‘Jet? Oh, damn, I missed it!’ he said, clearly disappointed. ‘Oh, well, how did it go?’
‘Lovely.’ Charlotte told him all about the birth, and he nodded in satisfaction.
‘Good. Great. She had a fairly grim labour with the first, apparently, and we were hoping this would be better for her. We’ve noticed a huge decrease in the amount of pethidine we’ve used since we’ve had the pools—we put the second one in only a couple of months ago because the first had been so successful. Now there’s hardly a day goes by when they aren’t in use, and it seems to make an enormous difference to the level of pain women feel.’
He tore off a chunk of toast and eyed Charlotte speculatively. ‘Are you doing anything tomorrow night?’
The change of subject fazed her.
‘Tomorrow?’ she said blankly, casting about for a more feasible excuse than washing her hair.
‘Mmm. Only I’ve got a Janet Balaskas video and a whole lot of articles on the subject—I thought you could come over and look at it and talk it through with me.’
Peversely, disappointment warred with her relief. Only business after all, she thought, and then gave a little sigh.
‘That would be fine. I haven’t got any other plans.’
‘Great. I’ll give you the address—have you got anything to write on?’
She fished in her handbag and came up with an old envelope.
‘Do fine,’ he said, and she watched as he scribbled the address in a broad, bold hand, then drew a little map on the bottom of the scrap of paper. ‘OK?’
She took it, noticing again his long, straight fingers and the way the dark hair sprang away from the skin all around his wrist, in sharp contrast to the blinding white of his coat. Strange how something so ordinary could be so absolutely fascinating, she thought absently as she tucked the envelope back in her bag.
‘About seven?’
She nodded. ‘That would be fine.’
‘Good.’ His smile warmed her, but his next words chilled her right back down again. ‘Don’t bother to eat,’ he said. ‘I’ll knock something up during the evening—make a change from eating alone.’
She nearly protested, but something in the quality of his voice stopped her. Instead she met his eyes, and beneath the gentle smile she saw a lonely man. So she didn’t refuse, because she too had spent too many Saturday nights alone with nothing but the telly for company. One less couldn’t be a bad thing.
It was a tall, red-brick Victorian semi in a quiet residential road close to the park. Quelling her misgivings, she parked outside under a glorious copper beech tree and walked briskly up the red and black diamonds of the front path to the door.
There was a bell-pull set in the wall, the brass gleaming, and as she tugged it she heard a bell jangling far inside the house.
She saw him through the leaded lights, walking swiftly up the hall, and the door swung inwards to reveal him dressed in impossibly sexy jeans and a loose, startlingly white silk shirt. The cuffs were rolled back to reveal a tantalising glimpse of those sexy forearms, and Charlotte’s breath caught.
‘Come in—you’re right on time; my directions can’t be that bad.’ He gestured for her to come in, and his lips curved in that ready smile she found she was beginning to look for more and more.
She returned the smile and handed him a box of after-dinner mints. ‘Here—my contribution to the meal. I’m afraid I know nothing about wine, so I thought it was safest!’
He took the box with a smile. ‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘I don’t drink anyway, but these will really hit the spot. Come on through—I thought we’d go in the conservatory and take advantage of the last of the evening sun.’
She followed him down the long hall, past several doors and through a bright, airy kitchen with white units and a tiled floor, out into a very traditional Victorian-type conservatory.
He gestured to a wicker chair with fat, squashy cushions on it, and she perched on the edge and looked down the garden.
‘Oh, how pretty!’
‘It’s lovely, isn’t it? It was a mess when I moved in, but my mother’s a landscape gardener and she designed it for me.’
He handed her a tall glass, clinking with ice and beaded with condensation. ‘Here—you look hot.’
‘I am—it’s been a scorcher,’ she agreed.
He lowered himself on the other chair and stretched out luxuriously with a sigh. ‘Oh, it’s nice to sit down.’
‘Have you been working?’ she asked in surprise.
His grin was wry. ‘Only on the house—it was a tip. Still, it needed doing!’
Charlotte squirmed guiltily. ‘You shouldn’t have done that—not for me.’
He laughed. ‘You didn’t see it! Anyway, it had to be done before Monday. I have a Mrs Mop, but she’s gone off to Majorca for a holiday and left me to my own devices for a week. If she came back and saw it like it was, she’d give me the sack.’
She smiled, as she was meant to, and sipped the cool, refreshing drink. ‘Oh, this is lovely.’
‘Is it OK? It’s an alcohol-free spritzer, because I knew you’d be driving.’
‘It’s perfect.’ She rolled the ice-cold glass against her forehead. ‘Mmm.’
He stood up abruptly. ‘We’re having a salad,’ he told her, his back towards her. ‘All sorts of bits of this and that. OK?’
‘It sounds delicious,’ she told him, puzzled by his sudden exit from the conservatory. ‘Anything I can do?’
‘Talk to me while I make the vinaigrette.’
She had slipped off her shoes, and padded silently over the cool tiles into the kitchen.
‘What about?’
He jumped and turned. ‘Damn it, woman, don’t sneak around—you’ll give me heart failure!’
She giggled. ‘Sorry.’
A slow grin crept across his face, and he lifted his hand and brushed his knuckles across her cheek.
‘I’ll forgive you—as you’re so lovely.’
Charlotte swallowed, suddenly feeling trapped.
‘Don’t be silly,’ she said, but her voice sounded thready and slightly strangled.
‘I wasn’t.’ For once his voice was serious, and she felt his hand again, open this time, his palm dry and cool against her flushed cheek. His thumb stroked softly under her eye, then round, grazing her bottom lip. It caught, tugging gently, and she felt desire shoot through her.
‘William,’ she pleaded, but whether for him to stop or go on she didn’t know.
However he stopped, and she was shocked at the wave of disappointment she felt. He turned away, his jaw working, and started pouring ingredients into a little bottle. ‘Do you mind raw garlic in the dressing?’ he asked, and she heard a slight rasp in his voice.
So it wasn’t just her.
‘No—no, that’s fine,’ she told him a little blankly, her eyes mesmerised by the jumping muscle at the corner of his jaw, just in front of his ear.
He bent and took something out of the fridge, and her eyes followed his movements, savouring the taut pull of the jeans over his neat bottom, the glimpse of dark hair on his chest through the buttons of his shirt as he turned back, the flexing of muscle in his forearm as he pressed the fresh garlic and