s amazing I didn’t grow up with some serious complexes brought on by my saintly sister.’
‘Maybe you did. Maybe,’ Alex said gravely, ‘your desire to get your own way is an inverse reaction to a subliminal inferiority complex bestowed on you by your sibling?’
He put his head to one side. ‘Say that again?’
‘I couldn’t,’ she confessed with a grin. ‘It just rolled off my tongue. Well—’
‘What about you?’ he broke in to query. ‘Have you had chicken pox?’
