‘Oh, well, glad to be of service,’ Lucy said with a chuckle. ‘And this is Daniel, the cause of all the trouble.’
‘Oh, he’s so beautiful,’ she whispered, and she felt her eyes fill with tears. ‘Sorry. Babies always do that to me,’ she said with a light laugh, but she could feel James watching her.
‘Oh, good,’ Andy said. ‘You can hold him while I dig out my chequebook. Lucy’s found a picture and I need to pay for it. Here.’
And he reached over and gave her little Daniel. Just like that, her arms were full of new baby, closing round him automatically and cradling him close, and she felt the threatening tears well again. ‘Hello, little guy,’ she crooned softly, breathing that wonderful new baby smell and welling up again. It just felt so right. ‘Aren’t you gorgeous?’
James felt his heart squeeze just looking at them together. She should be a mother, he thought suddenly. She’s born for it. It could be my child, but if I stop her, it’ll be someone else’s, and how will that feel?
‘So how do you two know each other?’ Lucy asked, and James dragged his eyes off Connie and the baby before he went crazy.
‘We worked together nine years ago, and we’ve kept in touch.’
He noticed Lucy’s eyes flick to Connie’s wedding ring, and winced inwardly, but he didn’t say any more, and neither did Connie. She was absorbed by the baby, utterly focused, and she just looked so damned right holding him that he could hardly think straight, never mind make small talk or fend off gossip. Not that Lucy was a gossip, but he didn’t feel it was up to him to broadcast Connie’s personal circumstances.
‘All done.’
Connie looked up at Andy and smiled ruefully. ‘Does that mean you want him back?’
‘Afraid so, having gone to all that trouble to get him.’
So she handed him back, releasing him reluctantly, her arms feeling suddenly desperately empty and unfulfilled.
And then she glanced at James and saw a muscle clench in his jaw, and she thought, I’m not alone. He feels it, too. The ache. The need. The emptiness. Only how much worse is it for him?
‘So what do you think of the exhibition?’ Lucy asked.
James shrugged. ‘I don’t know, we’ve only just arrived.’
‘Well, you’d better go and look, the red dots are going on faster than a measles epidemic,’ Andy said with a grin.
‘Oh, I don’t do pictures. It would require finding a hammer and a nail to put it on the wall, and that would mean unpacking the boxes.’
Andy laughed, and James was still smiling, but it was lingering there in his eyes, she thought. The emptiness.
He still wants a child, she realised with sudden clarity. He wants one, but he doesn’t know how to move on. But maybe, once he’d got to know her—maybe she’d be able to do something about that...
‘Well, hi.’
‘Ben! Nice to see you. How’s our patient?’
‘Fine. Doing well.’
‘Are you two going to talk shop?’ Lucy asked pointedly, but Connie just grinned.
‘No, we three are. Sorry. So how is she? How’s the head injury?’
‘A nice shade of purple, and so’s her knee, but she’s fine. This is Daisy, by the way.’
* * *
She was scintillating.
She mingled with everyone with the confidence of someone totally at ease with herself, smiling and laughing and waving her hands all over the place to illustrate what she was saying. Which was great, because it meant he didn’t need to stand right next to her all night, breathing in that intoxicating perfume and threatening to disgrace himself.
‘So, what do you think?’
He turned round to Molly. ‘Great exhibition. Really good.’
‘I meant of Connie.’
‘Connie?’
‘Oh, James, come on, you haven’t taken your eyes off her. Doesn’t she look beautiful?’
Well, he could lie, or make some excuse, or drop his drink.
Or he could just be honest.
‘Yes. She does. It’s the first time I’ve seen her look happy in ages. Thanks for inviting her. She’s really enjoyed dressing up, I think. She’s even got crazy matching nail varnish on her toes.’
Molly chuckled. ‘Not that you noticed, of course.’
‘Of course not. Why would I? I’d better go and rescue her, that guy’s getting a bit pushy.’
‘He’s harmless, James. I’m sure she can cope,’ Molly murmured, but he couldn’t. Couldn’t cope at all with the good-looking bastard oozing charm all over her like some kind of vile slime, and the words she’d said to him less than a week ago were echoing in his head. Words about pulling some random stranger in a club. Or at an art exhibition?
Fighting off the red mist, he made his way over to her, smiling grimly.
‘There you are,’ he said, slipping his hand through her arm, and he stuck his hand out. ‘James Slater.’
The man blinked, introduced himself as Tony and made himself scarce. Excellent.
Connie turned slowly and looked up at him. Not that far up, not now, because she was teetering on those skyscrapers that messed with his head and they brought her up almost to eye level with him.
‘So what was that all about?’ she asked, laughter dancing in her eyes.
‘He was flirting outrageously.’
‘Yes. He was. And I was perfectly happy letting him make a fool of himself. It was quite fun, actually.’
At which point James began to wonder if he was making a fool of his own self. Very probably. He tried not to grind his teeth. ‘I thought he might be annoying you.’
‘In which case I would have told him where to go. James, I’ve lived on an army base for years,’ she said patiently, her eyes laughing at him. ‘Several of them. And in every one there was someone like that. I can deal with it.’
He nodded. Of course she could. He’d seen her doing it years ago, for God’s sake, handling the drunks on a Friday night in the ED. Tony whoever was nothing. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to come over all heavy, I just...’ He shrugged, and she shook her head slowly and smiled at him.
‘You’re crazy. Come with me. There’s a picture I want to show you.’
She tucked a hand in his arm and led him through to another room. It was quieter in there, and she pulled him to one side and then turned him.
And there, on the wall opposite them, was a blur of vibrant colour. It radiated energy, and for a second he couldn’t work out what it was. And then the mist seemed to clear and he could make out the figure of a runner, smudged with speed, the power almost palpable, and at the bottom was a fine, curved line.
‘It’s called Blade Runner,’ she said softly. ‘Isn’t it amazing? As if she’s tapped into his soul.’
‘Amazing,’ he echoed. ‘It’s incredible. It must be David.’
‘I would think so. It’s not for sale.’ Connie let him stand there for a minute, then she tugged his arm. ‘Come on. There are others. Have you looked at them?’
He shook his head. ‘No. No, not really.’ Because he’d been watching her. Picturing her with a baby in her arms. Picturing her pregnant. Fantasising about getting her that way—
‘You should. Your walls are crying out for colour, for movement. And these are fantastic.’
He stopped thinking about Connie then and started to look at them, really look at them, and he was blown away.
‘Wow. I love this one,’ Connie said, pausing in front of a very familiar scene. At least he thought it was familiar, but Molly’s work was blurred and suggestive rather than figurative, and he wasn’t entirely sure.
‘It looks like the marshes from my veranda.’
‘Gosh, yes. I think you’re right—what does it say?’
‘“Mist over the ferry marshes
”,’ he told her. ‘I’m sure it is. I recognise the pattern of the landscape.’
‘It’s the view out the back here, she paints it all the time. She loves it,’ David said in passing, and gave him another drink. He took it without thinking. So did Connie, and by the time they’d worked their way round the exhibition again, they’d had another two. At least.
Realising he’d lost count, he took a closer look at Connie and sighed inwardly. She was tiddly. Not drunk, certainly not that, but gently, mildly inebriated. At the moment. And frankly, so was he.
‘I think it’s time to go home,’ he murmured.
‘Really?’
‘Really.’ The crowd was thinning out, Andy and Lucy with their tiny baby were long gone, and he figured that he just about had time to get Connie home before the last glass entered her system and pushed her over the edge.
‘Fabulous exhibition. I love every single one,’ she told Molly fervently. ‘I want them all, but I haven’t got any money, and more importantly I haven’t got any walls or I might have to start saving.’
Molly laughed. ‘Thank you. I’m glad you like them. And you’ll have walls one day.’
‘I’ve got walls right now that need pictures,’ James said, surprised to realise that he meant it. ‘Can I come and see you tomorrow?’
‘Sure. We’re opening the door at ten. Come before then. Both of you, come for coffee.’
‘That’ll be lovely. Thanks.’ He kissed her cheek, shook David’s hand and ushered Connie out of the door.
‘Can we walk by the sea?’ she asked, so he led her up onto the sea wall, her hand firmly anchored in his.
‘Oooh. That’s a bit steep. When did that happen?’ she asked, eyes rounded, and giggled.
‘When you had all that champagne,’ he told her wryly, and she laughed and tucked her arm in his and they walked arm in arm along the sea wall until they reached his house. Then she looked down at the bank.
‘Hmm. We walked along the road before, didn’t we?’
‘We did.’
‘Oh.’
If it was anybody else, he would have thought it was staged, but Connie wasn’t that artful. He shook his head and hoisted her up into his arms, and she gave a little shriek and wrapped her arms around his neck.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Carrying you down the bank so you don’t break your ankle in those crazy shoes.’
‘Don’t you like my shoes?’ she asked, lifting one foot up and examining it thoughtfully, and he turned his head and looked at her leg and groaned softly.
‘Your shoes are fine,’ he said a little abruptly, and put her down. She slid down his front, ending up toe to toe with him, their bodies in contact from chest to knee.
Dear God.
‘James?’ she whispered.
She was so close her breath teased his cheek, and it would take only the tiniest movement of his head to bring their lips into contact.
He moved, brushed his mouth against hers. Pulled back, then went in again for more, his hands tunnelling into her hair, his tongue tracing her lips, feeling them part for him. He delved, and she delved back, duelling with him, driving him crazy.
She whimpered softly, and he pulled away, resting his head on hers and breathing hard, stopping now while he still could.
‘More,’ she said, and he shook his head.
‘Connie, no. This is a bad, bad idea.’
‘Is it?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘What a shame.’ She hiccupped, and looked up at him, her eyes wide in the moonlight. ‘Do you think we might be just a teeny, tiny bit drunk?’ she asked, and then giggled.
He closed his eyes, the imprint of her body against his burning like flames, the touch of her lips branding him forever. ‘Just a teeny, tiny bit,’ he agreed. ‘Come on, Connie, it’s time you went to bed.’
And he turned her and pointed her in the direction of the cabin, unlocked the door and pushed her in.
Quickly, before he did something that couldn’t be undone, something he’d regret for the rest of his life.
Something like cup that beautiful, laughing face in his hands once more and bend his head and kiss her again, only this time, he knew, he wouldn’t stop...
* * *
How ironic. And what a brilliant way to find out that he was ready to move on.
With his best friend’s widow.
Great move, Slater, he told himself in disgust. He picked up a pebble off the sea wall and hurled it into the water. Or tried to. The tide was too far out, and he missed by miles.
That was champagne for you.
Or the distracting realisation that you were about to make a real idiot of yourself.
Even more disgusted, he threw another one, and this time he was angry enough that it made its mark.
Better.
So he did it again.
* * *
She was woken by Saffy scratching at the door.
‘Saff, no, it’s too early, come and lie down,’ she pleaded, her head thrashing, but Saffy wanted out, and she wasn’t giving up. She whined, then gave a soft bark, and Connie stumbled out of bed and opened the door.
James was on the veranda, sitting there in the pre-dawn light, a mug cradled in his hands.
‘Is that tea?’ she asked, her throat parched and her head pounding.
‘You need water,’ he told her, and dropped his feet to the deck and stood up. ‘Gallons of it.’
She walked barefoot across the dewy grass and climbed the steps gingerly. ‘I want tea.’
‘Water first,’ he insisted, handing her a glass.
‘I wasn’t that bad,’ she protested, but a sceptical eyebrow flickered and she scowled at him. ‘I wasn’t!’
‘No. To quote you, you were only a teeny, tiny bit drunk.’
‘Oh, God,’ she moaned, and slumped down onto the bench and put her head in her hands. ‘Did I disgrace myself?’
‘No. You were lovely,’ he said, his internal editor clearly on holiday, and she dropped her hands from her face and straightened up, turning slowly to look at him.
‘I was?’
‘Well, of course you were.’
She smiled and leant back, picking up the glass. ‘Phew. For a moment there I thought I might have made a fool of myself.’
He chuckled. ‘You didn’t, but probably only because I got you out of there in time.’
‘You didn’t have to carry me home,’ she pointed out, which answered the question of how much she remembered. More than he’d expected, probably. The kiss?
‘I didn’t. I just carried you down the bank.’
‘Yeah. Crazy shoes. I bought them after Joe died. He was only three inches taller than me, and they’re five inch heels. And I love them soooo much.’
‘I don’t know how the hell you walk in them.’
‘Carefully,’ she said with a little laugh. ‘So—I’ve drunk the water. Can I please have tea now? Because I do have a teensy little headache.’
‘I’ll just bet you do,’ he grumbled, getting to his feet again. ‘What did your last servant die of?’
And then he stopped in his tracks, swore viciously and turned back to her. Her eyes were wide with shock, all laughter gone, and he could have kicked himself.
‘Ah, hell, Connie, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—’ He swore again, and dropped his head against the doorframe, banging it gently. OK, maybe not so gently. ‘I’m really sorry. That was inexcusable. I can’t believe I said it.’
‘Hey. It’s all right,’ she said softly. ‘It was just a silly remark. We all do it. And it’s exactly the sort of thing Joe used to say to me. I’ll forgive you if you get me tea and stop making wisecracks about my hangover. Done?’
‘Done,’ he said, send
ing her a wry, apologetic smile. ‘Do you want anything to eat?’
‘It’s a bit early.’
‘Not if you’ve been up all night.’
‘Survivors’ breakfast?’ she said, and there it was again, the spectre of Joe between them, and this time it was her fault.
I can’t do this, he thought. I can’t just be with her feeling like this with Joe hanging over us. And I’m not sure I can cope with the idea of giving her a baby. Ever. I can’t even cope with thinking about it because I want it so much. How did I get myself in this mess?
Easy. He’d been forced into a corner by the staffing crisis, and he’d been so desperate for help that Connie had seemed like the answer to his prayers, so he hadn’t let himself think about it too hard. The trouble was, she was hoping he’d be the answer to hers, or at least give her the answer to her prayers in the form of a baby, and he really wasn’t sure he could. Not in the way she wanted, anyway, just a clinical donation of his DNA. Not when the real alternative was growing more and more compelling by the second—
‘Something like that,’ he said mildly. ‘Bacon sandwich?’
‘Oh, amazing! That would be so good.’
‘Coming up.’
And he retreated to the kitchen, dragging the task out far longer than necessary while he tried to work out if she’d remembered the kiss or if she was just avoiding the subject like him.
‘Are you growing that tea?’ she asked, appearing in the doorway in those inadequate pyjamas, and he slid the mug towards her, fished the bacon out of the pan and dropped it on the bread and hesitated, sauce bottle in hand.
‘Ketchup or brown sauce?’
‘Neither. As it comes. Unless you’ve got fresh tomato?’
He gave an exaggerated sigh, got a tomato out of the fridge and sliced it, and handed her the sandwich. ‘Right. I’m going for a run,’ he said, and left the kitchen before his body gave him away. He was going to cut those pyjamas up, he vowed, plodding up the stairs and turned the corner into his bedroom, to come to a dead halt.
‘Connie! Your dog’s up here, in my bed, and she’s eating my trainers!’
* * *
Saffy was in disgrace.
They’d been his favourite running trainers, he said, and she felt racked with guilt.
The Secret in His Heart Page 12
