LITMIR.BIZ

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I know this coast like the back of my hand.’

      As the lock gates opened and Michael manoeuvred the boat out into the estuary, Clare sat back and relaxed. There was nothing she could usefully do, and Michael was clearly competent. She might as well give herself a treat and watch him at work.

      And it was a treat, she admitted to herself some time later. He had changed into ragged cut-off jeans and abandoned his T-shirt, and she watched the smooth play of muscle in his back as he hoisted the mainsail and unfurled the foresail, tightening the sheets and bringing the head round into the wind.

      ‘OK?’

      She nodded. ‘Super. I’d forgotten how much I love it!’

      He laughed in sheer enjoyment. ‘Great, isn’t it? I’d die if I couldn’t do this!’

      After a while he offered her the helm, and stood behind her, his hands steady on hers, his chest brushing lightly against her back. She leant back against him, resting her head on his shoulder, and made a small sound of contentment in her throat.

      ‘Happy?’

      ‘Oh, Michael, you have no idea …’

      His lips nuzzled her neck. ‘You taste wonderful—fresh and clean and delicious. Mind the ferry.’

      ‘What ferry?’

      He laughed. ‘Just testing. Want to take her round the point?’

      She let out a breath. ‘I’ll try—just don’t go away.’

      ‘I won’t. Take your time.’

      She took a steadying breath, let out the port sheet, spun the wheel and hauled in the starboard sheet. Henrietta yawed wildly for a second or two, then the sails filled with a slap and she settled down on the new course.

      ‘Well done.’

      She laughed breathlessly. ‘It was awful!’

      He chuckled, his arms wrapping round her waist to pull her back against him. ‘It wasn’t perfect, but it was fine. You’ll do, with practice.’

      ‘Hmm. Maybe another time. Over to you, Cap’n Bligh.’

      She slid under his arm and sat in the cockpit, her feet propped on the other seat, and mopped up the sunshine. After a few minutes she started to overheat, and went below to put on her shorts and T-shirt. There was a cooling breeze off the sea, but it was going to be a gloriously hot June day nevertheless.

      Michael’s eyes ran appreciatively over her legs as she climbed over the hatch, and he gave a gusty sigh.

      ‘How the hell am I supposed to keep my hands off you when you look like that?’

      ‘Well, ditto!’

      Their eyes met.

      ‘Oh, dear God, Clare—I want you,’ he whispered.

      She swallowed. ‘Can we talk about this later? You’re going to run us aground on the sand-spit if you don’t concentrate!’

      He swore softly under his breath, and then gave a rueful chuckle. ‘It’s a deal. Just sit down and don’t fidget about, or I won’t stand a chance of thinking straight!’

      It was a wonderful day. They tacked up the river towards Woodbridge, ate their picnic in sight of the Tide Mill, and dropped back down with the tide, rounding the point off Felixstowe at four o’clock. By five they were back in the marina, mooring Henrietta and packing up their things.

      By the time they left, Clare’s nerves were at screaming pitch. Every touch of his hand, every brush of his body against hers as they manoeuvred round each other in the little cabin had left her senses reeling.

      They drove back to the cottage in a potent silence, and when they arrived back, he stilled her hand as he moved to unload the car.

      ‘Leave that lot. I want to make love to you. I’ve been watching you bending around in those tiny little shorts for hours, and I really don’t think I can stand much more of it.’

      Her heart was pounding as she followed him into the cottage and up the stairs. In his bedroom he turned to her, his hands cupping her shoulders lightly. His eyes searched her face, his expression serious. ‘Is this what you want, Clare?’

      She nodded, beyond speech.

      ‘Are you sure?’

      She nodded again. ‘I’m terrified—I’ve never done it before, and I don’t really know what to expect, and I’ll probably be a dreadful disappointment to you, but yes—I’m sure.’

      ‘Oh, my love …’

      He was so gentle, so careful with her, his hands tender, his voice coaxing her softly. And it was easy—much easier than she had imagined, and so—beautiful wasn’t the word, it was too earthy, too positive for that, but as she reached the crest, something deep inside her shattered and she felt freer than she had ever felt before.

      Dear God, I love him! she thought, and clung to him as his body quivered under her hands and he cried her name.

CHAPTER THREE

      ‘I THOUGHT we were going to give this relationship time to flourish,’ Clare said sleepily, much later.

      Beneath her ear Michael’s chest rumbled gently with suppressed laughter. ‘Yes, well, it flourished quicker than I dared to hope.’

      He levered himself up on one elbow and looked down at her, his face gravely tender. ‘Are you all right?’

      ‘I’m fine. I’ve never felt so good in my life.’

      ‘I’m glad. Neither have I.’

      ‘Oh, come on,’ she laughed self-consciously. ‘I didn’t know what I was doing——’

      ‘Yes, you did. You were making love. It doesn’t require technical competence, darling.’ He kissed her gently, his voice roughened with emotion. ‘You were wonderful—warm, generous, funny—I love you, Clare.’

      Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Oh, Michael, I love you too.’

      She clung to him, her heart overflowing with happiness. She didn’t understand how it could have happened so soon, but it had, and it seemed so right loving him, as if she had been waiting all this time for him to come along and fill her life with sunshine and laughter.

      He kissed her lingeringly, his hands tracing lazy patterns on her skin, and she tentatively laid her palms against his chest.

      That feels good,’ he murmured.

      ‘Can I touch you?’ she asked hesitantly.

      He flopped on to his back and spread his arms wide with a wicked grin. ‘Do whatever you want—I’m yours!’

      His laugh turned to a groan as she ran her fingertips experimentally down the centre of his chest. His eyes closed, he lay rigid while she explored the changing textures and planes of hair and skin, tracing the smooth line of muscle and sinew, revelling in the feel of satin over steel. Fascinated by the contrast between vulnerability and strength, she dallied over the jut of his hipbones and the slight hollow of his pelvis above the taut, hard muscles of his thighs. His legs were strong and straight, well-muscled and smoothly tanned beneath the dense scatter of blond curls.

      She knelt by his feet, her fingers tracing each toe in turn, smoothing the strong arch as her eyes trailed slowly up his body, absorbing his beauty like a drug.

      ‘You’re perfect,’ she said huskily, ‘so perfect. A perfect hero!’

      He laughed self-consciously and reached down to pull her over him.

      ‘I’ve got scarry knees,’ he confessed.

      ‘So? All little boys have scarry

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