by Sara Craven
‘I promise you,’ he said, ‘they’d be delighted. Now, wait a second while I deal with the security alarm, then I’ll give you the guided tour.’
Ros stayed by the car, looking at the garden. It was worth savouring with its smooth lawns surrounded by wide borders just coming into flower. In the middle of the grass a stone bird bath was supported by a smiling cherub, and the entire expanse was surrounded and sheltered by the high wall.
‘It’s beautifully kept,’ she said when Sam returned. ‘Considering it’s unoccupied.’
‘A couple from the village look after it all,’ he told her. ‘Mrs Griggs cleans and her husband gardens. It’s a perfect arrangement.’
The house itself was cosy and comfortable, with big squashy sofas and well-polished furniture which was a tribute to the efforts of the unseen Mrs Griggs.
The kitchen was mellow with antique pine, and a gleaming range, and there was an open fireplace in the sitting room with kindling and logs laid ready. There was also a baby grand piano, with a selection of music stacked neatly on its lid.
And, Ros saw, in pride of place, a photograph in a silver frame. The face was younger, and the hair longer, but the slanting smile was instantly familiar.
‘This is you,’ she accused, picking it up. She wheeled round on him. ‘And you don’t just “know” the owners. They’re your parents—aren’t they?’
‘Guilty as charged,’ Sam said ruefully. ‘That’s my graduation picture. I’ve never been able to persuade Ma to bury it somewhere.’
‘But you said it wasn’t your house.’
‘Nor is it,’ Sam returned promptly. ‘It’s where I grew up, and I have wonderful memories, but that’s its only claim on me. I moved out and moved on a long time ago.’
‘But surely…’ Ros paused awkwardly. ‘I mean it will be yours—in time.’
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘The parents are planning to move permanently to France, so it will be going on the market—probably this summer.’
‘And you don’t mind?’
‘Not particularly.’ His voice was amused. ‘It’s not a family heirloom. And you have to look forward, not to the past. And one day,’ he added matter-of-factly, ‘I intend buying a house of my own, so that I can create some good memories for my own children.’
There was a sudden roaring in her ears, and she could feel the colour draining from her face, leaving only an aching emptiness behind.
From some vast distance, she heard herself say, ‘Of course.’
And she turned back to replace the photograph on the piano with great care, terrified in case he noticed that her hands were shaking.
But he was walking past her to the French windows and opening them. ‘Why don’t you find us a picnic spot while I get the food ready?’
She nodded, and fled out into the open air, standing for a moment to draw great shuddering breaths as she fought for composure.
Because it had hit her with all the savage, overwhelming force of a tidal wave that there was only one woman she could bear to be the mother of Sam’s children. And that was herself.
‘No,’ she whispered, gulping oxygen into her labouring lungs. ‘No, this is ridiculous. It’s not happening. I won’t let it.’
Because she couldn’t base a lifetime relationship on the strength of a few hours’ dubious acquaintance. Or even casual lust. And that was all it was—however strongly her senses might be telling her otherwise. Even though they might be murmuring insidiously that in reality she had known Sam all her life—had breathed in the fact of his existence through her pores since the moment of her own creation. And had simply been waiting all this time for him to come to her.
Hormonal rubbish, she told herself crushingly. Janie’s famous biological clock making itself felt.
Well, she would not allow it to control her perfectly satisfactory life. Particularly when, only a few weeks earlier, she’d been contemplating marrying a very different man with serenity, if not any great enthusiasm.
Hitching herself to the star of someone who advertised for company in a personal column had never been part of her plan.
In fact the whole thing had been a grotesque mistake from beginning to end.
I should never have got involved, she thought, forcing herself to walk along the flagged terrace. And if I’m going to suffer, it’s entirely my own fault.
Which was no consolation at all.
And now she had to pull herself together and find somewhere for this picnic, when all she wanted to do was run away so far and so fast that Sam would never find her.
The terrace, she saw, taking her first proper look at her surroundings, had been constructed to overlook a small formal rose garden, and at one end there was a pergola, shaded by a lilac tree and containing a wrought-iron table and two chairs.
The lilac was just coming into bloom, and its faint, enticing scent drifted to her as a soft breeze curled through the branches.
For the rest of her life, she thought, the perfume of lilac would speak to her of love. And loss…
‘So you’ve chosen my favourite place,’ Sam said, arriving with a tray which he began to unload on to the table. ‘I hoped you would.’
She said lightly, ‘I think it chose me.’ And felt her heart weep.
She wasn’t hungry, but somehow she made herself eat, scared that Sam would notice and query her loss of appetite. And the food he’d provided was certainly worth sampling. As well as everything he’d mentioned, there were tiny spicy sausages, wafer-thin slices of Italian ham, wedges of turkey and cranberry pie, and sweet baby tomatoes, with a tall jug of Buck’s Fizz to wash it all down.
Ros praised it lavishly, determined to keep the conversation going at all costs. For the first time in her life she was afraid of silence. Scared of what it might reveal.
And as she laughed and talked, her eyes were feeding a different kind of hunger. Memorising the distinctive bone structure of his face as if she was touching it. Watching his body language—the easy grace of his posture. The movement of his hands—the play of muscle under his shirt.
Each and every precious detail etched irrevocably into her mind to sustain her through the famine ahead of her.
He said at last, smiling at her, ‘More strawberries?’
‘I couldn’t.’ She leaned back in her chair, grimacing. ‘As it is, I may have to start buying clothes with elasticated waists.’
He lifted an ironic brow, the turquoise gaze frankly appraising her slenderness, then lingering on the swell of her breasts under the creamy sweater.
He said gravely, his eyes dancing, ‘I hardly think so. But if you really don’t want anything else, I’ll shift the debris indoors. I have a feeling the weather’s going to change.’
Ros glanced up at the sky, and was startled to see heavy cloud, grey darkening to navy, massing in the west.
She thought, ‘The bright day is done…’ And wondered what the dark would bring.
She pushed her chair back. ‘Shall I help?’
‘I can manage.’ He began to load the tray. ‘Relax, and enjoy the last remnants of sun while I put some coffee on.’
As he disappeared into the house, Ros got up and walked restlessly down the three shallow stone steps into the rose garden.
Not that there was much to see, except immaculately pruned bushes, but most of the roses were labelled, and she could use her imagination as she strolled down the gravelled path between the beds.
One sheltered corner had been planted with ‘old’ roses, and she bent down to read the beautiful, evocative names.
Sam said quietly from behind her, ‘Rosamund,’ and she jumped, whirling to face him, her lips parting in a startled gasp.
‘How do you know? How did you find out?’
His brows snapped together in surprise. ‘You can’t escape knowing about roses if you live with my mother. And that one—Rosa Mundi—Rose of the World—is a favourite of hers. But I’m sorry if I frightened you,’ he added with a touch of dryness. ‘I thought yo
u’d hear me.’
She bit her lip hard. ‘I—I was in another world.’ She gestured around her. ‘How can she bear to leave all this? Her house, this garden—her roses?’
He said gently, ‘She has another house, now, and another garden in the Dordogne, and they’re beautiful too. And roses will grow anywhere. She’ll simply plant more.’ He put out a hand and touched her arm. ‘God, you’re trembling. I really did give you a shock. And you’re like ice too.’ His voice was remorseful. ‘We’d better go inside.’
She moved away out of range. ‘I’m fine.’ She kept her voice light. ‘Moving to another country is such a big step. What made them decide to do it?’
‘My father’s hobby has always been playing the stock market, and he made a hell of a lot of money from it back in the eighties.’ Sam shrugged. ‘They both love France, and nearly all our family holidays were spent there, so they got the idea of buying a house and doing it up. When Dad was offered early retirement it seemed like a golden opportunity to change their lives. So—they went for it.’
She gave a constrained smile. ‘And that’s where you get your financial skills.’
‘Good God, no.’ He laughed. ‘I can barely add two and two.’
She stared at him. ‘But you’re an accountant.’ She shook her head in amazement. ‘An accountant who can’t do sums?’
There was an odd silence. Then, ‘Fortunately I have a calculator,’ Sam said swiftly. ‘And most of my work involves compiling reports anyway.’
She thought of her own accountant, and some of the things Colin had told her about his work.
She began, ‘But surely….’ And got no further. As if some gigantic hand had pulled an invisible plug, the rain came sheeting down with breath-snatching intensity, turning almost instantly to hail.
Sam grabbed her hand. ‘Come on. Quickly.’
They ran for the steps, and back along the terrace, the hailstones bouncing around them, piercing their clothing with ice.
Sam thrust her ahead of him through the French windows, and turned to close out the storm.
Ros shook herself, freezing droplets spilling down from her drenched hair on to her face and shoulders.
She said, with a choked laugh, wrapping her arms round her shivering body, ‘I’m absolutely soaking. My God—the joys of an English spring.’
She looked at him, expecting him to share her rueful amusement, and saw, instead, that he was watching her, his whole attention arrested, his eyes fixed almost blankly on the rain-darkened clothing clinging revealingly to her skin.
He said quietly, holding her gaze with his as he kicked off his shoes, ‘Then maybe we should both get out of these wet clothes.’
And began to unbutton his shirt.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SHE could have stopped it right there, and she knew it. Because he’d promised as much. And he wasn’t anywhere near her. He was—dear God—on the other side of the room.
But she didn’t speak—or move. Just watched, in total sensual thrill, as he stripped off his shirt and let it fall. She let her eyes roam, hungrily absorbing the width of his shoulders, the brown hair-roughened skin.
The heavy silence in the room was broken only by the faint crackle of the wood he’d kindled in the hearth behind her, and by the harsh throb of her own breath. But maybe she was the only one who could hear it. Maybe—just maybe—his heart was hammering too.
She saw his hands move to the zip of his jeans.
She said swiftly, huskily, ‘No—please.’
He paused as if turned to stone, the turquoise eyes sending her a challenge across the infinity of space that divided them.
He said, ‘No?’
Hands trembling, she pulled off her sweater, dragging the mass of clammy wool over her head as if she could not wait another minute to be free. A second later her bra joined it on the floor.
She stepped out of her damp shoes and walked to him barefoot.
She said softly, ‘Let me…’
She put her hands against his chest, feeling the flat male nipples harden at her touch, then allowed her palms to slide over the powerful ribcage to the flat, muscular stomach, where they lingered tantalisingly, her thumbs teasing the shadowed arrow of dark hair which pointed downwards, forcing a sharp, painful sound from his throat.
She leaned forward, brushing her lips against the wall of his chest, inhaling the potent male scent of him. Then, slowly, she released the single button at his waist and lowered the zip, easing the denim down from his hips.
Sam stepped out of the jeans, kicking them away. The briefs he was wearing did nothing to disguise the fact that he was already strongly and powerfully aroused. Ros stared at him, her eyes dilated, her mouth drying with excitement.
He whispered, ‘Now it’s your turn.’ His hands were shaking as he unfastened her cream trousers and slipped them off.
He pulled her towards him, his hands stroking her naked back, making her gasp in startled pleasure. Instinctively her body arched in reply, and the swollen peaks of her breasts grazed against his chest. For a moment he held her there, moving his body slowly and rhythmically against hers, watching her nipples pucker with delight at the subtle friction.
He said huskily, ‘They’re like tiny roses. My rose of the world.’
Then he bent his head, and kissed her parted lips, his tongue seeking hers with aching, urgent sensuality. Their mouths clung, their teeth nipping delicately at the soft interior flesh.
The heated hardness of him was like a steel rod pressing against her thighs, and she felt her own fierce flood of moisture in response. A dark, feral scent seemed suddenly to fill her lungs. The scent of mating.
Her breasts were in his hands now, his fingers delicately strumming her nipples, raising their excitement to a new level and sending shafts of an almost unbearable sweetness piercing their way to her loins.
She moaned softly as Sam began to kiss her breasts, drawing each soft mound in turn deep into his hungry mouth, fondling their tautness with his tongue. His hands slid under the lacy briefs, gently moulding her buttocks, before initiating a more intimate exploration, his fingers paying tribute to the dark, wet heat of her surrender.
She was trembling wildly now, tiny golden sparks dancing inside her closed eyelids, as he discovered, then focused on one tiny pinnacle of pleasure, the throb of his caress sending ripples of pure arousal along her nerve-endings—creating the beginnings of a pleasure bordering almost on pain. But, however beguiling, it wasn’t the fulfilment she sought. Her body was opening to him. Craving him in entirety.
‘You.’ Was that small, cracked sound her voice? ‘Please—I want you. All of you.’
He said hoarsely, ‘Yes.’ And, ‘Now.’
They sank together to the carpet, the final scraps of clothing hurriedly, clumsily discarded on the way.
For a brief moment she held him, then, with a tiny sob, guided him into her, and clasped him there.
He was still for a few seconds, allowing them both to savour this ultimate union of their bodies, then he began to move, his rhythm slow and powerful, and she echoed it, lifting her hips to meet each thrust, letting him fill her completely.
He whispered, ‘Look at me, darling. I want to see your eyes when you come.’
‘I—don’t.’ Her voice was muffled, breathless. ‘Not—always.’
‘That was then.’ His hand slid down between them. ‘This is—now.’
Her body imploded into rapture, every interior muscle contracting fiercely, sending liquid fire pulsing through her veins. She cried out, brokenly, ecstatically, and saw Sam rear up above her, his head thrown back, as the convulsions of his own climax tore through him.
They lay, their limbs still entwined, their sweat-dampened bodies joined together, waiting for the world to settle again, and their breathing to return to normal human limits.
His voice was muffled by her hair. ‘Are you all right? I didn’t hurt you?’
‘No.’ Her face was buried in his shoulder. She li
fted her head and experimentally licked some of the salt from his skin. ‘No,’ she repeated as a small laugh was torn from her throat. ‘You didn’t do that.’
‘I ask,’ he said, his teeth nibbling gently at her earlobe, ‘because—for a first time—that was pretty overwhelming.’
‘I’d say it was perfect,’ Ros corrected with mock hauteur.
‘No,’ Sam said with more firmness. ‘It wasn’t that. And never will be. Because “perfect” implies we don’t need practice. And I know we do. Hours and hours of it.’
Her lips began to explore the hollow where his neck joined his shoulder.
‘In that case,’ she murmured, ‘let’s score it “average”.’
“‘Could do better”?’ he suggested.
‘If we live through it.’ Ros moved slightly, preparing to detach herself, but his arms tightened round her.
‘Keep still. Isn’t it nice to lie like this?’
Another laugh shook her. ‘It’s—nice. But don’t you need recovery time?’
‘I have amazing powers of recuperation. Besides, it’s a fact of nature. After the earthquake comes the aftershock. All we have to do is—wait.’
‘That’s all?’
‘It won’t be too dull,’ Sam promised lazily. ‘We can kiss each other—like this.’ He turned her face towards him and caressed her lips softly with his. ‘And I can play with your lovely breasts—like this.’
Ros ran her tongue along his lower lip. ‘And I…’ she whispered, as her hands cupped him intimately. ‘I can do—this.’
‘Oh, yes,’ he said, gasping. ‘You certainly can.’
She felt boneless. Boneless and weightless. So much so that without Sam’s arm lying across her waist, anchoring her to the bed, she might have easily have floated up to the ceiling.
Sam had fallen asleep beside her, and she couldn’t blame him. She was just aching, gently and pleasurably, but he had to be exhausted.
The aftershock had been slow and lingering, his hands and mouth making a feast of her, as if she’d been created simply and solely for his own very personal delight. He had taken her to the brink of rapture and held her there for some endless time, until her body had at last been permitted to splinter into orgasm.