Hotly Bedded, Conveniently Wedded. Kate Hardy
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crowds of people swirling round them meant it was still impossible to talk. But she was aware that Alex was behind her on the escalator. So close she could have leaned back against him.
What would it be like to feel Alex’s arms round her?
What would it be like to feel his hands against her bare skin?
What would it be like to feel his mouth touching her body intimately?
‘OK?’ he asked when they were through the ticket barrier and standing outside on the street.
‘Fine.’
‘Liar.’ He caught her hand and squeezed it briefly.
The lightest contact…and it sent a shiver all the way through her. Woke nerve-endings she’d forgotten she had.
No.
It wasn’t possible for her to feel like this about Alex. And even thinking about it meant she was storing up trouble for herself. She’d loved Gary. Deeply. But it hadn’t stopped everything going wrong. So she had to keep some kind of distance between herself and Alex, not let her heart get involved.
Or her libido.
‘I’m not lying,’ she mumbled, but she didn’t look him in the eye until they got to the Moroccan restaurant.
Alex insisted on holding the door open for her. ‘I don’t care if it offends your feminist nature. It’s good manners and it’s how I was brought up,’ he informed her.
It was how she’d been brought up, too. ‘Thank you,’ she said, meaning it.
Stepping inside the restaurant was like stepping out of London and into a souk. The air smelled of cinnamon and cardamom, and the décor was as beautiful as she remembered it; the walls were painted shades of saffron and terracotta and deep red, there were rich silks everywhere, the wrought iron chairs were covered with bright silk cushions toning with the walls, and the silk hanging from the ceiling gave the place the effect of being in some rich prince’s tent. Tea-light candles flickered on the glass tabletops, and rose petals were scattered everywhere.
The waiter ushered them to the table and handed them each a menu.
‘Red wine OK with you?’ Alex asked, glancing down the menu.
‘Fine.’
‘Good. Meze to start, I think. Anything in particular you fancy?’
‘I’ll let you choose.’ Not that she wasn’t capable of choosing her own meal, but she knew how much Alex enjoyed it. And, as he’d said, his tastes were very similar to her own, so she knew she’d like whatever he chose.
‘What do you want for your main course?’
‘Chicken tagine. The one with preserved lemons.’
‘I think I’ll have the same. We’ll choose pudding later,’ Alex decided.
And after pudding…he’d go home with her.
And if she’d said yes to his proposal, he would have taken her to bed. Proved how compatible they were.
Her concentration went completely, and she was reduced to saying, ‘Mmm,’ and nodding in the right places as Alex talked to her about the dig he’d been on in Turkey before his return to London. And it was even worse when the meze arrived—a selection of dishes to share. Traditionally, Moroccan food was eaten with fingers and pitta bread was used to scoop up the dips, and every time she reached for one of the stuffed vine leaves or the aubergine and cumin dip or the felafel, her fingers brushed against Alex’s. In the past, it wouldn’t have bothered her, but tonight the lightest contact made her tingle. A sensual awareness that spread through every part of her body and made her wish that she’d been wearing a thick concealing sweater rather than a thin T-shirt that revealed her body’s reaction to his touch.
If Alex said one word about being able to see her nipples, she’d kill him.
She ate her chicken tagine in silence.
And then Alex sighed.
‘Would it really be so bad?’
‘What?’
‘Going to bed with me.’
She felt the colour shoot into her face. ‘Alex!’
‘You’ve been quiet ever since I suggested getting married.’
And having sex. ‘It’s just…I never thought about you in that way before.’ It wasn’t the strict truth, but she didn’t want him thinking that she’d been secretly lusting after him. Their friendship had been genuine.
‘Not ever? Not even when you were…I dunno… eighteen?’
When she was eighteen? The only time she remembered him kissing her on the mouth. ‘No.’ She looked curiously at him. Did he remember that, too? And was he saying that, all those years ago, he had seen her as more than just the girl next door? ‘Did you?’
‘Not when I was eighteen—of course not.’ He flapped a dismissive hand. ‘Bel, you were still a child when I was eighteen. And when you were eighteen and I was twenty- three, there was still a huge gap between us.’ He paused. ‘But now you’re thirty and I’m thirty-five. The gap’s not there any more.’
She knew she was going to regret asking, but she couldn’t help the question. ‘And?’
‘And…’ he paused ‘…I’m thinking about you in that way right now.’
There was a gleam in his eyes she’d never seen before. A purely masculine gleam that told her he was interested in her. As a woman, not as a friend.
Her breath hitched. ‘Oh.’
‘You’re thinking about it, too, aren’t you?’ he asked, his voice sounding husky.
‘Yes,’ she admitted, before she could stop herself.
‘Good,’ he said softly. ‘Hold on to that thought.’
It still seemed like some weird parallel universe. The idea of becoming Alex’s lover. Yesterday it would’ve been unthinkable. Today…the possibilities sent heat all the way down her spine.
She found it hard to concentrate when the waiter offered them the dessert menu, and eventually went for the safe option: bagrir, a light pancake served with honey and ice cream and nuts. Alex, just as she could have predicted, went for the selection of chocolate and cardamom ice cream.
‘Oh, yes. Best ever,’ Alex said when he tasted it. ‘Open your mouth.’
Oh, Lord. The pictures that put in her mind.
It must have shown in her expression, because she saw colour bloom along his cheekbones. ‘I meant, you have to try this. And it’s the cardamom one—I know you loathe chocolate ice cream.’
So he wanted her to lean forward and accept a morsel from his spoon? But her T-shirt was V-necked. Leaning across the table would give Alex a full-on view of her cleavage.
The thought made her nipples tighten even more.
‘Bel, it’s melting. Hurry up.’ He held the spoon out towards her.
She leaned across the table. Opened her mouth. Let him brush the cold, cold spoon against her lower lip before she ate the morsel of ice cream.
‘Good?’ he asked.
She had a feeling he didn’t mean just the ice cream.
‘Good,’ she whispered.
He smiled—a warm, sensual smile that made her catch her breath.
‘My turn,’ he said.
They’d done this so many times before—shared a pudding, tasted each other’s meals, filched buttered toast from each other’s