The Fiancée He Can't Forget

He opened his mouth, drawing her thumb inside and sucking it deeply, his tongue exploring it, his teeth nipping lightly and making the breath catch in her throat. She shifted so she could reach him, her hands running over him now, checking for changes and finding only sweet, familiar memories. He moved on, his mouth warm and moist against her skin, and she joined in, their lips tracing tender trails across each other’s bodies. They were taking their time now for leisurely explorations, the darkness shielding them from emotions they couldn’t bear to expose—emotions too dark, too painful to consider.

That wasn’t what this night was about, Amy thought later as she lay awake beside him listening to the deep, even rhythm of his breathing. It was for old times’ sake, no-longer lovers reaching out to touch fleetingly what had once been theirs to love.

She was under no illusions. After the wedding, Matt would be going back to London, and she’d be staying here, nursing her still-broken heart but with a little more tenderness, a little more forgiveness in her soul. He wasn’t indifferent. Clearly not. But their lives had moved on, gone in different directions, and maybe it was for the best.

Maybe this was the way forward, for both of them. A little healing salve smeared gently over their wounds, kissing each other better.

She shifted slightly, seeking the warmth of his body, and he reached for her again in his sleep, drawing her closer, their legs tangled, her head pillowed on his shoulder as she slept, until the first light of dawn crept round the edges of the curtains.

He woke her gently, his voice a soft murmur in her ear.

‘Amy?’

‘Mmm.’

‘Amy, it’s morning.’

‘Mmm.’

‘You’re in my room.’

‘Mmm. I know.’

‘Sweetheart, everyone will know soon.’

Her eyes flew open, and she sucked in a breath, the night coming back to her in a flood of memory and sudden awkwardness. ‘Oh, rats. Damn. Um—Matt, help me get dressed.’

She threw the quilt off and starting searching for her underwear. Stupid, stupid … ‘Where the hell are my pants?’

Pants? He nearly laughed. Try cobwebs.

‘Take the dressing gown on the back of the door—have you got your room key?’

‘Yes, of course. It’s—’

In her clutch bag, which was—somewhere. She flopped back down onto the edge of the bed, dragging the quilt back over herself to hide her body from his eyes. Pointless, after he’d explored it so thoroughly, knew it so well in any case, but she was suddenly smitten with shyness. ‘It’s in my clutch bag,’ she admitted.

‘Which is …?’

Good question. ‘Downstairs?’

He groaned and rolled away from her, vanishing into the bathroom and emerging a few minutes later damp, tousled and unshaven. And stark naked, the water drops still clinging to his body gleaming in the spill of light from the bathroom door and drawing her hungry eyes. He flipped open his overnight bag, pulled out some jeans and boxers and a shirt, dressed quickly and took the room key out of the door lock.

‘What’s your bag look like?’ he asked briskly, and she dragged her mind off his body and tried to concentrate.

‘Cream satin, about so big, little bronzy chain. It’s got a lipstick, a tissue and the room key in it.’

‘Any ideas where?’

She shrugged. ‘The edge of the dance floor? I put it down at one point.’

He left her there, hugging her knees in the middle of the bed, looking rumpled and gorgeous and filled with regret.

He knew all about that one. How could he have been so stupid?

And why was she on the Pill, for heaven’s sake? Was she in a relationship? Or did she do this kind of thing all the time?

Hell, he hoped not. The thought of his Amy casually—

He swallowed hard and ran downstairs, to find that staff were already starting the mammoth clean-up operation.

‘I’m looking for a cream satin evening bag,’ he told someone, and was directed to the night porter’s office.

‘This the one?’

He wasn’t sure, so he opened it and found exactly what she’d said inside. Well, if the room key fitted …

He went to it, and it gave him immediate access. Her case was there, unopened, inside the unused room, and he carried it back to her.

‘Oh, Matt, you’re a star. Thank you.’

‘Anything to spare a lady’s blushes. I’ll go to your room,’ he said, ‘and if anyone knocks on the door, just ignore them. It’ll only be Ben or my parents, and they’ll ring me if it’s anything important.’

He slipped his mobile into his pocket, picked up his wallet and did the same, then gave Amy an awkward smile. ‘I guess I’ll see you at breakfast.’

She nodded, looking embarrassed now, her grey eyes clouded with something that could have been shame, and without dragging it out he left her there and went to the room that should have been hers, lay on the bed and let his breath out on a long, ragged sigh.

What a fool. All he’d done, all he’d proved, was that he’d never stopped loving her. Well, hell, he’d known that before. It had hardly needed underlining.

He rolled to his side, thumped the pillow into the side of his neck and tried to sleep.

How could she have been so stupid?

She’d known seeing him again would be dangerous to her, but she hadn’t realised how dangerous. She pulled the hotel gown tighter round her waist and moved to the chair by the window. She had a view over the courtyard where they’d had their buffet supper, could see the bench if she craned her neck.

Sudden unexpected tears glazed her eyes, and she swiped them away and sniffed hard. She’d done some stupid things in her life, most of them with Matt, and this was just the icing on the cake.

She got up and put the little kettle on to make tea, and found her pills in her washbag and popped one out. Thank God for synthetic hormones, she thought drily as she swallowed the pill. Or maybe not, because without the medication to control her irregular periods, they would never have spent the night together.

Which would have been a good thing, she told herself firmly. But telling him she was on the Pill was a two-edged sword. He probably thought she was a slut.

‘I don’t care what he thinks, it’s none of his damn business and at least I won’t get pregnant again,’ she said to the kettle, and made herself a cup of tea and sat cradling it and staring down into the courtyard until it was stone cold.

And then she nearly dropped it, because Matt was there, outside in the courtyard garden just below her, sitting on the bench with a cup in his hand and checking something on his phone.

He made a call, then put the cup down and walked swiftly across the courtyard out of sight. One of his patients in London needing his attention? Or Melanie Grieves, mother of the little twins they’d delivered on Friday night?

Or just coming inside to see whoever he’d spoken to—his parents, maybe?