Loe raamatut: «A Perfect Hero»
A Perfect Hero
Caroline Anderson
MILLS & BOON
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Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
‘THOSE boys are the pits!’
Half laughing, half furious, Clare pushed the door of Sister’s office shut behind her and sagged into the chair.
‘That bad?’
Her head jerked up, her eyes instantly caught and trapped by a gaze so vivid she thought she must be dreaming. He was fair, his sun-streaked hair falling in defiant strands across the bronze skin of his high forehead, and he radiated health and energy. He was also drop-dead good-looking, and Clare was instantly wary.
‘I’m sorry—I didn’t realise there was anyone in here—not that I usually talk to myself, but this morning …!’
‘Losing your grip already?’ His voice was like rich silk sliding over pebbles. The stranger glanced at his watch and raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s only ten past nine!’
‘Yes, well, if you’d met Danny Drew and his gang of fellow-sufferers, you’d understand!’
‘I shall look forward to the experience.’ He took a long, lazy stride forward and held out his hand across the desk. ‘We haven’t met. Michael Barrington. I’m Tim Mayhew’s senior reg., as of about ten minutes ago. And you’re Clare Stevens,’ he added, engulfing her hand in his long, lean fingers.
A tingle like an electric shock ran up her arm, and she hastily detached herself from his hand and smoothed her dress over her hips in an unconsciously provocative gesture.
‘How did you know?’ she asked, still rattled by the contact, and his hand reached out and flicked the badge on her breast pocket with casual disregard for convention.
‘Oh—how silly of me!’ She tried to smile, but her lips felt stiff and uncooperative. Those shatteringly blue eyes were inches from her own, and he was clearly laughing at her. She stood up breathlessly and turned away, to put some distance between herself and this young Adonis who had dropped out of the sky into her life. ‘We were expecting you—I’m afraid Sister O’Brien’s got the morning off—she’s on from twelve-thirty. Would you like me to show you the ward?’
He nodded. ‘Just informally—I don’t want pomp and ceremony and a great trailing entourage!’
She laughed, an easy, rippling sound, and relaxed. ‘We don’t tend to stand on ceremony at the Audley Memorial. We’d better get on—we’re not on take today, but we’ve got some elective patients in for hip replacement and it was one of those fairly bloody weekends on the road—we’ve got two lads in ITU who’ll be coming up shortly if they’re sufficiently stable.’
‘I get your drift,’ he said with a smile, and her heart crashed against her ribs. ‘Allow me——’
He reached round her and opened the door, and as he did so she became aware of his height, and breadth, and the smooth skin of his jaw slightly roughened by stubble. Mingled with the faint scent of expensive cologne was a deeper, more intrinsic scent, primitive and masculine, that made her breath catch in her throat.
Thanking him in what she hoped was a normal voice, she preceded him through the door and took him round the ward, showing him the utility areas and general geography before taking him round the four six-bedded bays and telling him about the patients who would be under his care.
‘Do you want to examine any of them?’ she asked as they went into the first bay.
‘No, I don’t think there’s any need—unless there’s anybody you feel I should look at in particular? I’m really only here to familiarise myself with the ward. I’ll be joining Mr Mayhew in Theatre later.’
As they walked round the ward, Clare became increasingly conscious of her companion. He smiled and joked and stole the hearts of all the elderly ladies with their hip replacements, and he listened intently as she explained about their treatment of young Tina White, thrown from her horse and suffering from severe bruising of the spinal cord following a fracture dislocation of T4 and T5. She was being nursed on a revolving Stryker bed, and was turned every two hours throughout the day and night.
‘She’s a model patient, aren’t you, Tina?’ Clare said with a smile.
The girl grinned. ‘Anyone’s a model patient compared with that lot!’ She waved her hand towards the end bay.
Clare groaned. ‘The trouble is, they aren’t in enough pain any more!’
Beside her, Michael Barrington frowned. ‘You surely wouldn’t want them to be in pain?’ he said reprovingly.
‘Of course not,’ she laughed. ‘Just well and back home again!’
Tina chuckled. ‘They aren’t so bad, really—takes the edge off lying here day after day. At least I can try and guess what they’ll get up to next!’
‘Any sign of improvement?’ he asked quietly as they walked away.
‘Not really. We were very hopeful at first, but in fact it looks pretty grim for her still. I’ll fill you in in a minute.’
They entered the last bay, and ducked to miss a flying grape.
‘Danny Drew?’ he said wryly, and she laughed.
‘Well, Mr Barrington, how did you guess?’ She picked up the fallen grape and turned her back on Danny. ‘He’s fractured both femurs, so he’s totally immobilised. He’s not an ideal patient by any stretch of the imagination! Mr Mayhew fixed them both internally to make his management easier, but frankly I think he would have had to wire his jaw to make any appreciable differences——’
‘Hello, darlin’! Brought the boyfriend, have you?’
There was a chorus of cat-calls which she ignored, and beside her the SR chuckled under his breath. ‘I see what you mean! Right little joker, isn’t he?’
She rolled her eyes and continued, ‘That lad over there, in the corner—Pete Sawyer—he came off his bike and smashed his wrist and forearm, broke his pelvis and did his patella a certain amount of no good. Unfortunately his arm isn’t fusing very well—he’ll probably have to go back to Theatre and have it repinned. Otherwise they’re all progressing nicely and should be out in a short while.’
‘You don’t sound as glad as I’d imagine you’d be,’ he said as they made their way back to Sister’s office.
She laughed. ‘Why should I be glad? There’ll be another lot the same—we save that bay for the bikers and the sports injuries. It’s referred to fondly as Borstal.’
He chuckled. ‘I can see why.’ He eased his long frame into a chair and stretched out his legs. Tell me about Tina.’
‘Sure. Coffee?’ She poured two cups, set them down on the desk and flicked open the Kardex. ‘Fell from her horse last Saturday—nine days ago. She was at a gymkhana and her horse shied and dropped her across a post and rail fence. She landed on her back. The spinal cord isn’t severed, but there was extensive bruising and pressure from the dislocation. That’s reduced with time, and Mr Mayhew’s still hoping for some return of function, but so far it doesn’t look hopeful. He may try and stabilise her further with surgery if she doesn’t show any improvement, so we can get her rehabilitation under way sooner. In the meantime, we keep her turning and hope for a miracle.’
‘Unlikely.’
‘I know.’ She stirred her coffee idly. ‘Pete Sawyer is a problem, as well, with his unstable forearm fractures. I think Mr Mayhew is concerned he may end up with a non-union of the radius and ulna. They were very badly shattered.’
‘How long ago?’
‘Six weeks—plenty of time for a callus to form, but there’s no sign of any regeneration.’
‘Got the X-rays?’
‘Mmm, they’re with the notes.’
She found them and put them on the light-box, and they stood side by side examining them.
‘What a bloody awful mess! He was lucky not to lose his arm.’
‘Fortunately the soft-tissue injuries weren’t too extensive, otherwise I think Mr Mayhew might have been tempted to amputate.’
That would be a shame.’
‘It would be a tragedy in such a young man.’
He gave a short laugh. ‘Amputation is always a tragedy, but the injury or disease giving rise to it is just as much of a problem. Often patients are better off without the traumatised limb.’
She shuddered. ‘I can’t believe that. Surely anything is better than losing a limb?’
‘Oh, come on! I’ll grant you a functioning limb, especially an arm, with even limited function can be more use than an artificial limb, but a neat amputation at a carefully chosen site and a properly fitting prosthesis in a well-adjusted patient causes far less change in lifestyle and social habits than a disablingly damaged limb—and it can be a lot less unsightly!’
‘And what about the emotional aspects?’ she asked heatedly. ‘What about the effect on family? The personal problems, sexual problems and so on?’
‘Hey, hey…’ His hand came up and his knuckles brushed her cheek lightly, tantalisingly. ‘Don’t get so het up. Of course there are problems. Amputees need a lot of support and therapy, but all I’m saying is, with the right support, under certain circumstances they can be better off!’
She wanted to argue, but the brush of his knuckles was doing strange things to her circulation and her brain felt fogged. He was too close, too male, too—just too much! Their eyes were locked, his so intense she could almost feel their heat.
‘Mr Barrington——’
‘Michael.’
‘Michael, then. Please stop. I can’t think.’
‘Good. I get the feeling that if you think, you’ll start arguing with me again, and that would be a shame.’
She was sure he was going to kiss her. His firm, well-sculptured lips were inches from her own, and closing fast …
The shrilling of the phone was shattering. Clare leapt as if she’d been burned, and snatched up the receiver breathlessly.
‘For you,’ she muttered, handing him the instrument and backing away behind the desk. What on earth was wrong with her? For years she had been pursued by an endless stream of handsome and not-so-handsome young doctors, all convinced that with her looks she was a sexy little airhead who would be more than content to convey her favours on them. They had all been disappointed, but none more so than Clare herself, who had longed for years to be wanted for herself! Not for her body, or her face, but for her mind, her sense of humour, her zest for life.
Perhaps it had been easy to keep them at a distance, because universally and to a man they had failed to reach that elemental core of spirit that made her a woman. But this man—one brush of his hand, and her legs felt on the point of collapse, her blood-pressure had sky-rocketed and her body was thrumming with wild and primitive passion! You’re pathetic, she told herself disgustedly.
He replaced the receiver and turned to her with a smile. ‘The gods have spoken—I have to go up to Theatre and prove myself under the eagle eye of the boss. Are you doing anything later?’
‘Washing my hair,’ she replied promptly.
‘Liar,’ he said with a soft laugh. ‘Come and have something to eat with me and tell me all I need to know about the hierarchy of this establishment. I’d hate to put my foot in it for the sake of a little friendly advice!’
She was tempted—oh, so tempted. As she hesitated, he watched her with a slightly quizzical expression, his vivid blue eyes seeming to see straight through her.
‘Is there a reason for your procrastination?’
‘Do I need a reason?’ she retorted, almost crossly.
‘No. I just wondered if you had a Significant Other.’
‘A significant what?’
‘Other—you know, husband, fiancé, boyfriend, live-in-lover—whatever.’
She shook her head. ‘No—no whatever whatsoever.’
He frowned in mock disbelief. ‘Really? No current lover?’
‘No lover at all—full stop—nor am I looking for one!’
‘What a tragic waste.’
‘You think so? I’m quite content—–’
‘Content?’ he snorted. ‘Damn, Clare, a woman as beautiful as you should be more than content——’
She fixed him with a withering look. ‘If you’re offering to relieve my sexual frustration, Mr Barrington, you can save yourself the trouble. The answer’s no!’
He threw back his head and laughed, a rich, warm laugh that rolled round her senses and left her feeling even more disorientated. Then he sobered slightly, and shot her a disarming grin. ‘It’s usual to wait until you’re asked, isn’t it? As a matter of fact, I wasn’t offering—yet. Although, to be fair, I might well have got round to it——’
‘You all do, some more quickly than others, but in the end you all make the same moves,’ she said with a touch of bitterness, ‘and the answer’s always the same. Thanks, but no, thanks. Hadn’t you better go?’
‘Yes, I must. I’ll see you later, Clare. Thanks for the ward-round and the coffee.’
And he was gone, leaving her feeling fraught with conflicting emotions. What a way for their professional relationship to get off the ground! Dear God, perhaps she had over-reacted, but there was no mistaking his interest. At twenty-five, Clare was something of an expert at interpreting masculine appraisal, and she was seldom mistaken.
And that man was interested.
Well, he’d soon discover that she wasn’t that sort of girl, and, with his looks, if all he wanted was a little recreation he would soon be overrun with offers.
Sighing a little and not understanding quite why, Clare left the office and went about her duties.
Her peace was short-lived. He was back at one with Mr Mayhew, the orthopaedic consultant, and David Blake, the junior registrar, and he looked even better than her fevered mind had remembered.
Sister O’Brien fell instantly under his spell, the motherly woman welcoming him to the ward like the prodigal son, and Clare watched in helpless fascination as he examined the two patients whose hip replacements he had performed that morning.
‘Good. That looks fine,’ he said with a smile, covering up the second patient, and turning to Clare to hand her the notes. ‘Thank you, Staff,’ he said, then, lowering his voice, he added, ‘What are you doing after you wash your hair?’
Ripping it out in handfuls, she thought, and choked down the laugh. ‘Nothing,’ she admitted quietly.
Then come with me. Just a simple meal—nothing elaborate. Take pity on a stranger, Clare. I don’t know a soul—doesn’t it worry you that I’ll be going home to a strange house all alone tonight, and every night? No one to talk to, to share anything with, except my cat, and his conversational skills are strictly limited. Please?’
‘All right,’ she relented with a laugh. ‘When and where?’
‘Do you live in the hospital?’
She nodded.
‘Main entrance, seven o’clock? I’ll pick you up.’
‘OK. What shall I wear?’
‘Anything—jeans? They do good food in the village pub, and we can sit in the garden. Must go. I’ll see you at seven.’
As he turned, she was conscious of Sister O’Brien’s interested scrutiny. They walked back to her office in silence, and for a moment Clare thought she’d got away with it. She was wrong.
‘Nice young man. You seemed to hit it off very well with him, Clare.’
‘He asked me to spare him some time this evening to tell him about the hospital—routine, things he ought to know, et cetera—you know how it is when you start somewhere new,’ she said, modifying the truth for the sake of convention. Not for the world would she reveal how her heart had soared and spun out of control as he had handed back the notes and his hand had deliberately brushed against hers.
Sister O’Brien smiled to herself. About time, she thought. ‘You’ll enjoy it, dear—do you good to get out. Now, about Pete Sawyer—I believe Mr Mayhew wants Mr Barrington to have a go at refixing that wrist—I think they’re going to try a bone graft now his pelvis is nearly healed and they can take bone from the ilium. Perhaps that’ll do the trick.’
Just so long as he doesn’t amputate for the hell of it, she thought to herself as she recalled their earlier conversation.
The day dragged. Not even to herself would Clare admit the reason, but as she went off-duty and found herself rummaging through her wardrobe for an appropriate alternative to jeans for a pub snack, she was brought up sharply against the realisation that her tingling sense of anticipation had only one cause—and that cause was Michael Barrington.
‘Damn!’ she muttered to herself, and all through her shower and preparation for the evening, she worried about her reaction to him. Because he was quite evidently a womaniser, and she had no intention of surrendering her hard-fought scruples to some trifling playboy just because he made her senses reel!
Her preparations complete, she stood in front of the wardrobe mirror and studied her reflection. Her blonde hair, released form the starched white cap and freshly washed, tumbled in casual layers to brush her collar lightly at the back. Her make-up, slightly heavier than usual, was still restricted to a smudge of soft grey-green shadow over her wide almond-shaped eyes, a touch of soft pink lipstick and the lightest feathering of mascara to tint the pale tips of her lashes. Casual, he had said, so she was wearing a soft cotton sweater the same grey-green as her eyes, and a pair of culottes in a rust and green print. Her legs were bare, her feet comfortably shod in soft cotton canvas slip-ons. She wondered if the whole effect was too casual, but it was too late to worry.
At five to seven, her heart pounding, she let herself out of her flat and made her way down to the main entrance of the hospital.
As she emerged on to the steps she saw Michael in the staff car park, deep in conversation with two of the consultants. She hung back, not quite ready yet to have her name publicly connected to his, but he had seen her and, making his excuses, he strode quickly towards her, a smile on his lips.
‘Clare—you’re on time!’
‘What did you expect?’
He laughed. ‘I expected you to be like most girls—late!’
‘I’m not most girls,’ she said repressively, and he laughed again.
‘So I’m beginning to realise. Come on, I’m starving.’ He took her arm and led her towards the car park. ‘Oh, I have a confession—I rang the pub, and they don’t do food on a Monday night, so before I spring it on you I wondered if you would consider allowing me to cook for you.’
Her heart sank. Here we go, she thought, and she slowed to a halt.
‘In your house?’
‘My cottage. You needn’t worry, I’m a good cook, but apart from the local pub I haven’t found anywhere else yet in the few days since I moved—by all means suggest something else if you’d rather, but I can promise you I have no intention of jumping your bones, my love.’
She gave a surprised little laugh, and glanced up at him. ‘Am I so transparent?’
He grinned. ‘You were as jumpy as a cat this morning, so it wasn’t hard to put two and two together. I promise to keep my hands to myself if you do.’
‘If I do? What do you mean?’ she squeaked.
He gave a wry little laugh. ‘You think you’re the only one who gets treated like a sex object? Believe me, it makes a refreshing change to meet someone who isn’t all over me like a rash after fifteen seconds!’
Well, and who could blame them? Clare thought to herself, recognising the slight bitterness behind the apparently arrogant remark. If she wasn’t so busy saying no all the time she might well be tempted herself! She smiled at him. ‘You’ve got a deal. You cook, I’ll talk, and we can both clear up afterwards. How’s that?’
‘Great. Here we are. Hop in.’
He opened the door of a sleek red beastie, and she was instantly glad she hadn’t worn a mini-skirt.
‘Wow!’
He grinned self-consciously as he settled himself beside her behind the wheel. ‘It’s my brother’s. I have a battered old Volvo estate for dragging all the boat stuff around, but he’s in Germany for four months on business and suggested I borrow it to bolster the image!’
She laughed. ‘It works! What is it?’
‘A Porsche. Do you want the hood down?’
‘Why not? It won’t do my image any harm either!’
They laughed together, and with the touch of a button the hood folded down behind them and the June evening flooded in.
‘Let’s go, then!’
With a subtle roar, the engine leapt into life and they coasted smoothly out of the car park. Clare settled back into the soft leather seat and sighed contentedly.
When they were on the open road he unleashed the power a little and soon the wind was whipping her hair round her face and bringing the colour to her cheeks. She laughed in delight. ‘Michael, this is fabulous!’
‘Good, isn’t it? Lucky devil. I wonder if he’ll sell it to me?’
He threw her a cheeky grin, and then turned his attention back to the road. After a little while they turned off the main road and headed along a winding lane, leading eventually to another lane and thence a rutted track.
‘Where are we going?’ Clare asked, suddenly conscious of their isolation.
He pointed. ‘Over there—that little pink cottage.’
‘Goodness, it is in the wilds of nowhere!’ Clare said as they pulled up outside the cottage. It was tiny, the thatch low down on the walls arching like eyebrows over the little upstairs windows. The warm pink of the faded terracotta walls blended with the soft apricot of a climbing rose that tumbled in profusion over the front door, and more roses clustered under the little latticed windows.
‘Don’t tell me—it’s called Rose Cottage!’
He chuckled. ‘How did you guess? Come on in. Welcome to my humble abode.’
He doffed an imaginary cap and flung open the door with a flourish.
Inside it was just as charming, heavily beamed as she might have expected from a Suffolk cottage, with fascinating little nooks and crannies, and the furniture was mostly old pine. There was a Suffolk brick floor in the kitchen, and the steep staircase was tucked in under the eaves.
‘Oh, Michael, it’s lovely!’
He grinned. Thank you. You’re my first visitor—let me show you round.’
She followed him, enchanted, as he climbed the steep stairs.
‘Mind your head,’ he said as he led her on to the little landing. ‘It wasn’t built for people as tall as us, I don’t think.’ He waved his arm. ‘Bathroom here, and a bedroom at each end—neither of them exactly furnished to excess at the moment, but I’ll get there. I only took possession of it last Thursday—I should have had it early in the week but I got caught in a storm off the Scillies.’
‘The Scillies? The islands, you mean?’
He nodded. ‘Yes—I took Henrietta out there for a few days’ R and R, and it backfired on me a bit.’
Heavens, she thought, here we are, standing in the middle of his bedroom and he’s telling me all about his problems with Henrietta, whoever she is!
‘I’ll take you to see her some time—she’s very pretty, and I can handle her on my own easily unless the wind’s very fierce. She’s a bit of a handful then. You’ll like her—do you get seasick?’
It dawned on Clare that Henrietta must be his boat, and she almost laughed out loud—till she realised that the feeling she had experienced had probably been jealousy. She wasn’t sure, she’d never felt it before, and couldn’t imagine for the life of her why she was feeling it now, but life was full of little surprises …
‘No, I don’t get seasick—or I didn’t. I haven’t sailed since I was about thirteen, but I used to go out a lot with my brother before that.’
‘Snap! We had a Mirror, then a Fireball. Henrietta was my grandfather’s boat—I spent a lot of time on her with him when I were a lad, as they say.’
Their laughing eyes met, and Clare was suddenly terribly conscious of the high iron and brass bedstead behind them.
‘Why don’t you go on down and find yourself a drink? There’s white wine in the fridge, or red if you prefer, open on the side, and all sorts of soft drinks—I just want to get out of this suit and relax a bit.’
‘Fine,’ she said, a trifle breathlessly, and turned for the stairs as he stripped off his tie and kicked off his shoes. She heard them land with a thud as she ran down the stairs, and then he was humming, and she could hear drawers opening and shutting above her head as she rummaged in the kitchen for the fridge. She was still looking for it when he ran lightly down the stairs in his bare feet, clad only in a pair of old jeans that clung lovingly to every contour of his body. He was tugging on a T-shirt over his head, and his chest gleamed golden brown under the soft scatter of blond curls.
Her fingers itched to touch him, and she rammed her hands into her pockets to control them.
‘Where’s the fridge?’ she asked, her voice sounding strained to her ears.
‘Here—sorry!’ He opened a cupboard like all the others, hand-built in dark oak to match the beams, and she saw a built-in fridge tucked in behind the door.
‘How clever!’
‘It’s been well done—it belonged to an interior designer who’s gone to Scotland to escape the rat race.’
‘Rat race—here?’
He laughed. ‘Over-populated, she said. I gather their nearest neighbour up there is ten miles away. Red, white or something soft?’
‘White with something in it?’
‘Good idea.’ He took a bottle of hock from the fridge, pulled the cork deftly and splashed it into two tall glasses, adding soda water and ice.
‘Cheers!’
‘Cheers! Welcome to the Audley.’
He smiled. ‘Thank you, Clare. Right, sit down over there and tell me all the pitfalls—who’s fallen out with who, who I mustn’t speak to, who does the crossword in the staff lounge, all that sort of thing.’
It was her turn to laugh. ‘Nothing like that. The Audley’s a very happy hospital, and there’s practically no hierarchy. We’re all in the same business, after all.’
‘Well, thank God for that! My last hospital was the giddy limit—I was forever treading on someone’s toes.’ He put the washed lettuce in the salad spinner, and placed it on the table in front of her. ‘Now, what do you fancy? I’ve got a fresh sea-bass, or we could have steak if you’d prefer.’
‘Did you catch the bass?’
He laughed. ‘Afraid not, not this time. I bought it from the guy on the next boat. He caught it last night.’
‘Sounds wonderful.’
While she spun the lettuce and made the salad, he washed the fish, stuffed it with butter and a handful of fresh fennel from the garden, and pinned it together with cocktail sticks.
‘Thirty minutes in the oven,’ he said with a grin. ‘Time for a walk round the garden.’
It was lovely, heavy with scent and ripe with colour, and in the last rays of the June sunshine it was quite intoxicating.
Michael’s enthusiasm was infectious, as he discovered things in the garden and pointed out others to her that he had noticed before. Under a tree at the end was a swing, old and creaky, but he tested it and then offered her a ride.
She shook her head. ‘I never could make them go high enough.’
The next second his arm had snagged her waist and she was on his lap, swinging high in the air and laughing with delight as the wind tugged at her hair and the ground rushed up to meet them.
Finally he slowed it, and as they drifted gently back and forth, his lips touched warmly against hers before his arm released her.
She stood up, her legs shaking, but whether from the dizzying ride or the effects of the kiss she wasn’t sure. After all, it had only been a very tiny kiss, not at all the sort of thing that smouldering passion was made of, but it had affected her more deeply than she dared admit, even to herself. She could still feel the hard imprint of his thighs against her legs, and the warmth of his chest against her side.
‘The fish,’ he said abruptly, and she followed him back to the kitchen, her emotions in turmoil. As he unwrapped the bass and lifted it carefully on to the plate, she forced herself to behave calmly.
‘Do you have any salad dressing?’
‘In the little jar in the fridge door—it’s home-made.’
They sat at the big oak table in the kitchen for their meal, and to her surprise she relaxed and enjoyed it. The food was delicious, Michael friendly but nothing more, and she began to think she must have imagined her reaction to his kiss.
They took their coffee in the garden and sat on the bench seat among the roses, he at one end, she at the other, and a respectable distance between them. After a while their conversation flagged, and she looked up to see him watching her, his eyes intent.
She flushed. Perhaps she hadn’t imagined it? His arm was flung along the back of the seat, and his fingers reached out and brushed the side of her neck. Her pulse leapt to life, and she sprang to her feet.
‘I ought to go, Michael.’
He stood up smoothly and reached for her hand, his thumb idly brushing against her wrist.
‘I can feel your pulse,’ he murmured. ‘It’s racing. Fight or flight, or something even more fundamental?’
She was frozen, transfixed to the spot, as he closed the gap between them and cupped her face gently in his hands.
‘Have I told you how lovely you look tonight?’
‘I—no, I don’t think so …’
‘How remiss of me. You’re beautiful, Clare. Quite exquisite.’ Trapped in that paralysing blue gaze, she was powerless to move as he lowered his head and took her mouth in a kiss so gentle, so delicate that she thought she must be dreaming.
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