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‘Why don’t you go on up and I’ll clear away down here?’ His voice was level, cool even, and she raised startled eyes to his face, the flickering candles turning him into a monochrome of black and white in the shadows of the night.
‘No, I’ll help,’ she said quickly.
‘What’s to help? There’s just a few things to carry through and the dishwasher will take care of everything.’
So…no seduction scene, then? She didn’t allow herself to recognise the thread of disappointment, shrugging lightly as she said, ‘If you’re sure?’
‘Sure I’m sure.’ He smiled but his eyes were searching. ‘But once the plaster’s off it’ll be a different story. I’ll expect to be waited on hand and foot then.’
‘Expect all you like.’ She smiled too but it was forced. He spoke as if they were going to go on seeing each other, as though this was just the beginning, and it frightened her. And thrilled her—which was even more scary.
She stood up carefully. She hadn’t bothered with the crutches tonight—they were more trouble than they were worth in the house. He rose with her, reaching out for her but holding her away from him slightly as he studied her face, a half-smile curving his lips. ‘You’re a very complex woman,’ he said softly. ‘Do you know that? But I’m not complaining. I’ve a feeling boredom is not an option around you.’
‘Is that a compliment?’ She could feel the colour that had crept into her cheeks whereas he was annoyingly cool, calm and collected. But then Kingsley never gave anything away.
‘What do you think?’ he drawled slowly.
His hands were warm on her back, his eyes piercingly blue as they held hers, and he just looked at her, saying nothing as she searched for an adequate reply and found her brain had stalled. Which happened fairly often around him.
Surprisingly, he didn’t kiss her. Instead he raised a hand to the smooth silky skin at the side of her face, stroking down one cheek as he said quietly, ‘Goodnight, Rosie.’
‘Goodnight.’ It was a whisper, and his arms held her for one more second before she was free.
Beth and George were home in time for Beth to insist on cooking a huge Sunday lunch the next day. According to George, in a low aside to Rosalie when his wife was out of the room, Jeff was now back home in his flat and had made it clear he preferred the current girlfriend feeding him grapes and ministering to his every need, rather than his mother. ‘Understandable at his age,’ George had added quietly, ‘but I think Beth was a bit upset. Let her spoil you today, eh?’
She had smiled back, whispering, ‘A nod’s as good as a wink. I’ll explain things to Kingsley.’
After that, the first time Rosalie and Kingsley were alone again was in the car on the way back to Rosalie’s flat.
‘Thanks for being so nice to Beth today,’ Rosalie ventured as she settled back in her seat after waving goodbye to her aunt and uncle. Kingsley had dutifully eaten everything put before him and had second and even third helpings when Beth had prompted him, played cards for part of the afternoon with the older couple although Rosalie could tell it wasn’t his kind of thing, and discussed the different merits of French, Italian and Australian wine with Beth for ages—although wine definitely was his thing. Nevertheless, she realised he had put himself out for her aunt after she’d explained the reason for the older couple’s sudden arrival back at the house; being deliberately amusing and teasing Beth until the hurt look at the back of her eyes had faded and she’d become her old self.
‘It’s not difficult, she’s a very warm and giving lady,’ he said quietly. ‘She reminds me of my mother in a way.’
‘Your mother?’ He hadn’t spoken of his parents at all. She glanced at him, the chiselled profile doing funny things to her heartbeat. Ridiculous, but she couldn’t imagine him ever being child size.
He nodded. ‘She died when I was twelve. She’d had a hard time having me and had been told any more babies might be fatal, but eventually she persuaded my father to try for another…’ He shrugged. ‘The unborn child died with her. My father married again three years later. My stepmother and I did not get on.’
‘I’m sorry.’ She stared at him, not knowing what to say.
He shrugged. ‘It’s history now. My father died when I was thirty and my stepmother has since remarried.’ He glanced at her, a wry twist to his mouth. ‘I was not invited to the wedding. It was a relief not to have to refuse the invitation.’
‘Things were still as bad as that?’
‘I can see now, looking back, that I wasn’t the easiest kid in the world for her to handle. As far as I was concerned my father’s interest in another woman besmirched my mother’s memory and they both had to pay for the desecration, added to which she was a hard, blonde, painted bimbo with pound signs for eyes.’ He shrugged. ‘Believe me, I don’t exaggerate.’
‘Right.’ She took another glance and wondered if she dared risk a quip to lighten what had suddenly become a heavy conversation. ‘Don’t mince words, Kingsley,’ she said softly. ‘Tell it as it is.’
He grinned at her, totally unabashed. ‘I always do, honey,’ he assured her evenly. ‘I always do.’
Once they drew up outside the flat Rosalie felt she could do nothing else but invite him in for coffee, an invitation
Kingsley accepted with alacrity.
Late evening sunshine was streaming in through the sitting-room windows when she opened the door, enhancing the soft buttery colour scheme and mellowing the pine furniture. ‘Sit down, I won’t be a moment.’ She gestured to the sofa and then hobbled off to the kitchen. She had bought a small wheeled trolley since the accident and found it indispensable.
Kingsley was sitting on the thick carpet looking through her music collection when she wheeled the trolley in. ‘No jazz?’
‘Sorry, not my scene.’
