Oh, rats. She simply wasn’t sophisticated enough to deal with this famous and charismatic man who could have any woman he wanted, and probably did. She couldn’t imagine any woman in her right mind turning him down, and anyone but her wouldn’t hesitate to undress in front of him. On the contrary, they’d probably all jump at the chance!
And then, just when she was beginning to feel that it had all been the most hideous mistake, he astonished her by saying quietly, ‘I tried to get another room for you but there wasn’t one available, so this is your room. If I’m lucky, it’ll end up being mine as well, but if not, I’ll get a taxi to my flat. I just don’t want you to think I’m taking you for granted, because I’m not. I’ll need to change here, of course, but beyond that I’m expecting nothing from you, Meg. It’s all down to you.’
Had he read her mind? The tension drained out of her, and she smiled at him with gratitude.
‘It seems a very big bed for one person,’ she said softly, and he searched her face for an endless moment before his mouth quirked into a crooked smile.
‘I couldn’t agree more.’ Then he sucked in a deep breath and looked around. ‘Um…you shower first,’ he suggested. ‘You’ll probably need ages to do your hair and make-up afterwards, and we’re running out of time.’
So she went and showered, the butterflies in her stomach not sure if they were excited or scared to death. The butterflies weren’t alone, but she reminded herself she was a very small part of this event, little more than a table decoration, and the fear gave way to excitement and incredible, unbelievable anticipation.
Conscious of the time, she showered quickly and went out into the bedroom swathed in a soft, thick towelling robe she’d found on the back of the bathroom door, to find that Ben had vanished.
Or not. The curtains parted as he came back into the room, and she realised belatedly that they had a balcony. He had a glass in his hand, and he held it out to her.
‘Here—Dutch courage. It’s champagne. I reckon we’ve earned it.’
She eyed it dubiously, but then thought, what the heck. She’d had no lunch, and nothing much for breakfast. It would go straight to her head—which might give her the confidence to put on the dress.
‘Thank you,’ she said with a tentative smile, and his eyes darkened.
‘Do you have any idea just how sexy you are, standing there like that, all pink and glowing and gorgeous?’ he growled softly.
She laughed, but the laughter caught in her throat and she swallowed hard. ‘Ben—’
‘Shh. Later. I’ll go and shower. Don’t finish the bottle.’
‘I won’t.’
The bathroom door closed and she heard the lock slide to. She sipped a little more, then blotted her hair dry and flipped open her bag. If she dressed quickly, she would have that privacy she so perversely needed.
She hung up her dress, then rummaged in the bag for underwear. Such as it was. The only things she could wear under the dress were a strapless bra and the slightest, tiniest thong she’d ever seen, both a pale honey colour to disappear under the smoky lavender silk. At least they wouldn’t show if there was a UV light on at any time!
Underwear on and with an illusion of security, she then dried her hair, thankful that for once it fell sleek and heavy to her shoulders without a kink. Amazing.
She puffed scent into the air and walked through it, then reached for the dress and slid it over her head. It slithered down heavily, rippling over her breasts and settling like a skin around her waist and hips. Cut on the cross, the hem fell from midcalf at the front to brush her heels at the back, and when she moved the silk parted to reveal a fleeting glimpse of leg.
Fortunately not the leg with the graze on it from her mugging the other day, or she wouldn’t have bought it. Even now, she wasn’t sure why she had. It was utterly unforgiving and she was amazed she could get away with it, but Fliss had assured her it was stunning, and anyway it was too late now to worry. At least she didn’t have VPL with the tiny scrap of thong.
As a concession to the cameras and because she didn’t want to let Ben down, she brushed a flick of muted shadow on her lids and a touch of tinted moisturiser with a hint of glitter over her cheeks. And lipstick, because even she wore lipstick from time to time.
But no mascara, because if Ben should win, she knew she would cry.
Straightening up, she slipped on her shoes and stood back to study herself in the mirror, and her eyes widened.
Was this her? This poised young woman with a slender waist and curving hips and—gracious, so much cleavage?
The nerves came back, just as the bathroom door opened and Ben emerged in nothing more than a towel. He stopped in his tracks, his hands pausing in the act of knotting it at his waist, and his eyes met hers in the mirror, then swept down over her body, cataloguing every inch of it.
Then his eyes came back to hers, and he came slowly up behind her and ran a finger over the bare expanse of her shoulders, up, slipping it under the fine spaghetti strap and running it round, down, to trail over the hollow between her breasts, his eyes never leaving hers in the mirror.
‘You’re beautiful,’ he whispered unsteadily. ‘Quite exquisite.’
‘Not ordinary?’
His laugh cracked in the middle. ‘Not in the least ordinary,’ he agreed. ‘You never are, but this…’ He shook his head as if to clear it, and reached for his clothes. ‘If you don’t want to be shocked you might want to go on the balcony.’
‘Maybe I want to be shocked,’ she teased, suddenly feeling the power of her womanhood, but he shook his head again and pushed her gently towards the French windows.
‘Not that shocked. Go on. I don’t want to scare you to death.’
‘You bragging?’ she asked bravely, but she went anyway, the fortifying champagne in hand. She topped up her glass from the bottle in the bucket outside and tried not to think about Ben naked in the bedroom behind her.
The balcony was lovely, overlooking the trees in the square opposite and running the length of the room. She breathed in the scent of the flowers that rioted in pots clustered at each end and wished the evening was over and she was back here with Ben.
‘Meg?’
She turned, to find him right behind her, an orchid in his hand.
He held it out to her, and she reached for it slowly. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s for you. I thought…’
She smiled. He had. He’d thought—thought of her, gone to the trouble of arranging a corsage for her. Nobody had ever done that before, and she felt her eyes fill.
‘Thank you, Ben,’ she whispered, looking down as he held it against her breast. ‘I felt undressed really, but I didn’t have any jewellery that would do the occasion justice. I don’t really do jewellery, but that’s so beautiful.’
‘I don’t know where you think it ought to go. The dress doesn’t need anything. Your hair?’
‘Has it got a clip?’
He nodded, and she smiled. Flowers in her hair. How romantic.
‘Do it for me,’ she murmured, and he moved closer, the flowers giving way to the scent of his aftershave and the unique fragrance of his skin, all of it mixed into a heady potion that threatened to knock her off her feet.
Or was that the champagne?
‘There,’ he said, and stepped back, so that for the first time she got a good look at him, and her heart rate hitched up a gear.
He was wearing a tux, as she’d expected, but she’d never expected it to look so good on him. Beautifully cut from the finest, softest wool, the fabric draped over his body, subtly hinting at the sheer power of the muscular frame beneath. The sharpness of the black, in stark contrast to the brilliant white of the crisply pleated shirt, set off the natural warmth of his skin and emphasised the smouldering storm-grey of his eyes.
He took her breath away, and for a moment she was speechless. It was so unlike her that he tipped his head slightly to the side and frowned. ‘What? Is my bow-tie crooked or something?’
She shook her head. ‘No. I was just admiring you. You look gorgeous, Ben. Stunning.’
‘Good. It’ll keep the punters happy, and that means I get to eat.’ He gave her a crooked grin and topped up his glass. ‘To us,’ he said softly, and her heart nearly stopped.
He was talking as if they might have a future, as if there was more to this night than just these few short hours.
No. Don’t be silly. She smiled. ‘To us,’ she echoed.
‘The nominations for best fly-on-the-wall documentary are as follows: Under the Arches; Unsung Heroes—the Fire-fighters; and Revealing All.’
There was a shuffle and a ripple of conversation, as people turned to look at the nominees, and then clips of each of the programmes were shown on a huge screen above the podium. Under the Arches was about homeless kids in London, with a deeply evocative and simple clip that nearly reduced Meg to tears, and Revealing All was a look into the lives of young prostitutes in Manchester. The clip from Ben’s programme showed him coming out of a blazing building dragging a fire-fighter to safety, and seeing it again made Meg’s throat close with fear for him. It somehow seemed so much more real now that she knew him.
‘And the winner is…’ There was a pause while the Master of Ceremonies slit open the envelope with a flourish and pulled out the card, ‘Unsung Heroes!’
There was a massive round of applause, and Ben shook his head. ‘Crazy,’ he muttered, and he and Pete Harrison got to their feet and went up onto the platform to receive their award, taking Steve with them—about the only time Meg had seen him without a camera in hand. Her palms hurt from clapping, and her eyes were filling, as she’d known they would, but Ben was talking now, thanking everyone, and most particularly the personnel at the fire station who had made it possible.
‘The men of the Green Watch were fantastic. They treated me as one of their own, part of the team, and gave me an insight into the danger that they face every day of their lives. I’ll never take a fire-fighter for granted again. It was a privilege to work with them, and I’d like to thank them for giving me that opportunity, and for making the filming of the programme possible.’
They turned to leave the platform, but the MC reached out a hand and held Ben back.
‘There is just one more thing. I understand the chief fire officer gave you a commendation for bravery, but you declined it.’
Ben’s face froze. ‘I did—because I didn’t do anything to deserve it. How did you find out about it?’
‘We were approached, when the nominations were announced. You see, there’s someone who disagrees with you, and he’s here tonight. You’ve all seen him already once this evening, on the clip. He’s the man Ben dragged out of a blazing building, and I’d like to introduce him to you now. Ladies and gentlemen, Station Officer Sam Peck!’
Ben straightened and turned, his face a mass of emotions as a man came through an opening at the back of the platform and took him by the hand.
‘Sam, what’s going on?’ Ben muttered, but Sam gave a grim smile and turned to the spellbound audience.
‘On the 28th of April last year, I was inspecting the premises you’ve just seen after my crews had been called to a fire there. It had been burning for some considerable time, and we thought it was contained. I went in with Ben to inspect the damage and to check that there were no hot spots, but when I opened one of the office doors, I experienced the fire-fighter’s nightmare—a backdraught. I let oxygen into the room by opening that door, and it fed the flames and created a fire-ball that blew me off my feet. It was only Ben’s prompt and courageous action in dragging me away from that inferno that saved my life.’
He turned to Ben, his face utterly serious. ‘Ben, you reckon you don’t deserve this commendation, but I happen to know you’re wrong, because without you, I would have died in that fire, and left a widow and three small children. So, I’m sorry, it’s tough, but you’re having it—from me, and from my wife and kids, and from all the men of Green Watch—and if you ever want a job, you’ve got one at my station.’
The room erupted. Sam picked up the award from the rostrum and handed it to Ben, then shook his hand again.
Ben shook his head wordlessly, then dragged Sam into a hug that should have crushed him. Then he let him go and turned and made his way back to the table, his face twisted with emotion.
The applause was still thunderous, and Meg didn’t care that the cameras were on them and tears were streaming down her face, because she was so proud of him she could have burst…
The door closed behind her with a quiet click, and Ben crossed the room and put the awards down on the table, his face expressionless.
‘Thank God that’s over,’ he said with a heartfelt sigh, and stripped off his bow-tie and draped his jacket over the back of a chair. ‘I thought the party was never going to end. I wonder if the champagne’s still worth drinking.’
He opened the balcony door and went out, drawing in a deep breath and closing his eyes. He looked exhausted, and Meg refilled their glasses with the remains of the champagne and handed him one.
‘Congratulations,’ she said softly. ‘I’m really proud of you.’
‘Don’t.’
‘But I am.’
She smiled and stepped closer, cradling his jaw in her hand, and he turned his head and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her palm.
‘You look beautiful,’ he murmured. Lifting his hand, he unclipped the flower from her hair and set it down, then, putting the glass down, he drew her into his arms, threaded his fingers through her hair and lowered his mouth to hers.
‘I’ve been longing to do this all night,’ he murmured, brushing his lips against hers. Then he slanted his mouth over hers and claimed her with a kiss so hot, so needy, so hungry that her legs nearly buckled.
Then he eased away, rested his forehead against hers and sighed gently. ‘I must be insane. Only a fool would expect to get up before six, put in five hours’ filming, abseil down an absurdly high building—how high was it?’
‘Nine storeys. Did I tell you how proud I was of you for doing that?’
‘No, you didn’t. I hope Steve got plenty of footage, because I’m never—ever—doing it again. Dear God. Where was I? Oh, yes. Abseil down a nine-storey building, then drive to London, put on fancy togs and go to a highly public dinner followed by some crazy award ceremony screened live on national television, party half the night and then take a woman he really, really wants to impress to bed and expect to do her justice.’
Meg laughed softly and wrapped her arms around his waist, hugging him closer and looking up into his eyes, unbelievably touched by his honesty.
‘You don’t need to impress me, Ben. You don’t need to do anything. You can go to sleep if you want. Just hold me.’
His brows drew together and he swallowed hard. ‘Don’t worry, I intend to,’ he said gruffly. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he turned her and steered her back into the bedroom.
He closed the balcony door, dimmed the lights and then drew her back into his arms. For a moment all he did was hold her, then he lowered his head and nuzzled against her hair. His lips found her ear, her throat, the little hollow at the base where her pulse was racing. He soothed it with his tongue, then moved on, downwards, leaving a trail of fire over the soft swell of her breasts, down to the endless cleavage she’d been so conscious of all evening.
‘You feel so good—so soft,’ he murmured, and his hands slid round her ribs and cupped her breasts, lifting them to his mouth. With a groan he lifted his head and searched her face with his glittering eyes.
‘We have too much on,’ he said roughly, and he stared at the dress in frustration. ‘How does this come off?’
Oh, Lord. What if the sight of her naked turned him off? But he didn’t look as if it would. In fact, he looked as if he’d die of frustration if she didn’t do something soon. She swallowed the little surge of panic and stepped back a little, slipped the straps down over her arms and slowly, carefu
lly, wriggled out of it, letting it fall in a shimmering pool at her feet.
His eyes followed its path, then jerked back up again, fixing on her chest.
‘Dear God—Meg!’ he whispered, his face horrified, and for a moment all her fears about her body came to life. Then his hand reached out, his fingers outlining the livid bruise on her ribcage where she’d been punched, and she breathed again.
‘It’s OK. It looks much worse than it is.’
He shook his head and swallowed. ‘Bastards,’ he growled softly, then looked up at her and met her eyes. ‘Are you really OK?’
‘I’m fine—or I would be if you’d stop torturing me with this endless waiting.’
His eyes darkened and, without taking them off her, he unbuttoned his shirt with unbearable deliberation, removed his cuff-links and shrugged the shirt off his shoulders. His hands, free again, moved to the trousers, those beautifully cut, soft wool trousers that did nothing to hide his feelings from her.
He heeled off his shoes, hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his trousers and boxers and stripped them off, picking up his socks en route so that when he straightened he was gloriously, magnificently naked.
He took her breath away. He was—oh, God, so very, very aroused, and for a moment she felt a flicker of panic, but her body had no such hesitation and she felt the sharp pull of desire deep within her. She needed him—needed him as she’d never needed anyone or anything, and if he didn’t hold her soon, she was going to die.
He dropped the trousers in a crumpled heap on top of the shirt, and she thought, totally inconsequentially, They’ll crease.
And then he reached out a hand to her, and she took it and stepped out of her dress and into his arms, the trousers forgotten.
His hands slid down her back and cupped her bare bottom, and a groan erupted from deep in his throat. ‘These are not knickers,’ he said unsteadily, his fingers tracing the thin silky band back up to her waist and round, skimming the trembling plane of her abdomen, then up, over her quivering midriff to the centre clasp of her bra.
Holding Out For a Hero Page 12
