familiar old accord to come back. And while it wasn’t exactly the way it had been, things were definitely thawing. Rosie clearly had a lot going on in her serious little head.
Earlier that evening, after Kate had bent down to kiss her goodnight, she’d been surprised and touched when a pair of skinny arms had crept around her neck and held on tight for a second. Rosie had said nothing, and Kate hadn’t pushed it, just crept out of the room, her heart swelling with emotion. Emotion she shouldn’t be allowing herself to feel for the little girl. Or her father.
Kate was surprised to admit to herself that in the past few days she’d felt an increasing sense of relaxation stealing over her. It had been so long since she’d slowed her pace. Stopping at the local café on her way home from seeing Rosie off to school each day, taking time to just read the paper had reminded her of how long it had been since she’d devoted any time to herself.
Sorcha had phoned earlier, and Kate hadn’t missed the open curiosity in her voice. Kate hated misleading her friend, keeping the real nature of what was going on with Tiarnan from her, but Sorcha was just too close, so she’d passed off the chain of events that had led her to Madrid as just coincidence. But it was no coincidence that she was sitting curled up on Tiarnan’s couch, waiting for him to come home, and no coincidence that was causing this churning mixture of excitement and turmoil in her belly …
Tiarnan stood at the door of the living room. The house was silent, warm. A sense of peace washed over him—the same peace he always felt when he got home and checked that Rosie was safe, tucked up in bed asleep. And yet tonight, after checking on her, that quality of peace was deeper, more profound.
One dim lamp was lit and on the couch was the curled-up figure of a woman. Kate. Here in his house. His. Satisfaction coursed through him. He walked in, the rug muffling his steps. She was asleep, hair tumbled over one shoulder in a bright coil of white-gold. His eyes travelled over her lissom form—what he could see of it in faded jeans and plaid button-down shirt. Her feet were bare, delicately arched, toenails painted with clear gloss. Desire was instant and burning within him.
He shrugged off his jacket and threw it onto the edge of the couch, sitting down beside Kate. She moved slightly in her sleep, sliding towards him, towards the depression he’d made. Tiarnan put an arm across the back of the couch and leant towards her face, which was turned towards him.
‘Kate,’ he whispered softly. She didn’t stir.
He’d never been turned on by sleeping women, usually preferring them awake and willing, but there was something so perfect about Kate in sleep, her cheeks flushed a slight pink, her mouth in a little moue, that he couldn’t resist the temptation to bend even closer and press his mouth to hers.
Kate knew she was dreaming, but it was too delicious a dream to wake herself from just yet. A man’s mouth was moving over hers enticingly, softly, as if coaxing a response. And, as if watching herself from outside her own body, she gave full rein to her imagination and let it be Tiarnan; let it be his hard, sensual mouth. It felt so good, so right, and on a sigh that seemed to draw in pure lust she opened her mouth against his.
She felt his deep moan of approval. It rumbled through her whole body, sensitising every point, making her breasts tighten, the tips harden into points. When his tongue sought entry to explore and tease, she smiled against his lips, her own tongue making a bold foray, tasting his, sucking it deep. She arched her body, wanting to feel more …
On some level, even while Kate knew she was dreaming, she was also very aware of the fact that she was in Madrid, in Tiarnan’s house, waiting up for him to come home from the US … As if she’d climbed too high in consciousness to stay where she’d been, the shocking realisation came that she was no longer dreaming … what was happening was very real. Tiarnan!
Kate’s eyes flew open, and at the same time she became aware of her heart racing and her breath coming hard and fast. She also became aware of slumberous blue eyes looking directly into hers. As if he’d sensed her wakefulness before she did, Tiarnan had moved back slightly. Her hands were on his shoulders, clutching them to her, not in the act of pushing him away. Her mouth felt bruised, sensitive. She remembered the hunger of that kiss just now. And yet amongst the shock and dismay that splintered her brain was pure joy at seeing him again.
It was all too much for her to process for a minute, seeing him here like this. She reacted against that feeling of joy and tried to push him away with all her might.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’
She gave another huge push, but Tiarnan was like a rock and still far too close. His mouth quirked sexily and everything seemed to slam into Kate at once: the dimness of the room, his scent, his body so close to hers. Her wanton reaction.
‘Waking you with a kiss.’
She reacted violently to his voice, feeling acutely vulnerable—he’d taken deliberate advantage of her, and the more he did it, the less she could argue to him or herself that she was immune to him. If he knew how close this was to the fantasy she’d had for a long time …
She pushed again, feeling heat rise in her face. ‘Finding me asleep did not give you the right to molest me.’
Tiarnan finally rolled back and away, releasing her, but a mocking look on his face cut right through her flimsy attack.
‘Kate, believe me, I wasn’t—What the—?’ He suddenly jumped up like a scalded cat, holding something in his hand.
Kate immediately saw what it was.
‘What the hell is that?’ Genuine pain throbbed in his voice, and Kate allowed herself a small dart of pleasure; that would teach him.
She stood up and took the offending article from him. ‘It’s a knitting needle.’ She indicated the couch and the pile of knitting that had rolled off her lap when she’d fallen asleep. ‘I’m knitting a jumper for Molly, for Christmas.’
His mouth opened and closed. Kate saw a genuine lack of comprehension in his eyes, and then she looked down to where his hand still held his side, just above his trousers. A dark shape was flowering outwards through a small rip in his shirt, under his hand.
Shock slammed into Kate, turning her cold in a second. ‘Tiarnan—you’re bleeding.’
His mouth was a tight line. ‘It went right into me.’
Acting on pure instinct, and feeling a shard of fear rush through her, Kate reached out and ripped open the bottom of his shirt. The wound was a small puncture, but it was pumping blood, and when she looked up at Tiarnan he’d gone white. Too panicked to feel bemused at his obvious distaste for blood, Kate held his shirt to the wound and led him out to the kitchen, where she found the first aid kit under the sink.
She made him rest back on the huge wooden table as she opened his shirt all the way to tend to him. She felt shaky. ‘I’m so sorry, Tiarnan. I’d no idea you were leaning on the needle …’
He just grunted, and Kate busied herself stanching the blood. She applied pressure to a piece of cotton wool over the wound for a long moment, and looked at him warily. Colour had come back into his cheeks and his eyes were now glittering into hers.
He arched an incredulous brow. ‘Knitting?’
She smiled weakly. ‘It’s a hobby. Something I took up to pass the time backstage at the shows.’
