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‘I missed you,’ I whispered into the darkness.
Silence.
Silence which for once, wasn’t cold.
‘I missed you, too.’
I bit my lip. Was it cruel to tell him this? I’d said no. I’d refused his proposal, and he had made it clear he wasn’t interested in anything less than marriage. Would it only hurt him to tell him?
Oh, to hell with it!
‘I love you.’
Silence.
Silence for a long, long moment, that stretched and—
Suddenly, he whirled around to face me. In a blink, he was at my bedside and grabbed hold of me. Digging his fingers into my hair as if it were the thread that connected him to life, he pulled me against him and kissed me, hard, fast, heady.
Holy hell! If this is his punishment for being drunk and disorderly, maybe I should do it more often!
When he finally broke away, he was panting. His eyes held mine captive, ice swirling in their sea-coloured depths.
‘Likewise.’
Wasn’t it wonderful how sweet and loving Mr Rikkard Ambrose phrased his romantic declarations? He should have become a poet.
‘Move over,’ he ordered.
I obeyed him, because it was always a good idea to stay unpredictable. Lif
ting the covers, he slid into bed beside me and wrapped his arms around me like iron fetters. Only iron wasn’t quite as hard.
‘So, we’ve established the basic parameters, Mr Linton. We both possess mutual affection for one another.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘And we both want to be together.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
Gripping my shoulders, he turned me around. I lay there, gazing up at him. Darkness was starting to encroach on my vision, heralding the approach of sleep. But even if I’d been as drunk as the whole House of Lords, I would still have seen his stone-hard face, and his eyes, burning with sincerity.
‘So have you changed your mind? Will you be my wife?’
I considered for a moment, then glanced over at the solitary little yellow piggy that had coiled itself up in a comfy corner of the room and was watching us with interest.
‘What do you think?’
‘Oink,’ it said, and wiggled its tail.
‘Good advice,’ I agreed—and promptly dropped into unconsciousness.
Investigating
Have you ever tried to get a hungover French prima donna out of bed at seven in the morning? No?
Lucky you.
