He didn’t stir but the soft cashmere of his sweater was warm to the touch and she left her hand on his broad shoulder long after it became obvious that he wasn’t going to wake without more vigorous intervention.
Eventually, though, she took it away, eased the phone from his long fingers and put it, carefully, on the table, then stood watching him for a moment, wondering whether to try harder to rouse him.
He looked exhausted and, instead, she reached out as if to smooth the strain lines from his face. But the intimacy of such a gesture made it unthinkable and she curled her fingers into her palms before they quite touched his skin.
She wouldn’t have done that to a man she’d known for years and George Saxon was practically a stranger.
But then that was the difference.
He didn’t know who she was. Didn’t feel the need to treat her with kid gloves. He’d kissed her because something in her face had told him that was what she wanted, and he’d been right. For the first time in her adult life she didn’t have to be guarded, careful about how everything she said, did, would be interpreted. Didn’t have to worry about reading ‘all about it’ in the morning paper.
The sheer dizzying freedom of that hit her in a rush and she knelt at his feet, uncurled her fingers and let them rest lightly against his face.
Fingertips against the smooth skin at his temple, palm against the exciting roughness of a day-old beard. And then she leaned forward and touched her lips to his.
Not a wake-up-and-kiss-me-back kiss, but a promise to herself to be brave enough to embrace life, embrace every new experience that offered itself.
To be wholly and completely herself.
He didn’t stir and after a moment she leaned back on her heels, then, leaving him to sleep, stood up and let herself quietly out of the room before taking the stairs that rose through the centre of the house.
She followed Hetty’s directions and opened the first door on the right. Her bag was at the foot of an ornate wrought iron bed and, reassured that she was in the right room, she switched on the light and closed the door.
The house was old and the room was large, with high ceilings. The en suite bathroom, a more recent addition, had taken a bite out of the room and the bed was tucked into the larger section of the remaining L.
The walls were decorated with old-fashioned flower-strewn wallpaper that went perfectly with the bed, the patchwork comforter, the dark oak antique furniture. The velvet button-back nursing chair, oval cheval mirror.
A moss-green rug that matched the velvet curtains lay in front of a dresser on the wide oak boards and she drew them to shut out the winter dark before taking a look at the bathroom.
The huge roll-top claw-footed bath with its brass fittings was, like everything else in the house, gleaming with care.
She turned on the taps and then, leaving the water to run, returned to the bedroom to open her bag, see what Lydia had packed for her.
She’d sent her a cheque to cover the basics. Underwear, a nightdress, toiletries. Just enough to see her through until she could buy what she needed. There was a pink T-shirt nightie, plain white underwear, a couple of brushed cotton shirts, socks.
Basic as you like, she thought with a smile. Perfect.
But, when it came to toiletries, the clean, simple lines of the packaging disguised a world of luxury and she clutched the bag to her, hoping that her lookalike would get as much pleasure from the special treats she’d packed for her.
Smiling, she picked up a towel from a pile on the chair and then returned to the bathroom.
She uncapped a bottle and poured a little oil into the bath and the scent of lime blossom rose with the steam, enveloping her as she stripped off, piling up the cash she’d stowed about her body.
Not just the thousand pounds in her bra, but the rest of her running-away money that, on Lydia’s insistence- who seemed to believe she’d be mugged the minute she stepped outside the hotel-she’d tucked around her waist inside her tights. Fortunately, Lydia hadn’t felt the need to lose weight to keep the likeness true, so there had been ample room in the baggy jeans she’d been wearing.
Bearing in mind George’s reaction to the thousand pounds she’d produced, it was probably a good thing that it had been safely out of reach, she thought as she sank beneath the water and closed her eyes, letting the warmth seep into her bones.
He’d been suspicious enough as it was. If she’d let him see just how much she was carrying on her, he would have called the police on the spot. Unless she’d owned up to her real identity, she’d be languishing in a police cell right now, up to her neck in hot water, instead of lying back in this deliciously scented bath.
Her mind drifted to the image of how she’d left him, dark head resting against the leather wing of his chair. The unfamiliar feel of the day-old beard shadowing his chin.
Her smile faded into a sigh of longing as she wondered how it would feel against her cheek, her neck, the delicate skin of her breast.
George stirred, opened his eyes, for a moment not sure where he was, only that something had disturbed him. A touch, a faint familiar scent. Then, as he focused on the paper and wood laid in the grate, waiting only for a match to bring the fire blazing into life, it all came flooding back. Where he was. And all the rest.
His father was in hospital.
His daughter had been suspended from the school he’d chosen with such care-a place apart from the pressures of family, where she could be whoever she wanted to be.
And the scent belonged to Annie Rowland, a woman with lips like the promise of spring who was on the run from something. Someone.
He was three times in trouble, he decided as he raised his hand to his own lips, wiping the back of it hard across them as if he could erase the disturbing thought that while he’d been sleeping Annie had been there. Had kissed him.
He shook his head. That had to be a figment of his imagination.
And yet the image of her kneeling at his feet was so vivid that he stood up abruptly, bumping against the table, sending a mug flying.
He made a grab for it, swearing as hot liquid slopped over the rim, scalding his fingers. Proof that someone had been there in the last minute or two. Someone who wouldn’t have left him sleeping in a chair, but would have put her hand on his shoulder. Brushed her fingers across his cheek.
And, if he’d woken, would he have tumbled her in his lap, taken up where they’d left off? Finished what he’d so nearly started earlier that evening when he’d slipped the fake glasses on her nose? When he’d kissed her, wanting her to know that he wasn’t fooled by her disguise, that he’d caught her out, only to discover himself snared by a woman who, just hours earlier, he’d dismissed as not worth a second glance.
Kidding himself.
Not that her first impression of him would have been particularly flattering. He’d been sarcastic, angry, torn. Wanting to be anywhere else in the world. Wanting only to be here.
And yet there had been something. A recognition, a dangerous edge, a challenge that had sparked between them from the moment she’d cannoned into his arms, fitting the empty space like a hand coming into a glove.
Damn Xandra for getting him involved, he thought as he carried the mug through to the kitchen and grabbed his jacket from the hook. A woman was a complication he could do without right now. Any woman.
This one…
He caught his breath as he stepped outside. It was already close to freezing and his breath condensed and glowed in the concealed lights that lit the path to the gate and in the security lights that floodlit the garage. But he didn’t hurry.
Cold air was exactly what he needed to clear his head and he took his time about checking that everything was safely locked, the alarms switched on before he fetched his holdall from his car.
He did the same inside, checking windows, sliding home bolts, setting the alarm, yawning as the warmth of the house stole over him.
He’d been fighting off sleep for hours, but it was long past time to surrender and, as he pushed open the bedroom door, he kicked off his shoes, pulled his shirt and sweater over his head in one move as he reached the bed, clicked on the bedside light.
And saw Annie’s bag open at his feet.
