He lowered her onto the bed without breaking the kiss, and his mouth on hers was hard and hungry.

‘I thought …’ she gasped ‘… you weren’t home … until tomorrow.’

His lips found hers again. ‘I’m here now,’ he rasped against her.

As he carried her back towards the bed that was all that mattered.

His hands slid around her waist as his mouth came down on hers again, and the feel of his bare chest, hard against her breasts, was enough to banish the anxiety that had leapt in her—along with every other thought in her head that wasn’t concerned with the immediate need to wrap herself around him until there was no space left and the distance of the last one hundred and forty-eight days was forgotten.

None of it was as she’d planned. There was no champagne, no sexy silk nightdress, no sense of seduction, no conversation. Just skin and hands and a need so huge she felt as if it might break her wide open.

There would be a time for talking later. Tomorrow.

This was the best way she knew of bridging the spaces between them, of telling him what she wanted him to know, of reaching him.

Award-winning author

India Grey

presents The Fitzroy Legacy

Wedlocked to the aristocratic Fitzroy family where shocking secrets lead to scandalous seduction

The epic romance of Kit and Sophie begins with … CRAVING THE FORBIDDEN On sale October 2011

And now concludes with IN BED WITH A STRANGER On sale December 2011

In Bed with a Stranger

India Grey

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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PROLOGUE

London. March.

IT WAS just a tiny piece in the property section of one of the Sunday papers. Eating brioche spread thickly with raspberry jam in the crumpled ruins of the bed that had become their world for the last three weeks, Sophie gave a little squeal.

‘Listen to this!’

‘Unexpected Twist to Fitzroy Inheritance

Following the recent death of Ralph Fitzroy, eighth Earl of Hawksworth and owner of the Alnburgh estate, it has come to light that the expected heir is not, in fact, set to inherit. Sources close to the family have confirmed that the estate, which includes Alnburgh Castle and five hundred acres of land in Northumberland as well as a sizeable slice of premium real estate in Chelsea, will pass to Jasper Fitzroy, the earl’s younger son from his second marriage, rather than his older brother, Major Kit Fitzroy.’

Putting the last bit of brioche in her mouth, she continued.

‘Major Fitzroy, a serving member of the armed forces, was recently awarded the George Cross for bravery. However, it’s possible that his courage failed him when it came to taking on Alnburgh. According to locals, maintenance of the estate has been severely neglected in recent years, leaving the next owner with a heavy financial burden to bear. While Kit Fitzroy is rumoured to have considerable personal wealth, perhaps this is one rescue mission he just doesn’t want to take on …’

She tossed the newspaper aside and, licking jam off her fingers, cast Kit a sideways glance from under her lashes.

‘“Considerable personal wealth”?’ She wriggled down beneath the covers, smiling as she kissed his shoulder. ‘I like the sound of that.’

Kit, still surfacing from the depths of the sleep he’d been blessed with since he’d had Sophie in his bed, arched an eyebrow.

‘I thought as much.’ He sighed, turning over and looking straight into her sparkling, beautiful eyes. ‘You’re nothing but a shallow, cynical gold-digger.’

‘You’re right.’ Sophie nodded seriously, pressing her lips together to stop herself from smiling. ‘To be honest, I’m really only interested in your money, and your exceptionally gorgeous Chelsea house.’ The sweeping gesture she made with her arm took in the bedroom with its view of the garden square outside where daffodils nodded their heads along the iron railings. ‘It’s why I’ve decided to put up with your boring personality and frankly quite average looks. Not to mention your disappointing performance in bed—’

She broke off with a squeal as, beneath the sheets, he slid a languid hand between her thighs.

‘Sorry, what was that?’ he murmured gravely.

‘I said …’ she gasped ‘'… that I was only interested in your … money.’ He watched her eyes darken as he moved his hand higher. ‘I’ve always wanted to be a rich man’s plaything.’

He propped himself up on one elbow, so he could see her better. Her hair was spilling over the pillow—a gentler red than when he’d first seen her that day on the train; the colour of horse chestnuts rather than holly berries—and her face was bare of make-up. She had never looked more beautiful.

‘Not a rich man’s wife?’ he asked idly, leaning down to kiss the hollow above her collarbone.

‘Oh, no. If we’re talking marriage I’d be looking for a title as well as a fortune.’ Her voice turned husky as his lips moved to the base of her throat. ‘And a sizeable estate to go with it …’

He smiled, taking his time, breathing in the scent of her skin. ‘OK, that’s good to know. Since I’m fresh out of titles and estates there’s probably no point in asking.’

He felt her stiffen, heard her little gasp of shock and excitement. ‘Well, there might be some room for negotiation,’ she said breathlessly. ‘And I’d say that right now you’re in a pretty good bargaining position …’

‘Sophie Greenham,’ he said gravely, ‘I love you because you are beautiful and clever and honest and loyal …’

‘Flattery will get you a very long way.’ She sighed, closing her eyes as his fingertips trailed rapture over the quivering skin on the inside of her thighs. ‘And that will probably do the rest …’

His chest tightened as he looked down at her. ‘I love you because you think underwear is a better investment than clothes, and because you’re brave and funny and sexy, and I was wondering if you’d possibly consider marrying me?’

Her eyes opened and met his. The smile that spread slowly across her face was one of pure, incredulous happiness. It felt like watching the sun rise.

‘Yes,’ she whispered, gazing up at him with dazed, brilliant eyes. ‘Yes, please.’

‘I feel it’s only fair to warn you that I’ve been disowned by my family …’

Serene, she took his face in her hands. ‘We can make our own family.’

He frowned, smoothing a strand of hair from her cheek, suddenly finding it difficult to speak for the lump of emotion in his throat. ‘And I have no title, no castle and no lands to offer you.’

She laughed, pulling him down into her arms. ‘Believe me, I absolutely wouldn’t have it any other way …’

CHAPTER ONE

Five months later. British Military Base, Theatre of Operations. Thursday, 6.15 a. m.

THE sun was rising, turning the sky pink and the sand to gold. Rubbing his hand over eyes that were gritty with sand and exhaustion, Kit looked out across the desert and idly wondered if he’d be alive to watch it set again.

He’d slept for perhaps an hour, maybe two, and dreamed of Sophie. Waking in the dark, his body was taut with thwarted desire, his mind racing, and the scent of her skin was still in his nostrils.

He almost preferred the insomnia.

Five months. Twenty-two weeks. One hundred and fifty-four days. By now the craving for her should have faded, but if anything it had got more intense, more impossible to ignore. He hadn’t phoned her, even though at times the longing to hear her voice burned like a laser inside him, knowing that if he did it would only add fuel to the fire. And knowing that there was nothing that could be said across six thousand miles that would possibly be enough.

Just one more day.

In twenty-four hours he would be flying out of here. Flying home. There was a sense of suppressed excitement amongst

the men in his unit, a mixture of relief and exhilaration that had been building over the last week as the days dwindled.

It was a feeling Kit didn’t share.

He’d been in bomb disposal for a long time. He’d never thought of it as anything other than a job; a dirty, awkward, challenging, exhausting, addictive, necessary job. But that was in the days when he thought rather than felt. When his emotions had been comfortably locked away in some part of him that was buried so deep he didn’t even know it was there.

Everything was different now. He wasn’t who he’d thought he was—quite literally thanks to the lies the man he’d called his father had told him all his life. But also, loving Sophie had blown him wide open, revealing parts of him he hadn’t known existed, and now the job seemed dirtier, the stakes higher, the odds shorter. So much shorter.

One more day. Would his luck last?

‘Major Fitzroy—coffee, sir. We’re almost ready to move out.’

Kit turned. Sapper Lewis had emerged from the mess hut and was walking towards him, spilling most of the coffee. An earnest kid of nineteen, he had the gawky enthusiasm of a Great Dane puppy. It made Kit feel about a thousand years old. He took the enamel mug and grimaced as he swallowed.

‘Thank you, Lewis,’ Kit drawled. ‘Other men I know have curvaceous secretaries to bring them coffee in the morning. I have you to bring me something that tastes like freshly brewed dirt.’

Lewis grinned. ‘You’ll miss me when you get home.’

‘I sincerely doubt it.’ Kit took another mouthful of coffee and chucked the rest into the dust as he began to walk away. Not before he’d seen Lewis’s face fall though.

‘Fortunately you make a far better infantryman than a barista,’ he called back over his shoulder. ‘Bear that in mind when you get home, won’t you?’

‘Yes, sir!’ Lewis hurried after him. ‘And can I just say

how great it’s been working with you, sir? I’ve learned loads. Before this tour I wasn’t sure I wanted to stay in the army, but watching you has made me decide to go into EOD.’

Kit stopped. Rubbing a hand across his jaw, he turned round.

‘Do you have a girlfriend, Sapper?’

Lewis shifted from foot to foot, his face a mixture of pride and embarrassment. His Adam’s apple bobbed. ‘Yeah. Kelly. She’s expecting a baby in two months’ time. I’m going to ask her to marry me this leave.’

Narrowing his eyes as he looked out to the flat horizon, Kit nodded.

‘You love her?’

‘Yes, sir.’ He scuffed the dust with the toe of his boot. ‘We haven’t been together long, but … yeah. I really love her.’

‘Then take my advice. Learn to make a decent coffee and get yourself a job in Starbucks after all, because love and bomb disposal don’t mix.’ With a cool smile Kit handed the enamel mug back to him. ‘Now, let’s get out there and get this done so we can all go home.’

‘Sorry I’m late.’

Smiling broadly in a way that didn’t remotely suggest contrition and trying not to knock over anyone’s designer beer with her shopping bags, Sophie slid into the chair opposite Jasper at the little metal table.

He eyed the bags archly. ‘I take it you were unavoidably detained in …’ His brows shot up another inch as he saw the discreet logo of Covent Garden’s ‘erotic boutique’ on the corner of the biggest bag. ‘Kit’s in for a treat when he gets home.’

Shoving the bags under the table, Sophie tucked the great big bunch of vibrantly coloured flowers she’d just bought into the empty chair beside her and tried to stop herself from grinning like a love-struck loon.

‘I’ve just spent an indecent amount of money,’ she admitted,snatching up a menu and sliding her sunglasses onto the top of her head to read it. The table Jasper had chosen was in the shade of a red awning, which gave a healthy glow to his poetic pallor. He was so different from Kit it was incredible that they’d believed they were brothers for so long.

‘On some pretty indecent stuff, if I know that shop.’ Jasper peered into a corner of the bag.

‘It’s just a nightdress thing,’ Sophie said hastily, hoping he wouldn’t take out the wicked little slip of silvery-grey silk and display it in front of the lunch crowd outside Covent Garden’s busiest restaurant. ‘I was passing, and as I just got paid for the vampire movie, and Kit is coming home tomorrow I thought, What the hell? But really, it was way too expensive.’

‘Don’t be daft. Your days of buying clothes from charity shops and bread from the reduced shelf in the supermarket are over now, darling.’ Jasper looked around to catch the eye of the waiter, then turned back to her and rubbed his hands together as if in anticipation. ‘Just a few hours left of singlegirldom before Kits gets home and you become a full-time fiancée. Planning any wild parties?’

‘I’m saving that for when he gets back, in about …’ Sophie checked the time on her phone ‘… twenty-eight hours. Let’s see … they’re five hours ahead of us, so he should be just finishing his last shift about now.’

Jasper must have caught the note of anxiety in her voice because he covered her hand with his. ‘Don’t think about it,’ he said firmly. ‘You’ve done brilliantly—I’d have gone out of my mind with worry if it had been Sergio out there, dicing with death every day. You’re very brave.’

‘Hardly, compared to Kit.’ Her throat dried and she looked down at the menu as the waiter made his way towards them. She tried to picture Kit now—hot, dirty, exhausted. For five months he had been looking after a battalion of men, putting

their needs above his own. She wanted him home so she could look after him.

Amongst other things.

‘Soph?’

‘What? Oh, sorry.’ Realising the waiter’s pen was poised for her to give her order, Sophie asked for a Salade Niçoise, which was the first thing that caught her eye. Scribbling it down, the waiter moved away, his slim hips swaying as he wove through the tables.

‘Kit’s used to it,’ Jasper said absently, watching him go. ‘He’s been doing it for years. How is he, anyway?’

‘Oh … you know … he sounds OK,’ she lied vaguely. ‘But I want to hear about you. Are you and Sergio all packed and ready to hit tinseltown?’

Jasper leaned back in his chair and rubbed his hands over his face. ‘The packing’s ongoing, but, believe me, I have never been more ready for anything in my life. After everything that’s happened in the last six months—Dad dying, the whole coming-out thing, Alnburgh turning out to be mine and not Kit’s—I can’t wait to get on that plane and just leave it all behind. I intend to spend the next three months lying by the pool drinking cocktails while Sergio’s at work.’

‘If I didn’t know you better I’d say you were ruthlessly attempting to make me wild with envy.’

‘Rumbled.’ Jasper grinned as the waiter arrived, his tray held high. ‘Is it working?’

‘Nope.’ The waiter placed a large gin and tonic clinking with ice in front of her. ‘The pool and the cocktails sound lovely, but honestly for the first time in my life I have no desire to be anywhere other than here. Well, not here, obviously,’ she said, nodding towards one of Covent Garden’s famous street performers, ‘since there’s only so long I could watch a poncey out-of-work actor juggle with knives. But at home. With Kit.’

Jasper eyed her narrowly, tapping his pursed lips thoughtfully with a finger.

‘I’m thinking alien abduction. I know there should be a more logical explanation for this complete character transformation from the girl who still has a phone on pay-as-you-go because a contract is too much commitment, to the woman whose idea of excitement is …’ he waved a dismissive hand ‘… pegging out washing or something, but I just can’t think what it could be …’

‘Love,’ Sophie said simply, taking a mouthful of gin. ‘And maybe, having been on the move constantly all my life, I’m just ready to stay still now.’ She glanced at him guiltily. ‘I keep sneaking into furniture shops to look at sofas and I’ve developed a terrible obsession with paint colour charts. I suppose I just want a home.’

‘Well, Kit’s pad in one of Chelsea’s most desirable garden squares isn’t a bad start on the property ladder,’ Jasper said, scooping up crab pâté on a piece of rye bread. ‘Better than Alnburgh, anyway. You had a narrow escape there.’

‘You can say that again. So, are you planning to move in when you get back from LA, then?’

Jasper grimaced. ‘God, no. The windswept Northumberland coast is hardly the hub of the film industry and I can’t exactly see Sergio walking down to the village shop and asking Mrs Watts for foie gras and the latest copy of Empire magazine.’

Taking another mouthful of gin, Sophie hid a smile. He was right; Sergio had shown up in Alnburgh for Ralph’s funeral and it had been like seeing a parrot at the North Pole.

‘So what will happen to it?’ She speared an olive from her salad. Curiously, she cared much more about the future of Alnburgh Castle now there was no question of it involving Kit or her. She’d been so miserable there when she’d gone up to stay with Jasper last winter that the thought of actually living within its cold stone walls was enough to bring her out in goosebumps. But now that possibility had been removed,

and sitting in the sunshine in the middle of Covent Garden, she could feel a sort of abstract affection for the place.

‘I don’t know.’ Jasper sighed again. ‘The legal situation is utterly incomprehensible and the finances are worse. It’s such a bloody mess—I still can’t forgive Dad for dropping a bombshell like that in his will. The fact that Kit isn’t his natural son is just a technicality—he was brought up at Alnburgh and he’s taken responsibility for the place almost single-handed for the last fifteen years. I guess that if I’m gutted by the way things have turned out, it must be even worse for him. Has he mentioned it in his letters or anything?’

Not meeting his eye, Sophie shook her head.

‘No, he hasn’t mentioned it.’

The fact was he hadn’t mentioned anything much. Before he went he’d warned her that phone calls were frustrating and best avoided so she hadn’t expected him to ring, but she couldn’t help being a bit disappointed that he hadn’t. She had written to him several times a week—long letters, full of news and silly anecdotes and how much she was missing him. His replies had been infrequent, short and impersonal, and had left her feeling more lonely than if he hadn’t written at all.

‘I just hope he doesn’t hate me too much, that’s all,’ Jasper said unhappily. ‘Alnburgh meant everything to him.’

‘Don’t be silly. It’s not your fault that Kit’s mother disappeared with another man when he was just a little boy, is it? And anyway, it’s all in the past now, and, as my barking-mad mother would say, everything happens for a reason. If Kit was the heir there’d be absolutely no chance I’d be marrying him. He’d need a horsey wife who came complete with her own heirloom tiara and a three-year guarantee to produce a son. I’d fail on all counts.’

Her tone was flippant, but her smile stiffened slightly as she said the bit about the son. Jasper didn’t seem to notice.

‘You come closer than Sergio. You’d both look good in a

tiara, but you certainly have the edge when it comes to bearing heirs.’

‘I wouldn’t bet on it.’

It was no good. To her shame both her voice and her smile cracked and she had to press her hand to her mouth. Across the table Jasper looked horrified.

‘Soph? What’s wrong?’

She grabbed her drink and took a gulp. The gin was cold, bitter, good. It felt as if it was clearing her head, although that was probably an ironic illusion.

‘I’m fine. I finally saw a doctor about the monthly hell that is my period, that’s all.’

Jasper’s eyes widened. ‘God, Soph—it’s nothing—?’

She waved a hand. ‘No, no, nothing serious. It’s as I thought—endometriosis. The good news is it’s not life-threatening, but the bad news is that there’s not much they can do about it and it could make getting pregnant a problem.’

‘Oh, honey. I had no idea having children was so important to you.’

‘Neither did I, until I met Kit.’ Sophie slid her sunglasses back down, feeling in need of something to hide behind. Having spent years listening to her mother and the women in the haphazard commune in which she’d grown up analyse everything in minute, head-wrecking detail, she usually went out of her way to avoid any kind of serious discussion, but there was part of her that wanted to share this bittersweet new feeling. ‘Finding out it might be difficult has made me realise how important it is—how’s that for irony?’ She sighed. ‘Anyway, the doctor didn’t say it was impossible, just that it could take a long time and it was best not to leave it too long.’

He reached across the table and took her hand.

‘So when are you going to start trying?’

Sophie looked at her phone again and looked up at him with a determined smile. ‘In about twenty-seven and a half hours.’

The second hand quivered slightly as it edged wearily around the clock face. Sitting on a plastic chair in Intensive Care, watching it with wide-eyed fatigue, Kit kept thinking that it wouldn’t make it through the next minute.

He knew the feeling.

He had been here since late afternoon, English time, when the emergency medical helicopter had finally landed, bringing Sapper Kyle Lewis home. Sedated into unconsciousness, with bullets in his head and chest, it wasn’t quite the homecoming Lewis had looked forward to.

Kit sank his head into his hands. The now familiar, tingling numbness was back, stealing up through his fingertips until he felt as if he were dissolving.

‘Coffee, Major Fitzroy?’

He jerked upright again. The nurse in front of him wore a blue plastic disposable apron and was smiling kindly, unaware of the stab of anguish her question caused. He looked away, his teeth gritted.

‘No, thanks.’

‘Can I get you anything for the pain?’

He turned, eyes narrowed. Did she know that he was the reason Lewis was in the room behind him, hooked up to machines that were breathing for him as his mother held his hand and wept softly, and the girlfriend he had spoken of so proudly kept her terrified eyes averted?

‘Your face,’ the nurse said gently. ‘I know you were seen to in the field hospital, but the medication they gave you will have worn off now.’ She tilted her head, looking at him with great compassion. ‘They might only be superficial, but these shrapnel wounds can be very painful as they heal.’

‘It looks worse than it is.’ He’d seen his face in the washroom mirror and felt dull surprise at the torn flesh and bruising around his eyes. ‘Nothing that a large whisky wouldn’t fix.’

The nurse smiled. ‘I’m afraid I can’t give you one of those here. But you could go home now, you know.’ The plastic

apron crackled as she moved past him to the door of Lewis’s room, pausing with her hand on the doorplate. ‘His family’s here now. You’ve looked after these boys for five months, Major,’ she said gently. ‘It’s time you looked after yourself.’

Kit got a brief glimpse of the inert figure in the bed before the door swung shut again. He exhaled heavily, guilt squeezing the air from his lungs.

Home.

Sophie.

The thought of her almost severed the last shreds of his self-control. He looked at the clock again, realising that although he’d been staring at it for hours he had no idea what time it was.

Almost six o’clock in the evening, and he was almost three hundred miles away. He stumbled to his feet, his mind racing, his heart suddenly beating hard with the need to get to her. To feel her in his arms and lose himself in her sweetness and forget …

Behind him a door opened, pulling him back into the present. Turning he saw Lewis’s girlfriend come out of the room, her thin shoulders hunched, her pregnant stomach incongruously out of proportion with the rest of her. Slumping against the wall, she looked appallingly young.

‘They won’t say anything. I just want to know if he’s going to be OK.’ She spoke with a kind of sulky defiance, but Kit could see the fear in her face when she looked at him. ‘Is he?’

‘Wing Commander Randall’s the army medic here. According to him, he’s over the worst now,’ Kit said tersely. ‘If soldiers survive the airlift to the camp hospital their chances of survival are already ninety-seven percent. He’s made it all the way home.’

Her scowl deepened. ‘I don’t mean is he going to survive. I mean is he going to be OK? I mean, back to normal. Because I don’t think I could stand it if he wasn’t …’ She broke off, turning her face away. Kit could see her throat working franticallyas she swallowed back tears. ‘We don’t even know each other that well,’ she went on, after a moment. ‘We’d not been going out long when this happened.’ A sharp gesture of her head told him she was referring to the pregnancy. ‘It wasn’t exactly planned but, as my mum says, it was my own fault. Just got to get on with it now.’ She looked at Kit with dead eyes then; inky tears were running down her face. ‘And what about this? If he’s … I dunno … injured, I’m stuck with it, aren’t I? But whose fault is that?’

Mine, Kit wanted to say. All mine.

What right did he have to forget that?

Sophie’s eyes snapped open.

She lay very still, staring into the soft summer darkness, all her senses on high alert as she listened out for a repeat of the sound that had woken her.

Or maybe it hadn’t even been a sound. Maybe it was just a feeling. A dream perhaps? Or an instinct …

She sat up, struggling from sleep, the hairs rising on the back of her neck. The blood was swishing in her ears, but outside she could hear the usual sounds of the city at night—traffic on the King’s Road, a distant siren, a car moving through the square below.

And then something else, closer, inside the house. A muffled thud, like something being dropped, followed by the soft, heavy tread of someone coming slowly up the stairs.

Sophie froze.

Then, with a muttered curse, she kicked off the covers and scrambled to her feet on the bed, looking frantically around for a weapon and finding herself fervently wishing she’d taken up cricket or baseball. Her heart was galloping. It was no good—there was nothing remotely suited to fending off an intruder within reach, and she realised that she should simply have rolled off the bed and hidden underneath it …

A shape appeared in the doorway, filling it, just as Sophie’s

pounding heart seemed to have filled her throat. It was too late to move now, too late to do anything but brazen it out.

‘Don’t move,’ she croaked. ‘I have a weapon.’

With what sounded like a sigh the intruder took a step forwards.

‘Where I’ve just come from we don’t call that a weapon. We call that a TV remote.’

His voice was hoarse with fatigue, sexy as hell and instantly familiar.

‘Kit!’

It was a cross between a shout of jubilation and a sob. In a split second Sophie had bounded across the bed and he caught her as she hurtled into his arms, wrapping her legs tightly around his waist as their mouths met. Questions half formed themselves in her brain, bubbling up then dissolving again in the more urgent need to feel him and touch him and keep on kissing him …

He lowered her onto the bed without breaking the kiss, and his mouth on hers was hard and hungry. Sliding her hands into his hair, she felt grit. He smelled of earth and antiseptic, but beneath that she caught the scent that made her senses reel—the dry cedar-scent that was all his own, that she had craved like a drug.

‘I thought …’ she gasped ‘… you weren’t home … until tomorrow.’

His lips found hers again.

‘I’m here now,’ he rasped against her.

Now that they were both together on the bed, that was all that mattered.

Desire gushed through her, slippery and quick. Laying her down on the bed, he straightened up, towering over her for a second. Shadows obscured his face, but in spite of the darkness she caught the silvery glitter of his eyes and it sent another wave of urgent need crashing through her. Rising up onto her knees, she pulled off her T-shirt, stopping with

her mouth the low moan he uttered as her naked body moved against him.

‘Are you all right?’ she murmured moments later, fumbling for the buttons on his shirt with shaking fingers.

‘Yes.’

It was a primitive growl that came from low in his chest. He pulled away, half turning as he yanked his shirt from his trousers and wrenched it over his head. In that moment the light from the street filtering through a gap in the curtains caught his face and Sophie gasped.

‘No—you’re hurt. Kit, your face—’

She got to her feet, reaching for him, taking his face between her hands and stroking her thumbs with great tenderness over the lacerations on his cheekbones until she felt him flinch away.

‘It’s nothing.’

His hands slid around her waist as his mouth came down on hers again, and the feel of his bare chest, hard against her breasts, was enough to banish the anxiety that had leapt in her, along with every other thought in her head that wasn’t concerned with the immediate need to wrap herself around him. To feel him against her and inside her until there were no joins left and the distance of the last one hundred and fifty-four days was forgotten.

His hands were warm on her back, moving across her quivering skin with a certainty and steadiness of touch she couldn’t possibly match as she struggled to undo his belt, impatient to get rid of the last barriers that stood between them. She gave a gasp of triumph as she managed to work the buttons free. Swiftly he kicked off his desert combats and they fell back onto the bed.

None of it was as she’d planned. There was no champagne, no sexy silk nightdress, no sense of seduction, no conversation, just skin and hands and a need so huge she felt as if it might break her wide open.

There would be a time for talking. Later. Tomorrow.

This was the best way she knew of bridging the spaces between them, of telling him what she wanted him to know, of reaching him. Just like the first time they’d made love, on the night he’d found out that Ralph Fitzroy wasn’t his father. There had been nothing she could say then because it was too big, too raw, too complex, but for a while it had been flamed into insignificance in the heat of their passion.

His body was rigid with tension, his shoulders like concrete beneath her fingers. They were both shaking, but as he entered her she felt some of the tightness leave his body as if he too felt the wild, exhilarating rightness that surged through her. Her arms were locked around his neck, their foreheads touching, and the feel of his breath on her cheek, his skin, was almost enough to make her come. Her body shivered and burned, but fiercely she held back, tightening her muscles around him, holding on like a woman in danger of drowning.

With a moan he slid his arms beneath her back, gathering her up and pulling her hard against his chest as he sat up. Sophie wrapped her legs around his waist, and the increase in pressure was enough to tip her over the edge. She let go, arching backwards and gasping as her orgasm ripped through her.

He held her, waiting until it had subsided before pulling her back into his arms and burying his face in her neck. She could feel him inside her still, and slowly she rotated her pelvis, stroking his hair, holding him tightly until he stiffened and cried out her name.

Together they collapsed back onto the bed. Cradling his head against her breasts, Sophie stared up into the darkness and smiled.

CHAPTER TWO

KIT woke suddenly, his body convulsing with panic.

It took a few seconds for reality to reassert itself. It was light—the cool, bluish light of an English morning, and the sheets were clean and smooth against his skin. Sophie was lying on her side, tucked into his body, one hand flat on his chest, over his frantically thudding heart.

The fact that he wasn’t actually walking along a dust track towards a bridge with a bomb beneath it told him he must have slept. After a hundred and fifty-four largely sleepless nights it felt like a small miracle.

He shifted position slightly so he could look into Sophie’s sleeping face, stretching limbs that had stiffened from being still for so long. His heart squeezed. God, she was so lovely. The summer had brought out a faint sprinkling of freckles over the bridge of her nose, and put a bloom into her creamy cheeks. Or maybe that was last night. The erection he’d woken up with intensified as he remembered, and he looked at her mouth. Her top lip with its steep upwards sweep and pronounced Cupid’s bow was slightly swollen from his kisses.

It was also curved into the faintest and most secretive of smiles.

Deeply asleep, she looked serene and self-contained, as if she was travelling through wonderful places where he could

never hope to follow, full of people he didn’t know. No godforsaken, mine-strewn desert roads for her, he thought bleakly.

The light filtering through the narrow gap in the curtains gleamed on her smooth bare shoulder and cast a halo around her hair. Picking up a silken strand, he wound it lazily around his finger, thinking back to one of the last times he had lain here beside her and asked her to marry him.

What a fool. What a selfish, stupid fool.

Anything could have happened. He thought of Lewis’s girlfriend; her terrified eyes and her swollen stomach. We don’t even know each other that well … If he’s … injured, I’m stuck with it, aren’t I? What if it had been him instead of Lewis? They’d only had three weeks together. Three weeks. How could he have expected Sophie to stand by him for a lifetime when he barely knew her?

The gleaming lock of hair fell back onto her creamy shoulder, but he left his hand there, holding it in front of his face and stretching his fingers. They shook slightly, prickling with pins and needles, and he curled them into a fist, squeezing hard.

Harder.

The bones showed white beneath his sun-darkened skin and pain flared through the stretched tendons, but it didn’t quite manage to drive away the numbness, or stop the slide-show that was replaying itself in his head again. The heat shimmering over the road, the hard sun glinting off windows in the buildings above. That eerie silence. The way everything had seemed to slip into slow motion, as if it were happening underwater. His hands trembling uncontrollably; the wire cutters slipping through his nerveless fingers as the voice in his earpiece grew more urgent, telling him that a sniper had been spotted …

And then the gunshots.

He sat up, swearing under his breath. Dragging a hand

over his face, he winced as he caught a scab that had begun to form on one of the cuts across his cheekbone.

He was home, and back with Sophie. So why did it feel as if he were still fighting, and further away from her than ever?

Sophie stopped in the kitchen doorway.

Kit was sitting at the table with the pile of letters that had come while he’d been away, drinking coffee. He was wearing jeans but no shirt, and his skin was tanned to the colour of mahogany. Sophie’s stomach flipped.

‘Hi.’

Oh, dear. Having leapt out of bed almost as soon as she opened her eyes, brushed her teeth like a person on speeded-up film and even slapped a bit of tinted moisturiser onto her too-pale cheeks before running downstairs, it was ridiculous that that was all she could manage. Hi. And in a voice that was barely more than a strangled whisper.

He looked up. The morning light showed up the mess of cuts and bruising on his face, making him look battered and exhausted and beautiful.

‘Hi.’

‘So you are real,’ she said ruefully, going across to fill the kettle. ‘I thought I might have dreamed it. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d done that while you’ve been gone—dreamed about you so vividly that waking up was like saying goodbye all over again.’ She stopped, before she said any more and gave herself away as being a terrifying, crazy, obsessive fiancée. To make it sound as if she were joking she asked, ‘Did they let you off a day early for good behaviour?’

‘Unfortunately not.’ He put down the letter he was reading and pushed a hand through his hair. It was still wet from the shower, but she could see that it had been lightened by the sun, giving the kind of tawny streaks only the most expensivehairdressers could produce. ‘A man in my unit was badly injured yesterday. I flew home with him.’

‘Oh, Kit, I’m so sorry.’ Filled with contrition for thinking such shallow thoughts, Sophie went over to stand beside him. ‘How is he?’

‘Not good.’

His voice was flat, toneless, and he looked down at the letter again, as if the subject was closed. On the other side of the kitchen the kettle began its steam-train rattle. Sophie touched his cheekbone with her fingertips.

‘What happened?’ she said softly. ‘Was it an explosion?’

For a moment he said nothing, but she saw his eyelids flicker, as if he was remembering something he didn’t want to remember; reliving something he didn’t want to relive.

‘Yes …’

His forehead creased into a sudden frown of pain and for a second she thought he was going to say more. But then the shutters descended and he looked up at her with a cool smile that was more about masking emotion than conveying it.

Sophie pulled out the chair beside him and sat down, turning to face him. ‘How badly hurt is he?’

‘It’s hard to tell at the moment,’ he said neutrally. ‘It looks like he’ll live, but it’s too early to say how bad his injuries will be.’ His smile twisted. ‘He’s only nineteen.’

‘Just a boy,’ she murmured. The kettle boiled in a billow of steam and hissed into silence. Aching for him, Sophie took his hand between hers, feeling the hard skin on the undersides of his fingers, willing him to open up to her. ‘It’s good that you stayed with him. It must have made a huge difference to him, having you there, and to his family, knowing that someone was looking after him …’

She trailed off as he got abruptly to his feet, giving her no choice but to let go of his hand.

‘Coffee?’

‘Yes, please.’ Hurt blossomed inside her but she didn’t let it

seep into her tone. ‘Sorry—there’s only instant. I was going to go shopping today to get things in for when you came back.’

She thought of all the plans she had made for his homecoming; the food she was going to buy that could be eaten in bed—olives, quails’ eggs, tiny dim sum and Lebanese pastries from the deli around the corner—champagne and proper coffee, piles of croissants and brioche for breakfast. And the X-rated silk nightdress, of course. Now they all seemed to belong to a silly, frilly fantasy in which Kit took the part of the Disney Prince, doe-eyed with adoration.

The reality was turning out to be slightly different.

‘What on earth have you been living on?’ he said, his voice an acerbic drawl. ‘I was going to make you breakfast, but the cupboard seems to be bare.’

‘I usually eat on the go,’ she said lightly, getting up and going over to the designer stainless-steel bread bin. ‘But look, there’s bread. And …’ she opened a cupboard and pulled down a jar with a flourish ‘… chocolate spread.’

Splinters of guilt lodged themselves in Kit’s throat. She was making a good attempt to hide it but behind the show of nonchalance he could tell she was hurt. She’d tried to reach out to him—to talk to him like a normal human being, and he’d behaved as if she’d done something indecent.

It must have made a huge difference to him, having you there, and to his family, knowing that someone was looking after him …

How she overestimated him. In so many ways.

He looked at her. She was putting bread into the toaster and her glossy hair was tousled, her legs long and bare beneath an old checked shirt she must have taken from his wardrobe. He felt his chest tighten with remorse and desire. He wasn’t brave enough to shatter her illusions about him yet, but he could at least try to make up to her for being such a callous bastard.

Gently he took the jar from her and unscrewed the lid. He peered inside and then looked at her, raising an eyebrow.

‘You actually eat this stuff?’

She shrugged, reaching for a knife from the cutlery drawer. ‘What else would you do with it?’

‘I’m surprised,’ he said gravely, taking the knife from her too, ‘that you need to ask that …’

Looking at her speculatively, keeping his face completely straight, he reached out and undid the buttons of her shirt. He felt her jump slightly at his touch and she let out a little sound of surprise. But as he took hold of her waist and lifted her onto the countertop her green eyes glittered with instant excitement.

Slowly, with great focus he dipped the tip of the blade into the jar, loading it with soft, velvety chocolate. The moment stretched as he turned the knife around in his hand, then turned his attention to her, moving the edge of her shirt aside to expose her bare breast.

It took considerable self-control to keep the lust that was rampaging through him from showing on his face, or in his movements. His hand shook slightly as he cupped her warm, perfect breast. Behind them, the toast sprang up in the toaster and she jumped, giving a little indrawn breath. In one smooth sweep, Kit spread the chocolate over her skin.

Abstractly, as he parted his lips to taste her, he thought how beautiful it looked—the chocolate against the vanilla cream of her skin. But then all thoughts were driven from his head as he took her chocolate-covered nipple into his mouth and felt her stiffen and arch against him.

His tongue teased her, licking her clean. The chocolate was impossibly sweet and cloying and it masked the taste of her skin, so without lifting his head he reached behind her and turned the tap on, running cold water into the cup of his hand. Straightening up, he let it trickle onto her, watching her eyes widen in shock as the cold water ran down her skin.

‘Kit, you—!’

His mouth was on hers before she could finish. Sitting on the granite countertop, she was the same height as he was and he put his hands on her bottom, pulling her forwards so that her thighs were tight around his waist, her pelvis hard against his erection.

God, he loved her. He loved her straightforwardness, her generosity. He loved the way she seemed to understand him, and her willingness to give him what he needed. He didn’t have to find words, not when he could show her how he felt this way.

Her arms were around his neck, her fingers tangling in his damp hair. He was just about to lift her up, hitch her around him and haul her over to the table where he could take her more easily when there was a loud knock at the front door.

He stopped, stepping backwards, cursing quietly and with more than a hint of irony, given his choice of word.

‘Don’t answer it.’

It was tempting, so tempting, given how utterly, outrageously sexy she looked sprawled on the kitchen countertop, her wet shirt open, her mouth bee-stung from his kisses. He dragged a hand over his face, summoning the shreds of his control.

‘I have to,’ he said ruefully, heading for the door. ‘It’s breakfast. I ordered it when you were sleeping, and since they only agreed to home delivery as a special favour …’

Left alone in the kitchen, Sophie pulled her shirt together and slid shakily down from the worktop, her trembling legs almost giving way beneath her as she tried to stand. Through the thick fog of desire she was dimly aware of voices in the hallway—one Kit’s, the other vaguely familiar. Dreamily she picked up the chocolate spread and dipped her finger into it, closing her eyes and tipping her head back as she put it in her mouth.

‘In here?’

The vaguely familiar voice was closer now and she jumped, opening her eyes in time to see an even more familiar face come into the kitchen; so familiar that for a moment she thought it was someone she must know from way back—a friend of Jasper’s, perhaps?

‘Hi. You must be Sophie.’

Grinning, the man put a wooden crate stacked with aluminium cartons on the table and held out his hand. Sophie shook it, feeling guilty that she couldn’t quite place him and managing to say hello without making it obvious she couldn’t remember his name.

Kit came in carrying a bottle of champagne.

‘Thanks, I appreciate this.’

‘No big deal—it’s the least I can do considering you’ve spent the last five months being a hero. It’s good to see you back in one piece—or nearly.’

He gestured to the shrapnel wounds on Kit’s face. Sophie noticed the tiny shift in Kit’s expression; the way it darkened, tightened.

‘How’s the restaurant?’ he asked smoothly.

‘Good, thanks, although I don’t get to spend as much time there as I’d like, thanks to the TV stuff. I just got back from filming for a new series in the US.’

Horror congealed like cold porridge in Sophie’s stomach as her eyes flew back to the man. She now realised why he was vaguely familiar. Suddenly she was aware that she was standing in the same kitchen as one of the country’s top celebrity chefs wearing a wet shirt that barely skimmed her bottom and clung to her breasts, eating chocolate spread with her finger straight from the jar.

Surreptitiously she put the jar down and tried to shrink backwards behind the large vase of flowers she’d bought in Covent Garden. Luckily the Very Famous Chef was engrossed in a discussion about business with Kit as they headed back

towards the door, but he did pause in the doorway and look back at her.

‘Nice to meet you, Sophie. You must get Kit to bring you to the restaurant some time.’

Not on your life, thought Sophie, smiling and nodding; not now he’d seen her like this. As soon as he’d gone she picked up the jar of chocolate spread and was eating it with a spoon when Kit came back in.

‘You could have warned me,’ she moaned between spoonfuls.

‘Sorry,’ Kit drawled, ‘but I was pretty distracted myself.’

‘He’s a friend of yours?’

‘That depends on your definition of friend. I know him reasonably well because his restaurant is just around the corner from here and I’ve been there enough times over the years.’

Sophie took another spoonful of chocolate spread. People didn’t go to restaurants on their own. She pictured the kind of women Mr Celeb-Chef must have seen with Kit in the past, and the contrast they must have made with her, now.

Kit was looking at the foil trays in the crate. ‘Put down that revolting sweet stuff; we have smoked-salmon bagels, blueberry pancakes, almond croissants, proper coffee, oh—and this, of course.’ He held up the bottle of champagne. ‘So—do you want to eat here, or in bed?’

Sophie’s resistance melted like butter in a microwave. She found that she was smiling.

‘What do you think?’

Sophie walked slowly back to Kit’s house, trailing her fingers along the railings outside the smart houses, a bag filled with supplies from the uber-stylish organic supermarket on the King’s Road bumping against her leg. She felt she had some ground to make up after the incriminating chocolate-spread incident this morning.

The thought of chocolate spread drew her attention to the

pleasurable ache in her thighs as she walked, and she couldn’t stop her mind from wandering ahead of her, to the house with the black front door at the far end of the square. From this distance it looked the same as all its expensive, exclusive neighbours, but Sophie felt a little quiver inside her at the thought that Kit was there.

She had left him going through yet more of the post that had arrived while he’d been away, and she reluctantly had to admit it had been almost a relief to have an excuse to get out of the house. They had eaten breakfast and made love, slowly and luxuriously, then lain drowsily together as the clouds moved across the clean blue sky beyond the window and the morning slid into afternoon. Then they had made love again.

It had been wonderful. More than wonderful—completely magical. So why did she have the uneasy feeling that it was a substitute for talking?

There was so much she wanted to say, and even more that she wanted him to tell her. She thought of the contraceptive pills she’d thrown in the bin and felt a hot tide of guilt that she hadn’t actually got round to mentioning that. But how could she when it felt as if he had put up an emotion-proof fence around himself? There might as well be a sign above his head: ‘Touch, but Don’t Talk.’

She was being ridiculous, she told herself sternly, reaching into her pocket for her key. They’d spent whole days in bed before he’d gone away and gone for hours without speaking a word, lost in each other’s bodies or just lying with their limbs entwined, reading. It wasn’t a sign that something was wrong. If anything, surely it was the opposite?

She slid the key into the lock and opened the door.

The house was silent, but the atmosphere was different now Kit was home. There was a charge to it. An electricity, which both excited and unnerved her. Going into the sleek granite and steel kitchen, she remembered what she’d said to Jasper about wanting a home. The flowers she’d bought in

such a surge of optimism and excitement stood in the centre of the black granite worktop, a splash of colour against the masculine monochrome.

She put the kettle on.

For the last five months this had been her home, around the time she’d spent in Romania filming the stupid vampire movie, but now Kit was back it suddenly seemed to be his house again, a place where she was the guest. Even her flowers looked wrong—as out of place as her low-rent white sliced bread in his designer bread bin and her instant coffee in his tasteful Conran Shop mugs.

Dispiritedly she spooned fragrant, freshly ground Fairtrade coffee into the coffee maker, hoping she’d got that right at least. Taking down a tray, she set it with mugs, and milk in a little grey jug, but then wondered if that was trying too hard? After a moment’s indecision she took them off again. Pouring the coffee straight into the mugs, she picked them up and went to find Kit.

He was upstairs, in the room at the front of the house that he used as a study. Outside the half-open door she hesitated, then knocked awkwardly.

‘Yes?’

‘I made you some coffee.’

‘Thank you.’ From inside the room his voice was an amused drawl. ‘Do I have to come out to collect it, or are you going to bring it in?’

‘I don’t want to disturb you,’ she muttered, pushing the door open and going in.

The surface of the desk in front of him was covered in piles of letters, and the waste-paper bin was full of envelopes. Sophie felt a fresh wave of lust and love and shyness as she looked at him. The cuts over his cheekbones were still raw-looking, the bruising beneath his eyes still dark, making him look inexpressibly battered and weary.

‘Hmm … that’s a good point,’ he murmured wryly, trailinghis fingers up the back of her bare leg beneath the skirt of her little flowered dress as she bent to put the mug on the desk. ‘You are very disturbing.’

Desire leapt inside her, inflaming flesh that already burned. She doused it down. Turning round, she leaned her bottom on the edge of the desk and looked at him over the rim of her mug, determined to attempt a form of communication that didn’t end in orgasm for once.

‘So, is there anything interesting in all that?’

Picking up his coffee, Kit shrugged, his expression closed. ‘Not much. Bank statements and share reports. Some more information about the Alnburgh estate.’ He stopped and took a mouthful of coffee. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, picked up a letter from one of the piles and held it out to her. ‘And this.’

Scanning down the first few formal lines, Sophie frowned in confusion.

‘What is it?’

‘A letter from Ralph’s solicitors in Hawksworth. They received this letter to forward on to me.’

He slid a folded piece of paper out from the pile and tossed it onto the desk beside her. Something in the abruptness of his movements told her that it was significant, though his face was as inscrutable as ever, his eyes opaque.

Warily Sophie picked up the thick pale blue paper and unfolded it. The script on it was even and sloping—the hand of a person who was used to writing letters rather than sending texts or emails, Sophie thought vaguely as she began to read.

My Dear Kit—

I know this letter will come as a surprise, and after all this time am not foolish enough to believe it will be a pleasant one, however I must put aside my selfish trepidation and confront things I should have dealt with a long time ago.

Sophie’s heart had started to beat very hard. She glanced up at Kit, her mouth open to say something, but his head was half turned away from her as he continued working his way through the pile of post, not inviting comment. She carried on reading.

I’m sorry—that’s the first thing I want to say, although those words are too little, too late. There is so much more I need to add to them. There are things I’d like to explain for my own selfish reasons, in the hope you might understand and perhaps even forgive, and other things I need to tell you that are very much in your interest. Things that will affect you now, and will go on affecting your family far into the future.

A pulse of adrenaline hit Sophie’s bloodstream as she read that bit. She carried on, skimming faster now, impatient to find out what it all meant.

The last thing I want to do is pressure you for any kind of response, so on the basis that you have my address at the top of this letter and the warmest and most sincere of invitations to come here at any time to suit you, I will leave you to make your own decision.

Know, though, how much it would mean to me to see you.

Your hopeful mother Juliet Fitzroy

Slowly Sophie put down the letter, her head spinning.

‘So your mother wants you to go and see her?’ she said, admittedly rather stupidly.

Kit tossed another envelope into the bin. ‘So it would appear, Mr Holmes.’

‘Will you go?’ With shaking fingers Sophie scrabbled to

unfold the paper again, to see where exactly Juliet Fitzroy lived. ‘Imlil,’ she said in a puzzled voice, then read the line below on the address. ‘Blimey—Morocco?’

‘Exactly.’ Kit sounded offhand to the point of boredom as the contents of the envelope followed it into the bin. ‘It’s not exactly a few stops on the District line, and I can’t think what she could say that would make the trip worthwhile.’

Sophie tapped a finger against her closed lips, her thoughts racing ahead. Morocco. Heat and sand and … harem pants. Probably. In truth she didn’t know an awful lot about Morocco beyond the fact that she’d always liked the sound of it and that, right now, it seemed like a very favourable alternative to Chelsea, and the oppressive atmosphere that seemed to be stifling them both in the quiet, immaculate house.

‘I’ve always wanted to go to Morocco,’ she said, with a hint of wistfulness. ‘I wonder how she ended up living there? And why she’s chosen to get in touch now, after all this time?’

‘I assume because she knows her little secret will have been uncovered by Ralph’s death.’ Kit was writing something on the bottom of a letter from the bank. ‘Perhaps she wants to introduce me to my real father—although that’s assuming she knows who he is. There could be thousands of possible candidates for all I know.’

Oh, God. Sophie suddenly felt dizzy as she remembered a letter she had found tucked into a book in the library at Alnburgh. She’d known at the time it was wrong to read it, but one look at the first line and she’d been unable to resist. She wished now that she’d been stronger, so she wouldn’t be in the position of knowing more about Kit’s paternity than he did.

Getting up from the edge of the desk, she paced to the bookcase on the other side of the room, deliberately turning her back on him. ‘There aren’t.’ She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, wincing. ‘She knows.’

There was a pause. On the bookcase in front of her, betweenthe volumes of military history and thick books on Middle Eastern politics, was a photograph. It showed a Kit she didn’t know, standing in the centre of a group of men in camouflage jackets in front of an army truck.

‘How do you know?’

He spoke with sinister softness. Light-headed with apprehension, Sophie turned round. ‘Do you remember that day at Alnburgh, when I was … ill …?’ She’d got her period and had been completely unprepared, and Kit had stepped in and taken control. She smiled faintly. ‘You showed me into the library while you went to the village shop.’

‘I remember.’ His voice held an edge of steel that made the smile wither. ‘And?’

‘And I looked at the books while I was waiting.’ She went over to lean against the desk beside him again, longing to touch him but not quite knowing how to. ‘I found some old Georgette Heyer—she’s my absolute favourite, so I took one down and opened it, and a letter fell out.’ She looked down at her hands, picking at one of the ragged nails she’d meant to file before he came home. ‘A love letter. It was addressed to “My Darling Juliet”.’

Kit wasn’t looking at her. He was staring straight ahead, out of the window, the slats of the blind casting bars of shadows on his damaged face so that he looked as if he were in a cage. When he said nothing, Sophie went on in a voice that was husky and hesitant.

‘A-at first I assumed it was from Ralph and I was amazed. It was so beautifully romantic—so tender and passionate, and I just couldn’t imagine him writing anything like that.’

‘So who was it from?’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t have a chance to finish it before you came back, and …’ she couldn’t stop herself from reaching out then, touching his cheek with the backs of her fingers as she recalled the tension that had vibrated between them ‘… then

it kind of went out of my head for a while. I did look later, when I put the book back, but it wasn’t signed with a name.’

He got to his feet, taking a few steps away from her.

‘So how do you know it wasn’t Ralph?’

‘Because it talked about you,’ Sophie said, very softly, standing up too. ‘You must only have been tiny and he’d obviously just come back from visiting. He said how painful it was for him to leave you, knowing it was Ralph you thought of as your father.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’ Kit demanded icily.

Sophie swallowed. ‘It was none of my business at the time. I knew straight away that I shouldn’t have read it, and, let’s face it, we didn’t exactly know each other well enough for me to drop that kind of information casually into the conversation. And then afterwards … there just wasn’t the chance.’ She paused, nervously moistening her lips as she gathered the courage to voice the misgivings that had been silently closing in on her since she’d woken that morning. ‘I don’t know, Kit, sometimes I think we hardly know each other any better now.’

Her stomach was in knots as she waited for him to reply. Standing with his back to her, his shoulders looking as if they’d been carved from granite. And then he sighed, and some of the tension went out of them.

‘I’m sorry.’ He turned round. ‘I don’t understand it, that’s all. Why the hell didn’t she just leave Ralph and go to be with him—whoever he was—and take me with her?’

The bitterness in his tone made her heart ache with compassion, but at the same time a part of it sang. Because anger was emotion, and because he was talking to her about it.

She shrugged, taking care to sound casual. ‘Maybe that’s what she wants to explain.’ Going over to him, she stretched up to lightly kiss his lips. ‘Let’s go. Let’s go to Morocco and find out.’

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