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He wanted to throw caution aside and race back into the cottage where he could lift Fiona against his chest. He ached to replace his lips on hers, to taste her sweetness again, to feel her melt against him. To claim her.
His legs stretched out as his pace increased, taking him further from temptation. He would never be that vulnerable again.
This dashing out of the cottage after dinner was becoming a habit. Fiona stared at the shut door and ran her shaking fingers across her swollen lips. But at least tonight they’d been kissing, not arguing.
But she shouldn’t have kissed him. Instead of easing the situation between them the tension had been racked up. She’d swear he’d been as shaken as she had. She’d felt his body quiver as their kiss lengthened. She’d tasted the heat of his tongue, smelt the increased maleness of his desire. Tom had wanted her as much as she’d wanted him.
She reached for the glass of wine she’d put aside before dinner. What did it matter if she got a little bit cranky now? Tom wasn’t here to notice. Oh, no, he’d dashed off to work.
Just like the good old times. Avoiding the situation. Not stopping to talk about what had happened between them.
Wise up, Fiona. Tom hasn’t changed as much as you’d hoped.
Chapter Seven
AFTER cleaning up the kitchen Fiona went to bed. Burrowed under the blankets, with the pillow tucked down around her neck, she tried to keep warm and hold the world at bay. Twice she nearly clambered out of bed to go and find Tom so she could be with him, to see if there was anything she could help with. Twice she chickened out, not wanting to upset him any further than that kiss seemed to have done.
Finally she dozed off—only to be woken by the phone ringing. If Tom had returned he’d get it. It would be for him anyway. Shivering, she pushed her head out of the cocoon of blankets and listened.
It continued to ring, sounding insistent in the quiet cottage. What if something had happened to one of her patients? Groaning, she crawled out and, grabbing her jersey, ran to the kitchen. Then stopped. The ringing came from inside Tom’s bedroom.
Someone must want him badly. The ringing persisted. Inside Tom’s bedroom door she ran her hand over the wall, searching for the light switch. Yellow light flooded the room, and she blinked. The phone lay on his bed. Pressing ‘talk’ she held it to her ear, only to hear a click and the dial tone. Typical. She tossed the phone down.
Shivering, she tugged her jersey over her head and down her tee shirt. Then she looked around Tom’s room.
Her lips twisted into a small smile as she saw his immaculately made bed. Her fingers reached for his pillow, lingering where his head might have lain the night before. Picking it up, she clutched it to her breast, inhaling Tom.
Over the edge of the pillow she looked around. A collection of black and white photos hung on the wall above his bed. All landscapes. He had a natural eye for balance and a real sense of the dramatic. None of the photos were familiar to her.
‘At least he’s still doing his photography.’
Fiona spoke out loud in an attempt to dispel the guilt she felt at invading his privacy.
‘But all these photos are impersonal. What happened to that wonderful collection of candid shots you took of people at the market, on the beach, everywhere?’
On his bedside table a photo frame lay face down. Automatically she lifted it and turned it over.
A sharp cry stung the night. Her cry.
In the deceptively simple photo Tom had captured her love for their baby as she held him against her breast. Liam. She remembered when the photo had been taken. Three days before he died.
Raw pain sliced her, tearing through her body like a hot knife through butter. Her knees jarred as she fell to the floor, still clutching the photo. She couldn’t take her eyes off the picture. She hadn’t looked at a photo of Liam for five years. Not since the day she’d made up her mind to put the past behind her and try to make a new life. Until then, every time she’d looked at Liam’s picture the guilt had gnawed at her, driving her almost insane.
Rocking on her knees, she stared at her son, willing him alive, knowing that was impossible. She drank him in. He had been gurgling contentedly, his tiny fist waving at Tom behind the camera. Now he should be running around with an abundance of energy, looking like his dad with that beautiful smile that tore through her.
‘I’m sorry, baby. I loved you so much and I let you die.’
The ache in her throat prevented her swallowing. Her jaw hurt as she fought the pain. Her eyes burned from unshed tears as she folded over her thighs. Her baby.
‘Fiona? Oh, my God. How did you find that? Oh, sweetheart, what are you doing in here?’ Tom had come back, was kneeling before her, scooping her into his arms. ‘You weren’t ever meant to see that photo. I knew it would break your heart. I didn’t leave it lying around deliberately. Believe me.’
She sagged against him. All the energy had poured out of her. ‘It—it’s like starting o-over,’ she stuttered around the ball in her throat. Tom had called her sweetheart. ‘As though the last six years haven’t m-meant a th-thing.’
‘Shh,’ Tom soothed, gently smoothing her hair away from her face. He wriggled around and leant back against his bed, lifting her onto his thighs.
‘I—’ She hiccupped, swallowed, started again. ‘I shouldn’t have come here. It’s my own fault, but I thought I was strong enough.’
Tom slid his arms around her. ‘There’s no avoiding the fact we had a son between us. He’s going to be there, in our hearts, in our very souls, for ever. It hurts and always will.’ His words almost a whisper, his light breaths lifting strands of her hair.
Now that they’d started, her tears continued in a flood, streaming down her cheeks, splashing onto Tom’s arms around her middle. ‘You know, you never admitted as much back then.’
‘Just looking at you reminds me of Liam.’
Fiona gasped as pain again lanced her
, stabbing her stomach, her lungs, her heart. Liam. Their baby. She blurted, ‘He had your curls, your generous mouth.’
‘Your blue eyes, your fair hair.’ Tom’s chin dropped on to the top of her head, and his hands caught together around her midriff. ‘He was so tiny.’
‘He was five months old.’ Of course he was tiny. And beautiful. And perfect. And she still missed him as though it had happened yesterday.
‘Have you moved on at all?’ Tom asked.
‘No one forgets their child, Tom. I carry him in my heart everywhere I go. I think of him dozens of times a day.’
Tom’s head lifted. ‘You seem whole.’
Oh, Tom. ‘I don’t often feel it.’
‘But you do feel it sometimes?’
Did he blame her for Liam’s death? It had been horrendous when Liam died, but years had gone by—Tom had to have made peace with himself.
She tried explaining. ‘Sometimes, when I’m helping people, especially children, I know a sense of peace for a little while. Those times have helped me get through some of the bad hours.’ She reached out a hand to his, her touch light against his fingers. Under her palm his heart thundered, and a yearning to embrace him, to soothe away the pain in his face, uncurled deep inside her.
Under her bottom she felt his thighs tense and his arms tighten their hold, then he relaxed. Was that a kiss on the top of her head? Heaven knew, she needed one. A real one, soft on the lips, big on comfort. Did Tom need one, too?
She raised her head, her mouth reaching for his. His lips were warm over hers. Their mouths blended together. Joining their pain, sharing their loss, seeking and giving solace. Not the kind of kiss that friends exchanged, but not one of passionate lovers either. Nothing like their earlier one.
It was what they needed.
She leaned into him, seeking shelter from her life as it had become. And her tongue slipped between his lips, tasted him. Again her head swam with memories. Tender memories. Hot memories. Her spine tingled. And then Tom’s mouth was no longer gentle but demanding. Her spirits soared as she returned his kisses.
