‘That’s not what I asked, Harry.’
‘I know.’
His palm was cool against her neck and chin, his thumb, fingers gentle against her cheeks. And everything that was female in her responded with a powerful surge of longing. She wanted him to kiss her, she realised with a shock that left her dizzier than any bang to the head. To touch her. To enfold her in arms that were strong enough to hold off the entire world. Were holding off the entire world…
Maybe the blow to her head had done more damage than he thought, because she sensed an equally powerful response from him.
She could almost believe that if one of them didn’t speak they might stay like this forever, locked in some fairy-tale enchantment at the top of this misty mountain…
‘And?’ she persisted, shattering the spell. Fairy tales were for children.
He stirred, then released her. ‘I don’t have an answer to your question, Jacqui. I no longer know what I am.’
Before she could even begin to formulate a reply, he stepped back, letting his hand drop to his side, putting some space between them.
Now that he’d opened up—if as about as willingly as an oyster surrendering its pearl—she suspected that he felt exposed and vulnerable; that he needed to retreat into the protective shell he’d built around himself. Do some running repairs on the breaches in his defences.
As if to confirm her thoughts, he broke eye contact, looking over her head and out of the window at the safe nothingness offered by the blanket of mist. The distance, mental and physical, only served to demonstrate how close they’d been for that brief moment.
How cold it felt to be separated.
‘The mist is clearing. It seems as if you might get some sun after all, before you leave.’
‘I’ll have my camera ready,’ she said, heart sinking as she turned to follow his gaze.
Maisie and Susan were making their way back to the house. The mist was certainly less oppressive and as it swirled patchily she could almost have imagined she caught a glimpse of blue sky.
‘I’d better go and rescue Susan,’ she said.
And tackle Maisie about the phone. Vickie and Selina Talbot had to be tearing their hair out with frustration.
Not that she was behaving much more responsibly.
She really should have told Harry, but he’d be so angry with the child and a few minutes more or less wouldn’t make any difference. As soon as he went off to fiddle with the boiler, or do whatever else he did to fill his day, she’d have the phone plugged back in and Bob, as the saying went, would be her uncle.
She crossed the room, picked up the tray and Harry, as if regretting his earlier confidence and now anxious to be rid of her, crossed quickly to open the door.
‘It’s nearly lunchtime,’ she said. About to suggest he joined them, she thought better of it. She would do her best to bring Maisie and Harry closer together in what time she had, but if she was too obvious about it he’d see right through her. ‘Can I get something for you?’
‘You should be taking it easy.’
‘This is easy. I’ve spent the entire morning asleep in front of the fire while Susan’s been doing my job as well as hers.’
No! No…This wasn’t a job. She wasn’t getting paid. She was doing it because she hadn’t got any choice…
‘If it’ll put your mind at rest,’ she added, ‘I can assure you that it won’t be anything more exciting than something on toast or a sandwich. Which would you prefer?’
He regarded her through suspiciously narrowed eyes and she knew she’d been wise not to suggest he join them in the kitchen. Then, with something that might have been a shrug, or then again might not, he said, ‘If you’re making a sandwich, I’ll have one in here.’
He left her standing in the doorway, crossed to the desk and flipped open the laptop. Then, as if to demonstrate that he had no intention of moving for the rest of the day, he sat down, thus managing at a single stroke to scupper both her plans.
Double bedknobs, a broomstick and a dustpan and brush′
Harry turned on the laptop, determinedly not looking in Jacqui’s direction as she left the room.
But the softness of her skin clung to his fingers, the scent of her filled and renewed his body like the air on a soft spring day.
Scarcely appropriate thoughts for a doctor. But then he hadn’t thought of himself as that since he’d been shipped home six months earlier at the point of a breakdown. Could scarcely believe his own ears when he heard himself responding to Jacqui’s arch question with a ‘yes’. As if he’d wanted her to think well of him. He didn’t care what she thought of him.
But any more mishaps and he’d take her straight to A&E.
He pulled a face. So much for insisting on her leaving as soon as her car was fixed.
He could hardly insist that she drive back to London today even if the garage did come through with a spare exhaust for her car, the phone connection was restored and Sally could stir herself to make alternative arrangements for Maisie.
He dragged his hand over his face, felt the days-old growth of beard. Was it any wonder that when he’d opened the door to her, Jacqui had looked at him as if he were a monster?
He slammed down the lid of the laptop.
So what if she had.
Anything was better than the pity that had replaced it. He didn’t want her pity. He wanted…
The arrival of the garage pick-up rescued him from confronting what exactly he did want, but as he pushed back the chair, glad to escape his thoughts, he saw Jacqui’s bracelet lying on the floor beside the desk.
And then, as he bent to pick it up, he saw the telephone jack lying on the floor beside the socket.
CHAPTER EIGHT
AS HARRY approached the kitchen, he heard the sound of laughter. It stopped abruptly as he walked in.
‘Susan, a word,’ he said, rather more brusquely than he’d intended.
‘I’m just off,’ she said, taking a headscarf from her pocket. ‘I should have been gone half an hour ago.’
‘It won’t take a minute. I just wanted to ask you to take more care when you’re vacuuming.’
She bridled. ‘I do my best with the dog hairs. The dogs aren’t supposed to go into the library, or the drawing room. The missus won’t have it when she’s at home. Of course, if I had one of those new cleaners—’
‘I’m not talking about dog hairs, woman!’
Harry was confronted by three pairs of female eyes—one pair narrowed with disapproval, one pair dark and very round, one pair framed with slightly raised brows. He ignored the ‘could do better’ look and concentrated on Susan.
‘I know you work extremely hard cleaning up after Sally’s strays, but that isn’t the problem.’
He had the strangest impression of breath being collectively held behind him.
‘Quite the contrary,’ he went on. ‘In your effort to do a thorough job you appear to have knocked the telephone jack out of the socket in the