It was delicious. She hadn’t realised how hungry she was, or how tired.
By the time they had cleared away the kitchen she could hardly keep her eyes open, and Gavin put the kettle on. ‘Go and get ready for bed,’ he instructed her gently. ‘By the time you’ve come down and washed, there’ll be a cup of tea here for you to take up to bed with you. You look bushed.’
‘I am,’ she admitted, and with a small smile of gratitude she went up to her room, changed into her sexless and ancient Winnie the Pooh nightshirt and ratty old towelling dressing-gown, and, bringing her wash things down, she made use of the little bathroom.
There was no sign of him, but by the time she emerged, face scrubbed and devoid of make-up, her long, dark hair down and brushed until it gleamed, Gavin was back in the kitchen with a cup of tea for her.
‘You’re wonderful,’ she murmured, taking it gratefully.
He gave a soft snort. ‘Because I made a cup of tea?’
She shook her head. ‘Because you realised I needed it. Because you noticed I was tired. Because you’ve made me so welcome, fed me, put sheets on my bed, found me a bedside table and lamp—everything.’
His eyes locked with hers for an endless moment, and then he gave a little twisted smile. ‘You haven’t seen the garden in daylight yet,’ he warned.
She laughed softly. ‘No, I haven’t, but it would have to be pretty bad to get the balance of payments right.’ On impulse—an impulse she later found herself regretting—she went up on tiptoe and brushed her lips against his. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, and then, clutching her tea in one hand, she turned and fled.
Gavin watched her go, his lips tingling from the fleeting contact. His fingers touched his lips, expecting them to feel different—on fire, perhaps.
They weren’t, but he was. Heat scalded along his veins, quickening his pulse and shattering his composure.
He rested his hands on the edge of the worktop and dropped his head forward against the wall cupboard. Hell’s teeth, he thought raggedly. The way she’d looked at him with those bruised brown eyes, shot through with navy blue like dark pansies against her pale skin—
He dragged in a much-needed breath and lifted his head, tipping it back and staring up at the patchy ceiling.
His lips still tingled, his blood still raced, his heart was bounding against his ribs …
‘You’re in trouble, old son,’ he advised himself. ‘Deep trouble.’
He picked up his tea and went out into the dark garden. The scent of the lilac filled the air, reminding him of her. Need, sharp and savage in its intensity, raked through him and he groaned softly.
Her light was on. He wondered what she was doing, and stamped on that train of thought instantly.
She had problems. He had to keep reminding himself of that. No matter how he felt, if he didn’t keep it under wraps he wouldn’t be able to help her, and that was why she was here.
Not, he told himself, to entertain him when the evenings grew lonely and boring, and passion stalked him through the long hours of the night.
He would have to tread carefully with her, look after her, nurture her. He mustn’t frighten her off, because he had a feeling it would be all too easy to do, and deep inside he knew that if he lost this wary and gentle woman he would lose something infinitely precious and absolutely irreplaceable…
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