Читать книгу Perfect Proposals Collection - Lynne Marshall - Страница 43

CHAPTER SIX

THEY managed to keep things on an even keel for the next few weeks—though Katrina knew the second that Rhys walked into the room, even if her back was turned and she couldn’t hear him, and she was pretty sure it was the same for him, too. The awareness. The longing. The wondering.

We could have a wild affair. His words echoed in her head. Maybe they should. Maybe it would get things out of their system and then they could go back to being colleagues.

Or maybe it would just make things worse—because although she could imagine what it would be like to kiss Rhys, to make love with him, the reality would be even more intense. Something she wouldn’t want to give up.

She was going to have to start taking long, cold showers. Or doing a few lengths of the local pool—which was always freezing—before work.

She was still thinking about it when she saw Rhys walk into the department, carrying a rolled-up sleeping bag and a suitcase.

Was he going away somewhere straight after work? As far as she knew, he wasn’t off duty the next day. Odd. It didn’t make sense.

Until she walked into the staffroom during her break and saw him ending a call on his mobile phone and crossing some thing off a list.

‘Everything OK?’ she asked.

‘In a word, no.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘You know that storm we had last week? It took some tiles off my roof, and my landlord sent someone round to fix it—except they found some asbestos. I have to move out while it’s being fixed. And because the landlord’s panicking about health and safety, that means today.’

She glanced at his list—a printout of local hotels and their phone numbers. Most of them were crossed through. ‘No luck finding anywhere?’

‘Everywhere’s fully booked, with it being Bonfire Night, half-term and then that big charity concert at the end of the week.’ He sighed. ‘I have a feeling I’m going to be sleeping in my office for a few nights. That’s why I brought my sleeping bag in.’

‘Rhys, you can’t. I mean…I know there are showers and what have you at the hospital, but living out of a suitcase would be awful. And you won’t get much rest.’

‘It’s not ideal, I admit,’ he said, ‘but I can rough it for a few days.’

Her mouth went into gear a moment before her brain did. ‘Look, I have a spare bedroom. Why don’t you come and stay with me?’

He blinked. ‘Katrina, that’s really generous of you—but I can’t possibly put you out like that. I have no idea how long it’s going to take to sort out my flat. It could be days, it could be weeks.’

‘It’s not a problem.’ Apart from the fact that they’d been trying to stay apart. But they’d managed it so far. If they could do it at work, they could do it outside work, surely? And she couldn’t see him in a hole like this. She would’ve made the same offer to any of her colleagues.

‘Then thanks—I owe you one,’ Rhys said.

‘So that suitcase and the sleeping bag is all you’ve got?’

‘I don’t travel quite that light.’ He smiled wryly. ‘I have a flat full of books and films. But at least the place is furnished, so it’s only a couple of carloads.’

Her mouth was really on a roll. ‘I’ll give you a hand. If I drive over to your place this evening, we can load my car up as well as yours and it’ll only take one trip.’

‘Katrina, you’re putting me up. I can hardly ask you to do all that lugging about as well.’

‘It isn’t a problem. Anyone here would do the same—you help each other out if you’re stuck.’

‘Then thanks. I really appreciate this, Katrina. And I’ll buy us a take-away tonight,’ he promised.

‘You’re on.’ She smiled. ‘Pizza, salad and the nicest rosemary flatbread in the world.’

‘That,’ he said, ‘is a deal.’

After work, Rhys made two quick stops on the way home, stored one of his purchases in the passenger footwell of his car, then took the packing tape indoors and retrieved the flat-packed removal boxes from underneath his bed. He’d made up the boxes and packed the rest of his clothes by the time Katrina rang the doorbell.

‘Come in. Coffee?’ he asked, ushering her inside.

‘Thanks.’

He quickly went into the kitchen and switched on the kettle. ‘I’ve emptied my bedroom and the bathroom. It’s just the kitchen and living room to do now.’ He smiled. ‘I’m glad I moved most of my music over to a hard disk system a couple of years back, or it’d take twice as long to pack.’ And he’d only unpacked a small proportion of his sheet music in the first place, which helped.

Her eyes widened as she saw his cello case and the music stand in the living room. ‘I would’ve guessed that you can sing well, being Welsh, but I had no idea you played an instrument.’

He laughed, disassembling the music stand and putting it on top of the sheet music. ‘Don’t believe the stereotype—not every Welshman can sing. School assemblies used to be torture, with half the kids singing out of tune.’

‘Have you been playing for very long?’ she asked.

‘We always had a piano and I used to bang the keys when I was a toddler. I started proper lessons when I was, what, three and a half.’ Before everything had gone wrong. And afterwards he’d found he was happiest when he was playing music. Filling the silence in the house. ‘Later I learned to play the cello as well.’

She glanced round. ‘You don’t have a piano now?’

‘Not any more. It’s not quite as portable as a cello,’ he said wryly. ‘Though I admit I miss the piano. When I get round to buying a place in London, the first thing I’m going to do is buy myself a piano.’

‘So you left your piano back in Wales?’

‘Moving it was going to be a hassle—I didn’t know if there’d be room in a rented place or how long I’d end up in a chain if I bought somewhere of my own. My colleague’s daughter wanted to learn, and they’re friends so I gave it to them.’ It had been a wrench, but at least he’d known his piano would have a good home and be looked after.

‘Nobody in our family plays an instrument,’ Katrina said. ‘Dad and Uncle Bryan always have music on in the garage, and Maddie’s really into 1950s stuff—Dean Martin and Julie London and soft jazz—but none of them do anything more than sing along and dance around the place.’

Remembering the absence of music in Katrina’s living room, Rhys had a feeling that she didn’t join in. Unless she, too, kept all her music as digital files…but somehow he didn’t think she did. ‘What about you?’ he asked.

She wrinkled her nose. ‘I normally go along with the kind of stuff everyone else likes. I don’t tend to bother with having the radio or what have you on in the house, or if I’m driving somewhere on my own.’

So his guess had been right. ‘Maybe,’ he said, ‘I can introduce you to the stuff I like. Though I should warn you it’s classical, rather than pop or rock.’

‘I’m not sure I’ll be able to appreciate it that well,’ she said, ‘but thanks for the offer.’

Of course. She’d said that she had a problem with high-frequency sounds; she might have a problem at the lower end of the scale, too.

‘So shall I start with the films?’ she asked. ‘Any particular order?’

‘Just however you can fit them into the boxes,’ he said. ‘I’ll start on the books.’

‘So did you ever think about becoming a professional musician?’ she asked.

‘Sort of. I almost studied music instead of medicine. It was a pretty hard choice to make.’

‘What made you pick medicine in the end?’

‘I wanted to make people better,’ he said simply. ‘Though my music teacher was pretty upset with me.’

‘You have to follow your heart. And you can still play for pleasure.’

‘That’s what I said to her. And paediatrics is really rewarding.’ He shrugged. ‘So I know I made the right choice.’

It didn’t take long to finish packing Rhys’s books and films. He refused to let Katrina carry anything heavier than the briefcase containing his laptop, so he packed the boxes and cases into both cars while she finished putting his kitchen things into a box.

And one thing she’d really noticed about his flat was the lack of personal things. Sure, he had books and films, but there was nothing to give a clue to Rhys the man. There hadn’t been a single photograph on his shelves or mantelpiece. No postcards held on to the fridge with magnets. Nothing personal at all.

She knew he was an only child and his parents had split up when he’d been young, but she’d expected to see a picture of at least one of his parents in a frame, like she had on her own mantelpiece. Or maybe a shot of a much-loved family pet. Or even one of Rhys as a student, in the middle of a group of friends.

He’d warned her that he kept people at a distance. He had said that he’d given his piano away to a colleague and friend, she remembered. So he was obviously able to connect with people.

Nevertheless, she’d never met anyone quite so self-contained as Rhys Morgan, and she had the distinct impression that she would barely know she had anyone staying in her home while he was there. Which, in a way, would be a good thing—it removed temptation. Part of her thought it was a seriously bad idea, offering Rhys a place to stay when she knew how hard they were both fighting their mutual attraction, though how could she possibly have left him to sleep in his office when she had a spare room?

Luckily there were two parking spaces just outside her house, so they were able to transfer the boxes quickly without having to carry them halfway down the street. Again, Rhys refused to let Katrina lift anything heavy, so she busied herself sorting out a visitor’s parking permit for him.

‘Is that the last?’ she asked, when he brought another box in and stacked it in the hallway.

‘Almost. One more.’ To her surprise, he returned with the most gorgeous bouquet of white roses and freesias.

She blinked. ‘Those are for me?’

He nodded. ‘I picked them up on the way home from work—I wanted to say thanks for coming to my rescue.’ He smiled. ‘I told the florist you didn’t do pink.’

‘Rhys, they’re absolutely beautiful.’ Her eyes filmed with tears. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had bought her flowers. Pete had stopped buying her flowers a long, long time before their relationship had finally ended. ‘Thank you,’ she said, her voice breaking slightly.

‘If I’d known they’d make you cry, I would’ve bought you chocolate instead,’ he said, and gently wiped the single tear from her cheek with the pad of his thumb. ‘Don’t cry, cariad.’

‘Sorry. I just wasn’t expecting…’ She swallowed hard. Lord. Having him touch her like that—it would be, oh, so easy just to turn her head slightly, press a kiss into his palm.

She got a grip on herself. Just. ‘I’ll put these in water, then show you to your room. There should be enough space for some of your boxes there, and we can stack the rest in the dining room—that’s probably the best place for your cello, too.’

‘I don’t want to take over your house,’ he said, looking awkward.

‘You’re not. You’re staying here as my guest.’

‘Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that,’ he said as he followed her upstairs, carrying his cases. ‘I want to pay you rent while I’m here.’

‘Don’t be daft. Besides, it’s not as if I’ve ever let the room or anything.’

‘Even so, your bills are going to be higher with me staying here, and I want to contribute. And I’ll do my share of the chores and cooking.’ As if he guessed what she was about to say next, he added, ‘No arguments, because you’d say exactly the same if you were the one staying in my spare room while your place was being fixed.’

She couldn’t disagree with that. ‘All right. Thank you.’

‘Good—and I’m going to start by ordering that pizza for us tonight.’

‘The number for the best local take-away is by the phone in the kitchen,’ she said, showing him into the little guest room. ‘And if you want to let your parents or whoever know that you’re staying here, feel free to give them my landline.’

‘No need. I have a mobile,’ he said. ‘But thank you for the offer.’

Katrina couldn’t quite catch his tone, but she noted the set of his shoulders. It looked as if Rhys’s ‘don’t let anyone close’ attitude included his parents. She remembered he’d said his parents had split up; she could understand him being slightly more reserved with the parent who’d left, but surely he would’ve been close to the one he’d lived with?

Obviously not.

By the time Rhys had unpacked, the pizza had arrived. Katrina was careful not to talk about anything personal, and he seemed to relax again while they ate.

‘So do you play your cello very much?’ she asked.

‘About half an hour a day, to keep in practice—sometimes more, if it’s been a rough day,’ he said.

Clearly it was how he unwound at the end of a day. Like the way she lost herself in a book. ‘Would you play for me tonight, or are you too tired?’

He looked at her in surprise. ‘You’d like me to play for you?’

‘As I said earlier, I probably won’t appreciate it as much as I should do, but…’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘I suppose I’m curious. I’d like to know what kind of music you enjoy.’

‘Sure. I’ll play in your dining room, if you don’t mind—it has a wooden floor, so the acoustics will be better,’ he said.

‘Do you need your sheet music and a stand?’

He shook his head. ‘Only if it’s something I haven’t played for a long while. Most of the pieces I’ve played for so many years now I know them by heart.’

Katrina watched, fascinated, as Rhys moved a chair into position, removed the cello from its case and tightened the bow.

‘I love this one,’ he told her. ‘It’s the second movement of Bach’s cello concerto in G minor.’

He really lost himself as he played, she thought, leaning into the instrument as he moved the bow across the strings. The fingers she’d seen gently treating a child on the ward were just as precise as he pressed each note. And when she looked at his face, it was as if the wall he usually kept between himself and other people had just crumbled away. She was seeing Rhys at his most open—and it brought a lump to her throat. Made her want him even more.

He finished playing and looked up at her.

‘Very nice,’ she said politely.

‘But you had to concentrate.’

She stared at him in surprise. ‘How do you know?’

‘Because of the pitch being so low. I wondered if you’d be able to hear it properly or if it’d be in your difficult zone.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘Can I ask you something weird?’

‘Weird?’

‘Come and sit by me and put your hand against the cello’s body, just here.’ He touched the lower left side of the cello. ‘If you can feel the vibrations, it’ll help you hear the music.’

‘But won’t I get in the way of your bow?’

‘No, because my arm will be above your head and the bow’s going down to the left.’

‘And it won’t, um, damage the polish or anything? You know, with the natural oils on my fingertips and what have you?’

He laughed. ‘It’s not a Stradivarius or a museum piece, Katrina. Just a cello. Touching it won’t hurt it at all. Come and sit with me.’

She took a cushion from the sofa, then came to sit at his feet, resting her hand against the cello as he’d directed.

‘This is probably my favourite piece by Bach.’ He began to play again, and she discovered he was right about the instrument. Feeling the vibration of the note helped her to hear it.

‘That’s lovely,’ she said when he’d finished. ‘And I know what that was—the Air on the G String. Dad’s got a version of it.’

He nodded.

‘Don’t stop playing,’ she said softly.

The next piece was so beautiful she found herself almost in tears. ‘That’s amazing. What is it?’

‘The adagio cantabile from Beethoven’s Pathétique Sonata. Strictly speaking, it’s a piano piece—but I think it works on the cello, too.’ He shrugged. ‘I used to drive my cello teacher crazy, transcribing my favourite piano pieces.’

‘But you play so well. I think I’m beginning to understand why Maddie loves music so much.’

‘Music’s food for the soul,’ he said softly.

‘Would it be greedy to ask for more?’

‘You want more, young Oliver?’ he teased.

She took her hand from the cello. ‘Sorry.’

‘I was teasing.’ He switched the bow to his other hand, then reached down with his right hand to take hers. ‘If you’d like me to play a bit more, it’d be my pleasure.’

Lord, the touch of his hand against hers… She couldn’t help curling her fingers round his. For a long, long moment they said nothing, just looked at each other. And Katrina found herself wondering what it would be like to feel his hands against her skin. Would he touch her with the same precision as he played the notes? Would he coax the same kind of response from her body that he coaxed from the cello?

It was, oh, so tempting.

But there would always be a morning after the night before. And given that they both had issues, she really needed to take a metaphorical step backwards. Right now.

‘So Bach’s your favourite composer?’ she asked brightly, uncurling her fingers.

She saw the acknowledgement in his eyes: that he’d been thinking exactly the same thing. Wondering what it would be like to touch her properly. Wondering how she’d react to his hands, his mouth.

‘Definitely. Actually, I ache a bit from lugging boxes around. I’ll play you more another time.’

‘I’ll go and put the kettle on,’ Katrina said. And the awkward moment was avoided, she thought.

For now.