Caroline Anderson - A Perfect Hero

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.

She sighed softly, and he eased her closer, so close that she could feel the beating of his heart against her own. Her lips parted slightly, and he deepened the kiss, his tongue tracing the edge of her teeth.

‘Open your mouth,’ he murmured gruffly against her lips, and she obeyed mindlessly, oblivious to everything except the feel of his body against hers, the touch of his hands on her face, the devastating intimacy of his kiss.

With a muffled groan he lifted his head and rested his cheek against her hair. She could feel the thudding of his heart, the slight tremor in his muscles as he held her close against his chest.

‘I think I’d better take you home now,’ he said after a moment, and she nodded speechlessly.

Neither of them spoke on the journey back to the hospital, but as he turned to leave her at her door, she laid a hand on his arm.