Max was looking at Annie with a curiously veiled expression in his eyes. 'Yes, sure, if Annie's in agreement.'
And Annie found herself outmanoeuvred by all of them. To refuse would have seemed churlish, and in truth she didn't really know why she wanted to refuse, but she had a strange feeling somewhere between excitement and dread that made her veins tingle and her heart race.
She realised they were all waiting for her reply and, defeated, she lifted her shoulders in a little shrug of submission. 'Fine,' she said.
And that was that. Half an hour later, she found herself walking up the drive with Max, heading for the hills behind the hotel. They left the cars with Fiona and Peter, and set off at a brisk pace, falling naturally into step with each other. He adjusted his stride to hers automatically, something Peter would never have done, and then as they reached a fork in the path, he turned to her with a grin.
'Which way?' he asked.
She was astonished. 'Haven't you planned it?' she said.
He chuckled. 'Planned it? No. I've got a map here somewhere, but it's probably got a coffee stain right in the middle of the bit we want. So, lady, left or right?'
She looked around her, suddenly filled with a great surge of freedom, and laughed. 'Right,' she said firmly, and he nodded.
'Right it is. Do you want to go first, or follow me?'
'Can I go first? I hate not being able to see the track.'
'Sure.'
So she led the way, and they climbed high up Helvellyn and looked back down on Thirlmere, with the dam at the northern end and Grasmere away to the south and the sea in the distance, and she laughed again with the wonder of being alive.
'You sound happy.'
'I am. It's so nice just to walk—not have to follow a map and make sure you're on the exact path, and go at a set speed.'
'Peter, I take it?'
She sighed and lifted her hair off her nape. It was damp with the effort of the climb, and she savoured the cooling breeze for a moment. 'Yes, Peter. He likes things... ordered.'
'And you don't.'
'Not everything. He can't do anything off the cuff— he has lists. I don't know, sometimes I think he makes love to me because it's on his list—'
She broke off, shocked that she'd said anything so personal—so disloyal—to a total stranger, but he didn't feel like a stranger. He felt like a friend, someone who intuitively understood her. Even so...
'I'm sure he doesn't,' Max said softly. 'I'm sure even the worthy Peter would find a better reason than that.'
She looked up swiftly and met his eyes, and realised it was a compliment. She looked away, confused by the sudden surge in her pulse and the heat that raced through her. 'He's a good man,' she said defensively. 'I shouldn't have said that, it was unfair.'
'Nobody's talking about fair. Sometimes you just need to get things off your chest, and I get the feeling you don't do that very often.'
'I don't,' she admitted. 'You're right, I bottle things up.'
He plucked an ear of grass and removed the seeds one by one, giving it far more attention than it deserved. 'Why did you marry him?' he said after a moment, and she blinked.
'Why? I don't know. Because I loved him?' Did he notice her use of the past tense? He didn't comment, if so, just moved on.
'Security? He's older than you, isn't he?'
It wasn't really a question. It was obvious he was older than her, much older, whereas Max was probably only thirty or so, just three or four years her senior. 'He's thirty-eight. I'm twenty-seven. We've been married two years.'
'And were you flattered by his attention?'
Annie sighed and pulled up a blade of grass, shredding it systematically. There was going to be none left at this rate. 'Flattered? Probably. He's very kind.'
'I don't doubt it. He's also exceedingly dull—-he's like an entomologist. If I look closely I'll probably find a pin through your heart.'
She laughed, a little hollow sound that was whisked away on the wind. 'And what are you going to do— set me free?'
'For now, at least.'
Their eyes met and locked, and Annie had a strange and inexplicable urge to cry.
'We ought to get back,' she said, guilt tugging at her, but she didn't want to.
'Come on,' he said softly, and pulled her to her feet. 'We'll go down the long way.'
It was harder going down than coming up, and they stopped halfway to rest their legs for a minute. In the distance they saw a car turn out of the hotel drive, and Max shaded his eyes and peered at it more closely.
'That looked like my car. Maybe Fiona's decided to buy one of her postcards.'
'Tell me about her,' Annie said impulsively.
'Fiona? I thought she did a good job of that herself last night.'
'No, I mean the two of you. You seem...'
'Different?' He smiled ruefully. 'You might say that.'
'She's not really much for the great outdoors, is she?'
'No.' He sighed. 'She keeps talking about Harley Street, and I think she really believes I'll end up there. Nothing could be further from the truth. I want to live somewhere where I can go for walks and be near the sea—I've got a boat, nothing flashy but it's fun. It's a sailing boat and it goes like a rocket, and she hates it. She hates anything smelly or dirty or risky.'
'She wouldn't like bowel surgery, then,' Annie said with a wry grin, and he laughed.
'Absolutely not.' He looked down at his feet, scuffing a stone idly. 'We're getting married in four weeks. Four weeks and two days, to be exact.'
'You don't sound thrilled,' she said cautiously, and he gave a brittle laugh and straightened up.
'No. Bit worrying, really, isn't it?' he muttered, and set off down the hill again. They walked the rest of the way in silence, and when they arrived back at the hotel it was to find that Peter and Fiona had gone out together.
'They said something about lunch in Keswick,' Hans told them.
Annie and Max exchanged glances. 'Fancy going out for lunch?' Max suggested, but she shook her head, guilty because she'd enjoyed herself more today with this stranger than she ever had with Peter—or ever would.
'We ought to be here, really, when they come back.'
'I could get you some lunch—perhaps a little picnic?' Hans said. 'Some chicken and fruit, a bottle of wine? We've got a small rowing boat—you could take it out on the lake and have a picnic. You'd be here, then. We could shout for you.'
Annie looked up at Max, wondering if her face reflected the wistful hope in her heart despite the guilt. 'It sounds fun.'
Max scanned her face thoughtfully, then turned to their host with a smile. 'Thank you, Hans, that would be lovely.' He turned back to Annie. 'Shall we shower first?'
She tugged at her damp T-shirt and laughed. 'Probably a good idea. It was hot, climbing up Helvellyn. I'll see you down here in a few minutes.'
It took her ten, including spending five minutes vacillating over her wardrobe. In the end she wore the soft wrapover skirt she'd had on last night, and a fresh T-shirt—nothing flirty or provocative or especially flattering, just normal clothes on what was starting to feel like a most un-normal day.
She hesitated over make-up, and settled for a swipe of lip balm. Then, suddenly inexplicably nervous, she ran downstairs to meet Max.
He was in the foyer, his hair damp from the shower, a covered basket dangling from one hand, a tartan rug slung over his shoulder. He was dressed in jeans and battered trainers and a T-shirt, and he looked lean and hard and good enough to eat. He smiled at her, and her heart flipped.
You're stupid. You're a married woman, she told herself, but she'd gone suddenly deaf to the voice of reason.
'All set?'
Annie nodded, and he opened the door. As she went past him into the sunshine, she caught the mingled scents of soap and clean linen and something wholly masculine that made her body yearn.
Ridiculous. She was being ridiculous, and she was going to embarrass herself in a moment. He w
as just passing the time, having a little fun with her, a mild, meaningless flirtation.
A path wound through bushes to the shore, and there on the stony beach was the little rowing boat Hans had told them about. Max pushed it into the water, helped her in with the basket and rug at her feet and pulled off his old trainers.
'This is going to be freezing,' he said with a grin, and rolling up his jeans to mid-calf he pushed off, jumping aboard as the boat moved away with the practised skill of a sailor.
He winked at her, pushed the boat out further with an oar and then rowed them out into deep water with a few powerful strokes. It was a joy to watch him move, his body fluid and supple, the muscles rippling under the fine cotton of his shirt.
They went south, following the shore on their left, until she spotted a tiny cove. She pointed it out to him, and he changed course and grounded the little boat on the beach, jumping out and gasping at the cold. 'Ye gods, I swear it's meltwater!'
'So we're not swimming, then?' she said with a chuckle.
'Don't get clever or I'll accidentally tip you in it,' he warned.
She grinned. 'I'm terrified.'
'You need to be. Come here.'
Warily she stood up and went towards him, the boat wobbling slightly in the water even though it was beached. He held out his arms and she grasped them at the shoulder, and then seemingly effortlessly he lifted her clear of the boat and set her down on the shore above the waterline.
Once the boat was dragged a little way up the beach, he picked up the picnic basket and rug and looked around. 'Up here?'
She followed the direction of his gaze and saw a little glade in the trees, dappled with sunshine, the grass mossy and sweet. It was breathtakingly perfect and unbelievably romantic, and her heart started to beat slowly and heavily against her ribs.
'Fine,' she said casually.
He spread the rug out and sat on it, patting it to beckon her to join him. She knelt down and peered curiously into the picnic basket, desperate for a safe topic.
'What is there?'
He pulled the contents out—a couple of chicken legs, some smoked salmon sandwiches, sliced fruit in a bowl and a small bottle of a delicate dessert wine. Wrapped in a cloth were two glasses and a corkscrew, and he whipped the cork out with a flourish and poured the wine, handing her a glass.
She sniffed it cautiously, then tasted it, and sighed with delight. 'It's gorgeous. It isn't sickly at all, but it's just bursting with fruit.'
'That's Hans. I left it up to him. Come on, eat up.'
She needed no second bidding. The walk had made her hungry, and probably thirsty, too, because she found herself drinking a second glass of the deliciously fruity wine as they laughed and talked about nothing in particular. Then Max scooped up the last little sliver of melon and fed it to her, his fingers brushing her lips and setting them on fire.
She froze, her breath locked in her lungs, and with a slight shake of his head he got to his knees and cleared away the debris into the basket. He wasn't looking at her—anywhere but, it seemed. Something had happened, some sudden shift in their relationship, and without thought of the consequences she reached out a hand and touched his arm.
'Max?'
He turned his head then, his eyes burning with a brilliant cobalt fire in their icy depths. 'You've got juice on your lips,' he told her gruffly. Reaching for a napkin, he blotted gently at her mouth, staring at it with curious intensity.
'Is it gone?' she asked a little unsteadily.
He didn't reply. The flame flickered in his eyes, and she swallowed hard. They were kneeling face to face, just inches apart, and she was headily conscious of the scent of his body and the rise and fall of his chest so near her own.
'Max?' she whispered.
'God forgive me, but I have to do this,' he said under his breath, and with a fractured sigh he lowered his head and kissed her.
His lips were firm but soft, their touch like the stroke of an angel's wing, and she was powerless to resist. He tasted of fruit and wine and sunshine, and with a little cry she leant into him and kissed him back.
For a second he was motionless, but then he groaned and gathered her up into his arms, wrapping her against his chest and plundering her mouth with his, and she was lost.
She gave him everything she had, everything she was, everything she could be, and he took it with infinite care and reverence and returned it tenfold, giving her a tenderness and passion she'd never imagined in her wildest dreams.
And when she fell apart in his arms he was there for her, with her, crying out her name as he stiffened against her, his arms tightening convulsively and cradling her against his chest as the tidal wave of sensation receded and left her emotions flayed raw by the strength of their passion.
'Max?' she said tremulously, and he soothed her, his hands gentling her, his words soft.
'It's OK, Annie. I've got you.'
'I didn't know,' she whispered. 'I had no idea—I didn't realise it could be so...'
She floundered to a halt, but he didn't need her words. He understood, his arms tightening again as he held her. 'Nor did I,' he admitted gruffly. 'Nor did I.'
His lips found her tears and kissed them away, and when she opened her eyes his lashes were clumped with tears of his own.
'We have to go back,' she said, her voice hollow with dread, and he nodded.
'I know.'
'I can't.'
'Yes, you can, and so can I. You can go back to your safe, reliable Peter who'll never get you lost, and I'm going to marry Fiona next month.'
'We can't see each other again,' she said, almost hoping he'd contradict her, but of course he didn't.
'No, we can't. This is all we have, all we'll ever have. Just one stolen moment to treasure—and I will treasure it, for ever,' he vowed.
She closed her eyes against the threatening tears, and he rolled away from her. She heard the rasp of a zip, the clink of glass as he shifted the picnic basket, the crunch of his footsteps as he walked down to the boat.
She dressed herself hastily, dragging on her serviceable and unseductive cotton knickers, straightening her skirt, her T-shirt, running her fingers through her hair to bring some sort of order to it. Her shoes were scattered, one under the edge of the rug, one lying on the grass feet away. She put them on, shook out the rug and folded it and looked around.
Apart from the slight flattening of the grass, there was no sign of their presence. Odd. She felt the ground should be permanently marked, scorched by the heat of the fire that had consumed them.
She went down to the boat and he lifted her in, then pushed off and rowed back to the hotel in a wordless silence. As they walked up the path they met Fiona coming towards them, and as she saw them she paused and threw up her hands.
'At last! Where on earth have you been? I've been bored to death—I've just spent the last two hours sitting in Casualty at the cottage hospital in Keswick waiting for Peter to be told he's got a broken bone, and he's in such a mood!'
Guilt gripped Annie, and she looked up at Max. 'I must go to him.'
'I'm sorry,' he said. 'If I can help...'
'Good heavens, it's only a tiny fracture,' Fiona said crossly. 'Max, I want to go somewhere civilised, an art gallery or something.'
'I'll change.'
'Well, hurry, because I'd like to go now.'
Annie left them to it, and ran into the hotel to find Peter sitting in the lounge with his foot propped up and Hans in attendance, pouring him a cup of tea.
'There you are! Anne, we have to leave,' he said, and she looked at his chalk-white face and felt the blood drain from her own.
'What is it?' she asked, and he ran a trembling hand over his face and met her eyes.
His own were bleak and expressionless. 'It's a pathological fracture—a metastatic carcinoma of the fibula.'
She sat down with a bump on the arm of the chair. 'Secondary bone cancer?' she whispered.
He nodded, and she swallowed hard. 'Oh, Pe
ter— I'll pack.'
They left half an hour later, and she didn't see Max again. She'd remembered him, though, in a haze of guilt and recrimination, through the next four dreadful months until Peter's death from the hitherto almost silent primary growth around his aorta. And then afterwards, she'd clung to the memory of that one stolen moment to keep her sane through her pregnancy and the birth of her child.
Her beautiful daughter with eyes just like her father's—eyes like those searching her face now, pale grey-blue rimmed with navy, startling against the thick, black lashes and the shock of dark brown hair.
Max's child.
CHAPTER THREE
Annie looked so troubled. Max wanted to reassure her that he wasn't going to put the moves on her or try and pick up their relationship—huh, what relationship?—where they'd left off, but how could he bring the subject up, for heaven's sake?
Turning away from her, he scrubbed a hand through his hair and reached for another mug of coffee. 'Everything OK?' he asked casually, and she nodded.
There was no sign of her smile, that wide and uninhibited and totally mind-blowing smile that just did him in. He ached to see it again, but there was precious little sign of it this morning.
'So, what's next?' he asked, and wondered if they'd ever get to lunch.
'Um...I don't know without looking. I can't remember the order—'
Angie stuck her head round the door. 'Call from A and E—there's an RTA victim with a rigid abdomen coming up, very shocky, they've cross-matched and given him fluids but it looks like a major bleed.'
Max put the coffee down. This was it, then, his first test as a consultant, and all eyes would be on him to see how big a fist he made of it. The last thing he needed was too much caffeine so he couldn't think straight.
He snapped out instructions as the cleaners left the theatre, everything sterile again and all the equipment replaced and ready. Dick was already at work on their patient in the anteroom, and moments later the young man was wheeled in and moved carefully to the table.
It was, predictably, a blood bath once they opened him up.
'His spleen's gone,' Max said unnecessarily. Sliding his hand inside, he groped in the mass of mangled tissue and found the splenic artery, cutting off its circulation. 'Right, get him sucked out, let's find out what else is leaking.'
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