this boy. Made the rest of us look as if we’d spent all our time in the bar——’
‘I wonder why that was?’ Oliver teased, deflecting Michael’s praise. Yet another aspect of him that Bron found so appealing.
He unravelled his length and stood up, stretching his arms high above his head. A sliver of tanned, hair-scattered midriff peeked out under the hem of his shirt, and Bron dragged her eyes away from it and got to her feet, making a production of brushing the grass off her skirt to avoid his eye.
Jane attached herself firmly to Bronwen’s side, said, ‘We’re just going to freshen up—save us a place,’ and steered her through the bar towards the cloakroom.
There she took her comb out of her bag, dragged it through her hair and eyed Bron in the mirror.
‘So what’s with you two? You’ve been making sheep’s eyes at each other ever since you met. What’s going on?’
Bron shook her head in denial. ‘Nothing. We just—I don’t know. I’ve never met anyone like that before.’
‘Well, I’ve certainly never seen you behave like this—the cool, calm, collected Dr Jones? Good grief, Bron, I always thought you were an iceberg, and yet if Oliver so much as looks at you I can see the smoke pouring off you both.’
Bron laughed. ‘Is it that obvious? Sorry. We’ll try to ignore each other.’
Jane shook her head vigorously. ‘Uh-uh. Go for it—get it out of your system. I won’t tell.’
‘Sister Hardy, if you so much as hint to anyone that I’ve been behaving like a moonstruck teenager I’ll get you transferred to orthopaedics—as a patient.’
Jane snorted. ‘You and whose army? Come on. Let’s go and tie the lecturer up in knots.’
In the event it was Oliver who had the lecturer tied up in knots, and the other delegates in stitches, but it was entirely good-natured, and resulted in an excellent discussion with much in the way of relevant contribution from many of the delegates.
By the time they broke for lunch, Bron was feeling light-hearted and cheerful, and they all took their salads out into the grounds and carried on the discussion.
Bron lay back in the cool grass and let the conversation wash over her. She was feeling intoxicated with the air and the sound of Oliver’s voice, and she closed her eyes and drifted in and out of a light sleep.
She awoke slowly to awareness of him; he was lying beside her propped up on one elbow and watching her sleep, and she smiled lazily and shaded her eyes.
‘Hi. Where are the others?’
‘Hi yourself. Gone for a walk.’
He leaned over her, and his shoulders blocked out the sun. She watched, breathless, as his mouth came slowly down and brushed hers with careful deliberation. ‘I’ve been wanting to do that for ages,’ he whispered softly. His head came down again, and this time he deepened the kiss, his hand coming up to tangle in her hair.
When he lifted his head, his eyes were smoky with passion and he swallowed convulsively. He lifted a lock of her hair and wound it thoughtfully around one finger, then tugged it gently. ‘I want to drag you off into my cave and make mad, passionate love to you, but the lecturer would be so disappointed if I wasn’t there to stir things up.’
He laughed a little shakily, and as he lifted his hand to graze her cheek with his knuckles she noticed he was trembling.
‘Oh, Oliver, I want you, too,’ she whispered, and he gave a low groan and flopped back against the grass.
‘What the hell are we going to do about it, Bron? I can’t think, I can’t concentrate; if I close my eyes all I see is your face. I didn’t sleep a wink last night. I just want to hold you in my arms and talk to you—I don’t really care if we make love or not. Hell, it’s far too soon!’ He groaned and rolled on to his stomach, burying his head in his arms. ‘I never behave like this, and I can’t believe you do either, but I have this overwhelming urge to take you to bed and make love to you until one of us begs for mercy! I’m just not sure I could cope with it yet.’
Bron took a deep breath. He was right, of course, she didn’t behave like this and never had, either, but what they had was different, special, and she wasn’t ready to let him go. She’d only had one affair before, and that was with someone she’d known for years. It had been a gentle and natural extension of their friendship and respect, and it had fizzled out just as naturally when he’d moved away for promotion; but, in terms of fireworks, already Oliver was winning hands down. If she let him go now, she knew she’d regret it for the rest of her life. When she spoke, her voice trembled slightly.
‘I won’t beg for mercy.’
He lifted his head and gazed at her seriously. ‘Oh, Bron—I’m not interested in a quick roll in the hay.’
‘Oh! That wasn’t—I didn’t mean…’
Her confusion must have shown in her face, because he pulled her into his arms and cradled her against his chest. ‘I’m not saying I don’t want to make love with you! I’m saying it’s more than that. I think you could come to mean a great deal to me, very easily. I just don’t want to blow my chances with you by pushing you into something you’ll regret later.’
‘I would never regret it,’ she said quietly.
‘You don’t think you would, but things—people, circumstances—change. Come on, let’s go back to the lecture and put things back into perspective. I don’t think I trust myself to be alone with you when you’re so vulnerable.’
‘Oliver! I’m not vulnerable, I’m making a choice.’
He looked down at her, and shook his head. ‘No, Bron, you have no choice. Where I’m concerned you’re as vulnerable as I am with you. We’re wide open to hurt, and we’ll have to protect each other. God knows, I’ll never forgive myself if I hurt you.’
He pulled her to her feet, and tucked her into his side for the walk back to the conference-room.
Jane and Michael were waiting for them, and they sat down just in time as the lecture began again. Bron made a conscious effort to listen, but it wasn’t easy, and she caught Oliver’s rueful grin more than once. He was obviously having the same trouble.
They broke for tea and stayed on the terrace with the others, and after the evening lecture they got together for a drink and a chat over the day’s notes. Whether it was the atmosphere, or Oliver’s presence, or just the fact that she wasn’t used to it, Bron felt the drinks going to her head and found it harder than ever to concentrate on what they were saying.
Predictably her notes were sketchy and filled with doodles—her name and Oliver’s, intertwined with love-hearts and arrows and trailing vine leaves. His were almost as bad, except that his doodles were restricted to ‘She loves me, she loves me not’, down the margin to the bottom line, ending with ‘She loves me not’.
Bron took his notes, drew in another line and wrote, ‘She loves me’, on it, and handed it back, and he gave a startled laugh.
‘Goodnight, all,’ he said briefly, grabbed Bron by the hand and towed her
