Second Thoughts

‘I’m pampering you, remember?’

His smile was kindly teasing. She returned it, then winced as the circulation came back into her foot.

‘Pins and needles?’ he guessed, and she nodded, wriggling it. He turned the cat off his knee and crouched in front of her, taking her foot in his large, warm hands and massaging it gently.

‘Ow,’ she mumbled.

‘Hell, isn’t it? How’s that?’

She felt suddenly uncomfortable with this big man kneeling at her feet.

‘Better, thank you,’ she told him and almost snatched it out of his hands, further embarrassed by the growl from her stomach.

‘Hungry?’ he asked with a smile.

‘Apparently.’ She laughed a little awkwardly.

‘Supper’s ready when you are. There’s a cloakroom at the bottom of the stairs if you want to freshen up.’

She looked dreadful, she thought as she looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair was tousled, her cheeks were flushed and crumpled from the cushion and she looked — wanton was the nearest she could come up with, and it unsettled her.

She splashed her face with cold water and went back into the big farmhouse-style kitchen, where Andrew was just setting the huge old refectory table.

‘OK?’

She nodded, avoiding his eyes. ‘Can I do anything?’

‘Eat,’ he said with a grin.

It was no hardship. The meal was wonderful, a seafood concoction with mushrooms and a delicious creamy sauce under the lightest, fluffiest mashed potato she had ever tasted. It was served with fresh sprouting broccoli and glazed carrots, both homegrown, he told her.

‘Where did you learn to cook like that?’ she asked him, replete, as she sat at the table under orders not to move and watched him clear up.

He laughed. ‘Self-defence. I can’t stand canteen food and I can’t afford a housekeeper. Anyway, I enjoy it. Coffee?’

‘Mmm. Can I —— ?’

‘No. Go and sit down, I’ll be with you in a tick.’

‘Actually, I think I’ll go up and check on Tim, if you really don’t need my help.’

‘Top of the stairs, turn left and follow your nose. He’s in the little bedroom at the end.’

‘OK.’ She ran lightly up the stairs, noticing as she went the higgledy-piggledy collection of pictures on the walls, etchings and pen and ink drawings and little watercolours, the occasional photograph, an oil on wood. There was no theme, except perhaps the straightforward one of personal choice, pictures collected for no better reason than that he liked them. And what better reason was there?

She found Tim, his cheek cradled on his hand, fast asleep in a wonderful old captain’s bed, the forerunner by some hundred years of the modern chipboard equivalent. His lashes dark against his pale cheeks, he looked terribly vulnerable and very small. He also looked as if he belonged in this room, with its distinctly Boys’ Own flavour.

She brushed a kiss on his cheek, whispered ‘Goodnight,’ and tiptoed out.

‘OK?’

She jumped slightly. Big as he was, she hadn’t heard him approach. ‘Yes, he’s fine. Where did you get that wonderful bed?’

‘The bed? It used to be mine when I was a child. I couldn’t bear to part with it when my parents died. Obviously I couldn’t keep everything, but that I refused to get rid of.’ He pushed open a door. ‘I’ve put you in here next to him,’ Andrew told her, ushering her in.

It was a delightful room, with high twin beds and pretty lace bedspreads. Her suitcase was lying on one of the beds, and on the table between them was a small vase of roses.

‘Oh, Andrew…’ She reached out and touched the blooms with her finger. ‘You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble for me ——’

‘Pampered, you said. How can you pamper a woman without roses?’ His voice was husky and much too close.

The room seemed suddenly very small, his presence filling it, and for the first time she was shockingly, intensely aware of him.

‘Thank you,’ she murmured a little breathlessly, and after a second’s hesitation he turned and ducked under the doorway.

‘Coffee’s ready when you are. I’ll see you downstairs,’ he told her, and she wasn’t sure if his voice was a little strained or if she had imagined it.

When she went back down, though, she decided she had imagined it because he was all quiet courtesy and the perfect host. The pregnant black and white cat made herself at home on his lap for a while, and he sat and absently fiddled with her ears while they talked about the children they had seen in the clinic that afternoon.

‘We shouldn’t be talking shop — you’re supposed to be getting away from it all,’ he said after a while.

‘Do you ever truly get away? Especially with paediatrics. It’s rather like being a vet, all those great big trusting eyes. They do something to your insides.’

He laughed. ‘And you accused me of getting attached to the Robinsons!’

‘Well, they are delicious,’ she said with a forgiving smile.

‘Mmm. They’re very lucky people. And unlike most parents, they realise it. Probably because they had such a struggle before IVF finally gave them their family. Most people just take their children for granted.’

Jennifer nodded and sighed. ‘It’s easy, though, isn’t it? I just wish Tim meant more to his father.’

‘Why did you get divorced?’ Andrew asked quietly.

She shrugged. ‘Who knows? Nick decided one day that he couldn’t handle the responsibility any more, and he went. Crazy, really. We’d got through his house years when he was never at home — perhaps that was it? Perhaps once he reached the point where he was at home more, he realised we weren’t what he wanted. Whatever, he left. He’s always been very good about helping financially, though. Whatever his other failings, he’s always been meticulous about that. Well, he is meticulous. Everything always has to be just so. He’d rip this room apart and re-do it all, because it’s not perfect.’

Andrew glanced round, and shrugged. ‘I know it’s not up to much, but I like it.’

She flushed, mortified. ‘Sorry, that was unbelievably tactless, but I really didn’t mean it like it sounded. It’s just that Nick’s taste is — well, let’s say clinical, shall we? And I became so indoctrinated that now I can’t seem to make our flat homely, but this house — I think it’s charming, restful, cosy … everything a home should be. I don’t know quite how you’ve done it, but I love it and I think it would be a great shame to change it.’

‘Thank you.’ They exchanged smiles, and he tipped the cat off his lap and stood up. ‘Nightcap?’

‘No, thanks. Actually, I’m ready for bed.’

She stood up and went over to him, reaching up to kiss him lightly on the cheek. ‘Thank you for spoiling us. You’re a good man.’

He flushed slightly and squeezed her shoulders. ‘You deserve it. You’re a lovely girl, you should have someone spoiling you all the time.’

She laughed. ‘Oh, no, I’d get fat and lazy. I’m better off as I am. Goodnight.’

For a second she thought he was going to kiss her, but then his hands slid down her arms and he stepped back. ‘See you in the morning.’

She climbed the picture-lined staircase and checked Tim, then washed and climbed into bed, snuggling down against the freshly scented linen with a contented sigh. She was asleep in seconds.

CHAPTER TWO

JENNIFER woke to the sounds of the countryside — birdsong, barking dogs, the rusty squawk of a pheasant, and in the distance the drone of a tractor. She smiled to herself. In a strange way it was noisier than the town!

She stretched lazily and glanced at her watch, then threw back the covers, horrified. Ten to nine! What on earth would Andrew think of her, lying in this late?

She pushed her feet into slippers and was reaching for her dressing-gown when there was a tap on the door.

‘Jennifer?’

She pushed her arms hastily into the robe and opened the door, overwhelmingly conscious of her tousled hair and flushed cheeks.

Andrew was standing there, dressed in soft old cords and a plaid shirt open at the neck, balancing a tray on one large hand. His hair was still damp from the shower, and one unruly lock had fallen forwards over his brow. She clenched her fists, shocked at the sudden urge to smooth it back.

‘Morning,’ she mumbled.

‘Morning. Did you sleep all right?’

She ran a hand through her hair, tousling it further. ‘Wonderfully, thank you…’

He grinned. ‘I’ve brought you breakfast. Tim said you only ever have tea and toast, but I thought maybe I could tempt you with a boiled egg from one of the little bantams.’

He set the tray down on the bedside table. There was a cup of tea, a slice of wholemeal toast and a tiny, perfect little brown egg in a miniature eggcup. And a yellow rosebud, just on the point of opening.

‘You really are taking this to extremes, aren’t you?’ she said shakily.

Of course. You deserve it — I’ve been working you too hard. In you get.’

He held the bedclothes so that she had no choice but to kick off her slippers and get back into bed. She felt incredibly foolish and terribly spoilt.

‘Relax and enjoy,’ he advised, and set the tray down on her lap. ‘We’ll be in the garden when you’re ready. Why don’t you have another little sleep?’

‘Oh, I couldn’t,’ she protested, but after she had eaten the little egg and the slice of toast and drunk the delicately flavoured tea, she found she had no urge to get up. ‘Just a few minutes,’ she said to herself, and setting the tray down, she snuggled back under the covers and fell instantly asleep.

The next time she woke it was to the sound of a motor much closer than before, and much higher pitched. Throwing back the bedclothes, she crossed over to the window and looked out, to see Tim sitting on a tiny red tractor, going up and down the garden with Andrew striding beside him, occasionally reaching across to turn the steering-wheel slightly. They both looked perfectly content, so she took her time washing and dressing before she went downstairs, intending to clear up the kitchen and look around for something for lunch.

She found the kitchen immaculate, a quiche browning gently in the oven, and a pile of washing folded on the table.

She did a mild double-take. Her clothes? And Tim’s?

She sat down slowly, gratitude warring with embarrassment. The thought of anyone else — especially a man, and particularly her boss! — going through her washing was enough to bring her out in a rash. All that ancient underwear …

She gave a low moan and put her face in her hands. How was she ever going to face him again?

‘Jennifer? Are you feeling all right?’

‘Yes — no,’ she mumbled, and forced herself to look up at him. ‘You shouldn’t have done my washing,’ she said firmly.

He grinned. ‘All part of the service, ma’am. I’m afraid it isn’t ironed, but I’m not much good at that; I tend to burn things. Coffee?’

She sighed and gave up. ‘Thank you, that would be lovely. Where’s Tim?’

‘Out in the garden, molesting Blu-Tack.’

‘Is he all right?’

He raised an eyebrow at her anxious tone. ‘Which one? I believe they’ll both survive the encounter.’

She smiled. ‘I meant was Blu-Tack all right with children. Some cats can be a bit funny.’

Andrew shrugged. ‘He’s a little shy, but he’s very friendly once he knows you. I’ve never known him scratch anyone yet, and my sister’s children persecute him mercilessly. Mummy-cat’s taken herself off somewhere, though. Bit too much for her, all this attention.’ He handed her a mug of coffee. ‘We’ve just cut the grass.’

‘I know — I watched you from the window. Tim will have enjoyed it.’

‘Kids always do. I get through gallons of petrol when I have little visitors.’ He settled himself at the table, his broad shoulders straining the soft fabric of his plaid shirt. The mug almost vanished in his big hands. He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘I have to nip in to the hospital for a little while to see William Griffin. It was an ileocolic intussusception, by the way, and Ross said he sorted it out without any trouble, but I’d just like to have a look. I thought we could go for a walk after lunch if you feel up to it.’

She laughed. ‘Andrew, I’m not ill, just a bit tired. Where did you want to go?’

‘In the woods. There’s a badger’s sett and a couple of foxholes, and endless rabbit holes. I thought Tim would like it, but you could stay here if you’d rather.’

‘No, that would be great. I’m sure he’ll love it, but have you got time?’

He looked surprised. ‘Of course — this is your weekend, Jennifer. Stop feeling guilty and enjoy it.’

So she did. Lunch was superb, the walk a delight, brought to life by Andrew’s extensive knowledge of the countryside. Tim, who was fascinated by all knowledge, soaked it up like a sponge, and Jennifer strolled behind, content simply to watch them interact.

If only his father was like that with him, she thought, and felt a twinge of sadness. Nick had never understood Tim, and the older he got, the wider the gulf seemed to grow.

Not that Nick’s casual attitude to access exactly helped, although recently he had been better, making more of an effort not to break arrangements, but often when Tim came back he was silent and uncommunicative, and Nick always seemed to heave a sigh of relief when he handed him over to her again.

‘Penny for them.’

She looked up into Andrew’s homely, lived-in face. He would understand, but it seemed disloyal to discuss Nick’s attitude with him. She felt she had already said too much last night.

Instead she smiled. ‘Sorry, I was miles away.’

‘Hey, Andrew, look at this!’ Tim called excitedly.

With a last, searching glance at her face, Andrew turned back to Tim and the huge bracket fungus he had found.

That evening, after they had eaten supper and while she put Tim to bed, Andrew cleared up the kitchen and then lit the fire in the little sitting-room. It had been a glorious, sunny September day, but with the clear sky came a sharp drop in temperature, sufficient justification, Andrew said smilingly, for the self-indulgence of a log fire.

He had opened a bottle of Australian Cabernet with supper, and they finished it off, sitting in their respective chairs in companionable silence and gazing into the flames, while the pure, clear sound of a chorister flowed around them.

Jennifer laid her head back against the chair and closed her eyes, letting it all wash over her.

‘This is beautiful,’ she murmured.

‘You aren’t really in the right place — you should be here for the best image.’

She laughed drowsily. ‘But you’re there.’

His voice was soft. ‘You could always join me.’

And because she was so relaxed and perhaps a little tipsy, and because he was so comfortable to be with, it seemed perfectly natural to go over to him and settle herself on his lap, her head against his broad shoulder, and close her eyes again.

‘Better?’ he asked quietly, and she made a small sound of agreement.

This is lovely — what is it?’

The “Pie Jesu”, from Fauré’s Requiem. ‘

‘It’s so peaceful — uplifting, spiritual.’

‘Requiem means rest,’ he told her, and she sighed softly and let the music soothe her.

After a while the Requiem ended, and she lay cradled on his lap with only the hiss of the logs and the occasional screech of an owl to break the silence.

She could hear the steady thud of his heart, and the slow, even sound of his breathing. His big, blunt hand lay warmly on her knee, and the other arm was around her shoulders, holding her against his solid chest. She opened her eyes and found him looking at her, his expression sober.

‘What is it?’ she asked softly.

He hesitated for a moment, then murmured, ‘I was just wondering if it would ruin everything if I kissed you.’

Her breath lodged in her throat. Unable to reply, she lifted her hand and touched it lightly to his cheek. He had shaved and changed before supper, but even so she could feel the slight rasp of stubble against her palm. She slid her hand round and threaded her fingers through his hair, then gently drew his face down towards hers.

In the moment before their lips met, she wondered briefly why it had taken them so long to reach this point.

After that, there was no more coherent thought. His lips were firm but gentle, not the clever, practised lips of the master-seducer but hesitant at first, as if it was a long time since he had kissed anybody. Then with a small sound of satisfaction his hand slid up into her hair and steadied her, as if he had remembered what to do, so that when she whimpered and parted her lips he was there, his tongue stroking the velvet recesses of her mouth, drawing her own into his mouth to suckle it gently until she whimpered again.

He shifted her in his arms so that his hands were free, and as he unfastened the buttons on her blouse she could see they were trembling. Then he drew the edges apart and gazed at her, at the soft swell of her breasts above the lace edges of her bra, the rose-pink nipples peaking against the restraint, aching for his attention.

His fingers shook as they brushed the delicate skin, then they moved to the clasp.

‘Let me look at you,’ he whispered, and nothing had ever seemed more right.

He fumbled the clasp and in the end she helped him, unable to bear the sweet suspense. Her breasts spilled out into his hands and he groaned deep in his throat.

‘So lovely,’ he whispered, and then his head lowered and his lips and tongue took the place of his fingers, soothing the aching peaks and yet driving them to even greater frenzy. He drew a nipple into his mouth and sucked hard, and with a shocked cry she arched against him.

He lifted his head instantly, his eyes heavy-lidded, dazed. ‘Did I hurt you? I’m sorry ——’

‘No — no, it was — I want to touch you, too…’

Her fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, and he tried to help her but his own hands were shaking nearly as badly. Finally the buttons gave way and she dragged the shirt out of his waistband and slid her arms round his sides as he eased her up against his chest, driving the breath from her lungs in a ragged sigh. The soft scatter of hair chafed unbearably against her sensitive nipples, making them ache for more, and she moved against him restlessly, dragging an answering sigh from his lips as they moved against her shoulder.

‘Touch me,’ he muttered unevenly, and, unable to resist the invitation, her hands slid up and round, over the smooth skin of his shoulders and down the strong column of his back, then round the sides and over the washboard of his stomach and up, feeling his body shudder beneath his hands, her fingers threading into the lightly tangled curls that clustered in the centre of his chest.

Under her palms she could feel his heart thundering, the blood bounding in his veins. Sliding her hands up over his shoulders, she drew him back to her and lifted her face to his.

His mouth found hers with unerring accuracy, their tongues meshing, wild now with need, and he shifted her again so that he was lying half across her, one leg over hers, the imprint of his arousal hard against her hip.

He ran his hand up her thigh and over her other hip, drawing her harder against him, and his shuddering sigh mingled with hers and was lost in their kiss.

His hand moved again, over the inside of her thigh and up, his palm hot through the fabric of her jeans, cradling the unbearable ache that was building deep inside her.

She arched against him, his name a plea on her lips, and his deep, harsh groan answered her.

Then his hand moved, slowly now, up her side to her shoulders, and he lifted his head and looked deep into her eyes.

‘We mustn’t,’ he whispered, his voice tortured, and she whimpered and moved against him, beyond reason.

‘No, love, stop,’ he pleaded gruffly.

She reached up and touched his cheek with a trembling hand, his agony finally penetrating the fog of sensation that surrounded her. ‘What is it?’

He tipped back his head and groaned, his throat working. There was a dull flush lying over his cheeks, and his breathing was laboured and untidy. ‘I hadn’t intended — I never meant to go so far. Forgive me.’

‘Not if you stop now,’ she murmured huskily.

He groaned again, as if he was in pain. ‘Jennifer, I have to.’

‘No ——’

‘Yes. I didn’t mean this to happen ——’

‘Neither did I, but it has…’

‘No it hasn’t, not yet, and it isn’t going to — not unless you want to end up pregnant.’

She was shocked into stillness. ‘Oh, Lord. How unbelievably irresponsible — I didn’t even think of that…’

His chuckle was wry. ‘Neither did I — at least, not in time to do anything about it. Believe me, when I invited you for this weekend, nothing was further from my mind.’ His hands lingering regretfully, he re-fastened her bra, then drew the edges of her blouse together again with fingers that were not quite steady.

‘Perhaps it’s just as well,’ he said quietly. ‘I wouldn’t want you to wake up in the morning hating me.’

‘I could never hate you,’ she murmured, and laid her hand against his heart. It was still pounding, although more slowly, and he was still clearly aroused. The kind thing to do would be to get off his lap and go to bed, leaving him to cool off alone.

But she didn’t want to leave him, not when her body was still singing with need in the aftermath of his lovemaking. Reaching out her hand, she laid it against his chest.

‘Put the Requiem on again,’ she said softly.

He reached for the remote control, and the cool, pure notes poured over them like balm. She settled herself against his shoulder, her hand on his heart, and let the tension slowly seep away.

Lord, but she was lovely. Her body was soft against his, relaxed in sleep, and as he gazed down at her he remembered the way she had clung to him, the soft whimpers and little cries of ecstasy she had made.

How he had stopped he would never know, but he had found the strength from somewhere, and now he was profoundly glad. He would never have forgiven himself if she had ended up hating him, but it had just happened so naturally. It had felt so — right, as if their bodies belonged together.

The Requiem ended, the final notes dying away in the silence, and he lifted her carefully in his arms and carried her up the stairs to her room.

He debated leaving her clothes on, and decided that a little more self-control would be good for him. He removed them, careful not to wake her, and slipped her under the covers. He left her underwear, however, partly for her dignity and partly because he felt he had played with fire long enough and his self-control was getting singed round the edges.

Shutting the bathroom door, he turned on the shower and stripped, stepping into the scalding water with resignation. There was no point in even trying a cold shower. It would take the combined melt waters of both polar icecaps to cool him off tonight, with Jennifer lying almost naked just feet away from him. With a low growl of frustration, he dropped his head forwards against the tiles and let the hot water stream over him while his body throbbed and ached and called him a fool.

Sunday was another glorious day. For Jennifer it started, like Saturday, with breakfast in bed, this time accompanied by the feather-soft brush of his lips on hers and a husky ‘good morning’ to wake her.

‘We’ve had a population explosion in the night,’ he told her softly. ‘Tim and I are in the kitchen — come on down in a minute and see.’

She obediently ate her breakfast while she puzzled over the fact that she was in her underwear. She hadn’t been that drunk, surely? She could remember — her cheeks flushed, and she groaned. Had she gone to sleep and he’d carried her to bed? Oh, well, it could have been worse, at least she’d had decent underwear on — not that her underwear was any surprise to him after doing her washing.