What Love Sounds Like
What Love Sounds Like
Alissa Callen
Outback speech pathologist, Mia Windsor, believes her morning from hell is over. Then suited-up, city-boy Kade Reid strides into her office and announces he and his wide-eyed niece are the clients that she will be living with for the fortnight.
Kade Reid adheres to a single edict — money is as important as breathing. But when he becomes an instant father to four-year-old Tilly, he escapes to the only place he was allowed to be a child...the family property of Berrilea.
As Mia and Kade work together to help Tilly overcome her speech delay, can they face their fears in order to give Tilly the family she so desperately needs?
Thanks so much to Romance Writers of Australia without whom I’d still be an isolated writer sending my dogs to sleep with story ideas. Many thanks to Kate Cuthbert and the efficient team at Escape Publishing for all of their help and support. Huge thanks also to Allison Butler, Mel Teshco, Rachael Johns and Madeline Ash – my special writing buddies. And finally thanks to my long-suffering family whose patience, understanding and willingness to eat grilled cheese sandwiches will forever be appreciated.
To my children
Excerpt from Mistaken Engagement
THE ICING on her day-from-hell cake strode into her office like he owned it.
Mia Windsor pushed back her chair and came to her feet. It didn’t matter that the broken air-conditioner rendered the room hotter than a furnace. It didn’t matter that her spilt glass of water had soaked the front of her shirt and turned the client notes she’d been reading into an ink-washed landscape worthy of framing. She was again secure in her comfort zone: she knew how to deal with a man who appeared a carbon-copy of her father.
This client may be a stranger but she knew the exact shade of his power-gold silk tie, the exact angle of his proud chin. The chill of her blouse soaked into her soul. She also knew the meaning of the two body-lengths of distance between him and the wide-eyed child who trailed behind him.
She took a moment to ensure her words emerged clear, concise, perfect, then she stepped out from behind her desk and extended a hand. ‘Welcome to Little Poppies Speech Pathology, Mr. Reid.’
Eyes as blue as an endless outback sky met hers. Masculine lips moved in a barely-there smile before his tanned fingers grasped hers with a surprising gentleness. Too late she felt the weight of the top-knot she’d secured with a pencil shift. Her hair spilled around her shoulders. She closed her fingers around his and squeezed as if her life depended on it. As if her professional hat hadn’t tumbled to the floor along with her makeshift hairpin.
An indefinable expression darkened his eyes before his features again settled in rigid, remote lines. ‘Thank you for seeing us on such short notice, Ms. Windsor.’
The velvet-smoothness of his voice washed over her, doing strange things to her sensible knees. His tone was softer, more human, than she’d expected. Strange, since she’d seen the chiselled features of an ice sculpture exude more warmth. ‘Don’t mention it. But after five minutes in this heat you might be retracting your thanks.’
Without waiting for his reply, she turned her attention toward the blonde-haired girl who’d reached her father’s side and now stood as close as possible to his leg without touching him. Anxious fingers tangled themselves in the folds of her white cotton dress.
Compassion melted Mia’s heart. She knew how many butterflies would spread their wings in Tilly’s stomach, how they’d soar to her throat as soon as she tried to speak. And the sickness that would replace them once no-one understood a single word of what she’d uttered.
She’d once been this child.
Mia placed her hands on her knees and bent so her gaze was level with the little girl’s. ‘Hello, Tilly. I’m Mia.’ She smiled. ‘It’s lovely to meet you.’
Large grey eyes fixed on her. Uncertainty anchored the corners of the child’s tiny mouth into a downward curve. In her peripheral vision Mia saw Mr. Reid adjust his tie, with quick, impatient tugs. Her fingernails bit into her skin. So what if such a gesture was as familiar as the freckles across her nose? Just because her father had performed the same action when she’d attempt to talk to him was of no consequence. She relaxed her death-grip upon her knees. Her childhood lay behind her. Dealt with. Finished. She was Mia Windsor. Speech pathologist. Not Amelia Windsor. Stammerer. Failure.
She straightened. ‘Now before we start, Mr. Reid, I must apologise for the temperature. Yesterday’s power surge knocked out the air-conditioner.’
‘Let’s just keep this short and the heat won’t be a problem.’
‘How about we allow Tilly’s needs to dictate this appointment’s length, shall we?’ Despite her best intentions disapproval cooled her words.
‘Fine. But even out here,’ he glanced out the window to where heat mirages would shimmer instead of glass skyscrapers, ‘time is money.’
‘In a population of under a thousand, money soon loses its shine.’
He arched a dark eyebrow as if such a possibility was as likely as a flying pig adding excitement to her dehydrated, red-dust view.
‘Bush spirit is founded on mateship, not millions,’ she added through tight lips. ‘The only currency of any importance this far west of the mountains is…people.’
‘That’s all very commendable but in my experience money is king. The world can’t work without it.’
She looked at the motionless figure standing lost and alone beside her father. Mia’s annoyance ebbed. Just as well in her world people were the only thing that mattered. Not money. Not power. ‘In this temperature any world would have trouble working. So, let’s get started.’
She crossed to the play area brimming with bright toys, selected a pony from the top shelf and returned to Tilly. ‘It feels hotter than an oven in here, doesn’t it?’ Mia fanned her face with her hand. ‘If I was a cupcake, I think I’d be very overcooked.’
But the child didn’t smile let alone answer. The only movement in her statue-still body was from her eyes as she looked at the toy pony. Mia tilted Stardust so that the overhead light danced in the pony’s iridescent mane.
‘This is Stardust. Her favourite things are rainbows and purple glitter. I was going to make her a pool to cool off in but I’m not very good at putting blocks together. Maybe you could help me?’
Still Tilly didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
Mia lowered her voice. ‘What colour blocks do you think she’d like? Blue or green?’
The small girl looked from the pony to Mia and then back again. But she didn’t answer.
‘Maybe your father could help us decide?’
Tilly’s mouth trembled. Her expression crumbled. With a sob, she buried her face against the masculine trouser leg beside her. Dismay needled Mia’s conscience. What had she said? What had she missed? She had no idea what crucial client details lay drowned beneath her water.
‘It’s all right, sweetheart,’ she soothed, fighting the urge to draw the fragile, shaking body close. ‘I really don’t think Stardust will mind what colour blocks we use.’
‘Ms. Windsor, I thought I’d made everything clear in the intake notes.’ Annoyance set the carved line of Mr. Reid’s jaw in granite. ‘I’m her
uncle
.’
Guilt kick-started a dull tattoo behind Mia’s eyes. It didn’t matter that the spilt glass of water had obscured the details on Tilly’s file, she’d made a mistake. And not just a wrong file in the wrong colour-coded folder mistake. She’d made a mistake that caused a vulnerable child pain.
‘My apologies for the misunderstanding.’ She concentrated on ensuring that her voice remained smooth, composed. Professional. ‘Before we go any further I’ll reacquaint myself with your niece’s details.’
Tilly’s weeping drowned out Mr. Reid’s clipped reply. Mia took a step toward her. Tilly mightn’t be his child, but surely he could see that she needed comfort. The seconds stretched. Tilly’s sobs echoed around the airless room. Finally Mr. Reid moved. His left hand lowered, hesitated and hovered just above the little girl’s head as though awaiting a puppet master’s instructions.
Mia folded her arms to prevent herself taking hold of his hand and super-gluing it onto Tilly’s head. What was it about proud, powerful men that rendered them incapable of emotion? It must be a pre-requisite that they barter humanity and empathy for privilege and position. A trade her father had made in a heartbeat.
Mr. Reid’s hand lowered further to pat Tilly upon the head with the same enthusiasm as a person pacifying a teething lion cub. His hand then fisted and disappeared into his trouser pocket.
Mia spoke into the tension that was almost as cloying as the heat. ‘Tilly, I’m sorry I made you sad. Stardust is feeling upset today too and needs someone to look after her. Would you mind taking care of her while I check something on my desk? I know she’d be happy with you.’
Tilly gulped in ragged breaths as she turned to centre wet-lashed eyes on the pony. The damp stains that marred her uncle’s perfectly creased charcoal suit would remind him of his niece’s sadness long after her tears had dried. Just when Mia thought Tilly would again hide her face against his leg, the little girl gave a hesitant nod.
‘Thank you.’ She pressed Stardust into Tilly’s tiny, cold hands. ‘I won’t be long.’
‘Now, Mr. Reid, what would you like while I re-acquaint myself with Tilly’s file?’
‘I’m fine.’
She blinked. If she didn’t know better she’d swear all colour had leeched from beneath his tan. Ridiculous. One thing her past had taught her was that words like panic and uncertainty didn’t feature in the vocabulary of success-stamped men like her father or Kade Reid. In their power-driven worlds there simply wasn’t any room for such emotions.
‘Are you sure? I can’t offer you another pony but perhaps a toy truck would be more to your taste?’
‘I don’t need anything.’ Deep grooves bracketed his mouth. ‘I’ve never had time for toys.’
‘Little boys love to build things. Push things. Make car noises. You must have had some favourite toy in your childhood, Mr. Reid?’
‘Call me Kade. And, no, I didn’t have a favourite toy.’
‘No obligatory toy train set? No ferocious dinosaurs? No remote-controlled car?’
He shook his head. She glanced to where Tilly’s pale fingers combed themselves through Stardust’s long, silky mane. How could this man not have a beloved toy? Something to love and to cherish.
He spoke again. ‘My father believed time spent on play could be better served learning. At four I had my first share portfolio.’
She searched his impassive features for any sign of humour. She found none.
‘No toys? Only shares?’
‘It did me no harm. Children with idle minds get up to mischief.’
Oh joy. Parenting advice from a man allergic to the entire spectrum of human emotion
.
‘So what about adults then? What will keep you out of mischief for the next three minutes?’
A ghost of a grin shaped his mouth. It vanished as quickly as it appeared. His broad shoulders swung toward the room’s coffee-coloured sofa.
‘A seat and a speedy assessment.’
Could it be any hotter?
Kade eased himself back into the leather couch. He ignored the clammy fingers of sweat exploring his skin and ran a hand along his stiff jaw. His muscles felt like they’d just survived boot-camp. It must have been a while since he’d last smiled.
Before him Ms. Windsor sat on the floor with his niece, a pile of blue blocks between them. The speech pathologist speared him a stern look from over the top of her severe glasses. ‘I really do think you’d be more comfortable seated in the waiting room.’
He didn’t back down from a thrown gauntlet. Even when in danger of passing out from heatstroke. ‘Thank you. I’m quite comfortable.’
‘Fair enough.’ Ms. Windsor’s curt reply was accompanied by a frown.
He kept his gaze above her shoulders. His wondering how the water from the empty glass on her desk had ended up over her blouse wasn’t going to make the appointment end any sooner. Just like his noticing how the wet shirt clung to her curves like a second skin wasn’t going to diminish her displeasure.
Another smile threatened. It was as though he’d trodden in something pungent and trekked it all over her beige carpet. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had regarded him with such aversion. But she needed at least another thirty years to carry off a stare which would make his old headmistress proud. And even then Ms. Windsor would still be too pretty. Far too pretty.
