The door closed gently behind him, and Lucie sat down and swallowed hard. Poor Fergus. It wasn't his fault he was too safe and too boring. Perhaps it was a failing in her, that she wanted danger and excitement in her relationships?
She looked across at the house, and saw Will standing at the window, watching Fergus drive away, and she wondered what he was thinking.
Then he turned his head and looked towards her, and she felt her heart kick beneath her ribs. Failing or not, it was the way she was, and perhaps this weekend would give her an opportunity to get closer to him. After all, she couldn't rescue him from himself long distance, could she?
A tremor of excitement shivered through her, and she stood up and went into the kitchen area, clearing up her breakfast things and tidying, while her mind plotted her next move.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Fergus was going off—probably to fetch a takeaway or a bottle of fine wine and some candles to romance Lucie. Will was surprised he hadn't brought a hamper with him from Fortnum's. He looked and sounded the type.
The car went up the track away from the house, weaving painstakingly between the potholes, and disappeared from view around the corner of the track. It would probably ground and he'd be back, whimpering about his flashy car that was so tragically un-suited to the rigours of country driving.
He turned away in disgust, and looked at the cottage. Was that Lucie, sitting in the chair on the far side? He couldn't really see, but then she moved, standing up and going into the kitchen, and he wondered what she was doing. Preparing a meal? Setting the scene for the nice romantic dinner Fergus had gone to fetch?
He felt something he didn't really understand and didn't want to analyse, but it burned like a vindaloo. Damn Fergus, with his slick car and polished brogues and slimy manoeuvres. Will didn't know what Fergus had gone to fetch, but he didn't want to hang around and watch the romantic little scene take place.
He called Bruno, put his boots on and stomped down to the river, staying there until it was too cold and too dark for common sense, and then almost had to feel his way back to the house.
There was no sign of Fergus's car, and he thought they'd probably gone out—although he hadn't heard a car. Still, that ostentatious, sexy car wouldn't make a great deal of noise. The engine was the sort that purred rather than growled, and he would certainly take it slowly on the track.
Maybe he had grounded it, Will thought, and realised he was gloating. Dammit, that woman was certainly bringing out the worst in him!
He went into the kitchen and put on the kettle, debated lighting the fire and decided he couldn't be bothered. He made some toast, fried a couple of slices of bacon, hacked up a tomato and slapped them together in a sandwich, washing it down with a cup of tea.
He wondered what Lucie and Fergus had had for dinner.
Smoked salmon? Lobster?
Not bacon sandwiches, that was for sure!
There was a knock at the door, and he opened it to find Lucie there, alone.
'Lucie?' he murmured. 'I thought you were out with Fergus.'
She shook her head. 'He's gone,' she said, and he wasn't sure, but he thought she sounded forlorn. Obviously a flying visit that had left her wanting more. Damn.
She looked at the remains of his sandwich clamped in his left hand, then up at his face.
'Is that a bacon sandwich?' she said wistfully, and he gave a crooked smile and opened the door, irrationally pleased to see her and disgustingly glad that Fergus had gone, for whatever reason.
'Want one?'
'I'd kill for one.'
'No need. Just sit patiently at the table and I'll make you one.'
'I'll help.'
So he ended up bumping into her and having her squeeze past him and generally giving his hormones a hard time. She smelt wonderful. He wasn't sure what it was—it might have been shampoo, her hair was still wet from the bath. The thought sent his blood pressure sky-rocketing, and he flipped the bacon onto the toast with an awkward wrist and pushed the plate towards her.
'Here—I'll let you do the tomato, I have to hack it.'
'Forget the tomato, just give me the bacon,' she said with a grin. Picking up the plate, she sat down at the table, one foot hitched up under her bottom, and bit into the sandwich.
Her eyes closed and she groaned with ecstasy, and he had to stifle his own groan of frustration. What was it about her?
'This is bliss,' she said with her mouth full. 'I'm starving.'
'Why didn't you eat?'
She shrugged. 'Nothing I fancied in the fridge, and—I don't know, I just didn't feel like it.'
'So you thought you'd come and raid my bacon,' he said, trying hard not to pry and just barely resisting the urge to ask why she hadn't eaten with Fergus.
She laughed self-consciously. 'Actually, I thought I'd see if you were all right. You seemed to be gone for such a long time, and when it got dark I was worried about you.'
'I went down to the river,' he said, a little gruffly because he was touched at her concern. 'You don't need to worry about me, Lucie, I'm not a kid, you know.'
'I know, but with your arms and everything...'
'Everything?' He smiled. 'You mean my mental disability?'
She grinned. 'You did have a head injury.'
He couldn't stop the smile. 'You're crazy,' he said softly, leaning back in the chair and studying her. Her hair was drying in damp tendrils around her face, like a wispy halo, and her mouth was wide and slightly parted and unbelievably sexy. He ached to feel it again under his lips.
'Fancy a coffee?' she suggested. 'It's freezing in here, and I've got the heating on. And Fergus brought me chocolates.'
He'd pass on the chocolates, but only because they'd choke him. Coffee with Lucie in a warm room, though, was too tempting to refuse. He stood up and dumped the plates in the sink. 'Sounds good. What are we waiting for?'
He left Bruno behind, drying off after his frolic in the river, and followed her over to the cottage. She put the kettle on as they went in, then held up a bottle about a third full of something amber and interesting.
'Fancy a malt whisky?' she suggested, and he raised a brow.
'Secret vice?'
She shook her head and smiled. 'My father likes it. He used to pop up to see me from time to time when he was in London on business, and he kept a bottle in my flat. So, do you want some?'
Now he knew it didn't belong to Fergus? 'Just a small one.'
She slopped a hefty measure into a tumbler and handed it to him, and he sat down in one of the wonderfully comfortable armchairs and nursed it while she made the coffee.
It was bliss to sit there with her—not fighting, for once, because he was tired after his walk by the river and the long week and the pain in his arm, and fighting with her would have been too much like hard work.
So he sat, and he sipped his whisky and coffee alternately, and Lucie put some music on softly in the background and curled up opposite him in the other chair, and a great lump of regret formed in his throat that they could never have any more than this.
He sighed softly to himself. What was it about him that made him unable to live with anyone? Every time he'd tried, he'd ended up bitter and resentful. He was just too intolerant, that was the trouble—or maybe nobody had ever been special enough to make the effort for.
Lucie could be special enough, he thought, but they bickered constantly and the irritation he felt was clearly mutual, even if his was largely fueled by sexual frustration.
And anyway, she belonged to Fergus.
'Want a chocolate?' she asked, holding out a box of beautiful hand-made confectionery that must have cost the absent Fergus a small fortune.
He resisted, but Lucie didn't. She tucked in with relish, and he had to watch her sucking and nibbling and fiddling with them—because, of course, being Lucie she couldn't just put one in her mouth and eat it. Oh, no. She had to bite the chocolate off the outside of the hard ones, and curl her tongue inside the soft fondant
ones, and generally get totally absorbed in the structure of every single chocolate.
And every bite drove him crazy.
He tried closing his eyes, but that was no better. He imagined her mouth moving over his body, nipping and licking and tormenting the life out of him, and watching her eat the chocolates was probably safer, so he opened them again and found her looking at him, a curious expression on her face.
'What?' he said softly.
'You look as if you're in pain. Is your arm hurting?'
He almost stifled the snort of laughter, but not quite. 'Let's just say I've been more comfortable,' he prevaricated, and crossed one ankle over the other knee to disguise his embarrassment.
She got up to change the CD, and his eyes faithfully tracked the soft curve of her bottom as she bent over the music system. Beautiful. Just lush enough to make the fit of his jeans impossibly tight. Damn. He looked away, into the depths of his malt whisky, and as the slow, sexy music curled round them, he drained the Scotch, stood up and put the glass down with a little smack on the table.
'I have to go.'
'Really?'
She looked wistful, and it occurred to him that she was probably lonely and missing Fergus. He didn't know why the man had left so soon—perhaps it had only ever been meant as a flying visit. Although, thinking about it, she hadn't seemed overjoyed to see him.
'Really,' he said gently. Whatever she was feeling about Fergus, he didn't want to be used as a substitute.
Liar, his body screamed, but he ignored it until he got to the door, and then he turned to thank her for the coffee and bumped into her, and his hands flew up to cup her shoulders and steady her, and instead of steadying her they drew her closer, just as his head lowered of its own accord and his lips found hers.
She tasted of chocolate and coffee, and her mouth yielded with a tiny sound of surrender that nearly blew his control. Her back was to the bedroom door, and beyond it the bed was only a pace or two away. The knowledge tortured him.
He let go of her shoulders, meaning to ease back, but his arms slid round her of their own volition, drawing her closer, cupping her soft, lush bottom and lifting her into the cradle of his hips.
She gasped softly, and he plundered her mouth, need clawing at him. He wanted her—wanted to hold her and touch her and bury himself deep inside her.
He wanted things he had no business wanting, and she belonged to Fergus.
With a deep groan he released her, stepping back and fumbling behind him for the doorhandle. 'Lucie, I...' He trailed off, lost for words, and she put a finger over his lips.
'Shh. Don't say anything.'
He took her hand, lifting it slightly and pressing a lingering kiss into the palm. 'I have to go.'
'I know. I'll see you tomorrow.'
She came up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, her soft breasts bumping into his chest and tormenting him again. He pulled the door open and backed through it, almost falling over the cat.
'Damn, she's sneaked in,' he said, but Lucie laughed, a low, sexy little laugh that tortured him.
'She always sneaks in. I don't mind. She comes through the bedroom window most nights and sleeps on the bed.'
Lucky cat, he thought enviously, and dredged up a crooked, rather tragic smile. 'See you tomorrow.'
He turned and strode back to his house, refusing to allow himself to look back over his shoulder, and let himself in. Bruno greeted him with a thump of his tail, and he patted the dog absently and went upstairs to bed.
There was no way he would sleep, but his body was tired and he needed to rest.
Correction. He needed Lucie, and he wasn't about to get her.
Not now, not ever.
Lucie went to bed, her lips still tingling from his kiss. Poor Fergus. He was right. Will hadn't been an issue before she'd left London, but he certainly was now, and even if Fergus had been in with a chance before, that would have changed.
Especially after Will's kiss.
Fergus had kissed her before, of course, but only fairly briefly, because it had been all she'd allowed. She would have given Will anything he'd asked for.
Anything.
She reached for her diary, and wrote, 'Progress. We kissed again. He still seemed to regret it, but I don't. Oh, no! Wish he could have stayed the night.'
She put the diary down and switched off the light, then curled up on her side and relived the kiss. It brought an ache that wouldn't go away, an ache that was more than just physical and gave her a lump in her throat, because some time in the course of that kiss, she'd realised that she loved him.
How could she possibly have fallen in love with someone so grumpy and touchy and difficult?
Because that isn't the real him? her alter ego suggested. Because the real him is gentle and tender and loving, and crying out for a partner to share life's trials?
Crying out for peace and quiet and solitude, more like, she corrected herself. She didn't think for a moment that Will was looking for a partner. A more solitary person she didn't think she'd ever met, and even now, wanting her as he very obviously did, he still resented it.
Why?
Maybe Richard would know, but it seemed a little unfair to ask his senior partner to tell her about Will's personal life. She wouldn't want it done to her.
So, then, she'd have to ask him directly.
Or not!
Will rapped on Lucie's door at ten-thirty, just as she finished clearing up after her breakfast. She wiped her hands on her jeans and opened the door, greeting him with a smile that probably said far too much. She'd never been good at keeping her feelings secret.
'Hi, come in,' she said cheerfully. 'Coffee?'
'I get a definite feeling of deja vu,' he murmured, and she swallowed hard. Heavens, he looked sexy today! He was wearing jeans, the same snug-fitting jeans he'd been wearing when he'd fallen, if she remembered correctly, so his fingers must be better with buttons now.
'Is that a yes or a no?' she asked, going to put the kettle on anyway.
'Make it a yes,' he said, following her. 'I've been thinking—about your training.'
Her heart sank. Oh, no, she thought, he's going to say he can't go on doing it because of our personal involvement and I'm going to have to go away.
'The patients are all being too obliging,' he continued. 'Apart from Harriet with her hairball and Mr Gregory with his gastric problems, they're all too cut and dried, and none of them are being awkward. You aren't getting enough experience with the awkward ones.'
She laughed and turned to face him, astonished. 'So what are you asking me to do? Argue with them? Tell them they're boring?'
'Role play,' he said, and her jaw dropped.
'Role play?' she parroted weakly. Of all the things she'd hated about her entire education, role play was top of the list. Oh, she was good at it—but she couldn't seem to take it seriously, and she always wanted to add something trivial to mess it up.
She'd been in constant trouble with the drama teacher at school, and her clinical medicine tutors had thrown up their hands in despair at her attitude.
And now Will, who already thought she was a silly, flighty little piece, wanted her to do role-play exercises with him?
'I can't do it,' she said firmly.
'Yes, you can,' he told her, just as firmly. 'You just have to try. You'll feel self-conscious for a while, but then you'll get used to it.'
Self-conscious? Not a chance! She'd probably just shock him so badly she'd fail this part of her training.
Still, he had that implacable look on his face, and she had a feeling he intended to win this argument.
'When?' she said, resigning herself to disaster.
'Now?'
'Now!' She nearly dropped the coffee. 'Now, as in now?'
He shrugged. 'Are you busy? We can always do it another time.'
'But it's your weekend,' she said feebly, hunting for excuses.
He raised his hands, one in a cast, the other still swollen and in a suppo
rt. 'And there's so much else I can do.'
You could make love to me, she thought, and for a moment she wondered if she'd said it out loud. Apparently not, because he calmly took the coffee she passed him and set it down without incident on the table beside him.
'I don't bite,' he said softly, and she stifled a laugh.
'OK,' she agreed, giving in. It might be a bit of fun, and if she didn't overdo it, maybe he wouldn't get too mad with her.
He knocked on the door, and she opened it and drew him in. 'Hello, there,' she said brightly. 'I'm Dr Compton—come in and sit down. What can I do for you?'
Wouldn't you like to know? Will thought, and limped over to the chair. 'I'm having trouble with my bowels, Doctor,' he said, and met her eyes.
They were sparkling with mischief, and he sighed inwardly. She'd make a lousy poker player. 'What sort of trouble?' she asked.
'Oh, you know—either I go or I don't.'
Her lips twitched. 'How long's it been going on?' she said. 'Is it a recent problem, or have you always been like this, or does it come and go?'
'Oh, comes and goes,' he ad libbed. 'Well, it has done recently. Never used to. I used to have it all the time.'
'And what exactly is the trouble?' she probed.
'Well, as I say, either I go, or—I don't.'
'Have you changed your diet?'
'Well, not really. Stopped eating vegetables after my Katie died.'
'Oh, I see. So your wife died recently?'
'Oh, no, not my wife. Katie was the dog.'
Her mouth twitched, and Will had to admit he was having trouble keeping a straight face. However, she carried on. 'So, are you still eating less vegetables?'
'I get meals on wheels. I don't like soggy sprouts. Every day it's soggy sprouts—either that or cabbage, or those awful tinned carrots. You ever had those tinned carrots, Doctor?'
'Not that I recall. So, you're probably not eating enough vegetables. How about fruit?'
'I like tinned peaches,' he said, wondering how long he could keep her going. 'Strawberries, though—they're my favourite, although they usually give me the trouble.'
'You mean, you go?'
'Oh, yes. Well, of course, it depends how many I have. If I have too many, then I do, but if I don't have too many, I—'
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