A Very Precious Gift

by Meredith Webber

  ‘No, but you caused it all the same,’ Nick said darkly, then he pushed open a door and stepped through it.

  The unfair accusation gave Phoebe enough cause to vent the anger which had simmered for days. Seeing her quarry about to disappear, she followed him, then backed out, burning red with embarrassment, after one brief glimpse of gleaming stainless-steel urinals.

  ‘Giving up so easily, Phoebe?’

  Nick’s mocking words followed her out and haunted her as she headed home. Although it was the spin she put on them which most affected her—because it reminded her she had given up. On The Plan! The old plan, not the new one.

  Which meant her one great chance of finally getting rid of her virginity was now lost.

  The sense of loss which swept through her was so acute she wondered if it could possibly be something else. A physical malady.

  Like her loss of appetite.

  By Saturday she was so uptight she wondered if she could plead illness to avoid the ball. Her stomach was certainly upset, and her entire body ached with tension. She’d promised Jackie she’d call at the hospital to show her The Dress, but did she really have to go on to the convention centre, where the ball was being held?

  ‘Fancy meeting you here. Did you drive or would you like a lift to the convention centre?’

  Nick’s voice slid into her ears as she stood just inside Peter’s room and blushed at their patient’s praise for her appearance. Her heart sank as she realised her boss’s arrival had put paid to any idea of escaping the main event.

  She turned slowly, wondering how on earth she’d come to pay money for a garment that covered so little of her body and showed so much bare skin. Particularly bare skin that was reacting to the sight of Nick in a dinner suit with unseemly warmth and tiny prickles of excitement.

  ‘I…’

  The words dried on her lips as she raised her head to answer him and saw the expression in his eyes. More a glow than an expression, something fierce and primeval that raised goose-bumps on her arms.

  Great—now I’ve got goose-bumps as well as prickles and pinkness, she thought irrelevantly while she struggled to control her breathing and get words out of her mouth.

  ‘Well, if Peter’s had enough looks, we’ll go, shall we?’ Nick took her silence for agreement and grasped her arm with a brusqueness that startled her.

  It may also have startled him for he dropped it almost as quickly as he’d touched it, and somehow herded her from the room, not in physical contact but definitely getting across the message that she should move.

  The sleek Mercedes she’d followed home during the week was parked in the specialists’ area right outside the door and, still too bemused—and confused—to protest, Phoebe allowed herself to be led towards it.

  ‘I suppose you can sit down in that dress?’ Nick said, and, fearing sarcasm, Phoebe’s head snapped up. Once again she was spoiling for a fight!

  But Nick was smiling, and the teasing gleam in his eyes undid her anger and further weakened her resistance to the man.

  ‘Just!’ she told him and slid into the soft leather seat.

  Nick held the strap of the seat belt out to her. ‘Belt up,’ he said, and the smile appeared again. ‘I’d offer to do it for you but I’m not sure I’d be able to answer for the consequences of leaning across you.’

  He shut the door before she could question the remark, but as he walked around the front of the car, then seated himself beside her, the warm glow she felt suggested it must have been a compliment.

  Not that he showed her any further attention, discussing Peter’s progress on the short drive to the convention centre, then leading her into the ballroom without laying a finger on any part of her body.

  Detached didn’t begin to describe his behaviour.

  Phoebe fought a sense of pique as she followed him, then a little uncertainty that The Dress wasn’t quite as great as she’d hoped. But when Sheree’s husband whistled, and Charles looked startled—well, more like stunned—she decided it must be OK and accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.

  ‘Fantastic!’ Jess whispered to her, when Phoebe sat down beside her. ‘You’ll knock his socks off!’

  ‘Whose socks?’ Phoebe asked, remembering rather guiltily that Charles’s socks had been the target.

  ‘Nick’s, of course,’ Jess told her. ‘And don’t bother telling me you’re not interested. The electricity the pair of you generate could light the entire hospital.’

  ‘Well, I’m not interested,’ Phoebe said stoutly, although the rapid patter of her heartbeats made a nonsense of her denial.

  Fortunately, appetisers arrived at that moment, and talk turned to which one to choose. Nick, who’d been standing behind Phoebe and discussing radiotherapy with a hospital colleague, passed the plate to her, but her appetite, after deserting her the previous week, had failed to return, and she eyed all the attractive offerings with distaste.

  ‘You must be sickening for something if you’re not eating,’ Charles said, with the hearty joviality of a man determined to enjoy the evening.

  Then Jess made things worse by murmuring, ‘Love?’ under her breath.

  The thought that it could possibly be anything other than lust she felt for Nick was startling, to say the least. Phoebe found herself musing over it while conversations swirled around her. As they were attached to the oncology ward’s table, there were plenty of people milling around. Between picking at food she didn’t want, she danced, and talked, and must have been making the right noises for no one questioned her detachment.

  But the puzzle over love, in all its guises, remained the focus of her mind. The words batted back and forth by fellow party-goers became nothing more than background noise, and she barely realised that Jess had shifted from beside her and Charles had taken her place.

  Until she heard his voice.

  ‘That’s hardly the kind of dress I’d expect to see you wearing to an occasion like this,’ he said, his disapproval etching like acid into her skin.

  Phoebe felt tears prickle behind her eyelids and knew they were more the result of her own confusion than Charles’s mean-spirited comment, but she had to sniff them away and was still wondering how to answer when a warm hand gripped her shoulder.

  ‘My dance, I think,’ Nick said, sliding his hand to her upper arm and all but hoisting her out of the chair.

  She stumbled to her feet and felt him steady her, then take her gently in his arms and whirl her out onto the dance floor.

  Battling humiliation now as well as the effects of his closeness on her body, she gave herself up to the music and let Nick lead her in the dance.

  The music slowed and he drew her closer, tucking her against his body and holding her as if she were fragile—and perhaps precious.

  ‘It’s a lovely dress,’ he murmured into her ear. ‘A classy dress. A delectable, delicious, delightful dress. My only problem with it is I keep imagining myself taking it off. It’s that kind of dress, sweet Phoebe, so don’t let that curmudgeonly Charles tell you otherwise.’

  Phoebe heard the words and snuggled closer. Her body was already in transports of delight and now her mind was suggesting Nick had given her the very opening she needed.

  Dimly she tried to recall how many glasses of champagne she’d had in case the bubbly might be the cause of the brainwave, but she was reasonably certain it had only been two, so the brilliance of the idea wasn’t alcohol induced. Though the courage to speak might have had a little alcoholic backing.

  ‘You could take it off,’ she whispered back, studying his ear lobe so she didn’t have to meet his eyes. ‘Not now, but later. If you liked.’

  For someone who’d had a plan, it didn’t sound too convincing, but as Nick’s body grew tense and he missed the beat, trod on her foot and then thrust her suddenly away from him, she guessed convincing didn’t matter.

  Somehow, she’d got the message across.

  ‘What did you say?’ Nick demanded, finding his feet but
needing all his restraint to keep his voice below a bellow. He glared at the woman who’d turned from biddable colleague into…Well, he didn’t know what she’d turned into but whatever it was, it was disrupting his well-ordered life.

  Colour had risen in her cheeks and her eyes sparkled with challenge as they gamely met his.

  ‘Do you really want me to repeat it? Say it louder maybe?’

  He shook his head and groaned, then realised people were looking at them and shuffled back into some kind of rhythm.

  ‘What do you mean, I can take it off later?’ he asked again, only more quietly this time, directing the words to where her ear was hidden by a thickness of shiny dark hair.

  ‘Just that,’ she said with a new meekness that made him extremely suspicious. ‘Back at your place. Or at my place. I don’t know much about seduction scenes, or how they’re supposed to be played—lack of experience, you see—but I thought you might like to know I wouldn’t mind. In fact, I’d be grateful. Very grateful. It’s embarrassing, being a virgin at my age.’

  He was just coming to terms with what Phoebe had suggested when the second flood of words illuminated everything for him.

  It also convinced him that no amount of restraint would keep his voice below bellowing level. He steered his partner towards the windows, danced her across the wide patio, then led her forcibly down the steps to where he was reasonably certain no one would hear him.

  ‘You want me to take you home to bed in order to help you over some hang-up you’ve got about not having had sex with anyone? Is that what this is all about?’ he growled. ‘What do you think I am? Some kind of stud who goes around relieving women of their virginity—’

  ‘I think stud-muffin’s the latest word,’ Phoebe put in helpfully. She was now fairly certain it must have been three glasses of champagne, and was a little afraid of what to do next.

  ‘Don’t interrupt,’ Nick roared at her, but he seemed to have lost his train of thought because he hesitated, giving her the opportunity to speak again.

  ‘I’m sorry. It was a silly idea. But Jess said you had experience, and our kisses were OK—I mean, I really liked them—and we’re both adults with no ties to anyone else, so I thought…But obviously I was wrong. I’d better go back in. We should really both go back in. We don’t want people talking.’

  ‘No, we don’t,’ Nick said, but the words sounded strangled and she felt a moment’s pity for him. No doubt he was even more confused than she was.

  She walked away, hoping the night air would cool the burning heat of embarrassment she could feel in her cheeks. As she re-entered the ballroom, a young intern whom she’d met on the oncology ward greeted her with delight and begged for a dance.

  Going home to bed, pulling the covers over her head and staying there for a year or two would have been her first choice of what to do next, but the young man was pleading and as she couldn’t leave immediately after her precipitate departure to the gardens with Nick, without causing some comment, she agreed.

  She had danced maybe six steps with the intern when a familiar figure loomed up behind him, tapped him on the shoulder and said, in a voice that brooked no argument, ‘I’m cutting in.’ Without waiting for a reply, Nick detached Phoebe from the intern’s arms and settled her in his own.

  ‘That was extremely rude!’ she snarled at him.

  ‘Tough!’ he said, moving his body in some way that drew her closer.

  ‘You don’t have to dance with me. You can’t possibly want to,’ she muttered, while her body argued that dancing with Nick was exactly what it wanted.

  Well, not exactly perhaps, but coming close.

  ‘I’ll decide what I want and don’t want,’ he replied. ‘And right now I’ve decided to dance with you. Besides, I’m your boss, and to a certain extent responsible for your welfare. Who knows what other poor fool you might proposition tonight if I leave you on your own?’

  Heat burned in Phoebe’s cheeks again, and she dipped her head, hoping her hair would hide the vivid evidence of her embarrassment. Her feet, which should have been stumbling in confusion, seemed to follow his by instinct, so once again she gave in to the music and to the pretence that she was in Nick’s arms because that’s where he wanted her to be.

  Big mistake!

  Her body seemed to think it was OK to lean closer to him, and to respond to his presence with all the fluttery excitement his kisses had induced. The ache deep in her belly begged to be eased, and her nipples peaked and prick-led with a painful desire.

  But although Nick’s body moulded itself to hers, and although she imagined that physical reactions so strong couldn’t be all one-sided, nothing he said or did betrayed the slightest weakness in his very attractive flesh.

  In the end, it all became too much. When the band finally stopped for a break, Phoebe waited until they’d returned to the table then, while Jess was teasing Nick about only dancing with one woman, she excused herself and slipped away, making it as far as the corridor outside the ballroom before Nick caught up with her.

  ‘Leaving early, Cinderella?’ he asked, his eyes glittering strangely as he looked down into her face.

  ‘She left at midnight. I’ve stayed an extra hour,’ Phoebe told him, trying to speak calmly although she was jittery with both the excitement his presence caused and the humiliation of her memories.

  ‘I’ll drive you home, unless you’ve a convenient pumpkin you can summon up.’

  He sounded as calm as she was pretending to be, but the strange light remained in his eyes.

  ‘It’s OK,’ she said, with a casual shrug of her shoulder to add to her pretence of control. ‘Cabs or pumpkins, it’s all the same to me. I know after the way I behaved earlier the last thing you’d want to do is drive me home. I’m sorry if I embarrassed or offended you.’

  She wanted to mention the champagne but couldn’t bring herself to use it as an excuse when, in fact, she’d actually conceived the foolish plan while stone-cold sober.

  ‘I’ll still drive you home,’ he said, and took her arm, his touch reminding her of all the reasons she didn’t want to be alone with him.

  Or near him. Cooped up in a car. Smelling his cologne, his maleness.

  Dancing had been bad enough, but at least in front of several hundred people she’d been forced to practise what little decorum she’d managed to retain.

  ‘I’d rather get a cab,’ she muttered, trying to draw away.

  ‘I think you’ve forfeited your choice,’ he said, and Phoebe shivered at the strangeness in his eyes. ‘After all, I can hardly take the dress off here, can I?’

  Nick felt the shudder that ripped through her body, and felt her arm tremble in his hand.

  He cursed himself for letting the rage of his confusion loose, but couldn’t unsay the words.

  Couldn’t speak at all when she turned and looked at him.

  ‘Haven’t you punished me enough?’ she asked, her voice husky with the tears he could see shimmering in her eyes. ‘Making me dance with you like that? All the time looking so grim no one could suppose you were enjoying it. I did a foolish thing, Nick. But, hell, aren’t we both adults? Aren’t women supposed to be allowed to say such things these days? My mistake was in thinking you might not see it as a chore. That you might actually enjoy it.’

  He saw her throat move convulsively, then she added, in a very small voice, ‘That we might both actually enjoy it.’

  Nick’s fingers had slackened their hold on her arm and she moved away, her head bowed, the dark glossy tresses swinging forward to hide a face he guessed was streaked by tears.

  A weight like a grand piano lodged in his chest and he followed, staying behind her, not wanting to add to the humiliation she was obviously feeling. As a cab slid to a stop in front of her forlorn figure, he stepped forward and opened the door for her, then leaned in to tell the cabbie her address, passing him a note and adjuring him to take care of her.

  Then, because he found he couldn’t bear to see her so unhappy
, he touched her gently on the cheek.

  ‘It’ll be OK,’ he said. ‘We’ll both get past this and turn up to work again on Monday as if nothing’s happened.’

  But as the taxi drove away he wasn’t so certain. He couldn’t imagine how much courage it must have taken for a young woman as reserved as Phoebe to have made such a suggestion, or what damage he’d done to her ego with his vitriolic rebuff.

  Although there was one thing he did know for damn sure—it would be a long time before his body forgave him for not taking her up on the offer.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  WHEN the world failed to implode or otherwise destroy itself by Monday, Phoebe dragged herself reluctantly out of bed, glared at a sun that shone too brightly through her window and studied the contents of her wardrobe with gloomy dissatisfaction.

  What the hell did one wear when facing one’s boss after he’d turned down a sexual proposition? It was worse than last Monday morning, when all she’d done had been to slam her door in his face.

  No early training in manners or decorum had ever covered this situation.

  Cover—that was a clue. The more covered she was, the less hotly flushed skin would be on show. She pulled out a suit in the fine natural-coloured linen she favoured for work. Trousers, although she usually wore a skirt, a simple knitted vest top and a long sleeved jacket. That should do the trick.

  Talking to herself by way of encouragement, she showered, dressed and left the house, arriving at work early to avoid meeting other staff in the car park.

  ‘Good morning, Phoebe.’

  The bumps had already risen on her arms so she hadn’t needed the voice to confirm that the footsteps catching up to her were Nick’s.

  ‘Good morning, Nick,’ she managed, remembering his parting words on Saturday night.

  ‘We’re taking cells from one of Jackie’s tumours today—before her next lot of chemo starts. I won’t be in the unit much but you and Charles will manage.’

  So he’d meant what he’d said, Phoebe realised, although this pretence that nothing had happened was obviously coming easier to him than it was to her.