Fixing the water had been a simple matter. No one had told Megan about the switch on the pump on the side of the well. In fact, she really knew nothing about the cottage apart from the fact that it belonged to Beth’s family. Despite being old and using a well, it turned out there was a surprisingly modern electrical setup to send water through the yard to the house.

Letting the icy cold water run into the sink until the rust cleared, Megan turned to David but looked away immediately, not wanting to meet the piercing dark gaze that was fixed on her face. Her skin prickled and she ignored the rapid beat of her heart.

His resemblance to Davy Morgan unnerved her.

That was the explanation for the crazy feelings that surged through her every time she looked at him, or when he spoke, and when he’d touched her. The warmth and the tightness in her chest were the same as when she gave herself over to the flow of music. Nothing to do with the muscular chest outlined by the tight T-shirt or the fine dusting of hair on his forearms as she lowered her glance. It was bad enough that his speaking voice sent goose bumps skittering down her back. It was so deep and melodious, she could just imagine what it sounded like when he sang.

“What sort of music does your band play?” Her voice croaked and she cleared her throat.

Focus. Change the subject. Anything to ignore his gaze.

“Ah…” He crossed his arms and turned away and relief coursed through Megan as he looked at the water gushing from the tap in the sink. As he spoke, she moved back to the sink to turn it off.

“We do covers of…er…Davy’s work. He’s still popular over here in the UK, you know.” He seemed a bit defensive about playing the old songs and Megan rushed in to reassure him, although she was disappointed to hear he only played his uncle’s covers and nothing original.

“Oh, he’s still big in Australia too. Even though it’s seventies music, you’ll hear at least one of his songs played on the radio every day.” She grasped the tap to turn it off, but nothing happened. Reaching over with her other hand, she grasped it firmly and twisted hard but the cold water continued to stream out. “In fact I was watching a show on the trip over and there he was, Davy Morgan on the small screen in an airplane.”

Megan froze as sudden warmth along her back alerted her to David’s proximity, and his hand covered hers on the tap as he leaned close. She glanced up sideways from beneath her lashes, but his attention was fixed on the tap. The pressure of his fingers pinched her thumb against the old porcelain tap.

“Ouch.”

He let go but didn’t step back. “Here, I’ll do it.”

Megan raised her hands but couldn’t move away as she was pinned between him and the sink. As he strained to shut off the tap, the tops of his arms pressed into her shoulders and she focused on looking through the window into the dark garden. The hard length of his body against her back and her legs, and the warmth it was generating against her bare shoulders, set her legs trembling.

The water shut off but he stayed where he was. His hand brushed softly against the side of her neck and she closed her eyes.

“You’ve got some rose petals caught in your hair.” His voice was low and throaty and close to her ear and she reached up to rub her hand through her hair before turning to face him.

Still, he didn’t move.

Megan swallowed and stared up into his deep blue eyes. Each of his dark eyelashes was clearly defined and he stared back at her steadily. Her heart slowed down and dropped to a steady beat and she waited for him to kiss her.

He leaned forward and his warm breath brushed her face like the touch of a butterfly wing. His hands gently held her shoulders and he lowered his head a touch closer.

“Are you going to feed me?”

Stepping back, she bit her lip as heat suffused her face. How stupid am I? Why would he kiss someone like me?

“Yes, of course.” Reaching back, she grabbed her hair and twisted it into a knot to give herself something to do besides look at David. He moved across to the table and pulled a chair out and straddled it backward.

“Have you got any wine?”

Megan glanced across at the cupboard and laughed to break the tension. “No, I didn’t carry any in my suitcase, and if you look in the cupboard, you’ll find two apples and a bottle of water. The sauce bubbling in that saucepan is the sum total of my shopping this afternoon.”

“Haven’t you discovered the cellar?”

“Cellar?” Megan hadn’t seen anything resembling a cellar. “What cellar?”

“The wine stash.”

She laughed again. “No, but I haven’t been here long enough to have a good look around. I was too busy trying to get the water going.”

“You don’t have to look far.” David pushed himself up off the chair and held out his hand. Megan looked at it for a moment before slipping her hand into his, and he pulled her across to the corner of the kitchen beside the old Welsh dresser. “Before she died, I used to help Alice out with a few chores and she always gave me a bottle of wine.” Megan tried to ignore the shocks running from her hand up her arm. Bloody star struck, that’s what she was.

“Ready?” He quirked an eyebrow and Megan tried not to stare. The resemblance to his uncle was really amazing. She wondered if his father had been Davy’s twin. David tugged at her hand and she jumped.

“Daydreaming?”

“No.” She shook her head slowly. “I just can’t get over how much you look like the Davy Morgan.”

He shrugged and gave her a tight smile. “Well, I’m the current David Morgan, anyway.”

“Sorry, that probably came out rudely. I meant—” He waved her protest away before she could finish and pointed to the wall.

She hadn’t noticed the low door set in the wall next to the dresser. It was painted the same bright yellow as the kitchen walls and was hidden in a dark corner away from the window. A small circular handle, in the same yellow, was on the top of the door. David dropped her hand and pulled at it and the door came open with a creaking groan. As he bent down, Megan crouched next to him and peered in. A dark narrow space ran the length of the wall and it was just high enough to step in if you bent your head.

For her anyway; he was too tall and wide to fit in.

He stepped back and gestured to the cellar. “Do you want to choose a bottle of wine to go with that delectable-smelling sauce?”

“Is it okay to use one, do you think?” Megan stepped in and squealed as a cobweb drifted down onto her face. She brushed it away and peered around in the dim light. Dozens of bottles lined the walls, all covered in a fine layer of dust. She reached up for one and coughed as the dust flew up into the air.

“Seeing as Alice has gone, I am sure she won’t mind.” His deep voice followed her in. “And the family rarely stays here.”

“Who looks after the cottage? Beth—my friend who offered me the cottage—didn’t tell me much about it.”

David reached over for the bottle Megan held in her hand and waited for her to step out of the small space.

While he closed the door, Megan went over to the stove and stirred the tomato sauce before filling another pot with water for the pasta. She turned the tap on carefully, relieved when the water shut off on the first go.

David wiped the wine bottle on his jeans before placing it on the table. “Alice was a bit of an eccentric. I met her…a few years back when I first bought the cottage and she liked to have company. I used to look after the garden for her when I was here, and I’ve just kept it up. The cottage is empty most of the time now.”

“The woman in the shop told me she haunts the cottage.”

David stared at her for a moment before his face creased into a huge grin. “Did she now? Don’t worry about Jules. I think she smoked a bit too much of the happy weed in her time. She’s a relic from the seventies. New age spiritual beliefs, and all that. You know, back in the seventies the villagers put up signs about hippies not being welcome in the shops and cafés in town.” David laughed but he looked away and didn’t meet her gaze. He picked up the wine bottle and looked at the label. “Alice was quite partial to a good drop.”

Megan wandered over to the table and looked at the bottle he was holding up.

“Oh my God, we can’t drink that. What a waste with a pack of bolognaise sauce.” She did her best to read the label in her schoolgirl French accent..” She put her hands on her hips. “1971!”

“A good year.” David smiled at her.

“It must be worth a fortune.”

“If it bothers you so much I’ll replace it next time I go up to the city.” Megan looked at him curiously. He mustn’t be too much of a struggling artist if he could afford to replace a bottle of wine that old. She knew enough to know it must be worth a few hundred dollars—pounds—at least.

“Well, if you’re sure the family wouldn’t mind…and if you’re going to replace it.” Megan scrabbled in the drawer by the sink for a corkscrew and then watched as David pierced the cork with the metal prong. She kept her gaze on his fingers as he wound the corkscrew, slowly round and round. His hands were slender and she could see the rough callouses on the pads of his fingers from playing his guitar. Her breath caught as she imagined those rough fingers caressing her skin.

Turning away, she went across to the stove and busied herself tipping the pasta into the bubbling water, and she blamed the rising steam for the heat in her face.

God, what is wrong with me? If he sings I’ll probably go into a quivering heap. She’d never been so physically affected by the mere presence of a man before.

By the time she’d served the meal, David had found some large crystal goblets and poured the cherry-red wine into them.

“To you, Megan.” He raised his glass and waited for her to lift hers to clink on his. “May your holiday and your visit to the festival be everything you dreamed.”

She lifted the glass to her lips and sipped, closing her eyes as the luscious fruity flavor fizzed on her tongue before sliding smoothly down her throat. Instant warmth hit her stomach and she opened her eyes to meet his gaze.

“Beautiful.” His voice was soft and he held her eyes with his as he sipped from the crystal. Confusion filled her at his ambiguity and she decided to assume he was talking about the wine. Her guard went up and she put the goblet down on the table. Her feelings were erratic enough without enhancing them with wine.

“It is.” Reaching for the steaming bowl in the centre of the table, she held it out to David and he served the pasta onto both of their plates.

“It’s a fairly basic meal to eat with such a good wine.” She grinned at him and returned the conversation to the mundane. “I am sure the French winemaker would be horrified to know it was accompanying a dried pasta sauce.”

They ate silently for a few moments and Megan racked her brain to think of something, anything, to fill the awkward silence.

“Tell me about your music. You said you just do covers?” She cradled her face in one hand while she sipped at the wine. She’d just finish this glass. “Tell me how you came into music. Is it a hobby for you or a profession?”

She stared at him, waiting for his answer, blaming the breathless feeling in her chest on the potent wine.

“Music is my life,” he said. “It is as necessary to me as the air I breathe and the food I eat. I couldn’t survive without it.” He held her gaze and his eyes darkened. “I have written many…many of my own songs too.”

Megan sat up straight, her interest piqued. It seemed important to him that she knew he played more than covers of Davy Morgan’s songs. Her fingers itched to write down the words he’d said about music being his life. It would make a great quote in her work. “So you’ve been to a few Glastonbury festivals?”

“Yes, a few,” he said.

“Have you noticed a change in the crowds there through the years?” Putting her wine down on the table, she leaned forward. “What I am looking at in my doctorate is the sociological impact of rock festivals on society. I believe the type of people who attend seems to have changed as the festivals have become more organised. I suppose, what I mean is, the festivals have turned into more of a moneymaking concern over the years.”

David’s mouth tightened and he stared past her. “Being a musician, I’m focused on the music, and I really don’t know the demographic the festival attracts. But I do believe there always has been…shall we say… a tendency to ‘glorify’ the musicians to sell more records.” He lifted his glass to the light and swirled the wine around. “For me, it’s like this wine. We enjoy drinking good wine…the taste, the physical effect it has on us. That’s how I see my music.”

“‘Records’? That’s an old-fashioned term to use.” Megan tipped her head to the side. “Do you agree that the people who attended the early festivals were more true lovers of music than those who go now? My research seems to indicate that it has become trendy to attend festivals now, and there seems to be a huge commercial push behind it. Geared to selling ‘records’ as you say, rather than just making music like the old days? Musicians seem to be more of a commodity these days—from as far back as the seventies.”

“I’m just a simple musician, sweetheart.” David shook his head. “I play music. I do it for me. The rush I get when the synergy comes together is as good as the best sex I’ve ever had.”

He leaned back in his chair and pinned her with his gaze.

“Speaking of which…”