- -
- 100%
- +
‘I think I’ll ring him anyway. Was he frightened?’
She eyed him closely. ‘No more than you would be.’
He laughed without humour. ‘Don’t worry, I’d be petrified. I know it’s illogical, but it’s the Big C, isn’t it? We’re all afraid of it, even though we ought to know better, and even though it kills far fewer people than heart disease, for instance. And that, in its own way, is much more insidious. Poor old Sam. Do you want me to ring the urologist?’
‘I think I can manage,’ she told him drily. ‘Perhaps you could give me the name of the man I want?’
‘Sure. Andrea’ll give you the number. It’s a guy called Hart.’ He unravelled his legs and stood up, stretching lazily like a big cat. ‘I’ll catch you both later. I’m going out on my calls now.’
She watched him leave, her temper still severely provoked by his implications.
‘Ignore him,’ John Glover said quietly. ‘He’s only baiting you. Your predecessor didn’t make herself over-popular, and I’m afraid you’re being judged in the same jaundiced light.’
‘I thought there was something,’ Cathy said wryly. ‘What did she do—apart from being born a woman?’
He grinned. ‘Pauline joined as a single woman in her late thirties, moved in with a friend of Max’s and promptly got pregnant. Far from doing the decent thing and leaving, she had the cheek to take maternity leave and come back, very much on her own terms, and she nearly drove Max insane. Every time the baby had a cold, she took the day off. Her mind was never on the job, she didn’t follow up properly—oh, she was just generally sloppy. In Max’s eyes that’s totally unforgivable. When she got pregnant for the second time, I thought he was going to leave, but in the end her partner got moved to another part of the country and she went with him. Good riddance, too, but she was one on her own. A blind man on a galloping horse can see you’re an entirely different kettle of fish, but it’ll be an uphill struggle to convince Max of that. Of course, the worst thing is he blames himself because he introduced them to each other!’
John Glover’s pleasant, homely face creased with unholy laughter. ‘I don’t think he’ll ever forgive himself for that mistake!’
Cathy smiled. ‘Well, you don’t have to worry about me, Dr Glover. My days of romance are over. I’ve settled into middle age with a sigh of relief, and all I want to do is raise my son and get on with my job.’
Her remark was greeted by a snort of derision. Glancing up, her eyes collided with the brilliant blue of Max’s sardonic scrutiny.
‘Commendable but unlikely,’ he said drily. ‘But in order to aid you in your ambition, I thought this map might help you find your way round when you go out on call.’
He dropped a folded map of the town and surrounding area on the table and left again, radiating contempt.
Dr Glover’s eyebrows shot up. ‘He’s really got a burr under the saddle over you, hasn’t he? How’s the flat working out? Seen much of each other?’
‘None—thankfully. I think you could fairly say that we’re avoiding each other.’
He sighed. ‘I’m sorry you don’t get on. I was hoping that once you got to know each other—I know he seems a bit of a bigot, but he’s a good bloke really. Filthy rich, of course—old money, as they say. Lovely house.’
‘Yes—yes, it is. Which reminds me, when you said you’d find out about accommodation for me, did you know that estate agent had Max’s flat on his books?’
Dr Glover’s eyes twinkled. ‘Rumbled, am I? The estate agent happens to be a friend of mine. I told him to let the other properties slip from his mind if you asked.’
Cathy was astonished. ‘But why?’
He shrugged, looking a little embarrassed. ‘He’s lonely, you’re a pretty girl—I know you make all these noises about middle age, but you’re still a young woman, Cathy. A little light-hearted romance would do you both the world of good.’
She glared at him. ‘I don’t believe it! I thought Max was exaggerating, but let me assure you, Dr Glover, I neither want nor need a little light-hearted romance! And if I did, the very last person I would choose would be Max Armstrong!’
She leapt to her feet and marched out of the door—slap into Max’s chest.
Hot colour flooded her cheeks, and she glared at him. ‘Did you hear?’
‘I did—and I can’t tell you how relieved I am to hear it. It circumvents all manner of problems.’
She remembered the last thing she had said, and her colour rose again. ‘Not that—he fixed the estate agent!’
‘I told you he had something to do with it. Why do you think he appointed you? He acts like a bloody fairy godmother—but don’t worry, Catherine. You’re safe. I have no intention of breaching your defences, although your assertion about middle age is patently absurd. You’re a very attractive woman. If you were single and unencumbered, I confess I’d be extremely tempted, but, as it is, thanks but no, thanks. Now if you would let go of my clothes, I’d like to get on.’
She looked down, stunned to discover that her hands had wound into the soft cotton of his shirt. The warmth of his hard chest seemed suddenly scorching, and she released him abruptly, stepping back as if to distance herself from such unwarranted intimacy.
His eyes were laughing at her, and as he strode away she could have sworn that she heard a soft chuckle.
Well, damn him. Who needed his friendship anyway? She marched into her office, got the number of the hospital from Andrea the Android and phoned Mr Hart about Sam Carver.
She was just clearing the table after their evening meal when there was a clatter on the stairs and someone pounded on her front door.
‘Coming,’ she called, and, handing the plates to Delphine to wash, she went to the door.
It was Max, towering over her, looking bigger than ever and obviously hopping mad.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked with forced politeness.
‘Yes,’ he gritted, his voice icy with control. ‘You can ask your au pair to keep her clothes on in the garden. I’ve had my handyman bending my ear for the past half-hour, giving me a rundown on the state of youth today, and it’s not an experience I’m in a hurry to repeat!’
Cathy blinked. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about——’
‘Well, then, I suggest you ask her. He couldn’t get any work done today because he was unable to get to the workshop. I gather she was lying out here on the grass virtually naked for four hours—apart from the danger to herself of skin cancer, she practically gave Stan a stroke!’
Cathy couldn’t help herself. The giggle rose up and bubbled out, and after a second’s struggle, Max chuckled.
‘I’m sorry,’ she managed eventually.
‘So am I. Just have a word, could you?’
‘Of course. And please apologise to Stan for me.’
‘And risk another ear-bashing? No way! How are you settling in, by the way? I’ve been meaning to come up and see you, but I’ve been too busy.’
‘Oh, we’ve settled in well. It’s a lovely flat. I know John engineered it, but I can’t say I’m sorry. We’re very happy here.’
‘Good. I’m sorry if I seemed unwelcoming, but he’s becoming a bit obsessive about me. Wants me married off, I think.’
Cathy grinned wryly. ‘I know the feeling. My mother-in-law would like to see me settled with someone else, and she just won’t take no for an answer.’
They shared a smile rich with understanding, and Cathy’s naturally hospitable nature responded automatically.
‘Would you like to come in and have a cup of coffee? I’m afraid I haven’t got anything stronger to offer you.’
He shook his head. ‘I haven’t really got time. I’ve got some paperwork I really ought to get on with. Thank you anyway.’
‘You’re welcome—oh, before you go, I just wondered—there’s a locked door, presumably leading to the house?’
‘Yes, that’s right. These rooms used to be the butler’s quarters. The door opens on to the back stairs and comes out on the landing. Why?’
‘I just wondered—Stephen can be awfully noisy, and I didn’t want to disturb you. I—I mean, I didn’t know where you sleep …’
He grinned lazily. ‘No problem. You won’t disturb me, my room’s at the other end of the house.’
A sudden image of Max sprawled asleep across a huge four-poster bed leapt unbidden into her mind, and Cathy flushed.
‘Oh. Good. That’s fine, then.’ She struggled with a smile.
‘Why did you want to know where I sleep?’ he asked, idly tucking an escaped strand of her hair back behind her ear.
‘I—I didn’t! I wanted to be sure we didn’t disturb you.’
He chuckled softly. ‘You’ve been disturbing me since the moment I clapped eyes on you, Catherine. It’s very gratifying to know it’s mutual.’
She rallied her scattered defences and straightened away from him. ‘What are you talking about?’ she asked, flustered. ‘I’m not the least bit interested in you, Dr Armstrong. You’re not at all my type, and, even if you were, I’ve told you, that part of my life is over, finished with! I have Stephen to think about now, and dallying with you in the sunset doesn’t figure very highly in my plans!’
He cast his eyes over his shoulder, and turned back with a smile. ‘What sunset?’
The sun was still well above the horizon, and Cathy flushed. ‘You know what I mean. Please, Max!’
‘My pleasure,’ he said softly, and moved closer.
‘Well, it wouldn’t be mine,’ she retorted, desperately trying to put distance between them on the little landing. She bumped against the door-frame, and he closed the gap slightly. ‘You’re deliberately misunderstanding me! I meant what I said, you aren’t my type. I expect you’re the sort of macho guy who kisses his women until their lips bleed!’
The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. ‘I have it on good authority that I’m a very gentle lover,’ he answered, quite undeterred. ‘I’d be quite happy to satisfy your curiosity.’
Cathy’s breath caught in her throat, her wilful imagination racing.
‘I’m not curious!’ she denied weakly.
‘Liar,’ he murmured, his voice gravelly and soft.
She moaned. ‘I can’t believe we’re having this conversation!’
Reaching up, he plucked a rose from above the door and held it against her cheek. ‘You’ve got beautiful skin,’ he said huskily. ‘Velvety, like the petals of a rose. It’s even the same delicate peach.’
Soft colour flooded her cheeks at his words.
‘You’re talking like a romantic fool,’ she said breathlessly, and a slow smile tilted his sensuous lips.
‘You blush like a virgin,’ he murmured, scanning her cheeks with amused fascination. ‘How can a woman who’s been married and widowed and is raising a child alone still colour up at a simple compliment? Unless she, too, is a romantic fool?’
‘Max, stop it!’ she protested feebly.
His eyes clashed with hers, the vivid blue burning with some nameless emotion she didn’t dare to define.
‘You’ve got very kissable lips,’ he said softly, so softly that if she hadn’t had her eyes fixed firmly on his own very kissable lips she would have missed it.
‘Max, no!’ she moaned as his head came down.
‘Yes,’ he murmured against her lips, and then there was nothing but the feel of his mouth against hers, draining her resistance as if it had never been.
With a sigh of surrender she leant into him, feasting on the contrast between her softness and his hard, lean frame. His hands slid down her back and urged her against him, and her body went up in flames, aching for the pleasure so long denied.
With a whimper she wriggled closer, and he made a guttural noise low in his throat as he dragged his mouth away from hers to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses over the warm skin of her throat.
Then he lifted his head, and her hands came up to pull it down again.
His fingers fastened gently over her wrists and eased her hands away.
‘Now tell me I’m not your type,’ he said softly, and released her, turning on his heel to run lightly back down the stairs, leaving her slumped against the door-frame, speechless.
CHAPTER THREE
CATHY found it impossible to sleep that night. Every time the soft shrouds of oblivion drifted closer, her mind seemed to float free into a world of sensation that she had long dismissed, a world of murmured sighs and tender caresses, of spiralling passion and earth-shaking emotions that left her aching with frustration and loneliness.
She turned on her bedside light and tried to read, but the words failed to hold her attention and she gave up in despair, getting up to tiptoe quietly into the kitchen and make a cup of tea.
The sky was lightening, and, letting herself out silently, she crept down the steps and walked barefoot through the dewy grass. The air was blissfully cool on her overheated skin, and she lifted her face to the sky, absorbing the early morning scents and sounds of the countryside.
Her feet carried her round the side of the house on to the terrace behind it, and she found a short flight of steps leading down on to a broad swath of lawn.
She had never been round the back into the main part of the garden and she found it fascinating to sit on the steps sipping her tea and watching as the dawn lightened the sky and colour slowly seeped into the borders, turning the garden into a brilliant riot of hues all jostling for her attention.
Further down the garden she could see the duck pond, and beside it the ducks slept, their heads tucked under their wings, their coats glossy with dew, and in the field beyond she could see rabbits, the young ones already frisky even this early in the day.
She laughed softly at their antics, content to sit and watch them a little longer.
After a while she felt a strange prickling in the back of her neck, a sort of awareness, as if she were no longer alone. Turning her head, she studied the back of the house, the stone-mullioned windows marching like sentries across the upper storey. She scanned them, wondering which one, if any, was Max’s room. He had said he slept at the far end of the house, but which of the end rooms?
She watched silently for several seconds, but there was no sign of life, however, and none of the curtains was closed; she finally concluded that he must sleep at the front of the house.
Crazy, she thought, returning her eyes to the view over the garden to the hills beyond. Why would he want to look out of the front when from the back he could see the sun rise?
The first brilliant arc appeared as she sat there, edging over the hills to her left and pouring over the landscape like molten gold. She felt peace steal into her heart—peace, and the realisation that she was more vibrantly alive now, this morning, than she had been for years. Like Sleeping Beauty after the Prince had kissed her, she thought.
But unlike Sleeping Beauty, she had responsibilities. She still had Stephen to think of, and he above all must come first.
Rising stiffly from the cold stone of the steps, she made her way over the damp grass towards the house, pausing briefly to stare again at the end window; then, head bowed, she crossed the terrace and went back round the side of the house, quite unaware of the man who stood watching her from the shadows of his room.
He shouldn’t have kissed her. It had been a big mistake—though not the first. The first, perhaps, had been to treat her like Pauline, expecting that she would shirk her responsibilities, failing to follow through as her predecessor had done.
Of course it was still early days, but after his phone call to Sam Carver he had realised his mistake. She had apparently been meticulously thorough in her explanations, soothing his fears without in any way denying the seriousness of his condition.
Max knew he owed her an apology for that—though not the kiss. God, no. That kiss …
His body heated at the memory, and he groaned softly as she stood up, her body clearly outlined by the early rays of the sun which turned the fine cotton of her nightgown to gossamer, clinging softly to her lush curves as she flitted through the damp grass like a pixie. The sun danced in her hair, so that it seemed like a halo of red and gold curls that tumbled over her shoulders in soft profusion.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.