questions. She answered some of them.’ His low opinion of her still rankled, but she would rise above that if only to prove to herself that she could. ‘She hates her wardrobe. I think we bonded there. I’m sorry but I’m going to have to turn down your request to purchase “loose” clothing. I can’t take your daughter shopping for young, trendy stuff and then buy drab, tired stuff for myself.’
‘Young, trendy stuff?’
‘Do you know that she’s never owned a pair of ripped jeans?’
‘Ripped jeans?’
‘Or trainers. I mean proper trainers—not the sort you get for school sports.’
‘What are proper trainers?’
Matt looked at her. She was flushed, her skin rosy and dewy from walking in the heat, and her hair was up in a high ponytail with long caramel strands escaping around her face. In every conceivable way she was the complete antithesis of any woman he had ever gone out with—including his ex-wife. Vicky, his girlfriend, was striking, but in a controlled, intelligent, vaguely handsome way, with short brown hair and high cheekbones, and a dress code that consisted almost entirely of smart suits and high heels. And Catrina, while not a career woman, had descended from old money and had always dressed with subtle, refined, understated glamour. Cashmere and pearls, and elegant knee-length skirts.
He could easily believe that Samantha had never owned a pair of ripped jeans, or faded jeans, or possibly even any jeans. As far as he could remember neither had his ex-wife.
He felt his imagination do the unthinkable and begin to break its leash once more, throwing up all sorts of crazy images of the fresh faced girl in front of him.
She was telling him about ‘proper trainers’ and he was appalled to discover that he was barely taking in a word she was saying. Instead, he was fighting to dismiss thoughts of what she looked like out of those tight jeans and that small green vest with its indistinct logo of a rock band. It was a primitive urge that had no place in his rigidly controlled world.
‘Anyway, I hope you don’t mind, but I bought her one or two things. Trainers, jeans, a few tops from the market.’
‘You bought her stuff from a market?’
‘A lot trendier. Oh, gosh, I can tell from your expression that you don’t approve. Don’t you ever go to a market to shop?’ It was an innocuous question, but for some reason it shifted the atmosphere between them. Just a small, barely noticeable shift, but she was suddenly and uncomfortably aware of his almost black eyes resting on her, and the way her body was responding to his stare.
‘I’ve never been to a market in my life.’
‘Well, you don’t know what you’re missing. One of my friends used to work at a market on the weekends, before she went to college to do a course in jewellery-making. I know a lot about them. Quite a bit of what gets sold is imported rubbish, but some of it’s really, really good. Handmade. In fact, I thought at one point that I could go into that line of business…’ Her cheeks were bright with enthusiasm.
‘Never mind. You’re here now,’ Matt said briskly. ‘Tell me what your plans are for the rest of the week. Have you had a chance to discuss the business of schoolwork with her?’
‘Not yet…it’s only been one day! I did glance at those books you mentioned, though…when we got back to the apartment and Samantha was having a bath.’
‘And?’
Tess opened her mouth to let him know in advance that she had never been that good at the sciences, and then thought better of it. ‘And I suppose I can handle some of it.’
‘That’s the spirit! Now all we have to do is devise a curriculum.’
‘She’s nervous about going to school here,’ Tess blurted out. ‘Has she told you that?’
Matt shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘I hope you reassured her that there is nothing to worry about.’ He papered over the fact that he and Samantha had barely had any meaningful conversations since she had arrived in Manhattan.
‘It’s your job to reassure her of that.’ Tess looked at him squarely in the eyes. Confrontation had always been something she had studiously avoided. She could remember many an argument between her sisters, both intent on emerging the winner, and had long ago reached the conclusion that nothing was worth the raised voices and the heated exchanges—except she wasn’t going to duck under the radar now and assume responsibility for something she knew wasn’t hers.
‘I’ve been thinking…’ she ventured tentatively.
‘Should I be alarmed?’
‘You have all these rules that I’m supposed to follow…’
Matt threw back his head and laughed, and then, when he had sobered up, directed a grim look at her. ‘That’s what normally happens when you do a job for someone else. I’ve taken a big risk on you, and you’re being richly rewarded, so don’t imagine for a second that you can start trying to negotiate on some of the things you’re supposed to do.’
‘I’m not trying to negotiate anything!’ Tess said heatedly. ‘I just think that if there are all these rules for me, then there should be some rules for you.’
Matt looked at her incredulously, and then he burst out laughing again. ‘What’s so funny?’
‘What you seem to consider rules most people would consider their job description. Is that how you approached all those jobs you had? With the attitude that you weren’t prepared to work for anyone unless they were prepared to bend their rules to accommodate you?’
‘Of course not.’ When things had become too tedious she had simply given up, she thought uncomfortably. ‘And I’m not trying to bend any rules.’ What was it about this man that fired her up and made her argumentative?
‘Okay. Spit it out, then.’
‘I made a little list.’ She had scribbled it in the car on the way over. Several times she had ever asked Stanton, the driver, what he remembered about his childhood—what stood out in his head about the things he had done with his parents that he had really enjoyed.
Matt took the list and read it through. Then he read it again, his expression of disbelief growing by the minute.
“‘Monday night,’” he read aloud. ‘“Monopoly or Scrabble or some sort of board game as agreed upon. Tuesday night, cookery night.”’ He looked at her flushed, defiant face. ‘“Cookery night”? What the hell is cookery night?’
‘Cookery night is an evening when you and Samantha prepare something together. It could be anything. A cake, perhaps, or some cookies. Or you could be even more adventurous and go for something hot. A casserole.’
‘Cakes? Cookies? Casseroles?’ His voice implied that she had asked him to fly to the moon and back. ‘Isn’t that your job?’ he asked with heavy sarcasm. ‘Correction. It shouldn’t be a question. It’s a statement of fact. Everything on this list consists of things you should be doing. In case you’d forgotten, my work keeps me out of the house for long periods of time.’
‘I understand that you’re a workaholic—’
‘I’m not a workaholic.’ He considered crumpling the list and chucking it into the bin, but was tempted to carry on reading. ‘I run a company. Various companies. Believe it or not, it all takes time.’
‘DVD night’ was scheduled for Wednesday. He couldn’t remember the last time he had watched a DVD. Who had time to sit in front of the television for hours on end? How productive was that?
‘You have to make time for Samantha,’ Tess told him stubbornly. ‘I don’t think you even know how scared she is of joining a new school. All her friends were at her school in Connecticut. She’s terrified of