‘Nice house,’ he said, testing her reaction, and she gave a tiny hollow laugh.
‘I’m utterly indifferent to it,’ she said. ‘It was a ridiculous amount of money and it’s not at all the sort of house I wanted, but David liked it because it was well built and low maintenance.’
Interesting. And none of his business. ‘So what did you want?’ he asked, ignoring his own advice.
‘Something old. Victorian, probably, but not on the same scale as Fliss and Tom’s—have you seen it yet?’
He shook his head, and she continued, ‘It’s amazing. Huge, but, then, it needs to be, they’ve got six children and his parents and two dogs and several cats and any number of chickens and ducks.’
He laughed. ‘Sounds like Fliss.’
‘Mmm. I think Tom was a bit bemused at first, but he’s got used to it now. But, anyway, something rather more sensible than that, possibly Edwardian. A little detached house with a pretty garden and some lovely original features. Something with character, for heaven’s sake, because this is just so bland.’
‘So will you move?’
She stopped chopping and stirring, and looked at him steadily for a moment. ‘I don’t know,’ she said slowly. ‘I don’t want to unsettle the boys any more, and there’s plenty of time for my dream house. I expect we’ll stay here for a few years.’
‘You can put character in.’ That was certainly true. He’d seen mud huts with more character, but he didn’t put it quite so bluntly.
Her smile was a little sad. ‘Mmm. I know.’
So why hadn’t she? Was it because her heart had never really been in it, because it was the sort of thing one ought to discuss with a partner, and they never had? Never sat poring over colour charts or furniture catalogues, been to junk sales and come home with something silly—not that he’d had that with Clare, either, but he knew the way it worked in theory. He was still waiting for a chance to put it into practice.
She put the plates down on the table. ‘Here—do you want salad cream or mayo? Or I’ve got a really nice balsamic vinegar.’
‘Sounds good,’ he said, and she handed him the bottle and sat down at right angles to him, which meant that her leg brushed his as she pulled her chair in.
She mumbled an apology and hitched it out of the way, and he moved his own across into more neutral territory before it got him into trouble, because one more touch and he was going to explode.
‘This is lovely, thank you,’ he said, piling in and trying not to think about her legs, but it didn’t work, and minutes later he was treated to the smooth curve of her bottom as she bent over to put their plates in the dishwasher.
Damn.
He looked away, staring down into his mug, and she came back and reached for it just as he did.
Their fingers clashed and she pulled away, then stopped, leaving her fingertips against his hand, and he let the mug go and turned his hand over, catching her fingers and rubbing them gently between finger and thumb.
‘Are you OK? Really?’ he asked softly.
She pulled her hand away then and took his mug. ‘Yes, I’m fine. The schedule takes a bit of juggling, but it’s nothing I can’t cope with.’
She put the mug in the dishwasher, her work trousers pulling taut over that soft, lush curve again, and he stood up abruptly and picked up his keys from the worktop and rammed them in his pocket.
‘I’d better be off,’ he said, and she straightened up and nodded and followed him to the door, looking a little relieved.
‘Thank you for the lift—I’ll see you in the morning. Quarter to seven OK?’
‘Fine. Thanks for the supper.’
‘My pleasure.’
And then, just because it seemed the obvious thing to do, because he couldn’t help himself another moment and one tiny kiss couldn’t hurt, surely, he took half a step towards her, leant over and brushed a kiss against her lips.
Her breath hissed against his lips, and she tilted her head up to his, and he was lost.
Oh, lord, it had been so long!
His lips were firm and full and coaxing, not that she needed any coaxing, and he didn’t move, just stood there, with his body slightly out of reach, and touched her only with his mouth.
Little sips, tiny nibbles, achingly tender sighs, until she couldn’t stand it any longer and moved into his arms.
The heat erupted inside her, ripping through her, tearing a little sob of need and desire from her throat, and he groaned against her mouth and hauled her closer. ‘Sal,’ he rasped, his breath rough against her cheek, her throat, her chest…
The zip on her tunic gave way to his trembling fingers, and then they were there, cupping one breast and squeezing it as his lips closed hotly over the other, suckling deeply through the fine lace of her bra until she nearly screamed.
Her fingers threaded through his hair, one minute pressing him closer, the next dragging his head up so she could kiss him again, feel his lips on hers, his tongue plundering her mouth as his hands slid down and cupped her bottom and dragged her hard against him.
She arched into him, sobbing with frustration and need, and pulled his shirt out of his trousers, flattening her palms against the hot, smooth skin of his back, feeling the columns of muscle jerk beneath her hands as she slid them down beneath his belt, her fingers flexing into the taut globes of his buttocks.
His groan ripped through her, one hand spearing through her hair, anchoring her head as his mouth plundered hers, his tongue delving, thrusting in time to his hips.
And then without warning he stopped, pulling back, easing away from her, his breath coming hard and fast against her face as he stood just inches away from her. His eyes were black with desire, his lips drawn back, his chest heaving.
‘What the hell are we doing?’ he grated, and took a step back, then another, then, yanking the door open, he strode out into the night, leaving her speechless.
She sagged against the wall, her fingers coming up to touch her lips. They trembled against the soft, bruised flesh, still moist from his kiss, and her body burned to finish what he’d started.
She heard his car start, heard the gravel skid beneath his wheels, then the squeal of tyres as he tore off down the road. Moving on autopilot, she closed the door and rested her head against it, her heart pounding. What had they been thinking about? If he hadn’t stopped—and just then she hated him for that—then they would have been making love right now, right there, in the hall, up against the front door, with her dragging his clothes from his body…
With a whimper of shame she turned away from the door and headed for the kitchen on legs like jelly. She opened the fridge, took out the wine, looked at it and poured it down the sink. The last thing she needed was any more—ever again! One glass! One miserable, pathetic little glass. That was all it had taken to weaken her resolve.
What resolve? she mocked herself. She had no resolve where he was concerned. She never had had. Even when Clare had found them together, and he’d gone off to talk to her and come back to tell Sally that he was leaving, marrying Clare because of the baby—even then she’d begged him to make love to her one last time, dragged his clothes off him, clung to him as if she’d die without him. She’d had no pride, no restraint, no dignity. Just desperation—and the consequences of that desperate moment had been immeasurable.
It had taken her years to come to terms with it. If she even had. There was no way she was letting it happen again. She was too vulnerable to him, too weak, too much in love…
‘Oh, no.’ She sat down hard, tears spilling from her eyes, scalding her cheeks. ‘No. Not again.’
No, she realised. Not again—still. She’d always loved him, but it was so complicated. She couldn’t let this muddy the waters, because there was too much still unresolved, and there probably always would be, and it was only a matter of time before he went back to the other side of the world to his wife and child.
The phone rang, and she stared at it in horror. The children! She’d f
orgotten to ring to say goodnight.
‘Sally? It’s David—I just wondered if everything was all right. The kids wanted to stay up to talk to you, but I told them you’d probably had to stay on late.’
‘Um—yes, I did,’ she said, hating herself for the lie but then adding to it. ‘I’ve only just got in. I’m sorry. Are they asleep?’
‘Ben is—Alex is here. Want to talk to him?’
Alex. Oh, lord. ‘Sure—put him on,’ she said, and took a steadying breath.
‘Mum?’
‘Hi, darling. Sorry I didn’t ring, I was busy. How was your day?’
‘OK. Mum, there’s a walk this weekend—can we go? Katie said she’d try and get her mum and Patrick to take her, and it would be loads of fun. And Michael and Abby are going, too.’
‘OK. I’ll find out about it and see if it fits with my work. Maybe your father could take you?’
‘But I want you to!’ he said, and there was a tremor in his voice that nearly broke her heart.
‘All right. I’ll fix it,’ she promised, hoping she could. And she listened to his voice telling her he loved her, and they said goodnight, and only after she’d cradled the phone did she realise that the tears were still streaming down her cheeks…
Jack pulled up round the corner, cut the engine and dropped his head back against the headrest. He was shaking all over, his body screaming for release, aching to hold Sally, to touch her, to plunge deep inside her and lose himself.
How could it still be the same, after so long? He’d been just as desperate before, frenzied every time he’d touched her, unable to resist her or get enough of her. Even when he’d gone back to tell her he was marrying Clare and she’d begged him to make love to her one last time, he hadn’t had the strength to walk away.
That much, then, was different. He had the strength now, ten years later, but was it courage or cowardice? She was married still, she had two lovely kids—was he just afraid of the repercussions of such a messy relationship? It was nothing to do with common decency, because where Sally was concerned there was nothing decent about his thoughts. Patrick had been right to distrust him. So much for taking it easy, giving her time to get over the shock—clearly he couldn’t be trusted to keep his hands to himself, and it had only been his last shred of self-control that had got him out of there before he’d taken her right there up against the front door.
Jack groaned at the thought, cursing himself for that shred of control and yet knowing that without it he could never have looked Patrick in the eye again.
It might have been a price worth paying.
He was there in the morning at a quarter to seven, as agreed, sitting in the car outside with the engine running and a face like stone.
Sally slid into the seat beside him and fastened her seat belt. ‘I didn’t know if you’d be here,’ she said warily, and he made a sound halfway between a snort and a sigh.
‘I said I would.’
‘I know, but—’ She broke off, wondering about the etiquette of the morning after the night that wasn’t. ‘We shouldn’t have done that,’ she said abruptly, and this time it definitely was a snort.
‘We didn’t do that.’
She blushed and shook her head. ‘Almost. And it was wrong.’
‘Why?’
‘Why?’ She stared at him in astonishment. ‘You tell me—it was you who stopped, not me. You must have had your reasons. Maybe it was something to do with marriage vows,’ she added, just a little pointedly.
His mouth tightened, and he slammed the car into gear, dropped the clutch and shot forwards without another word. It wasn’t until they turned into the hospital and he pulled up in the car park that he spoke again, his voice stiff and formal.
‘You’re right, of course. I apologise. I shouldn’t have touched you. And don’t worry, it won’t happen again.’
The sense of regret was shocking.
‘Hello, Mrs Roper. How are you?’
‘Oh, a bit sore,’ she said, smiling bravely, and Jack returned her smile, trying not to notice Sally standing there in the background in what should have been a totally sexless uniform but instead was enough to drive him wild.
Focus, man, focus!
He checked her hand for warmth, for swelling, for sensation, for motor control. Happy that all was well, he gave her the lecture on keeping it moving and asked Sally to put a proper cast on it.
But there must have been something in his voice because as Sally led her away to the plaster room he overheard Mrs Roper say, ‘He doesn’t seem very happy today—have you two had a fight?’
And Sally straightened her spine and said, ‘No, of course not. I expect he’s just a bit preoccupied about another patient.’
‘Of course. I’m sorry, you have so many people to care for, you really didn’t need me being so silly and doing this.’
He walked off, a little perturbed that Mrs Roper had noticed the atmosphere between them. And if Mrs Roper had noticed, what chance did he have of fooling Patrick?
None.
He had to sort it out with Sally, and as soon as they both had a natural break, he collared her.
‘Coffee.’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Yes. We need to talk.’
‘Is there anything to say?’
‘Plenty, but not here. Come on, I’ll treat you.’
She made a derisory noise, but she went with him, and he took her to the little canteen at the back of the hospital, tucked away miles from the main clinics and so little frequented by patients. Although patients might have been better than colleagues, less nosy, but they were lucky for once and didn’t see anyone they knew.
She found a table, and he collected their drinks and a couple of sticky Danish pastries, carried them over to the window and sat down opposite her.
‘Did you get your keys back, by the way?’ he asked, stalling, but it didn’t work.
‘Yes. Nice try. What did you want?’
He handed her a cup and smiled warily. ‘I just wanted to sort things out a bit. I shouldn’t have kissed you last night, it was stupid and unforgivable and rash, and it wasn’t fair, but I did and we have to move on. Which Danish do you want?’
She stared at him blankly for a moment, then collected herself, looked down at the pastries and took the chocolate one, as he’d anticipated. He picked up the other plate.
‘So what do you suggest?’ she asked, biting into the pastry and nearly sending his blood pressure off the scale.
He dragged his eyes away. ‘A truce. No more kisses, no more touches, just getting on with our work and being friends. It’s only for another two weeks—less than that. We can do it, Sal. If Mrs Roper’s noticed, what the hell do you think Patrick and Annie will make of it? They’ll give us both hell.’
She sighed and bit the pastry again. ‘There’s no way we can fool them.’
‘We don’t have to fool them. We just have to have nothing to hide. It was a one-off. We can be friends, Sal. I want to be friends. You need friends at the moment, and I’m more than happy to do anything I can to help you. Helping with the garden, running around after the kids…’
‘That isn’t necessary,’ she said, a little too fast, and he sighed inwardly. OK, so she didn’t trust him with the kids. Yet. She would, though, if he had anything to do with it. All he had to do was prove that he could be a good friend instead of a louse of a lover.
Things were different after that.
He gave her a little more space at work, and although she wouldn’t—couldn’t!—let him come round while the kids were there, they had an activity evening at school on Thursday evening and he did come and give her a hand with the grass before she had to go and pick them up.
And by Friday, when they had a couple of nasty fractures back to back and she paged Patrick to come down to the department to see them, she wasn’t worried about him sensing any tension between her and Jack because their relationship was much more relaxed.
Anyway, she needed to talk
to him. She’d discovered that her rota would allow her to go on the walk, because she was on a late on Saturday and not working again until Monday morning, and she’d been meaning to liaise with Patrick and Annie about it, but what with one thing and another—namely, avoiding them because of Jack!—she hadn’t got round to it.
So that gave her something positive to talk about rather than an unstructured conversation that left room for probing questions. She met Patrick as he came into the department and took him to the first patient, a young man with a badly mangled leg following a fall from a motorbike. He greeted him with customary warmth, checked the circulation in his foot and told him he’d be taking him up to Theatre later that day to pin and plate the tib and fib, and upped his pain relief.
‘I’ll see you upstairs later,’ he said, and then ushered Sally out. ‘So how are things at home?’ he asked, and she managed a smile.
‘Oh, OK. Ben’s been a bit clingy, and Alex is trying his best but I think he’s a bit insecure, too. They want to go on this walk on Sunday. I gather you’re all going?’
‘Yes—Annie was going to phone you but she’s been a bit rough with the old sickness.’
‘Oh, poor thing. I remember it well,’ she said with a pang of guilt that she hadn’t rung to ask how she was, but she’d just been so afraid of the searching questions…
‘Well, anyway, she’s still determined to go, says the fresh air will do her good, and she’s got your boots out and been walking round to the shops in them every evening to get her feet used to them.’
Sally laughed. ‘They were dreadful after the last one,’ she said, and Patrick smiled wryly.
‘I know. I remember it well. That was when I met her, on that walk. Love at first hobble.’
She laughed again. ‘Tell her I’ll make the picnic so she doesn’t have to think about food. I’ll do it before I come to work tomorrow, and then I won’t have to worry about it on Sunday morning, because I won’t get finished here till late tomorrow night.’
He pulled a face. ‘Rather you than me, Saturday night in A and E.’
His Very Own Wife and Child Page 9