‘Funny, I’ve been thinking that, but it’s nothing to do with architecture and everything to do with a dark-haired sprite from the valleys——’
‘I’m not from the valleys! It’s only my name that’s Welsh—and my father. I was born in London.’
‘Poetic licence. Bron?’
‘Mmm?’
He tugged her to a halt, and looked down into her face with eyes unguarded and vulnerable. He looked slightly embarrassed and very honest. ‘I know we’ve only got a few days, but I want to see as much of you as I can. I don’t know what’s happening between us, I don’t normally come on so strong. Whatever, there’s something, and I want to find out what it is. No holds barred. I’m warning you, I want to make love to you, Bron, slowly, tenderly—I want to watch your eyes heavy with passion, your lips full and ripe from my kisses … not tonight, but soon. Maybe tomorrow, the next day? I want to know you first, but when I do——’
He flushed and turned away, obviously embarrassed. ‘God, I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m rambling on like this. I feel like a raging adolescent—I’ll be reciting poetry to you next!’ He took a deep, ragged breath. ‘There you are, though. That’s how I feel. If you want to come along for the ride, the spacecraft leaves in thirty seconds. I should warn you, though. I think the pilot’s gone slightly crazy.’
She gave a breathless little chuckle. There was a pulse beating heavily in her throat, and she felt unbearably moved and aroused by his honesty. She laid a hand reassuringly on his arm, and felt a shudder run through him. ‘It’s all right, Oliver. I understand.’
He turned back to her, his eyes searching. ‘You do? I’m damned if I do. Look, if it isn’t what you want, Bron, for whatever reason, then stop me now. Don’t play with me.’
Bronwen swallowed with difficulty. ‘Oh, Oliver … Are you serious?’
His eyes were steady on hers, and they softened with tenderness. ‘I’ve never been more serious in my life. Do you want time to think about it?’
In answer, she stepped closer and, reaching up, pulled his face down to brush his lips with hers. ‘I don’t want to waste our time. I feel the same—and I’m terrified.’
He hugged her close, and the breath sagged out of his body with relief. Thank God!’ he breathed, and then chuckled. ‘Come on, little lady, let’s go and eat before I do something very ungentlemanly and drag you off into the bushes!’
The crowd in the dining-room was thinning out by the time they arrived, and they took their salads out on to the terrace, eating with one hand while the fingers of the other were entwined.
After a while, Oliver gave up and pushed his plate away. ‘I can’t eat and hold you at the same time, and I daren’t let go in case you vanish.’
Bron followed his lead. She really wasn’t very hungry anyway. The feelings racing through her were nothing to do with low blood sugar and everything to do with the dancing blue eyes and the warm, generous mouth whose touch she had felt so briefly.
‘I won’t vanish,’ she murmured.
‘Promise?’
‘Promise. Will you?’
‘Vanish? No way. Where can I go? We’re in outer space!’
They talked for hours, comparing likes and dislikes, hobbies and interests, and in the end they simply sat, their coffee growing cold, and stared into each other’s eyes like moonstruck adolescents.
As the last rays of the evening sun dipped behind the trees, Jane and Michael came and joined them, and the spell was broken, or at least put on hold. Michael fetched fresh coffee and they chatted about the conference. Bron found it difficult to drag her eyes from Oliver and concentrate on what they were all saying. In the end she gave up and closed her eyes, listening to the sound of his voice, headily conscious of the pressure of his thigh against hers. She wondered what tomorrow would bring.
Time for bed,’ she heard him say, and her eyes flew open in alarm.
He caught her surprised look before she could cover it, and smiled teasingly. ‘I’ll walk you to your room. Goodnight, Jane, Michael.’
He held her chair, and placed a warm and comfortable arm around her shoulders as they walked towards the stairs. Her arm slipped naturally around his waist and she felt the hard nudge of his hip against her side as they crossed the hallway and went up the stairs.
At the door to her room, she stopped in confusion. Did he expect her to let him in? She really felt as if she would, if he made the slightest move towards her, and yet it went so against her normal character that she felt a wild flutter of panic.
He turned her into his arms and tucked her head under his chin, the steady, even beat of his heart reassuring under her ear. His voice rumbled gently above her.
‘I don’t want to let you go, but I must. You’re tired and so am I, and so much has happened. I want some time to absorb it, and I really ought to write up my notes on this evening’s lecture.’
‘Notes?’ she whispered vaguely, and wondered how he could think of anything so totally prosaic while she was floating on a cloud of cotton-wool.
‘Notes,’ he said, more firmly. ‘It’s probably more effective than a cold shower.’
He released her gently, and, with a slow smile and the gentle pressure of his lips fleetingly on her forehead, he was gone, striding quietly down the landing. Bron watched the empty hall for minutes afterwards, hugging herself and smiling softly, then with a little laugh she let herself into her room and prepared for bed.
Oliver. She lay in bed turning over the events of the evening in her mind, hearing his voice again and seeing the way his cheek dimpled when he smiled, and the twitch of his firmly sculpted mouth.
It’s all genetic, she told herself. He can’t take any credit for the way he looks. Oh, lord, what have I promised him? With her thoughts in turmoil, and a mingled feeling of panic and trembling anticipation, she fell asleep.
‘What we are talking about here is the Golden Hour, the time between admission and stabilisation for surgery in victims of severe trauma—for example, road-traffic accidents, burns, chemical leaks, explosions, et cetera.
‘In the USA, and now in some fortunate areas of Britain, specialist Trauma Units exist, and they are specifically set up as emergency treatment centres for victims of such incidents. They have highly skilled staff available twenty-four hours a day, to provide specialist care instantly on admission. No fudging around wondering what the hell to do until the consultant has come back from lunch, or trying to phone another hospital to find out what the current treatment for chemical burns is—instant, immediate, accurate treatment within the first hour—the Golden Hour.’
The lecturer paused, and papers were handed out down the rows. These are the statistics. I think you’ll be as impressed as I was when I saw them. They outline quite clearly the importance of getting the right treatment within those crucial early minutes. OK, let’s break for coffee to give you time to look at the figures. We’ll meet back here in an hour to discuss anything you want to raise, so please don’t waste your time—you aren’t here to have fun!’
A laugh rippled round the conference, and the delegates stood and shuffled towards the coffee-lounge. Beside Bronwen, Oliver stretched and grinned. ‘Hear that, little lady? We aren’t here to have fun! Let’s go and find a corner and look at his figures—although I’d much rather look at yours.’
‘Oliver!’ Bron blushed and laughed, and he grinned again.
‘I’ll be good,’ he promised.
‘I don’t doubt it,’ she muttered under her breath, and his startled grunt of laughter made her blush again. ‘You weren’t meant to hear that.’