From the blur of her wagging tail, Dragan knew that the dog loved having Melinda around as much as he did. ‘You spoil that dog,’ he remarked.
‘And you don’t?’ she teased.
‘Never,’ he deadpanned. ‘So where’s my treat, then?’
She grinned, reached up and slid her arms round his neck, then kissed him thoroughly. ‘Better?’
He smiled. ‘Much better. Want a hand making dinner?’
‘Absolutely not.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s wonderful being able to work in a proper kitchen. The one in the flat over the surgery isn’t even big enough for a hamster wheel.’
And she looked good in his kitchen, he thought. At home. So much so that she didn’t hesitate to switch on his iPod and pick out some of the tracks she liked, by an opera-pop crossover artist that she’d downloaded for him the previous week. He’d never heard of the singer before, but he liked it, especially when she was singing along to it, half humming and half singing the lyrics. She was as good with the Spanish lyrics as she was with the Italian ones, and he loved the sweetness of her voice.
It wasn’t just the music. He loved having her around, full stop.
Because she made his house feel like home. She had done ever since her second visit to the cottage, when she’d brought him the iPod, complete with a set of speakers for his kitchen, and insisted that he accepted the gift. ‘You can’t cook properly without music, Dragan. You can’t live without music.’
Melinda was always singing. And she always took over the CD player in his car. Since she’d been around, there had been a lot more music in his life.
A lot more everything.
Maybe he’d ask her tonight. Maybe he’d take her for a walk on the beach and kiss her under the stars and ask her to stay. For always.
He enjoyed just watching her as she chopped and stirred and tasted and stirred a bit more.
Then she looked over at him and the corners of her eyes crinkled. ‘You can lay the table, if you like.’
The small bistro table was set in front of the French doors that overlooked the garden; although it wasn’t like the huge rambling garden he’d grown up with, he enjoyed his little patch of green. Right now it was full of spring flowers, with a carpet of blue squill underneath the apple tree. He set the table, took a bottle of white wine from the fridge, poured two glasses, and sat down as she brought over two plates.
Bramble immediately settled on the floor between the two of them, and Melinda laughed. ‘Ah, no, you can’t have any of this, bellissima. The chilli sauce won’t be kind to your stomach.’
‘And she’s already wolfed down half a dozen prawns while you were preparing this,’ Dragan pointed out.
‘Of course. She’s my official tester.’ Melinda waited until he’d taken his first mouthful of the avocado with prawns and chilli sauce. ‘So do you like it?’
‘It’s fabulous,’ he said honestly. Trust Melinda to come up with a combination he would never have thought of.
The lemon chicken with broccoli, carrots and new potatoes was equally good. And although he didn’t have a sweet tooth, he was content to watch her eat the hazelnut meringue ice cream that was a speciality of the Trevellyans’ farm shop and which she absolutely adored.
‘So you admit now that food is not just fuel?’ Melinda demanded when they cleared the table together.
‘Yes, I admit it. You are right and I am wrong, carissima.’
She laughed. ‘And therefore you owe me a forfeit.’
He laughed back. ‘Indeed. It’s in the cupboard next to the fridge.’ He never ate chocolate, but Melinda loved it, so he’d taken to buying some just for her. Rich, dark chocolate flavoured with spices and a hint of orange.
She found the bar of chocolate within seconds. ‘For someone who never touches the stuff, you have amazingly good taste, Dr Lovak.’
Her little ‘oh’ of pleasure as she snapped off the first square and slid it into her mouth sent desire flickering down his spine. A desire he could see matched in her beautiful blue eyes.
He made them both coffee, strong and dark, and placed the mugs on his low coffee-table before sitting on the sofa and pulling her onto his lap. He loved having her near. And he loved it even more when she kissed him spontaneously, cupping his face and nibbling at his lower lip to deepen the kiss. He loved the silky feel of her hair against his skin, her sweet floral scent, the warmth of her body against his.
He tipped her back on the sofa and was halfway through undoing her shirt when she groaned. ‘Dragan. You should’ve been born in Sparta.’
‘What?’ He frowned. ‘I’m not with you.’
‘Your sofa. It’s like a bed of nails.’
It wasn’t the most comfortable in the world, true, but it did him. He didn’t actually spend much time on it anyway—he was either out walking with the dog or somewhere with Melinda or sitting at the little table, working on some notes on his laptop. He smiled and stroked her hair back from her face. ‘Don’t be such a princess.’
She stiffened, then pushed him away and sat up, buttoning her shirt again.
He frowned. ‘Melinda? What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’ Her face shuttered. ‘I ought to be going.’
What? A few seconds ago they’d been kissing. Undressing each other—she’d completely unbuttoned his own shirt. And now she’d gone all frosty on him. He couldn’t think of anything he’d done wrong. ‘What? Why? Neither of us is on call. I thought we were spending time together?’ Then the penny dropped. He’d accused her of being princessy. ‘This princess business—I was teasing, tesoro. You know the story of the princess who can still feel the tiny pea through fifty mattresses—that’s like the way you complain about my sofa.’
‘Uh-huh.’
He didn’t understand why she was reacting so badly—Melinda had a great sense of humour usually, and it was rare for her not to have a smile on her face—but he hated the idea of her being hurt and him being the cause. He slid his arm round her and hugged her. ‘You’re not like that at all—you don’t have any airs and graces, and your four-by-four isn’t like that dreadful woman’s next door.’
‘What woman?’
‘I didn’t catch her name—I wasn’t paying attention,’ he admitted. ‘Natalie or Natasha or Na…I don’t know. It’s not important.’ He flapped a dismissive hand. ‘She’s staying next door in the holiday cottage. Hopefully not for too long. Now, she’s the princessy type. Hair cut in the latest fashion, designer clothes and shoes, a four-by-four that’s probably never been within a mile of an untarmacked track in its life. Whereas yours is covered in mud outside and animal hair inside.’
Her mouth tightened. ‘So now you’re saying I look a mess.’
‘No. I’m saying you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met, you don’t need make-up to emphasise how lovely you are and you’d manage to look stylish in a…oh, in a potato sack.’ He made an impatient gesture with his hand. ‘I don’t have a clue why we’re fighting—I don’t want to argue with you, Melinda.’ He sighed. ‘Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something tonight.’
‘What?’
‘When you look as if you