Читать книгу Relative Ethics - Caroline Anderson - Страница 6

BRONWEN lifted her eyes and looked around the crowded conference room. There was no sign of Jane—typical! And there was that man again, propping up the wall with indolent grace: tall, well-built, a lock of his heavy gold-blond hair falling over his eyes so that he had to keep thrusting it back with his fingers.

Every time Bronwen looked up he was there, watching her with those startling blue eyes like a Mediterranean dawn, with a sultry promise of heat.

She shifted uncomfortably on her chair and cursed Jane for her absence. Where was she? He was watching her again.

She made a deliberate attempt to ignore him. It lasted perhaps fifteen seconds, and then her eyes were drawn back to his, tangling helplessly in that clear, bright gaze that seemed to dip into her soul. A slow, sensuous smile touched the corner of his mouth, and she blushed and looked away, more determined than ever to ignore him. Just a conference Lothario, she decided, and scoured the room for her colleague.

‘Hi!’ Jane came up behind her, and struggled inelegantly over the back of the seat, dropping into it with a plop. ‘Just in time. Phew! What a scorcher. Have I missed anything?’

Bron smiled and shook her head. They haven’t started. What kept you?’

Jane rolled her eyes and grinned wickedly. ‘I met this man—stunning. We’re meeting him in the bar before supper tonight. He’s here with a friend, too—said so long as you weren’t related to Count Dracula you’d be welcome to join us. I accepted for you—OK?’

Bron laughed. ‘Do I get a choice?’

‘Absolutely not. That’s him over there——’ She gave a little wave, and Bron looked across the room in time to see the man with the blue eyes smile and raise an eyebrow at her. ‘Isn’t he gorgeous?’

Bron’s heart thumped heavily with disappointment. So Jane had snapped him up—the story of her life! God knows, she was used to it. ‘What?’

‘I said don’t you just love the way his hair curls over his ears? And those melting brown eyes——’

‘Brown eyes?’

‘Mmm, like toffee. Gosh, I’m not sure I can wait for tonight.’

Bron glanced across the room again, and saw the tall, fair man in conversation with another man, equally good-looking, but dark-haired, and as she looked he raised his hand and waved.

Jane waggled her fingers at him, and grinned. ‘That must be his friend. What a pair they make!’

‘Mmm. Wolves always hunt in packs. I wouldn’t care to trust either of them,’ Bron muttered, but her eyes kept creeping back to him, and then flicking away when she was caught.

In the end she resolutely turned her back, but she could feel his eyes boring holes in her skull, and missed every second word of the lecture.

When it was over they went up to their rooms and showered and changed. As she was berating herself for her indecision, Jane tapped on the door and let herself in.

‘Wear the blue silk,’ she said decisively, and lifted it out of the wardrobe.

Bron threw her a withering look. ‘I have no intention of getting myself raped. God only knows why I brought that thing. I shall wear the peach cotton dress—or the navy one with the sailor collar——’

‘Wear the blue silk,’ Jane repeated.

In answer Bron hung it up in the wardrobe and lifted out a soft peach-flowered cotton tea-dress, delicately pretty and absolutely demure. Jane made a sound of disgust, and Bronwen ignored her and finished her light make-up.

By the time they went down, Jane had admitted defeat and conceded that Bron did indeed look very attractive in the tea-dress.

‘Probably worse. You look so damned feminine that even a dyed-in-the-wool misogynist would fall for you!’

Bron laughed. ‘There’s hope for the average doctor, then!’

As they reached the bottom of the sweeping stairs, the two men detached themselves from the bar and came across to meet them.

‘Bron, I want you to meet Michael Grant. Michael, this is Bronwen Jones. I’m sorry, I don’t know your friend’s name——’

‘Oliver—Oliver Henderson. Pleased to meet you—at last.’

As their hands touched, a shiver of awareness surged between them, and Bron stiffened, and then with a smile Oliver engulfed her hand with his long, slender fingers and held it firmly. Eyes locked, they stood frozen, tingling with awareness, until a hand waved between their faces snapped them out of the trance.

Bron gave a breathless little laugh. ‘Hello, Oliver.’

Oliver’s eyes danced with amusement, and he released her hand reluctantly. ‘Hi,’ he said softly. ‘You’re looking lovely. Shall we go and get a drink?’

They gravitated to the bar, and, while Michael and Oliver organised the drinks, she had an opportunity to observe him.

He was tall—a touch over six feet, she judged, although from five feet five it was hard to be specific—and that lovely hair like burnished gold brushed his collar at the back, thick and unruly. She clenched her hands, just in case she gave in to her urges and ran across the bar to thread her fingers through its softness.

Heavens, he was just a man, like any one of the dozens she saw every day at work—no, not quite like them, her body denied. No one else had ever—ever—made her feel so warm and womanly and wanted with just a simple compliment.

They returned with the drinks, and Oliver squeezed in beside her, brushing her knee with the hard length of his thigh. She tried to shift away, but there was nowhere to go and the movement only exaggerated the contact.

He laid his arm along the back of the banquette seat and grinned at her.

‘Cosy, isn’t it? Do you mind? We could go somewhere quieter, if you like.’

Bronwen nearly choked. She was sure his comment was meant quite innocently, but her thoughts and his words were becoming inextricably entwined. She felt the blush coming before it reached her cheeks, and ducked her head forwards to hide it behind the fall of her hair.

His fingers eased it back and he smiled gently. ‘You’re lovely when you blush. I really didn’t mean that the way it sounded.’

She glanced quickly at him, and offered a shy smile in return. ‘I’m sorry, it must be the heat.’

‘Do you want to go out for a walk?’

‘Yes—oh, no! I mean——’

‘Just a walk. Trust me.’ His grin was mischievous but wholly straightforward, and his eyes were open and sincere. For some lunatic, unsound and intuitive reason, she did trust him.

‘OK. It’s too hot to eat yet anyway.’

They wandered through the grounds of the conference centre, down towards the little man-made lake, and paused on the bridge, elbows resting on the parapet, sipping their drinks and watching the baby ducks for a while in companionable silence.

‘So what’s a gorgeous young thing like you doing on a God-awful course like this?’ he asked after a minute or two.

Bron laughed. ‘Treatment of Trauma? I work in Accident and Emergency. I’m an SHO, but I’ve been offered the registrar’s job in December when she takes maternity leave. What about you?’

‘I’m in general surgery. I found A and E too traumatic—literally.’

‘Really?’ Bronwen eyed him in amazement. ‘I love it.’

‘You must be addicted to your own adrenalin, then! I like the nice, sedate pace of the theatre. I can cope with that. You don’t often get two patients at once!’

Bronwen studied him openly. ‘You ought to be able to cope at your age,’ she teased. ‘How old are you—thirty, thirty-one?’

He chuckled. ‘Not bad. I’m thirty next week. What about you?’

She smiled. ‘You aren’t supposed to ask a lady that question!’

‘But?’

‘Twenty-seven.’ Her smile tilted her lips a little further.

He touched his finger to the corner of her mouth. ‘Lovely…’ His eyes fastened on her lips, and she moistened them involuntarily with her tongue.

He ran the fingertip across her lower lip, the damp skin dragging gently.

‘If we stay here much longer, little lady,’ he whispered, ‘I’m going to kiss that delectable mouth.’

Bron felt his breath fan gently across her face, and her lips parted on a sigh of regret. She wished he would. Her eyes fluttered closed while she dealt with the storm of feeling suddenly raging in her breast. Who was he? Why this crazy urge to bury her face against his broad, firm chest and hug him close?

His palms cupped her face, and she sensed rather than felt his lips brush lightly over hers, once, twice, before his lips came down firmly over hers with a sweet, aching tenderness far more intimate than passion would have been. With a tortured groan, he folded her into his arms and held her tight.

‘Oliver?’

‘Shh. Don’t say anything. Just let me hold you.’

They stood there, arms wrapped round each other, absorbing the warmth and humanity of the contact while their tumbling emotions settled to a steady roar. Gradually his grip slackened, and Bron stood away from him, raising puzzled eyes to his.

‘What happened?’

His voice was gruff with emotion. ‘I don’t know, Bron. I’ve never felt anything like this before. It’s as if——’ He laughed, a little raggedly. ‘My God, I’m normally so practical and down-to-earth! Perhaps we ought to go and eat—it’s probably the hallucinogenic effects of hypoglycaemia.’

Bron laughed breathlessly. ‘You could be right.’

Instinctively their fingers met and wound together as they walked slowly back to the conference centre, a large, sprawling country house dating from the turn of the century.

‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ Bron sighed. She wondered what he had been going to say. It’s as if—what? As if we were meant for each other? As if we’ve been waiting all our lives? Suddenly, she felt threatened by the short time they could have together. ‘It’s a shame we’re only here for four days,’ she blurted.

‘Funny, I’ve been thinking that, but it’s nothing to do with architecture and everything to do with a dark-haired sprite from the valleys——’

‘I’m not from the valleys! It’s only my name that’s Welsh—and my father. I was born in London.’

‘Poetic licence. Bron?’

‘Mmm?’

He tugged her to a halt, and looked down into her face with eyes unguarded and vulnerable. He looked slightly embarrassed and very honest. ‘I know we’ve only got a few days, but I want to see as much of you as I can. I don’t know what’s happening between us, I don’t normally come on so strong. Whatever, there’s something, and I want to find out what it is. No holds barred. I’m warning you, I want to make love to you, Bron, slowly, tenderly—I want to watch your eyes heavy with passion, your lips full and ripe from my kisses … not tonight, but soon. Maybe tomorrow, the next day? I want to know you first, but when I do——’

He flushed and turned away, obviously embarrassed. ‘God, I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m rambling on like this. I feel like a raging adolescent—I’ll be reciting poetry to you next!’ He took a deep, ragged breath. ‘There you are, though. That’s how I feel. If you want to come along for the ride, the spacecraft leaves in thirty seconds. I should warn you, though. I think the pilot’s gone slightly crazy.’

She gave a breathless little chuckle. There was a pulse beating heavily in her throat, and she felt unbearably moved and aroused by his honesty. She laid a hand reassuringly on his arm, and felt a shudder run through him. ‘It’s all right, Oliver. I understand.’

He turned back to her, his eyes searching. ‘You do? I’m damned if I do. Look, if it isn’t what you want, Bron, for whatever reason, then stop me now. Don’t play with me.’

Bronwen swallowed with difficulty. ‘Oh, Oliver … Are you serious?’

His eyes were steady on hers, and they softened with tenderness. ‘I’ve never been more serious in my life. Do you want time to think about it?’

In answer, she stepped closer and, reaching up, pulled his face down to brush his lips with hers. ‘I don’t want to waste our time. I feel the same—and I’m terrified.’

He hugged her close, and the breath sagged out of his body with relief. Thank God!’ he breathed, and then chuckled. ‘Come on, little lady, let’s go and eat before I do something very ungentlemanly and drag you off into the bushes!’

The crowd in the dining-room was thinning out by the time they arrived, and they took their salads out on to the terrace, eating with one hand while the fingers of the other were entwined.

After a while, Oliver gave up and pushed his plate away. ‘I can’t eat and hold you at the same time, and I daren’t let go in case you vanish.’

Bron followed his lead. She really wasn’t very hungry anyway. The feelings racing through her were nothing to do with low blood sugar and everything to do with the dancing blue eyes and the warm, generous mouth whose touch she had felt so briefly.

‘I won’t vanish,’ she murmured.

‘Promise?’

‘Promise. Will you?’

‘Vanish? No way. Where can I go? We’re in outer space!’

They talked for hours, comparing likes and dislikes, hobbies and interests, and in the end they simply sat, their coffee growing cold, and stared into each other’s eyes like moonstruck adolescents.

As the last rays of the evening sun dipped behind the trees, Jane and Michael came and joined them, and the spell was broken, or at least put on hold. Michael fetched fresh coffee and they chatted about the conference. Bron found it difficult to drag her eyes from Oliver and concentrate on what they were all saying. In the end she gave up and closed her eyes, listening to the sound of his voice, headily conscious of the pressure of his thigh against hers. She wondered what tomorrow would bring.

Time for bed,’ she heard him say, and her eyes flew open in alarm.

He caught her surprised look before she could cover it, and smiled teasingly. ‘I’ll walk you to your room. Goodnight, Jane, Michael.’

He held her chair, and placed a warm and comfortable arm around her shoulders as they walked towards the stairs. Her arm slipped naturally around his waist and she felt the hard nudge of his hip against her side as they crossed the hallway and went up the stairs.

At the door to her room, she stopped in confusion. Did he expect her to let him in? She really felt as if she would, if he made the slightest move towards her, and yet it went so against her normal character that she felt a wild flutter of panic.

He turned her into his arms and tucked her head under his chin, the steady, even beat of his heart reassuring under her ear. His voice rumbled gently above her.

‘I don’t want to let you go, but I must. You’re tired and so am I, and so much has happened. I want some time to absorb it, and I really ought to write up my notes on this evening’s lecture.’

‘Notes?’ she whispered vaguely, and wondered how he could think of anything so totally prosaic while she was floating on a cloud of cotton-wool.

‘Notes,’ he said, more firmly. ‘It’s probably more effective than a cold shower.’

He released her gently, and, with a slow smile and the gentle pressure of his lips fleetingly on her forehead, he was gone, striding quietly down the landing. Bron watched the empty hall for minutes afterwards, hugging herself and smiling softly, then with a little laugh she let herself into her room and prepared for bed.

Oliver. She lay in bed turning over the events of the evening in her mind, hearing his voice again and seeing the way his cheek dimpled when he smiled, and the twitch of his firmly sculpted mouth.

It’s all genetic, she told herself. He can’t take any credit for the way he looks. Oh, lord, what have I promised him? With her thoughts in turmoil, and a mingled feeling of panic and trembling anticipation, she fell asleep.

‘What we are talking about here is the Golden Hour, the time between admission and stabilisation for surgery in victims of severe trauma—for example, road-traffic accidents, burns, chemical leaks, explosions, et cetera.

‘In the USA, and now in some fortunate areas of Britain, specialist Trauma Units exist, and they are specifically set up as emergency treatment centres for victims of such incidents. They have highly skilled staff available twenty-four hours a day, to provide specialist care instantly on admission. No fudging around wondering what the hell to do until the consultant has come back from lunch, or trying to phone another hospital to find out what the current treatment for chemical burns is—instant, immediate, accurate treatment within the first hour—the Golden Hour.’

The lecturer paused, and papers were handed out down the rows. These are the statistics. I think you’ll be as impressed as I was when I saw them. They outline quite clearly the importance of getting the right treatment within those crucial early minutes. OK, let’s break for coffee to give you time to look at the figures. We’ll meet back here in an hour to discuss anything you want to raise, so please don’t waste your time—you aren’t here to have fun!’

A laugh rippled round the conference, and the delegates stood and shuffled towards the coffee-lounge. Beside Bronwen, Oliver stretched and grinned. ‘Hear that, little lady? We aren’t here to have fun! Let’s go and find a corner and look at his figures—although I’d much rather look at yours.’

‘Oliver!’ Bron blushed and laughed, and he grinned again.

‘I’ll be good,’ he promised.

‘I don’t doubt it,’ she muttered under her breath, and his startled grunt of laughter made her blush again. ‘You weren’t meant to hear that.’

‘I’ll bet! Come on, let’s go and lie on the grass by the lake and study this lot.’

‘I think we ought to stay here and concentrate.’

He gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘If you insist. Let’s go over the top. Michael! Grab two more coffees, there’s a good lad. I’ll find a space outside.’

Michael waved acknowledgement and turned back to Jane.

‘Those two seem to have scored a hit with each other,’ Bron commented, and Oliver shook his head.

‘Just a holiday flirtation. I don’t think either of them is taking it seriously.’

Their eyes met, and for a long moment Bron felt herself drowning in the depths of those endlessly blue eyes, but then Oliver looked away and swore softly under his breath.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Wrong? Nothing. Everything’s in perfect working order—it’s just a little public to react quite so strongly to you, and when you look at me like that my body gets a mind of its own. Come on, let’s go over there on the grass and sit down.’

He grabbed her arm and steered her quickly through the crowd, then they sank down on to the cool grass in the shade of a tree. He leaned against the trunk and studied her flushed cheeks with a reluctant smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. It’s OK for girls, it doesn’t show. You don’t know how lucky you are. Hell, I thought by now I could control my reactions, but no one’s ever got to me the way you do.’

‘Oh, Oliver, don’t apologise. You aren’t the only one.’

Bron wrapped her arms around her knees to hide the hard jut of her nipples against the thin fabric of her dress, and looked out over the lake. ‘Why is this happening to us?’ she asked in a strained voice, and she felt his hand reach out and trace the line of her shoulder under the strap of her dress.

‘I don’t know. I can’t think of a single thing I’ve done to deserve you, but I can’t tell you how glad I am—hi, Michael. Drag up a blade of grass and join us.’

Bronwen looked up to find Jane watching her curiously. ‘What did you think of the lecture?’

Jane raised an eyebrow. ‘Excellent. Have you seen the figures?’

‘We were just getting round to that,’ Oliver put in, and Michael snorted with laughter.

‘Bull! Right, grab a coffee and let’s confer.’

Bron listened, putting in the odd comment, but content by and large to listen to Oliver’s voice and to learn from his remarks. He was obviously very aware of current trends, and Bron was willing to bet that he was an excellent and conscientious doctor.

The conversation became more general, and she gathered that Michael was a senior registrar in the A and E department of Guy’s, where Oliver was a surgical SR. She also learned that Oliver was waiting for the results of his FRCS exams, which he had completed recently.

‘Hard?’ she asked, and he raised his eyes to the sky.

‘I’ll say! I’ve never worked so hard in my life. They were killers. I don’t think I stand a chance, but one can only try. The vivas were foul.’

‘Rubbish. You can’t fail. You’ve never got less than a first yet—bloody star student, this boy. Made the rest of us look as if we’d spent all our time in the bar——’

‘I wonder why that was?’ Oliver teased, deflecting Michael’s praise. Yet another aspect of him that Bron found so appealing.

He unravelled his length and stood up, stretching his arms high above his head. A sliver of tanned, hair-scattered midriff peeked out under the hem of his shirt, and Bron dragged her eyes away from it and got to her feet, making a production of brushing the grass off her skirt to avoid his eye.

Jane attached herself firmly to Bronwen’s side, said, ‘We’re just going to freshen up—save us a place,’ and steered her through the bar towards the cloakroom.

There she took her comb out of her bag, dragged it through her hair and eyed Bron in the mirror.

‘So what’s with you two? You’ve been making sheep’s eyes at each other ever since you met. What’s going on?’

Bron shook her head in denial. ‘Nothing. We just—I don’t know. I’ve never met anyone like that before.’

‘Well, I’ve certainly never seen you behave like this—the cool, calm, collected Dr Jones? Good grief, Bron, I always thought you were an iceberg, and yet if Oliver so much as looks at you I can see the smoke pouring off you both.’

Bron laughed. ‘Is it that obvious? Sorry. We’ll try to ignore each other.’

Jane shook her head vigorously. ‘Uh-uh. Go for it—get it out of your system. I won’t tell.’

‘Sister Hardy, if you so much as hint to anyone that I’ve been behaving like a moonstruck teenager I’ll get you transferred to orthopaedics—as a patient.’

Jane snorted. ‘You and whose army? Come on. Let’s go and tie the lecturer up in knots.’

In the event it was Oliver who had the lecturer tied up in knots, and the other delegates in stitches, but it was entirely good-natured, and resulted in an excellent discussion with much in the way of relevant contribution from many of the delegates.

By the time they broke for lunch, Bron was feeling light-hearted and cheerful, and they all took their salads out into the grounds and carried on the discussion.

Bron lay back in the cool grass and let the conversation wash over her. She was feeling intoxicated with the air and the sound of Oliver’s voice, and she closed her eyes and drifted in and out of a light sleep.

She awoke slowly to awareness of him; he was lying beside her propped up on one elbow and watching her sleep, and she smiled lazily and shaded her eyes.

‘Hi. Where are the others?’

‘Hi yourself. Gone for a walk.’

He leaned over her, and his shoulders blocked out the sun. She watched, breathless, as his mouth came slowly down and brushed hers with careful deliberation. ‘I’ve been wanting to do that for ages,’ he whispered softly. His head came down again, and this time he deepened the kiss, his hand coming up to tangle in her hair.

When he lifted his head, his eyes were smoky with passion and he swallowed convulsively. He lifted a lock of her hair and wound it thoughtfully around one finger, then tugged it gently. ‘I want to drag you off into my cave and make mad, passionate love to you, but the lecturer would be so disappointed if I wasn’t there to stir things up.’

He laughed a little shakily, and as he lifted his hand to graze her cheek with his knuckles she noticed he was trembling.

‘Oh, Oliver, I want you, too,’ she whispered, and he gave a low groan and flopped back against the grass.

‘What the hell are we going to do about it, Bron? I can’t think, I can’t concentrate; if I close my eyes all I see is your face. I didn’t sleep a wink last night. I just want to hold you in my arms and talk to you—I don’t really care if we make love or not. Hell, it’s far too soon!’ He groaned and rolled on to his stomach, burying his head in his arms. ‘I never behave like this, and I can’t believe you do either, but I have this overwhelming urge to take you to bed and make love to you until one of us begs for mercy! I’m just not sure I could cope with it yet.’

Bron took a deep breath. He was right, of course, she didn’t behave like this and never had, either, but what they had was different, special, and she wasn’t ready to let him go. She’d only had one affair before, and that was with someone she’d known for years. It had been a gentle and natural extension of their friendship and respect, and it had fizzled out just as naturally when he’d moved away for promotion; but, in terms of fireworks, already Oliver was winning hands down. If she let him go now, she knew she’d regret it for the rest of her life. When she spoke, her voice trembled slightly.

‘I won’t beg for mercy.’

He lifted his head and gazed at her seriously. ‘Oh, Bron—I’m not interested in a quick roll in the hay.’

‘Oh! That wasn’t—I didn’t mean…’

Her confusion must have shown in her face, because he pulled her into his arms and cradled her against his chest. ‘I’m not saying I don’t want to make love with you! I’m saying it’s more than that. I think you could come to mean a great deal to me, very easily. I just don’t want to blow my chances with you by pushing you into something you’ll regret later.’

‘I would never regret it,’ she said quietly.

‘You don’t think you would, but things—people, circumstances—change. Come on, let’s go back to the lecture and put things back into perspective. I don’t think I trust myself to be alone with you when you’re so vulnerable.’

‘Oliver! I’m not vulnerable, I’m making a choice.’

He looked down at her, and shook his head. ‘No, Bron, you have no choice. Where I’m concerned you’re as vulnerable as I am with you. We’re wide open to hurt, and we’ll have to protect each other. God knows, I’ll never forgive myself if I hurt you.’

He pulled her to her feet, and tucked her into his side for the walk back to the conference-room.

Jane and Michael were waiting for them, and they sat down just in time as the lecture began again. Bron made a conscious effort to listen, but it wasn’t easy, and she caught Oliver’s rueful grin more than once. He was obviously having the same trouble.

They broke for tea and stayed on the terrace with the others, and after the evening lecture they got together for a drink and a chat over the day’s notes. Whether it was the atmosphere, or Oliver’s presence, or just the fact that she wasn’t used to it, Bron felt the drinks going to her head and found it harder than ever to concentrate on what they were saying.

Predictably her notes were sketchy and filled with doodles—her name and Oliver’s, intertwined with love-hearts and arrows and trailing vine leaves. His were almost as bad, except that his doodles were restricted to ‘She loves me, she loves me not’, down the margin to the bottom line, ending with ‘She loves me not’.

Bron took his notes, drew in another line and wrote, ‘She loves me’, on it, and handed it back, and he gave a startled laugh.

‘Goodnight, all,’ he said briefly, grabbed Bron by the hand and towed her out through the french doors into the garden.

‘Just what are you trying to do to my blood-pressure?’ he said with a ragged chuckle, and tugged her into his arms to kiss her with all the pent-up emotions of the day. ‘Crazy girl,’ he murmured eventually against her hair, and held her, rocking her gently against his chest while the nightingale sang in the wood and the scent of orange blossom drifted round them in the warm, evening air.

Then with a sigh he put her from him. ‘Go on, go up to bed while I can still let you go.’ He brushed his lips lightly across hers and, turning her round, he propelled her gently towards the door. ‘Goodnight, my darling. Sleep tight. I’ll see you for breakfast.’

On considerably reluctant feet, Bron forced herself to walk away from him and upstairs.

The night was predictably sleepless; she lay, her mind filled with thoughts of Oliver, and wondered if he returned her love. How could he not? she thought dreamily, and finally fell asleep as the sun crept over the horizon.

She was woken abruptly by Oliver pounding on her door.

‘Bron? Open up, I’ve got something to show you!’

What on earth does he want? she wondered, and slid out of bed, her hair tousled, face flushed, eyes half shut. She caught a glimpse of herself on the way to the door, and groaned. She looked a wreck!

‘Come in,’ she muttered, and shut the door again behind him.

He swept her up in his arms and hugged her tight, laughing with delight and something else. She heard the crackle of paper, and then he dumped her on the bed and shoved a letter into her hand.

Sleepily, she pushed her fingers through her hair to lift it off her face, and dropped her eyes to the letter.

‘Oh! You passed your FRCS! Congratulations, Mr Henderson!’

She flung her arms around him and squeezed him tight. That’s fantastic! We’ll have go to out tonight to celebrate. Oh, you clever man! Oh, well done, darling——’

His mouth came down hard on hers, and when he released her his face was blazing with pride and happiness.

‘I can’t believe it—all that and you, too. I’d better get out of here before I do something crazy. See you downstairs in ten minutes.’

He winked and left her, and she gathered her scattered wits and washed and dressed in double-quick time.

The day passed in a whirl of congratulations. Somehow they managed to make some sense of the lectures, but by this time both of them were relying more and more heavily on Jane and Michael to pass on relevant notes during their breaks.

The other delegates heard about Oliver’s success and, not needing much of an excuse, decided to organise a party for that night.

Someone produced some disco lights, which were set up in the conference-room, and the chairs were cleared to leave space for dancing. The sound equipment was pressed into service, and a young SHO, who had done time on the hospital radio as a student, agreed to act as DJ. Jane dragged Bronwen upstairs.

The blue silk,’ she said firmly, thrusting Bron through her bedroom door. ‘I’ll be back in an hour, and you’d better be ready to blow their socks off!’

Bron laughed and shook her head in despair. ‘OK, OK, the blue silk. See you later.’

Fifty-five minutes later there was a tap on the door. Bron was sitting at the dressing-table, clad in a tiny pair of midnight-blue silk panties and her make-up, toying with her hair.

‘Come in,’ she called, and she heard the door open and shut softly behind her. ‘What do you think, Jane, down or up?’

‘Down,’ said a deep voice, and Bron leapt to her feet and spun round, clutching her arms to her chest.

‘Oliver! What are you doing in here?’ she squeaked.

He chuckled. ‘Obeying orders. You said come in.’ He walked towards her and, placing his warm hands on her bare shoulders, he kissed her lightly on the forehead. ‘What are you wearing?’

‘Not a lot! Get out so I can get dressed.’

He grinned. ‘No way. Don’t worry, I’m a doctor——’

‘Huh! Anyway, you’re just plain Mr now, Henderson, so you can take yourself off while I finish my preparations.’

‘No. Is this the one?’ He held up the mightnight-blue silk dress, and she nodded. ‘Which way round does it go?’

‘Oliver!’ Bron tried to sound scandalised. ‘It’s backless!’

‘Pity. I think it would look better the other way round——’

‘Shut up and close your eyes. I’m getting cramp standing like this.’

‘Your choice, not mine. Oh, well.’ He sprawled out comfortably on the bed and shut his eyes. ‘I’ll give you ten seconds.’

It took her six.

‘Right, pervert, do the zip up, please.’

There was a tap on the door, just as Oliver sat up and reached for the zip.

‘Can I come in? Oh, sorry!’

‘It’s all right, Jane. He’s just doing up the zip.’

‘More’s the pity——’

‘Oliver!’

Jane smiled benignly. ‘I’ll see you two downstairs. Michael’s in the bar running up the bill.’

‘Whose?’

‘Yours, I think!’ Laughing at his horrified expression, Jane floated out of the room and closed the door.

‘Do I detect a mean streak?’ Bron murmured, and Oliver glowered at her.

‘Mean? You don’t know him when he gets going. By now, everyone down there will be celebrating my success at my expense, and what’s more I’m not even there!’

Bron slipped on her pumps. ‘Come on, then, what are we waiting for?’

‘This,’ he murmured, and drew her into his arms to kiss her gently. ‘Have I ever told you,’ he murmured, ‘how very beautiful you are?’

‘Oh, Oliver…’ Bron coloured delicately at the softly voiced compliment.

‘Oh, God, let’s get out of here while we still can,’ he groaned.

By the time they joined the others, the party was in full swing. They danced until Bron was breathless, and then propped up the parapet outside to cool off for a while before going back in again.

Oliver eyed her thoughtfully. ‘How are we going to keep this going, Bron? I’m in London, you’re in Bristol—it’s going to be hell. Normal people could commute for the weekends, but the chances of us both getting a weekend off together must be remote in the extreme. We might have to wait weeks on end.’

She tried to smile. There’s always the phone.’

He shook his head. ‘It can’t take the place of holding you in my arms—oh, God, Bron, I’m going to miss you so much!’ He tugged her into his arms with a wild desperation that found an echo in Bronwen’s heart, and she clung to him, suddenly terrified.

‘We’ll work something out—we must,’ he murmured against her hair. After a moment he released her, captured her hand, and led her back on to the dance-floor.

In the middle of the evening the DJ paused to dedicate the party and the next number to Oliver. The song, predictably—considering that their blossoming romance was being avidly watched by all and sundry—was a slow, sultry number. Oliver opened his arms and Bron steped into the warmth of his embrace with a delicious sense of inevitability.

He held her close, their thighs brushing with every slight movement, so that she was aware of the change in him almost as soon as he was. His warm, strong hands moved sensuously against the bare skin of her back, tracing the slender column of her spine and sending fire racing through her veins. His heart beneath her cheek quickened and beat more strongly, fanning the flames of her own desire, and when he led her wordlessly out on to the terrace to the other hall door and upstairs she followed without question.

At the door to her room she fumbled with the key so badly that he took it from her with hands only a little steadier than her own. Once in, he leaned back against the door and crushed her body against his, motionless for several minutes, then he eased her away from him and looked down into her eyes.

‘Sorry, I just had to be alone with you. I couldn’t hide my feelings any more.’ His voice was gruff with passion, and yet tinged with uncertainty. He searched his eyes, and then his lids drifted shut and he swallowed unsteadily. ‘Bron?’

‘Oh, yes, Oliver … please?’

For a long, breathless moment, he was motionless, then he exhaled and reached round to slide the zip down with trembling fingers. Slowly, with infinite care, he lowered the dress from her shoulders until it slithered in a shimmering pool to her feet, and then he knelt and eased the tiny triangle of lace down over her trembling legs. With a feather-light kiss on the tangle of curls he had revealed, he straightened and stripped off his own clothes, casting them aside until he stood naked before her, the moonlight silvering the smooth planes of his body, casting shadows in the scatter of curls on his chest, darkening the skin to bronze. Her breath caught in her throat.

‘You’re beautiful…’

He gave a shaky little laugh that cracked in the middle. ‘That’s my line. Oh, Bron…’

He scooped her up in his arms and laid her tenderly on the bed, coming down carefully beside her. She felt the slight rasp of his hair-roughened thigh, and smelled the warm, male, musky scent of his body as it joined with hers, and a soft cry rose in her throat, mingling with his as his mouth closed over her lips and captured her words of love.

She hadn’t known the highs could be so high. It was as if a giant hand had lifted them and thrown them out among the stars, to tumble gently back to earth in a tangle of limbs and murmured promises.

Later, she lifted her hand and touched his face, and found it wet with tears. He turned his lips into her palm, and pressed a soft kiss on the skin. When he lifted his head, she was stunned by the naked emotion in his eyes. His voice was ragged.

‘Dear God, Bron … I had no idea. Oh, darling, hold me, I love you, Bron. I love you, I love you…’

When she woke in the morning, he was gone. He had written ‘I love you’ on the mirror with her lipstick, and there was a note on the dressing-table.

Gone back to clear up the chaos. Think it’s best if I sleep in my room—I don’t want any speculation about you. See you for breakfast. We have to talk—there’s so much to tell you. I love you. Oliver.

She showered and dressed and ran downstairs eagerly, but as she reached the bottom step the manager crossed over to her.

‘Oh, Dr Jones, I’m so glad I’ve caught you. Mr Henderson asked me to give you a message. He was called away in the night—awful business, his brother-in-law was killed in a car accident. He had to dash back; he said his wife—Clare, isn’t it?—is pregnant, and he had to be with her. Dr Jones, are you all right?’