style="font-size:15px;"> ‘Missed a bit?’ The words were little more than a growl, but he was laughing, looking every bit as deliciously dangerous as the younger Cleve who’d whisked her into a dark corner of an aircraft hangar and kissed her senseless with her father not more than ten feet away. It had been heart-pounding stuff then and her heart was pounding now. ‘There isn’t an inch of you that I haven’t warmed.’
Ignoring the heat shimmering across her skin, she smiled right back as she said, ‘Then there must be a draught because there’s a spot behind my right knee that’s quite—’
The word chilly was lost in the depths of a pillow as he flipped her over and began to warm up the back of her knee with his mouth, his tongue and then, just to make sure, he warmed her all over again.
* * *
Cleve, warm for the first time in as long as he could remember, lay spooned around Miranda, his hand on her belly, imagining their child growing there. Her eyes were closed but she covered his hand with her own, tucking it closer against her, and he kissed her shoulder.
‘What are you thinking about?’ he asked.
She raised her lashes, looking out of the window at the sea and the lights of the fishing boats that had put out from the harbour below them. ‘I was wondering why we never did this before.’
That was so not what he was expecting that it took him a moment to gather his thoughts, come up with an answer that filled the gaps.
‘I wanted it so much,’ she said, ‘and but for Posy blundering in...’ She sighed. ‘Why couldn’t she have chosen to throw up in some other part of the garden?’
That had been his first reaction too.
‘Maybe your guardian angel guided her to you.’
She frowned. ‘Guardian angel?’
‘There would have been tears after bedtime.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you telling me that you had a girl at every airfield?’
‘Not every airfield.’
None of them like her and all of them history after a night that had shown him something new, unknown, that had changed him. Until then he hadn’t taken anything too seriously. After that night he’d known what he wanted and it hadn’t just been an air courier and taxi service. He’d wanted the world to lay at her feet.
‘Where could it have gone? You were off to university at the end of that summer. I was struggling to build a business. I didn’t have time to get seriously involved.’
‘I wasn’t looking for serious,’ she said, turning to him. ‘I was looking for a hot man who would—’
He put his hand over her mouth knowing only too well what she’d wanted. He’d spent too much time wondering what would have happened if he’d stepped over the line that night. How different their lives might have been.
‘It wasn’t our time,’ he said, lowering his mouth to hers to stop her talking about it. ‘This is our time.’
* * *
‘It’s at moments like this that you wish there was a telephone so that you could call out for a takeaway.’
Andie stirred, eased limbs aching from so much unaccustomed exercise. ‘What would you call out for?’
‘Anything with sufficient calories to replace those I’ve used in the last couple of hours. Something hot and spicy.’
‘You’re a long way from an Indian takeaway. I’m afraid if your run took it out of you then the food of choice is going to have to be pasta.’
‘My run?’ He rolled onto his side and, propped on his elbow, he looked down at her. ‘I have only one thing to say to you, Miranda Marlowe.’
‘Just one?’ He looked so delicious that she would have reached up, hooked her hand around his neck and pulled him down so that she could kiss him if she’d had the energy. ‘And what is that, Cleve Finch?’
‘Walk to the bathroom and say that.’
She laughed. ‘You win,’ she said, surrendering without hesitation. ‘The downside of that is that you’re going to have to carry me.’
He leaned over and kissed her. ‘It would be my pleasure.’
* * *
The cooker was of the old-fashioned solid kind and it had survived both fire and the attack from the extinguisher. Between the stuff she’d picked up from the supermarket when she arrived and the things Cleve had bought in the village, the fridge yielded the basics for a decent tomato sauce.
Cleve put on a pan of water to boil for the pasta and then they chopped and sliced, making it up as they went along.
Once, when she realised that he’d stopped, she looked up and he was just looking at her.
‘Problem?’
‘What?’ He seemed to come from a long way away. ‘I was just wondering if you’re okay with garlic.’
‘We don’t have any garlic.’
‘Don’t we?’ He looked down at the table. ‘Olives. I meant olives.’
‘Olives are fine, but we’ll add them at the end.’
‘Okay. You’re in charge.’
‘Oh, no,’ she said, removing the seeds from a large tomato and chopping it up. ‘This is an equal opportunities supper. If it’s rubbish, you’re taking half the blame.’
Oh, sugar... That hadn’t come out quite the way she’d meant it, but when she looked up he was grinning.
‘Onions, tomatoes, what could go wrong?’
‘Not a thing.’ She put heat under a pan, added a glug of olive oil then, when it was warm, piled in the chopped onions and gave them a shake.
Cleve searched the drawers for a corkscrew and opened a bottle of red wine he’d bought while they were out.
‘Can I get you something to drink?’
‘I brought a bottle of elderflower pressé with me. It’s in the fridge.’
He poured her a glass of the cordial, poured himself a glass of wine while Andie added the tomatoes to the pan and gave it a stir.
‘Do you enjoy cooking?’ he asked.
She took a sip of her drink. ‘I think it’s a little bit late to be interviewing me for housewife skills.’
‘I’m not marrying a housekeeper, but I’ve just realised how little I know about you.’
‘Excuse me?’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘You’ve known me for years.’
‘I know what
