Читать книгу Their Very Special Marriage - Kate Hardy - Страница 9

CHAPTER FOUR

OLIVER worked that evening, just as Rachel knew he would. But when she was reading a story to Sophie, he came upstairs to kiss the children goodnight. Then he took her hand and led her downstairs into the living room. It wasn’t dark outside but he’d already pulled the curtains.

‘Just you and me now,’ he whispered. ‘You, me, a film and a bottle of wine.’

He’d uncorked the Merlot to let it breathe; he poured two glasses and handed one to her. ‘It’s been too long since we did this, Rach.’

And whose fault is that? she wanted to ask. Who is it who spends every minute in his wretched office in the evenings? But she took a sip of wine instead, savouring the taste.

He took the glass from her hand, set it down beside his own, then sprawled on the sofa and patted the space next to him. ‘Come here.’

She lay with her back to him, spoon-style, and his arm curved round her, pulling her back against him. It was how they’d often spent Friday nights when Robin had been tiny, watching a good film together and sharing a bottle of wine. They’d have the baby listener turned down low—the flashing lights would tell them if Robin was crying—and often they’d only catch the first half of the film, because then Oliver would start to kiss the back of her neck and slide his hand under the hem of her top, and they’d be so lost in exploring each other that the film would be forgotten.

Did he remember those nights, too? Maybe, because the arm around her waist tightened. Rachel relaxed against him. It felt so good to be in Oliver’s arms again, to feel the warmth of his body against hers.

‘Rach,’ he whispered, nuzzling her shoulder and she arched back against him. He kissed along the line of her neck. ‘I love the way you smell,’ he murmured. ‘The way you taste.’ His hand slipped under the hem of her top and he cupped her breast. ‘The way you feel.’

Which was exactly the way she felt about him. She twisted round so she was facing him, and cupped his face in her hands. ‘Me, too,’ she whispered, and kissed him.

‘I want you so much,’ he told her when he broke the kiss. His pupils were huge, edged with a narrow rim of blue, so his eyes looked almost black with passion.

Everything was going to be all right. They were going to make love, and everything was going to be all right.

Slowly, he undid the button of her jeans and slid the zip down. He teased her, his fingers drifting over her midriff; Rachel made a small sound of impatience and tilted her hips.

‘Something you wanted, Dr Bedingfield?’ he asked, his voice low and husky.

‘You,’ she replied, her voice equally husky.

‘I think that can be arranged.’ He gave her a smile that managed to be teasing yet smouldering at the same time, and a thrill of desire ran down her spine.

It didn’t take him long to remove her jeans—or her to remove his. Her top followed, then his T-shirt. And finally they were skin to skin. Rachel could still remember the first time they’d made love in her narrow single bed at university, the heady excitement of exploring each other’s body fully for the first time, learning where each other liked to be touched and stroked and kissed. That headiness had never quite gone away, for her. Even now, she thrilled at how good Oliver’s body felt against her own.

And right now he was all hers.

‘Rachel.’ He breathed her name as he kissed his way down her collar-bone, stroked the length of her spine, then finally took the hard peak of one nipple into his mouth.

Rachel couldn’t help closing her eyes, concentrating on the sensations evoked by his clever mouth. All she could feel was Oliver, all she could sense, all she could—

‘Mum-mee!’

They both stilled.

‘Maybe she’ll go back to sleep,’ Oliver mumbled against Rachel’s skin.

As if to contradict him, Sophie’s wail grew louder. ‘Mum-mee!’ she sobbed again.

If Rachel could have cloned herself at that moment, she’d have been happy. As it was, whatever she did she lost. Sophie was ill and needed her—Rachel couldn’t possibly desert her sick child. But Oliver... This was the first time in weeks they’d been close. Who knew when her husband would let her get this close again?

Damned if I stay, damned if I go, Rachel thought, her heart feeling as if it had been torn in half. She pulled away from Oliver regretfully, and slipped her jeans and T-shirt back on. ‘I’d better go to her. She’s not well. If we leave her, she’ll get into a state and it’ll take us for ever to calm her down again.’

‘Sure.’

‘Can you bring a drink up for her and the infant paracetamol?’ And maybe if Oliver stayed with her, maybe if they cared for their daughter together—then maybe when Sophie fell asleep again they could take up where they’d left off.

Though she knew she was kidding herself: he was already reaching for his own clothes. It didn’t take a genius to know what he’d be doing while she was settling Sophie again.

Oliver brought up a spill-proof beaker of water, so it wouldn’t matter if their daughter went to sleep still holding her cup—she wouldn’t get drenched and wake up again. He poured the infant paracetamol into a spoon for Sophie and encouraged her to take it. And then he uttered the words Rachel had been expecting and dreading in equal measure: ‘I’ll just do a bit of admin while you’re here with Sophie.’

If only you’d slept just a few minutes longer, Rachel thought, rocking her daughter to sleep in her arms. If your father and I had made love, everything would have been all right. Now, who knows? Work will come between us yet again.

When Sophie had drifted back to sleep, and Rachel padded barefoot into Oliver’s office holding a glass of Merlot, her husband didn’t even look up. ‘You go ahead and watch the film. I’ll be in with you in a minute.’

His definition of ‘in a minute’ definitely wasn’t the same as his wife’s, because he was still working when the film had finished. And Rachel’s mood had cooled to the point where she didn’t want to make love any more—what was the point, when she clearly came so far down Oliver’s list of priorities?

He didn’t reach for her in bed that night either. Which in some ways was just as well, because Sophie woke several times, each time feeling itchy and out of sorts and wanting comfort from her mother. Rachel felt like a zombie from lack of sleep the next morning, and her mood hadn’t improved by Saturday evening, when Oliver appeared, freshly showered, wearing smart black trousers and a casual silk shirt.

‘Aren’t you getting changed?’ Oliver asked.

She stared at him. Changed? ‘Why?’

‘My mother’s drinks party. We’re supposed to be going, remember?’

Rachel shook her head. ‘I told you this morning, I rang her and explained that Sophie was ill and I can’t leave her.’ Surely he wasn’t going to suggest that they should still ask Ginny to babysit, when Sophie was ill and miserable and wanting her parents? She bit back her irritation. ‘You can still go, if you want.’ On his own. Leaving her to do all the nursing.

‘I promised her we’d be there.’ Oliver emphasised the ‘we’. ‘She called me to remind me this afternoon.’

Doing his usual power-play thing: making his son choose between his old family and his new one. Even after all these years Isabel hadn’t quite forgiven Rachel for Oliver doing something against his family’s wishes—as if Oliver wasn’t a grown man, perfectly able to make his own decisions. ‘Look, Sophie’s ill and she wants me with her. Your mother understands that a babysitter—even someone Sophie knows really well, like Ginny—just isn’t an option.’ Though Isabel had made it very clear she considered it a feeble excuse on Rachel’s part. No doubt that was why she’d phoned Oliver, expecting him to pressure Rachel into going. Stupid, really, when Rachel didn’t even fit in with the Bedingfields’ social set. She still had the wrong accent, even though her Geordie accent had softened over the years.