Valentine's Day

Desire raged up around them as though the setting sun had boiled the waters of the firth and they’d spilled over to the banks where they lay.

And, yes, it was lay. Somehow, between one desperate breath and the next, they’d sunk down to the grass and Zander twisted half over her. She couldn’t remember getting there. Her entire consciousness was consumed with the press of his mouth against hers and the weight of his body on hers. He leaned on his elbows, both hands free to tangle in her hair, his mouth free to roam wherever it pleased.

And, boy, did it please.

Her head spun, her chest squeezed, her insides squirmed. Every cell in her body cried out to just merge with his. As though they recognised their chemical equal.

It wasn’t until his thigh slid down between hers that reality intruded.

For both of them.

She twisted her face away from his and sucked in a breath of fresh coastal air. Sweeter and colder than anything they got in London. It helped to clear her muddled head, just a little.

Zander lifted his lips and stared down at her. Speechless.

‘Um...’ What more could she say?

Where the hell had that come from?

One minute they were talking and the next she was crawling down his throat, hungry for more of the best kiss she’d ever had.

He pressed back up, grinding closer where it really counted and sending a new wave of heat to her cheeks. He twisted sideways and his heavy, sexy weight lifted off her.

She missed him instantly.

She sat up and blew air slowly through swollen lips.

‘Georgia, I—’ He cut himself off to clear his throat.

She couldn’t bear to hear him apologise, or declare it a mistake or express remorse. Not for a kiss like that. Not him. So she jumped in before he could start again, laughing lightly. Faking heavily. ‘Chalk it up to your post-race high? All those conquering impulses?’

He’d conquered her all right—like a Viking. And that thought triggered a rush of new images and sensations. God, how she’d love to just lie back and concede defeat.

Weighing up his choices showed in his face, even in the dim light. ‘We could say that.’

She took a breath.

‘Or we could acknowledge the chemistry that’s been between us since we met.’

Acknowledge it sounded a lot like forgiving it. Releasing it.

Ignoring it.

‘Since we met?’ Though she still remembered the spark as he’d handed her the coat out at Wakehurst.

‘It had to come to a head at some time.’

‘You ignored me for so many weeks.’

‘I was trying to ignore it. Not you. Our relationship was a professional one.’

Past tense? ‘And now?’

‘Now it’s going to be even harder keeping things professional.’

‘Back in London?’ Back in the real world. Where adrenaline-fuelled kisses and dramatic sunsets didn’t happen.

‘It would be inappropriate for me to start something with you.’

‘Inappropriate?’ She sat up and tucked her knees to her chest. How politically correct.

He followed her upright. ‘I’m the manager of the station running your promotion. I sign the cheques that pay for your classes.’

And would do for months yet.

‘And it’s not fair to you, either. You’re not equipped for something like this.’

She sat back, hard. Shook her head. ‘Like what?’

‘Something happening between us.’

Not everyone’s cut out for seduction, he’d joked back at spy school, though maybe it hadn’t been entirely a joke. She had failed abysmally at flirting her way to information from a stranger in class, though Zander’s eyes had remained glued to her the whole time. But that was...you know...a stranger. And this was Zander.

Totally different situation.

Though maybe not for him. How cruel to kiss her half to death, to make her feel so desirable, and then to back-pedal so very obviously.

He rambled on. ‘This was—’

Fantastic? Overdue?

‘—an aberration.’

Pain sliced through her. Could he have found an uglier way of saying it was a mistake? She stared across at Scotland, and would have given anything to spontaneously teleport over to the far bank.

‘I should have had more control,’ he said. ‘This is my fault.’

Oh, please. ‘I came up here willingly.’

‘Not expecting that, I’m sure.’

No. Definitely not expecting that. She just wanted to get to know him a little bit. But she’d discovered a whole other Zander hidden inside the first one. ‘So now what? We just go back to how it was?’

He looked at her.

Did he need it spelled out? ‘You ignoring me?’

‘I won’t ignore you, George. I couldn’t, now.’

George. The same nickname her friends used for her. The irony bit hard. ‘So then business as usual?’

Silence was nod enough.

She pushed to her feet. ‘OK, then. Well, my first order of business is to get back to London before dawn.’

‘I’m staying at the Arms. Maybe they’ll have a second room?’

Was he joking? Stay anywhere near him and not want to be with him? While he found her so...ill-equipped?

‘I have a prep session for the personal makeover tomorrow morning. Measuring and stuff.’ Never mind that she’d never felt less like doing anything. Despite—apparently—needing all the help she could get. She grasped her excuses as she found them.

‘I’ll walk you to your car,’ Zander said.

For a guy who had protested so vehemently about her catching the underground home after a couple of wines, he was sure very willing to let her drive a deadly weapon half way across the country with still-scattered wits.

Maybe he wanted her gone as much as she needed to be there?

They walked, in silence, back up the road to her vehicle. The rapid journey from body-against-body and lips-against-lips to this awful, careful distance was jarring, but the cold night breeze helped her to blow the final wisps of desire from her mind like fog from shore.

It was for the better. Almost certainly.

She turned and faced him, a bright smile on her face. ‘See you Wednesday night, then?’

Salsa class.

She held her breath. If he was going to pull out of his pledge to go with her, now was the moment it would happen.

He stared down at her, leaned forward as if to kiss her again, but pulled on the handle of the car door behind her instead. ‘See you Wednesday.’

Him being chivalrous with the door went exactly no way to making her feel any better about what an ass he’d just been back on the bank of the firth. She grunted her thanks, slipped into her front seat, and slammed the door shut on his parting words.

Drive safely.

SEVEN

The best run of his life turned into the worst night of his life.

Not the evening—the evening touched on one of the most special moments he’d ever had. But the night, after Georgia drove off so quickly down Bowness’s quiet main street... He barely slept that night despite his exhaustion and even Sunday was pretty much a write-off.

He spent the whole time trying to offload the kiss he had stolen from her like a fence trying to move appropriated diamonds. Failing abysmally.

After all these months—even after the stern talking to he’d given himself after getting all touchy feely with her at spy school—why had he let himself slip to quite that degree?

Kissing her. Touching her.

Torturing himself with what he couldn’t have.

There were endless numbers of women back in London that he could kiss. And touch. And sleep with if he wanted. Bold, casual, riskless women. Georgia Stone was not one of them. She wasn’t made of the same stuff as any of them. She wasn’t bold or casual. And Lord knew not without risk.

But then she’d walked into his world, the only woman—the only person—ever to watch him race, to wait with a cold drink and a proud smile at the finish line, and he’d let himself buy into the fantasy. Just for a moment. Then one fantasy had led to another until they were lying in the long, cool grass, tongues and feet tangling.

He’d let himself slip further than any time since Lara.

Worse, to trust. And he didn’t do trust.

Ever.

He’d finally tumbled into an exhausted sleep Sunday night, but his mood was no better today.

As evidenced by the way his staff were tiptoeing around him extra carefully. Even Casey, who usually only gave the most cursory of knocks before walking into his office, actually stood, waiting, until he gave her permission to enter.

‘Zander,’ she started, lips tight. She looked as if she’d rather be calling him Mr Rush.

‘What is it, Casey?’

‘I wanted to...’ She changed tack. ‘Georgia just emailed these instructions, and I thought I’d better run them past you.’

That got his attention. Not just because the sentence had the word Georgia in it, but because his assistant and their resident scientist were thick as thieves, so Casey ratting her out meant something big was going on.

She stood across the desk from him. ‘She’s made some changes to the programme.’

No big news—Georgia changed things around regularly. He was getting used to it. He stared and waited for more from Casey.

‘Big changes.’ She held out a sheaf of papers.

‘How big?’ But as he ran his eyes over them he could see instantly. ‘Ankara? Are you kidding me?’ He eyeballed his assistant. She took half a step back. ‘Ibiza’s already booked isn’t it?’ Their flights to Spain were in a few weeks. Georgia’s big holiday. Now she wanted it to be Turkey?

‘Actually I can still make changes—’

Not what he wanted to hear.

Casey’s mouth clicked shut. She started backing out of the room. ‘I’ll leave you to read the—’

‘Stay!’ he barked, though deep down he regretted commanding her like a trained dog. None of this was her fault.

All of it was his. He’d been stupid to give into his baser instincts and kiss her. As though either of them could go back from that.

He flipped to the next page. Georgia had ditched the cocktail-making class in favour of life drawing. She’d dumped aquasphering on the Thames to go on some underground tour of old London. She’d dropped out of salsa and replaced it with belly dancing, for heaven’s sake.

‘I see spy lessons made the cut,’ he snorted.

‘Yeah, she loves those—’ Again, Casey’s jaw clicked shut. As if she suddenly realised she was siding with the enemy.

‘Get her on the phone for me.’

‘I tried, Zander. She’s not answering.’

Right. ‘I’ll take care of it tonight.’ At salsa.

Assuming she went at all.

* * *

‘I wasn’t convinced you’d be here,’ he said as Georgia slipped through the dance studio door, quietly, and joined him on the benches. She smiled and nodded at some of their fellow dance regulars. Twice as big as the paltry smile she’d offered him.

‘I wasn’t sure if the change got approved, so I didn’t want to leave them with uneven numbers.’

‘What’s with the swap to belly dancing?’

She shrugged and glanced around the room. Zander tried again. ‘I had no idea you were such a fan of all things eastern. First belly dancing, then Ankara...’

She brought her eyes back to his. Surprised at his snark, perhaps. ‘You helped me to see that my list was built out of things I thought I should be doing more than things I actually wanted to do.’

‘Come on, Georgia. You actually want to belly dance?’

She kicked her chin up. He might as well have waved a red flag. ‘It interests me. It’s beautiful.’

Uh-huh. It couldn’t have anything to do with the fact that belly dancing was a solo occupation and she wouldn’t have to touch him again. ‘And what’s in Ankara that’s of so much more interest than Ibiza?’

Other than less alcohol, less noise, less crowds.

‘Cappadocia.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘A region full of amazing remnants of a Bronze-Aged civilisation. You can fly over it in balloons.’

He just stared. ‘And that’s what you want to do?’

Her hands crept up to her hips. ‘Yes.’

‘Why the sudden change of heart on all your activities?’

‘It’s not all that sudden. I don’t want expensive makeovers or hot stone massages or guidance on how to wear clothes I’ll never be able to afford to buy.’

The dance instructor clapped them to attention.

‘Is this about the cost?’ Zander whispered furiously. Hoping it really was.

‘This is about me. Doing things that matter to me.’

It was her money—her year—to spend however she liked. And it was his job to make even the wackiest list sound like something all EROS’ listeners could relate to. But it was becoming increasingly important that it helped Georgia to find her way back to feeling whole. He wanted her whole.

He just didn’t know why.

‘Partners!’ the dance instructor called.

They knew the drill. They’d done weeks of this. He’d gone a little bit crazy getting all the audio he needed, grabs from Georgia, the dance instructor. That should have been heaps. But he’d interviewed just about everyone else, there, too. Every single one of them had an interesting story, their own personal reasons for learning to dance at seventy, or despite being widowed recently or coming alone. And for every single one of them it wasn’t about dance at all.

It was about living.

There were thirty interesting stories in this room. But he was only paid to tell one of them.

The instructor clapped his hands again. He and Georgia were supposed to partner up. She was supposed to step into his arms, assume the salsa start position. But the stance they were supposed to assume was the vertical version of the one they’d found themselves in a few nights ago: lying there in the long grass as the sun extinguished in the ocean.

A little bit too familiar.

A little bit too real.

She hovered indecisively. And again, this was his mess to sort out. He was the one who’d failed to control his wandering thoughts and hands that night. He was the one who’d lacked discipline. Folded to his barely acknowledged need for human contact.

He stepped closer to her, kept his body as formal and stiff as he could. Raised his hands. ‘Georgia...?’

Her smile was tight, but she stepped into his hold carefully, and stood—just as stiff, just as formal—close to his body. As the music began he did his best not to brush against her unless essential—out of respect for her and a general aversion to self-torture—and they stepped as they’d been taught, though nowhere near as fluid as it had been in the past.

It was as clunky as them, together, now.

But it was functional.

The instructor drifted around correcting posture, demonstrating steps, voicing words of encouragement, but when he got to the two of them he took one look at their total disconnect, his lips pursed and he said in his thick accent, ‘Not every day is magic. Sometimes this happens. You will have the magic again next week.’

No. There would be no magic next week. There would be no salsa next week. And the guilt in Georgia’s eyes confirmed exactly what he’d suspected. This sudden change to belly dancing was about him.

‘I could have just stopped coming,’ he gritted as she moved close enough to hear his murmur.

She drifted away again. But he knew the steps would bring her right back. He tried to read her face and see if she was going to feign innocence or not.

‘I wanted something that didn’t force us to dance together,’ she breathed, her total honesty pleasing him on some deep level. A level deep beneath the one where he hated what she was suggesting. ‘The only other solo option was pole dancing. Belly dancing seemed like a decent compromise.’

And suddenly his mind was filled with poles and Georgia and seedy, darkened venues. He forced his focus back onto the key issue.

‘What about the segment?’

‘You’ve got more than enough for a salsa segment. In fact, why do you have so much? You’ll never use all of that in a two-minute piece.’

Prime-time air was too expensive to dedicate more than two minutes a month to the Year of Georgia. So why had he spent all that time recording everyone else in the session as well? ‘The laws of documentary-making,’ he hedged. ‘Get ten times more than you think you’ll need.’

‘This isn’t a documentary,’ she reminded him, her breath coming faster with the dancing. ‘It’s a stupid commercial promotion.’

Stupid. Nice.

But he was too distracted remembering the last time she’d been this breathless to argue.

He yanked her towards him as the funky music crescendoed. As usual the whole room was slightly out of synch so what was supposed to be a passionate crash of body against body always looked like a vaguely geriatric Mexican wave.

She pressed against his chest, staring up at him, angry colour staining her cheeks. ‘I’ve changed my mind.’

‘About what?’

‘My reluctance to have a stranger come along with me. You can go back to your paperwork and give me the work-experience kid as far as I’m concerned.’

‘You think our schedules are that elastic? That I can just make a change like that with no warning? Disrupt everyone’s plans every time you change your mind?’

‘It’s called dynamism, Zander,’ she gritted. ‘Maybe your station could use some.’

OK, now she was just picking a fight.

He stopped when he should have twirled her into open position. She stumbled at his misstep. Then he curled his hand around hers and hauled her back towards the door. A few eyes followed them, including the speculative ones of the instructor.

‘Next week!’ he shouted at their backs. ‘Magic!’

She shook free as soon as they hit the cool June air. ‘What are you doing?’

‘What’s going on, Georgia?’

‘Nothing’s going on. I just realised that I needed to be true to myself or this whole thing is a crock.’

‘Which part is being true to yourself? The part where you start switching all our plans around or the part where you’ll do just about anything not to get too close to me.’

‘Aberration,’ she parroted back to him. ‘That was your word, Zander. You wanted things back on a professional footing.’

‘Not at the expense of any civility at all between us.’

Her breath hissed out of her. ‘The changes I’m making are trying to keep things civil. So they don’t end up like this every night.’

Boundaries. She was stacking them up and he kept knocking them down. Why? He should be thanking her. He took two deep, long breaths. ‘We just kissed, Georgia. Heat of the moment, influence of the sunset, romance of the wall. Whatever you want to call it.’

He had to call it something, otherwise he was just a jerk for hitting on her while she was still vulnerable from her breakup with Bradford.

‘Who are you trying to convince, Zander? Me or yourself?’

That was a damned fine question. ‘It doesn’t have to change anything. We just agree to let it go.’

‘Just like that?’

Sure. He was a master at denial. ‘I have a job to do and you have money to spend. Let’s just focus on that.’

‘You don’t object to any of the changes?’

‘I don’t care what you do with the money, I just want you to be—’ he caught himself a half-breath before saying happy ‘—comfortable with it.’

‘I’m hoping I’ll be more comfortable this way. Forcing myself to do things way outside of my usual interests was probably a mistake. I was trying to be someone I’m not.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I thought it was what was expected. What your listeners would expect. What you wanted.’

Her eyes flicked away and he struggled with the deep satisfaction that she’d done any of it for him. ‘Listeners are the first to spot falsity on air. If it’s not of interest to you it’s going to show in the segments.’

She nodded. ‘Well, hopefully we’ve taken care of that now.’

We. He liked her accidental use of the collective. For the same reason he liked coming along to these crazy classes even though he had much more efficient things to be doing with that time. It legitimised his being with Georgia. He could play at relationships without actually being in one. Enjoy her company without the commitment. She was generous with her wonder and excitement doing new things and he could live off that for a whole week back in the soul-destroying environment of the station.

If he spaced it out right.

Kisses... Those he could live off for a year.

She chewed her lip. ‘Should we go back in?’

Her reasons for changing classes were valid. The more he had to put his hands on her, the harder it was going to be taking them off. ‘No. Let’s just call it a night.’

‘Sure.’

Courteous but cool. It bothered him enough to glance down the street for the nearest coffee shop. He saw the blinking LED sign a few blocks down. So much safer than having her in his house. So much safer than a bar with a few drinks under his belt. So much safer than the back of a black taxi, pressed together for twenty minutes.

‘Let’s grab a coffee,’ he said and turned her west.

Georgia did her best not to flinch at the feel of Zander’s hand at her lower back. It was just a courteous gesture. Unconscious. It didn’t mean a thing. Even if it did feel more intimate and personal than the salsa clinch they’d been in just moments before. Something about the way it failed to entirely disengage even once she was fully moving...

It took a few silent minutes to get to the Tudor-style coffee shop. Then a few more to get seated and settled and their drinks ordered.

She struggled to not be distracted by his long fingers tapping on the tabletop—fingers that had traced her skin so beautifully just nights ago and curled so strongly in her hair. But if she looked at his face she’d either drown in his eyes or start obsessing about his lips.

All of which were entirely off limits to her now. Despite the torment of the taste-test after the marathon.

So she fluctuated between looking at the place where a lock of his hair fell across his forehead, a spot of fluff on his collar and glancing around the room at the other patrons.

‘Tell me about Ankara.’

That managed to bring her eyes back to his. ‘Now?’

‘I know nothing about it and I’m going to be going with you. Why is it so special?’

‘Cappadocia.’ Amongst other wonders.

He shrugged. ‘Old cities and ballooning. That’s it?’

She pressed forwards against the table. ‘Seriously? You can’t understand why someone would want to float high above a city where houses and chapels are carved into the rockfaces? Where entire communities used to live underground to hide from invaders two thousand years ago? Cities that were founded twenty centuries before Jesus?’

He just stared. ‘You’re serious?’

Excited warmth warmed her cheeks. ‘Where else could you do it? It’s so intriguing...’

‘It’s not to put me off?’

‘It’s not about you at all.’ Lies! ‘It’s something I’d like to do. I saw it in a documentary years ago and I’ve never forgotten it.’ And if Zander came along, bonus. Good things happened to them when they got out of London. Things just tended to go south when they were back in it.

His eyes burned into hers. Deciding. He slid his recorder up onto the table. ‘OK. Tell me more.’

She did. For the next hour and a half. All about Göreme, where she wanted to stay, all about Cappadocia’s extraordinary ancient lunar-scapes and traditional villages and the amazing peoples that had lived there for forty centuries. All about how it had wheedled its way under her skin all those years ago.

‘And you can stay in these underground buildings?’

‘They carve them out of the side of enormous rock faces. And they’ve been modernised. Electricity, water. They even have Wi-Fi. So you won’t be slumming it.’

He’d been smiling for the last five or six minutes straight, though she knew she wasn’t saying anything funny. His eyes practically glittered looking at her.

‘What?’