Читать книгу Their Miracle Baby - Caroline Anderson - Страница 9

CHAPTER FIVE

‘SHALL I sleep in the spare room?’

Mike looked up, frowning, but Fran’s eyes were unreadable. ‘You don’t have to do that.’

‘I didn’t want to crowd you. With your foot—if I hit it in the night, I might hurt you.’

‘You won’t hurt me. It’s all pinned and plated, Fran—it’s not going anywhere. You’re more likely to stub your toe on the cast.’

‘But what about your ribs? If I shift around…’

‘You won’t. You never disturb me. Anyway,’ he added, sure that there was more to it than just concern about hurting him but not knowing what, or how to deal with it, just that he had to keep her with him come hell or high water, ‘what if I need to get up in the night? I might need help.’

For the longest moment she hesitated, then with a tiny, almost imperceptible sigh her shoulders sagged in defeat and she nodded.

‘You’re right. I’ll try and keep out of your way.’

‘You’re not in my way,’ he said, feeling a wave of relief at her submission. He’d really thought she was going to sleep in another room, and it had scared the living daylights out of him.

It was the thin end of the wedge, the beginning of the end, and for all they were hovering on the brink, he couldn’t let it go that far. Not yet. Not now. Hopefully not ever.

He was curiously reluctant to let her out of reach, even though he’d actively avoided her for months. But he’d better not scare her off. Shucking off his dressing-gown and letting the new, loose boxers she’d got him that fitted over his cast fall down around his ankles, he kicked them carefully away and lay down, wondering if he could find a position that didn’t hurt his leg and then deciding that it was his leg and not the position that hurt, and it wouldn’t frankly matter if he hung the damn thing out of the window…

‘You haven’t had your painkillers, have you?’ she said, and he wondered if she was a mind-reader.

‘I didn’t think I needed them,’ he lied. He knew perfectly well he needed them, but they made everything blurred at the edges and he was worried he’d say or do something—

What? Something affectionate? Romantic?

Desperate?

Damn. Perhaps he should have kept the boxers on.

She handed him the pills and a glass of water, and he swallowed them down. What the hell. He’d just lie with his back to her and keep his hands to himself and his mouth shut, and hopefully he’d be asleep soon…

He was restless.

Fran lay awake beside him, keeping a careful distance and wondering how much pain he was in.

A lot. He must be. She’d seen the X-rays, seen the metal framework holding his leg together, seen the screws that went right into the bones…

It made her feel sick just to think about it, sick and scared and as if she wanted to gather him up against her and hold him close, to ease it, to take away the pain in any way she could.

Except she couldn’t take it away, of course, and, besides, he’d lain down with his back firmly towards her, discouraging any repeat of their earlier cuddle. But then he mumbled something in his sleep, and she reached out a hand and laid it gently on his side, and he sighed softly and went quiet.

Comforted by her presence? She felt a tear leak out of the corner of one eye. She’d missed him so much. He’d only been gone two nights, but they’d been lonely and endless. Crazy when, apart from their earlier hug, they’d hardly even touched each other by accident in bed recently, never mind deliberately, but nevertheless she’d missed his presence there.

He murmured again, and she moved closer, curling her body behind his and snuggling up, her hand resting lightly on his hip, afraid to wake him. But the painkillers must be keeping him under because he didn’t stir, just sighed and relaxed against her, the tension she hadn’t even been aware of seeping out of him, and she felt her own tension dissipate into the night.

Her eyes drifting shut, she laid her cheek against his shoulder and fell asleep…

He woke to find her curled around him.

It was his leg that had woken him—that and the ribs he was lying on—and he really needed to turn over, but she was in the way and he couldn’t bear to wake her.

She’d move away—he knew that, knew she must have ended up lying against him by accident, because, God knows, apart from their cuddle when she’d got home from work and the briefest of brief kisses in the kitchen, if there’d been a way to avoid it she hadn’t touched him in ages. There could have been chainlink fencing down the middle of the bed since April for all the difference it would have made, they’d kept so strictly to their own sides of the bed.

He straightened his leg a fraction and, as if she’d read his mind again, she shifted away, giving him room.

‘You OK?’

‘Mmm. Just need to move my leg.’

‘Sorry.’ She scooted across to the far side of the bed, and he rolled carefully over towards her.

‘Better?’

‘Mmm,’ he said again. Better, but too far from her. He lifted a hand, almost reached for her, then, letting his breath out on a silent sigh, he lowered his hand back to the mattress. No. Too dangerous. He didn’t trust himself, and the last thing he wanted to do was drive her away.

He shifted a fraction, trying to get comfortable, and listened to the sound of her breathing. It took her ages to fall asleep again, and he wondered if she was listening to him breathe as well, so he deliberately slowed his respiration rate down and after a few more minutes he heard a subtle change in hers as she slid into sleep.

But it wasn’t a happy sleep. She was restless, murmuring, and he reached out a hand. Should he?

Yes.

This time, he let himself touch her, let his fingers curl over the slender, fragile curve of her shoulder, and with a contented little sigh she wriggled backwards until she was touching him, the soft roundness of her bottom brushing his thighs, her back against his chest, and she relaxed again.

Lucky her. He didn’t. He couldn’t.

It had been so long since he’d touched her. She was wearing a nightshirt, not much more than a long T-shirt, and it had ridden up so that the soft, bare skin of her bottom was against his legs, silky smooth and unbelievably arousing; he ached to rest his hand on her thigh, to slide it up and round her slender, tiny waist, up over her ribs, curling his fingers round to cup one of her small, firm breasts in his palm—

His body reacted instantly, and he felt his erection brush against her, sending shockwaves racing through him. Dear God, he wanted her. Wanted to hold her, touch her, bury himself in her, but he couldn’t. Couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t put her in that position again.

He shifted his hips, pulling back away from her, but she followed him, her bottom bumping against his penis, and then he heard a soft gasp as she came suddenly, instantly awake.

Fran froze.

What the hell was she doing? Snuggling against him, her back against his chest, her bottom spooned—oh, lord. She couldn’t move away. If she moved, he might know she was awake, and if she didn’t…

If she didn’t, and he reached out for her again, wanted to make love to her—could she do that? Let him? After so long, she really wasn’t sure, wasn’t sure at all that she could let him touch her, kiss her…

She felt the brush of his erection again, felt the stillness in his body and knew he was awake. Awake, and aroused, and waiting for her to make the next move.

Oh, dear God. She couldn’t deal with this. Her emotions were too close to the surface, and if he touched her, all hell might break loose. So she faked a mumble, shifted away, rolling onto her front with her head turned away from him, and after an endless moment she heard him sigh.

Had she fooled him? She closed her eyes, squeezing them shut against the threatening tears, and after a few more minutes she heard the rustle of the quilt, felt the mattress shift and heard him grunt with pain as he sat up.

What was she to do? Pretend he’d disturbed her and get up and help him? Stay put with her eyes closed and listen out for him until he’d got down the corridor to the bathroom?

He was naked. If he was still aroused…

She stayed put, her ears straining as he picked up the crutches, took a step, swore softly and moved again. The bedroom door was open and as he went unsteadily down the corridor, she turned her head and watched him until he was in the bathroom.

The door closed softly, and she dropped her face into the pillow and sighed. What now? Pretend she’d been asleep? If she was a decent wife she’d get up and make him a drink, but that would mean talking to him, and she felt awkward—gauche and nervous and oddly apprehensive. What if he said something about it?

What if he knew she’d been awake?

Oh, why on earth had she wriggled up against him? Because she had, of course. She’d been right on her side of the bed after he’d rolled towards her, and when she’d woken, she’d been slap in the middle, her bottom rammed firmly up against him—as in, Sit on my lap and we’ll talk about the first thing that comes up, she thought, and groaned with embarrassment.

No wonder he’d had an erection. He’d have to be dead not to react to that, whether he’d wanted her or not. He was a relatively young man after all, fit and healthy and in the prime of his life. And it had been literally months since they’d made love. After such a long time, he’d surely react to anything female.

He came back to bed, and she heard the crackle of the pill packet, heard the swallow as he took his painkillers, felt the mattress dip slightly as he lay down with a muffled groan.

She cracked an eye open. He was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling with one arm flung up over his head.

‘Fran?’

His voice was soft, little more than a breath, but she ignored it, afraid to answer, afraid to open that Pandora’s box.

After an age, he sighed quietly, the arm settling over his eyes, and eventually a soft snore heralded his slide into sleep.

She wasn’t so lucky. Every cell of her body was aware of him, every breath he took, every slight shift, every grunt. She daren’t relax, daren’t go to sleep in case she ended up curling into his side. So she lay awake, staring at the ceiling and listening to him breathe, until the sky lightened and she could creep away…

Mike woke alone.

Odd, that. He was always the first to wake, the first to get up, the last to come to bed. He was never alone in bed.

He hated it.

He had no idea where Fran was, what she was doing, and how she’d greet him when he finally caught up with her.

He thought back to the night, to the way she’d recoiled from him, pretending to be asleep and rolling away from him—because she had pretended, she had been awake, and in the end he’d had to get up and move around or he’d have screamed with frustration.

So he’d gone to the bathroom, and the pain in his leg had dealt with his untimely arousal, and he’d gone back to bed and stared at the ceiling for ages while Fran had lain rigid beside him and feigned sleep. Again.

He swore, softly and comprehensively. Where on earth did they go from here?

The kitchen would be a good start. He could hear voices, and he got up, slowly and carefully, and struggled into his boxers. He didn’t bother with his dressing-gown. It was hot today, and he needed a shower. Maybe Joe was about.

He made his way slowly and carefully downstairs, shuffling down on his bottom because he’d been warned in no uncertain terms not to put any weight through his leg yet—not that he needed warning. Even resting it on the floor made it ache like hell.

The kitchen, when he eventually got there, was rammed again. It had obviously become Party Central since his accident, he decided, and discovered that he was relieved, because otherwise he’d have to deal with Fran without anyone to run interference.

Except she wasn’t there.

‘Morning.’

They looked up, Joe and his father from breakfast, his mother from the sink, Sarah from sorting a pile of vegetables by the fridge. ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Fran’s gone over to the shop to get some fruit. Joe, shove up, let him sit down. Want a cup of tea, Mike?’

‘Um—thanks,’ he said, sinking gratefully into the chair Joe had vacated and stretching his leg out cautiously. Brodie propped herself against the other one and gazed soulfully up at him as if she couldn’t understand why he’d deserted her. He rubbed her behind her ears, and she washed his hand, her eyes still on him anxiously. Sarah brought his tea over, set it down and stared at him open-mouthed.

‘Wow,’ she said, and his brother grunted.

‘That’s my brother you’re eyeing up,’ he reminded her, and she laughed.

‘Really? I thought he was a refugee from a film set. The last time I saw bruises like that was a post-mortem in a forensic science drama. Impressive. You ought to take photos.’

‘Don’t overdo the sympathy,’ Mike said, but he was smiling, knowing that in her way Sarah was telling him how sorry she was that he was hurt. ‘Any more of that bacon, Mum?’

She dragged her eyes from his side and tried for a smile. ‘Coming up. Want it in a sandwich?’

‘Lovely. With an egg in it. You’re a star.’

And then Fran was back, with a box full of fruit, and he stared at it in surprise. ‘Is that all close to its sell-by date?’ he asked. They often got a surplus of one kind of fruit or another, but not normally so much at once unless it had been over-ordered, and they tried not to do that. It dented profits.

But to his surprise she coloured a little and put the box down on the side. ‘There was a lot and I just thought it looked nice,’ she said, avoiding his eyes. ‘Fruit’s good for you, and I’ve got some cheese and yoghurt as well. You need all those vitamins and minerals to help you mend and build your strength up.’

What for? he thought. What have you got in mind for me? Because it’s clearly not sex…

He felt his body reacting at the thought, and regretted leaving his dressing-gown upstairs, but his mother put the sandwich down in front of him and he leant forwards, giving himself a bit of privacy until he got his crazed libido under control. Hell, he must be nuts, but all he could think about was her bottom, soft and warm and snuggled up to him…

She bent over, putting the fruit in the fridge, and he was treated to the curve in question, her jeans, loose now since she’d lost weight, pulling taut as she bent and giving him a tempting view of the very part of her that was giving him so much trouble.

He yanked his eyes off her and concentrated on not dribbling the softly fried egg down his chest.

‘You around for a while?’ he asked Joe around a mouthful of sandwich.

‘Why?’

‘I need a shower.’

Joe arched a brow. ‘Long time since we shared a shower,’ he said dryly, and Mike felt himself colour.

‘I don’t want to share it with you, you jackass. I need someone to grab me when I fall over, and Fran’s too little. I’d squash her.’

Joe looked disbelieving, but he shrugged and nodded. ‘I can give you a hand. Be more fun with Fran, though.’

He felt himself colour again, his neck reddening, and his hands itched to strangle Joe. Not that his brother realised he was being tactless. How could he? Only they knew their marriage was in tatters.

‘Don’t tease him, Joe,’ their mother said gently, and Mike heard something else in her tone. A warning? A warning to tread softly?

So maybe their problems weren’t as private as he’d thought.

Damn.

He pushed the plate away. ‘That was lovely, Mum. Thanks. Right, Joe, are you ready? I don’t want to hold you up, I know you’ve got loads to do.’

‘Tell me about it,’ Joe said, dropping his mug into the sink and handing his brother the crutches. ‘Come on, then, Hopalong, let’s get you scrubbed. Pity we haven’t still got the sheep-dip.’

‘Ha-ha. I need a bin bag and some elastic bands,’ he said, and while Joe found those, he headed upstairs the same way he’d come down.