and walked away.
WHAT was she thinking about?
Of course he hadn’t been about to kiss her! That bump on the head had obviously been more serious than she’d realised. Maybe a blast of fresh air would help her think clearly?
She opened the French doors onto the terrace and stood there for a moment, letting the night air cool her heated cheeks. She’d been so carried along on the moment, so lured by his natural and easy charm that she’d let herself think all sorts of stupid things.
Of course he wasn’t interested in her. Why would he be? She’d been nothing but a thorn in his side since the moment he’d set eyes on her. And even if he hadn’t, she wasn’t interested! Well, that was a lie, of course she was interested, or she wouldn’t even be thinking about it, but there was no way it was going anywhere.
Not after the debacle with Russell. She was sworn off men now for life, or at least for a good five years. And so far, it hadn’t been much more than five months!
Leaving the doors open, she limped back to the bed and pulled her pyjamas out of her flight bag, eyeing them dubiously. The skimpy top and little shorts she’d brought for their weightlessness had seemed fine when she was going to be sharing a hotel room with Claire, but here, in this ancient historic house—palazzo, even, for heaven’s sake! She wondered what on earth he’d make of them.
Nothing. Nothing at all, because he wasn’t going to see her in her nightclothes! Cross with herself, her head aching and her ankle throbbing and her bruises giving her a fair amount of grief as well, she changed into the almost-pyjamas, cleaned her teeth and crawled into bed.
Oh, bliss. The pillows were cloud-soft, the down quilt light and yet snuggly, and the breeze from the doors was drifting across her face, bringing with it the scents of sage and lavender and night-scented stocks.
Exhausted, weary beyond belief, she closed her eyes with a little sigh and drifted off to sleep …
Her doors were open.
He hesitated, standing outside on the terrace, questioning his motives.
Did he really think she needed checking in the night? Or was he simply indulging his—what? Curiosity? Fantasy? Or, perhaps … need?
He groaned softly. There was no doubt that he needed her, needed the warmth of her touch, the laughter in her eyes, the endless chatter and the brilliance of her smile.
The silence, when she’d simply held his hand and offered comfort.
Thinking about that moment brought a lump to his throat, and he swallowed hard. He hadn’t allowed himself to need a woman for years, but Lydia had got under his skin, penetrated his defences with her simple kindness, and he wanted her in a way that troubled him greatly, because it was more than just physical.
And he really wasn’t sure he was ready for that—would ever be ready for that again. But the need …
He’d just check on her, just to be on the safe side. He couldn’t let her lie there alone all night.
Not like Angelina.
Guilt crashed over him again, driving out the need and leaving sorrow in its wake. Focused now, he went into her room, his bare feet silent on the tiled floor, and gave his eyes a moment to adjust to the light.
Had she sensed him? Maybe, because she sighed and shifted, the soft, contented sound drifting to him on the night air. When had he last heard a woman sigh softly in her sleep?
Too long ago to remember, too soon to forget.
It would be so easy to reach out his hand, to touch her. To take her in his arms, warm and sleepy, and make love to her.
Easy, and yet impossibly wrong. What was it about her that made him feel like this, that made him think things he hadn’t thought in years? Not since he’d lost Angelina.
He stood over her, staring at her in the moonlight, the thought of his wife reminding him of why he was here. Not to watch Lydia sleep, like some kind of voyeur, but to keep her safe. He focused on her face. It was peaceful, both sides the same, just as it had been when he’d left her for the night, and she was breathing slowly and evenly. As he watched she moved her arms, pushing the covers lower. Both arms, both working.
He swallowed. She was fine, just as she’d told him, he realised in relief. He could go to bed now, relax.
But it was too late. He’d seen her sleeping, heard that soft, feminine sigh and the damage was done. His body, so long denied, had come screaming back to life, and he wouldn’t sleep now.
Moving carefully so as not to disturb her, he made his way back to the French doors and out onto the terrace. Propping his hands on his hips, he dropped his head back and sucked in a lungful of cool night air, then let it out slowly before dragging his hand over his face.
He’d swim. Maybe that would take the heat out of his blood. And if it was foolish to swim alone, if he’d told the children a thousand times that no one should ever do it—well, tonight was different.
Everything about tonight seemed different.
He crossed the upper terrace, padded silently down the worn stone steps to the level below and rolled back the thermal cover on the pool. The water was warm, steaming billowing from the surface in the cool night air, and stripping off his clothes, he dived smoothly in.
Something had woken her.
She opened her eyes a fraction, peeping through the slit between her eyelids, but she could see nothing.
She could hear something, though. Not loud, just a little, rhythmic splash—like someone swimming?
She threw off the covers and sat up, wincing a little as her head pounded and the bruises twinged with the movement. She fingered the egg on her head, and sighed. Idiot. First thing in the morning she was going to track down that dress and burn the blasted thing.
She inched to the edge of the bed, and stood up slowly, her ankle protesting as she put weight through it. Not as badly as yesterday, though, she thought, and limped out onto the terrace to listen for the noise.
Yes. Definitely someone swimming. And it seemed to be coming from straight ahead. As she felt her way cautiously across the stone slabs and then the grass, she realised that this was the terrace they’d sat on last night, or at least a part of it. They’d been further over, to her left, and straight ahead of her were railings, the top edge gleaming in the moonlight.
She made her way slowly to them and looked down, and there he was. Well, there someone was, slicing through the water with strong, bold strokes, up and down, up and down, length after length through the swirling steam that rose from the surface of the pool.
Exorcising demons?
Then finally he slowed, rolled to his back and floated spread-eagled on the surface. She could barely make him out because the steam clouded the air in the moonlight, but she knew instinctively it was him.
And as if he’d sensed her, he turned
