Caroline Anderson - Relative Ethics

‘Wear the blue silk,’ she said decisively, and lifted it out of the wardrobe.

Bron threw her a withering look. ‘I have no intention of getting myself raped. God only knows why I brought that thing. I shall wear the peach cotton dress—or the navy one with the sailor collar——’

‘Wear the blue silk,’ Jane repeated.

In answer Bron hung it up in the wardrobe and lifted out a soft peach-flowered cotton tea-dress, delicately pretty and absolutely demure. Jane made a sound of disgust, and Bronwen ignored her and finished her light make-up.

By the time they went down, Jane had admitted defeat and conceded that Bron did indeed look very attractive in the tea-dress.

‘Probably worse. You look so damned feminine that even a dyed-in-the-wool misogynist would fall for you!’

Bron laughed. ‘There’s hope for the average doctor, then!’

As they reached the bottom of the sweeping stairs, the two men detached themselves from the bar and came across to meet them.

‘Bron, I want you to meet Michael Grant. Michael, this is Bronwen Jones. I’m sorry, I don’t know your friend’s name——’

‘Oliver—Oliver Henderson. Pleased to meet you—at last.’

As their hands touched, a shiver of awareness surged between them, and Bron stiffened, and then with a smile Oliver engulfed her hand with his long, slender fingers and held it firmly. Eyes locked, they stood frozen, tingling with awareness, until a hand waved between their faces snapped them out of the trance.

Bron gave a breathless little laugh. ‘Hello, Oliver.’

Oliver’s eyes danced with amusement, and he released her hand reluctantly. ‘Hi,’ he said softly. ‘You’re looking lovely. Shall we go and get a drink?’

They gravitated to the bar, and, while Michael and Oliver organised the drinks, she had an opportunity to observe him.

He was tall—a touch over six feet, she judged, although from five feet five it was hard to be specific—and that lovely hair like burnished gold brushed his collar at the back, thick and unruly. She clenched her hands, just in case she gave in to her urges and ran across the bar to thread her fingers through its softness.

Heavens, he was just a man, like any one of the dozens she saw every day at work—no, not quite like them, her body denied. No one else had ever—ever—made her feel so warm and womanly and wanted with just a simple compliment.

They returned with the drinks, and Oliver squeezed in beside her, brushing her knee with the hard length of his thigh. She tried to shift away, but there was nowhere to go and the movement only exaggerated the contact.

He laid his arm along the back of the banquette seat and grinned at her.

‘Cosy, isn’t it? Do you mind? We could go somewhere quieter, if you like.’

Bronwen nearly choked. She was sure his comment was meant quite innocently, but her thoughts and his words were becoming inextricably entwined. She felt the blush coming before it reached her cheeks, and ducked her head forwards to hide it behind the fall of her hair.

His fingers eased it back and he smiled gently. ‘You’re lovely when you blush. I really didn’t mean that the way it sounded.’

She glanced quickly at him, and offered a shy smile in return. ‘I’m sorry, it must be the heat.’

‘Do you want to go out for a walk?’

‘Yes—oh, no! I mean——’

‘Just a walk. Trust me.’ His grin was mischievous but wholly straightforward, and his eyes were open and sincere. For some lunatic, unsound and intuitive reason, she did trust him.

‘OK. It’s too hot to eat yet anyway.’

They wandered through the grounds of the conference centre, down towards the little man-made lake, and paused on the bridge, elbows resting on the parapet, sipping their drinks and watching the baby ducks for a while in companionable silence.

‘So what’s a gorgeous young thing like you doing on a God-awful course like this?’ he asked after a minute or two.

Bron laughed. ‘Treatment of Trauma? I work in Accident and Emergency. I’m an SHO, but I’ve been offered the registrar’s job in December when she takes maternity leave. What about you?’

‘I’m in general surgery. I found A and E too traumatic—literally.’

‘Really?’ Bronwen eyed him in amazement. ‘I love it.’

‘You must be addicted to your own adrenalin, then! I like the nice, sedate pace of the theatre. I can cope with that. You don’t often get two patients at once!’

Bronwen studied him openly. ‘You ought to be able to cope at your age,’ she teased. ‘How old are you—thirty, thirty-one?’

He chuckled. ‘Not bad. I’m thirty next week. What about you?’

She smiled. ‘You aren’t supposed to ask a lady that question!’

‘But?’

‘Twenty-seven.’ Her smile tilted her lips a little further.

He touched his finger to the corner of her mouth. ‘Lovely…’ His eyes fastened on her lips, and she moistened them involuntarily with her tongue.

He ran the fingertip across her lower lip, the damp skin dragging gently.

‘If we stay here much longer, little lady,’ he whispered, ‘I’m going to kiss that delectable mouth.’

Bron felt his breath fan gently across her face, and her lips parted on a sigh of regret. She wished he would. Her eyes fluttered closed while she dealt with the storm of feeling suddenly raging in her breast. Who was he? Why this crazy urge to bury her face against his broad, firm chest and hug him close?

His palms cupped her face, and she sensed rather than felt his lips brush lightly over hers, once, twice, before his lips came down firmly over hers with a sweet, aching tenderness far more intimate than passion would have been. With a tortured groan, he folded her into his arms and held her tight.

‘Oliver?’

‘Shh. Don’t say anything. Just let me hold you.’

They stood there, arms wrapped round each other, absorbing the warmth and humanity of the contact while their tumbling emotions settled to a steady roar. Gradually his grip slackened, and Bron stood away from him, raising puzzled eyes to his.

‘What happened?’

His voice was gruff with emotion. ‘I don’t know, Bron. I’ve never felt anything like this before. It’s as if——’ He laughed, a little raggedly. ‘My God, I’m normally so practical and down-to-earth! Perhaps we ought to go and eat—it’s probably the hallucinogenic effects of hypoglycaemia.’

Bron laughed breathlessly. ‘You could be right.’

Instinctively their fingers met and wound together as they walked slowly back to the conference centre, a large, sprawling country house dating from the turn of the century.

‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ Bron sighed. She wondered what he had been going to say. It’s as if—what? As if we were meant for each other? As if we’ve been waiting all our lives? Suddenly, she felt threatened by the short time they could have together. ‘It’s a shame we’re only here for four days,’ she blurted.

‘Funny, I’ve been thinking that, but it’s nothing to do with architecture and everything to do with a dark-haired sprite from the valleys——’

‘I’m not from the valleys! It’s only my name that’s Welsh—and my father. I was born in London.’

‘Poetic licence. Bron?’

‘Mmm?’

He tugged her to a halt, and looked down into her face with eyes unguarded and vulnerable. He looked slightly embarrassed and very honest. ‘I know we’ve only got a few days, but I want to see as much of you as I can. I don’t know what’s happening between us, I don’t normally come on so strong. Whatever, there’s something, and I want to find out what it is. No holds barred. I’m warning you, I want to make love to you, Bron, slowly, tenderly—I want to watch your eyes heavy with passion, your lips full and ripe from my kisses … not tonight, but soon. Maybe tomorrow, the next day? I want to know you first, but when I do——’