Tender Touch

‘Sure?’

She nodded.

‘I’ll go and prepare Dick Long’s bed for his return, then. I suppose he will come back.’

Laura pursed her lips. ‘I wouldn’t like to count my chickens. He looked pretty grim.’

Linda sighed. ‘I’ll check with Theatre.’

She went into the office, made the call and came back. ‘He’s in Recovery—they got to him in time. He’ll be transfused until he’s stable then returned.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Look, I’ll go and hand over to Jean Hobbs, then you can go, OK?’

Laura nodded and went back in to Evie. It was three minutes to nine. She recorded her resting pulse and respiration, took her blood pressure and checked her temperature, hardly disturbing the sleeping woman at all. As she worked she thought about her new home, and Gavin, her landlord. What would he be like?

Unobtrusive and rather fun, she thought. She couldn’t imagine him playing heavy rock all night, or drilling walls at three in the morning. More important, she didn’t feel that he was likely to put her under the microscope.

Off duty at last, she made her way back to the cottage and turned onto the drive, killing the engine. The lights were off in his sitting-room, and there was no sign of him when she went in. She almost felt she ought to knock, as she had to use his sitting-room as the entrance. The last thing she wanted to do was barge in on his privacy, and, attractive as he was, although not to her, she was sure he must have a serious girlfriend.

Imagining the scene she could walk in on made her cheeks heat, and she was standing by the door, her lip caught in her teeth, when he wandered through from the kitchen dressed only in a pair of jeans.

He flicked the light on, and her eyes widened. His chest was spangled with dark curls glistening with moisture, the flat copper coins of his nipples just visible against the paler skin, and she could see clearly the ripple of muscles down his board-flat stomach. His hips were narrow, emphasised by the jeans hanging on them held up only by the zip. The stud was undone, as if he had tugged them on hastily, or perhaps just temporarily. His feet were bare, so almost certainly he was naked beneath the jeans …

He grinned, quite undisturbed by his undress. ‘Hi. Good day?’

She swallowed and dragged her eyes up to his. ‘Yes—fine. Peaceful. Evie’s doing well.’

‘Good. Let me just get dressed and I’ll be down. Have you eaten?’

She shook her head. ‘No—there wasn’t time. We had an emergency.’

His mouth quirked and her heart turned over. This was ridiculous, she scolded herself. He was her landlord, a colleague and anyway it was the last thing on her mind—

‘I knew you wouldn’t get round to it, so I hung on for you. There’s a curry—give me a tick and I’ll be down. I’ve been working in the garden and I’ve just had a shower. There’s a bottle of wine open on the side—help yourself.’

He opened the door at the bottom of his stairs and ran lightly up, and then she could hear the boards creak under his feet as he moved around his room.

Quickly, trying to avoid thinking about what he was doing, she went up her own stairs, peeled off her uniform dress and replaced it with the jeans and sweatshirt she had had on that morning, and made her way back to the kitchen just before Gavin.

He was respectable now—at least, he had tugged on a sweatshirt to cover that surprisingly muscular chest, and his feet were clad in slipper-socks, bright pink with purple rubber paw-prints all over the soles.

‘I like the socks,’ she said drily, and he chuckled.

‘Christmas present from my sister. Have you poured the wine yet?’

She shook her head. ‘I’ve only just come down.’

He reached past her, smelling of fresh soap and clean skin and healthy man, and she moved away slightly to give him room.

He filled the glasses and handed her one, then raised his. ‘Here’s to us—long may we not fight over the toothpaste and whose turn it is to wash up!’

It was an innocent toast, but as she laughed and lifted her glass to clink it against his she met his eyes and for the merest second blue fire burned in their depths.

Or did she imagine it?

She sipped the wine, turning away to look through the window.

‘So, what have you been doing in the garden?’ she asked in as normal a voice as she could muster.

‘Reclamation,’ he said drily. ‘It was a disaster. I’m going to have to get a skip to put all the junk in—I think everyone for miles around has used it to tip their rubbish into.’

‘Can I see?’

Of course.’ He reached past her and opened the door to the lobby, then the back door. She followed him out into the garden, inhaling the scents of the night.

The lilac was intoxicating. She found the bush halfway up the garden, sprawling across the neglected lawn and begging for attention.

‘It needs rather more know-how than I’ve got to sort it out, I’m afraid,’ he said ruefully from beside her. ‘I can get the old car tyres and bed frames out of the way, and cut the grass and dig and light the bonfire, but after that I’m lost. I don’t suppose you know the slightest thing about gardens?’ he asked hopefully.

Oh yes—and I love gardening.’

‘You do—lifesaver! I tell you what—I’ll wash up, you garden. OK?’

She laughed. ‘Done. I loathe washing up.’

‘I knew we’d make a great team,’ he said softly, his voice close in the dusk. His arm reached out and broke off a piece of the lilac, and then without warning he moved closer—far too close—and tucked it behind her ear. For a perilous moment she waited, expecting him to draw her into his arms and kiss her, ruining everything, but then to her surprise he moved away.

‘We ought to eat—I don’t know about you but I’m starving,’ he said, and she wasn’t sure if she’d imagined it or if his voice was strained, as if he, too, had felt the moment and retreated from it.

Then they were back inside, leaving the tensions behind, banished by the bright lights and the everyday actions of dishing up and eating the meal.

It was delicious. She hadn’t realised how hungry she was, or how tired.

By the time they had cleared away the kitchen she could hardly keep her eyes open, and Gavin put the kettle on. ‘Go and get ready for bed,’ he instructed her gently. ‘By the time you’ve come down and washed, there’ll be a cup of tea here for you to take up to bed with you. You look bushed.’

‘I am,’ she admitted, and with a small smile of gratitude she went up to her room, changed into her sexless and ancient Winnie the Pooh nightshirt and ratty old towelling dressing-gown, and, bringing her wash things down, she made use of the little bathroom.

There was no sign of him, but by the time she emerged, face scrubbed and devoid of make-up, her long, dark hair down and brushed until it gleamed, Gavin was back in the kitchen with a cup of tea for her.

‘You’re wonderful,’ she murmured, taking it gratefully.

He gave a soft snort. ‘Because I made a cup of tea?’

She shook her head. ‘Because you realised I needed it. Because you noticed I was tired. Because you’ve made me so welcome, fed me, put sheets on my bed, found me a bedside table and lamp—everything.’

His eyes locked with hers for an endless moment, and then he gave a little twisted smile. ‘You haven’t seen the garden in daylight yet,’ he warned.

She laughed softly. ‘No, I haven’t, but it would have to be pretty bad to get the balance of payments right.’ On impulse—an impulse she later found herself regretting—she went up on tiptoe and brushed her lips against his. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, and then, clutching her tea in one hand, she turned and fled.

Gavin watched her go, his lips tingling from the fleeting contact. His fingers touched his lips, expecting them to feel different—on fire, perhaps.