Pride, Prejudice and Jasmin Field (30 page)

Harry laughed but didn’t move away. ‘I’m afraid I can’t,’ he whispered in hers.

Jazz’s body locked. Oh God, why? I’m not beautiful enough? I’m not the right kind of beautiful? I’m too beautiful? Terror gripped her. I’m not as beautiful as Sara?

‘Oh,’ she said simply. ‘OK.’ She wanted to die.

Just before she started to move away, he whispered quickly, ‘I’m too scared.’ His cheek was now touching hers and his eyes were closed. The faint trembling sensation coming from his legs convinced

her he wasn’t lying. ‘I’ve tried before, remember?’ Jazz smiled as she felt his soft, uneven breath on her

neck.

‘Well, we’ll have to work at getting over that fear, won’t we?’ she whispered.

As she edged her body fractionally closer to him, he slowly moved his long legs apart so she could get nearer. His arms tentatively enveloped her as she softly kissed his perfect lips for the first time.

He was delicious.

Remember this feeling, she thought, as her body melted and her stomach fizzed. Remember this feeling. It doesn’t get any better than this.

‘So when did you realise just how tasty I really was?’ asked Jazz, stretching out, making herself comfortable.

Harry smiled at the memory and leant up on the pillow, his head resting in his hand. He put his other

arm round her bare waist.

‘I don’t know,’ he prevaricated.

‘I do,’ grinned Jazz. ‘It was when I was so rude to you all the time. You like a challenge. Otherwise you wouldn’t be such a stunningly successful actor.’

He looked into her eyes and kissed her gently on her forehead. She had never noticed that it was an erogenous zone before.

‘It wasn’t just because of that,’ he said. ‘It was also your — your …’ He thought hard, picturing her at rehearsals. Her eyes, her smile, her strength, her vulnerability, her humour, her gravity, her passion, her indifference, her … her. Her.

‘I think I realised just how tasty you were moments before I realised I was in love with you,’ he said as calmly as he could. Could she tell he was trembling?

Jazz was too moved to ask when, exactly, that was. She’d ask another time. She was too busy adding earlobe, neck, collarbone and shoulder to forehead in a new list she was compiling.

*

Harry had turned out to be a whizz at cooking. Which made up for his complete lack of ability at DIY. ‘It’s all right,’ Jazz had said. ‘We can get a man in.’ But it meant that Sunday brunches were a gas.

‘Do you need any help in the kitchen?’ called Mark from the patio. Mark probably wouldn’t have asked anyone else, but seeing as it was Harry Noble, he didn’t mind. Kitchens were strictly out of bounds for him, usually. Luckily Maddie loved to cook. Anyway, Jack and Harry were enjoying themselves too much in there together to need any help.

‘No thanks, just help yourself to wine,’ shouted Harry back.

Maddie, George, Jazz, Mark, Carrie and Matt did as they were told, and enjoyed the last of the summer sun as it nudged behind the growing conifers.

It was perfect. It might have been even more perfect if Mo had been there, thought Jazz, but there was no way she was inviting Gilbert Valentine into their home. She saw less of Mo these days, especially now little Tarquin Valentine was on the scene, but she had finally realised that there had to be a price for happiness, and the loss of Mo was her price. And such a realisation had helped to make that loss more bearable.

The television was on.

‘Ooh, look - it’s whatsisname’

‘Kevin Atkinson’

‘he’s brilliant. Have you ever worked with him?’

‘yup. He’s a bit dull actually.’

‘really?’

‘yeah. And he’s got four children by four different women.’

‘you’re kidding.’

‘and those are contact lenses.’

‘bloody Nora. Who’d have guessed it? Kevin Blinking Atkinson.’

‘Kevin Blinking Atkinson.’

‘You know everyone, don’t you?’

He smiled and kissed the head of the only person he thought worth knowing.

‘uhhuh’

*

Thank you, Mum and Dad, my meticulous copy-editors through life, for your constant, enthusiastic and totally biased support.

Thank you, Andrew, for being away on business so much that I had time to write a novel. And thank you for coming back, reading my work again and again, laughing at the right bits and making constructive criticism so sweetly that I didn’t want to shoot you.

Thank you, Frances Quinn, for your practical and emotional support. It proved invaluable.

On a more general note, thank you, Claude Lum, for being a rock in my life through the hard times.

Without these people this book would not have been written. So if you don’t like it, go to them.