‘With your qualifications there’s a job for you wherever you want to go in the world. Croc Creek’s home for those who want to devote a couple of years to a good cause. Or those who want excitement.’
‘That’s me.’
‘Or it’s a refuge for those who are escaping,’ Alistair said, as if he hadn’t heard her. It was almost as if he was talking to himself. ‘What are you escaping from?’
‘I’m not.’
‘I recognise the symptoms.’
‘You’re a neurologist, not a shrink.’
‘I’m an escapee myself.’
‘You …’
‘I like a bit of control,’ he admitted, sounding thoughtful. ‘That’s why I was engaged to Eloise. Only then I met you and I decided control wasn’t everything.’
‘Hey.’ She was suddenly really, really breathless. ‘How did we get to this? You’re really saying I influenced you in breaking your engagement?’
‘Of course you influenced me. Just the way I reacted … I’m not saying I want to take it further …’
‘That’s good because—’
‘Shut up and let me speak,’ he said, quite kindly. ‘All I want you to know is that what happened six months ago was a really big thing for me. Huge. I don’t usually proposition complete strangers.’
‘You’re saying that between us …’
‘Something happened. Yes.’ Something was certainly happening in the church behind them. They could hear Sophia giving directions right through the massive door. ‘But I don’t know what,’ he said. ‘And before you think this is a line, I need to say I’m not interested in doing anything with it. At least, I don’t think I am. As I said, I like control and you don’t make me feel I’m in control. But I also know … Georgie, I recognise you’re running, so maybe you need to be honest enough to admit it to yourself.’
‘Why?’ She was suddenly angry. What the hell was he playing at, psychoanalysing her like this? For what purpose?
‘So you can move on.’
‘To what?’
‘To … life? It’s not all that scary.’
‘Like you’d know.’
‘I—’
‘Look, I don’t know what’s happening here,’ she muttered. ‘You’re talking about something I don’t understand.’
‘You do understand it,’ he said, and before she could respond he tugged her into his arms. ‘Or at least you understand that what’s between us is … well, it just is.’
‘It isn’t,’ she gasped.
‘It’s not?’
She should fight. Of course she should fight. This was crazy. What was she doing, standing in the vestry with the wedding party on the other side of the door, letting him tug her against him, letting him lift her chin, letting him …?
No. She wasn’t fighting. For every fighting instinct had suddenly shut down.
Everything had shut down.
He was going to kiss her and she wasn’t going to do a damned thing about it.
Alistair.
And that was her last sane thought for a long time. His lips met hers and everything faded to nothing.
Everything but him.
The feel of him … The strength of him … She was standing on tiptoe to accept his kiss—despite her stilettos, she was dwarfed—but he was holding her so strongly that it was no effort to stand on tiptoe. He was lifting her to meet him.
Alistair.
It was like some magnetic force was locking her body to his. This was how it had felt six months ago when she’d danced with him. He was a great dancer. So was she. The dance had been Latin swing, and they’d moved as if they’d been dancing together for years. But every time he’d tugged her against him, preparatory to swinging her away, twirling her, propelling her into the next dance move, she’d felt exactly as she was feeling now.
As if his body was somehow an extension of her own.
No wonder she’d wanted him to take her. No wonder …
But the time for remembrance was not now. Here there was only room for wonder. Room for him. He was kissing her urgently, as if he knew that this kiss must surely be interrupted. As indeed it must. But his fierceness seemed entirely appropriate. It was a demanding kiss, a searing convergence of two bodies, a declaration that this was something amazing, and how could she deny it?
She couldn’t deny it. She allowed his mouth to lock onto hers. Allowed? No, she welcomed it, aching for his kiss to deepen. Her arms came around his solid, muscled body and held him to her. She kissed back with the fierceness that he was using as he kissed her.
Her whole body felt aflame. Every nerve was tingling, achingly aware of him. Every sense was screaming at her to get closer, get closer, here is your mate …
Her lips opened, welcoming him, savouring him, wanting him deeper. Deeper. The kiss went on and on, as if she was drowning in pure pleasure, and she was, she was.
Alistair.
He was all wrong for her. For so many reasons he was wrong. But for now he was right and she was taking every ounce of pleasure she could get.
Alistair.
But suddenly he was drawing back. He was holding her face in his hands, forcing them apart so he could look into her eyes. The confusion she saw in his matched her own.
‘Georgie,’ he whispered, and there was confusion there, too.
‘Don’t stop,’ she begged.
‘We can’t—’
‘Just kiss me,’ she begged, and she linked her hands behind his head and tugged him down.
‘Georg—’
‘Just kiss.’
He smiled, that achingly wonderful smile that had her heart doing handsprings.
He kissed.
The sound of the trumpet crescendoed behind them.
The door of the vestry flew open.
And here was the wedding procession, diverted from the main door.
The priest came first. Then came bride and groom, as if propelled by the mass behind. Then bridesmaids and groomsmen and pageboys and flowergirls and guests after them, tumbling into their private space, funnelled into the vestry with the door to the outside still not open.
The priest stopped in shock. As did the bride and groom. There was a moment’s blank astonishment.
Then …
‘Hey, get in the queue, guys,’ Mike growled as he held his bride close. ‘Today is our day. Gina and Cal are next Saturday. You two can take the Saturday after.’
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