Still, it was progress.
Amy approached him with a smile. ‘You’re doing really well.’
He gave her a wry grin. ‘After a rather shaky start. Amy, I wanted to ask you something—is the aromatherapist around today?’
‘Yes, she’s here now.’
‘Does she have anybody with her? Only I’d like to talk to her, if she’s got time.’
‘I’ll tell her. Why don’t you go and change and I’ll see what I can do?’
‘Thanks.’
‘My pleasure.’
He showered and changed, then went up and found Amy in conversation with a woman in a white tracksuit.
She was softly pretty, a delicate blonde with eyes that saw everything. No doubt she could help him, but Sam realised at once he wouldn’t get away with less than a full confession.
‘Hi. I’m Laura. Why don’t you come into my office so we can talk?’ she said, and led Sam through a doorway into a small room decorated in restful blues and greens. There was a wonderful scent in the air, and he breathed deeply and felt himself unwind.
She perched on her chair, waved to another and smiled. ‘Now, what can I do for you?’
There was no point in beating around the bush. ‘Um-I was reading an article about aromatherapy in one of my medical journals the other day. They said something I found interesting.’
‘About the therapeutic effects of essential oils?’
He grinned awkwardly. He could feel the colour beginning to climb up his neck. Damn, why was it so difficult to talk about something so normal?
‘Actually, no—it was about aphrodisiacs.’
‘Ah.’ Laura sat back in her chair. ‘Are you having problems?’
‘No! That is—not exactly. Well, yes, in a way.’
Laura waited patiently while he floundered, growing more acutely embarrassed by the minute. Hell, why had he started this?
‘Is your marriage in a rut?’ she suggested after he’d finally run out of non-explanations.
He sighed with relief. ‘Yes. Exactly. We’ve lost touch with each other. We’re dealing with it, but I just thought, if I could woo her back…’ He shrugged diffidently. ‘I love her. I just can’t seem to reach her any more.’
‘Does she love you?’
He sighed. ‘I don’t know. I hope so. Maybe. I messed up the other night, went totally over the top when she was late home. I think that rather nobbled any progress I might have made.’
‘Oh, dear. You mustn’t get so worked up. Stress is very bad for you, you know.’
He looked at Laura, calm, beautiful, absolutely relaxed, and sighed. ‘I know. I’m not very good at dealing with it, either.’
‘You should work on it. In the meantime, I can give you an aphrodisiac massage oil that will blow her socks off. That do you?’
He laughed softly. ‘It sounds wonderful.’
She went into another room and came back a few moments later with a small bottle of oil.
‘What’s in it?’
‘Jasmine and ylang-ylang in a neutral base oil. You don’t need much.’
He paid her, indifferent to the hideous expense, and slipped it into his pocket.
‘You can put it in bath-water, sprinkle it on bedding or use it as a massage oil, but you must be careful with mucous membranes and eyes; it can sting a little. Oh, just one other word of warning——’ she grinned mischievously ‘—it’ll blow your socks off, too.’
Sam gave a wry grin. ‘That won’t take much doing at the moment.’
Laura smiled. ‘Have fun.’
‘Thank you.’
He shook her hand, surprised at the strength of it, and then went home to plan his assault.
Dustbusters were coming, and they would make the place presentable. That would help. So would a nice meal.
Sally was beginning to soften, he knew it. She was emotionally vulnerable after Gabby Lennard’s death, and tonight she would be tired and achy—just ready for a long hot bath followed by a nice, soothing massage.
Not that he would let it lead anywhere—not yet. He was beginning to realise that the only way to woo her was to tease and torment, slowly driving her out of her mind.
He used to do it years ago, when they worked together—brushing against her, the odd touch, the veiled promise.
It used to leave her gasping.
He chuckled. It had worked the first time—after a fortnight of gentle teasing and winding her up, she had been more than ready when he finally made love to her.
And so had he. That, too, had blown his socks off.
He closed his eyes for a moment, the memory sweet and sharp in his mind.
She had been so shyly eager, so full of curiosity. And that first shattering climax of hers—the little cries, the soft gasping breaths, the way she had clung to him…
Desire stabbed him now, leaving his knees weak and his heart racing. This was going to kill him, but he was going to do it.
He wouldn’t make love to her tonight, even if she begged him.
Well, perhaps if she begged…
Compared with the trauma and tragedy of the night, the rest of that day was relatively quiet and peaceful. Sally worked steadily through her surgeries and the antenatal clinic, trying hard not to think about Gabby Lennard who should have been there for a routine check-up.
She wondered what the PM result would show, if anything. The police certainly weren’t ruling out suspicious circumstances, but they seemed fairly confident that her death was due to natural causes.
Her evening surgery was over promptly, for a change, and she arrived home at six-thirty to find Sam and the children in the kitchen doing a wordsearch in one of Ben’s puzzle books.
‘You’re early,’ Sam said, and she felt the warmth of his smile right down to her toes.
She bent and kissed his cheek. ‘Want a hand with the supper?’
‘No, it’s all under control. You go and change into something sloppy and sit with the kids, and I’ll make you a cup of tea.’
It sounded a wonderful idea. She was tired and achy after her sleepless night, and the thought of slopping around in an old tracksuit while Sam waited on her was blissful.
She went upstairs and was staggered at how clean and tidy everything looked. Sam must have worked like a Trojan!
She pulled on an old jogging suit and went back downstairs.
There was a cup of tea waiting on the table, and through the open utility-room door she could see a pile of ironing neatly folded on the worktop beside the ironing board.
Good Grief! He can’t have sat down for a moment!
Molly snuggled up to her side. ‘I found “rabbit”, ‘she told her, pointing to the wordsearch. ‘We’re looking for “anteater”—Daddy couldn’t find it either.’
She looked up at Sally, clearly expecting her to find the word.
Goodness knows how. She could hardly see, never mind concentrate.
‘I don’t know,’ she began, and there, miraculously, it sprang out of the jumble of letters at her. ‘Here it is, it’s diagonally and backwards.’
Even Ben looked impressed. If the truth be told, Sally was pretty impressed herself. Smugly, she sipped her tea and found “giraffe”, then winked at Sam over the children’s bent heads.
‘Creep,’ he mouthed, and she giggled. One-upmanship was very childish, but tonight she needed to play silly games.
There had to be a balance.
She wondered how Mr Lennard was coping with the shock of losing his wife and baby so suddenly. She looked at her children’s bent heads, and tears welled in her eyes.
‘Stop it,’ Sam told her softly. ‘You’ve done your bit. Let it go.’
She nodded, dragging in a deep breath, and picked up her tea.
‘You’ve been very busy,’ she said, glancing round and catching sight of the ironing again.
He grinned, a lopsided, rueful smile. ‘Actually, I have a confession. I got Dustbusters in to deal with it.’
She laughed. She di
dn’t mean to, but the whole irony of the situation hit her.
‘I think I’ll have a day off tomorrow, too,’ she said between chuckles. ‘I’ll get a locum in.’
‘It’s hardly the same,’ he protested, looking deeply hurt.
Then she caught the twinkle in his eye and laughed again.
‘You’re a cheat, Sam Alexander. A miserable, wretched cheat.’
‘But I did it for you,’ he said, throwing her a winning smile and pulling a casserole out of the oven. ‘Come on, kids, clear the table. Time for supper.’
‘Is that that Marks and Spencer casserole you got today?’ Molly asked ingenuously.
Sally bit her lips to keep the laughter in, but failed dismally.
Sam struggled, but then succumbed. ‘Little rat,’ he muttered. ‘I thought I’d got away with that one.’
Sally was too hungry to care. She cleaned her plate, as did the children and Sam, and then they tucked into a very definitely bought chocolate gâteau and cream.
‘Another little number I knocked up this afternoon,’ Sam said without apology as he dished it up.
‘Daddy! You’re telling porky-pies again!’ Ben said cheerfully.
‘Yes, inferior role-modelling, darling,’ Sally teased.
Sam harumphed. ‘You don’t have to have any if you don’t want it.’
She guarded her plate with her arm. ‘I must say,’ she said as she licked her spoon thoughtfully clean of every last scrap, ‘our housekeeping budget is going to rocket if we go on like this.’
‘Even you buy chocolate gâteau!’
‘Mmm. But I do the ironing myself.’
Sam grinned. ‘You want everything to have a brown mark this shape in the middle?’ He drew an iron in the air, and Sally shrugged her defeat.
‘I rest my case,’ Sam said with finality.
‘Oh, that’s wonderful…’
‘It’s meant to be. You’re very tense.’
Sam’s hands smoothed up her back, his fingers working the taut muscles of her shoulders before gliding down her arms.
It was luxury. She’d just crawled out of a deliciously scented bath, to be greeted by Sam dressed only in a towel, telling her to lie on the bed.
A huge fluffy towel was stretched out on her side, and she took off her dressing-gown and lay face down on the bed.
She felt shy in front of him, strangely, even after all these years. Maybe because she knew she couldn’t fool him any more, or maybe because she knew things were different now between them.
Certainly there was something different about Sam, a new playfulness she hadn’t seen for years.
His hands felt so good on her. They always had, right from the beginning. Even recently, when she’d been angry, his touch had never been repellent.
Now, though—his hands slid lower over her ribs, teasing the outer margins of her breasts, making them ache for his touch.
He moved down, over her legs, sitting by her feet and working deeply into her thighs, smoothing and kneading, his touch hypnotic.
He moved her legs apart slightly, his hands encircling each thigh in turn, his touch sure and confident.
He worked down her calves, into her feet, between her toes even—the tension evaporated away like mist on a sunny morning.
‘Turn over,’ he commanded softly.
She was shy now. Facing him, somehow, was different.
She did as she was told, though. She just kept her eyes shut.
He worked on her face and neck, carefully avoiding her eyes, and then down over her collarbones, down each arm to the fingertips then back up again, then he dribbled more oil on his hands and spread it smoothly, evenly over her breasts.
Her breath caught. What was he doing? His touch was different now, lighter, less purposeful. She felt her nipples peak, and he rolled them gently between finger and thumb. She arched up, a soft cry coming from her lips, and he smoothed down over her ribs, his hands working lightly over the softness of her abdomen.
His palms slid over her hips, down, round, his fingers teasing the soft, damp curls as he came round again to stroke up, over her ribs.
Desire, sharp and sweet, pooled low in her body. She wanted him—needed him, in a way she hadn’t needed him for years.
A shudder ran through her, and she heard Sam’s low grunt of satisfaction. He lifted her right leg, propping it against his chest and sliding his hands down her thigh almost to the apex, then back up again, round and back, round and back.
She arched her hips towards him but he ignored her, taking her other leg and giving it the same treatment.
He worked his way down to her feet, paying particular attention to the sensitive area behind her knees and on the top of her foot, then suddenly he was gone.
She felt the bed shift, and he tugged the towel out from under her.
She heard him washing his hands and cleaning his teeth, then he came back into the bedroom, slid under the covers and flicked out the light.
‘Night, darling,’ he said softly. ‘Sleep well.’
She lay open-mouthed for a moment, stunned. He couldn’t do that to her! She was aching with need, desperate for the feel of his body united with hers…
A low groan erupted from her lips, and she turned into the pillows and squeezed her eyes tight shut. Her body throbbed, every heartbeat echoed in her secret core. She needed him, the evil rat, and he knew it!
Frustration burned at her for a while, but then a slow smile played around her lips. So he was up to those tricks again, was he? Well, two could play at that game.
She just hoped he was ready for it, because when they finally stopped playing with fire, there was going to be i hell of a conflagration!
CHAPTER EIGHT
SALLY phoned up for the result of the post-mortem on Gabrielle Lennard on Friday afternoon.
The result was conclusive and in its way a relief. She had died of a cerebral haemorrhage because a tiny cherry aneurism, like a little bubble, had burst deep inside her brain. She must have had it for years, and the slight rise in her blood-pressure due to pregnancy had been just enough to burst it.
It was one of those things that, without such an event, would normally have remained undetected unless it was revealed in a CT scan for another problem. It was quite unavoidable, there was nothing that could have been done and so Sally was able to go and see the woman’s distraught husband and tell him that.
It might stop him blaming himself too much for not having woken earlier, or worried about her headache sooner, or any of the myriad things bereaved people found to flagellate themselves with, Sally thought.
Gabby’s parents were with him, sitting sadly in the kitchen where Sally had comforted him the day before, and they seemed glad of the opportunity to discuss the cause of her death and the inevitability of it.
They had been to see her at the hospital before the post-mortem, and had accepted her death, although not the necessity for it. Sally’s words seemed to give them a measure of acceptance, although she knew anger would come later.
She went home to Sam and found him in the kitchen putting a chicken in the oven.
‘I wish the kids would eat something else,’ he said, looking at the chicken with disfavour. ‘They didn’t even like the garlic-basted one we had the other day for a change.’
She tried to summon a smile, but it wouldn’t come.
‘Ah, love,’ he said, his face registering understanding, and, opening his arms, he folded her hard against his chest.
‘I’ve just seen Gabby Lennard’s husband and parents,’ she mumbled into his shirt-front.
‘Did you get the PM result?’
She nodded. ‘Cerebral aneurism.’
‘Oh, hell. Well, I suppose it was quick.’
Sally eased out of his arms and filled the kettle for something to do. ‘She was just so damned young—only twenty-six.’
‘Some people go when the time’s right, like old man Lucas. Some hang on beyond what they and their relatives can bear, often suffe
ring far more than seems fair. Others, like Gabby, are snatched way before their time.’
She nodded. ‘That’s what it feels like—that it just wasn’t her time, but I suppose it was. It was perfectly natural—just a congenital defect in the artery wall.’
‘Still hard to take.’
‘Mmm.’ She emptied the teapot and rinsed it out. ‘Where are the children?’
‘Cubs and Brownies. Julia took them. I said I’d pick them up.’
‘I’ll go, if you like. I could do with seeing the other mums.’
‘Your coven? I expect they’ve missed you.’
She smiled wanly. ‘I’ve missed them. There really isn’t time for a social life, is there? The times I’ve called you antisocial, but there’s just nothing left, is there? No time and no energy.’
He pulled her into his arms and hugged her. ‘Only a week to go. If you want to give up, we can always swap back at any time.’
She pushed him away gently. ‘No fear. Just tough it out, Mrs Mop.’
He gave a wry grin. ‘Am I really so transparent?’
She snorted. ‘Just a touch. I’ll go and change, then I’ll pick up the children. Could you make a pot of tea?’
He tugged his forelock. ‘Yes, Mum. Certainly, Mum.’
‘That’s it—a little deference to the breadwinner, please.’
He made a rude noise, and with a laugh she ran up the stairs to their bedroom.
The lingering scent of jasmine and ylang-ylang hung on the air, sweet and provocative.
She closed her eyes, remembering the sensuous glide of his hands over her skin. Her pulse quickened, and little stabs of desire pierced her.
It would be interesting to see how this game of his was to be played—and to see if she would be capable of playing it without breaking the rules and grabbing him before the final whistle!
She was on duty that weekend from Saturday lunchtime to Monday morning, a fact which irked her in the extreme. It was a wonderful weekend, the weather glorious. It seemed fitting that Saturday was April Fools’ Day, because if she hadn’t challenged Sam she could have been out in the garden getting to grips with the rising tide of spring.
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