the Blue Mountain coffee she’d bought to impress Rupert. While it was brewing she washed up quickly, obeying the golden rule of the house. No dirty dishes left until next day. At last she filled tall mugs with fragrant dark coffee, and put them on a tray with cream and sugar.
Cassie nudged the sitting-room door open with her knee, then gave a sigh of pure frustration, mentally kicking herself for taking so long. Nick Seymour was stretched out on the sofa, fast asleep.
Cassie muttered something rude under her breath, put the tray down on the table and did her best to rouse Nick from a sleep so deep it looked like a coma. And it might just as well have been for all the good it did when she tried to wake him. In the end she gave up, bone-weary herself by this time. She took the tray back into the kitchen, gulped down some of her coffee and went upstairs to borrow a blanket and a double quilt from Hannah, who was skiing with Meg in Gstaad. Cassie eased Nick’s shoes from his long, chilly feet, put a cushion under his head and tucked the blanket and quilt round his sprawled, relaxed body, careless of whether she disturbed him. But Nick slumbered on, vanquished by a combination of jet-lag and stress topped off by a good dinner and three glasses of unaccustomed wine.
‘Sweet dreams,’ said Cassie, resigned, and turned out the light.
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