Nicola Marsh - Valentine's Day

And, boy, did it please.

Her head spun, her chest squeezed, her insides squirmed. Every cell in her body cried out to just merge with his. As though they recognised their chemical equal.

It wasn’t until his thigh slid down between hers that reality intruded.

For both of them.

She twisted her face away from his and sucked in a breath of fresh coastal air. Sweeter and colder than anything they got in London. It helped to clear her muddled head, just a little.

Zander lifted his lips and stared down at her. Speechless.

‘Um...’ What more could she say?

Where the hell had that come from?

One minute they were talking and the next she was crawling down his throat, hungry for more of the best kiss she’d ever had.

He pressed back up, grinding closer where it really counted and sending a new wave of heat to her cheeks. He twisted sideways and his heavy, sexy weight lifted off her.

She missed him instantly.

She sat up and blew air slowly through swollen lips.

‘Georgia, I—’ He cut himself off to clear his throat.

She couldn’t bear to hear him apologise, or declare it a mistake or express remorse. Not for a kiss like that. Not him. So she jumped in before he could start again, laughing lightly. Faking heavily. ‘Chalk it up to your post-race high? All those conquering impulses?’

He’d conquered her all right—like a Viking. And that thought triggered a rush of new images and sensations. God, how she’d love to just lie back and concede defeat.

Weighing up his choices showed in his face, even in the dim light. ‘We could say that.’

She took a breath.

‘Or we could acknowledge the chemistry that’s been between us since we met.’

Acknowledge it sounded a lot like forgiving it. Releasing it.

Ignoring it.

‘Since we met?’ Though she still remembered the spark as he’d handed her the coat out at Wakehurst.

‘It had to come to a head at some time.’

‘You ignored me for so many weeks.’

‘I was trying to ignore it. Not you. Our relationship was a professional one.’

Past tense? ‘And now?’

‘Now it’s going to be even harder keeping things professional.’

‘Back in London?’ Back in the real world. Where adrenaline-fuelled kisses and dramatic sunsets didn’t happen.

‘It would be inappropriate for me to start something with you.’

‘Inappropriate?’ She sat up and tucked her knees to her chest. How politically correct.

He followed her upright. ‘I’m the manager of the station running your promotion. I sign the cheques that pay for your classes.’

And would do for months yet.

‘And it’s not fair to you, either. You’re not equipped for something like this.’

She sat back, hard. Shook her head. ‘Like what?’

‘Something happening between us.’

Not everyone’s cut out for seduction, he’d joked back at spy school, though maybe it hadn’t been entirely a joke. She had failed abysmally at flirting her way to information from a stranger in class, though Zander’s eyes had remained glued to her the whole time. But that was...you know...a stranger. And this was Zander.

Totally different situation.

Though maybe not for him. How cruel to kiss her half to death, to make her feel so desirable, and then to back-pedal so very obviously.

He rambled on. ‘This was—’

Fantastic? Overdue?

‘—an aberration.’

Pain sliced through her. Could he have found an uglier way of saying it was a mistake? She stared across at Scotland, and would have given anything to spontaneously teleport over to the far bank.

‘I should have had more control,’ he said. ‘This is my fault.’

Oh, please. ‘I came up here willingly.’

‘Not expecting that, I’m sure.’

No. Definitely not expecting that. She just wanted to get to know him a little bit. But she’d discovered a whole other Zander hidden inside the first one. ‘So now what? We just go back to how it was?’

He looked at her.

Did he need it spelled out? ‘You ignoring me?’

‘I won’t ignore you, George. I couldn’t, now.’

George. The same nickname her friends used for her. The irony bit hard. ‘So then business as usual?’

Silence was nod enough.

She pushed to her feet. ‘OK, then. Well, my first order of business is to get back to London before dawn.’

‘I’m staying at the Arms. Maybe they’ll have a second room?’

Was he joking? Stay anywhere near him and not want to be with him? While he found her so...ill-equipped?

‘I have a prep session for the personal makeover tomorrow morning. Measuring and stuff.’ Never mind that she’d never felt less like doing anything. Despite—apparently—needing all the help she could get. She grasped her excuses as she found them.

‘I’ll walk you to your car,’ Zander said.

For a guy who had protested so vehemently about her catching the underground home after a couple of wines, he was sure very willing to let her drive a deadly weapon half way across the country with still-scattered wits.

Maybe he wanted her gone as much as she needed to be there?

They walked, in silence, back up the road to her vehicle. The rapid journey from body-against-body and lips-against-lips to this awful, careful distance was jarring, but the cold night breeze helped her to blow the final wisps of desire from her mind like fog from shore.

It was for the better. Almost certainly.

She turned and faced him, a bright smile on her face. ‘See you Wednesday night, then?’

Salsa class.

She held her breath. If he was going to pull out of his pledge to go with her, now was the moment it would happen.

He stared down at her, leaned forward as if to kiss her again, but pulled on the handle of the car door behind her instead. ‘See you Wednesday.’

Him being chivalrous with the door went exactly no way to making her feel any better about what an ass he’d just been back on the bank of the firth. She grunted her thanks, slipped into her front seat, and slammed the door shut on his parting words.

Drive safely.

SEVEN

The best run of his life turned into the worst night of his life.

Not the evening—the evening touched on one of the most special moments he’d ever had. But the night, after Georgia drove off so quickly down Bowness’s quiet main street... He barely slept that night despite his exhaustion and even Sunday was pretty much a write-off.

He spent the whole time trying to offload the kiss he had stolen from her like a fence trying to move appropriated diamonds. Failing abysmally.

After all these months—even after the stern talking to he’d given himself after getting all touchy feely with her at spy school—why had he let himself slip to quite that degree?

Kissing her. Touching her.

Torturing himself with what he couldn’t have.

There were endless numbers of women back in London that he could kiss. And touch. And sleep with if he wanted. Bold, casual, riskless women. Georgia Stone was not one of them. She wasn’t made of the same stuff as any of them. She wasn’t bold or casual. And Lord knew not without risk.

But then she’d walked into his world, the only woman—the only person—ever to watch him race, to wait with a cold drink and a proud smile at the finish line, and he’d let himself buy into the fantasy. Just for a moment. Then one fantasy had led to another until they were lying in the long, cool grass, tongues and feet tangling.

He’d let himself slip further than any time since Lara.

Worse, to trust. And he didn’t do trust.

Ever.

He’d finally tumbled into an exhausted sleep Sunday night, but his mood was no better today.

As evidenced by the way his staff were tiptoeing around him extra carefully. Even Casey, who usually only gave the most cursory of knocks before walking into his office, actually stood, waiting, until he gave her permission to enter.