Anyone Can Dream

‘Charlotte, what is it?’ he asked softly.

She looked up at him, at the blue eyes searching her face, the broad, strong brow furrowed slightly in concern, the mouth, so gentle and yet so powerful, the instrument of her downfall.

‘It’s you,’ she said bluntly.

‘I’m not a threat.’

‘Yes, you are—to me.’

He shook his head. ‘No. It’s something else. Something old that’s still hurting you.’

Hurting? Yes, she supposed it was. ‘I’m divorced,’ she blurted out.

‘And?’ he coaxed.

Her shoulders twitched in a little shrug. ‘He was a pig. I find it difficult to relate to men.’

‘Did he knock you about?’

She laughed, the sound high and strained. ‘He didn’t need to. There’s more than one form of abuse.’

He said nothing, but his eyes spoke volumes. Reaching for her, he turned her silently into his arms and enfolded her in a wordless hug of comfort.

‘Poor, poor girl,’ he said finally, and his hand smoothed over her hair, as if she were a hurt child. She felt his lips press against her head, the gentle gesture strangely soothing, and her arms slid round his sides and hung on.

He felt so good—big, safe, like a rock in the crazy world of her see-sawing emotions.

He held her like that for ages, till she was calm again—although not perfectly calm, because underneath she could still feel that raw, untamed need simmering gently, just waiting for another excuse to leap into life.

She gently disentangled herself from his arms, and turned away.

‘Here.’

She found a pristine handkerchief in her fingers, and was amazed to realise she had been crying.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

‘Don’t be. You’ve got nothing to be sorry for. Come on, let’s eat and go and watch this film, then if you like we can talk about it.’

‘It?’

‘Yes, it. Whatever it is that’s eating you up inside.’

Strangely the thought of talking to him didn’t frighten her any more. It would almost be a relief to share the nightmare at last—or part of it. Some—the worst bit—was hers and hers alone.

That she would never share.

The meal was delicious, and the video of three water births was fascinating, although she cut herself off deliberately from the emotion. They watched it twice, talking through it the second time, and then he turned off the television and handed her a file.

‘All sorts of bits and pieces—press cuttings, extracts from journals—have a browse while I make the coffee.’

She did, finding the research information fascinating, and when William came back into the room she was totally engrossed. She read to the end, then set the file down and looked up to find him watching her, a curious expression on his face.

He patted the sofa beside him. ‘Come and sit here and drink your coffee, and tell me all about yourself.’

She laughed awkwardly. ‘All?’

He grinned. ‘Well, some, then.’

‘Can’t I stay here?’

‘No.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I can’t kiss you when you’re sitting there.’

She stood up, her heart thumping, and walked across the dimly lit room.

‘Here.’

He turned sideways so that one leg was against the back of the sofa and pulled her gently into the V of his thighs, so that her back was cradled against his chest and his arms rested lightly across her waist.

‘Now—tell me all about this rat who hurt you so badly.’

‘Greg?’

‘Was that his name?’

She nodded. ‘He was OK at first, I suppose. I was very naive—an only child, and my mother died when I was young. I didn’t think there was anything odd about waiting on him hand and foot—it was something I’d always done for my father, and it seemed natural to carry on.’

‘But?’

She shrugged. ‘He never seemed to appreciate anything. At least my father had been grateful for my efforts in the house, but Greg criticised everything I did. The cooking, the cleaning, the ironing, even——’

‘Yes?’

She ran out of courage. ‘Nothing.’

He sighed, a soft puff of breath that teased the hair on the back of her neck and sent shivers down her spine.

‘Don’t tell me—the bastard called you frigid.’

She stiffened, the word still jabbing through her like a knife.

‘Oh, Charlotte …’ His hands slid up her arms, coming to rest on her shoulders. ‘Poor, poor baby,’ he murmured, and she felt his thumbs working deeply in the muscles of her neck, soothing, easing the tension. She dropped her head forward and let him touch her, then gradually the touch changed, growing less soothing, more sensuous. He turned her in his arms, so that her side rested against his chest, and one hand tipped her chin up so that she was facing him.

‘I’m going to kiss you,’ he said softly, and then his head came down and his lips settled against hers.

The desire was back, sharp and shocking as before, but this time she was helpless to pull away. Instead she reached for him, winding her arms around his neck and tunnelling her fingers through the soft, thick hair at his nape. She felt a hand, warm and strong but gentle, cup her breast, and she arched against it, a little cry rising in her throat. His fingers were against her skin somehow, inside the blouse, under her bra, working the sensitive nub of her nipple to an aching peak.

His mouth left hers, trailing hot, steamy kisses over her neck and throat, down over the slight swell of her breast to close over the tender bud of flesh. She cried out, clutching his head and holding it close, and he made a guttural sound of satisfaction, switching his attention to the other aching breast that was clamouring for his attention.

Her breath was sobbing now, the sensation so exquisite that she was almost beyond reason.

‘William,’ she moaned, reaching for him, and he turned so that she was under him, stretched full-length on the sofa, his legs locked with hers as his mouth returned to claim her lips again.

She arched against him, her body now beyond her control. In the distance she could hear her voice pleading, but the words were meaningless. Her blouse was open now, and she tugged at his shirt, ripping the buttons in her haste.

‘Steady,’ he laughed, but his voice wasn’t steady, and nor were his hands as he wrenched off the shirt and came back to lie against her, the soft, slightly wiry hair on his chest chafing against her unbearably sensitive nipples.

‘Please,’ she begged, and seconds later she felt his hand slide between them, easing her skirt aside and cupping the aching mound of her womanhood in his hard, hot palm.

She bucked under his hand, needing more, needing him, but he was in no hurry now, his fingers making slow, leisurely explorations of their own.

She felt his hand slip under the edge of her tiny bikini pants and move down again, the long, strong fingers probing, searching for something.

He found it, his touch unerring, and Charlotte felt something inside her give and shatter.

‘William,’ she sobbed, and then the sensations flooded her, blinding her, leaving her shaken and weeping in his arms.

‘Frigid my aunt Fanny,’ he said softly, and, smoothing her skirt down over her trembling thighs, he gathered her in his arms and held her till she was quiet.

Then he lifted his head and stared down into her face. ‘Your eyes are like crushed pansies,’ he murmured.

‘More like crushed tomatoes,’ she said with a sniff.

He chuckled. ‘No. You look gorgeous.’

She felt hot colour flood her cheeks. ‘I feel an idiot,’ she told him candidly.

‘Why?’

‘Why? I just—after what I did—why?’

He laughed again, his voice softly teasing, and hugged her. ‘You were beautiful. Warm, soft, all woman.’

Something occurred to her.

‘What about you?’ she asked shyly, dreading his reply.

‘What about me? I’ll live.’

‘But you …’

‘I said I’ll live,’ he repeated, but she could feel the hard ridge against her thigh and knew he was still aroused.

She wished she felt confident enough to return the compliment, but the whole experience had left her shaken and she didn’t feel she could cope with any more.

It seemed she didn’t have to. He eased his weight off her and retrieved his shirt, gazing ruefully at the ripped buttonholes.

‘Oh, well,’ he said philosophically, and tugged it on anyway. Charlotte sat up, acutely aware of her bare breasts, and struggled with the catch on the back of her bra.

‘Let me,’ he offered, kneeling down at her feet, and, reaching round her, he clipped the catch together easily.

‘You’ve done that before,’ she said, struggling for a teasing note, and he grinned like quicksilver.

‘Once or twice.’

He drew the edges of her blouse together and buttoned it, his fingers steady now, and as she looked down at his bent head a huge well of some nameless emotion rose up inside her.

‘William?’ she said tentatively.

He lifted his head. ‘Yes?’

‘Thank you.’

For a second he was silent, then his arms came round her and crushed her against his chest. ‘My pleasure,’ he murmured.

‘I rather thought it was mine,’ she said with a sniff.

‘Don’t be pedantic’ He winked and got to his feet. ‘Coffee?’

She nodded. ‘Please. I’ll help you.’

She followed him out to the kitchen and looked around. There was a litter of plates and dishes all over the worktops, and she moved quickly to the sink and started running the water.

Instantly his hand reached round and turned off the tap.

‘Leave it,’ he said. ‘I’ll do it in the morning.’

‘Oh, no, it’s the least I can do.’

A blaze of anger flared behind his eyes, and he laid his hand over hers on the tap, preventing her from turning it on again.

‘No. You don’t have to earn favours in this house, Charlotte.’

She flushed. ‘But I can’t just leave it all——’

‘Yes, you can, and you will.’

‘But——’

‘No more buts. Come on, the coffee’s done. Let’s go back into the sitting-room.’

She followed him with a sigh. If only he’d let her tidy up, then she needn’t feel so guilty about——

‘Stop it.’

‘Stop what?’

‘Trying to balance the books. You’ve had fun, so you have to pay—is that right? Is that what he did to you? If you went out and enjoyed yourself, you had to pay for it?’

She flushed, and he reached for her and pulled her down on to the sofa against his side.

‘Oh, Charlotte,’ he said softly.

She straightened away from him. ‘I’m all right,’ she said.

‘In a pig’s eye.’

‘I am—really.’

‘Is that why you’re on your own? Because you’re all right?’

She looked at him blankly. ‘You’re on your own, too. If everything’s so hunky-dory in your world, how come you haven’t got a nice cosy little wife and family?’

Something shifted in his face, some lingering regret.

‘I never said everything was hunky-dory in my world,’ he said quietly.

‘Are you divorced too?’ she asked him, and found herself dreading his reply.

He shook his head. ‘No—not divorced. My wife’s dead. She died five years ago.’

CHAPTER THREE

IN THE next few days, Charlotte ran that conversation through her head over and over again, but the shock of it didn’t leave her. Instead she found herself growing more and more curious about the circumstances of his wife’s death.

He had said nothing more, changing the subject and leaving Charlotte with the distinct impression that it was a topic that was strictly taboo.

She hadn’t stayed long after that, driving home to her flat and going straight to bed, to lie there and remember the warmth of his mouth, the touch of his hands, and the incredible sensations he had wrought in her.

That he had denied himself still amazed her, all these days later, and the other thing that amazed her was how easy it was to work with him in the hospital without shame or embarrassment. She had expected at the very least to feel uneasy, but he was his usual warm, open self, and any fears she’d had were soon laid to rest. In fact he was so busy putting her at her ease that she ended up wondering if the whole event had been completely meaningless for him.

On Wednesday night they were on duty again, and, although Charlotte by this time had had a little more experience and had even done her first unsupervised repair, still William insisted on being close at hand.

‘It wouldn’t take you long to come from home,’ she reasoned, but he wouldn’t be moved.

‘If you don’t recognise a problem quickly enough, that extra five minutes could make all the difference. Mrs Rimmer doesn’t seem to be getting on all that fast, and I’d rather be around.’

So she agreed, and in the end she was glad because in the early hours of the morning one of the midwives, Bev Linari, was about to get the switchboard to page Charlotte just as she arrived back on the ward after a coffee break.

‘Oh, you’re back. It’s Mrs Rimmer—she’s making no progress. I’ve had to get her out of the water and I think the baby’s becoming distressed—we need to use the ventouse.’

This special vacuum cup which was applied to the baby’s head and used rather like forceps had almost taken the place of the more brutal tongs of previous years, especially since the advent of silicone cups, but so far Charlotte had used neither, and said so.

‘Is William about?’ Bev asked.

‘Yes.’

The woman’s face cleared. ‘Good—you know his nickname, do you? Dr Ventouse?’

Charlotte smiled. ‘Really?’

‘Oh, yes. He’s fantastic. Get them to call him and come in, could you?’

‘Sure.’ Charlotte turned back to the desk and used the phone to ask the switchboard to page William, then followed Bev into the delivery suite.

The woman, Mrs Rimmer, was looking very tired and despondent, and Charlotte understood from Bev that she had requested no pain relief in the interests of the baby.

Now, however, she was getting more and more distressed, probably with worry, and Bev and Mr Rimmer were busy calming her down.

Just when Charlotte was convinced she was going to have to learn about the ventouse by trial and error, William walked in, took one look at Mrs Rimmer’s face and took charge.

After examining both the progress chart and the patient, he explained that the baby wasn’t descending fast enough and was beginning to get rather tired.

‘Like you, really,’ he said with a grin, and Mrs Rimmer smiled weakly back.

‘What I want to do is help the baby down, using your contractions to do the work and the vacuum cup to guide the baby’s head in the right direction, because what’s happening is it’s turning slightly and getting jammed. Now, I know you don’t want any pain relief like pethidine, but how would you feel about local anaesthetic?’

‘Is it necessary?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I hope not, and I’ll be as gentle as I can, but it may not be very pleasant. One thing I can assure you is that it will hurt a lot less than forceps, and it may even be better than a normal unaided delivery. It’s just getting the cup on that can be a bit tricky.’

Tricky wasn’t the word for it, Charlotte thought a few minutes later as William tried yet again to position the silicone cup against the baby’s undescended head.

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