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of course he’ll want some. And at forty the chances of my having another child aren’t very good. Possible, I suppose—women of forty do have babies—but it isn’t as easy a process at that age as it is when you’re in your twenties; problems are more likely to crop up. It’s far more tiring to be pregnant; you and the baby are more at risk. Oh, and even if I could have one quite safely, she thought, do I want to go through all that again? I’ve been along that road once, with Rob; I was the right age to do that then; it was all new and exciting, being a wife, having babies, bringing them up. But now Vicky is grown-up and Tom certainly isn’t a child any more. Do I really want to start again?
And what on earth would they think of their mother marrying again, having a baby? It’s simply ridiculous; it is out of the question. I had a wonderful marriage and a marvellous man—it’s greedy to ask for a second chance at love.
Her mouth was growing cold and stiff under his; she felt the excitement draining out of her. Gil broke off the kiss suddenly and caught her chin in one hand, tilting her head.
‘Open your eyes, Bianca. Look at me.’
Her lashes fluttered against her hot cheek. She shook her head.
Gil shook her slightly, his voice impatient, insistent. ‘Stop being such a coward—look at me! I want to see your eyes.’
Reluctantly she lifted her lids; her blue eyes were shadowed and dilated. Gil looked into them, his face just inches away.
‘I know what’s going on in your head, and it’s crazy. You love me, I know you love me—you couldn’t kiss me like that if you didn’t—but you’re so afraid to admit it that you’d rather ruin both our lives.’
‘We barely know each other!’ she whispered, tears behind her eyes. ‘Can’t you see how ridiculous it would be? We only met a fortnight ago! How on earth could I ruin your life by turning you down? This is just an infatuation, Gil, can’t you see that? Go back to Spain— you’ll soon forget you ever met me.’
His face darkened. ‘Will you forget me?’ he bit out, and she winced, trying to lie.
‘Of course I w...’
The words died in her throat; she could not utter them.
Gil nodded grimly. ‘You know you won’t. And I’m not going to forget I met you either, not if I live a hundred years.’
r /> ‘We’ll both be dead in a hundred years!’ She shrugged, forcing a laugh.
‘Don’t make light of what I feel, Bianca,’ he muttered. ‘I’m not going to let you do that. I made a mistake about my first wife—or maybe we were mistaken about each other. But this time it’s different. This time I’m absolutely sure it’s the real thing, Bianca—aren’t you?’
His grey eyes stared insistently into hers. She stared back, swallowing, dry-mouthed.
‘I may only have known you for a short time, but I’m certain you’re the woman for me, Bianca, and I even think I know why you’re trying to drive me away.’ He paused, then in a gentle voice added, ‘I understand, you know.’
A pulse beat at the side of her throat. ‘What are you talking about now?’
‘I understand what’s wrong,’ Gil said calmly. ‘What scared you off was that little swine attacking you in your apartment, wasn’t it? You got everything muddled up in your mind; suddenly you just wanted to get away from me. You were afraid of yourself and me—we’d moved too fast, maybe. But that was inevitable from the minute we met. I know I’d have jumped into bed with you the first day.’
She drew a shaky breath, her face burning.
Gil’s eyes challenged her. ‘Come on, admit it. I’m pretty sure you felt the same way.’
‘I’m not admitting anything!’ she mumbled.
He sighed. ‘If only you hadn’t gone into Marbella that first evening, been mugged—I’ve an idea everything would have been different if there had been no complications. But you confused what you felt for me with what that little thug tried to do to you. And that wrecked everything. I knew what was happening. I saw it in your face that night in your apartment when we caught him— I saw the way you couldn’t bear me to touch you. Why do you think I left you alone when you told me to go? Do you think I wanted to go? Don’t you think I was worried sick about you? I could tell what was going on in your head; it wasn’t difficult to work out. I realised I had to leave you alone to get over the shock of being attacked like that.’
‘Don’t keep talking about it!’ she broke out, shaking, icy cold as she remembered that night.
‘Talking about it is the only way you’ll get it sorted out in your head,’ he told her. ‘You should be having counselling, Bianca. You need to talk this out—a shock like that goes on echoing inside you for years if you don’t deal with the trauma. If you deal with it, it will fade, the way the bruises on your face have faded.’
He put a tender finger on her cheek, trailed it down to her mouth, followed the parted, sighing line of it.
‘Don’t,’ she whispered.
‘I love you—don’t send me away again,’ he said. ‘I’ve taken a fortnight off from the hotel, left my assistant in charge—give me a chance to get to know you better. Take some more time off; we’ll explore Kent and London, go to the theatre, take walks, talk, find out all about each other.’
‘I’m forty!’ she reminded him desperately, afraid that she was going to give in.
He laughed. ‘So you keep telling me. And I keep saying... so what? I’ll be forty myself before long.’
