WARM HEARTS IN WINTER
by Helen Pollard
Blurb:
Forced by circumstance into the world of temping, when Abby Davis accepts an assignment in the wilds of Yorkshire as personal assistant to a widowed novelist, she assumes he is an ageing recluse.
Thirty-something Jack Blane is anything but. Still struggling to get his life and writing career back on track three years after his wife’s death, Jack isn’t ready for a breath of fresh air like Abby.
Snowed in at his winter retreat on the moors, as the weeks go by and their working relationship becomes friendship and maybe more, Abby must rethink her policy of never getting involved with someone at work … and Jack must decide whether he is willing to risk the pain of love a second time.
*****
Author Bio:
Helen Pollard is a
Yorkshire lass at heart. She’s glad to say she outgrew her rebellious teenage
vow never to be stuck in the suburbs with the obligatory two children, and is
happily married to the love of her life with two teenagers. They share space
with a Jekyll and Hyde cat that alternates between being obsessively
affectionate and viciously psychotic. Antiseptic cream is always close at hand.
When she finds the time to
write, her characters magically take over and she’s caught up in their world -
until she realizes her son has no clean socks, the casserole is burning and the
cat is jumping on her keyboard because she’s neglected to feed her for … oh, at
least forty minutes.
When Helen’s not working or
writing, it goes without saying that she loves to read. She also enjoys a good
coffee in a quiet bookshop, and appreciates the company of family and close
friends.
You can purchase this title at:
Excerpt:
Abby chewed her lip
in anxious concentration as she peered through the windscreen, her fingers
gripping the steering wheel so hard her knuckles were white. The narrow country
road would be hard to negotiate at the best of times, but in the dark and the snow
it was almost impossible. Despite her slow speed, the full beam from her
headlights barely showed a bend until she was almost upon it — but since there
was nowhere to turn around, all she could do was grit her teeth, stay calm and
fervently hope her satnav didn't lead her down a sheep track or into a swollen
river.
She allowed herself
a soft curse at the weather and directed another at Casey while she was at it.
It was all her fault this was
happening. No, that wasn't true. Her friend was only trying to help, and it was
because of their friendship that Abby had been foolish enough to accept this
assignment. That and the fact she'd had little choice in the matter. Her recent
bad luck — if that was what you could
call it — hadn't allowed her the luxury of choice. She needed a job. Her best
friend managed a temping agency. A job came up. Abby had exactly ten minutes to
decide whether to accept the post of personal assistant to some thriller writer
she'd never heard of. Casey had heard
of him and recommended she did. Actually, she reminded her she was in no
position to refuse. It would be a challenge, Casey said. Unusual, Casey said. Abby
trusted her and accepted.
And now look. Desperate
to set off before the weather deteriorated, she'd packed in such a hurry she'd
probably forgotten half of what she needed, and she'd been driving for two hours
through conditions that only got worse by the minute. She wasn't sure her ageing
car could take much more. The wipers were clogged with the thick snowflakes
that swirled across the windscreen, reducing visibility to virtually nothing.
She had no idea what she would do if something came in the opposite direction —
although she was so far out in the middle of nowhere she doubted there was
another soul around. That is, apart from Jack Blane — her new boss for the next
few weeks — who in his wisdom had chosen to write his latest novel miles from
civilisation on the bleak Yorkshire moors in the worst winter weather for
years. Abby had heard writers liked solitude, but this was ridiculous!
Just as she was
beginning to think this whole thing must be a bad dream, her satnav archly
informed her she was nearly there. Abby slowed her car to a crawl, peering over
the steering wheel like an old lady who'd forgotten her glasses.
"Nearly where?" she asked the machine's know-it-all
voice.
A dark shape loomed
at the side of the road, and she screeched to a halt. Not a bright move. The
car skidded nearly full circle, and Abby had to fight both the wheel and her
own panic to regain control. Her heart thudding, she opened the driver's window
and stuck her head out. A house of forbidding dark stone, dusted liberally with
snow, stood silhouetted against the grey sky. Abby glared at her satnav and
back at the house. Well, this must be it. There was certainly nowhere else in
sight.
"Great. Out of
the frying pan and straight onto the set of Wuthering
Heights," she muttered.
Squinting through
the dark, she could see that Mr Blane had tried to clear a parking spot for her
— considerate of him, since Casey had given her the impression he was getting
on in years.
Abby manoeuvred her
car into the space next to an old SUV, then allowed her head to fall back against
the headrest. Bone-tired from the drive and the stress, she closed her eyes for
a minute, and when she opened them again to glance at the clock, she could
hardly believe it was only eight-thirty. She was so tired, it felt more like
midnight.
Pushing away the
doubts which had been gnawing at her ever since she'd accepted Casey's
hare-brained offer, Abby grabbed the car door handle and took a deep breath. It
was no use regretting it now — she had accepted the job offer and she would have to make the best of it.
"Anyway, I had
good reasons!" she reminded herself as she shoved the car door. "Like
a living wage and food."
The snow banked so
high at the sides of the small clearing beside the house she could only get her
door halfway open. How she was going to reverse back out again and drive to the
accommodation her new employer had arranged for her, she had no idea. Frowning,
she realised she hadn't passed anywhere obvious on the way — then again, she
hadn't been able to see much through the blizzard. She would have to introduce
herself as briefly as possible, find out where she needed to go, and be on her
way.
Abby pulled her hat
down lower and her scarf tighter. As she hurried for the door, she hit a smooth
patch and her feet went flying, landing her flat on her back with a resounding
thump. She would have stayed where she was for a while to get her breath back, but
the icy cold was seeping rapidly through her coat, so she got clumsily to her
feet.
The steps to the
door were steep but appeared to have been gritted, thank goodness. Wondering
how an old man had negotiated them to clear her a parking space without killing
himself, she clutched tightly to the iron railing as she made her way up and
rapped sharply on the door. No answer. Fighting an insane desire to turn on her
heel and give up on the whole thing, she huddled under the tiny porch roof, waited
a moment and knocked again. Perhaps he was a little deaf. If he didn't hear her
soon, she might be able to add pneumonia to her bruises!
Footsteps sounded
from inside, a jiggling of keys, and finally the door wrenched open. A shaft of
light lit the doorway, outlining a tall frame there.
Blinking against the
sudden light, Abby held out her gloved hand.
"Mr Blane, I
presume?" She tried for the most professional manner she could manage. It wasn't
as successful as she would have liked due to the snowflakes catching in her
mouth and her teeth chattering.
When she gave an
involuntary shiver, a hand shot out to quickly shake hers in response.
"Yes. You must
be Miss Davis. For goodness' sake, come on in out of the cold. This is no time
to be standing on ceremony." He stood aside for her to clump over the
doorstep, showering snow as she came. "I've been caught up in my work. I had
no idea the weather had got so bad," he said apologetically as he closed
the door on the icy wind. "Let's get you out of those wet things and into
the warmth."
As her eyes adjusted
to the bright hallway light, Abby froze - but not from the cold. Oh, no. This
was not what she had expected, not at all. In a desperate attempt to reassure
herself she would be perfectly safe working alone with a strange man out here
in the wilds, she'd spent the car journey creating an image in her mind's eye
of what her new boss would be like. That image was of someone much older, much
stuffier. Casey had led her to believe he was a loner, some sort of unsociable
hermit hunched over his writing all day. A
widower, she'd said, implying someone middle-aged or even elderly. Someone
harmless.
Jack Blane was
anything but. He couldn't be more than mid-thirties. Stubble shadowed his face —
too immersed in his writing to care about shaving, she supposed. Light brown
hair, a hint of steel-grey streaks here and there. Ice-blue eyes.
The thought of ice
brought Abby sharply back to the fact she could no longer feel her feet. She
shivered again.
"Quick, let me
take your coat." Reaching for it, he helped peel the sopping garment from
her while Abby unwound her scarf and plucked off her hat, shaking out a riot of
shoulder-length auburn curls. When she swung around to face him, he was staring
at her.
Abby frowned. "Is
anything wrong?"
"Er — no."
He shook his head in emphasis. "No, not at all. I'll put the kettle on and
get you a hot drink to warm you up. Come on through." And he strode off
down the hall in an easy lope.
Numb from the cold
and dazed by his strange welcome, Abby damped down the resentment she felt. Of
course he was at ease, she told herself. He was, after all, warm and dry in his
own home and he was the one who had initiated this whole situation. She, on the
other hand, had had it thrust upon her so abruptly she'd hardly had time to
reconcile herself to her fate: driven in appalling conditions, fallen flat on
her back, made to wait out on the steps for far too long, and exposed to wet
and cold. It was hardly surprising if she felt a little out of sorts.
Crossly, she pulled off
her boots and trotted down the hall after him. He shoved open a door and
ushered her through, then strode to the sink to fill the kettle. Abby glanced
around her. Judging from the outside and the age of the building, the house
must have originally been poky and dark and very much at home in a gothic
novel, but it had obviously been renovated. The downstairs had been knocked through,
and the large wood and granite kitchen she was standing in was bright and
spacious, big enough to hold a large scrubbed pine table, a smaller work table
and a slouchy couch. An archway led through to what appeared to be a lounge.
"Wow!" she
declared. "This is gorgeous!"
"I'm glad you
like it," he said. "Tea? Coffee?"
"Tea, please."
Abby plopped herself on a chair at the table, watching as he moved around the
kitchen. Wow came into her head
again, only this time not in reference to the renovations. Jack Blane was
something else. At least six feet tall, broad shoulders in a chunky, grey cable
knit sweater tapering to faded jeans and leather work boots. Completely
unaware, she suspected, of his own magnetism. He placed a steaming mug in front
of her, and she wrapped her fingers around it until they burned with
rediscovered feeling.
"Better?"
he asked.
"Yes, much,
thanks." She wiggled her fingers to prove the point.
"I'm sorry I
didn't hear you right away. You must have been out there for ages to get so covered
in snow."
Abby rolled her eyes
in embarrassment. "It wasn't all your fault," she admitted. "I
fell on the way from the car."
His brows
immediately knitted together in concern. "Are you hurt?"
She rubbed
tentatively at her bruised back. "Nothing a warm bath won't fix."
And now the thought
was in her brain, Abby couldn't dislodge it. Something to eat. A warm bath. She
didn't want to be rude — they'd only just met, after all — but as she glanced
at the window where the snow continued to fall outside, she knew she couldn't
leave it too long before she insisted on setting out for her accommodation.
He was staring at
her in that odd manner again, and Abby felt concerned at his lack of
concentration, but then she gave a mental shrug. Maybe it was a 'writer thing.'
He probably did it all the time.
"Is everything
alright, Mr Blane?" she asked him.
He jolted. "Fine,
thanks. And please, call me Jack." He shook his head. "I'm sorry, I'm
being terribly rude. You must be exhausted, and hungry to boot."
Abby smiled,
relieved he understood her need to get going, and drained her mug. She stood,
ready to leave.
"I am,
actually," she said, then nodded at the window. "I think I need to
get a move on before it gets any worse, if that's alright with you."
Jack gave her a
puzzled frown as he stood too. "Get a move on?"
Abby pointed at the
snow again for emphasis. "My accommodation," she explained. "I hope
it's not too far away?"
Jack's eyes widened,
and he slowly shook his head. "Not too far at all. Follow me." He led
the way into the hall, leaving her to trot after him, but as she started to
pull on her boots, he said, "There won't be any need for those," and
started up the stairs.
Abby stared after
him, confused and bordering on dismayed. He'd already vanished, and she had no
choice but to go on up after him. He waited at the top of the stairs. As she
appeared, he opened the nearest door and gestured into the room.
"I don't
understand," Abby said hesitantly, even though the sinking feeling in her
stomach told her she already did understand, all too well.
"Your room,"
he announced.
"My room?"
Jack nodded. "I'm
sure you'll be pleased to hear you don't have to head out into that awful
weather again. It's spacious and en suite, so you'll have plenty of privacy."
When she remained rooted to the spot, he added, "I'm right down at the
other end," wafting his hand as though to indicate he would be miles away.
Abby wasn't
reassured. "You mean I'm expected to stay here?" she managed when she
finally found her voice, although it came out a little squeaky.
"Why not?"
The colour flashed
in Abby's cheeks as she fought for some control over the combination of panic
and anger rising within her. "But the agency told me you would be arranging
some accommodation for me!"
"And that's
exactly what this is," Jack said, gesturing again. "Come and take a peek.
I'm sure you'll like it."
Abby still made no
move. Her heart was in her mouth, and she struggled to breathe. She shook her
head.
"No, I don't
think so. No."
She turned and shot
down the stairs. By the time Jack caught up with her, she'd already pulled on
soggy boots and was busy rewrapping herself in her equally soggy outer
garments.
"What on earth
are you doing?" he asked.
"Leaving."
"Leaving?"
"To find
somewhere to stay," she clarified. She didn't want him to think she was
giving up on the job itself — she needed it too badly — but she had no
intention of spending the night here. That was not the deal at all.
"And where
would that be, exactly?" Jack asked, leaning against the wall with his
hands jammed deep into his pockets.
"I was hoping
you could tell me." Abby's voice was somewhat muffled by the copious scarf.
She rummaged in her bag for her car keys. "I presume there's a local pub that
has a room, or a bed and breakfast place, maybe …"
Her voice trailed
off as she wondered briefly who would be paying, but she shrugged it off as
quickly as it entered her head. She could afford one night somewhere, if push came
to shove, and if Jack Blane wouldn't agree to foot the bill for her accommodation
as she'd been led to believe, then the whole deal was off anyway as far as she
was concerned. Surely he wasn't suggesting she stay here just to penny-pinch?
And if that wasn't the reason, then what was, exactly? Because if he thought …
She realised Jack
was making no move to help her. "Well?"
Jack shook his head.
"If you hadn't noticed, we're quite a way from anywhere out here," he
declared.
All
the more reason not to be sleeping over! Abby wanted to shout at him,
but she held her tongue.
"You must have
seen that as you drove here," he added.
"I couldn't see
anything for the snow!"
"Precisely!"
There was triumph in his voice. "So even if there was somewhere available at this time of night — and I'll point out
to you it's now past nine o'clock — and even if I gave you directions — which I
have no intention of doing — how on earth do you imagine you would find it?"
"Fine."
Abby stomped to the door. "If you won't cooperate, I'll just have to
manage." Her hand on the door, she said, "I'll be back in the morning
to discuss the work part of my contract,
if that's okay with you, but I'm afraid staying here was not in the job description I was given." She flung open the
door, immediately taking a step back as the wind slapped ice-cold into the small
part of her face available to it.
Recovering herself,
she tried again, shutting the door behind her and negotiating the lethal steps
to her car — but what she saw when she got there filled her with dismay. Its
roof had a deep white topping of snow and the space cleared for it was already beginning
to fill in. If she wanted to leave, she would have to dig her way out, and that
would mean asking for a shovel. Cursing, she started to head back to the house and
crashed headlong into the solid wall that was Jack Blane. Her heart jumped in
panic, and she let out a squeak. She hadn't heard his footsteps in the snow.
"What are you
doing?" she asked indignantly, her heart still thudding dangerously.
"I could ask you the same question." There was
an unmistakeable edge of anger in his voice.
Abby ignored it. "I
need a shovel," she pointed out.
"You need more
than a shovel, you need a snow plough," he told her, his words almost
snatched away by the snow and wind. "And then a tractor to pull you out of
whatever snow drift you end up in. Followed by an ambulance … or possibly a
hearse. For goodness' sake!"
When her expression
remained mutinous, he took hold of her arm and dragged her, tumbling and
skidding, past her car to the road.
"Use your eyes.
And your brain!"
He took hold of her
head with his hands and twisted it to the right and then left. All Abby could
see was a complete white-out. The road she had driven along less than an hour
before, already treacherous, was lethal now. A tear of defeat ran down her
cheek, and she brushed crossly at it.
Jack's tone softened
a little. "You're lucky you got here in one piece in the first place. Please,
Abby. Come inside. It's a misunderstanding. We'll sort it out somehow, but
there's nothing we can do about it tonight."
Abby knew he was
right. She trudged after him, allowing him to help her up the steps. His touch
was sure and strong, which was just fine, because she was beginning to realise how
exhausted she was.
Once more unwrapped
from her snowy things, she was led through the archway from the kitchen into a
cosy lounge where a log fire burned low, casting a warm light across the
thickly carpeted floor. Scattered rugs added ethnic colour — warm reds, golds,
browns — to the muted décor, while soft lamplight cast shadows against the
walls.
Jack, bending to
bank up the fire, indicated she should sit on the sofa. When he'd finished, he said,
"I'll warm up some soup." Then he left her alone to stare at the
welcome flames.
As she began to
thaw, Abby gave in to her overwhelming tiredness and sank into the soft brown
leather with a sigh. When Jack came back in with a tray of soup and toast, she
was curled up with her legs tucked under her, half asleep. Sensing his presence,
she opened her eyes.
"Sorry,"
she mumbled, struggling to sit up. "Thanks."
"You're
welcome." He put the tray down on the coffee table in front of her. "I
need to sort out a few e-mails, if that's okay."
Abby nodded and
reached for the tray. She thought she was too tired to eat, but once she'd
tasted the soup and discovered it was homemade, she made more of an effort.
Jack strode to the huge picture window at the far end of the room, where his
laptop sat on a large table surrounded by teetering piles of letters and papers
and books and old mugs. Abby raised an eyebrow at the mess. No wonder the man
needed help, if that was the way he worked! She ate while he worked in silence,
hypnotised by the flames and the tapping of his keyboard.
When she'd finished
her supper and her head was beginning to droop again, Jack rose from his desk and
strolled back over.
"Come on,
sleepyhead. Bed for you."
Abby's eyes would
hardly stay open. She was aware he towered over her; that his jumper was thick
and warm as she brushed against it when she stood; that he led her up to the room
where her bags waited for her. When had he brought those in? Maybe while the soup
was heating. She had no idea and didn't care. When he closed the door behind her,
all she unpacked was her toothbrush and nightwear. Once her teeth were done,
she simply stepped out of her clothes, leaving them on the floor where they
landed, pulled on her pyjamas, climbed into the comfortable bed and immediately
fell asleep.
****
Jack was up early
the next morning. He hadn't slept well, and felt even worse when he opened his
bedroom curtains to see the thick blanket of snow muffling the world outside. He
shook his head. Typical British weather. It had been mild and rainy over the
entire Christmas period when a little snow would have complemented the festive
season. Now it was nearly March and spring was just around the corner, here
they were in a winter wonderland, knee-deep in snow. It seemed last night's unsolvable
problems would have to remain so for a while yet.
When a long, hot
shower failed to revive him, he headed downstairs to make coffee and sat
nursing it at the kitchen table while he gathered his thoughts together.
What he'd expected
was an old dear to replace his previous old dear, Mrs Macintosh. What he'd got
was Abby, and he was still getting over the shock that she was at least thirty
years younger than he'd expected.
When Mrs Macintosh
had reluctantly let him down at such short notice, he was already caught up in
planning his new novel and couldn't face a delay. In a panic, he'd phoned his
editor in London and explained the problem. Ted was sympathetic but had nobody to
spare — certainly no-one he could send up north for several weeks. He suggested
a temping agency, but Jack had baulked at the idea. It wasn't as though he
could have just anybody coming to
stay in his house and work on his manuscript with him. But Ted had persuaded
him that the agency he used in London from time to time was excellent and only
dealt with elite positions.
"Leave it to
me," he'd said. And since Jack had a deadline, he'd done just that.
When Ted phoned
back, it was to tell him his trusted London agency had apologetically explained
that with the weather so bad in the north, they weren't willing to send anyone
such a long way. Instead, they had contacted their northern branch — equally fastidious
in their selection process — and their manager, Casey Summers, would be in
touch with Jack shortly.
Miss Summers had duly
spoken to him, reassuring him with her sympathy and professional efficiency. He
explained all about Mrs Macintosh — how he needed someone with just the same
qualities — and she thoroughly recommended Abby. She'd known her for years, she
told him. Jack assumed that meant Abby would be middle-aged or beyond, but now
he realised all it meant was that they must have known each other since
pre-school or something.
Maybe he hadn't been
concentrating; he had a habit of drifting when he was starting on a new book. Now,
he was regretting not finding out more, or at least thinking it through more
carefully. It simply hadn't occurred to him that another person would be much
different from Mrs Macintosh — only a change of name and face.
Then Abby had shown
up on his doorstep. She'd been quite a sight with her hat jammed low on her
head, her face muffled in a woollen scarf and her coat covered in snow — like a
miniature abominable snowman. But then she'd taken off that coat, revealing a
shapely body clad in figure-hugging jeans and a soft jumper not quite baggy
enough to hide the curves it clung to. The hat had come off next, allowing tousled,
flame-like hair to fall around her face. And finally the scarf was unwound from
a full mouth and sea-green eyes.
No grey hair. No
frumpy tweeds. No hint of middle-aged-to-elderly. Far, far from it. He was
aware he'd stared at her and could only hope it hadn't come across as a
bewildered leer.
It wasn't that he
minded Abby being young and curvy and pretty — he wasn't in the market to take
advantage anyway. The problem was he had a deadline, and he could do without
distractions.
Jack frowned. He
hadn't been distracted by a woman since Beth died — not that a few hadn't tried
— and if anyone had asked him twelve hours ago, he would have said he wasn't
likely to be. But that was before Abby had literally blown in, and for the
first time since his wife died, he'd had no choice but to take notice. It was
impossible not to.
Putting Abby's looks
aside for the moment — not an easy task — she seemed to have quite a temper on
her. That was something he could definitely do without and something the oh-so-efficient
Miss Summers hadn't bothered to warn him about. He needed someone calm and collected,
someone who would do what he needed without … kerfuffle. And there was a word he never thought he'd
use in this lifetime.
Jack sipped at his
coffee, brooding. The thing was, her temper had only come out to play when he'd
tried to show her to her room. He recalled the way the colour had drained from
her face, swiftly followed by pink spots of anger on her cheeks. It was obvious
she hadn't known she was to stay at the house. He could understand her dismay
if she hadn't been expecting it, but his gut instinct told him there was
something more than that behind her reaction, something beyond the
understandable reluctance she might have about sharing space with an eligible bachelor.
Whatever her reasons,
this misunderstanding over the accommodation he'd offered was going to be a
problem. Had he not told Casey that Abby would be staying at the house? Had the
woman misunderstood? Or had she told Abby correctly, but Abby had misunderstood?
He raked a hand
through his hair. It didn't matter. What mattered was that it was convenient
for him to have his assistant on hand. The house was big enough for them to
have their own space. It would be ridiculous for her to be to-ing and fro-ing
all the time — and with the weather, that wasn't possible right now anyway.
Mrs Macintosh hadn't
minded last year. She'd loved her room, been available whenever he asked (as
long as it wasn't after ten, when she retired for the night), supplied him with
endless hot drinks and often tasty stews, kept herself to herself when she
sensed that was what he wanted, and kept him company for the occasional murder
mystery on television. And it had all been set up again this year, until her sister
had gone and broken her hip.
Worse than Abby
losing her temper, Jack had lost his own. He might not know what had made her
so foolhardy as to try and drive off like that, but he did know he'd been
absolutely right not to let her. He wasn't sorry for that, but he was sorry he
might have frightened her, even if his anger was justified, fuelled as it was
by such appalling memories. If she'd already been spooked at finding out she
had to stay in an old house in the middle of nowhere in impassable weather with
a man she'd never met before—and, judging by her reaction, knew little about –
he'd hardly helped by yelling at her and manhandling her.
Jack sighed. Maybe
an apology was due.
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