He didn’t even try to resist.
* * *
His kiss was gentle, unhurried, his lips lazily sipping and tasting, the urgency gone now from both of them.
He eased the bedclothes away, his hand tracing a path down her throat, down over her shoulder to her wrist, trailing over the pulse point. He lifted her hand and laid a gentle, lingering kiss on the palm, then threaded his fingers through hers and worked his way slowly back up the inside of her arm, kissing every inch.
He reached her armpit and paused before he reached the scar, lifting his head and meeting her eyes searchingly.
She felt a quiver of resistance and quelled it. This was Matt, who’d just made the most beautiful and tender love to her. She was safe with him.
‘Does it feel strange? Would you rather I didn’t touch it?’ he asked softly, and she shrugged.
‘No, it’s fine. It’s numb, so it’s a bit weird—but that’s OK.’
He nodded, traced the scar gently with his fingers—checking out the surgery, probably, in doctor mode—then bent his head and feathered slow, tiny kisses along its length, definitely not in doctor mode now but back to the gentle, sensitive lover who seemed to know how to make her body sing, even there.
It was strangely soothing, if a bit unnerving, but then he reached the end of the scar and moved on, his tongue flicking lightly over her nipple, and she sucked in a breath and clenched her legs together as the sensation rippled through her.
‘Oh—!’
He paused and lifted his head. ‘Is that a good oh, or a bad oh?’ he asked, and she laughed a little.
‘Definitely good.’
He smiled wickedly and did it again, then treated the other breast to the same torture until she was ready to scream. And then he moved on, his stubble grazing lightly over her skin as he sipped and nibbled his way down over her ribs to her abdomen.
And then he paused and traced a fingertip along the fine, almost invisible line that ran from side to side just above her waist.
‘‘Whoever the surgeon was did a lovely job. Very neat.’
‘It is. My father did it.’
He lifted his head and stared at her. ‘Your father?’
‘Yes. He didn’t realise he was my father at the time.’
He shifted back up the bed and lay down again facing her, looking even more puzzled. ‘We are talking about Oliver?’
‘Of course.’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘No. He didn’t, really,’ she said with a smile. ‘They’d had a bit of a thing at a conference a couple of years before, and they—well, whatever, he was called away in the night and he left a message to say his brother-in-law had been killed and his wife was pregnant and he had to go to her.’
His eyes widened. ‘What? Your father was married?’
‘Sounds like it, doesn’t it? Except he wasn’t. It was his sister Clare’s husband who was killed, and his sister who was pregnant but it all got a bit lost in the translation so when my mother realised she was pregnant she didn’t tell him. Then they ended up working together at the Audley Memorial and she still thought he was married, and although he knew she had a child she still didn’t tell him, and then I was rushed in after the accident without any ID, and he was on take, so he operated. He managed to save some of my spleen, repaired my bowel and flushed my abdomen and it was all going well.
‘And then, just when he was about to close, he found out I was Mum’s child, and he looked at me properly for the first time and realised I must be his. We share the same rare blood group, B negative, and I was the spitting image of his nephew, so he just knew.’
‘Wow. So who closed? Surely not him?’
‘Yes, he did. He decided he couldn’t trust anybody else to do it as well as he would, because he cared more.’
Matt shook his head. ‘I can’t imagine operating on one of my kids. That must have been such a shock.’ His finger traced the line again. ‘He’s done a truly beautiful job. It really doesn’t show.’
‘You saw it.’
He laughed and kissed her. ‘I’m a surgeon, Olivia, so I do tend to notice these things. So, how was your mother about it?’
‘Shocked, worried for him in case it went wrong, relieved when it didn’t. She’d been about to tell him because they were seeing each other again and they were in love anyway, so they just got married pretty soon afterwards, and then Jamie and Abbie came along, and they’ve been nauseatingly happy ever since—or maybe that’s me, being jealous because I know I’ll probably never experience it.’
He frowned, his face puzzled. ‘Why not?’
‘Because I don’t think I’ll ever have my own family. I can’t get pregnant while I’m on tamoxifen because it’s too risky for the baby, so I’d have to wait until I come off it and allow time for it to leave my system, and by then it could be too late for my ovaries. Tamoxifen can shut them down.’
‘Didn’t they ask if you wanted to harvest eggs before you started treatment?’
‘Yes, but it meant two months of being bombarded with hormones, my radiotherapy had already been delayed by the second op, and I was freaked out at the thought of all those missed cancer cells mopping up the hormones and invading my body, so I said no and it’s haunted me ever since because that might have been my last chance, but it’s done now and it’s not the end of the world.’
Except sometimes it felt like it, so she tried not to think about it.
He frowned again. ‘There are all sorts of ways you can still be a mother, and it certainly shouldn’t stop you being happy. You could adopt, or foster, or be a stepmother, or just be with someone without kids. Not everyone wants children, Livvy. There are lots of people who don’t, for all sorts of reasons.’
‘But I do,’ she admitted, opening her heart to him with painful honesty and letting the sorrow seep in. ‘I desperately do. I love children, all children, but that’s not what it’s about, and if I ended up adopting or being a stepmother I’m afraid I might resent the fact that they weren’t mine, and that scares me because it wouldn’t be fair to them. I just want to be pregnant, to grow a baby inside me. It’s almost biological, and sometimes I just feel hollow with the need. And I don’t know if I can, or if I’ll ever be able to, or even if I should because of the cancer risk. And that hurts.’
‘Maybe you could get pregnant once you’re off tamoxifen. Women do, and surely the cancer risk is minimal now? You said they’d got it all. What stage was it?’
‘Stage I, and they did get it all, and then took more tissue to be super-cautious, and I had radiotherapy and I’m taking tamoxifen, which I hate because it makes me feel rubbish—I’ve done everything I can, sorted my diet, my lifestyle, my priorities—so I’ll almost certainly be all right, but pregnancy is years down the line. I still have hope, there’s still a chance, but that’s not for now and maybe not ever, because I didn’t take that risk when I had the chance. It’s just something I have to live with—’
Her voice cracked and she turned her head away.
‘Sorry. Ignore me. I’m just having a pity party.’
‘Oh, Olivia,’ he whispered softly, his breath drifting over her face, and then he kissed her, tenderly now, making her eyes fill. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’m OK,’ she assured him, wishing her voice sounded a bit stronger, that she hadn’t shown him so much of herself, the bits she never shared, even with her parents. ‘You don’t need to feel sorry for me. I’m alive and well and that’s enough to ask for. Alive, and making a valid contribution. I’m a good doctor, I know that, and I love it.
‘And anyway, there are other things,’ she went on, trying to put a positive spin on it. ‘My hobbies, my family, my friends. I have a good life, Matt, and I’m fine with it most of the time. Yes, sometimes I have a bit of a wobble, but it doesn’t mean I can’t be happy. I’m happy now. You m
ake me happy.’
She wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince, him or herself, but his arms tightened around her, holding her closer.
‘Good, because you make me happy, too,’ he murmured, kissing her tenderly, and then turned out the light, wrapped her gently against his heart and held her, the steady rhythm under her ear soothing as she drifted into sleep.
* * *
He lay awake for a long time, feeling the slight rise and fall of her chest against his side, the whisper of her breath against his skin, her words running through his head in a continuous loop.
Such sad words, said in such a brave, determined voice that didn’t hide the pain that lay beneath it.
I just want to be pregnant...carry a baby inside me...hollow with the need...haunted me ever since...might have been my last chance...didn’t take the risk.
And then the other things she’d said, about being a stepmother.
I might resent the fact that they weren’t mine and that scares me...it wouldn’t be fair to them.
He’d thought it himself, thought as he’d lain awake in the middle of the night all last week that his priority had to be to keep his relationship with her and his children separate, to keep them apart from each other until he knew where this was going so there was no chance of his children being hurt or confused, but that was before he realised he loved her, before he realised he wanted more. Much, much more.
Well, Juliet’s death had taught him that you didn’t always get what you wanted, you got the hand life dealt you, and if the hand he’d been dealt meant he could share only a small area of his life with her, would that be so bad?
They could still be together, still be happy, just not all the time. And if they managed that right, made sure they made time for each other regularly, then maybe that would be enough, for both of them, until they were sure of each other. And maybe then, if she met his children, maybe she’d realise that she wouldn’t resent them. Maybe they could become her family?
No. He was getting ahead of himself. It was much too soon to start thinking about things like that.
Wasn’t it?
Carefully, so he didn’t wake her, he eased his arm out from under her head and shifted slightly away, throwing off the covers. It was a hot night, and he needed air.
Trying not to disturb her, he got quietly out of bed, picked up his jeans and underwear and went downstairs, letting himself out into the garden.
The moon was full, and he sat on her swinging bench at the top of the little paved garden and inhaled the heady fragrance of the wisteria growing over the trellis behind him. It reminded him of Jules, of the night-scented stocks she’d planted in amongst the shrubs just before she’d died, but suddenly it all seemed a long, long time ago, and his life was in the here and now.
With Livvy? He hoped so.
But what about the children? They’d gain so much from her being a part of their lives, and they had so much to give her, but was it fair to expect it from either them or her? And what if she did resent them?
No. There was no way she’d do anything other than love them with her whole heart and soul. She didn’t have a resentful, selfish bone in her body, he was sure of it. He just had to prove it to her.
He breathed in again, drawing in the scent, letting it fill his lungs. It was beautiful, the silence of the night broken only by the sound of a distant siren and the faint creak of the chains as the bench swung slowly back and forth, and he closed his eyes and let the peace soak into him, but even so his mind couldn’t rest and his heart ached for her.
Why did life have to be so complicated?
CHAPTER EIGHT
HE’D GONE.
She hadn’t heard anything, no doors closing, no car starting, but there was a silent quality about the house that told her she was alone, and she wanted to cry.
She wished she’d kept her mouth shut. No doubt it had made him realise he should protect his children from her, just in case.
They’d never discussed her meeting Amber and Charlie, and if she was honest she wasn’t sure she wanted to, maybe because she’d want it too much, or because she was afraid she’d be resentful of his happiness, but maybe that was irrelevant if he’d decided their relationship couldn’t go anywhere further because of the children.
Not that he’d said anything that in any way implied he wanted it to go further, and it was far too soon even to think about it, but what if, now he knew she probably couldn’t have children, he’d thought she only wanted him because of his ready-made family, a substitute for the babies she could never have?
Had he doubted her motives? She hoped not, because she really didn’t have any apart from wanting to be with him. But his children had to come first, and if he’d had the slightest shred of doubt, he had a duty to protect them. She understood that absolutely, but it hurt that he might believe she’d use him—use all of them—like that.
Yes, her heart ached to be part of a noisy, busy family, but she didn’t know how she’d feel about someone else’s children, if she’d be happy or if they’d just constantly remind her of what she’d missed out on. She hadn’t even let herself think about his children, just to make it easier, but she was sure he must have done. They’d suffered enough—and so had she. There was no point torturing herself unnecessarily.
She laughed at that. Torturing herself? What was she thinking? It was him she’d tortured, burdening him with her self-pity, and she felt a rush of guilt.
At least she was alive. She thought about the woman with dark hair who would never see her babies grow up, about the pictures they’d drawn, scattered like confetti over his fridge and the playroom walls, the people who were alive now because of his generosity in donating her organs.
She thought about the life he lived without her, a juggling act between work and home, with his indispensable mother filling in the gaps and having the children for a sleepover so he could have a life, even if it was only one night in however many that he could snatch off from reality.
And she felt sorry for herself?
She was flooded with shame, disgusted at her neediness when he needed her far more than she needed him. She was fine. She had a great life. He didn’t, not any more, because it had all been snatched unfairly from him when Jules had died. And if sharing her life with him could bring him a crumb of happiness, a fleeting moment of downtime from responsibility on the rare occasions when he could get away, then she would do it without question.
She wanted more of him than that, much more, but she knew she couldn’t have it, knew he wasn’t ready for it, and if that was all they could ever have she’d take it willingly, because she’d rather have that occasional little glimpse of paradise with him than the drab grey of life without him.
Except now he’d gone, and she didn’t know why. Maybe it was because of the children, or maybe it was simply that common sense had reared its ugly head and he’d run for cover from a broken, needy woman who didn’t know how to keep her mouth shut.
Wise man.
Disgusted with herself, she threw off the bedclothes, pulled on her dressing gown and padded downstairs, and then she realised the back door was open. And she could hear a sound, a familiar, rhythmic creak.
She walked silently into the conservatory and there he was at the top of her little garden, his eyes closed, head tilted back, one foot pushing the bench. Push, swing, push, swing.
He hadn’t gone...
She walked up to him, her feet almost silent on the paving, but she must have made a sound because his eyes opened and he smiled and held out a hand to her and pulled her gently onto his lap.
‘I’m sorry, I just felt like some fresh air. Did I wake you?’
She shook her head, relief flooding her.
‘No, I was just hot—the joys of tamoxifen. Are you OK?’
He smiled again, his eyes unreadable, shadowed in the stark light of t
he moon, and she felt his thigh tense as he gave the ground another little push, rocking the swing again.
‘Yeah, I’m fine. You?’
She nodded. ‘I thought you’d gone because of my self-pitying little misery fest.’
He laughed softly and hugged her closer. ‘No. I’m still here. You don’t get rid of me that easily. Your garden smells amazing at night, by the way. I love it. I wish mine was like this.’
‘Give yours time. I’m sure you’ve got some wonderful plants in there.’
She rested her head against his and closed her eyes, relishing the feel of his bare chest under her hand, the rhythmic shift of his thighs as he rocked the swing, his solid warmth, his gentleness, his strength. She was so glad he hadn’t gone, but he’d have to soon, and she wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.
‘What time are you picking up the children?’
‘I’m not. My mother said she’d keep them till lunch if I wanted. She’ll probably take them to the beach. Why?’
‘I just wondered how long we’ve got.’
He tilted his head back and looked up at her, his smile sad. ‘Not nearly long enough.’
She bent her head and kissed him tenderly, needing to feel his arms around her, his body close to hers because that might be all she could ever have of him.
‘Then let’s not waste it,’ she murmured, and pulled him to his feet and took him back to bed.
* * *
His phone pinged at eight, and he reached out for it, then put it down and pulled her back into his arms with a contented little noise.
‘Everything OK?’
‘Mmm, it’s fine. It was Mum. They’re off to the beach with Ed and Annie and all the children before it gets too hot.’
She felt a pang of guilt for keeping him from his little family. ‘Shouldn’t you go? Your time with them’s so limited.’
He tilted his head back so he could look at her, his eyes searching. ‘Do you want me to go?’
A Single Dad to Heal Her Heart Page 12