Hearing her little gasping cries with pleasure, he held her there, drawing out the moment, until he too was caught up in the surging excitement.
For a while they lay together quietly while their heart rates and breathing returned to normal. Then he drew away, and, turning her to face him, gathered her close and kissed her tenderly.
Knowing she’d been married, he had been somewhat thrown, partly by her obvious shyness, and partly by her instinctive reaction to their lovemaking. Her obvious pleasure had been followed by what he could have sworn was gratitude. Frowning, he wondered if her husband had been clumsy and lacking skill, or simply uncaring.
Seeing that frown, she asked a shade anxiously, ‘I hope you weren’t disappointed?’
‘Anything but,’ he assured her.
Then, picking up her very real concern, he kissed her and, leaning his forehead against hers, told her with soft emphasis, ‘You’re very special, and I’m immensely flattered that you let me into your bed.’
Feeling her relax, with a little sigh of relief he settled her head on his shoulder. She felt limp as arag doll. The power and intensity of his lovemaking had left her exhausted, totally drained, yet at the same time full of bliss, brimming with rapture.
Never for a moment had she imagined love could be like this—and yes, it was love—never imagined that this strength of feeling could take root and blossom so quickly. It wasn’t just the result of sexual deprivation, nor was it simply the chemistry between them. This was different. This was more. Much more.
They seemed to meet on every level, physical, mental and emotional. And as she slid into sleep she found herself thinking that if she searched the world over she would never find a man who was more right for her.
The same thought was in her mind when she stirred and surfaced slowly, her body relaxed and satisfied, a quiet happiness singing through her.
She was in love, truly in love, for the very first time. It was a big risk, letting herself fall so hard and so fast for a man she had only just met.
But she couldn’t say she hadn’t known what she was doing. Well aware that she was vulnerable, well aware that she was teetering on the brink of falling for him, well aware that making love with him could easily push her over, she had walked into it with her eyes wide open.
And it had been wonderful beyond words. She had never felt so utterly content. Not even her guilt over Colin could spoil things, or alter the way she felt about Rafe.
Sighing, she stretched out a hand to touch him, but she was alone. Jolted wide awake, she opened her eyes to find he was standing by the bed fully dressed, a cup of tea in his hand.
‘I’m sorry to wake you, but I thought it best if I left early.’
He set the cup on the bedside cabinet and smiled down at her. The blind was still closed, but even in the half-light his thickly lashed green eyes were brilliant, and with his hair a little rumpled, a dark stubble adorning his jaw, he looked irresistibly virile and attractive.
Her heart doing strange things, she pushed herself into a sitting position.
‘What I’d really like to do,’ he went on, ‘is stay and make love to you until such a time as the sight of a strange man leaving your flat wouldn’t raise a single eyebrow…’
Just his words made her go hot all over and sent a surge of desire running through her.
‘But bearing in mind what you said about having a lot to do, I’m restraining the urge…’
Disappointment pricked sharp as a thorn.
‘I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty.’
He stooped and kissed her, a lingering kiss, as if he couldn’t bear to leave her. She was on the verge of begging him to stay when he straightened and strode to the door.
An instant later he was gone.
For a moment or two she felt empty and lost—bereft—as if the whole thing had been nothing but a wonderful dream. But the cup of tea sitting by her elbow was tangible proof, not only that he was no dream, but also that he’d cared enough to think about her. Gladness returning, she reached for the cup and took a sip. Only the day to get through and she would be seeing him again.
Excitement and anticipation buoying her up, the morning passed quite quickly, and even her afternoon visit to the nursing home didn’t seem quite so fraught as usual. For the first time in what seemed an age, happiness was crowding out guilt. Or at least masking it.
By a quarter past seven that evening, showered, dressed and lightly made-up, Madeleine was ready and waiting. Standing by the window, she watched as a silver Porsche drew up by the kerb promptly at seven-thirty, and Rafe jumped out. He looked breathtakingly handsome in well-cut evening clothes, and she wondered if she was underdressed for Annabel’s.
Taking deep breaths to calm herself, she let him ring the bell before picking up her evening purse and going to open the door.
He smiled at her. ‘Ready?’
Madeleine nodded. ‘Will I do?’ she asked a shade anxiously.
His glance swept over her from head to toe.
She was wearing a simple black dress that clung lovingly to her slender curves and set off her flawless, pale gold skin. Her blonde hair was taken up in a gleaming coil that served to emphasise her pure bone structure, and in her neat lobes were small gold hoops.
A light in his eyes, he said, ‘You look stunning,’ and bent his dark head to kiss her.
Her heart leapt in her breast, and she knew he held everything she was, everything she hoped for, in the palm of his hand.
It was a beautiful evening, warm and still, and she could smell roses in the heart of town as she was escorted to the car.
When she was settled, he slid in beside her and started the engine. As they left the square behind them and joined the evening queue of traffic, he queried lightly, ‘Missed me?’
The true answer was yes, but she said primly, ‘I haven’t had time.’
‘So what have you been doing all day?’
‘Nothing very exciting. I spent most of the morning cleaning and shopping.’
‘But you went out in the afternoon? Anywhere nice?’
Flustered by the question, she said, ‘No, not particularly.’ She had meant to sound casual, but it came out as defensive, and she bit her lip.
Intrigued by her tone, he wondered what she was hiding. Deciding not to push it—he’d find out when he knew her better—he changed tack.
‘What made you decide to become a physiotherapist?’
She relaxed, glad to chat about her work. ‘You might call it following in my father’s footsteps. Physiotherapy was his chosen profession, and it was widely acknowledged that he had healing hands. When I was a child he became prominent in his field, and so much in demand that he turned into a workaholic.’
‘So you didn’t see much of him?’ Rafe questioned.
‘No.’ There was a remembered hint of sadness. ‘When he wasn’t at his consulting rooms in Baker Street, he was often in the States giving lecture tours.’
‘Why the States? Any particular reason?’
‘My father’s American by birth. He was brought up and had done his early training in Boston.’
‘So you’re half American? Any relatives over there?’ he asked.
‘Just an aunt and uncle we used to visit. They were always delighted to see us.’ Madeleine smiled as she reminisced.
Rafe