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obvious excuse did nothing to help matters.

      ‘Forgive me?’ Seeing her set face, he smiled. ‘Oh, dear, obviously not.’

      His eyes fixed on her mouth, he bent his head to kiss her.

      She moved back a step.

      He sighed. ‘And here I’ve been, waiting all day to kiss you. Waiting all day just to touch you, to take you to bed and make love to you.’

      Angry with him for his cavalier attitude, she looked at him stonily.

      ‘In that case, I’ll have to resort to a spot of friendly persuasion.’

      Catching the lapels of her jacket, he pulled her towards him. Then, one hand beneath her chin, he lifted her face to meet his kiss.

      It wasn’t until his lips touched hers that she realised just how urgent was her need to have him kiss her. Just how much she needed to be reassured that he was really here, to be with her.

      But, unwilling to let him know it, she tried her utmost to hide how she felt. Though she badly wanted to, she refused to put her arms round his neck, refused to melt against him as she normally did.

      Even so, they were standing so close she could feel the warmth of his body, the ripple of his muscles, the firmness of his flesh.

      His hand slid up and down her spine in a restless movement that told her he didn’t like restraining himself, but was doing it anyway while he waited for some sign that he was forgiven.

      After a time, when none was forthcoming, he lifted his mouth enough to murmur huskily, ‘Are you persuaded yet?’

      Her anger having drained away, she answered, ‘Not yet; keep trying.’

      His lips curved into a smile before his arms closed around her and he kissed her again.

      Unable to resist him any longer, she reached up slowly, her fingertips tenderly tracing the scratches, before her palm cupped the hard planes of his cheek.

      She heard his indrawn breath before he covered her hand with his own and, carrying it to his lips, kissed the palm.

      Her whole being melted with love for him, and she wondered, how on earth had she managed to live before she met him?

      When she tugged her hand free he frowned, a frown that changed to a glint of satisfaction as her fingers began to undo his shirt buttons.

      It was only later that she realised she ought to have pressed him for an explanation first, but how could she, when so many times she had failed to give him one?

      His need urgent, he swept her up in his arms and carried her through to the bedroom. When he had swiftly undressed her and lifted her onto the bed, he stripped off his own clothes.

      Though she had seen him naked many times, she caught her breath yet again. He was a magnificent male animal, and she was his chosen mate. It was as wonderfully simple, as down to earth, as that.

      Mostly he was a slow, skilful lover who took his time and enjoyed pleasuring her, building up the intensity until often she was gasping and writhing, hardly able to bear all the exquisite sensations he was engendering.

      But now he wasted no time on foreplay, and trembling enough to rouse him even more, she accepted his weight eagerly.

      She could hear his quickened breathing, feel the thump of his heart, and knowing she had caused it gave her pleasure.

      Briefly she was pliant beneath him, waiting. Then she was taut as a drawn bow string as he drove hard and fast, carrying them both to a shattering climax.

      She experienced a complete losing of self, then a gradual gathering back as they lay in an erotic tangle of limbs, both breathing as if they’d just run a race.

      After a while he lifted himself away and, leaning over her, brushed a loose tendril of silky blonde hair away from her flushed cheek.

      ‘All right?’ His expression held a mixture of concern and tenderness.

      ‘Of course,’ she assured him. ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

      ‘Well, I wasn’t very gentle.’

      His words made her think, made her suddenly appreciate that normally he was careful with her. But something—that brief touch of discord perhaps?—had thrown him off balance.

      ‘You don’t have to treat me like porcelain,’ she told him a shade tartly. ‘I won’t break.’

      Suddenly he was laughing. ‘Are you trying to tell me you prefer it hard and fast to slow and easy? Well, well, well…’

      ‘I’m not trying to tell you anything of the kind. I like…’ She broke off and, feeling her colour rise, tried to wriggle free.

      Putting an arm either side of her, he said silkily, ‘Do go on. It’s about time you opened up and told me. What do you like? I’m always willing to oblige.’

      He was in a strange mood, she thought, and accused, ‘You’re trying to embarrass me.’

      ‘Succeeding too, if the way you’re blushing is anything to go by,’ he said arrogantly.

      Pushing herself up, she made another, more determined, attempt to escape.

      He foiled her by the simple expedient of pulling her elbows from beneath her.

      ‘Don’t be shy. Tell me.’

      ‘Rafe, please…’

      ‘That’s my intention as soon as I know what pleases you the most…’

      When she remained silent, he sighed. ‘Oh, well, if you’re determined not to tell me, I’ll just have to experiment and make my own judgement…’

      ‘Not now.’ She tried once more to sit up.

      Pushing her gently back, he said, ‘Now.’

      Secure in the knowledge that all hunger was sated, she said, ‘You’ll be wasting your time.’

      ‘I don’t think so.’

      She quivered like a plucked string under his hands as he effortlessly re-aroused her desire. Soon she was spinning in some crazy world of sublime sensations while his every touch, his seeking mouth and tongue added more…

      When finally she lay limp and emotionally drained, he gathered her close and kissed her. ‘Sleep now.’

      After a short time she awoke refreshed to find he was up and dressed.

      ‘If we have a quick meal at the Xanadu we’ve still got time to go to the gallery.’

      ‘We don’t have to go.’

      ‘I know you want to.’ Bending down to kiss her, he added, ‘And I don’t want you to miss out on anything that gives you pleasure.’

      As she showered and dressed, she thought—as she’d thought before and was to think many times in the coming weeks—how lucky she was to have Rafe. With a quiet but radiant happiness, she found herself daring to anticipate the day when he would tell her he loved her and ask her to be his wife.

      Then, one golden evening in late September, a woman arrived at the clinic asking to speak to Madeleine on a matter of some urgency.

      Presuming it was business, she agreed, and when a tall, good-looking brunette was shown in, she held out her hand with a friendly smile. ‘Hello…I’m Madeleine Knight.’

      The expression in her dark eyes unmistakably hostile, the newcomer, beautifully dressed and thin to the point of gauntness, ignored the proffered hand. ‘And I’m Fiona Charn, Rafe’s fiancée…’

      Sitting down in the visitor’s chair, she crossed slim, silkclad legs. ‘To put it bluntly, I gather that while I’ve been away this last time, he’s been bedding you…’

      Watching

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