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“Well, you might as well come in. A good shag might just improve my night.”

A soft gasp followed him as he put both hands on either side of her and pushed himself to his feet before retrieving his guitar from the ground.

“But you’re not staying the night. Understood?” He looked around to the road. He hadn’t noticed a vehicle parked in the dark laneway. “However you got here, you can go back the same way.”

Moving across to the door, he reached beneath the cushion of the padded chair next to the lintel and pulled out the huge key. The girl didn’t speak as she pulled herself up from the ground.

“Come on. We’ll be more comfortable inside.” He opened the door and flicked the light switch as he waited for her to follow. When she stayed where she was, he turned and frowned as he noticed the luggage on his porch.

“No way, sweetheart. You’re not staying. You’ve heard of ‘wham, bam, thank you ma’am’? Well, if you want me in your pants, that’s the deal. You get what you came for and then you leave. Okay?”

As he turned, the light fell on her face. Older than the usual groupie, she was tall, and dark shadows circled her large green eyes. Her hair was pulled back from her face and her mouth hung open.

“Well, are you coming in or not? Because I need a drink.”

“Oh my God, you’re Davy Morgan.” Her voice was low and husky, and a ripple of something long forgotten ran down his back.

“David Morgan, at your service.” He dipped in a sweeping bow before turning away from her. “And don’t pretend you didn’t know who I was when you came looking for me.” Suspicion kicked in and he narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t follow me back from the festival, did you?”

Of course she hadn’t.

She’d been lying here on the porch when he’d come around the side. His biggest fear was someone following him and losing his privacy and his life here.

“How long have you been here?” he said tersely.

She continued to gape at him before she spoke. “But you can’t be Davy Morgan. You’re too young.”

He gave a bitter laugh and pulled out his stock explanation. “Ah, you are obviously mistaking me for my uncle. The famous Davy Morgan? You’re not familiar with me, the other David Morgan, then?”

“No. I’m not.” Her eyes were riveted on him and they widened even more as she shook her head. “Why are you in my house?”

“Your house?” he said as he ran his hand through his hair. This one was obviously a nutcase. “Sorry, sweetheart, but good try. This is my house. Now why don’t you pick up your gear like a good little girl and go back to wherever you came from.”

And he’d make sure she’d go and not come back. “Now I’ve had a look at you, you’re too old for me and not my type. Great boobs but the haunted look doesn’t do it for me.” He tried to be as rude as he could. The sleazier he sounded, the quicker she’d get out of here and leave him in peace.

He stepped inside and pulled the door closed behind him and crossed to the makeshift bar on the old dresser. With a bit of luck, she’d take the hint and go before he had to think up any more coarse insults.

He ignored the pounding on the door as he uncapped the whiskey bottle.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” He muttered under his breath as he picked up his glass and walked back to the door. For the past forty years, he’d managed to avoid anyone discovering his secret. Having his cottage as a bolt-hole had been a godsend. How had this girl found him?

He wrenched it open. “You can’t be that desperate, darling?”

“You are a vile human being, whoever you are. Do the McLarens know you are squatting at their place?” Her voice conveyed her disgust and his interest was piqued as she stood on the porch, the light of battle in her eye. He glanced down at her chest. Her shoulders were back and she wasn’t wearing a bra. Everything was on display, and to his disgust he felt a stirring of interest.

Hmm. A vile human being. That’s exactly what he was.

“Ah…you’re referring to the family of the late Alice McLaren, I guess?”

She nodded and spoke slowly, the wary look still in those shadowed eyes. “That would be correct.”

He leaned against the lintel and sipped his whiskey. She held his gaze. Once you got past the purple shadows beneath her flashing eyes, and the rosy flush high on her cheekbones, she was really quite beautiful. Her lips were deep red and full, and her complexion was pale, despite the twin spots of colour signaling her anger. He hoped she’d stay angry. Women were trouble, and he was a sucker as soon as they went soft and pulled out the tears or quivering lips.

But not anymore. After having his privacy disturbed, she was lucky he was even having a conversation with her. He’d been manipulated in the past and he was not going to go there ever again, no matter how vulnerable the woman was.

“Well, sweetheart. If you weren’t looking for me and a good shag—”

“Shag?” she interrupted. “Who says shag these days? You sound like Austin Powers.” Her pretty lips tilted up in a brief smile.