‘because we’ve got baked sea bass and new potatoes and mangetout, followed by hazelnut meringue ice cream with mango coulis and chocolate Brazil nuts with decaf coffee to finish up.’
‘And then?’
She smiled again, and he could see a pulse beating in her throat.
‘Then we go to bed.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
IT WAS the longest meal of his life.
He didn’t want it. Every mouthful, delicious though it undoubtedly was, was just another step on the path to the bedroom, and the anticipation was killing him.
Not just the anticipation, though. There was also the fear of failure, of letting down.
What if he rushed her—if, while she was still uneasy about her body, he was too fast for her, in too much of a hurry for his own satisfaction that he left her behind?
No. He couldn’t. Not tonight, when it was clearly so significant in the salvation of a marriage he’d realised he wanted more than anything else in the world.
So he ate his meal slowly, mouthful by mouthful, and he talked to her about what he and Joe had done that day down by the river, and they laughed about him taking the saw from Joe and cutting up the part that had trapped him into tiny little bits.
‘It’s just matchsticks now,’ he said, and she laughed again.
‘That’ll teach it,’ she said, and then her laughter faded. ‘I was so scared,’ she confessed. ‘When I saw you trapped under it, when they were just about to pull you out and I saw it shift—I knew it was going, and I thought I was going to lose you.’
‘But you didn’t.’
‘No—but it came too close, Mike. It scared me. It was bad enough that you were injured, without having to watch you die—’ She broke off, her eyes filling, and he felt a lump in his throat.
‘Well, it didn’t happen, and I’m fine.’
‘Only because they got you out in the nick of time. Just because you’re big and tough, you think nothing can hurt you.’
‘You think I’m tough?’ he asked, flexing his muscles and flirting with her for the first time in years, and she laughed again, softly.
‘You look pretty tough to me.’
Her eyes strayed over him, and he felt the heat building until he thought he’d scream with frustration. But he didn’t scream, and he didn’t leap to his feet and drag her upstairs. Not that he could, unless he sat down and dragged her up backwards!
Instead they stayed in the dining room for their coffee, but he didn’t eat any of the chocolate Brazils. He was full enough—and with the workout he had in mind, he didn’t want to be over-full. Even by one mouthful.
And then, at last, it was finished.
The sun was setting, the last fingers of the day pulling back and leaving them alone in the candlelight.
He met her eyes—they were wary, a little nervous, but unflinching, her lips parted, the breath easing in and out of the top of her chest, rapid and unsteady.
It was time.
He pushed back his chair and stood, holding out a hand to her. ‘Come to bed with me,’ he said softly, and she got to her feet, taking his hand, her eyes locked with his.
‘I ought to clear the table,’ she said, giving it a guilty glance, but he cupped her chin and turned her back towards him, his fingers gentle.
‘Later,’ he murmured. ‘It’ll keep.’
Still she hesitated, killing him, and then she gave a tiny nod, as if she’d made the decision, and, letting go of his hand, she passed him his crutches and headed for the door.
‘You go on up. I’ll let the dog out,’ she said.
He paused. ‘Don’t be long.’
‘I won’t.’
He wanted to stay with her, didn’t trust her not to change her mind and run away, but by the time he was finished in the bathroom, he could hear her calling the dog in, locking the door, running up the stairs.
Running?
He opened the bathroom door and she was standing there, backlit by the landing light, looking just like the girl he’d fallen in love with, and he smiled.
‘Five minutes,’ he said, and she smiled back.
‘Five minutes,’ she agreed.
Lord, she was so nervous!
She’d never felt like this with him, not even the first time, but that had been then and this was now, and so much had happened.
She cleaned her teeth, washed her face and stared at herself in the mirror, wishing she had a gorgeous silk nightdress she could put on, or some really fabulous underwear—something to bolster her confidence and take his eyes off the fact that she was so thin.
But she didn’t. Because she hadn’t expected things to go so far tonight, she was wearing a pretty but still fairly ordinary bra and a pair of lacy knickers, not very new and not overly glamorous even at the beginning, and a sundress which with the best will in the world was very simple.
But at least it covered her.
Oh, help.
She was so scared that her whole body was shaking. What if she froze at the crucial moment? What if she just couldn’t let him?
She looked herself in the eye, took a steadying breath and straightened her shoulders.
‘You can do it, Fran,’ she told herself firmly. ‘You can do it.’
He was standing by the window, watching the sun go down.
The room was tinted pink from its last rays, and he held out his hand to her.
‘Come here,’ he ordered softly, and she went to his side, standing in front of him with his arms around her and his head close to hers. She could feel his heartbeat against her back, feel the steady, solid pounding of it as the sun slipped down into the distant sea, melting away in a flare of crimson and gold.
Then he turned her in his arms, staring down at her, his eyes serious.
‘I love you, Francesca,’ he said quietly. ‘You mean everything to me. You’re the reason I get up in the morning, and the reason I come to bed at night. You make the sun shine for me, put colour into everything I do. But if this—my love, our marriage, being here with me—isn’t what you want, then I’ll let you go. All I’m asking for is one last night, one last chance to put things right between us. Can you give me that? Give me this chance?’
She couldn’t believe it. This man, who never showed his feelings, certainly never spoke about them, was baring his soul to her
