Just Another Miracle!

by Caroline Anderson

  At his side? Her heart raced again. ‘Sure,’ she said when she could find her tongue. ‘Um—how many?’

  ‘About ten—plus a couple from the Norwich office and ourselves—oh, and Helen, of course.’

  Of course. Poppy’s pleasure dimmed, but she promised herself she wouldn’t let Helen bother her. It wasn’t Helen he had asked to act as his hostess, it was her, and she’d make darned sure he was proud of her.

  And Helen—Helen could eat her heart out.

  CHAPTER NINE

  POPPY spent the week agonising over the arrangements for the dinner party. She decided that as there would be about fifteen or so people a sit-down dinner would be impractical, and so she planned a buffet, then presented James with the menu for confirmation.

  ‘I’ve tried to include vegetarian and even vegan options, as you don’t know the guests very well, and I’ve made sure nothing’s got nuts in just in case of allergies,’ she explained.

  ‘Looks great,’ he said with a smile, and she could have melted in the aftermath of that smile.

  So, the menu was decided. Now for her clothes.

  Hmm.

  Well, Helen would be done up to the nines, of course, and, although Poppy tried desperately to convince herself that Helen’s opinion didn’t matter a tinker’s cuss, there was no way she was going to let James down by looking less than her best.

  She might be a nanny most of the time, but next Saturday night she was James‘s—what? Partner? Hostess?

  Lover?

  No. Not lover. At least, she didn’t think so.

  Hostess, though, and she intended to do it with style.

  In what, though?

  She went home to her wardrobe and searched amongst the contents, and was in despair when her fingers closed around the silk crêpe de Chine. Her brow creasing, she pulled out the garment and stared at it in surprise.

  Of course. How silly of her to forget. It was a daring creation she’d made for a special evening when she’d been with her previous employers, and in fact the children had been ill and she’d never attended the function with them. It was stunning, though, a very off-theshoulder, slinky ankle-length little number, in deep sapphire-blue with a thigh-high slit and almost no back and precious little front.

  Still, she looked amazing in it; she knew that. All she needed was the courage to wear it, but there was nothing else even remotely suitable, so it would have to do.

  She packed it carefully, took it back to the house and pressed it meticulously, along with a dress shirt for James.

  Then she shopped and cooked and cleaned, and pacified the dreaded Mrs Cripps, and on Saturday morning she dropped the boys and Bridie off with her mother for the weekend.

  ‘Wish me luck,’ she said to Audrey.

  ‘Poppy’s mother smiled. ’You’ll knock him for six,’ she promised, and Poppy blushed and kissed her and ran.

  There was still so much to do—arranging the flowers, making the desserts, chilling the wine, polishing the silver and glass, making the canapés—and by the time James arrived back at six-thirty she was exhausted, but the house looked immaculate.

  He ran upstairs two at a time and knocked on the door of her flat She was in there, lying on the sofa with her feet propped on the arm, wondering how she was going to stand up in court shoes for the next six or seven hours. He gave her a quizzical look.

  ‘Everything all right?’ he asked worriedly.

  ‘Fine—except that my feet are killing me.’

  He lifted them and sat on the other end of the sofa with them in his lap, and with strong, blunt fingers he kneaded the aches from her tired soles. She dropped her head back against the other arm and groaned.

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ she told him. ‘Don’t ever stop.’

  He chuckled, a soft, husky sound that rippled up her spine. ‘Unfortunately I have to, or I won’t be ready to greet my guests.’

  ‘So cancel them,’ she pleaded laughingly.

  He gave her feet one last squeeze and stood up. ‘Have a shower,’ he told her. ‘You’ll feel much better.’

  ‘Mum.’

  ‘Poppy? You aren’t going to sleep, are you?’

  She made herself sit up. ‘And miss the party? I don’t think so. What time are they coming?’

  ‘Eight.’

  She glanced at her watch, then forced herself to stand up. ‘Right. Shower, change, put out the canapes and party. Come on—out, please. The caterpillar needs to turn into a butterfly and it takes intense concentration.’

  He went, closing her door softly behind him, and she dragged off her clothes, crawled into the shower and turned on the hot spray. He was right, it did help. After ten minutes of being pelted with hot water she felt almost human again.

  She washed her hair and dried it straight. There was no point in trying to do anything with it, the darned stuff had a mind of its own, anyway. She would have preferred to put it up, but since it wouldn’t stay there it made more sense to leave it down and just brush it well. At least it didn’t come out of a bottle, unlike almost every other blonde she’d seen recently—including the dreaded Frisbee.

  She applied her make-up carefully, pulled on the tiniest little pair of knickers she owned, followed them with a pair of sheer spangled tights and then wriggled into the dress.

  Oh.

  Memory had failed her. The deep plunging V at the back was deeper and plungier than she’d remembered, and the single shoulder strap was an extension of a scrap of fabric that could hardly be dignified by the word ‘bodice’. And as for the thigh-high slit—well, it was just as well that the tights were sheer all the way up!

  For all that, she looked stunning. All she needed was the courage of her convictions. She put on her shoes, straightened her shoulders and looked again in the mirror.

  The dress was a wonderful fit, at least. Quite apart from which, it was the only thing she owned that was even remotely suitable.

  She bolted down the stairs before her courage failed, and was in the kitchen putting out the canapés when James came in.

  ‘Poppy, could you help me with my cufflinks? I can never get the damn things—’

  He faltered in the doorway, transfixed, his eyes raking over her from head to toe.

  ‘Poppy?’ he croaked.

  She took one look at his stunned face and shook her head. ‘I’ll change—’

  ‘Will you, hell. Turn round.’

  She turned, revolving slowly, his eyes burning a trail over her skin. When she was all the way round she forced herself to meet his eyes, and the look in them sent hot colour flooding to her cheeks.

  ‘I’ll change,’ she repeated.

  ‘No. You look—’ He swallowed. ‘You look incredible, Poppy. Absolutely stunning. Don’t you dare change.’

  ‘You don’t think it’s too much?’ she said doubtfully.

  He almost choked. ‘Too much? If that’s too much I’d hate to see you in too little.’ He laughed softly. ‘In fact, that’s a lie. I’d love to see you in too little, but thinking about it now won’t do my blood pressure any good at all.’ He ran a critical eye over her again and nodded his approval. ‘You look good—very good. It’s an excellent fit. Whoever made it is a real craftsman.’

  She blushed again. ‘Thank you. I did try.’

  His brows creased. ‘You made it?’

  ‘A year ago, in London. I’ve never worn it before, though.’

  ‘Good. Then nobody else has danced with you in it.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘In that case,’ he said slowly, ‘I hope you’ll do me the honour of allowing me to dance with you in it later—much, much later.’

  The promise in his eyes was nearly her undoing. If the guests hadn’t been due to arrive at any minute, Poppy doubted if she could have resisted the invitation in those green-gold depths.

  As it was, she turned away and fiddled with the trays of nibbles again.

  ‘I’ll do my own cufflinks—I don’t trust myself that near you,’ James
said a little gruffly, and left the room.

  Poppy sagged against the wall, closed her eyes and counted to ten. Whatever had happened in their relationship before now, she knew that this evening signalled a turning point, and that tonight they would move on to the next stage.

  A shiver of anticipation ran over her skin, and, putting the thought aside, she took the trays of canapés through to the drawing room, set them down on tables and dragged in a calming breath, just as the doorbell rang for the first guests.

  Helen, of course, waited a little while before appearing, in order to make an entrance. Poppy wondered if her nose was put out of
  Wrong.

  In fact, Helen’s entrance was spoiled by two things. One was her first sight of Poppy, that made her eyes all but stand out on stalks.

  The second was her first sight of the drawing room, and that nearly took her breath away.

  ‘James!’ she wailed. ‘What ever have you done?’

  He smiled. ‘Lovely, isn’t it? Poppy did it for me.’

  ‘But all this vulgar colour—!’

  ‘Mmm. It looks almost alive now. Before it reminded me of nothing so much as the lining of an elaborate coffin.’

  Poppy moved quickly out of earshot before she disgraced herself by crowing with delight. If Helen hated it, then it must have worked! She went back to her other guests, mingling naturally with them, talking and laughing and replenishing plates and glasses, getting to know the movers and shakers of the firm James had recently acquired.

  They were nice people, decent men and women, their wives and husbands put at ease by the relaxed atmosphere Poppy tried to create. The soft music, the wannth of the surroundings—even if Helen hated it—all served to relax their guests.

  Poppy herself, although she didn’t realise it, was one of the reasons the guests were enjoying themselves so much. She was warm and natural, friendly, and above all genuinely interested in everyone, and it showed. They responded to her warmth like flowers in the sunshine, opening up and flourishing, and it didn’t go unnoticed.

  James caught her eye over and over again, smiling encouragingly, one eye tipping in the tiniest wink, and through it all a latent promise flickered in those green-gold depths. Later, he seemed to say.

  Later...

  ‘Lovely dress, but it’s very daring for you, Poppy, dear.’

  Poppy’s exposed skin chilled at the icy tone of Helen’s voice. Her chin rose a fraction, and over Helen’s shoulder she saw James wink at her again. It gave her courage.

  ‘Not really,’ she replied. ‘I believe in dressing for the occasion. This occasion called for something a little special, I thought.’ She ran an eye over Helen’s undoubtedly very expensive and well-fitting dress. In its way it was no more daring than Poppy’s, and she took comfort from the knowledge that her figure was better than the older woman’s.

  ‘You’re looking very good yourself,’ she added, trying to neutralise the situation.

  Helen shrugged and laughed. ‘Well, it ought to look good, it cost a fortune. I thought it was the most appropriate of my designer dresses—where did you pick that one up? I gather there’s a very good second-hand designer dress shop in Norwich.’

  That did it. Poppy abandoned all attempts at niceness.

  ‘Really? I wouldn’t know. This one was made for me in one of those funny little London attics—you know the sort of place.’

  Helen’s eyes widened. ‘You must give me the name of the designer, dear. I could do with something else.’

  Poppy smiled. ‘Of course,’ she said airily, dredging up the first Italian name she could think of. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m neglecting our guests.’

  And ignoring James, who was choking quietly behind Helen, she smiled sweetly and walked away. Laughter was bubbling in her throat, and James followed her out to the kitchen and fixed her with a mock stern eye.

  ‘That was naughty,’ he told her, laughter still threading his voice.

  ‘Mmm. Sorry, but she was patronising me.’

  ‘Don’t they make pizzas?’

  Poppy smiled. ‘Mmm. And ice-cream. Don’t worry, I don’t suppose she eats frozen junk food.’

  He shook his head slightly, then trailed a finger along the diagonal edge of her neckline, teasing the skin with his light, seductive touch. Instantly Helen was forgotten.

  ‘I want to be alone with you, Poppy,’ he murmured softly. ‘I want to slide that strap off your shoulder and watch this tormenting creation fall to the floor at your feet, then I want to—’

  ‘Here you both are. James, Mr Bulmore is asking for you. Something about pensions.’

  James froze at Helen’s voice, then with an inaudible sigh he turned and smiled at her. ‘Thank you, Helen. Weren’t you able to answer his questions?’

  ‘I think he wanted reassurance from the boss.’

  She slid her arm through his and drew him away, and Poppy’s hand came up and laid against her breastbone, over the place where James had touched her with such devastating gentleness.

  With a ragged moan she closed her eyes and tried to quieten her breathing, but under her hand she could feel her heart drumming out its frantic rhythm, and she knew that nothing short of James’s touch would calm her now. She dragged in a lungful of air, straightened her shoulders and went back to her guests.

  They ate and drank and were merry until long after Cinderella’s coachmen were scurrying about under the floorboards again, and then finally, when Poppy thought her smile would crack and her feet wouldn’t hold her up for another minute, the party started to break up.

  Compliments flew, and as they ushered the last of the guests towards the door Helen took James by the arm.

  ‘Darling, I’ve been a bit silly and had rather too much to drink—I probably shouldn’t drive tonight. Maybe I’d better stay—I’ve got a bag in my car. I had a feeling this might happen.’ She simpered up at James—well, in fairness she probably didn’t exactly simper, but Poppy didn’t feel like giving the manipulative creature the benefit of the doubt.

  Neither, apparently, did James. He smiled at the Birmingham firm’s accountant, just on his way through the door.

  ‘Mr Bulmore, I wonder if you’d be kind enough to drop Helen off at home? It’s on your way—thank you, that’s very kind. Helen, leave your keys with me. I’ll have your car dropped off in the morning.’

  He kissed her cheek, ducked the pouting lips and stepped back beside Poppy, her keys dangling from his fingers.

  Ouch. If looks could kill, Poppy thought, but there was only one thing on James’s mind tonight and there was no way he was letting Helen get in his way.

  The door closed behind them, and James turned to her with a slow, lazy smile. ‘At last. And now, Poppy, my dear, I’m going to have that dance you promised me.’

  He went back into the drawing room, put on an unashamedly romantic CD and drew her into his arms.

  Funny. Her feet didn’t hurt any more. Maybe it was because she was floating, drifting about two inches above the floor on a cushion of air.

  His arms felt wonderful, bracketing her ribs, enveloping her in his warmth. One hand lay lightly splayed across her back, the other curved possessively over her bottom, drawing her up against him as he swayed to the seductive music. Her arms slid up around his neck, her fingers threading through his hair, toying with the soft, springy texture.

  She could feel his heart thud against her ribs—or was it her heart? It was hard to tell where he ended and she began, and when his lips lowered and claimed hers, the line blurred even further. She gave herself up to his kiss, to the hot, velvet feel of his tongue as it searched the intimate secrets of her mouth in a kiss much deeper than any they had shared before.

  Finally he lifted his head and looked down at her, his face open and hungry. ‘I need you,’ he said rawly.

  Her fingers cupped his
jaw, relishing the rough satin feel of the skin drawn taut over the harsh angles. ‘I need you, too,’ she told him with her usual honesty. ‘Take me to bed, James.’

  His breath hissed out on a sharp sigh, and for a moment he just stood there. Then suddenly she was in his arms and he was striding up the stairs with her cradled against his chest as if she weighed nothing. He shouldered open his bedroom door, pushed it shut with his foot and then came to a halt in the middle of the room before lowering her slowly to her feet.

  Then he released her, standing back slightly and looking at her as if he didn’t quite believe she was real. His eyes tracked over her in an almost physical caress, and Poppy thought her legs would give way. Touch me, she thought, and as if he’d read her mind one hand reached out and threaded through her hair, sifting it through his fingers to fall over the bare shoulder revealed by the outrageous gown.

  ‘So beautiful,’ he murmured. His hand pushed the strap off her other shoulder, sliding it down and giving a little tug when the fabric caught on the tips of her breasts. Finally it fell away, and his breath jerked in as if he’d been struck.

  His hands came out and touched her, the caress like the soft lick of flame against her skin as he cupped her aching flesh. He was trembling, his fingers hardly resting on her skin, their touch almost reverent. Her eyes misted, and, moving like a puppet, Poppy fumbled for the zip in the side and slid it down. Released from its hold on her, the dress whispered down to lie in a shimmering puddle at her feet.

  She stepped forward out of it, into James’s waiting arms, and with a muffled cry he wrapped her against his chest and held her tight. He was fighting for control, she realised, his chest heaving, his legs shaking, his whole body humming with this ferocious passion that was threatening to consume him.

  She eased away and undid his bow-tie, then the buttons down the front of his dress shirt. The last button defeated her, and with a little cry of frustration she tore it off.

  That was it.

  James’s control, held by a thread, snapped like the thread on the button and he ripped away the rest of their clothes, scooped her up and dropped her in the middle of the bed.