The Surgeon's Miracle / Dr Di Angelo's Baby Bombshell (7 page)

‘Of course she is,’ Sally said calmly. ‘She’s pretty, though. Delightful. And very intelligent. Will likes her a lot.’

‘I can see that,’ he growled, watching his laughing brother and the woman who was supposed to be his girlfriend twirling past in a flutter of shimmering silk and coat tails. Damn him, if he held her any closer…

‘It’s about time you found somebody nice,’ Sally murmured, and he grunted. If only, he thought.

If only…

‘So who’s better?’

Torn by loyalty and honesty and a dislike of conflict of any sort, Libby looked from one brother to the other, and shook her head. ‘Technically, I don’t have the expertise to choose between you, so I would say you’re quits. Andrew’s very easy to follow, and Will might have the edge when it comes to fancy moves. You’re both extremely good, and neither of you trod on my toes, which rates an A star in my book.’

‘Very prettily put, but you didn’t answer the question,’ Will said, grinning. ‘I knew you wouldn’t.’

‘Equal first?’ she offered. ‘I can’t choose between you.’

‘Or won’t.’

‘Oh, Libby, just tell him he’s better,’ Andrew groaned. ‘Let him win. He won’t give up until you do. It’s not worth it.’

‘OK, he’s better. Is that what you want to hear?’

‘Yes!’ Will said smugly, and punched the air.

Andrew rolled his eyes and sighed. ‘He’s going to be insufferable. Take him away, Sally.’

‘Good idea,’ Sally said, hoisting herself out of the
chair and rubbing her back. ‘It’s past my bedtime and it’s certainly past his.’

‘Oh, promises,’ Will murmured with a grin, and he slung his arm round Sally’s shoulders, winked at them and steered her towards the door, looking slightly the worse for wear.

‘So, who
is
better?’ Andrew asked softly, wondering what she’d say now they were alone, and she turned and met his eyes.

‘I don’t know. I think I need to check a few things out again,’ she said deadpan.

His mouth quirked in a fleeting smile, and he held out his hand. ‘Check away,’ he murmured, drawing her into his arms and easing her closer.

The tempo had slowed, and he rested his cheek against her hair and breathed in the curiously intoxicating scent of apples. Her body settled gently against his, so he felt the soft press of her breasts against his chest, the light brush of her thighs, the curve of her waist under his hand.

He could feel himself responding, felt her breath catch, then ease out again as she settled yet closer, and suddenly he couldn’t take it any more. He was too tired to control his reaction, too tired to fight the need to hold her; the lack of sleep was beginning to catch up with him, and he didn’t count the few hours he’d spent trying not to fall off the miserable excuse for a bed in the dressing room, so he forced himself to ease away and meet her eyes. ‘To be honest, I could call it a night, Libby, unless you want to stay up? I’m bushed.’

‘I’m more than happy to give up. These shoes are killing me,’ she murmured. Her eyes were soft, luminous, and he wasn’t sure if she’d misunderstood his
intentions. He hoped not. He really had meant it when he had said no strings.

They made their way upstairs, and at the bedroom door he hesitated. He couldn’t go in there with her—not now. Not yet. He couldn’t trust himself while his arms still held the memory of her body swaying against him for dance after dance after dance. ‘I just want to say goodnight to my parents,’ he said a little desperately. ‘I need to head off in the morning early and we probably won’t see them before we go. Don’t wait up for me.’

And turning on his heel he left her there, walking swiftly away before he gave in to the temptation to usher her through the door, strip off that dress that only he had seen the top of, and make love to her until neither of them could move another muscle.

So that was her told.

Don’t wait up for me, indeed. Of course not. Why would she? After all, she wasn’t really his girlfriend, and she’d done her job now, fended off the girls all evening, smiled and laughed through one dance after another in his arms so he didn’t have to dance with them.

Show only, just a smokescreen, a deflector for the poor, love-lorn Charlotte and her cohorts, Libby thought wearily, and unpinning the orchid from her shoulder and removing the shawl, she peeled off the dress, pulled on her nightdress and took off her make-up, cleaned her teeth and slid into the chilly bed.

It would have been nice if he’d been in it with her, she thought, and then laughed softly to herself. Nice? There would have been nothing nice about it, it would have been amazing. Incredible. And utterly not going to happen.

She turned over so her back was to the door, and waited for him. She’d turned out the light in her room, leaving on the dressing-room light so he could see, and lay there in the semi-darkness waiting for his return, knowing that when he came back to the room he’d expect to find her sleeping, but she couldn’t sleep, for some reason. Not until he was back.

Eventually she heard him moving quietly around, heard the click of the switch as the light went out and the room settled into darkness, and then at last, exhausted, she drifted off to sleep…

It was pitch-dark when she woke.

She could hear him moving around, and she sat up and peered towards the noise.

‘Andrew?’

‘Oh, Libby, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. I was going to get a drink from the kitchen.’

‘I could do with one, too. Can I come with you?’

‘Sure. We can make a cup of tea, if you like.’

She turned on her bedside light and then regretted it instantly, because he was wearing a pair of loose cotton scrub trousers and nothing else. They hung low on his hips, showing the taut, firm abdomen, the broad, deep chest and wide shoulders she’d found so fascinating the previous morning when he’d emerged from the shower in his towel, but that had been before she’d danced with him, before she’d felt that solid, muscular body against hers, felt his masculine response, and she felt her tongue dry up and stick to the roof of her mouth.

‘Did you steal them from the hospital?’ she asked, raising a brow at the impromptu PJs and trying to remember how to breathe, and he chuckled.

‘No, they’re from college. I found them in the drawer. I don’t—ah…’

He trailed off, and she felt warmth brush her cheeks. He didn’t—what? Wear anything usually? She closed her eyes for a second and turned back the bedclothes, tugging her nightdress down over her legs even though it was more than respectable, and trying very hard not to think about him wearing nothing.

‘Do you have a dressing gown?’ he asked, and when she shook her head, he handed her the one off the back of the door and pulled on the jumper he’d been wearing the previous day. Better, but not much, she thought, the image of him burned on her retinas.

She shrugged into the dressing gown and realised instantly it was his. His scent was on it, her warmth releasing a heady mixture of his signature cologne and that subtle masculine essence that was his alone. It was like having him wrapped around her, holding her close, she thought, and her heart picked up speed.

She followed him through the house, along the dark corridor and down the stairs to the warm, cosy kitchen where they’d had breakfast the previous morning. The dogs greeted them sleepily, and Andrew sat her down at the table and put the kettle on the Aga, then pulled out another chair and stretched out his legs towards the warmth, tipping his head back and closing his eyes.

‘Bliss. I love the house when everyone’s asleep,’ he murmured.

‘I get the feeling that being awake at night is a habit for you, or am I wrong?’

He shrugged. ‘No, you’re not wrong. I don’t tend to sleep well. Too busy, I suppose. I just felt thirsty, and my mind was working.’

‘Jacob?’

He opened his eyes and levered himself upright again. ‘No. Well, a bit, but mostly family stuff. I was thinking about Mum, about all she’s done over the years.’

About how she’d put him in the same room as Libby and left him to die of frustration…

The kettle boiled and he got to his feet and made them tea—green tea for him, chamomile for Libby, so they weren’t awake for the rest of the night—then leant over Libby to put her cup down and got another drift of apples from her hair.

Damn, he was going to embarrass himself at this rate, he thought, and turning the chair so he was facing the table, he sat down and propped his elbows on the scrubbed pine surface and sipped his tea until he was back under control.

They didn’t talk, just sat in a comfortable silence as they had over their picnic, and drank their tea until it was finished. And then the tension, suddenly, was back.

‘I suppose we ought to get some more sleep,’ she said eventually, and he nodded.

‘Yes, we probably should.’

They went back up to his room, the tension somehow ratcheting up with every step, and as they reached the door Libby’s heart was in her mouth. Would he kiss her? No. Why would he?

But he hesitated, closing the door and standing there, his eyes locked with hers, and she could see the need in them.

‘Andrew?’ she said softly, his name an invitation, should he choose to accept it, but he closed his eyes fleetingly.

‘Libby, no,’ he murmured. ‘I promised you—’

‘I won’t hold you to it.’

He shook his head. ‘I can’t—Libby, there are all sorts of reasons.’

‘Such as? Are you married and I don’t know?’

He laughed at that, the sound soft, a little raw. ‘No, I’m not married.’

‘Then stay with me. Please?’

‘Libby, I—’ Oh, God, she didn’t know what she was asking of him. He saw the uncertainty in her eyes, knew how much it had taken for her to ask him, and he couldn’t do it, couldn’t leave her, couldn’t turn away from her in that moment no matter how stupid it was to stay. How dangerous.

He held out his arms to her, and she went into them, warm and soft and yielding, and he felt heat sear through him. ‘Libby—’

Her lips found his, gentle at first, tentative, but then when he gave up fighting it and started to kiss her back she gave a little sob and arched against him, and he cradled her face in his hands and deepened the kiss, ravaging her mouth, tasting the sweetness, the satin softness, searching out the hot, honeyed depths, their tongues tangling as they duelled. Her legs parted to the pressure of his thigh, and he rocked against her, aching for her, needing her, needing to bury himself inside her and take the treasure she was offering.

His hand left her face, feathering down over her throat, tracing the pulse that hammered beneath his fingertips, down over her collar bone, over the satin-soft skin of her chest until it reached the warm, enticing swell of her breast. The nightdress was in the way, tangled round her legs, hampering his hand at her
breast, and he pushed himself away, stripping back the bedclothes, peeling off his sweater and reaching for her, easing the dressing gown aside so it slid down her arms and puddled on the floor behind her.

She held up her arms, her eyes locked with his, and with a tiny hiss of breath he reached for the hem of her nightdress and stripped it off her.

He heard it rip, but he didn’t care. He was beyond caring, beyond anything except making the woman standing there beside him his. He tugged at the cord on his scrubs, the knot releasing so they fell to the floor with his dressing gown and the torn nightdress as he stood there drinking her in with his gaze. Her eyes were wide and liquid, her mouth softly swollen, her breasts full and yet yielding, perfect, the dusky rose nipples tightly pebbled and so, so tempting. He lowered his head, taking one in his mouth, drawing it in, suckling on her deeply as she arched against him, crying out.

‘Andrew, please!’

His hand moved on, down over the smooth plane of her flank, across her hip, over the bowl of her pelvis, on again.

She bucked against him, her legs jerking as his hand found her, found the secret, hidden depths, the moist heat of her most intimate places. His thumb grazed her and her eyes flew wide, her breath catching, and suddenly he couldn’t wait another moment.

Scooping her up in his arms, he laid her gently on the bed, his eyes still fixed on hers, their breath mingling as he moved over her and entered her with one long, slow stroke, driving her over the edge, her body convulsing around him, her cries dragging him after her to join her in the wild tumult of their release…

She woke for the second morning in a row to the sound of running water, and she lay and pictured him in the shower. She could do it better today, could see his body, knew it, every inch.

Beautiful. Magnificent. Solidly powerful, lean and graceful, potent.

Oh, lord.

She heard the water stop, then gave him a moment and tapped on the door, tugging her ripped nightdress into place. ‘Are you decent? Can I come in?’

‘Yeah, sure.’

She opened the door and sucked in her breath. ‘Oh! Sorry—I thought—’

His mouth twisted into a wry, teasing smile and he lowered the towel from his hair. ‘I’ve just made love to you, Libby,’ he murmured softly. ‘Exactly which bit of me do you want covered up?’

She felt the heat in her cheeks, but she held her ground and dragged her eyes from his body. ‘Actually, that was the thing I wanted to talk to you about. Last night, when we—you didn’t use—I’m not on the Pill,’ she muttered, floundering to an embarrassed halt.

He put the towel he was holding in one hand back on the towel rail and let out a long, thoughtful sigh. ‘Well, I don’t think it’s an issue—not for you, at any rate. I—ah…’ He hesitated, gave a low laugh and met her eyes, his own carefully blank. ‘I can’t get you pregnant.’

‘What—? Why not?’

‘Because I’m infertile,’ he said quietly.

She felt her mouth drop open with shock, and shut it with a little snap. ‘How do you know?’

He gave a little grunt of laughter. ‘Oh, we were
messing about at college,’ he said with forced lightness. ‘You know what it’s like—well, no, to be fair, you probably don’t, you’re not a boy, but we had one of these stupid ideas that we’d become sperm donors. Loads of medical students do it, and we decided it was no hardship—and there we were, in the lab without a lecturer, all these microscopes lying about, and someone decided while we were on the subject that it would be funny to see who’d got the highest sperm count. And I didn’t have any. Well, a few, swimming in circles, whereas they had millions all thrashing away and swimming like hell.’