out of a tree or off a wall or come hurtling off his bike at some crazy break-neck speed, and she’d never once turned a hair or paid any attention to his objections.
So he kept quiet and let her help him, and enjoyed the side-effect of being close to her firm, athletic body, savouring the nudge of her hip against his, the feel of her arm around his back, her warm fingers curled around his wrist.
And the scent of her, the perfume she always wore, the perfume he’d bought her countless times for Christmas or birthdays, always apologising for being unimaginative but doing it anyway because that scent, for him, was Anita.
‘All right now?’
He nodded, words failing him for a second, and she shot him a keen look.
‘You really are feeling rough, aren’t you? I was expecting you to tell me to let go and stop interfering and that you didn’t need my help and go and do something useful like cooking—’
She broke off, meeting his eyes and then laughing as she saw the wry humour reflected there.
‘Surely not? Surely you haven’t finally learned to be gracious, Giovanni Valtieri, after all these years?’
‘Hardly.’
He chuckled and lifted his good hand, patting her cheek patronisingly. It always annoyed her and her eyes flared in warning.
‘Don’t push your luck,’ she said, and dropping him there in the entrance hall like a hot brick, she stalked into the kitchen, hips swishing. ‘Coffee?’
He followed her slowly, enjoying the view in a masochistic way because there was no way he would act on this crazy attraction between them. ‘Only if you’ve got a decent coffeemaker now. I don’t suppose there’s any food in the house?’
‘Not yet. It’s in the car. I’ll put the coffee on. Do you want to lie down for a while, or sit in here?’
And there it was—the sofa, an old battered leather one where he’d nearly lost his self-control last June. But it looked really inviting, and it was set opposite a pair of French doors out onto the terrace and he could see the familiar lights of the valley twinkling in the distance. His home was out there somewhere in the darkness, and if he couldn’t be there, then this was the next best thing.
‘Here looks good,’ he said, and made his way over to it and lowered himself down cautiously. So far, so good, he thought, and stretched his leg out in front of him with a quiet groan of relief.
‘Better?’
‘Much better. Have you got that coffee on yet?’
‘I thought you didn’t like my coffee?’
‘I don’t, but I need caffeine, and it has to be better than the stuff in the hospital.’
She gave him a look, but got two mugs out and found some biscuits in a tin.
‘Here. Eat these while you wait. We’ll be having dinner in a while. I bought something ready-made so we can have it whenever you’re ready.’
‘Good. I’m starving.’
She laughed. ‘I’ve never known you when you weren’t starving. It’s a miracle you’re not fat.’
‘It’s my enormous brain. It takes a lot of energy.’
She snorted, but he could see a smile teasing the corners of her mouth, and he turned away so she wouldn’t see him laughing in response. Then his smile faded, and he closed his eyes and sighed quietly.
If it wasn’t for this intense physical tug between them which had appeared suddenly when they were fourteen and never faded, life would have been so, so much easier. They could have just been friends, just as they had all their lives until that point. They’d been inseparable, getting into all manner of scrapes together, but then their hormones had made things awkward between them and she’d started spending more time with the girls, and he with the boys.
But despite the occasional awkwardness, they’d stayed friends, and they still were, twenty years later. She was the first person he called if he had something interesting or sad or exciting to share, but since that time five years ago when they’d somehow lost their restraint and ended up in bed for a few giddy and delirious weeks, things hadn’t been the same.
He hadn’t called her as much, hadn’t leant on her in the same way, and if she’d leant on him, he’d given only what he’d had to and no more.
He’d been easing away from her, trying to distance himself because it was just too darned hard to be so close when he could never give her what she wanted—until last June, when he’d nearly lost the plot. He’d hardly seen anything of her since then, and he’d missed her more than he would ever admit.
She heard a quiet sigh, and looked over to where he was sitting.
He looked thoughtful, sombre, and she wondered what he was thinking about. The silly woman who’d got him in this mess with her unprovoked attack?
Or the last time he’d sat on that sofa, when they’d so nearly—
‘Here, your coffee,’ she said, dumping it down on the table beside him. She went back for her own coffee and the biscuits, and handed them to him.
‘No chocolate ones?’
‘Do you know, you’re like a demanding child,’ she grumbled, going back to the cupboard and rummaging around until she found a packet of chocolate coated wafers. ‘Here. I was saving them for a special occasion, but since you can’t cope without them…’
He arched a brow, but she ignored it and tore the Cellophane and put the packet down on the cushions between them, reaching for one at the same time as him. Their fingers clashed, and she withdrew her hand.
‘After you,’ she said, ‘since you’re clearly going to die if you don’t eat soon,’ and his mouth curved into a slight, fleeting smile and he picked one up deliberately and bit it in half.
She looked away. He was teasing her, tormenting her, but her fingers were still tingling from the brush of his hand.
How could she feel like this still? Always, all the time, year after year without anything but hope to feed it?
Except he’d given her hope. They’d had an affair, and last year, they’d so nearly started it up again. So very, very nearly—
‘Good biscuits.’
‘They are. That’s why I was saving them. Don’t eat them all, you won’t want your dinner.’
‘Unlikely.’
She snorted, and put the rest away in the tin and put the lid on, and he just leant back and stretched out his long, rangy body and sighed.
He looked so good there, as if the sofa was made for him, as if it was his body that had moulded it to the saggy, comfortable shape it now was—except he’d only ever been on it once before, and she really, really didn’t want to think about that time.
‘How’s the coffee?’ she asked to distract
