A Perfect Hero
Caroline Anderson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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.

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.

‘Thank you for a lovely evening, Michael,’ she said softly.

‘The pleasure was all mine,’ he murmured.

Clare smiled and shook her head. ‘Not all of it,’ she replied gently, and, rising on to her toes, she kissed his cheek lightly. ‘Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight, Clare. See you tomorrow.’

And she would, she thought with a little race of her heart. For the first time in a long, long while, she found herself looking forward to seeing a man again. The smile was still on her lips as she fell asleep.

CHAPTER TWO

IT WAS a busy week, and one in which Clare saw frustratingly little of Michael, and that only in brief snatches on the ward.

Two of the boys in ‘Borstal’ went home, to be replaced by one of the lads from ITU—the other had been moved direct to Stoke Mandeville—and another admission, a youth of seventeen who had come off his motorbike and fractured his femur.

He was in traction with a Steinmann pin and was comfortable enough to join in with the general hilarity after twenty-four hours.

Pete Sawyer had had a bone graft taken from his hip and placed in his arm to link the broken ends of his radius, and they were now hoping for some progress.

Tina, on the other hand, showed no progress, and on Thursday Mr Mayhew discussed with her the possibility of fusing her spine so they could start the long process of her rehabilitation.

She was stoical throughout, but Clare sensed her outward calm was just a front. Her mother, however, had no such outward calm, and on Friday Clare had to remove her from Tina’s bedside because she had collapsed in tears.

She took Mrs White into the office and met Michael there, studying case notes. He had been in on the dicussion with Tim Mayhew and the Whites, and the decision-making beforehand, and Clare gratefully handed the distressed woman over to him while she went back to see Tina.

The girl had tears in her eyes, the first real tears Clare had seen, and in a way she was relieved. She drew the curtains quietly round and sat beside her, holding her hand.

‘I don’t want to be in a wheelchair for the rest of my life,’ she whispered, and then the great heavy tears came, running down her wan cheeks and trailing into her hair.

There was nothing constructive to say, so Clare held her hand, and gradually the sobs subsided, leaving her weary and shaken.

‘I don’t think I can face my mum again for a while,’ she told Clare, and she nodded.

‘I’ll suggest she goes and has a look round the shops and comes back later, shall I?’

Tina shot her a grateful look. ‘Would you? I just can’t deal with her as well.’

Clare squeezed her hand and went back to the office.

‘How is she? I didn’t mean to upset her, but she’s only seventeen—too young for all this——’ Mrs White buried her face in her hands and sobbed again.

Over her head Clare met Michael’s eyes. He jerked his head towards the door, and Clare nodded.

‘Mrs White, I’ll get you a cup of coffee. You stay here for a minute and I’ll be back.’

She followed Michael out and up to the ward kitchen.

‘How is she?’

‘Tina? Finding her mother hard to deal with,’ Clare told him.

‘I’m not surprised. She can’t cope at all. I think Tim will want to get her transferred to the spinal injuries unit at Stoke Mandeville—they have all the necessary social and emotional back-up as well as state-of-the-art technology for dealing with this sort of thing.’ He sighed heavily and ran his hand through his hair. ‘Are you doing anything tonight?’

She was caught off guard by the change of tack, because she had hardly seen anything of him since Monday night. He had been kept on the run by the events of the week, and there had been no opportunity to further their relationship—if indeed they had one, which after such a short time she doubted, but she admitted to herself that she hoped they could have. She met his eyes.

‘Are you planning to jump my bones?’ she said with a twinkle.

He gave a short, surprised laugh. ‘Now that’s a tempting idea!’

She blushed. ‘I didn’t really mean that the way it came out,’ she laughed.

His hand came up and grazed her cheek. ‘What a shame,’ he teased gently. ‘I’ve been invited to a party at the house of one of the consultants, and I hardly know anyone who’ll be going—I’ll be like a fish out of water.’

‘Is it the Hamiltons?’

He nodded. ‘Yes, that’s right—they’ve just got married and they’re throwing a party to celebrate. I gather they had a very quiet wedding and this is in lieu of a reception. Well, will you come with me?’

Clare smiled. ‘I’m going anyway—Lizzi invited me. We’re sort of friends—or as close to it as anyone is with her. She’s always been a very private person until now. I can’t believe the change Ross has made in her.’

‘People don’t change other people, they just give them the confidence to be themselves—or take it away.’ He cupped her cheeks. ‘So you’ll come with me?’

She nodded. ‘I’d love to. I wasn’t really looking forward to it because I don’t know all that many people there myself. They’re all a bit exalted, really.’

He laughed. ‘I thought you said there was no hierarchy?’

‘Well, there isn’t really, but most of the people who’ll be there are older than me or married——’

‘Not part of the singles set, you mean?’

She shot him a surprised look. ‘I’m not part of the “singles set”, Michael,’ she said reprovingly.

‘No, of course not, you don’t have a lover and you don’t want one.’

She met his laughing eyes. ‘Are you teasing me?’

He remained deadpan, except for the eyes. ‘Would I?’

‘Yes, you would!’

‘Perhaps a little.’ His face gentled into a smile. ‘What time shall I pick you up?’

‘I’m on a split, so I won’t be ready to go until after nine—does that matter?’

He shook his head. ‘That’s fine. I don’t imagine it will get off the ground much before then, anyway. Tell you what, I’ll go and get changed when I finish here, and I’ll come up to your flat and wait for you—how’s that?’

Too intimate, she wanted to say, but Sister O’Brien came into the kitchen and smiled cheerily at them.

‘Making coffee for that poor woman?’

Clare flushed guiltily, ‘Yes, I was, Sister.’

Michael winked at her over Mary O’Brien’s frilly cap. ‘We’ll leave it like that, then, Staff,’ he said and sauntered out, giving her no option but to agree.

She was just putting the finishing touches to her make-up when she heard the knock on her door at five past nine. ‘Come in,’ she called, and carried on with her face.

Glancing up in the mirror seconds later, she saw Michael lounging in her bedroom doorway, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his immaculate cream trousers. The cornflower-blue silk shirt he wore was the same shattering colour as his eyes, and in the V at the neck she could see a cluster of golden curls nestling in the hollow of his throat. He looked ruggedly male and devastatingly sexy. She blinked and smudged her mascara.

‘Damn.’ Picking up a tissue, she wiped the offending mascara off her lid and touched up the shadow.

‘Sorry—didn’t mean to startle you,’ he apologised with a grin. Her heart flipped and she had to make a conscious effort to steady her hand.

Giving up, she dropped the eyeshadow brush and stood up, smoothing down the skirt of her cotton lawn dress. It was a splashy floral print in warm pastel shades, the perfect complement to her pale gold hair and English rose complexion, and she loved it.

‘Will I do?’ she asked with a twirl, and was rewarded by the bright flare of interest in his eyes.

‘Oh, yes, you’ll do,’ he said with wry emphasis. ‘My blood-pressure must have gone up to over two hundred in the last thirty seconds. Come on, out of here before I do something you’ll make me regret!’

She scooped up her shawl and bag, and clicked her heels.

‘Ready when you are, sir!’

‘That’s what I like—a woman who knows her place!’

He ushered her out to the car, and all the way to the Hamiltons’ house she was conscious of him as she had never been before.

‘What a fabulous place!’ she breathed as Michael parked the car on the sloping lawn and led her across to the sprawling, split-level house.

‘Gorgeous, isn’t it? He must be stinking rich.’

‘He’s quite old—thirty-eight or -nine.’

‘Oh, ancient!’ Michael said with a laugh. ‘I can assure you I won’t have accumulated this sort of wealth in five years.’

‘Private practice?’

He laughed and shook his head. ‘Too busy with the boat. Maybe later.’

He ushered her through the front door, and they were greeted by their host and hostess, looking wonderfully relaxed and blissfully happy. They made a beautiful couple, Lizzi with her astonishing violet eyes and pale blonde hair, Ross tall and distinguished, his thick, prematurely silver hair a perfect foil for the healthy glow of his skin.

Clare hugged Lizzi warmly. ‘Congratulations, Mrs Hamilton!’ she said, her voice full of emotion.

Lizzi hugged her back. ‘Thanks, Clare. I’m glad you could come. Ross, do you know Clare Stevens? She’s Mary O’Brien’s staff nurse.’

Ross shook her hand, and Clare was struck again by the wealth of warmth and understanding in his gentle grey-green eyes.

‘Take care of her, she’s a super girl,’ Clare admonished him.

‘Oh, I intend to cherish her until she begs for mercy,’ he said with a laugh, but she noticed his eyes met Lizzi’s in a look so intensely private and filled with passionate commitment that she felt almost embarrassed to have witnessed it. He turned to Michael. ‘Hello, Michael. Glad you could make it. Go on through and make yourselves at home. Drinks are in the kitchen—Callum will help you.’

‘Who’s Callum?’ Michael asked as they walked away.

‘Ross’s oldest son. He’s been married before.’

They collected their drinks and made their way out into the garden and down the terrace of steps.

‘Lord, a pool!’

‘Oh, yes—all mod cons! I expect things will deteriorate later and at least one person will end up chucked in—it was Lizzi last time!’

He chuckled. ‘Remind me to keep well out of the way—these shoes wouldn’t survive a dunking. Now,’ he said, tucking his arm round her waist and guiding her away from the crowd, ‘what’s a lovely young thing like you doing all on your own at a party like this?’

‘I’m not,’ she reminded him.

‘Ah, but you would have been if I hadn’t turned up in the nick of time. So why? You can’t tell me no one’s offered?’

She shrugged. ‘I didn’t want to give anyone the wrong impression.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning that if I go to a party with someone, that someone might get the wrong idea——’

‘But you’re here with me. Aren’t you afraid I’ll get the wrong idea?’

‘No.’ She turned to face him and met his gaze unblinkingly. ‘You have the same problem—because you look the way you do, no one will take you seriously. I know you understand,’ she told him frankly.

That doesn’t make me immune to your charms,’ he said softly.

‘Michael, don’t …’

‘OK, OK!’ He held up his hands in laughing surrender. ‘I take the hint. Now, who are all these people?’

They circulated, Clare introducing Michael to those people that she knew, and in turn being introduced herself to others who she knew only by sight. By ten-thirty they had talked themselves hoarse, and there was a welcome interruption when the music was turned down and Oliver Henderson, one of the other consultants, called everyone’s attention from the top of the steps.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began, ‘I don’t want to bore you with speeches, but I’m sure you would all like me to take this opportunity to thank the Hamiltons for their hospitality tonight, and to wish them every happiness in their marriage. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Ross and Lizzi!’

‘Ross and Lizzi!’ everyone chorused, and then there were yells of ‘Speech!’ from the crowd.

Ross came forward, his arm anchored round Lizzi’s waist, and waved them all down.

‘I don’t want to make any speeches—I hate doing it nearly as much as Oliver does, but we would like to thank you for your good wishes, and the welcome I’ve received since joining the hospital. So much has happened since then that I can hardly believe it’s only been ten weeks, but as all of it’s been good I won’t ask any questions!’ There was a ripple of laughter, and he continued, ‘Anyway, thank you all, and do enjoy yourselves.’

There was a round of enthusiastic applause, and then four young men appeared at Ross’s side.

One of them was Mitch Baker, his registrar, and one was Ross’s son Callum. He grinned at Ross and held up his hand.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, for my favourite stepmother, the moment you’ve all been waiting for!’

Then they picked Ross up, ran down the steps and hurled him, yelling wildly, into the swimming pool.

‘Good grief!’ Michael muttered.

Clare was convulsed with laughter.

‘Serves him right,’ she said eventually. ‘At the last party they had, he chucked Lizzi in in her underwear!’

‘Why?’

She shrugged. ‘No one knows, but we all have a fair idea!’

The music was turned up again, and as Ross climbed out of the pool and laughingly tossed his sons in over his shoulder, Michael pulled Clare into his arms.

‘Dance with me,’ he murmured.

‘But it’s a fast record!’ she laughed.

‘So halve the beat! Where’s your imagination, Staff Nurse Stevens?’

There was a shriek behind them as Ross reached Lizzi and carried her, kicking and screaming, into the water, but Michael and Clare were oblivious.

The music changed tempo, and in the dimly lit garden Clare’s arms reached up and twined round Michael’s neck. His cheek rested against her hair, and as their bodies swayed gently to the music she relaxed against him and let herself go.

What harm could it do? She’d told him clearly enough that she wasn’t in the market for an affair, and she carefully blanked off the part of her mind that told her things might be changing.

His hands rested lightly against her spine, and for a long time they danced without any conscious thought. Then Michael lifted his head and rested his brow against hers, and eased her closer with a subtle pressure of his hands.

‘I think I’m going to die if I don’t kiss you soon,’ he murmured.

So much for her relaxation! So much for her belief that it couldn’t do any harm! And the worst thing was, she didn’t care any more.

‘Me, too,’ she whispered.

He drew in a sharp breath, and swallowed hard.

‘Let’s get out of here.’

Her heart pounding, she nodded blindly.

‘Any sign of our host and hostess?’ he asked, and she noticed his voice was strained.

‘I don’t think so.’ Heavens, she didn’t sound much better!

‘Let’s just go—they won’t miss us. We’ll thank them next week.’

Her wrap was still in the car, so they were able to make their way around the side of the house and leave without drawing attention to themselves.

All the way back to his cottage her heart was pounding with nerves, and as they pulled up outside, she took a deep, steadying breath before climbing out of the car.

Michael unlocked the front door and ushered her inside, then, leaning on the door, he pulled her gently but firmly back into his arms and kissed her thoroughly.

‘I’m scared,’ she whispered.

‘Don’t be. I won’t do anything to hurt you, or anything you don’t want me to do. I just had to be alone with you, without an audience of interested spectators making notes on our every move.’

He let her go, and she stood trembling by the door as he went into the kitchen and put the kettle on.

‘Coffee?’ he asked, sticking his head back round the door, and then came towards her, a serious but tender expression on his face.

‘Clare, it’s OK. Do you want to go home?’

She shook her head numbly.

‘Just hold me,’ she said unsteadily, and he wrapped his arms around her and held her hard against his chest.

After a minute she relaxed, and he eased away from her, dropping a light kiss on her brow. ‘Go and sit down, and I’ll bring the coffee through. How do you take yours?’

‘White, no sugar,’ she told him, and moved mechanically into the sitting-room.

He joined her a few minutes later, sat down on the settee and patted the cushion beside him.

‘Come and sit with me.’

His tone was gentle, persuasive, and quite unthreatening. Clare did as she was told, perching on the edge, longing to lean back against his side and at the same time ready to run if necessary.

His hand reached out and brushed the bare skin at the nape of her neck.

‘Please don’t be afraid of me,’ he murmured.

‘I—I’m not. I think I’m afraid of myself.’

‘Don’t be. I’ll take care of you. Come here.’

He took her shoulders in his hands and eased her slowly back against him, so that she half sat, half lay across his lap. Then with one arm under her shoulders, he cradled her against his chest and sighed with contentment.

After a moment, in which she realised he was not about to make any demands of her, she slipped off her shoes and lifted her feet up on to the settee, snuggling closer to him.

‘OK?’

‘Mmm.’ She moved her eyes and rested her cheek against his chest. His heart was beating steadily, slowly and evenly.

‘You must be very fit,’ she murmured.

He chuckled. ‘Why?’

‘Your heart beats very slowly—about fifty-five a minute—like an athlete’s.’

‘I jog some mornings, and windsurf, and I also play squash three times a week and tennis in the summer. When I’m not doing any of those things, I’m sailing. I suppose that keeps me fit. What about you?’

‘Me? I’m lazy,’ she said with a sigh of contentment.

‘Like the cat.’

‘Where is your cat?’

‘Around. He’s having a fantastic time exploring. He’ll be in in a while for a bit of TLC, then off out again hunting. He’s a bit of an alley cat, really, but he’s an old softie underneath. His name’s O’Malley, from the cat in The Aristocats.’

Right on cue, she heard a loud miaow and something heavy landed on her stomach. Her lids flew up and she peered, startled, straight into pair of bright blue eyes.

‘He’s a Siamese!’

‘Oh, yes. Didn’t I tell you that?’

O’Malley squawked and stepped delicately over her shoulder, taking up residence around Michael’s neck.

‘He thinks he’s a collar,’ Michael said in resignation.

Clare laughed and swivelled round so that her feet were back on the floor. ‘He’s very beautiful.’

‘He’s a rogue,’ Michael said affectionately, and scratched his ears. The cat squawked again, and began to purr loudly.

They drank their coffee in companionable silence, broken only by the sound of O’Malley’s tongue rasping over his paws. After a while he detached himself from Michael’s neck and stalked out of the door, tail held high.

‘He’s off on the razzle again. More coffee?’

She shook her head. Somehow, without O’Malley’s unwitting guardianship, she felt much more alone with Michael again.

‘Do you want me to take you home?’ he asked with gentle insight.

She looked up, startled. ‘But I thought …’

‘What?’

She shook her head. ‘Nothing.’

His fingers traced the outline of her jaw, and threaded under her hair to knead the tense muscles of her neck.

‘I want to make love to you, Clare, but there’s more than that with us, isn’t there?’

She met his eyes, surprised by his admission. ‘Is there? For you, I mean?’

‘Oh, yes …’ His fingers closed around her shoulder and eased her gently back against him. ‘Oh, yes, my love, there’s much more. I think we could have something really special, and I think it deserves to be given time to flourish.’ His lips brushed hers briefly, and with a sigh he hugged her and then let her go.

‘Come on, I’d better take you home before you undermine my good intentions and I do something unspeakably wicked to you on the carpet.’

Clare giggled. ‘You wouldn’t!’

‘Is that a dare?’

She shook her head, suddenly breathless, because for all the lightness of his tone his eyes were deadly serious. ‘No. Take me home, Michael.’

With a wry grin, he helped her to her feet and led her to the car.

Once they had set off he found her hand in the darkness and rested it on his thigh, holding it there except when he needed to change gear. When they reached the hospital, he pulled up in the car park outside the nurses’ residence and turned to face her.

‘How about spending the day with me tomorrow on the boat?’

‘I might be working,’ she teased.

‘But you’re not—I checked the rota. If you don’t want to, you can always say no, Clare.’

She was struck by the uncertainty in his voice, and squeezed his hand. ‘Of course I want to. It would be lovely.’

‘Can you be ready by eight?’

‘Yes, that’s fine. What shall I wear?’

‘Something scruffy and fairly warm, and bring shorts and a swimsuit.’ He leant over and kissed her firmly but briefly, then pushed open the door. ‘I won’t come in with you—I’m not sure I could resist the temptation. I’ll see you tomorrow. Sleep well, my love.’

‘You too. Thanks for a lovely evening.’

She touched his cheek with her hand, and then climbed out of the car and shut the door, watching until his tail-lights disappeared from view.

Then she let herself back inside and prepared for bed, certain she wouldn’t be able to sleep. So he thought they could have something really special, something that deserved time to flourish. She wondered where it would lead—to heartache, or to a lifetime of happiness? Maybe neither. Only time would tell.

She snuggled down in bed, her head crowded with images of Michael, and fell asleep in seconds.

Oh, Michael, she’s lovely!’

Clare stood on the quayside and gazed in admiration at the little sloop. Built on traditional, classic lines, she was sleek and graceful, and Clare fell in love on the spot.

Michael slammed the boot of the Volvo and strolled to her side, a confident, cocky grin on his face. ‘Isn’t she great? I know every inch of her, inside and out—I helped my grandfather build her the year I was ten. She handles beautifully—he really knew what he was doing. Come on, let’s get all this stuff stowed and take her out.’

He led Clare on to the pontoon that ran out like a finger into the marina, with little branches off it at intervals to which boats were moored in orderly profusion.

‘I may be biased, but I think she’s the prettiest,’ Clare told him as they arrived at the Henrietta and she got her first close look at the boat.

‘I’m biased too, but I happen to agree with you!’ He shot her a cheeky grin. ‘Here, hold this lot.’ He handed her some bags and hopped nimbly aboard, uncovering the cockpit and stowing the cover neatly under the seat in the stern.

Then he took the bags from her, dropped them into the cockpit and held out his hands. ‘Welcome aboard,’ he said, and as she leapt forward he caught her under her arms and swung her on to the deck.

She fell against him, laughing, and as she straightened his head came down and he kissed her lingeringly.

‘Good morning,’ he said huskily.

‘Good morning yourself,’ she replied, suddenly breathless. ‘What can I do?’

He waved a hand at the bags. ‘Get all this lot stowed away in the cabin and come back and keep me company.’

She scrambled somewhat inelegantly over the high step of the hatchway, down the two rungs of the companionway into the main cabin, and took a deep breath.

Oh, yes. Varnish, and seawater, and diesel, and the unmistakable smell of the bilges. Clare hadn’t realised how much she had missed messing about in boats until she had caught that evocative smell. Heavens, it took her right back to her childhood! Suddenly light-hearted, she looked around her.

On her right was a desk next to a bank of navigational equipment, charts, radio and so on, and on her left a little galley, with a gimballed stove designed to remain stable as the boat tilted from side to side. In front of her was the main seating area, with two long benches down either side that would convert to berths, one L-shaped, with a fixed table in front of it that would collapse to make a double berth.

There was a door directly opposite her that led, she imagined, to another little cabin in the bows, and the ‘head’, that ghastly contraption that passed for a loo on board small boats.

She looked around her at the cabin, and a little smile touched her mouth. This was Michael.

There were a few books—Nicholas Monsarrat, Neville Shute, Hammond Innes—a couple of bottles of wine and one of brandy, two jars of coffee and some powdered milk, a few tins of staples—everything a man like him would need for a quick getaway.

She heard his light tread behind her and turned.

‘Are you a loner?’

He looked startled for a second, and then smiled. ‘No, not really, but I do need to escape every now and again and top up. Will that worry you?’

There he goes again, talking as if we have a future, she thought with a soaring heart.

‘No, it won’t worry me at all. We all need solitude periodically.’

He gave her a brief hug. ‘What do you think of her?’

‘Oh, she’s lovely—just right. All wooden fittings and personal touches—not at all like a modern boat.’

He laughed. ‘You don’t sound as if you approve of modern boats!’

‘Well, they have their place, I suppose, but they’re characterless by comparison.’

‘Thank you,’ he said simply, and hugged her again. After a moment he eased away from her with a reluctant sigh and headed for the hatch. ‘We need to get under way if we’re going to catch the tide up the Deben. There’s a sand-spit across the mouth of the river that closes it off at low tide, but if we go now we should make it just about right.’

She found a picnic in one of the bags and wedged it in the corner of the galley, and dropped the other bag, full of towels and sweaters, on the quarter bunk under the cockpit. Then she clambered back over the hatch to join Michael.

There’s a light breeze picking up—just do us nicely,’ he said, and pressed the starter button. The engine turned, coughed, and fired immediately. He cast off, jumped nimbly back on board and steered her carefully over to the lock. The top gates were open, and the lads working the lock made her fast and stood by to steady the boat as she lowered.

Tide’s only just coming in now, so we’ve got quite a long way to go. Will it worry you?’

Clare shook her head. ‘Must make it tricky if you get back too late,’ she said. ‘Do you have to find another mooring outside overnight?’

‘Oh, no—they have a motto here, “Lock around the Clock”—you can come and go whenever you please. Just as well—when I got her here from the Scillies it was nearly midnight.’

‘Isn’t that a bit hair-raising in the dark, in strange waters?’

He laughed. ‘Hardly strange! She’s been moored near here for fifteen years—my grandfather lives in Holbrook. I know this coast like the back of my hand.’

As the lock gates opened and Michael manoeuvred the boat out into the estuary, Clare sat back and relaxed. There was nothing she could usefully do, and Michael was clearly competent. She might as well give herself a treat and watch him at work.

And it was a treat, she admitted to herself some time later. He had changed into ragged cut-off jeans and abandoned his T-shirt, and she watched the smooth play of muscle in his back as he hoisted the mainsail and unfurled the foresail, tightening the sheets and bringing the head round into the wind.

‘OK?’

She nodded. ‘Super. I’d forgotten how much I love it!’

He laughed in sheer enjoyment. ‘Great, isn’t it? I’d die if I couldn’t do this!’

After a while he offered her the helm, and stood behind her, his hands steady on hers, his chest brushing lightly against her back. She leant back against him, resting her head on his shoulder, and made a small sound of contentment in her throat.

‘Happy?’

‘Oh, Michael, you have no idea …’

His lips nuzzled her neck. ‘You taste wonderful—fresh and clean and delicious. Mind the ferry.’

‘What ferry?’

He laughed. ‘Just testing. Want to take her round the point?’

She let out a breath. ‘I’ll try—just don’t go away.’

‘I won’t. Take your time.’

She took a steadying breath, let out the port sheet, spun the wheel and hauled in the starboard sheet. Henrietta yawed wildly for a second or two, then the sails filled with a slap and she settled down on the new course.

‘Well done.’

She laughed breathlessly. ‘It was awful!’

He chuckled, his arms wrapping round her waist to pull her back against him. ‘It wasn’t perfect, but it was fine. You’ll do, with practice.’

‘Hmm. Maybe another time. Over to you, Cap’n Bligh.’

She slid under his arm and sat in the cockpit, her feet propped on the other seat, and mopped up the sunshine. After a few minutes she started to overheat, and went below to put on her shorts and T-shirt. There was a cooling breeze off the sea, but it was going to be a gloriously hot June day nevertheless.

Michael’s eyes ran appreciatively over her legs as she climbed over the hatch, and he gave a gusty sigh.

‘How the hell am I supposed to keep my hands off you when you look like that?’

‘Well, ditto!’

Their eyes met.

‘Oh, dear God, Clare—I want you,’ he whispered.

She swallowed. ‘Can we talk about this later? You’re going to run us aground on the sand-spit if you don’t concentrate!’

He swore softly under his breath, and then gave a rueful chuckle. ‘It’s a deal. Just sit down and don’t fidget about, or I won’t stand a chance of thinking straight!’

It was a wonderful day. They tacked up the river towards Woodbridge, ate their picnic in sight of the Tide Mill, and dropped back down with the tide, rounding the point off Felixstowe at four o’clock. By five they were back in the marina, mooring Henrietta and packing up their things.

By the time they left, Clare’s nerves were at screaming pitch. Every touch of his hand, every brush of his body against hers as they manoeuvred round each other in the little cabin had left her senses reeling.

They drove back to the cottage in a potent silence, and when they arrived back, he stilled her hand as he moved to unload the car.

‘Leave that lot. I want to make love to you. I’ve been watching you bending around in those tiny little shorts for hours, and I really don’t think I can stand much more of it.’

Her heart was pounding as she followed him into the cottage and up the stairs. In his bedroom he turned to her, his hands cupping her shoulders lightly. His eyes searched her face, his expression serious. ‘Is this what you want, Clare?’

She nodded, beyond speech.

‘Are you sure?’

She nodded again. ‘I’m terrified—I’ve never done it before, and I don’t really know what to expect, and I’ll probably be a dreadful disappointment to you, but yes—I’m sure.’

‘Oh, my love …’

He was so gentle, so careful with her, his hands tender, his voice coaxing her softly. And it was easy—much easier than she had imagined, and so—beautiful wasn’t the word, it was too earthy, too positive for that, but as she reached the crest, something deep inside her shattered and she felt freer than she had ever felt before.

Dear God, I love him! she thought, and clung to him as his body quivered under her hands and he cried her name.

CHAPTER THREE

‘I THOUGHT we were going to give this relationship time to flourish,’ Clare said sleepily, much later.

Beneath her ear Michael’s chest rumbled gently with suppressed laughter. ‘Yes, well, it flourished quicker than I dared to hope.’

He levered himself up on one elbow and looked down at her, his face gravely tender. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine. I’ve never felt so good in my life.’

‘I’m glad. Neither have I.’

‘Oh, come on,’ she laughed self-consciously. ‘I didn’t know what I was doing——’

‘Yes, you did. You were making love. It doesn’t require technical competence, darling.’ He kissed her gently, his voice roughened with emotion. ‘You were wonderful—warm, generous, funny—I love you, Clare.’

Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Oh, Michael, I love you too.’

She clung to him, her heart overflowing with happiness. She didn’t understand how it could have happened so soon, but it had, and it seemed so right loving him, as if she had been waiting all this time for him to come along and fill her life with sunshine and laughter.

He kissed her lingeringly, his hands tracing lazy patterns on her skin, and she tentatively laid her palms against his chest.

That feels good,’ he murmured.

‘Can I touch you?’ she asked hesitantly.

He flopped on to his back and spread his arms wide with a wicked grin. ‘Do whatever you want—I’m yours!’

His laugh turned to a groan as she ran her fingertips experimentally down the centre of his chest. His eyes closed, he lay rigid while she explored the changing textures and planes of hair and skin, tracing the smooth line of muscle and sinew, revelling in the feel of satin over steel. Fascinated by the contrast between vulnerability and strength, she dallied over the jut of his hipbones and the slight hollow of his pelvis above the taut, hard muscles of his thighs. His legs were strong and straight, well-muscled and smoothly tanned beneath the dense scatter of blond curls.

She knelt by his feet, her fingers tracing each toe in turn, smoothing the strong arch as her eyes trailed slowly up his body, absorbing his beauty like a drug.

‘You’re perfect,’ she said huskily, ‘so perfect. A perfect hero!’

He laughed self-consciously and reached down to pull her over him.

‘I’ve got scarry knees,’ he confessed.

‘So? All little boys have scarry knees. They probably aren’t any worse than mine.’

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