bloody stalker?
But he wanted her. Wanted to see her, wanted to talk to her, wanted to hold her. He could take her out to dinner, bring her back, leave her at the door. He didn’t have to make love to her—
Who was he kidding? His body was getting hard just thinking about her. And she knew the score. And she, as she’d pointed out, had been the one who’d made the first move. She’d reached for him.
And even if it had only been a split second before hewould have reached for her, nevertheless, she had made the first move.
But she hadn’t known the truth then. If she had, would it have made a difference? He’d never know. And he had bags full of food that needed to go in the fridge. He’d taken enough of her time.
And then her front door opened and she came out, dressed in jeans and a thick cream jumper with a binbag in her hand, and she looked up and saw him and stopped in her tracks.
He got out of the car and walked over to her slowly, and her eyes searched his face.
‘What? What is it? Not the kid in PICU?’
He shook his head. ‘No. He’s looking better—well, slightly. I just—I’ve been to the supermarket, and I was virtually passing, and—’
He scrubbed a hand round the back of his neck, then smiled at her, and Libby felt her heart turn over. ‘I know I said a load of stuff this morning about not having relationships, but—are you busy?’
She felt herself smile before she could control it, and shook her head. ‘No, Andrew, I’m not busy. Come in. Have you got anything that needs to be in the fridge?’
He shook his head. ‘It’ll keep. It’s not exactly hot out here, and the temperature’s starting to drop already. It’ll be fine—ah. Except for the ice cream.’
‘You bought ice cream? What sort?’
‘Belgian chocolate. Is there any other sort?’
She laughed. ‘You’d better bring it in, but don’t blame me if you don’t get to take it home.’ And dumping the binbag in her wheelie bin, she went back into the house and left him to follow.
‘Oh. You’ve brought a bag. Does that all need the freezer?’
He shook his head. ‘No. It’s the bag with the ice cream in it, but I’ve got other things in here—things I was going to cook tonight. I just wondered, if you really aren’t busy, if you’d let me cook for you. But if you are, just tell me to take a hike.’
‘I’m not busy,’ she said, taking the bag out of his hand, extracting the ice cream and putting it in the freezer, then putting the bag in the fridge. ‘Tea?’
‘Lovely. I haven’t had a drink for hours.’
‘Neither have I. I’ve been in the bath and I fell asleep.’
Oh, hell, he thought. Why had she told him that? Now all he could see was her beautiful, curvy body lapped by warm water, and desire, hot, hard and far from slaked by last night’s all too brief interlude, came screaming back to life.
This was such a profoundly lousy idea, he thought, but then she put the kettle on and turned towards him, propped herself against the worktop and smiled a rueful smile and he thought, She feels the same. She wasn’t going to do this, but she wants to just as much as I do.
And there was no way he could walk away.
Libby studied him for a long moment. There was a muscle working in his jaw, and she could see the throb of his pulse just above the unbuttoned collar of his shirt. She reached into the cupboard above the kettle, took out two glasses and filled them with water, handing him one.
He tilted his head in puzzlement, taking it from her and lifting it to his lips.
‘You didn’t really want to wait for tea, did you?’ she murmured, and he choked on the water.
Laughing helplessly, she took the glass out of his hand and slapped him on the back, then as he straightened, eyes streaming, his mouth curved with self-deprecating humour, she slipped her hand into his and led him out of the kitchen, through the living room and up the stairs. By the time sheturned to face him, they were standing by her
But he wanted her. Wanted to see her, wanted to talk to her, wanted to hold her. He could take her out to dinner, bring her back, leave her at the door. He didn’t have to make love to her—
Who was he kidding? His body was getting hard just thinking about her. And she knew the score. And she, as she’d pointed out, had been the one who’d made the first move. She’d reached for him.
And even if it had only been a split second before hewould have reached for her, nevertheless, she had made the first move.
But she hadn’t known the truth then. If she had, would it have made a difference? He’d never know. And he had bags full of food that needed to go in the fridge. He’d taken enough of her time.
And then her front door opened and she came out, dressed in jeans and a thick cream jumper with a binbag in her hand, and she looked up and saw him and stopped in her tracks.
He got out of the car and walked over to her slowly, and her eyes searched his face.
‘What? What is it? Not the kid in PICU?’
He shook his head. ‘No. He’s looking better—well, slightly. I just—I’ve been to the supermarket, and I was virtually passing, and—’
He scrubbed a hand round the back of his neck, then smiled at her, and Libby felt her heart turn over. ‘I know I said a load of stuff this morning about not having relationships, but—are you busy?’
She felt herself smile before she could control it, and shook her head. ‘No, Andrew, I’m not busy. Come in. Have you got anything that needs to be in the fridge?’
He shook his head. ‘It’ll keep. It’s not exactly hot out here, and the temperature’s starting to drop already. It’ll be fine—ah. Except for the ice cream.’
‘You bought ice cream? What sort?’
‘Belgian chocolate. Is there any other sort?’
She laughed. ‘You’d better bring it in, but don’t blame me if you don’t get to take it home.’ And dumping the binbag in her wheelie bin, she went back into the house and left him to follow.
‘Oh. You’ve brought a bag. Does that all need the freezer?’
He shook his head. ‘No. It’s the bag with the ice cream in it, but I’ve got other things in here—things I was going to cook tonight. I just wondered, if you really aren’t busy, if you’d let me cook for you. But if you are, just tell me to take a hike.’
‘I’m not busy,’ she said, taking the bag out of his hand, extracting the ice cream and putting it in the freezer, then putting the bag in the fridge. ‘Tea?’
‘Lovely. I haven’t had a drink for hours.’
‘Neither have I. I’ve been in the bath and I fell asleep.’
Oh, hell, he thought. Why had she told him that? Now all he could see was her beautiful, curvy body lapped by warm water, and desire, hot, hard and far from slaked by last night’s all too brief interlude, came screaming back to life.
This was such a profoundly lousy idea, he thought, but then she put the kettle on and turned towards him, propped herself against the worktop and smiled a rueful smile and he thought, She feels the same. She wasn’t going to do this, but she wants to just as much as I do.
And there was no way he could walk away.
Libby studied him for a long moment. There was a muscle working in his jaw, and she could see the throb of his pulse just above the unbuttoned collar of his shirt. She reached into the cupboard above the kettle, took out two glasses and filled them with water, handing him one.
He tilted his head in puzzlement, taking it from her and lifting it to his lips.
‘You didn’t really want to wait for tea, did you?’ she murmured, and he choked on the water.
Laughing helplessly, she took the glass out of his hand and slapped him on the back, then as he straightened, eyes streaming, his mouth curved with self-deprecating humour, she slipped her hand into his and led him out of the kitchen, through the living room and up the stairs. By the time sheturned to face him, they were standing by her
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