Praise for Carol Marinelli:

‘A heartwarming story about taking a chance and not letting the past destroy the future. It is strengthened by two engaging lead characters and a satisfying ending.’

—RT Book Reviews on THE LAST KOLOVSKY PLAYBOY

‘Carol Marinelli writes with sensitivity,

compassion and understanding, and

RESCUING PREGNANT CINDERELLA is not just a powerful romance, but an uplifting and inspirational tale about starting over, new beginnings and moving on.’

—Cataromance on ST PIRAN’S: RESCUING PREGNANT CINDERELLA

About the Author

CAROL MARINELLI recently filled in a form where she was asked for her job title and was thrilled, after all these years, to be able to put down her answer as ‘writer’. Then it asked what Carol did for relaxation. After chewing her pen for a moment Carol put down the truth—‘writing’. The third question asked—‘What are your hobbies?’ Well, not wanting to look obsessed or, worse still, boring, she crossed the fingers on her free hand and answered ‘swimming and tennis’. But, given that the chlorine in the pool does terrible things to her highlights, and the closest she’s got to a tennis racket in the last couple of years is watching the Australian Open, I’m sure you can guess the real answer!

If you love Carol Marinelli you’ll fall head over heels for her sparkling, touching, witty debut PUTTING ALICE BACK TOGETHER— available from MIRA® Books.

Recent titles by Carol Marinelli:

CORT MASON—DR DELECTABLE

HER LITTLE SECRET

ST PIRAN’S: RESCUING PREGNANT CINDERELLA*

KNIGHT ON THE CHILDREN’S WARD

*St Piran’s Hospital

Recent titles by Jessica Matthews:

THE CHILD WHO RESCUED CHRISTMAS

MAVERICK IN THE ER

SIX-WEEK MARRIAGE MIRACLE

EMERGENCY: PARENTS NEEDED

These books are also available in eBook format from www.millsandboon.co.uk

Hers For One
Night Only?
Carol Marinelli

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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CHAPTER ONE

‘YOU’RE far too available.’ Bridgette didn’t really know how to respond when her friend Jasmine’s sympathy finally ran out. After all, she knew that Jasmine was right. ‘It’s me and Vince’s leaving do and you won’t come out in case your sister needs a babysitter.’

‘You know it’s not as simple as that,’ Bridgette said.

‘But it is as simple as that.’ Jasmine was determined to stand firm this time. Her boyfriend, Vince, was a paediatric intern at the large Melbourne hospital where Bridgette had, until recently, worked, and he was heading off for a year to do relief work overseas. At what felt like the last minute the rather dizzy Jasmine had decided to join him for three months, and after a lot of paperwork and frantic applications, finally tonight there was a gathering to see them both off. ‘You’ve put everything on hold for Courtney, you’ve given up a job you love so you can do agency and be more flexible—you’ve done everything you can to support her and look at where it’s got you.’

Jasmine knew that she was being harsh, but she wanted Bridgette to cry, damn it, wanted her friend to admit the truth—that living like this was agony, that something had to give. But Bridgette refused to cry, insisting instead that she was coping—that she didn’t mind doing agency work, that she loved looking after Courtney’s son, Harry. ‘Come out, then,’ Jasmine challenged. ‘If everything’s as fine as you say, you deserve a night out—you haven’t had one in ages. I want you there—we all want to see you. Everyone will be there…’

‘What if…?’ Bridgette stopped herself from saying it. She was exhausted from going over the what-ifs.

‘Stop hiding behind Harry,’ Jasmine said.

‘I’m not.’

‘Yes, you are. I know you’ve been hurt, but you need to put it behind you.’

And it stung, but, then, the truth often did and, yes, Bridgette conceded, maybe she was using Harry as a bit of an excuse so as not to get out there. ‘Okay!’ Bridgette took a deep breath and nodded. ‘You’re on.’

‘You’re coming?’ Jasmine grinned.

‘Looks like it.’

So instead of sitting at home, Bridgette sat in the hairdresser’s and had some dark foils added to her mousey-brown hair. They made her skin look paler and her sludgy-grey eyes just a bit darker, it seemed, and with Jasmine’s endless encouragement she had a wax and her nails done too and, for good measure, crammed in a little shopping.

Bridgette’s bedroom was in chaos, not that Jasmine cared a bit, as they fought over mirror space and added another layer of mascara. It was a hot, humid night and already Bridgette was sweating. Her face would be shining by the time she got there at this rate, so she climbed over two laundry baskets to open her bedroom window and then attempted to find her shoes. ‘I must tidy up in here.’ Bridgette searched for her high-heeled sandals. Her bedroom had once been tidy—but when Harry had been born Courtney had moved in and Bridgette’s two-bedroom flat had never quite recovered from housing three—actually, four at times if you counted Paul. Her love life hadn’t recovered either!

Bridgette found her sandals and leant against the wall as she put them on. She surveyed the large boxes of shelves she had bought online that would hopefully help her organise things. ‘I want to get these shelves put up. Dad said he’d come around and find the studs in the wall, whatever they are…’

Jasmine bit her tongue—Maurice had been saying that for months. The last thing Bridgette needed tonight was to have her parents criticised but, honestly, two more unhelpful, inflexible people you could not meet. Maurice and Betty Joyce just closed their eyes to the chaos their youngest daughter created and left it all for Bridgette to sort out.

‘How do you feel?’ Jasmine asked as, dressed in a guilty purchase, make-up done and high heels on, Bridgette surveyed herself in the mirror.

‘Twenty-six.’ Bridgette grinned at her own reflection, liking, for once, what she saw. Gone was the exhausted woman from earlier—instead she literally glowed and not with sweat either. No, it was the sheer silver dress she had bought that did the most amazing things to her rather curvy figure, and the heavenly new blusher that had wiped away the last remnants of fatigue in just a few glittery, peachy strokes.

‘And single,’ Jasmine nudged.

‘Staying single,’ Bridgette said. ‘The last thing I want is a relationship.’

‘Doesn’t have to be a relationship,’ Jasmine replied, but gave in with a small laugh. ‘It does with you, though.’ She looked at her friend. ‘Paul was a complete bastard, you know.’

‘I know.’ She did not want to talk about it.

‘Better to find out now than later.’

‘I know that,’ Bridgette snapped. She so did not want to talk about it—she didn’t even want to think about it tonight—but thankfully Jasmine had other things on her mind.

‘Ooh, I wonder if Dominic will be there. He’s sex on legs, that guy…’ Even though she was blissfully happy with Vince, Jasmine still raved about the paediatric locum registrar, Dominic Mansfield.

‘You’re just about to fly off to Africa with your boyfriend.’ Bridgette grinned. ‘Should you be noticing such things?’

‘I can still look.’ Jasmine sighed. ‘Honestly, you can’t help looking when Dominic’s around—he’s gorgeous. He just doesn’t belong in our hospital. He should be on some glamorous soap or something…Anyway, I was thinking of him more for you.’

‘Liar. From what you’ve told me about Dominic, he’s not the relationship kind.’

‘Well, he must have been at some point—he was engaged before he came to Melbourne. Mind you, he wouldn’t do for you at all. He hardly speaks. He’s quite arrogant really,’ Jasmine mused. ‘Anyway, enough about all that. Look at you.’ She smiled at her friend in the mirror. ‘Gorgeous, single, no commitments…You’re allowed to have fun, you know.’

Except Bridgette did have commitments, even if no one could really understand them. It was those commitments that had her double-check that she had her phone in her bag. She didn’t feel completely single—more she felt like a single mum with her child away on an access visit. Courtney and Harry had lived with her for a year and it had ended badly, and though she spoke little to Courtney now, she was an extremely regular babysitter.

She missed him tonight.

But, she reminded herself, he wasn’t hers to miss.

Still, it was nice to be out and to catch up with everyone. They all put in some money for drinks, but unfortunately it was Jasmine who chose the wine and it was certainly a case of quantity over quality. Bridgette took a sip—she was far from a wine snob, but it really was awful and she sat on one drink all night.

‘When are you coming back to us?’ was the cry from her ex-colleagues.

‘I’m not sure,’ Bridgette responded. ‘Soon, I hope.’

Yes, it was a good night; it just wasn’t the same as it once had been.

She wasn’t one of them any more.

She had no idea who they were talking about when they moaned about someone called Rita—how she took over in a birth, how much her voice grated. There had been a big drama last week apparently, which they were now discussing, of which Bridgette knew nothing. Slipping her phone out of her bag, she checked it, relieved to see that there were no calls, but even though she wasn’t needed, even though she had nowhere else to be right now, the night was over for her.

She wasn’t a midwife any more, or at best she was an occasional one—she went wherever the agency sent her. Bridgette was about to say goodbye to Jasmine, to make a discreet exit, when she was thwarted by some late arrivals, whom Jasmine marched her over to, insisting that she say hello.

‘This is Rita, the new unit manager.’ Jasmine introduced the two women. ‘And, Rita, this is Bridgette Joyce. She used to work with us. We’re trying to persuade her to come back. And this is…’ He really needed no introduction, because Bridgette looked over and fell into very black eyes. The man stood apart from the rest and looked a bit out of place in the rather tacky bar, and, yes, he was as completely stunning as Jasmine had described. His black hair was worn just a little bit long and swept backwards to reveal a face that was exquisite. He was tall, slim and wearing black trousers and a fitted white shirt. He was, quite simply, divine. ‘This is Dominic,’ Jasmine introduced, ‘our locum paediatrician.’

He didn’t look like a paediatrician—oh, she knew she shouldn’t label people so, but as he nodded and said hello he didn’t look in the least like a man who was used to dealing with children. Jasmine was right—he should be on a soap, playing the part of a pretend doctor, or…She imagined him more a surgeon, a cosmetic surgeon perhaps, at some exclusive private practice.

‘Can I get anyone a drink?’ He was very smooth and polite, and there was no hint of an accent, but with such dark looks she wondered if his forebears were Italian perhaps, maybe Greek. He must have caught her staring, and when he saw that she didn’t have a glass, he spoke directly to her. ‘Bridgette, can I get you anything?’

‘Not for me, thanks, I’m—’ She was just about to say that she was leaving when Jasmine interrupted her.

‘You don’t need to buy a drink, Dominic. We’ve got loads.’ Jasmine toddled over to their loud table and poured him a glass of vinegary wine and one for Bridgette too, and then handed them over. ‘Come on.’ Jasmine pushed, determined her friend would unwind. ‘Drink up, Bridgette.’

He was terribly polite because he accepted it graciously and took a sip of the drink and managed not to wince. But as Bridgette took a tiny sip, she did catch his eye, and there was a hint of a shared smile, if it could even be called that.

‘It’s good that you could make it, Dominic.’ Vince came over. He had just today finished his paediatric rotation, and Bridgette had worked with him on Maternity for a while before she’d left. ‘I know that it hasn’t been a great day.’

She watched as Dominic gave a brief nod, gave practically nothing back to that line of conversation—instead, he changed the subject. ‘So,’ he asked, ‘when do you fly?’

‘Monday night,’ Vince said, and spoke a little about the project he was joining.

‘Well,’ said Dominic, ‘all the best with it.’

He really didn’t waste words, did he? Bridgette thought as Jasmine polished her cupid’s bow and happily took Vince’s hand and wandered off, leaving Bridgette alone with him and trying not to show just how awkward she felt.

‘Careful,’ she said as his glass moved to his lips. ‘Remember how bad it tastes.’

She was rewarded with the glimpse of a smile.

‘Do you want me to get you something else?’

Yikes, she hadn’t been fishing for drinks. ‘No, no…’ Bridgette shook her head. ‘Jasmine would be offended. I’m fine. I was just…’ Joking, she didn’t add, trying to make conversation. Gorgeous he might be to look at but he really didn’t say very much. ‘You’re at the hospital, then?’ Bridgette asked.

‘Just as a fill-in,’ Dominic said. ‘I’ve got a consultant’s position starting in a couple of weeks in Sydney.’ He named a rather impressive hospital and that just about summed him up, Bridgette decided—rather impressive and very, very temporary.

‘Your family is there?’

‘That’s right,’ he said, but didn’t elaborate. ‘You work on Maternity?’ Dominic frowned, because he couldn’t place her.

‘I used to,’ Bridgette explained. ‘I left six months ago. I’ve been doing agency…’

‘Why?’

It was a very direct question, one she wasn’t quite expecting, one she wasn’t really sure how to answer.

‘The hours are more flexible,’ she said, ‘the money’s better…’ And it was the truth, but only a shred of it, because she missed her old job very badly. She’d just been accepted as a clinical nurse specialist when she’d left. She adored everything about midwifery, and now she went wherever the agency sent her. As she was qualified as a general nurse, she could find herself in nursing homes, on spinal units, sometimes in psych. She just worked and got on with it, but she missed doing what she loved the most.

He really didn’t need to hear it, so back on went the smile she’d been wearing all night. ‘And it means that I get to go out on a Saturday night.’ The moment she said them, she wanted those words back, wished she could retrieve them. She knew that she sounded like some sort of party girl, especially with what came next.

‘I can see it has benefits,’ Dominic said, and she swore he glanced down at the hand that was holding the glass, and for a dizzy moment she realised she was being appraised. ‘If you have a young family.’

‘Er, no.’ Oh, help, she was being appraised. He was looking at her, the same way she might look at shoes in a window and tick off her mental list of preferences—too flat, too high, nice colour, shame about the bow. Wrong girl, she wanted to say to him, I’m lace-up-shoe boring.

‘You don’t have children?’

‘No,’ she said, and something twisted inside, because if she told him about Harry she would surely burst into tears. She could just imagine Dominic’s gorgeous face sort of sliding into horrified boredom if the newly foiled, for once groomed woman beside him told him she felt as if her guts were being torn, that right now, right this very minute, she was having great difficulty not pulling out her phone to check if there had been a text or a call from Courtney. Right now she wanted to drive past where her sister was living with her friend Louise and make sure that there wasn’t a wild party raging. She scrambled for something to say, anything to say, and of course she again said the wrong thing.

‘Sorry that you had a bad day.’ She watched his jaw tighten a fraction, knew, given his job, that it was a stupid thing to say, especially when her words tumbled out in a bright and breezy voice. But the false smile she had plastered on all night seemed to be infusing her brain somehow, she was so incredibly out of practice with anything remotely social.

He gave her the same brief nod that he had given Vince, then a very brief smile and very smoothly excused himself.

‘Told you!’ Jasmine was over in a flash the minute he was gone. ‘Oh, my God, you were talking for ages.’

‘For two minutes.’

‘That’s ages for him!’ Jasmine breathed. ‘He hardly says a word to anyone.’

‘Jasmine!’ She rolled her eyes at her friend. ‘You can stop this very moment.’ Bridgette let out a small gurgle of laughter. ‘I think I’ve just been assessed as to my suitability for a one-nighter. Honestly, he’s shameless…He asked if I had children and everything. Maybe he’s worried I’ve got stretch marks and a baggy vagina.’

It was midwife-speak, and as she made Jasmine laugh, she laughed herself. The two women really laughed for the first time in a long, long time, and it was so good for Bridgette to be with her friend before she jetted off, because Jasmine had helped her through this difficult time. She didn’t want to be a misery at her friends’ leaving do, so she kept up the conversation a little. They giggled about lithe, toned bodies and the temptresses who would surely writhe on his white rug in his undoubtedly immaculate city apartment. It was a white rug, they decided, laughing, for a man like Dominic was surely far too tasteful for animal prints. And he’d make you a cocktail on arrival, for this was the first-class lounge of one-night stands, and on and on they went…Yes, it was so good to laugh.

Dominic could hear her laughter as he spoke with a colleague, as again he was offered yet more supposed consolation for a ‘bad day’. He wished that people would just say nothing, wished he could simply forget.

It had been a…He searched for the expletive to best describe his day, chose it, but knew if he voiced it he might just be asked to leave, which wouldn’t be so bad, but, no, he took a mouthful of vinegar and grimaced as it met the acid in his stomach.

He hated his job.

Was great at it.

Hated it.

Loved it.

Did it.

He played ping-pong in his mind with a ball that broke with every hit.

He wanted that hard ball tonight, one that bounced back on every smash, one that didn’t crumple if you hammered it.

He wanted to be the doctor who offered better answers.

Today he had seen the dominos falling, had scrambled to stop them, had done everything to reset them, but still they’d fallen—click, click, click—racing faster than he could halt them till he’d known absolutely what was coming and had loathed that he’d been the only one who could see it.

‘Where there’s life there’s hope’ had been offered several times.

Actually, no, he wanted to say as he’d stared at another batch of blood results and read off the poisons that had filled this tiny body.

‘There is hope, though…’ the parents had begged, and he had refused to flinch at the frantic eyes that had scanned his face as he’d delivered news.

He loved hope, he craved hope and had searched so hard for it today, but he also knew when hope was gone, said it before others would. Unlike others, he faced the inevitable—because it was either cardiac massage and all lights blazing, or a cuddle without the tubes at the end.

Yes, it came down to that.

Yes, it had been a XXXX of a day.

He had sat with the parents till ten p.m. and then entered a bar that was too bright, stood with company that was too loud and tasted wine that could dissolve an olive, and hated that he missed her. How could you miss a woman you didn’t even like? He hated that she’d ring tonight and that he might be tempted to go back. That in two weeks’ time he’d see her. Shouldn’t he be over Arabella by now? Maybe it was just because he had had a ‘bad day’. Not that he and Arabella had ever really spoken about work—oh, they’d discussed their career paths of course, but never the day-to-day details. They’d never talked about days such as this, Dominic mused.

Then he had seen her—Bridgette. In a silver dress and with a very wide smile, with gorgeous nails and polished hair, she had drawn his eye. Yet on inspection there was more behind that polished façade than he cared to explore, more than he needed tonight.

He had been checking for a wedding ring.

What no one understood was that he preferred to find one.

Married women were less complicated, knew the rules from the start, for they had so much more to lose than he did.

Bridgette was complicated.

He’d read her, because he read women well. He could see the hurt behind those grey eyes, could see the effort that went into her bright smile. She was complicated and he didn’t need it. But, on the way down to her ring finger, he’d noticed very pale skin and a tapestry of freckles, and he’d wondered where the freckles stopped, had wondered far too many things.

He didn’t need an ounce of emotion tonight, not one more piece, which was why he had excused himself and walked away. But perhaps he’d left gut instinct in his car tonight, the radar warning that had told him to keep his distance dimmed a fraction as he looked over to where she stood, laughing with her friend.

‘Hey, Dominic…’ He heard a low, seductive voice and turned to the pretty blonde who stood before him, a nurse who worked in Theatre and one whose husband seemed to be perpetually away. ‘So brilliant to see you tonight.’ He looked into eyes that were blue and glittered with open invitation, saw the ring on her finger and the spray tan on her arm on the way down. ‘I just finished a late shift. Wasn’t sure I’d make it.’

‘Are you on tomorrow?’ someone asked.

‘No,’ she answered. ‘And I’ve got the weekend to myself. Geoff’s away.’ Her eyes flicked to his and Dominic met her gaze, went to take another sip of his drink and then, remembering how it tasted, changed his mind, and he changed his mind about something else too—he couldn’t stomach the taste of fake tan tonight.

Then he heard Bridgette laughing, looked over and ignored his inner radar, managed to convince himself that he had read her wrong.

He knew now what Bridgette’s middle name was.

Escape.

‘People are talking about going for something to eat…’ Vince came over and snaked his arm around Jasmine, and they shared a kiss as Bridgette stood, pretending not to feel awkward—actually, not so awkward now that she and Jasmine had had such a laugh. She wasn’t going out to dinner, or to a club, but at least she and Jasmine had had some fun—but then the waitress came over and handed her a glass.

‘For me?’ Bridgette frowned.

‘He said to be discreet.’ The waitress nodded her head in Dominic’s direction. ‘I’ll get rid of your other glass.’

Double yikes!

She glanced over to black eyes that were waiting to meet hers.

Wrong girl, she wanted to semaphore back—so very, very wrong for you, Dominic, she wanted to signal. It took me weeks to have sex with Paul, I mean weeks, and you’re only here for two. And I don’t think I’m very good at it anyway. At least he hinted at that when we broke up. But Bridgette didn’t have any flags handy and wouldn’t know what to do if she had them anyway, so she couldn’t spell it out; she only had her eyes and they held his.

She lifted the glass of temptation he offered and the wine slipped onto her tongue and down her throat. It tasted delicious—cold and expensive and not at all what she was used to.

She felt her cheeks burn as she dragged her eyes from him and back to her friend and tried to focus on what Jasmine was saying—something about Mexican, and a night that would never end. She sipped her champagne that was far too nice, far too moreish, and Bridgette knew she had to get out of there. ‘Not for me,’ she said to Jasmine, feeling the scald of his eyes on her shoulder as she spoke. ‘Honestly, Jasmine…’ She didn’t need to make excuses with her friend.

‘I know.’ Jasmine smiled. ‘It really is great that you came out.’

It had been. Bridgette was relieved that she’d made it this far for her friend and also rather relieved to escape from the very suave Dominic—he was so out of her league and she also knew they were flirting. Dominic had the completely wrong impression of her—he thought she worked agency for the money and flexibility, so that she could choose her shifts at whim and party hard on a Saturday night.

If only he knew the truth.

Still, he was terribly nice.

Not nice, she corrected. Not nice nice, more toe-curlingly sexy and a dangerous nice. Still, no one was leaving. Instead he had made his way over, the music seemed to thud low in her stomach and for a bizarre moment as he joined them she thought he was about to lean over and kiss her.

Just like that, in front of everyone.

And just like that, in front of everyone, she had the ridiculous feeling that she’d comply.

It was safer to leave, to thank him for the drink, to say she wasn’t hungry, to hitch up her bag and get the hell out of there, to ignore the dangerous dance in her mind.

‘I’ll see you on Monday,’ she said to Jasmine.

‘You can help me pack!’

The group sort of moved out of the bar as she did and walked towards the Mexican restaurant. There had been a burst of summer rain but it hadn’t cleared the air. Instead it was muggy, the damp night air clinging to her cheeks, to her legs and arms as her eyes scanned the street for a taxi.

‘Are you sure you don’t want something to eat?’ Dominic asked.

And she should say no—she really should walk away now, Bridgette told herself. She didn’t even like Mexican food, but he was gorgeous and it had been ages since there had been even a hint of a flirt. And she was twenty-six and maybe just a bit flattered that someone as sophisticated as he was was paying her attention. Her wounded ego could certainly use the massage and she’d just checked her phone and things seemed fine, so Bridgette took a deep breath and forced back that smile.

‘Sounds great.’

‘Good,’ he replied, except she was confused, because he then said goodbye to Vince and Jasmine as Bridgette stood on the pavement, blinking as the group all bundled into a restaurant and just the two of them remained. Then he turned and smiled. ‘Let’s get something to eat, then.’

‘I thought…’ She didn’t finish her sentence, because he aimed his keys at a car, a very nice car, which lit up in response, and she glanced at her phone again and there wasn’t a single message.

Her chariot awaited.

She climbed in the car and sank into the leather and held her breath as Dominic walked around to the driver’s side.

She didn’t do things like this.

Ever.

But there was a part of her that didn’t want to say goodnight.

A part of her that didn’t want to go back to an empty flat and worry about Harry.

They drove though the city; he blasted on the air-conditioner and it was bliss to feel the cool air on her cheeks. They drove in silence until his phone rang and she glanced to the dashboard where it sat in its little charger and the name ‘Arabella’ flashed up on his screen. Instead of making an excuse, he turned for a brief second and rolled his eyes. ‘Here we go.’

‘Sorry?’

‘The maudlin Saturday night phone call,’ Dominic said, grinding the gears. ‘How much she misses me, how she didn’t mean it like that…’

The phone went black.

‘Your ex?’

‘Yep.’ He glanced over to her. ‘You can answer it if she rings again.’ He flashed her a smile, a devilish smile that had her stomach flip. ‘Tell her we’re in bed—that might just silence her.’

‘Er, no!’ She grinned. ‘I don’t do things like that.’

On both counts.

‘Were you serious?’ she asked, because she couldn’t really imagine him serious about anyone. Mind you, Jasmine had said they’d been engaged.

‘Engaged,’ he said. ‘For a whole four weeks.’

And he pulled his foot back from the accelerator because he realised he was driving too fast, but he hated the phone calls, hated that sometimes he was tempted to answer, to slip back into life as he once had known it.

And end up like his parents, Dominic reminded himself.

He’d lived through their hellish divorce as a teenager, had seen their perfect life crumble, and had no intention of emulating it. With Arabella he had taken his time. They had been together for two years and he thought he had chosen well—gorgeous, career-minded and she didn’t want children. In fact, it had turned out, she didn’t want anything that was less than perfect.

‘You’re driving too fast.’ Her voice broke into his thoughts. ‘I don’t make a very good passenger.’ She smiled. ‘I think I’m a bit of a control freak.’

He slowed down, the car swishing through the damp city streets, and then they turned into the Arts Centre car park. Walking through it, she could hear her heels ringing on the cement, and even though it was her town, it was Dominic who knew where he was going—it had been ages since she had been in the heart of the city. She didn’t feel out of place in her silver dress. The theatres were spilling out and there were people everywhere dressed to the nines and heading for a late dinner.

She found herself by a river—looking out on it from behind glass. She was at a table, with candles and silver and huge purple menus and a man she was quite sure she couldn’t handle. He’d been joking in the car about telling his ex they were in bed, she knew it, but not really—she knew that too.

‘What do you want to eat?’

Bridgette wasn’t that hungry—she felt a little bit sick, in fact—but she looked through the menu and tried to make up her mind.

‘I…’ She didn’t have the energy to sit through a meal. Really, she ought to tell him now, that the night would not be ending as he was undoubtedly expecting. ‘I’m not very hungry…’

‘We can get dessert and coffee if you want.’

‘I wouldn’t mind the cheese platter.’

‘Start at the end.’ He gave her a smile and placed the order—water for him and cognac for her, he suggested, and, heaven help her, the waiter asked if she wanted it warmed.

‘Dominic…’ She took a deep breath as their platter arrived, a gorgeous platter of rich cheeses and fruits. ‘I think—’

‘I think we just ought to enjoy,’ he interrupted.

‘No.’ Bridgette gulped. ‘I mean…’ She watched as he smeared cheese on a cracker and offered it to her.

‘I don’t like blue cheese.’

‘Then you haven’t had a good one.’

He wasn’t wrong there!

He took a bite instead and her hand shook as she reached for the knife, tasted something she was quite sure she didn’t like and found out it was, in fact, amazing.

‘Told you.’

‘You did.’ She looked at the platter, at the grapes and dates, like some lush oil painting, and she knew the dance that was being played and the flirting and the seduction that was to come, and it terrified her. ‘I don’t think I should be here…’ She scrabbled in her bag, would pay the bill, knew that she must end this.

‘Bridgette.’ He wasn’t a bastard—he really wasn’t. Yes, he’d been playing the field since his engagement had ended, and, yes, he had every intention of continuing to do so, but he only played with those who were happy with the rules, and he knew now for sure that she wasn’t. ‘It’s cheese.’

She lifted troubled eyes to his.

‘No, it isn’t—it’s the ride home after.’

He liked her. He hadn’t wanted emotion tonight, and yet she made him smile as a tear washed away the last of her foundation and he could see freckles on her nose. ‘Bridgette, it’s cheese and conversation.’ He took her hand, and she started to tell him he didn’t want just cheese and conversation, oh, no, she knew it very well. She told him she wasn’t the girl in the silver dress who partied and he held her hand as she babbled about zebra-print rugs, no white ones, and cocktails. ‘Bridgette.’ He was incredibly close to adoring her, to leaning over and kissing her right now. ‘It’s cheese and conversation and then I’ll take you home.’ He looked at her mouth and he was honest. ‘Maybe just one kiss goodnight.’

Oh, but she wanted her kiss.

Just one.

‘That leads nowhere,’ she said.

‘That leads nowhere,’ he assured her.

‘We’re not suited,’ she said, and was incredibly grateful that he nodded.

‘We’re completely incompatible,’ Dominic agreed.

‘And I’m sorry if I’ve misled you…’

‘You didn’t.’ He was very magnanimous, smearing more cheese and this time handing it to her, no, wait, feeding her, and it wasn’t so much seductive as nice. ‘I let myself be misled,’ he said, and he handed her her cognac. ‘I knew from the start you were nice.’ He gave her a smile. ‘And you are, Bridgette.’

‘So are you.’

‘Oh, no,’ he assured her. ‘I’m not.’

CHAPTER TWO

IT FELT so good to feel so good and it was as if they both knew that they didn’t have long. It was terribly hard to explain it, but now that there wasn’t sex on the menu, now they’d cleared that out of the way, they could relax and just be.

For a little while.

She took a sip of cognac and it burnt all the way down, a delicious burn.

‘Nice?’ Dominic asked.

‘Too nice,’ she admitted.

And he hadn’t wanted conversation, or emotion, but he was laughing, talking, sharing, and that XXXX of a day melted away with her smile.

So they worked the menu backwards and ordered dessert, chocolate soufflé for Bridgette and watermelon and mint sorbet for him. As he sampled his dish, Bridgette wanted a taste—not a spoonful, more a taste of his cool, watermelon-and-mint-flavoured tongue—and she flushed a little as he offered her the spoon. ‘Want some?’ Dominic said.

She shook her head, asked instead about his work, and he told her a bit about his plans for his career, and she told him about the lack of plans for hers.

‘You love midwifery, though?’ Dominic checked.

‘I am hoping to go back to it.’ Bridgette nodded. ‘It’s just been a bit of a complicated year…’ She didn’t elaborate and she was glad that he didn’t push. Yes, she loved midwifery, she answered, loved babies.

‘You want your own?’ He asked the same question that everyone did when they heard her job.

‘One day maybe…’ Bridgette gave a vague shrug. Had he asked a couple of years ago she’d have told him that she wanted millions, couldn’t wait to have babies of her own. Only now she simply couldn’t see it. She couldn’t imagine a place or a time where it might happen, couldn’t imagine really trusting a man again. She didn’t tell him that of course—that wasn’t what tonight was about. Instead she gave a vague nod. ‘I think so. You?’ she asked, and he admitted that he shuddered at the very thought.

‘You’re a paediatrician.’ Bridgette laughed.

‘Doesn’t mean I have to want my own. Anyway,’ he added, ‘I know what can go wrong.’ He shook his head and was very definite. ‘Nope, not for me.’ He told her that he had a brother, Chris, when Bridgette said she had a sister, Courtney. Neither mentioned Arabella or Paul, and Bridgette certainly didn’t mention Harry.

Tonight it was just about them.

And then they ordered coffee and talked some more.

And then another coffee.

And the waiters yawned, and Dominic and Bridgette looked around the restaurant and realised it was just the two of them left.

And it was over too soon, Bridgette thought as he paid the bill and they left. It was as if they were trying to cram so much into one night; almost as if it was understood that this really should deserve longer. It was like a plane trip alongside a wonderful companion: you knew you would be friends, more than friends perhaps, if you had more time, but you were both heading off to different lives. He to further his career and then back to his life in Sydney,

She to, no doubt, more of the same.

Except they had these few hours together and neither wanted them to end.

They walked along the river and to the bridge, leant over it and looked into the water, and still they spoke, about silly things, about music and videos and movies they had watched or that they thought the other really should see. He was nothing like the man she had assumed he was when they had been introduced in the bar—he was insightful and funny and amazing company. In fact, nothing at all like the remote, aloof man that Jasmine had described.

And she was nothing like he’d expected either when they had been introduced. Dominic was very careful about the women he dated in Melbourne; he had no interest in settling down, not even for a few weeks. Occasionally he got it wrong, and it would end in tears a few days later. Not his of course—it was always the women who wanted more than he was prepared to give, and Dominic had decided he was never giving that part of himself again. But there was a strange regret in the air as he drove her home—a rare regret for Dominic—because here was a woman he actually wouldn’t mind getting to know a little more, one who might get him over those last stubborn, lingering remnants of Arabella.

He’d been joking about Bridgette answering the phone.

Sort of.

Actually, it wasn’t such a bad idea. He couldn’t face going back to Sydney while there was still weakness, didn’t want to slip back into the picture-perfect life that had been prescribed to him since birth.

And it was strange because had they met at the start of his stay here, he was sure, quite sure, time would have moved more slowly. Now, though, it seemed that the beach road that led to her home, a road he was quite positive usually took a good fifteen minutes, seemed to be almost over in eight minutes and still they were talking, still they were laughing, as the car gobbled up their time.

‘You should watch it.’ She was talking about something on the internet, something she had found incredibly funny. ‘Tonight when you get in.’ She glanced at the clock on the dashboard and saw that it was almost two. ‘I mean, this morning.’

‘You watch it too.’ He grinned. ‘We can watch simultaneously…’ His fingers tightened on the wheel and he ordered his mind not to voice the sudden direction it had taken—thankfully those thoughts went unsaid and unheard.

‘I can’t get on the internet,’ Bridgette grumbled, trying desperately not to think similar thoughts. ‘I’ve got a virus.’ She swung her face to him. ‘My computer, I mean, not…’ What was wrong with her mouth? Bridgette thought as she turned her burning face to look out of the window. Why did everything lead to sex with him? ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘you should watch it.’

There was a roundabout coming up, the last roundabout, Bridgette knew, before her home, and it felt like her last chance at crazy, their last chance. And, yes, it was two a.m., but it could have been two p.m.; it was just a day that was running out and they wanted to chase it. She stole a look over at his delectable profile and to the olive hands that gripped the steering-wheel—it would be like leaving the cinema in the middle of the best movie ever without a hope of finding out the end. And she wanted more detail, wanted to know how it felt to be made love to by a man like him. She’d been truthful when she’d spoken to Jasmine—a relationship was the very last thing that she wanted now. Maybe this way had merit…‘We should watch it.’

‘Your computer’s not working,’ he pointed out.

‘Yours is.’ The flick of the indicator signalling right was about half the speed of her heart.

‘Bridgette…’ He wasn’t a bastard—he was incredibly, incredibly nice, because they went three times round the roundabout as he made very sure.

‘I don’t want you to regret…’ He was completely honest. ‘I leave in two weeks.’

‘I won’t regret it.’ She’d firmly decided that she wouldn’t. ‘After much consideration I have decided I would very much regret it if I didn’t.’ She gave him a smile. ‘I want my night.’

She did. And he was lovely, because he did not gun the car home. It was so much nicer than she would ever be able to properly remember, but she knew for many nights she would try.

She wanted to be able to hold on to the moment when he turned and told her that he couldn’t wait till they got all the way back to the city for the one kiss they had previously agreed to. She wanted to remember how they stopped at a lookout, gazed out at the bay, leant against his bonnet and watched the glittering view, and it felt as if time was suspended. She wanted to bottle it somehow, because she wasn’t angry with Courtney at that moment, or worried for Harry. For the first time in ages she had a tiny glimpse of calm, of peace, a moment where she felt all was well.

Well, not calm, but it was a different sort of stress from the one she was used to as he moved his face to hers. Very nicely he kissed her, even if she was terribly nervous. He let her be nervous as he kissed her—till the pleats in her mind unfurled. It was a kiss that had been building all night, a kiss she had wanted since their introduction, and his mouth told her he had wanted the same.

‘I was going to stay for one drink…’ His mouth was at her ear, his body pressed into hers.

‘I was just leaving,’ she admitted as his face came back to view.

‘And now look at us.’

So nice was that kiss that he did it again.

‘You smell fantastic.’ She was glad, to be honest, to have only him on her mind. He smelt as expensive as he looked and he tasted divine. She would never take this dress to the dry cleaner’s, she thought as his scent wrapped around them, and his mouth was at her neck and under her hair. He was dragging in the last breaths of the perfume she had squirted on before going out and soaking in the scent of the salon’s rich shampoo and the warm fragrance of woman.

‘So do you,’ he said.

‘You taste fantastic,’ Bridgette said. She was the one going back for more now.

‘You too.’

And he liked the weight of responsibility that cloaked him as he pressed her against the bonnet and his hands inched down to a silver hem. He could feel her soft thighs and wanted to lift her dress, but he wanted to know if her legs too were freckled, so he ended the kiss. He wanted more for her than that, more for himself than that.

Just tonight, Dominic assured himself as she did the same.

‘What?’ He caught her looking at him as they headed for his home, and grinned.

‘Nothing.’ She smiled back.

‘Go on, say what you’re thinking.’

‘Okay.’ So she did. ‘You don’t look like a paediatrician.’

‘What is a paediatrician supposed to look like?’

‘I don’t know,’ Bridgette admitted. ‘Okay, you don’t seem like a paediatrician.’ She couldn’t really explain it, but he laughed.

They laughed.

And when she told him that she imagined him more a cosmetic surgeon, with some exclusive private practice, his laugh turned wry. ‘You’re mistaking me for my father.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Bridgette said.

And he pulled her towards him, because it was easier than thinking, easier than admitting he wasn’t so sure of her verdict, that lately he seemed to be turning more and more into his father, the man he respected least.

It was three o’clock and she felt as if they were both trying to escape morning.

There wasn’t a frantic kiss through the front door—instead the energy that swirled was more patient.

It was a gorgeous energy that waited as he made her coffee and she went to the bathroom and he had the computer on when she returned. They did actually watch it together.

‘I showed this to Jasmine—’ there were tears rolling down her face, but from laughter ‘—and she didn’t think it was funny.’

And he was laughing too, more than he ever had. He hadn’t had a night like this in ages—in fact, he couldn’t recall one ever.

Okay, she would try to remember the details, how he didn’t cringe when she pretended his desk was a piano; instead he sang.

It was the most complicated thing to explain—that she could sing to him, that, worse, he could take the mug that was the microphone and do the same to her!

‘We should be ashamed of ourselves.’ She admired their reflection in the computer as they took a photo.

‘Very ashamed,’ he agreed.

She thought he was like this, Dominic realised, that this was how his usual one-night stands went. Didn’t she understand that this was as rare for him as it was for her? He hadn’t been like this even with Arabella.

He didn’t just want anyone tonight; he wanted her.

It was an acute want that tired now of being patient and so too did hers. As their mouths met on time and together, he kissed her to the back of the sofa. It felt so seamless, so right, because not for a second did Bridgette think, Now he’s going to kiss me. One moment they were laughing and the next they were kissing. It was a transition that was as simple as that.

It was his mouth and his taste and the slide of his tongue.

It was her mouth and a kiss that didn’t taste of plastic, that tasted of her tongue, and he kissed her and she curled into it. She loved the feel of his mouth and the roam of his hands and the way her body was craving his—it was a kiss that was potent, everything a kiss could be, distilled into one delicious dose.

He took off her dress, because he wanted to see her, not the woman in silver, and his eyes roamed. They roamed as he took off her bra and he answered his earlier question because her freckles stopped only where her bikini would be. There were two unfreckled triangles that wanted his mouth, but he talked to her as well and what she didn’t know was how rare that was.

He left control behind and was out of his mind.

He wanted her in France, he told her as he licked her nipple.

Topless and naked on the beach beside him, and new freckles on her breasts. She closed her eyes and she could smell the sun oil, could feel the heat from the sun that shone in France and the coolness of his tongue on sunburnt nipples. He pressed her into the couch and she pressed back to him.

She was lying down and could feel him hard against her and she didn’t think twice, just slid his zipper down.

She could hear her own moan as she held him and he lifted his head.

‘We’re not going to make it to the bedroom, are we?’

‘Not a hope,’ she admitted.

Was this what it was like?

To be free.

To be irresponsible.

More, please, she wanted to sob, because she wanted to live on the edge for ever, never wanted this night to end.

She wanted this man who took off his trousers and kept condoms in his wallet, and it didn’t offend her—she already knew what he was like, after all.

‘Bastard.’ She grinned.

And he knew her too.

‘Sorry,’ he said. In their own language he apologised for the cad that he was and told her that he wasn’t being one tonight.

This was different.

So different that he sat her up.

Sank to his knees on the edge of the sofa.

And pulled her bottom towards him.

‘Let’s get rid of these.’ He was shameless. He dispensed with anything awkward, just slid her panties down, and she did remember staring up at the ceiling as his tongue slid up a pale, freckled thigh that didn’t taste of fake tan and then he dived right in. As he licked and teased and tasted she would remember for ever thinking, Is this me?

And she was grateful for his experience, for his skill, for the mastery of his tongue, because it was a whole new world and tonight she got to step into it.

‘Relax,’ he said, when she forgot to for a moment.

So she did, just closed her eyes and gave in to it.

‘Where’s the rug?’ she asked as he slid her to the floor.

‘No rug,’ he said.

He maybe should get one, was her last semi-coherent thought, because the carpet burnt in her back as he moved inside her, a lovely burn, and then it was his turn to sample the carpet for he toppled her over, still deep inside her, and she was on top.

Don’t look down.

It wasn’t even a semi-coherent thought; it was more a familiar warning that echoed in her head.

Don’t look down—but she did, she looked down from the tightrope that recently she’d been walking.

She glimpsed black eyes that were open as she closed hers and came, and he watched her expression, felt her abandon, and then his eyes closed as he came too. Yes, feeling those last bucks deep inside her she looked down and it didn’t daunt her, didn’t terrify. It exhilarated her as greedily he pulled her head down and kissed her.

‘It’s morning,’ he said as they moved to the bedroom, the first sunlight starting.

Better still as she closed her eyes to the new day, there was no regret.