A Perfect Hero. Caroline Anderson
Читать онлайн книгу.
companionable silence, broken only by the sound of O’Malley’s tongue rasping over his paws. After a while he detached himself from Michael’s neck and stalked out of the door, tail held high.
‘He’s off on the razzle again. More coffee?’
She shook her head. Somehow, without O’Malley’s unwitting guardianship, she felt much more alone with Michael again.
‘Do you want me to take you home?’ he asked with gentle insight.
She looked up, startled. ‘But I thought …’
‘What?’
She shook her head. ‘Nothing.’
His fingers traced the outline of her jaw, and threaded under her hair to knead the tense muscles of her neck.
‘I want to make love to you, Clare, but there’s more than that with us, isn’t there?’
She met his eyes, surprised by his admission. ‘Is there? For you, I mean?’
‘Oh, yes …’ His fingers closed around her shoulder and eased her gently back against him. ‘Oh, yes, my love, there’s much more. I think we could have something really special, and I think it deserves to be given time to flourish.’ His lips brushed hers briefly, and with a sigh he hugged her and then let her go.
‘Come on, I’d better take you home before you undermine my good intentions and I do something unspeakably wicked to you on the carpet.’
Clare giggled. ‘You wouldn’t!’
‘Is that a dare?’
She shook her head, suddenly breathless, because for all the lightness of his tone his eyes were deadly serious. ‘No. Take me home, Michael.’
With a wry grin, he helped her to her feet and led her to the car.
Once they had set off he found her hand in the darkness and rested it on his thigh, holding it there except when he needed to change gear. When they reached the hospital, he pulled up in the car park outside the nurses’ residence and turned to face her.
‘How about spending the day with me tomorrow on the boat?’
‘I might be working,’ she teased.
‘But you’re not—I checked the rota. If you don’t want to, you can always say no, Clare.’
She was struck by the uncertainty in his voice, and squeezed his hand. ‘Of course I want to. It would be lovely.’
‘Can you be ready by eight?’
‘Yes, that’s fine. What shall I wear?’
‘Something scruffy and fairly warm, and bring shorts and a swimsuit.’ He leant over and kissed her firmly but briefly, then pushed open the door. ‘I won’t come in with you—I’m not sure I could resist the temptation. I’ll see you tomorrow. Sleep well, my love.’
‘You too. Thanks for a lovely evening.’
She touched his cheek with her hand, and then climbed out of the car and shut the door, watching until his tail-lights disappeared from view.
Then she let herself back inside and prepared for bed, certain she wouldn’t be able to sleep. So he thought they could have something really special, something that deserved time to flourish. She wondered where it would lead—to heartache, or to a lifetime of happiness? Maybe neither. Only time would tell.
She snuggled down in bed, her head crowded with images of Michael, and fell asleep in seconds.
Oh, Michael, she’s lovely!’
Clare stood on the quayside and gazed in admiration at the little sloop. Built on traditional, classic lines, she was sleek and graceful, and Clare fell in love on the spot.
Michael slammed the boot of the Volvo and strolled to her side, a confident, cocky grin on his face. ‘Isn’t she great? I know every inch of her, inside and out—I helped my grandfather build her the year I was ten. She handles beautifully—he really knew what he was doing. Come on, let’s get all this stuff stowed and take her out.’
He led Clare on to the pontoon that ran out like a finger into the marina, with little branches off it at intervals to which boats were moored in orderly profusion.
‘I may be biased, but I think she’s the prettiest,’ Clare told him as they arrived at the Henrietta and she got her first close look at the boat.
‘I’m biased too, but I happen to agree with you!’ He shot her a cheeky grin. ‘Here, hold this lot.’ He handed her some bags and hopped nimbly aboard, uncovering the cockpit and stowing the cover neatly under the seat in the stern.
Then he took the bags from her, dropped them into the cockpit and held out his hands. ‘Welcome aboard,’ he said, and as she leapt forward he caught her under her arms and swung her on to the deck.
She fell against him, laughing, and as she straightened his head came down and he kissed her lingeringly.
‘Good morning,’ he said huskily.
‘Good morning yourself,’ she replied, suddenly breathless. ‘What can I do?’
He waved a hand at the bags. ‘Get all this lot stowed away in the cabin and come back and keep me company.’
She scrambled somewhat inelegantly over the high step of the hatchway, down the two rungs of the companionway into the main cabin, and took a deep breath.
Oh, yes. Varnish, and seawater, and diesel, and the unmistakable smell of the bilges. Clare hadn’t realised how much she had missed messing about in boats until she had caught that evocative smell. Heavens, it took her right back to her childhood! Suddenly light-hearted, she looked around her.
On her right was a desk next to a bank of navigational equipment, charts, radio and so on, and on her left a little galley, with a gimballed stove designed to remain stable as the boat tilted from side to side. In front of her was the main seating area, with two long benches down either side that would convert to berths, one L-shaped, with a fixed table in front of it that would collapse to make a double berth.
There was a door directly opposite her that led, she imagined, to another little cabin in the bows, and the ‘head’, that ghastly contraption that passed for a loo on board small boats.
She looked around her at the cabin, and a little smile touched her mouth. This was Michael.
There were a few books—Nicholas Monsarrat, Neville Shute, Hammond Innes—a couple of bottles of wine and one of brandy, two jars of coffee and some powdered milk, a few tins of staples—everything a man like him would need for a quick getaway.
She heard his light tread behind her and turned.
‘Are you a loner?’
He looked startled for a second, and then smiled. ‘No, not really, but I do need to escape every now and again and top up. Will that worry you?’
There he goes again, talking as if we have a future, she thought with a soaring heart.
‘No, it won’t worry me at all. We all need solitude periodically.’
He gave her a brief hug. ‘What do you think of her?’
‘Oh, she’s lovely—just right. All wooden fittings and personal touches—not at all like a modern boat.’
He laughed. ‘You don’t sound as if you approve of modern boats!’
‘Well, they have their place, I suppose, but they’re characterless by comparison.’
‘Thank you,’ he said simply, and hugged her again. After a moment he eased away from her with a reluctant sigh and headed for the hatch. ‘We need to get under way if we’re going to catch the tide up the Deben. There’s a sand-spit across the mouth of the river that closes it off at low tide, but if we go now we should make it just about right.’