‘Tired, fat and gaunt. Got it,’ she said, but she couldn’t keep the smile from her face. Teasing! Who would have thought it? ‘You haven’t mentioned the swollen ankles.’
‘Your ankles are not swollen,’ he said with the conviction of a man who paid close attention. Then, as if aware that he’d over-stepped some unspoken boundary, ‘Don’t worry. I’m sure a skilled photographer will be able to produce pictures that won’t give the game away.’
She groaned. ‘The photographer. I forgot to call the photographer. It’s true what they say. My brain is turning to Swiss cheese…’
‘All the more reason for you to go and put your feet up now. The drawing room has been surrendered to your Wedding Fayre, but there’s a fire in the library.’
‘Mr Kennedy lit a fire? What bliss.’
‘I lit a fire when I was working in there this afternoon. Go and enjoy it.’
‘I will. Thank you.’ That was the thing about living on your own. No one ever told you to put your feet up or brought you a cup of coffee. For a moment she couldn’t think of anything to say. Then the word ‘coffee’ filtered through and she said, ‘Not coffee. Tea. Camomile and honey. You’ll find the tea bags-’
He closed the gap between them and kissed her, and she forgot all about tea bags.
It was a barely-there kiss.
A stop talking kiss.
The kind of kiss she could lean into and take anywhere she wanted and she knew just how right it would be because they’d done that before. But how wrong too. She wanted him just as much-more, because this time it would be her decision, one made with her heart, her head. Not just a response to that instinct to mate in times of stress that had overwhelmed them both.
But she wanted Tom involved with his baby. That was the important relationship here. Her desires were unimportant.
Maybe he understood that too, because he was the one who leaned back. Left a cold place where, for just a moment, it had been all warmth.
‘-somewhere,’ she finished, somehow managing to make that sound as if nothing had intervened between the first part of the sentence and its conclusion. Then, because keeping up that kind of pretence was never going to be possible, she quickly scooped up her laptop and the brochures and walked away.
Not that it helped. She could still feel his lips clinging to hers. Still feel the tingle of that kiss all the way to her toes.
CHAPTER NINE
FOR a whole minute Tom didn’t move. Taking the time to regain control over his breathing, over parts of him that seemed to have a will of their own.
His heart, mainly.
For a moment there he’d been certain that Sylvie was going to kiss him back. Reach up, put her hands to his cheeks and hold him while she kissed him and he climbed over the table to get at her, show her everything he was feeling.
But this time she didn’t lose it. Attuned to her in some way he didn’t begin to understand, he’d sensed an almost imperceptible hesitation and he’d put a stop to it before he embarrassed himself, or her.
In fact common sense suggested that the most sensible thing he could do right now was walk out of the back door, climb into his car and head for the safety of London.
But he’d run before. There was no help for him in distance and Sylvie was locked into another relationship. She’d said it plainly enough. She’d made a commitment and she always delivered on her word.
No matter what she was feeling deep down, and he knew she had felt the same dark stirring of desire that had moved him, she wouldn’t lose her head again.
As for him, the need to face himself in the mirror every morning would keep him from doing anything he’d regret. Hurting her any more than he already had.
He dragged both hands through his hair, flattening it to his head, staring at the ceiling as he let out a long, slow breath.
He’d lived without love so long that he could barely remember what it felt like, could only remember the fallout, the pain. It was an alien concept, something he could not begin to understand. And spending a lifetime watching from the sidelines as friends and acquaintances fell apart and put themselves back together again offered few clues. He had always kept his distance until, finally, he’d arranged what had seemed like the perfect marriage to the perfect trophy wife. A woman who’d neither given nor wanted deep emotional commitment.
Just the perfect trophy husband.
Then he’d come face to face with Sylvie Duchamp Smith and, from that moment on, his perfect marriage had hung like a millstone round his neck. But, like Sylvie, he’d made a commitment and, like her, he always delivered on his promises.
Yet even when he’d been granted a last-minute reprieve he’d still fought against feelings he did not understand. He’d been emotionally incapable of saying the words that would have made everything right. Had instead, for the second time in his life, reduced a woman to tears.
His punishment was to watch helplessly as she planned her wedding. A wedding that she didn’t appear to be anticipating with any excitement, or pleasure, or joy.
He clung to the edge of the sink, reminding himself that she was pregnant. That whatever she was doing, for whatever reason, her baby had to come first.
He turned on the tap but, instead of filling the kettle, he scooped up handfuls of water, burying his face in it to cool the heat of lips that still tasted of her.
And then, when that didn’t help, ducking his head beneath the icy water.
Sylvie abandoned her burden on the library table and gave herself up to the comfort of one of the old leather wing-chairs pulled up by the fire and closed her eyes, but more in despair than pleasure.
The intensity of the attraction had not diminished, that much was obvious. It wasn’t just her; it was a mutual connection, something beyond words, and yet it was as if there was an unseen barrier between them.
Or perhaps it was the all too visible one.
One of the things that Candy had been most happy about her ‘arranged’ marriage was the fact that Tom wasn’t interested in children and her figure was safe for postperity.
But that was the thing about arranged marriages. There had to be something in it for both parties. This house was a pretty clear indication of what Tom had in mind. Posterity. An heir, and almost certainly a spare. Maybe two.
The family he’d never had.
So what was his problem?
If it was a business arrangement he wanted, she had the same class, connections, background as Candy and she was nowhere near as expensive. On the contrary, she was entirely self-supporting. And the heir was included.
Maybe it was her lack of silicone implants that was the deal-breaker, she thought, struggling against a yawn. Or the lack of sapphire-blue contact lenses.
‘If that’s what he wants, then I’m sorry, kid, we’re on our own,’ she murmured.
Tom pushed open the library door and stopped as he saw Sylvie stretched out in one of the fireside chairs, limbs relaxed, eyes closed, head propped against the broad wing.
Fast asleep, utterly defenceless and, in contrast to the hot desire he’d done his best to drown in a torrent of cold water, he was overwhelmed by a great rush of protectiveness that welled up in him.
Utterly different from anything he’d ever felt for anyone before.
Was that love?
How did you know?
As quietly as he could, so as not to disturb her, he placed the tray on a nearby table and then took the chair opposite her, content just to watch the gentle rise and fall of her breathing. Content to stay like that for ever.
