asked with a smile to take away the offence. Actually, she was quite pleased he had, despite the face pack. He was fun, and it seemed like years since she’d had fun—even if she didn’t intend to play footsie.
‘Something like that,’ he replied with a smile, and his eyes were warm and kind and crinkly at the corners, as if he did it often. It made her go all gooey inside—which was ridiculous, considering he couldn’t possibly be really interested in her. He was just passing the time. Idle flirting. Most men did it, like breathing, without even noticing.
He drank his coffee, then peered into the bottom of the mug and set it down with transparent and very obvious regret.
‘More?’ she offered automatically.
The smile was lazy and sexy and satisfied. ‘I will if you will.’
For a moment she wondered what he was talking about, but then collected her scattered wits. ‘I’m fine—I usually only have one.’
He sat up, the smile fading, searching her face. ‘I’ll go if you want to get back to your vegetative state.’
She laughed and stood up, scooping up his mug. ‘No, I’ve vegged enough. Black again?’
‘Please.’
She made the coffee and took it out, setting it down in front of him. ‘There was some research done a while ago that linked strong black coffee with sterility, but I guess if you’ve got four children that rather blows their research away,’ she said with a grin.
Something changed in his eyes, and he gave a short, humourless grunt of laughter. ‘We may never know,’ he said quietly. ‘They’re not my kids.’
‘Not—?’ Molly swallowed and dragged in a lungful of air. There she went again, she thought, jumping in with both feet.
‘Not yours?’ she finished, still on autopilot, wondering all sorts of things. Like, if not his, then whose? Was he their uncle? Godfather? Guardian? Friend? Stepfather, maybe. They called him Jack. And where were their real parents? Was his ex-wife their mother? And where had the parents been a year ago at that dreadful party—?
‘Their parents are dead,’ he told her, answering at least one of the questions.
A wave of regret washed over her, drowning the frenzied thoughts for the moment. ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured automatically. ‘How awful for them. How? What happened?’
He sighed. ‘Nick was my partner—we worked together,’ he told her, his voice expressionless. ‘He was shot working under cover. His wife was just pregnant with Nicky at the time, and he didn’t know. Then while she was pregnant she found out she had cancer.’
‘Oh, no.’ Molly put her hand over her mouth, stemming the questions, letting Jack talk. After a moment he went on.
‘They couldn’t treat it because of the baby. She died when Nicky was five months old.’
‘And you took the children on,’ she added softly, aching for them all.
‘Yes. I’m Tom’s godfather anyway. I married Jan just before Nicky was born.’
Whatever she’d expected, it hadn’t been that. ‘You didn’t waste any time,’ she said without thinking, and his face hardened.
‘There wasn’t a lot of time to waste,’ he said harshly, and scraped back his chair. ‘I’d better go and pick Nicky up. Thanks for the coffee.’
And he went, leaving the full mug slopping gently on the plastic table. She mopped it up mechanically, throwing the coffee down the sink, and wondered how she’d grown so tactless in her old age. Fancy accusing him of marrying the children’s mother in undue haste, without knowing anything except the barest outline—and she only knew that because she’d blundered onto the subject by talking about sterility!
‘What a fool,’ she muttered, and wondered if he’d ever speak to her again. Probably not. He’d probably ignore her, and she’d deserve it. Damn.
And then she forgot her own problems and remembered the children, Seb and Amy and Tom, who must have grieved bitterly for their parents, and little Nicky, who had never seen her father and wouldn’t remember her mother, and the ache that had been growing for the last few minutes welled up and spilled over.
What had it been like for Jack, losing his friend and then his—well, wife, really, she supposed. Had he loved her for years? And the children—how had they coped?
She sniffed and scrubbed away the tears. Poor little things. Fancy growing up without a mother. Who would cuddle them when they were hurt and frightened, and tell them—especially Amy and Nicky—all the things girls needed to know and boys needed to understand?
Jack, of course, being mother and father to them.
And what kind of a man was Jack to take them all on? He must be a complete fool, or an angel. Either that or he had loved their mother—perhaps was Nicky’s father, even—and he was doing it out of guilt.
Whatever, he was doing it, and the vast majority of men would have run a mile before they’d take on such a responsibility.
Her estimation of him went up another notch, and she wondered yet again if she’d damaged their tentative friendship beyond repair. She hoped not, because if ever a man needed help it was this one, and, for some crazy reason she just couldn’t fathom, she wanted to be the person to give it…
Jack waited by the entrance to the go-kart rink, looking out for Molly. She’d said she was karting this afternoon, and he owed her an apology for storming off like that. He’d just had so much of it from Jan’s mother, and initially from the children, too. He hadn’t wanted to deal with it again, but even so he should have expected her reaction and stayed to explain the reasons to her.
Instead he’d flounced off like a toddler with a tantrum, and probably left her upset and confused.
Damn.
There she was, dressed in jeans and trainers and a T-shirt, walking tentatively towards him. He went to meet her.
‘I’m sorry—’
‘I’m sorry—’
He gave a rueful laugh, and she smiled, cautious and uneasy. ‘I never should have said it. Why you married her is none of my business.’
‘I should have explained—I know all the things going through your head; I’ve heard them all. Let’s just say for now it was for the kids. I’ll tell you more later—if you’ll listen?’
The strain left her face. ‘Of course I’ll listen,’ she said, and he felt as if a weight had been taken off his chest.
‘Good. Right, let’s see if frogs can drive karts.’
‘Meaning you, or me?’
He grinned. ‘Either. Both.’
‘Speak for yourself.’
‘Ribbet-ribbet.’
He saw the laughter bubble up inside her, transforming her worried expression. ‘Idiot,’ she said, and he grinned again, absurdly pleased with himself for making her smile and bringing the light back into those gorgeous blue-green eyes.
He was disgustingly good at karting. She struggled to control the feisty little machine, but Jack didn’t seem to have any such problem. He whipped past her time and time again, his focus absolute, his concentration mind-boggling.
When they stopped, he unravelled himself from the little rollerskate of a kart and stretched, grinning from ear to ear. ‘That was brilliant. I haven’t done that for ages.’
‘I haven’t done it ever,’ she said drily, ‘and it shows.’
He chuckled. ‘You did fine.’
‘You didn’t even see me. You were going too fast to notice.’
‘Oh,