Читать книгу The Best Of The Year - Medical Romance - Carol Marinelli, Amalie Berlin - Страница 31

MATT CAME TO pick me up in his car forty-five minutes later. I’d had just enough time to feed Freddy and wash his musty wet feathers smell off me. I spritzed myself with my neroli oil spray and brushed out my hair, which had been in a knot at the back of my head for work and then squashed flat by my beanie.

I’m not in the least bit vain but I will say one thing for myself—I have great hair. It’s thick and healthy with just enough wave in it to give it loads of body, or I can straighten it, and it’s long enough to put up or leave loose. Jem hates me for it, as hers is a riot of corkscrew blonde curls that makes her look like she’s poked her fingers into a power outlet.

I was waiting on my front step as Matt’s car double-parked. There are never any spaces in front of my house, which is usually my biggest bugbear, but tonight I was glad about it. The last thing I wanted was for Matt Bishop to park his car outside my door and invite himself in. One step inside and my charade would be blown. There wasn’t a single thing to suggest I was a recently married woman, and it wasn’t just the absence of a husband either. I had sent back all the wedding gifts … apart from the really gorgeous art deco standard lamp Jem had given me.

Before I’d taken a step off my front porch Matt got out of the car and opened the passenger door for me. His gaze ran over my hair and my outfit in a way that made me feel as if he was seeing me for the first time. I actually saw him blink a couple of times as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. I had changed into a raspberry-red knee-length dress and I’d teamed it with black leather boots—I tell my parents they’re synthetic—and I was wearing fishnet tights. I was wearing a fake-fur coat—even I am with my parents on that—but I have to admit there was a hint of high-street hooker about my get-up. But, then, I love playful clothes. Not just so people will laugh at them instead of me, but more to put my finger up at the world for making snap judgements about appearances. We are all the same naked … well, more or less.

Mind you, I was having hot flushes thinking about Matt Bishop in his birthday suit. Even though he had a tall, rangy build, his neat, conservative clothes weren’t quite able to hide the firm tone of his muscles. I could imagine how taut and toned his abdomen was, unlike mine, which was paying the price of a two-week stint of comfort eating.

I slipped into the low-slung sports car, the rich, soft leather seat cupping my body like an expensively gloved hand. I could smell Matt’s subtle aftershave and took a deep breath to take more of it in as I pulled down the seat belt and clicked it into place.

He got in behind the wheel and I covertly watched the muscles bunching in his thigh as he put his foot down on the clutch and put the car into gear. There’s something about a manual car that’s intensely masculine. Surging through all those gears, the guttural sound of all those throaty revs, the G-force as the rubber hits the road. I felt myself being pushed back further into the seat as we headed to the corner.

The hotel where the hospital ball was being held was a boutique one owned by a former patient. We were getting the use of the ballroom at a cut price. The hotel was popular with A-list celebrities because it was both intimate and luxurious. I hadn’t been there before so I felt like a Hollywood superstar walking up the runner of red carpet on the front steps leading into the polished marble foyer. Uniformed staff were behind the shiny brass and marble reception desk and there was a concierge and three porters in another section. There was a massive arrangement of flowers on a marble stand and a veritable waterfall of crystals hung from the ceiling in a gloriously decadent chandelier that tinkled musically as we walked under it.

I didn’t want to appear too kid-in-the-candy-store overwhelmed by all the glitz and glamour surrounding me, but given I hadn’t stepped into a proper hotel until I was eighteen I still had a lot of catching up to do. My parents didn’t even stay in motels or caravan parks, let alone posh five-star hotels. They camped. And before you start picturing a nicely erected tent and a crackling fire and us four sitting around it singing ‘Kumbaya’, let me tell you it was nothing like that. We didn’t have a proper tent. My parents always borrowed one that looked like it had a past life in the circus. It was huge. But that was because there were usually ten other families with us, which meant Jem and I had to hang out with a bunch of feral kids we had nothing in common with apart from having hippy parents.

It nearly always rained, and we were bitten to death by midges, or it was stinking hot and ants would get in our food, which was ironic given there was never any sugar in it.

So you can probably see why walking into the boutique hotel in Mayfair was such a big deal for me. Oh, and the fact that I was walking in with Matt Bishop was even more thrilling. We were getting looks. You know, the sort of double-take looks people give when they think they’re seeing someone important walk by.

I can tell you, I felt important. I only wished I really was with Matt, I wished his hand was holding mine or his arm was around my waist. I was a little shocked at where my thoughts were straying. I hoped he couldn’t read my mind. It was hard enough keeping my body language under control.

Matt had had the foresight to call the hotel ahead of time and make an appointment to see the ballroom. Typical me, I was just going to wing it, pop my head through the door and see what it was like. But, no, he had organised a guided tour.

The staff member left us in the ballroom while he took a call. Luckily for us the ballroom wasn’t being used. The chairs and tables were against the walls, which made the floor space seem the size of a football field. The décor was a stylishly neutral one in cream and white with a touch of taupe, which gave wonderful scope for thematic decorations.

I did a three-sixty about the room and pictured stunning colours and costumes and wonderful food and wine and fabulous music with live musicians playing. I momentarily forgot about the hospital budget, but still …

‘What do you think?’ Matt said from beside me.

‘It’s perfect,’ I said. ‘We could have helium balloon trees and a chocolate fountain and a prize for the best costume.’

‘Sounds like a plan.’

I was about to respond when the hotel staff member returned. He had an apologetic look on his face as he handed Matt a key card. ‘I’m afraid I’ve been called away to deal with a little matter in Reception. The manager asked me to give you access to our honeymoon suite. It’s the only suite that’s vacant this evening so you won’t be disturbed. A light supper will be sent up shortly, compliments of the hotel.’

‘Oh, but we couldn’t possibly—’ I began.

‘That’s very kind,’ Matt said, smiling at the staff member.

The honeymoon suite?

As we made our way to the lift my heart was skipping all around my chest cavity like a hyperactive kid on a pogo stick. I didn’t say a word as the lift zoomed up to the top floor. Not one word. I did what most people do in lifts. I stared at the numbers, then at my feet, then at the ‘In Case of Emergency’ instructions, which I studiously memorised. Anywhere but at the tall, silent man standing within arm’s reach of me. I kept my arms close to my body, clutching my purse across my belly, which was doing a series of super-fast somersaults that would have made an Olympic gymnast proud.

The lift opened and Matt led the way to the suite down the wide, velvet-soft carpeted corridor, holding the door open for me once he’d unlocked it. ‘I feel as if I should be carrying you over the threshold or something,’ he said with a deadpan expression.

I gave him a wry look. ‘The last time someone carried me they herniated a disc.’

It was true. My dad picked me up as a joke a few years ago and ended up having months of physiotherapy. Not that I’m a big girl or anything but ever since then I’ve been self-conscious about my weight. It doesn’t help that my father keeps reminding me of it every time he sees me by leaning over and groaning, ‘My poor old aching back!’

Matt closed the door, looking at me with one of those quirked-brow looks. ‘Not your husband, surely?’

I had to work hard to get myself together. ‘Erm … no. He didn’t carry me over the threshold. He’s not very … erm … traditional.’

‘Is that why you don’t wear an engagement and wedding ring?’

I mentally kicked myself. I never wear rings of any sort at work because it’s all too easy to lose them when I scrub up for a central line procedure or Theatre. But I should have thought of wearing a dress ring or something tonight. I’d given back Andy’s engagement ring … after I’d got the plumber to find it in the S bend of my bathroom basin. I curled my fingers into my palm—as if that was going to help—and gave Matt a tight smile. ‘I forgot to put them on when I got home from work. Silly me.’ I spun round to look at the suite rather than have him study me in that penetrating way. ‘Wow! Look at this place. It’s totally awesome.’

I wasn’t exaggerating. It was awesome. The suite was in four compartments separated by different levels. The décor was lavishly decadent, lots of velvet and satin, with soft lighting creating a sensual mood. The sitting-room area overlooked the Thames with views over Tower Bridge and the brightly lit London Eye. A wide flat-screen television dominated one wall. Seriously, who needed a television while on honeymoon? Mind you, I was glad I had one on mine but that’s because, well, you know, but at least I’d caught up on the complete box set of Downton Abbey. There was a well-stocked bar and a coffee table and side tables with gorgeous lamps that created an intimate atmosphere.

I caught a glimpse of the bathroom through the open door. It was bigger than my sitting room and was a luxurious affair of marble and gold with a white claw-foot bath in the centre of the room. A shower stall big enough for a hockey match was on one side and twin basins and gilt-framed mirrors above them on the other. Gorgeous fluffy towels, which looked as big as sheets, were on the gold towel rails or folded on a gold luggage rack-style holder.

On the top level of the suite there was a king-sized bed. I wondered if there was such a thing as emperor-sized—or maybe dictator-sized—as I’d never seen one as big as that before. The bedhead and sashed curtains either side of it were plush scarlet velvet, and teamed with the snow-white linen it looked not just stunning but temptingly inviting. I wasn’t tired but I had a childish desire to bounce up and down on that big bed, like Jem and I used to do when we visited our grandparents, which was rare because our parents hadn’t wanted us to be corrupted by capitalist greed. Like that worked.

There were dried rose petals artfully arranged on the bed and scatter cushions in the same rich scarlet were positioned against the bank of feather pillows. The bedside tables held twin lamps with sparkling crystal stands and the shades were the same pure white as the bed linen.

I stole a glance at Matt but he seemed totally unfazed by all the luxury. I suspected he was no stranger to five-star hotels. He was checking his phone, scrolling through messages or emails. ‘Nice view,’ I said to break the silence.

He looked up and smiled a lazy half-smile. ‘Yes.’

I could feel my face blushing like the colour of a stoplight. Something about his gaze as it held mine made me feel like a teenager discovering she was attractive to the opposite sex for the first time. I felt aware of my body in a way I hadn’t been before, all of its secret zones lighting up like a Christmas tree. Not just lighting up but fizzing with energy. I moistened my lips and watched as his gaze followed the pathway of my tongue. I saw his eyes darken as they came back to mine.

A knock on the door jolted me out of the moment. I whipped around and opened it before Matt could take a step. I knew I was acting like a gauche fool but I had never been so far out of my depth.

A hotel staff member wheeled in a trolley full of silver dome-covered dishes. There was a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket and two crystal flutes. The champagne had a scarlet ribbon tied around its neck the same shade as the cushions and drapes. I felt like I had stepped into a fairytale. I was suddenly a princess being served in the royal suite with a handsome suitor.

The handsome suitor discreetly tipped the hotel staff member and the door closed with a soft little click that had a hint of finality to it that was strangely disquieting. For some reason an anticipatory shiver coursed over my flesh. I sensed we had crossed a threshold, one I hadn’t crossed in a long time. Maybe ever.

I was alone with a man I had only met the day before.

He was my boss, sure, but if things had been different—like if I weren’t pretending to be married—I would have been perfectly happy if we were left alone for the next week. Month even.

‘Might as well make the most of the situation,’ Matt said, as he reached for the champagne bottle.

I watched as he poured the bubbles into the two glasses. My fingers brushed against his as he handed me my glass. My heart fluttered and thumped like it had developed wings and a limp. My pulse raced. I took a sip … more than a sip, to be honest. It’s why I don’t drink too often. If I’m feeling nervous I drink more than I should.

Before I knew it the glass was empty. I could feel the alcohol hit my bloodstream like rocket fuel. I felt light-headed but maybe that had more to do with the fact that Matt was standing close enough for me to hear him breathing. I could smell those grace notes of lemongrass and lime. I could see the shadow of stubble on his jaw, so dark and so sexy I wanted to trail my fingertips across it to see if they would catch like silk does on something rough.

He put his glass down after only taking a sip. I saw his eyes move between each of mine, back and forth, and then his gaze dipped to my mouth. I stopped breathing as his head came down as if in slow motion.

I know I should have stepped away. All it would have taken was half a step. But my feet were glued in place. Bolted to the floor. I lowered my lashes as his warm breath danced over my lips. I’m not sure how long we stood there like that, with our breaths mingling so intimately. It felt like no time at all and yet it felt like forever. I ached for him to close the distance. Every cell in my body was throbbing in eagerness. I could feel the entire surface of my lips tingling for his final touchdown.

And then it happened.

I’m not sure which one of us moved first but suddenly his mouth brushed mine, a feather-light touch that triggered a seismic reaction in every nerve in my lips. I felt them tingle and fizz as his mouth came back for more, harder this time, an increase in pressure that made my heart bang against my breastbone like a church bell pulled by a madman. His lips were warm and dry and firm and commanding. They were hard and then they were soft, tempting and then teasing. I stepped up on tiptoe, my breasts pushing against the hard wall of his chest; at the same time one of his hands settled in the small of my back and brought me closer.

I felt the outline of his body from chest to thigh. It was imprinted on my flesh, setting off spot fires everywhere we touched. My breasts swelled and ached and my nipples tightened. My belly quivered against the ridged plane of his. My pelvis throbbed as I felt the length and potency of his growing erection.

I hummed with pleasure against his lips, and then he deepened the kiss with a bold sweep and thrust of his tongue into my mouth. The sensation of our tongues meeting was like an eruption. I leaned into him, into his kiss as if it was my only source of sustenance. I tasted the hint of champagne he had sipped, but it was the mint and maleness of him that was even more addictive.

I took succour at his mouth, letting my tongue wrangle with his in a catch-me-if-you-can game that made my spine shiver in reaction. Fireworks went off in my head. My brain was so jazzed by the sensations I was feeling it was like being short-circuited. Thoughts and rationality were pushed aside as lust and need took over. I had never had a kiss so exciting, so utterly captivating I forgot all sense of time and place. I was swept up in the moment of rapture, of feeling desired and desirable, of feeling feminine and powerful in a way I had never experienced before.

His hands were suddenly cupping my face, his fingers splayed across my cheeks as he savoured my mouth as if it were his last meal. The desire that arced and burned between us took me by surprise. I had a feeling it took him by surprise too. I felt it in the way he groaned as his tongue tangled with mine, the way his body ground against mine in that primal search for satisfaction. I could feel the potency of him against my belly, the blood surging in him, extending him. Hardening him.

My own body was in raptures of excitement. I could feel lust blasting through me like dynamite blasts through shale. My inner core quivered, moistened, swelled and ached. My breasts felt fuller and more sensitive where the wall of his chest was abrading them. My lips were swelling under the mounting pressure of his mouth, my tongue fizzy with delight as it danced with his. He took my lower lip in his teeth in a soft little play-bite that made every hair on my scalp shiver at the roots. Then he swept his tongue over the spot he’d nipped, salving it, teasing it into wanting more.

I nipped at his lip, taking the flesh between my teeth and gently tugging, my insides shuddering with pleasure as he made a guttural sound of approval. I went at him again, not just his lip this time but his neck as well. I practically turned into a vampire. I sank my teeth into his skin and sucked and sucked. I probably would have drawn blood but for the fact he took me by the hair at the back of my head to control me.

But I didn’t want to be controlled. Something inside me had got out of its cage. It was on a rampage. It was hurtling through every boundary or barrier I had put up in the past. My wild woman was on the loose. She was wanton and shameless and hot for action.

I went for his mouth again, crushing my lips to his, searching for his tongue with a brazen stroke of mine. He was ready and waiting for me. It was hard to tell who was more in control or if we both were on some crazy out-of-character roller-coaster ride of wild animal-driven lust.

His hands were at my breasts, shaping them through my clothes as his mouth kept up its passionate assault on mine. The feel of his hands cupping me was so wickedly delightful. It didn’t matter that three layers separated his flesh from mine. I felt his touch as if he had stripped me stark naked.

I wasn’t letting him cop a feel unless I got one too. I put my hands on him through his trousers, shaping him, teasing him with the bold stroke of my fingers. He was so hard I could feel the blood pounding through him. And he was getting harder. That thrilled me more than anything. There’s nothing more of a turn-on than feeling a man’s ardent desire for you. It made my desire flare like fuel exposed to a naked flame. I practically exploded with a fireball of lust that shook me to the centre of my being.

Every part of my body quaked with need, with longing so primal and so intense I felt like a stranger to myself. I realised then how lacklustre Andy had been. He had never touched me through my clothes as if he was too impatient to take them off before he had me. He had never growled and groaned against my mouth as if he was imbibing a potent drug and it was the only thing keeping him alive. He had never made me feel as if I was the only woman who could bring him undone with just a kiss.

I should not have thought of Andy. Talk about taking a cold shower. It was like a bucket of ice water had been dumped down the back of my dress.

What was I doing?

I pulled back from Matt as if he had suddenly turned to fire. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ I said, acting like an outraged virgin in a Regency novel. I know it was a little late for such histrionics but I had to make up some lost ground. What sort of woman did he think I was? Or was he the type who got off on dallying with married women? I had met plenty of men like that. They disgusted me. They had no sense of loyalty. No sense of the damage they were causing.

His expression was unmistakably mocking. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘What’s wrong?’ I all but spluttered the words at him. ‘You know exactly what’s wrong! This is wrong. Us kissing like this. It’s tacky. It’s gross. It shouldn’t have happened.’

He arched a brow. ‘Because I’m your boss?’

I swallowed so tightly I could hear it. Gurhdt. ‘Not just that. I’m not … available.’ For some reason I couldn’t say the word ‘married’. I was thoroughly fed up with the word. I wished I never had to hear it again. Married. Yukkety-yuk. Every time I said it I felt sick with shame at how everyone had looked at me back at home when I’d told them the wedding was off. Of course Andy had left that awful task to me. All those exchanged glances that spoke volumes. The I-told-you-something-wasn’t-right-about-those-two looks that made my stomach lining corrode with nausea. The pitying looks were the worst. I would do anything to avoid seeing someone look at me that way again.

And I mean anything. Including carrying on a charade that was causing me more angst than anything else in my life so far. And that was saying something because my life has not been a tartan-blanket-and-wicker-basket picnic, let me tell you.

Matt’s eyes held mine in a lock that made me feel raw and exposed. ‘That wasn’t the message I’ve been getting from the moment I met you.’

I was frowning so hard I reckoned even if I’d had Botox in my forehead it would have run off scared. ‘I’ve met men like you before. You get off on the challenge of scoring with someone who’s off limits. It’s all a game to you. Once you achieve your goal you move on to the next target.’ I stepped up close again and poked him in the chest with my index finger. It hurt like hell because his chest was like a wall of marble but I wanted to drive home my point. But on a subconscious level I think I just wanted to touch him again. ‘Find someone else to play with, Dr Bishop. I’m off the market. Got it?’

His smile was lazy and his eyes sexily hooded, and trained on my mouth as if he couldn’t wait to devour it again. His hand captured mine before I could pull it away and he held it firmly against his chest, right over where his heart was beating. I could feel every thump. The doctor in me couldn’t help noticing how fit he was. He had a resting pulse of forty-five bpm, which was pretty damn good. Right now mine was running as if I had arrhythmia. ‘If you change your mind, call me,’ he said. ‘We could make an interesting pair.’

I curled my lip. ‘Friends with benefits?’

His eyes glinted. ‘Do you need a friend, Dr Clark?’

I needed my head read. That’s what I needed. Because when he looked at me like that I wanted to kiss him again. I wanted to push him backwards towards the bed and crawl all over him and climb into his skin. But somehow I managed to get my wild woman back in her cage and snick the lock back in place.

I put up my chin and gave him an icy glare. ‘Get your hands off me and keep them off me.’

He held my look for a heart-stopping moment.

I felt the tug of war between our wills. It was like two strong forces that had never encountered that level of oppositional power before. The energy in the air was electric. Supercharged. Crackling like a high-voltage current along a tight wire.

I was the first to look away. I had to otherwise I would have confessed all then and there. But I didn’t want his pity. I didn’t want him to think I was on the lookout for a rebound fling. That I was so desperate to be found desirable that I would get down and dirty with a man I had known less than twenty-four hours. I wanted to salvage my dignity in the only way I knew how. Pretence. Anyway, I was good at it. I’d been doing it all my life in order to fit in.

I gave my hand an almighty tug and stalked over to where I had left my bag. I shoved it over my shoulder in an affronted manner, tossing my head—even though I know there is no way on earth anyone can actually toss their head, or roll their eyes, come to think of it—and wrenched open the suite door.

‘Honeymoon over?’ he said.

I looked at him over my shoulder. His mouth was lifted in what I was coming to know as his trademark sardonic smile. I let fly with a very rude two-word phrase that basically told him he could … well, I guess you get the idea.

I closed the door with a satisfying snick. I was glad I’d had the last word.

It’s not often I get the chance.