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‘Nothing.’ Not unless he wanted it thrown at him, that was.
‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but I suspect I’ve outstayed my welcome,’ he said with lazy self-mockery. And then he bent down, taking her hand and turning it over in his before he put his lips to her pink palm in a caress that was as fleeting as the previous kiss. ‘Goodnight, Rosalie.’ He straightened, still holding her hand. ‘Sleep tight.’
‘Goodnight.’ Tingles were radiating from the point of contact with his mouth, but she was immensely proud of herself that she hadn’t jerked away or shown any signs of the frantic thumping of her heart. ‘Thank you for everything you’ve done today,’ she added carefully, remembering her manners.
‘It’s a speciality of mine, damsels in distress.’
Her hand was her own again, and the return of it enabled her to smile fairly naturally before he turned and left the room. She heard the front door open, and then close with a click. She listened, her ears straining and her eyes narrowed.
He had gone.
CHAPTER FOUR
ROSALIE didn’t know what she had expected after the fiasco of her day with Kingsley Ward, but it wasn’t the ginormous basket of flowers that was delivered the next day with a card that simply said, ‘Heal fast, K’, followed by three weeks of no contact whatsoever.
For a week or so after the accident she had been as jumpy as a cricket, and, with the flowers scenting out her flat and acting as a constant reminder of Kingsley, she’d actually preferred being at the office. But at home or in the office, every telephone call had her heart beating fit to burst and her nerves jangling.
By the second week she had begun to wonder if she’d got all the signals wrong, and he wasn’t interested in her at all except in her professional capacity.
By the third week she’d accepted her imagination had run away with itself, and he had just been acting out of kindness and concern. Kingsley was the type of man who would flirt mildly with any woman he was with, she told herself firmly on the Saturday morning as she dumped the wilting flowers in the bin. And the flowers had been a polite gesture of commiseration, nothing more. And as that was exactly what she wanted, it was all to the good, wasn’t it? Of course it was.
Monday morning saw Mike calling for her in his top-of-the-range Jaguar as he’d done each morning since her accident. The crutches Jenny had obtained were fine for pottering about at work and home, but negotiating her way on crowded London pavements was a definite no-no. But it shouldn’t be long till she had the plaster off now, Rosalie comforted herself as she plumped down in the passenger seat. Kingsley’s doctor friend had sent her notes to her GP, and he in turn had arranged for any further treatment to be carried out at her local hospital. After a check-up the Friday before, they’d confirmed another two weeks and the plaster would be off. And it couldn’t be a day too soon, Rosalie thought grumpily as the itching under the plaster, which had made itself felt for days now, made her wriggle in her seat.
‘Something you might be interested in in this magazine.’ As Mike slid into the car after helping her into her seat he reached over to the back seat and then threw a glossy magazine into Rosalie’s lap. ‘Hannah noticed it.’
‘Oh, yes?’ Hannah, Mike’s wife, devoured periodicals ranging from gardening magazines right through to high fashion and everything in between. Mike had coined the word ‘magaholic’ with his wife in mind.
‘Page with the corner turned down,’ he said shortly before pulling out into the traffic.
Ridiculous, really, really ridiculous, but she felt as though someone had just punched her in the stomach as she gazed down at Kingsley in morning dress with a voluptuous brunette draped all over him. Painfully aware of Mike’s studied nonchalance, she kept her face blank with tremendous effort, reading the short caption under each of the five photographs of the high society wedding in New York without commenting. It would appear he had been best man to a very old friend, a very rich old friend, and the brunette—who featured in each of the three photographs Kingsley was in—was the groom’s baby sister and chief bridesmaid.
Rosalie got a measure of savage comfort from the fact that both the style and the colour of the bridesmaid’s dress—citric yellow—did nothing for the girl in question. But then she was lovely enough for it not to matter too much, and the last picture—coyly captioned ‘The best man taking his duties very seriously’—showed them wrapped in each other’s arms so closely Rosalie was surprised the girl hadn’t got in Kingsley’s suit with him.
‘Lovely dresses.’ She slung the magazine over her shoulder back onto the seat. ‘And Kingsley looked the part, didn’t he?’
Mike darted her a quick glance before he said, ‘There’s talk that’s the girl who’s going to snare the ultimate bachelor.’
‘Really.’ It was cool. ‘Lucky old bridesmaid.’
‘Rosalie—’ Mike stopped abruptly. ‘Hell, I thought you should know,’ he said irritably.
‘Know?’ She turned to him, stitching a smile on her face. ‘Why on earth should I know, Mike? I shouldn’t think the wedding, if there is one, would interfere with the job we’re doing for him. Beyond that…’ She shrugged.
‘Yeah.’ Mike was clearly out of his depth and she would have felt sorry for him in any other circumstances. As it was, she wanted to hit him. But why shoot the messenger? she asked herself in the next instant. And what was she getting all hot under the collar about anyway? Kingsley Ward was nothing to her, absolutely nothing.
She took a deep breath, turned to Mike and began to engage him in conversation about a couple of minor problems with Kingsley’s job, as though this were just another ride to work.
The week went steadily down hill from that point, but finally it was Friday and the last few days of petty irritations, delays, broken promises—something builders excelled in—and general aggravation were over. She was spending the weekend with one of her aunts—her mother had had two sisters and, although Rosalie didn’t see a great deal of them and their families, they were always there if she needed them—who lived in Kingston upon Thames, and as her aunt was collecting her at the office she had taken a weekend bag to work with her that morning.
She was deep into checking a list of figures and calculations at five o’clock when there was a knock at her door, and, Jenny having gone home early with a migraine, she called out, ‘Come in, Beth. I won’t be a sec.’ Her aunt was only ten years older than Rosalie, and their relationship had always been one of friends on an equal level rather than a traditional aunt/niece affair. One of best friends even though their lives were different.
‘I’ve been called a lot of things in my time, but never Beth.’
Her head shot up at the deep, amused voice from across the other side of the room. Her mouth dry, Rosalie said, ‘Hello, Kingsley.’ She was so glad she was sitting down.
‘Hello, Rosalie,’ he returned softly.
He was leaning against the open door, looking more attractive than any man had the right to. The Armani suit was not in evidence today, but the more casual light charcoal trousers and open-necked cornflower-blue shirt were killers. Or rather the body inside them was.
