Her jeans were in a heap on the floor, and her phone was lying beside them. He picked it up, and his own, went into the bathroom and called himself from her phone to get the number, then sent her a text.
Meet me for breakfast? Café by the restaurant at nine? S
He put the phones down, showered and towelled himself roughly dry, cleaned his teeth and then on the spur of the moment reloaded the new emergency toothbrush he’d found her before he pulled on his clothes and packed. He tried hard not to disturb her, but he could have slammed the door and she wouldn’t have heard she was so heavily asleep. He’d ask Reception to give her a call at eight. That would give her an hour to get ready for breakfast.
He hesitated a moment, then bent, breathing in the scent of warm skin and sex as he touched his lips to her flushed, sleep-creased cheek.
She didn’t move. Just as well. He was out of time.
He picked up his things, put her phone where she’d see it and let himself quietly out of the room.
* * *
A phone was ringing.
Kate struggled up out of the depths of sleep and registered her surroundings as she groped for the room phone. ‘Hello?’
The recorded, electronic voice was horribly cheerful. ‘This is your alarm call. The time is eight a.m.’
Alarm call? Why...?
Sam, she realised, looking round at the empty room. All his stuff was gone. He must have left for his meeting, but why hadn’t he said goodbye? After all they’d shared, he’d just left without a word?
Her brain slowly coming to, she dropped the receiver back on the cradle and slumped against the pillows.
Dammit, would she never learn?
She stumbled out of bed and opened the bottle of spring water on the hospitality tray, dragged on her clothes and shoved her phone in her pocket. She was so bone tired. She was going home for a shower and then she’d fall into bed—
Her mobile rang, and she pulled it out of her pocket and stared at it in dismay. Her ward manager, which could only mean one thing. Her finger hovered over the phone, then she gave in to the inevitable guilt and answered it reluctantly.
‘Hi, Jill.’
‘Kate, I’m so sorry, I hate to do this to you on your day off but is there any way you can come in?’
Again? Her heart sank and she plopped down onto the bed in despair. ‘Can’t you get an agency nurse? I’ve just done seven days straight—’
‘I’ve tried. Please, Kate? Jane’s called in—she’s got norovirus, too, and we’re so short-staffed we’re going to have to close the Emergency Department if we can’t get more nursing cover. I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate.’
She gave in. The winter vomiting bug had swept through Yoxburgh Park Hospital in the last few weeks, which was why Petra had been called in last night, and there was no point fighting the inevitable. ‘OK, I’m on my way. I just need time to shower and grab some breakfast—’
‘Quick shower. I’ll make you some toast when you get here. We really need you now.’
Oh, dammit. ‘OK, OK, I’m coming. Give me ten minutes.’
Which meant she didn’t even have time to go home and change. It could have been worse. At least she hadn’t gone out last night in a tiny dress and six-inch stilettos or she’d be doing the walk of shame.
Not that it would be the first time, she thought with a sigh, but she always kept a pair of work shoes at the hospital since the first time it had happened, and she could wear scrubs. She stripped and went back into the bathroom, and realised Sam had at least had the decency to leave her a blob of toothpaste on the new brush he’d produced for her last night out of the depths of his overnight bag. In case he ever forget to take one with him, he’d explained, proving he was way more organised than she’d ever be, but that wasn’t difficult.
She cleaned her teeth with it, grateful for the burst of freshness it offered if not for his sneaky exit, then showered fast without washing her hair, wiped away the smudge of mascara under her eyes, grabbed the biscuits and water off the hospitality tray and left.
* * *
She didn’t show.
He almost rang her, but stopped himself in time. She was bound to have seen the text. Maybe she just wasn’t interested? Although she’d seemed pretty interested last night.
He waited until ten, dragging out his third coffee to give her time, then admitted the obvious and gave up.
It was probably just as well, he told himself, and crushed the ludicrous feeling of disappointment. He got into his car and checked his phone again. Maybe she just hadn’t seen the text? But still there was nothing.
Telling himself not to be a fool, he deleted the call history and the text, threw down the phone and drove home, disappointment and regret taunting him with every mile.
* * *
It was eight that night before she finally climbed the stairs to her flat, and one glance at it made her glad they’d gone to his hotel.
Today was the day she’d set aside for cleaning it and blitzing the laundry, but that had turned out to be an epic fail. Tough. She wasn’t doing it now, she was exhausted, and it would keep. She stripped, trying not to think of the way she’d undressed for Sam last night, trying not to think of all the things he’d done to her, the things she’d done to him, the way he’d made her feel.
She’d never had a night like it in her life, and it hadn’t just been about the sex, although that had been amazing. It was him, Sam, warm and funny and gentle and clever. He’d made her feel special. He’d made her feel wanted.
Until she realised he’d just been using her.
And she couldn’t really have fallen for him. Not in—what? Nine hours?
Was that all? Just nine hours? She’d wanted it to go on for ever, but it hadn’t. Like all good things, it had come to an end all too soon, and he hadn’t even had the decency to tell her.
She pulled her phone out of her pocket to put it on charge and saw she had a message from an unknown number.
Meet me for breakfast? Café by the restaurant at nine? S
‘No-o!’ She flopped back on the bed and shut her eyes, stifling a scream of frustration. How could she not have seen it?
Because she hadn’t had time, was how. She literally hadn’t stopped, and when she had, for twenty minutes that afternoon, she’d fallen asleep in the staffroom. She should have rung him—sent him a text, at least, to let him know she’d had to work, but she hadn’t even known he’d messaged her, never mind how he’d got her number.
By ringing himself from her phone, she realised, scanning her call log.
Damn. So he hadn’t just left without trace. And all day, she’d been hating
