AllFreeNovel
Share Us
‘Please…I’ve brought a special Fortnum’s hamper back with me so that we wouldn’t need to cook.’
Charlotte was staring at him. She couldn’t take in what he was saying. ‘You want to celebrate with me,’ she repeated jerkily. ‘But…’
‘But what?’
How on earth had he come to be standing so close to her? She blinked dizzily, wondering when he had closed the distance between them.
He was so close to her now that if she gave in to the temptation to close her eyes and sway close to him her hair would brush that bare, moist chest, and then if she turned her head her lips would touch the satin smoothness of his throat. And, if she did, he would only have to close his hands on her shoulders to bring her body into intimate contact with his and to relieve the aching tension tormenting her.
‘But what?’ he repeated softly, causing her to focus on him and then step back from him, her eyes shadowed and wary.
But why me? she wanted to ask, but dared not. Instead she said as coolly as she could,’ I should have thought you would have friends in London you could have celebrated with.’
‘Not friends,’ he corrected her. ‘Acquaintances, yes. London is that kind of place. Everyone is too busy carving a career for themselves these days to have time to establish friendships. That kind of lifestyle isn’t for me any longer. Mature, sensible relationships where two individuals agree to spend a tiny portion of their time together, sharing their bodies without sharing their dreams…that’s not for me.’
She was starting to tremble wildly, unable to allow herself to believe what she was hearing.
‘You mean you want…friendship…from me?’ She trembled uncertainly over the word friendship, not sure of anything any more, feeling as though she had strayed into an unfamiliar world where there were no markers for her to follow.
She saw the way his mouth twisted and felt sharp anxiety spear her. She had angered him in some way.
‘Is that so very hard to understand?’ he asked her quietly.
‘I—’
‘Look, I’m filthy and sweaty. Let me go and shower, and then we can talk over dinner. You won’t have to do a thing. In fact, if you like we could eat outside.’
‘Outside?’ Charlotte stared at him.
‘Mmm. It’s going to be a lovely warm evening.’
Eat outside… How long had it been since she had done anything like that? Not even when she had been a child had her father believed in the spontaneity of picnics and eating outdoors. Her childhood, she had come to recognise, had been very regimented. A certain code of behaviour had been imposed on her and rigidly adhered to.
‘I think there are some deck-chairs in the shed,’ she began uncertainly. ‘But—’
Oliver shook his head. ‘Leave everything to me. Give me half an hour.’
Half an hour…
* * *
Now she had five minutes of that half-hour left, Charlotte saw, as she stood in front of her bedroom mirror and stared at her reflection.
What did one wear for an al-fresco meal in the garden with a man who wanted one as a friend? She had no idea, having no previous experience of such a thing, and in the end, after she had showered, washed and dried her hair and replaced her make-up, she had dressed uncertainly in a pair of jeans nearly as old and snug-fitting as Oliver’s had been, although hers were clean, and a long-sleeved, soft pink top in T-shirt fabric, which had a pretty scooped neckline and a row of buttons down the front.
She had chosen the top because it was light and cool without being in any way brief or revealing. Only, as she went downstairs to join Oliver in the kitchen, she realised that she had not allowed for the intensity of his effect on her body, and she prayed that the now familiar tightening of her nipples was not visible to him through the fabric of her top.
Like her, he was wearing jeans—clean ones—and a soft cotton shirt, unbuttoned at the throat, with the sleeves rolled back to reveal the warm strength of his forearms.
A wicker hamper stood on the kitchen table and with it was an ice bucket complete with champagne and two glasses. Her eyes widened as she looked at it, an unfamiliar warm sense of pleasure igniting inside her as she realised that he must have been thinking of this…of her…while he was in London.
Or was she reading too much into what he had said? She darted him an uncertain glance, and was immediately reassured by the warmth of his smile, almost as though he knew what she was thinking…what she was feeling. But that was impossible, of course; there was no way he could know. He was just being pleasant. He was lonely, and wanted her company.
‘Chairs,’ she began vaguely, trying to concentrate her mind on something mundane.
‘All organised. If you could carry the champagne, I’ll bring the hamper.’
As they walked out into the garden, still warm, as he had forecast, still bathed in sunshine, he started to tell her about the sale of his business, and of the visit he had managed to make to a friend who worked for one of the London agents who specialised in dealing with large houses and country estates.
