All the Sweet Promises. Elizabeth Elgin

His arms tightened around her and their lips met again. And because she didn’t want that kiss to end she moved closer so that she felt the unyielding hardness of his body against hers and she lifted her arms and clasped them tightly around his neck. Then she closed her eyes, and the peculiar feeling she had felt on the dance floor returned to shiver and shake through her. When his hands slid down to her thighs and pulled her still closer, she was too bemused to think of anything but the sofa in the sitting room at Bruton Street and wonder how it would have been with Mike.

      Shocked into mobility, she shook her head clear of such thoughts. ‘Mike!’ she gasped, pushing him away.

      For a moment she stood, seeing only his outline against the darkness, then she turned from him.

      ‘Goodnight, Lucy,’ she heard him whisper as she ran towards the transport.

      ‘Goodbye, Mike,’ she called. Oh, God, goodbye …

      Petulantly she thumped and turned her pillow, throwing off her blanket. It was hot tonight; far too hot. This heatwave had gone on long enough.

      She directed her thoughts to Charlie. Poor old love, where was he now? Bivouacking beneath an army lorry, maybe not too many miles away and hating every minute of it, she shouldn’t wonder. But she would make it up to him, she really would.

      And what was Mike doing? Was he asleep yet or packing his bag, maybe? Would he remember that earth-shattering clinch or did he kiss all his girlfriends that way? She wished she could be a fly on the wall of his hotel room, watch him undress, stretch and yawn then tumble into bed. She knew intuitively that he slept in the nude.

      Damn! She closed her eyes tightly. Whatever Mike Farrow was doing now was no business of hers; not even if he had the chambermaid in his bed. They’d had a date, that was all, and in the morning all that remained would be a purple star on the back of her right hand. Funny that she hadn’t wanted to wash it completely away …

      Flight Lieutenant Michael Farrow was not making love to the chambermaid, though he was feeling extremely contented and pleased to have got things clear in his mind now.

      The feeling of wellbeing had been with him since he had kissed Lucinda goodnight and noted her reactions, and it had continued when the desk clerk had nodded in the direction of the residents’ lounge then presented him with a glass of whisky. Not firewater whisky, but treasured malt from under the counter, hoarded jealously since the outbreak of war and rarely offered to Sassenachs or foreigners.