steered her towards it, handed her a glass and sat back, one ankle on the other knee and the plate balanced on his hand while he attacked the food with his fork.
He’d always eaten like that, but that was medicine for you, eating on the run. Maybe he thought they should get it over with and then he could slide off and drink with the boys. Well, if the truth be told he didn’t have to hang around for her.
‘You’re not eating.’
‘I’m too busy wondering why you don’t have chronic indigestion, the speed you’re shovelling that down.’
He gave a short chuckle. ‘Sorry. Force of habit. And I was starving.’ He put the plate down for a moment and picked up his glass. ‘So, how are you, really?’
Really? She hesitated, the fork halfway to her mouth. Did he honestly want to know? Probably not.
‘I’m fine.’
‘How’s the job?’
‘OK. I like it. As with any job it has its ups and downs. Mostly ups. The hospital’s a good place to work.’
‘Yes, so Ben says.’ He stared pensively down into his glass, swirling it slowly. ‘You didn’t have to leave London, you know. We were never going to bump into each other at different hospitals.’
No? She wasn’t sure—not sure enough, at least, that she’d felt comfortable staying there. Up here, she’d been able to relax—until Ben had arrived. Ever since then she’d been waiting for Matt to turn up unexpectedly on the ward to visit his brother, and the monoamniotic twins they’d delivered last night had been something he’d taken a special interest in, so once Melanie Grieves had been admitted, she’d been on tenterhooks all the time. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Well, now it had, and it was every bit as bad as she’d expected.
‘I like it here, it was a good move for me,’ she said, and then changed the subject firmly. ‘Who’s Jenny Wainwright?’
He laughed, a soft, warm chuckle that told her a funny story was coming. ‘Ben’s first girlfriend. We were thirteen or so. They’d been dating for weeks, and she wouldn’t let him kiss her, so I talked him into letting me take his place on the next date, to see if I had more luck.’
‘And did you?’
His mouth twisted into a wry smile. ‘No. Not that time. I did about two years later, though, at a party, and she told me he kissed better, so I went and practised on someone else.’
She laughed, as he’d wanted her to, but all she could think was that whoever he’d practised on had taught him well. She ought to thank her—except of course he wasn’t hers to kiss any more. Regret swamped her, and as she looked across and met his eyes, she saw tenderness in them and a gentle, puzzled sadness. ‘I’ve missed you,’ he said softly, and she gulped down a sudden, convulsive little sob.
‘I’ve missed you, too,’ she admitted, her voice unsteady.
He stared at her searchingly, then glanced down. ‘Are you all done with that food?’
Food? She looked at her plate. She’d eaten far more than she’d thought she would, to her surprise, and she was feeling much better. ‘Yes. Do you want the rest?’
‘No, I’m fine, but I’m supposed to be entertaining you, so let’s go and dance.’
Out of duty? Or because he wanted to? She hesitated for a second, then stood up, raising an eyebrow at him. Whichever, she wanted to dance with him, and she wasn’t going to get another chance.
‘Come on, then, if you really want to.’
Oh, yes. He wanted. He got to his feet and led her back to the dance floor.
She’d always loved dancing, and he loved dancing with her, loved the feel of her body, the lithe, supple limbs, the sleek curves, the warmth of her against him.
He didn’t get to hold her, though, not at first. The tempo was fast—too fast, he decided, after a couple of dances, so he reeled her in and halved the beat, cherishing the moment because he knew it wouldn’t last. How could it, with all they had behind them? But now—he had her now, in his arms, against his heart, and his body ached for her.
The tempo slowed, moving seamlessly from one unashamedly romantic, seductive number to another, until they were swaying against each other, her arms draped around his neck, his hands splayed against her back, the fingers of one hand resting lightly on the warm, soft skin above the back of her dress, the other hand lower, so all he had to do was slip it down a fraction and he could cup the firm swell of her bottom and ease her closer …
She felt his hand move, felt him draw her in so she could feel every move he made. Their legs had somehow meshed together so his thigh was between hers, nudging gently with every slight shift of his body, brushing the soft silk of her dress against her legs and driving out all her common sense.
She knew him so well, had danced with him so many times, and it was so easy to rest against him, to lay her head against his chest and listen to the deep, steady thud of his heart, to slide her fingers through his hair and sift the silky strands that she remembered so well.
Easier, still, to turn her head, to feel the graze of stubble against her temple and tilt her face towards him, to feel the soft warmth of his lips as they took hers in a tentative, questioning kiss.
I love you …
Had he said that? Had she?
She lifted her head and touched her lips to his again, and his breath seared over her skin in a shuddering sigh.
‘Amy—’
‘Matt …’
He lifted his head and stared down at her in the dim light on the edge of the dance floor, their eyes locked as each of them battled against the need raging within them. She could feel him fighting it, feel herself losing just as he closed his eyes and unclasped her hands from behind his neck, sliding his hand down her arm and linking their fingers as he led her off the dance floor and up the broad, sweeping staircase to the floor above in a tense, brittle silence.
They didn’t speak to anyone. They passed people in the hall, people on the stairs—they didn’t stop, didn’t look left or right, until the door of his room was opened and closed again behind them, and then he cradled her face and stared down into her eyes once more.
Still he didn’t speak, and neither did she. What was there to say? Nothing that would make any sense.
Slowly, with infinite tenderness, he touched his lips to hers again, and she whimpered softly and clutched at him, desperate for the feel of him, for his body on her, in her, surrounding and filling her.
‘Please,’ she whispered silently, but he heard her and took a step back, stripping without finesse, heeling off his beautiful handmade shoes, his hired suit hitting the floor and crumpling in a heap. After a brief fight with his cufflinks the shirt followed, then the boxers, the socks, and he spun her and searched blindly for the zip.
‘Here.’ She lifted her arm so he could find it, sucking her breath in as he tugged it down and the dress fell to the floor,
