“We could see that. He had his hands on your bum, and he looked like he wanted to rip your clothes off there and then on the dance floor.”
Keira’s cheeks heated up and it wasn’t just because Su’s mother had the heating on full. “He obviously didn’t try anything at school because he was on his best behavior, but he was so confident that I’d say yes to going out to dinner with him. He’s quite sarcastic and superior.”
Sue laughed. “And gorgeous and rich and interested in you?”
“Even if he is interested in me, don’t go choosing a new sari for the wedding. Tom’s made it quite clear that’s he’s only back here in England on sufferance. He’s off back to Papua again in a couple of months. So you see, this date can only be a dinner. Nothing more.”
Su raised an eyebrow. “You could try to just enjoy him while he’s here. Who knows, he might change his mind and stay after all, faced with your vivacious personality and many accomplishments.”
Keira laughed. “And my five thousand a year and estate in Peckham? Su, he’s no Mr. Darcy, and I’m not going to be swept off my feet and carried off to Pemberley or Carew Towers or whatever stately piles he hangs out in. I barely know him, and I’ve no right to expect anything from him.”
Su narrowed her eyes. “But you do like him, don’t you, hon? When you talk about him, your eyes light up, just like when you first met Alex, only more.”
Keira thought of denying the fact. She’d known Tom, what? A few days. It wasn’t long, but feelings that he had aroused in her, both physical and emotional, made a mockery of their short time together. She knew she could get in really deep with Tom Carew if she let down her guard. Once she’d been out on their dinner date and had kept her side of the bargain, she was going to end their relationship before it began, but she owed it to Su to at least admit to some of her feelings.
“I have to admit that, despite overconfidence, he is very nice.”
Su snorted. “Very nice! Keira, you make him sound like the old guy on the deli counter at the supermarket.”
“What I meant was that he’s sensitive. Underneath the sarcasm, of course.” She laughed. “And to be fair, he was very good with the children, apart from mentioning the tattoo, which was very naughty of him. I’m supposed to set a good example, even if we are meant to encourage diversity.” Oh dear. The thought of checking out Tom’s other tattoos made her feel terribly tingly again.
Su plunged the top down on the cafetiere. “Is it really that big, this tattoo?”
“Enormous.” She sighed, deciding not to tell Su that Tom had another one on his bottom. Things were tricky enough as it was. “He reckons that all the doctors in the team get one sooner or later. Apparently Matt has them all down his arms and over his back. It’s some sort of badge of honour, I think, but I never expected someone like Tom to be inked like that.”
It was difficult to stop her hands from shaking as Keira managed to pour some sugar from a packet into the basin and placed it on the tray. The idea of Tom stripping naked was scrambling her brain. Su laid out some sweet cakes next to the coffee and mugs. Spicy aromas filled the tiny kitchen and made Keira’s nose twitch.
“Well, are you ready to discuss sari embroidery?” asked Su, picking up the tray.
Keira nodded. “For the next two hours? I can’t wait.”
“Me neither.”
Keira held open the door to the living room as Su passed through first with the tray. Their mothers glanced up from their pattern books.
“By the way, Keira,” said Su innocently. “Have you told your mum you’re having dinner with an earl’s son on Saturday night?”
Chapter Five
Tom peered up at the windows of the three-storey block where Keira lived, holding his breath, expecting someone to open a window at any moment and tell him to get a quieter car.
No blinds twitched, so he jumped down from the Land Rover and strode over to the entrance door. Buzzing the intercom for number five, he crossed his fingers. Now this was odd. It was Saturday evening, and he was outside a girl’s house, waiting to take her on a date. Hell, he hadn’t done such a thing for years. There had been women, of course, in Papua. Most memorably, an Aussie doctor and a French volunteer worker. Both absolutely stunning and both wanted the same as him: good company, lots of fun and some great sex. This was just the same, wasn’t it?
“Tom. Is that you?”
No, it damn well wasn’t the same, he told himself…
He could almost hear the quaver in her voice, even over the dodgy intercom. Years of being a doctor, even a pretty hopeless one, had given him at least some skill at picking up the signals.
“Yes, it’s me.”
“You’d better come up, then.”
Hmm. She was being a bit short with him again: an even surer sign she was nervous. And so, he admitted, was he, because his conscience told him that he should not be doing this. For Keira’s sake and for his, he ought not to be starting anything that could remotely be called a relationship. Not when the morning’s post had brought details of his new tenure in Papua.
“Pleased to offer you a permanent position as medical director,” the stiff white letter had said. “We invite you to attend an orientation meeting at our London headquarters on…naming a date barely two months away.
He pushed open the door into the foyer and nearly tripped over a pushchair left parked in the hall. Even as he climbed the narrow staircase to the second floor, he knew he shouldn’t be here, starting something he could never finish, but he couldn’t stop himself. Something else kept telling him to seize the day and enjoy her sparky company, her sassy freshness, and perhaps, if he was very lucky, her warm, sweet body.
That was the bad part of him. The noble part, the truly honourable part, nagged at him to leave her well alone before either of them got hurt. But the bad part kept getting the upper hand. It kidded him that she wanted a fling, and worse, that he did too.
And the very bad part of him hoped she wouldn’t want to go out at all.
Wiping her hands on a tea towel, Keira heaved in a breath as she heard Tom’s heavy tread clunking up the uncarpeted stairs. She had no right to be worried. All she had to do was go out, keep her side of their bargain, and then she could tell him she didn’t want to see him again.
Too bad she was having great trouble believing that this evening was happening to her at all. While she’d been getting changed—smart jeans, a floaty top borrowed from Su, and her newest boots—she had wondered once or twice if she had signed up for a reality TV show and no one had let her in on the joke.
Distinctly average teachers in second-floor flats did not get asked on dinner dates by aristocratic doctors—not even as entertainment by bored and uptight ones.
The footsteps stopped outside the door, and she let out her captive breath, then jumped like a scared deer as the door knocker resounded with a sharp rap. She cursed as a clang reverberated round the flat. Her feet, tangled in a flex, had sent a metal lamp crashing into the floor.
“Hold on a moment!”
Through the wood, Tom’s muffled voice reached her burning ears. “Are you all right in there? What was that noise?”
“It’s fine! I just…er…bumped into something. Hold on.”
Dumping the lamp on the nearest surface, she flicked her tongue over her strawberry lip gloss, blew a stray wisp of hair out of her eyes and reached for the door knob.
“Keira, are you going to let me in or do I have to—”
As the door opened, an image exploded in her mind. You know that theory? The one about men looking better in morning suits than anything else?
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
In a pair of battered jeans, a plain white shirt and a tweed jacket like her grandfather used to wear, Tom was mind-blowingly sexy.
“Hi there, Keira.”
His voice was rough velvet, his lips warm as they met her cheek. The sharp tang of aftershave mingled with fruity lip gloss in her nostrils, and her skin prickled deliciously at
the brush of coarse tweed against her arm.
Oh Lord, she thought as she mumbled out her “hello” and shut the door with shaky hands. How on earth was she ever going to get through an evening with him?
“Wouldn’t it have been easier to take the tube to Covent Garden?” she asked later as Tom bumped the car down the ramp of an underground car park in central London.
“Sorry?” he called. She was sure he was pretending he couldn’t hear her above the rattle of the diesel Land Rover.
He killed the engine, unfolded his long limbs from the driver’s seat and appeared at her door, ready to help her down. She looked around the car park and smiled. Nice. He’d slotted the thing between a Rolls Royce and a Porsche, either of which she guessed he could probably afford. The battered four-wheel drive suited him so much better.
They emerged into the bright lights of Drury Lane, weaving in and out of the tourists and theatre-goers on their way down Long Acre. Ahead, the piazza outside Covent Garden glowed and buzzed.
“Is this okay for you?” he called above the crowds. “Or would you have preferred to go for something more exclusive?”
She knew he was testing her, and she was ready.
“You mean somewhere like…” She paused, then named a restaurant she’d read about in a Sunday supplement, a ludicrously expensive place that overlooked the Thames and had a waiting list as long as your arm.
“I suppose that’s what I meant, yes.”
“Tom, this is…” What she wanted to say was, perfect. Wherever it was, she knew, somehow, it would be classy and welcoming. “The best Italian in London will be fine,” she assured him. “I think we both know I don’t do stuffy or chic, and besides, we wouldn’t have got a table at you-know-where.”
Not that Tom would have to wait. Somehow she knew he could have got exactly the spot he wanted just by mentioning his name—and somehow she knew he wouldn’t have tried.
They walked on as the Victorian ironwork of the old flower market came into view, already sparkling with Christmas lights, even with months to go to the holiday season itself. Around them, the buzz of people talking, laughing, drinking, seemed to seep into her very bones. Going out to dinner with Tom could turn her head if she didn’t know it was a fairy tale.
“Flower for your lady, sir?”
A woman blocked their path, holding out a red rose. Keira stifled a giggle. She was dressed like Eliza Doolittle in an Edwardian dress, black shawl and straw hat that went beautifully with her purple hair and nose studs. Seeing Tom dallying, she shot him a sharp look. Don’t you dare, it warned. Only she knew the truth. That what it really said was, “Don’t hurt me.”
“Perhaps later,” he said.
Perhaps never, thought Keira. Cheesy gestures like that weren’t her style, or rather they were for those couples who planned on sticking together slightly longer than the shelf life of a yogurt.
A gust of wind rippled across the piazza, making her shiver despite her coat. Tom placed a hand on her back to guide her past a bunch of tourists applauding a fire-eater.
The lights of the restaurant gleamed in the corner of the old flower market piazza. She hadn’t been there before, of course. Alex thought dining out on any occasion other than a birthday was a waste of money, and lately it had been out of the question cost-wise.
Warm air blasted from the door as Tom held it open.
“Mmm…” Her sense of smell went into overdrive as a dozen aromas filled her nose. Garlic, herbs, tomato, good coffee…
“Smells good, doesn’t it?”
“Sure does. I’m hungry.”
He smiled. “Then let’s get a table.”
Candles flickered on the tables, and the low buzz of conversation was punctuated with laughter from groups of friends partying. The place was packed, yet Tom had somehow managed to get a table in a quiet corner, almost out of sight of the other diners.
When she dropped her bag and then knocked a knife off the table, he collected both with quiet efficiency and reassured her it was his fault for being “a clumsy idiot”. For someone used to performing minor surgery in the rainforest, Keira somehow doubted it.
Her hands quivered as she handed the menu to the waiter.
Tom sat back, looking serious. “What’s up?”
“Nothing’s up, but I thought, perhaps, shall we make a pact before we eat?”
“What kind of a pact?”
“To make this evening a sarcasm-free zone. I won’t make any scathing remarks. You won’t lecture me on my manners.”
“That’s not a very good start…”
“Mea culpa. I’ll be model student from now on.”
The verbal foreplay was starting again. Keira felt the glow between her thighs and wished it would go away. Her jeans were tight. Tom’s were too, and oh, this had to stop.
“Tom…”
“Hmm,” he echoed, sitting up straight and looking at her with mock seriousness. She hung fire a moment as the waiter brought their drinks. Coke for Tom, wine for her.
“We need to—you—need to understand, this is so not a date,” she hissed when he’d finished filling her glass.
He set the bottle down on the table. “Two people having dinner together. They’re not related. At least not when I last checked the family tree. If it’s not a date, what is it?”
“A deal. A bargain. You came to speak to the children. I agreed to a meal, and what’s more, I’m paying. I want to thank you for visiting them.”
Now she saw a shadow cross his face. His lips twisted. “As you wish. But I’ll buy the wine.”
“If it makes you feel better.”
He folded his arms. “Not a lot. But a little.”
“Okay. That’s agreed,” said Keira. “Now let’s—”
“Your bruschetta, madam. Sir, your carpaccio.” The waiter cut short their sparring. Tom topped up her glass, and she took a sip just for something to do with her shaky hands. She must remember not to go heavy on the wine. She toyed with her starter as he sipped his Coke and took a bite of the wafer-thin beef.
His hand brushed hers as he went to top up her glass again. His fingers were warm and strong, and the last time he’d touched her, they’d been cradling her bottom on the dance floor. Her nipples stiffened at the memory, and she looked down to see if they were visible through her borrowed top.
Oh bugger.
“So—when are you, um, going back to Papua?” she asked.
“Soon enough,” he muttered. “A few months.”
“For a year, this time.”
He covered his mouth and coughed. “No. Not this time.”
“Two years, then?” Suddenly her stomach rebelled against the food. She pushed her plate away.
Tom smiled, far too broadly. “Let’s not talk shop tonight, shall we?”
Well, that was pretty definite. The “back off” signals were reaching her loud and clear. Let’s try neutral: “What do you want to talk about, then?”
“I’d like to know about Keira Grayson. What she likes doing when she’s not educating young minds? What books she reads, what trashy films she watches a hundred times over, who she’d like to take to a desert island. Correction, which particular inept but stamina-filled medic she’d like to take…”
She couldn’t help but laugh, even though he had a nerve. Even though he kept trying to pour more wine, she laughed. As the waiter placed their main courses on the tablecloth, she realised she was dangerously close to having the best time she’d had since…well, maybe, ever.
Tom laughed too, just the way he had in her classroom, with a warmth and depth that suited him even better than his shabby chic jacket and jeans. In fact, she was enjoying herself so much she almost forgot to remind herself that, when the waiter brought the bill and she’d added the total to her expanding overdraft, and when Tom had dropped her back at the flat and waited for her to ask him in for coffee…when all that had happened, she would have to tell him she didn’t want to see him again and she couldn’t bear to get invo
lved with someone who was about to leave the country, maybe not to return for years.
But not yet, thank God. They had a whole meal to get through first, a whole evening whose delicious pleasure had little to do with their meal.
“So, now you know all about Papua, thanks to your pupils,” he said, filling her wineglass. “And it’s your turn for confession. How did you end up at an urban primary educating small people? Or should that be corrupting them by asking me to visit?”
She toyed with her fork. “You haven’t corrupted them too much, although the tattoo was a bit of a shock. They haven’t stopped asking me about it since. You know we have a whole wall of tribal art pictures now, thanks to you.”
“Glad I’ve inspired something positive. But you’re not answering my question, Miss Grayson. Why did you become a teacher?”
“Ha!” She wished she’d stopped him pouring more wine into her glass. “It’s too embarrassing to say. It’s so corny.”
“I doubt it. And as for embarrassing, you’re forgetting something. As a doctor, I hear far worse admissions every day of the week. Being a primary school teacher hardly rates as a shocking confession.”
“It shows a shocking lack of ambition.”
“Utter rubbish!”
“Shhh!” hissed Keira, trying to stifle a giggle. “People are staring at us!”
They were, but then they had been all evening, especially the women. Keira suspected most of the smartly dressed and immaculately coiffed females were probably wondering why Tom was with the likes of someone like her. They weren’t to know, she reminded herself, that this wasn’t a date but her payment of her side of the bargain.
“Sorry, miss. I got rather overexcited. But I really wish you wouldn’t put yourself down. Being a teacher, or rather a good teacher, is a rare gift. In my opinion, that is.”
“Being a good one, maybe, but I’m not sure I am—not yet, anyway. Maybe by the time I’ve retired…”
“You’re a damn good one, Keira. I could see that from ten minutes with your pupils, let alone an hour. They respect you and they like you and you get the best out of them.”
Fever Cure Page 5