Picking up the Pieces. Caroline Anderson
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clasped it lightly, shielding it from the cold.
It was still early, only just after ten when they arrived back at the hospital, and she sensed his hesitation as they reached the door.
‘Would you like a coffee?’ she asked tentatively.
He paused, as if he was struggling with himself, then nodded. ‘A quick one. I want to talk to you, actually — about Saturday.’
She opened the door and flicked on the light, then busied herself with the kettle.
‘What about Saturday?’ she asked as casually as she could manage. In truth, she didn’t feel very casual about it. She had felt edgy for days, and then today in Theatre had stirred it all up again, only somehow worse. She had actually been relieved when they had gone to the Richardsons’ rather than a bistro where they would have been alone in the crowd, but walking back her awareness of him seemed to have reached new heights.
She felt terribly vulnerable with him, somehow exposed, as if she had behaved rather foolishly and precipitately on Saturday night. She would have given him anything he asked that night — anything at all. For her, at least, what was blossoming between them seemed incredibly precious, something to be cherished and nurtured. She didn’t know quite how she would feel if he didn’t feel the same, but she knew she was being unrealistic. He was a man, after all, and men — well, they were different. They didn’t see and feel things the same as women, and she knew for a fact that he would define her emotions as sentimental clap-trap.
He was clever, though, practised with women. For all her lack of experience she knew that. Knew, too, that he would play the game by the rules and pretend an element of romance and sentiment to satisfy her.
His hands on her shoulders were warm and gentle, turning her round into his arms. His voice was soft, gruff even, utterly sincere.
‘I didn’t want to leave you — God knows how I walked away from you that night. I have no idea what I did in that theatre — all I could think about was you. Then, as the days seemed to rush by without time to see you again, I got to thinking that perhaps it was just as well, that perhaps it was better if we didn’t rush into such an intimate relationship. Maybe, if I hadn’t had to go up to Theatre, if we’d come back here and made love — maybe you would have regretted it in the morning.
‘I don’t know why, quite, but that really matters. I don’t want you to hate me, Cass.’
She was stunned. She had never expected this, almost a confession. Either it was a very good line, or he was being painfully honest and revealing his feelings.
She wished she could trust him. Damn Simon for destroying her faith so she was afraid to believe anything anybody told her.
She turned her face up to his and met his eyes, and could have drowned in the emotion so clearly visible in their cobalt depths. ‘I don’t think I would have hated you, Nick,’ she murmured.
‘I wouldn’t like to risk it.’
‘I mean it. I’m a big girl, Nick, I know my own mind. You’re probably right, it would have been hasty, but it was going to happen.’
He searched her eyes. ‘And is it still?’
She paused, her breath lodged in her throat. ‘I don’t know. Maybe. Probably.’
His eyes grew heavy-lidded with desire. ‘Oh, Cassie,’ he murmured, and then he was kissing her, gently at first and then more urgently, until finally they broke apart for breath.
For a long time he stared into her eyes, his own dark with need, then his lids drifted shut and he leant his head against hers.
‘I must go — now, while I’ve got the strength. I’m so tired I wouldn’t do you justice tonight — and anyway, there’s no rush.’ He hugged her briefly, his mouth lifting in a tender, wistful smile. ‘Think of me.’
And then he was gone.
She stared at the door for a long while, debating whether to go after him or not, but then her common sense reasserted itself — that, and her natural reticence. What if he didn’t really mean it? Only a fool would believe him. He was a natural, a gifted, skilful, charming rake, and Cassie didn’t believe in reformed rakes any more than she believed in fairy tales.
But he had sounded so sincere …
Cassie made herself a drink and curled up with it in her bed in front of the television. There was nothing much on, but it didn’t matter. All she could see were the cobalt depths of his eyes.
‘Think of me,’ he had said. How could she do anything else?
The following weekend she was off duty, and so, apparently, was Nick. Rake or not, Cassie found to her dismay that she desperately wanted to spend it with him. She waited, hopefully, for him to suggest that they get together, but he didn’t.
Finally on Thursday evening, over a plate of spaghetti in a local bistro, he told her he was going away for the weekend.
‘I try to spend every other weekend with my parents,’ he said, ‘and it’s their turn this weekend.’
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