

### Anything for You

by

Emma Lilly

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

Emma Lilly on Smashwords

Anything for You

Copyright 2012 by Emma Lilly

Originally written and published under the name of Lily Evans

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

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Chapter 1

The silence, already long, now seemed to be spiralling into eternity.

Oh God. What the hell had I done?

Drew looked up at me at last, the confusion in his brown eyes only serving to deepen my mortification. "This is a joke, right?"

For a split second, I toyed with the idea of agreeing with him. That of course I'd been kidding, only pulling his leg. That I'd just wanted to see the look on his face. But I hadn't. And now, even more humiliatingly, my bottom lip was starting to wobble. Shit, I was going to cry.

"You're not joking." His tone softened.

"No." My voice sounded small.

"But you're nearly twenty-five!"

"I know! Why d'you think I never told you before? Oh!" And uttering a groan, I buried my face in my hands. "Never mind. Forget I asked, okay? Just pretend I never said anything."

Like that was going to be possible. I could already feel Drew's gaze boring into the top of my head.

"Sam."

"Please?" I peered at him through my fingers, the wash of shame now making me clammy all over. "I've forgotten all sorts of things for you. Like that time you rode your scooter over old Mr Roberts' allotment and smashed his prize marrows. And that time you put bleach in your sister's shampoo. Not to mention the time you left the bath taps running until the kitchen ceiling collapsed."

"You've forgotten all those things?" He sounded amused.

"I never told anybody else. Drew, please!"

His eyes narrowed. "Is that what you're worried about? You think I'm going to tell everyone what you just told me?"

I wouldn't have blamed him if he had. I'd just fed him a line that could win Olympic Gold for gossip-worthiness.

"Samantha Bloom." He blew out a sigh. "For heaven's sake, is your opinion of me really as low as all that?"

No. Not at all. Because I wouldn't have asked him what I'd just asked him if it was, would I? But I didn't say it. Couldn't say it.

"Why?"

I swallowed. "Look, I don't have a low opinion of—"

"That's not what I meant."

Of course it wasn't. I knew Drew of old and there was no way in hell he was going to let me off the hook. "Why what?" I muttered, playing for time.

I felt his strong hands circle my wrists, prising my fingers away from my heated face. "You know what." He leaned forward, holding my arms either side of my head, his grip infuriatingly secure. In seventeen years of play-fights, I'd been the victor a handful of times and only then, I suspected, because he thought he'd better let me win every now and again or I'd refuse to wrestle with him anymore. "Why are you—?" He stopped abruptly, shaking his head. "Jesus, I can't believe I'm asking this question."

"Then don't?" I suggested hopefully.

"Oh no, I'm going to ask. I have to ask." He held my gaze, his brown eyes locking on mine. "Why the fuck are you still a virgin?"

As I stared back, the unwitting aptness of his words sank home. "Well, here's the thing," I said, my lips twitching as his own smile began, illuminating the dimples at the corners of his mouth. "Quite simple really. In order to stop being a virgin, you have to fuck."

He nodded solemnly. "And why haven't you fucked?"

God bless him, but he was making this easier for me, the coarseness of the words stripping back my declaration of chastity to its crudest elements. "I don't know," I admitted, biting down on my lower lip. "Got close a couple of times. Fooled about a bit. But when it came to the nitty gritty, the getting your kit off bit..." I let my voice fade, aware my cheeks were on fire yet bizarrely feeling relief at confessing my darkest secret.

"You backed off? Or did they?"

They. I closed my eyes, experiencing a ridiculous surge of guilt. There'd been three guys in total, Carl, Tim and Matt. Carl had dumped me within minutes of me knocking him back. Subtle. Tim had been rather more patient but it hadn't stopped him attempting to inveigle his way into my knickers at every given opportunity. I dumped him eventually, claiming he was sex-obsessed.

Matt had been the most accommodating of them all. We managed to 'go steady', as my Gran would've put it, for six months, with me steadfastly refusing to let him remove any part of my clothing. But then one day, he'd bumped into his old flame Victoria while shopping for groceries in Tesco and by the evening, bumping had become humping. I couldn't really blame the chap. How long would I have made him wait?

"I did," I confessed at last.

There was another lengthy silence. So lengthy in fact that for a brief moment, I dared to hope this might be a dream. But aren't all Sagittarians known for their unfailing optimism? I opened my eyes again, just to check.

Drew was still there. "Why?"

That question again. "I don't know."

"Sure you don't know?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" I muttered, scowling.

He pursed his lips in response and raised his eyebrows. He knew I knew what he meant.

"Drew!" I could pretend I didn't. "Just because I'm still a virgin at the damned-near geriatric age of twenty-four doesn't mean there's something wrong with me!"

"Hey, I wasn't saying there was, okay? Though you have to admit, it's not exactly..."

"Not exactly what?" I prompted when he stopped mid-sentence. "Normal?"

He looked suitably chagrined. "I wasn't going to say that."

"No, but it's what you thought, isn't it?" Why did I feel so angry? "And you'd be right, of course. It isn't fucking normal. But I don't know why, okay? I don't know why I've waited this long. I don't know why I've always backed out at the last moment. I just have, all right? And, oh God..." Feeling my lip begin to quiver again, I spun away to the window, my eyes filling with tears as I stared out at the darkened street.

The very same street where we'd played as children. I could almost see us out there still. My brother, Paul, two years older than me, his unruly brown curls sticking out in all directions as he bombed up and down on his bike. Drew's sister, Charlotte, sitting on the kerb playing Jacks, me perched at her side, watching as she scooped up the metal pins between bounces of the rubber ball. And there was Drew himself of course, blond hair shining in the sun as he cycled alongside Paul.

Why do you always picture summer days when you have flashbacks to childhood?

I felt a hand on my shoulder, the warmth of Drew's fingers oozing through my T-shirt. "Okay," he breathed, the sound of his voice next to my ear sending a fizz of electricity down my spine. "The way I see this, we have two options."

"We do?" Good grief, what the hell was going on? He'd been this close to me a thousand times before, maybe more. It'd never felt like this.

"Yep." He sounded amused, matter-of-fact. "Option one. We pretend we never had this conversation. Pretend that when I asked you what you wanted for your birthday, you never said, 'Oh, I don't know. Maybe you could take my virginity'."

Bollocks. I could feel myself reddening all over again. I'd really said those words. Exactly those words. In vino veritas, I thought, casting a bitter glance at the empty bottle of wine on the coffee table. "And option two?"

There was a pause, a pause just long enough for me to realise that once again, I'd forgotten to put my brain into gear before opening my mouth. When Drew spoke, I could hear his barely-repressed laughter. "I think you know what option two is."

Did I know? Or was he about to turn the whole thing into a 'Ha ha, gotcha!' moment? Because, after all, I knew what Drew could be like. I'd known him since I was seven. My brother's best friend, he'd been a fixture of my life for pretty much as long as I could remember. I'd watched him grow up, captain the school football team and date a succession of pretty girls, do his exams and leave school.

There'd been those few years when I'd barely seen him of course, when he'd been studying at Manchester University and then working in London at a top law firm, courtesy of his first class honours degree. But then, much to everyone's disbelief, he'd thrown in his job and returned home, securing a much less high-powered position at Hunter Mills in Oxford. When questioned about it, he'd only say he'd realised life in the fast lane wasn't for him.

The fact I never pushed him for further details was probably one of the reasons our easy friendship had picked up where it left off. And I know this might sound strange, but hand on heart, it'd never occurred to me our relationship could ever amount to more than just that: friendship.

"Option two," I said slowly, pretending to mull over the possible alternatives, readying myself for his 'just kidding' line. "That'd be the option where you tell me that you've just realised you're gay, right? That's why you dumped Kayleigh last week. You couldn't go on living a lie."

"I didn't dump Kayleigh," Drew said calmly. "We had a very grown-up conversation and decided it wasn't to our mutual benefit to carry on seeing each other. And as for being gay..." His fingers tightened over my shoulder as he twisted me around to face him. "I think I'd have no trouble at all proving to you that I'm not."

Whoa.

My mouth went dry as I saw the glint of promise in those velvety brown eyes. He wasn't kidding. "It would change everything," I got out eventually, shaking my head.

"Only if we let it." Drew's gaze was unflinching upon mine. "Depends on how you look at it. If you were just to look at it as me doing a favour for a friend..."

A favour? I swallowed hard. "But then I'd owe you."

He grinned, those tiny dimples reappearing. "I'm sure I could think of something you could do in return."

I was certain he could.

"Oh!" I wailed, shrugging helplessly. What the hell was I supposed to do now? Say now? "Drew..."

"All right." With a placating smile, he lifted a hand and brushed my hair back from my face, causing another tingle to zing through my traitorous body. "How about option three? I'll book a hotel room for the two of us for Friday night. Champagne, room service, super-king-sized bed."

I felt my eyes widen.

"But you get to decide what we do," he added quickly. "We don't have to do anything, in fact. We could just slob about in bathrobes, watch movies all night and get rip-roaring drunk."

Now that was an idea. "The Park?" I prompted carelessly, not expecting him to agree for a moment. It was the most expensive hotel in town; I'd always wanted to spend a night there.

"Bloody hell, woman." But Drew was laughing again. "Sure, why not? It's your birthday after all." And leaning forward, he planted a kiss on my forehead.

"What?" Astonished, I gazed at him for a moment in silence, the butterflies in my tummy flapping wildly. "You'd really do that for me?"

Drew smiled, allowing his shoulders to rise and fall in a slight shrug. "You're my best friend, Sam," he said simply. "Isn't that what mates do?"

Mates.

I thought long and hard about the word after he'd gone. And no, I concluded at last, asking your best mate to relieve you of your virginity was something you really shouldn't do.

"Fuck," I muttered aloud, startling Bluey, my parents' long-haired Persian cat, as he stalked across the kitchen towards his newly-replenished bowl of Kitty-Crunch. "Yes, you heard me," I went on grimly. "I said 'fuck', okay? Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck."

He gave me a baleful look.

"Well." I glared back. "It's all your bloody fault. If you'd just gone to a cattery like any normal cat. But not you, huh, Your Royal Highness?"

Bluey was the reason I'd temporarily moved back home. My parents were currently spending a chunk of my inheritance on a three-week luxury cruise of the Caribbean. And why not? It was a great way to avoid the worst of a British winter, and besides, I wanted them to have some fun now Dad had retired. Well, to at least try to have fun, anyway.

But if I hadn't been staying at Mum and Dad's place, Drew wouldn't have stopped off on his way home from work, would he? He wouldn't have seen the light on in the living room and guessed I was there. And then we wouldn't have sent out for a Chinese takeaway, we wouldn't have drunk that bottle of wine—well, because Drew was driving, I drank most of it—and I wouldn't have been so stupid as to blurt out the first thing that came into my mind when he asked what I wanted for my birthday.

Why couldn't I have asked for a box of chocolates?

The phone rang, startling me so much I shrieked. Reaching across the counter, I picked up the phone, my gaze shooting to the clock on the wall. Ten past midnight. Who the hell could be calling now? "Hello?"

"All booked," Drew said.

"Booked?" I echoed stupidly, the light dawning a second after I'd spoken.

Oh God.

"What, already?" Even though I'd just checked the time, I couldn't help looking at the clock again.

"Uh huh." There was a distinct note of masculine pride in his voice. "The reception desk at the Park is manned twenty-four seven, so I thought, why not call them straightaway? You'll be pleased to hear we'll be occupying The Regent Suite."

"A suite?"

"Mmm." He sounded amused. "See, I figured if we had two rooms, two beds, we could decide on the night whether—or not..."

A lump rose in my throat as he left the sentence hanging. "But that must've cost a fortune!" I spluttered, another surge of heat rushing to my face. "Listen, you have to let me pay half."

"No bloody way. I can afford it, you know that. And it's your birthday, Sam. I wouldn't dream of letting you pay. Besides..." When he hesitated, I could almost hear him smiling. "I can't believe how much I'm looking forward to this already."

Help. "Drew..."

"Hey." His tone softened. "I meant what I said. Far as I'm concerned, we're two mates who're gonna spend a night living it large at a posh hotel. And come the morning, we'll nick all the toiletries and see if we can smuggle out the bathrobes."

I closed my eyes as I slumped against the counter top, the beginnings of a helpless smile curving my lips. "You sure there'll even be any bathrobes?"

"Oh yes. I checked."

I bet he had as well. I wouldn't have had the nerve.

"So I'll pick you up on Friday, okay? About six o'clock. Will you still be at your parents' house?"

"No." I shook my head, even though he couldn't see me. "They'll be back by then, thank God."

"Excellent. Well, in that case, I'll pick you up from your place. See you then."

"Wait!" I wailed, realising he was about to ring off. "What do I pack? What should I wear? What do I need to bring to stay in a place like that?"

"Just yourself." Once again I could hear the laughter in his voice. "We're not even going to leave the room, remember? And I don't give a toss what you wear." There was a pause. "Whether you wear anything, in fact."

"Drew!"

"N'night Sam," he interrupted, solemn now. "Sleep tight, gorgeous."

Whoever invented the word 'hangover' had it spot on. Hangover was exactly right. I didn't want to stand, I wanted to hang over something. Scrub that. I wanted to lie down, sprawl across the sales counter and press my aching forehead against its cool Formica surface. How could I be such a lightweight? I'd only had three quarters of a bottle of Chardonnay.

"Sam."

I attempted to blot out the sound of my name. The last thing I wanted was to engage in conversation. Come to think of it, I'd been attempting to blot out most things from the moment I'd woken up, having discovered my head hurt a lot less if I didn't allow myself to remember anything from the evening before.

"Sam."

Alice wasn't going to give up.

"What?" I mumbled irritably, forcing myself to straighten up and turn around before wincing with guilty gratitude at the sight of the mug of tea in her outstretched hand. "Thanks."

She set it down on the counter then reached for my hand. "Here," she said grimly, uncurling my fingers and dropping two blue and white capsules into my palm. "Either take these or go home."

"Oh." I gazed at the painkillers, my throat already constricting at the sight. "Alice, you know I don't—"

She gave a loud snort before I could finish my customary spiel about not liking to interfere with my body's natural restorative mechanisms. But of course, she knew the excuse was a crock of shit and that I had an almost pathological fear of taking medicines. "Fine," she said, even more brusquely than before. "In that case, you'd better take yourself back home again, hadn't you?"

Sometimes, I had to remind myself who employed who. Exactly who was the boss and who had the right to call the shots. But the fact remained that even though Alice was my senior by more than thirty years, I was her employer. The shop was mine and had been for nigh on three years. "I'll be fine," I said with practised stoicism. "Just need a few glasses of water to get myself rehydrated."

Alice sighed. "There's no helping some people," she grumbled, plucking the capsules back out of my hand and dropping them into a side pocket of her voluminous black handbag. "At least drink the tea."

That I could do. Grimacing at her, I took a sip, then grimaced even harder as I realised she'd sweetened it with so much sugar, I could probably have stood up a spoon in the resulting gloop. "I look that bad?" I asked resignedly.

She nodded before strolling to the rail of clothing in front of me and straightening dresses on their hangers. "Good job we're not busy this morning. You'd frighten the customers away."

"Gee, thanks."

"Don't mention it. I thought you said you were staying in last night?"

"I did stay in." Wrapping my fingers around the earthenware mug, I blew over the top of the steaming liquid. "Not my fault your nephew came round." I thought I'd said the last part sotto voce, but when Alice turned to give me another searching look, I realised I hadn't said it quietly enough.

"Andrew?" Her expression had brightened. "Oh, that was nice of him. You know that he and Kayleigh have...?"

Averting my gaze, I nodded into her deliberate pause. "So he said."

"Such a shame," Alice rattled on, her light tone belying her words. "I only met her the once, of course, but she seemed such a lovely girl. Sometimes I wonder if that boy'll ever settle down. I told him the other day, he can't go on playing the field all his life. Still." She sniffed, turning back to the rail of dresses. "You young folks. I keep forgetting things aren't like they used to be. You think nothing of waiting until you're in your thirties before getting married and having babies in your forties. It's a different world."

As if to prove her point, the tiny bell over the shop door tinkled as it swung inwards, a blast of wintry air heralding the arrival of a heavily pregnant woman we both knew to be forty-two years old, thanks to Alice's insatiable nosiness. I'd long since given up trying to persuade her it was neither politically correct nor tactful to enquire as to our clients' ages. "Anne-Marie!" she exclaimed now with a broad smile of welcome. "Goodness me, look at you! How wonderful to see you again!"

And this was why. As Anne-Marie beamed back at her, I marvelled anew at Alice's ability to remember the name of every customer. "Hi," she said shyly, looking a little pink. "Back again."

"We're delighted you are." From any other person's lips, that might have sounded patronising, but Alice always managed to say such things so warmly, it would have been impossible to doubt her sincerity. "How many weeks now? Thirty-four? Thirty-five?"

"Thirty-five," Anne-Marie agreed, still smiling. "Not long now."

"No, indeed! So, dear. Are you just here for a browse or is there something in particular you were looking for?"

As Anne-Marie explained she needed something to wear to the Christmas dinner at her husband's golf club, I slipped out to the stock room, more grateful than usual I could leave the woman in Alice's capable hands. I loved my job—loved my shop—but working with a hangover was proving harder than I'd expected.

Though if I were being honest with myself, it wasn't just the hangover. No matter how hard I tried to shut them out, snippets of the conversation I'd had with Drew the previous evening kept filtering through the haze.

He couldn't have been serious, I decided for what felt like the hundredth time that morning. And he couldn't have believed I'd been serious either, could he? If I phoned him now and told him it was all a joke, that I'd gone along with the idea to see how long it would be before he cracked, he'd simply laugh and tell me he'd been doing the same. It would be like the time he and my brother had formed that God-awful band when they were seventeen.

Paul, so talented at virtually everything else, couldn't carry a tune in both hands and although Drew's singing wasn't bad, his guitar playing had been dire. Jimi Hendrix he wasn't. But they'd done a gig at a local pub and the next day, I'd phoned Drew up, disguising my voice and pretending to be a talent scout who'd spotted them playing the night before. It had taken him a full three minutes to twig.

I felt myself grinning until the shadows began their inevitable descent over my memories of happier times and with a heavy sigh, I bent down to open the large carton on the floor. Pulling out the polythene-wrapped garments inside, I piled them unceremoniously on to the huge table in the middle of the room.

Not bad at all, I thought, shaking out one of the cream-coloured scooped neck tops and scrutinising it carefully. Just the right amount of material in the front, three-quarter length sleeves. In fact...

"Alice?"

She turned to discover me standing in the doorway holding the top aloft and her face brightened. "Oh yes," she exclaimed with an approving nod and hurried over to take it from me. "Anne Marie? Dear, this could be just the thing."

I watched with a smile as Anne-Marie's face lit in turn, feeling that faint fuzz of contentment I always felt at such times. So what I'd never gone to college, that I had no retail qualifications and no degree in design? I was damned good at my job.

Okay, sourcing and selling maternity wear might not be everyone's idea of a career in fashion, I had to concede, ducking back into the stock room to answer the telephone. But as a result of my efforts, our clients came from miles around, the customer-base strengthened by the word of mouth testimony of countless grateful mothers-to-be and, more recently, a four page spread in Mamma magazine. Business was booming and the word 'expansion' was being muttered in my earshot on a regular basis these days.

"In Full Bloom, Sam speaking."

"Samantha, bella!"

It was as though the person who most often muttered that 'expansion' word had somehow developed the ability to tap into my thoughts. "Marco," I said with a laugh, delighted to hear his deep, melodious Italian accent. "How lovely to hear from you!"

"Believe me, the pleasure is mine." Marco's English was always flawless, far better than my own. "How are you? Business is blooming, I hope?"

I smiled at his customary pun. "Of course," I said briskly, perching on the edge of the table and settling in for a lengthy conversation. With Marco, there was rarely any other kind. "Procreating remains the number one activity in Stow Newton. You know there's not much else to do around here in the evenings."

"Excellent." There was genuine amusement in his tone. "I can count on your continued custom for the foreseeable future then?"

"Oh, I think I'll be able to place a few more smallish orders," I teased, aware he knew full well that his company supplied my shop's biggest and most popular range of maternity wear. "So long as the next shipment's made up of better quality items than the one that arrived today. I've never seen such a load of old tat."

"'Old tat'?" Marco repeated, mock incredulous. "I beg your pardon, Signorina Bloom?"

"So you should," I retorted, tongue firmly in cheek. "Your standards are slipping, Signor Maretti. I may only be able to mark up this stuff by three hundred to four hundred percent. It's just not good enough."

"Ah, Samantha, cara." He gave a low, appreciative chuckle. "Ever the hard task master. Or should that be mistress?"

"You don't know?" I exclaimed, pretending to be shocked but rather spoiling the effect by giggling. "Marco, I'm hurt! How long have we known each other?"

More than five years, I realised after a moment or two, a part of my brain working on the question even as we continued to banter back and forth. We'd met at a trade fair in Paris back in the days before my great aunt retired, when she'd still owned and managed In Full Bloom. I'd been nineteen years old and on one of my first trips abroad, keen to seek out new designers and lines for my aunt's ailing maternity wear shop. Looking back, I hadn't a clue what I was doing, going largely on gut instinct and what my aunt had already acknowledged to be a flair for the unusual.

That I'd met Marco Maretti had been more a case of luck than judgement but a stroke of luck it had certainly turned out to be. At the time, his company was just branching out into the field, its staff of designers small but talented. It had been a gamble to place what seemed to me an enormous order back then—these days in order to satisfy demand I placed orders quadruple the size—but it had paid off.

Much to my Aunt Sarah's surprise, I'd inadvertently found a niche in the maternity wear market. The middle class and inevitably older mothers-to-be in the Stow Newton area who baulked at the idea of flaunting their bumps beneath skimpy T-shirts had been delighted when In Full Bloom began stocking high-end but affordable maternity clothing, from smart office separates to evening wear.

"Anyway, cara," Marco said several minutes later, "wonderful though it is to spend all this time talking with you about absolutely nothing of consequence, I did in fact have an ulterior motive for making this call."

"You did?" I frowned then winced at the ensuing twinge of pain in my right temple. I'd been enjoying our conversation so much I'd almost forgotten my hangover.

"Uh huh." Once again I could hear the note of laughter in his voice. "You see, I'm going to be in town at the end of the week."

"In Stow Newton?"

He chuckled at my startled tone. "Well, London first. But I was planning on coming up to see you on Friday. I was hoping I might be able to take you out to dinner."

Friday. My birthday. Drew would understand if I bailed on him, I thought with a surge of relief. He knew how important a supplier Marco was. We could cancel the hotel room booking. The idea of us spending a night at the Park had been a spur of the moment thing, after all. It wasn't as though we were going to go through with the whole sleeping together bit, was it?

"Er..." So why was I hesitating?

"You have other plans?" Marco sounded disappointed.

"Actually, yes. Yes, I do." The words seemed to fly out before I could stop them.

"You can't cancel?"

I suddenly wanted to laugh out loud. I hadn't been invited out for months and now I'd had two offers for the same night. "It's my birthday," I explained quickly, rather wishing I hadn't when I heard Marco's exclamation of surprised pleasure. "A friend of mine is already—" I hesitated again, grasping for words "—taking me out to dinner." It wasn't exactly a lie; room service counted, didn't it?

"Okay." Marco seemed undeterred. "Then may I take you to dinner on Saturday evening instead?"

Would I still be a virgin by then?

I swallowed down another nervous choke of laughter. "Yes," I got out, my voice rather unsteady. "That would be great."

"Excellent." Marco didn't seem to notice my near hysteria. "I'll come to the shop, yes? What time do you close?"

"On Saturday?" Too late, I remembered I'd planned to take the day off. But Marco had visited the shop before. It would be much easier to meet him here than try to direct him to my house, especially given my current befuddled state of mind. "Four thirty."

"Wonderful." It sounded like he meant it. "I look forward to seeing you then."

"You too."

I stared at the phone in my hand for several seconds after he'd hung up, replaying the conversation, staggered by the decision I'd made. I'd had an unexpected but entirely reasonable out—and I'd chosen not to take it?

"Who's taking you out to dinner on Friday night?" Alice's suspicious voice demanded behind me. I swung around to face her, conscious of how fast my heart was beating. "Was that Marco? Don't tell me you just make up an excuse not to go out with Marco Maretti?"

"You were listening?" I accused. "To my private conversation?"

Alice looked unmoved, as I'd known she would. "Marco Maretti?" she repeated. "Tall, dark, handsome and Italian, Marco Maretti? And you turned him down?"

"No." I rolled my eyes in surrender. "He's going to take me to dinner on Saturday night instead, okay?"

"Well, praise the Lord for that," she said with evident relief. "For a moment there I thought you'd lost your mind. You wouldn't catch me saying no, not that he'd ask—I'm much too old for him. But you—"

"He's thirty-six!" I interjected hastily before she could go any further with that train of thought. "And divorced. And well-known for being a serial womaniser―"

"So he's eleven years older than you," Alice interrupted in turn. "So what? And as for the rest, that just makes him..." Her knowing smile seemed shockingly salacious for a woman of fifty-six. "Experienced."

"Alice!"

She looked amused by my discomfort—until she remembered her original question. "Then who is taking you out for dinner on Friday?"

I sighed. Alice could be such a Rottweiler. "Drew."

She frowned, clearly puzzled. "You blew off Marco Maretti for my nephew?"

Enough already. "Yes," I said, infusing my reply with as much dignity as I could muster. "He asked first, okay? He's my oldest friend, I've known him for years, remember?"

And maybe on Friday I'd discover what it meant to know him in the Biblical sense.

Oh my God.

Alice tutted and turned to the carton I'd unpacked, reaching into it to retrieve the parcel I'd inadvertently left at the bottom. "Hey, it's your birthday, it's up to you," she said, straightening up with a sniff that sounded faintly disapproving. "And if you think spending the evening with Drew is the right thing to do, well..."

I couldn't meet her gaze when she let the sentence trail off, afraid my expression might give something away. Because to be completely honest...

I still wasn't sure it was.

Chapter 2

Taking yet another glance at the clock on the kitchen wall, I drummed my fingers on the breakfast bar. This was torture. It'd be another twenty minutes before Drew came to collect me. Why had it only taken half an hour to get ready?

Of course, I knew why. Afraid I'd get held up at the shop at closing time, I'd set my alarm for stupid o'clock this morning so I could spend an hour and a half in my tiny bathroom, bathing, shaving, trimming and plucking. Despite being absolutely certain nothing was going to happen, I still had this niggling feeling I should be, well... Prepared. Just in case.

But nothing was going to happen. Although Drew and I had spoken by phone a couple of times since Sunday evening, neither one of us had alluded to doing anything other than drinking champagne and watching pay-per-view movies. Which suited me just fine. Besides, it was a good idea to pamper yourself once in a while, wasn't it? Especially on your birthday. So why the hell did I feel so nervous? I'd been alone with Drew countless times before, spent many a pleasant evening in his company. This would surely be no different, just a change of venue.

"Oh, for God's sake," I muttered, irritated by my own restlessness. And sliding off my stool, I strode purposefully into the living room, pausing to grimace at my reflection in the mirror above the fireplace. "Get a grip!"

There wasn't anything to be nervous about. I even looked reasonably okay, I thought, offering up a thank you to the goddess of good hair days. My dark, shoulder-length waves were curling in the right direction for once, and that new mascara I'd bought had actually delivered on its promise to lengthen my lashes. And further bucking the trend, I'd managed to iron the collar on my favourite white shirt so it fitted against my neck and wasn't trying to crawl off down my back like it usually did. No, so far as outward appearances went, not bad at all. The rest, well...

The girl in the mirror grimaced back at me. For heaven's sake, Drew wasn't going to see the rest, so why worry? Everything was going to be fine. And for a moment, I was almost convinced—until the sound of a car pulling up outside made my heart skip a beat.

Though that was nothing compared to what it did when I hurried to the window to discover it wasn't Drew. It was my parents, already climbing out of their Volvo estate, the street lamp illuminating the small gift-wrapped parcel in my mother's hand.

"Oh shit!" I breathed, appalled by their spectacularly bad timing.

When Mum had called me on Wednesday to say they'd returned home safely from their cruise, I'd decided to say nothing about the fact I'd be staying in a hotel on the night of my birthday. Worse still, I hadn't said anything at all about going out with Drew. I'd meant to send Dad a text message saying I was meeting up with some friends in town so he wouldn't feel the need to pop over. How could I have forgotten?

Not much I could do about that now. But Drew wasn't due to arrive yet, not for another quarter of an hour. And already praying he'd be late, I hurried out to the hall. If he didn't turn up bang on time, there was still a chance Mum and Dad would be gone by the time he arrived.

"Happy Birthday!" Mum said brightly the moment the door swung open, wearing that slightly odd half-smile I'd come to dread. I could still remember how she used to smile, her whole face crumpling with pleasure. It felt like light years ago now. "Ah." The smile, such as it was, faded abruptly as she took in my appearance. "You look smart." That too seemed to be about as much of a compliment as she could pay me these days. "On your way out?"

"Actually, yes," I said, feeling ridiculously guilty considering I wasn't lying. "I'm so sorry. I meant to let you know. And now you've come all the way over here..."

By now, Dad had joined her on the doorstep, his smile rather warmer. "Doesn't matter," he said cheerfully. "We only came to bring your pressie. June," he gave my mother a meaningful nudge, "give her the present, then."

"Oh." Looking flustered, she glanced down at the neatly wrapped parcel she clutched against the lapel of her coat. "Happy birthday," she said again, holding it out to me. "It's just a little something we picked up in Barbados."

"Thank you," I said automatically, at the same time wondering whether there was any way I could get out of opening the package in their presence. "You shouldn't have."

"You're our daughter," Mum snapped back at once, her tone so brittle I cringed. "Of course we should."

I swallowed hard. Amazing. We'd arrived at a painfully awkward moment in record time. Maybe next year I should just cancel my birthday. "Do you want to come in a minute?" I mumbled helplessly. "It's chilly out here." In more ways than one.

"Just for a moment then," Dad said, his cheeriness noticeably forced now. "Don't want to hold you up."

Defeated, I stepped to the side then followed them in, not bothering to check my watch again. It was a vain hope, anyway. Drew was never late.

"Goodness me." As my mother reached the living room, I could hear she was trying to inject a little more warmth into her own tone. "What a lot of cards."

There were quite a few, I had to admit as my gaze followed hers to the mantelpiece. Thanks to Alice, of course, who'd been dropping hints to all and sundry for weeks. There was even one there from the postman who delivered to the shop.

"Twenty-five, eh?" I heard Dad say. "Our little girl, all grown up."

I winced again, wishing he hadn't felt the need to state the obvious. There was no question all three of us were now thinking exactly the same thing. "Oh, I'm not sure about that," I said breezily. "I don't think I'll ever grow—"

Bollocks, no.

How could I have given voice to the first thing that came into my head? "So," I squeaked, doing an abrupt one-eighty. "You enjoyed your holiday, then?"

"Yes, thank you," Mum said as though she hadn't noticed though I knew she had. "Though it was very warm." She glanced up at my father. "Too warm really. I don't think we'd go there again."

"No." Dad shook his head in agreement. "Nice to say we've actually been to the Caribbean, though. Now, come on." He pointed at my present. "Aren't you going to open it?"

With fingers that felt like sausages, I started peeling back the pink floral paper, my heart sinking as the wrappings fell away. It was an ornately decorated wooden photo frame, a painted swirl of Hibiscus flowers circling the oval-shaped mount. The sort of photo frame one might use for a picture of a loved one or a child. The sort of photo frame for which I currently had no use at all.

"It's lovely," I said, attempting to relay just the right amount of fake enthusiasm. "Really pretty."

"It is, isn't it?" Mum agreed. "I hoped you'd like it as well."

As well. The moment she said the words, I knew she'd bought one for herself. And I could already guess whose portrait would be beaming out from the garish frame, taking pride of place on her mantelpiece.

"Well, I s'pose we'd better be off," I heard Dad say as I carefully set my gift down on the coffee table, his voice sounding strangely far away considering he was standing next to me. "Don't want to hold you up."

"Oh. Right." Turning in time to witness him giving my mother another nudge, I experienced a surge of guilty relief. "No. I'll have to go in a minute."

"Where are you going, anyway?" he asked while I shepherded them back out into the hall. "Somewhere nice, I hope?"

Damn. He'd had to ask. "Out to dinner," I said, then added lightly, "with a friend."

"Oh, that's nice." On the doorstep, Dad bent to plant a kiss on my cheek. "Well, happy birthday again, sweetheart. Have a lovely evening."

"Which friend?"

I should've known Mum wouldn't let me get away with such a vague reply. For a split second, I considered lying. "Well..."

But I was saved from answering. Upon seeing the approaching headlights of a car, all three of us turned and watched as a familiar dark Audi pulled up behind Dad's Volvo.

"Oh." Mum looked disappointed. "You're going out with him."

"Yes." I sent an apologetic glance in Drew's direction as he got out and closed the door, biting my lip when he raised a hand in acknowledgement. "Is that a problem?"

"No, of course not." Having audibly bristled at the challenge in my tone, she dropped her voice to a harsh whisper. "I just thought you might have had a date, that's all."

Or rather, she wished I had, that's what she meant. I was such a disappointment of a daughter. But before I could think of a suitably scathing reply, Drew was heading down the drive towards us, smiling as though he had no idea of the nature of the welcome awaiting him. I knew otherwise. These encounters were always the same, part of the reason I'd hoped against hope my parents would leave before he arrived.

"Drew," my father said congenially. "Good to see you, my boy."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mum wince.

Well done, Dad. Off to a truly excellent start.

"Great to see you too," Drew said easily, his smile broadening. "So did you have a good time on the cruise? You're looking very brown there, June, I have to say. It suits you."

"Oh, do you think?" Raising a hand to her cheek, she gave a startled laugh, clearly unnerved by the flattery. "Thank you. Though to be honest, it was too hot out there for me. And very humid."

I found I was only half-listening as she began to prattle on about their trip, instead watching how she looked at Drew, the way she scanned his face, appraised the length of his body, the clothes he was wearing, the way his hair was styled. And the rest of us knew what she was doing, even if she didn't. Making endless comparisons. Speculating about a future that would never be. Formulating a thousand and one hypotheses, all based on a common theme.

I wonder how our Paul would've turned out.

I'd dared to hope it would get better eventually. That time was indeed a great healer, wasn't that what everyone said? Instead, for some aspects of her grief, the reverse appeared to be true. And with every passing year, this part was definitely getting worse. Drew was growing older, twenty-seven now. He'd had the chance to become a man, to have a career, have a life.

My brother had died aged twenty.

"Well," Dad cut in, at last catching one of my increasingly desperate glances, "we really ought to get going so that these two can be on their way." He raised a brow at Drew. "I hope you're taking her somewhere nice."

Drew grinned. "Absolutely. Burger King or McDonald's. I'm leaving the choice entirely up to Sam."

I could've kissed him for the flippancy of his reply. "But you promised I could have a KFC!" I whined, pretending to pout.

It worked. Judging by the expression on my mother's face, she thought we were serious. And why wouldn't she? It struck me she'd never have believed my late brother's best friend was prepared to take me to the poshest hotel in Stow Newton for a night of unbridled passion.

"Fine." Drew made a show of rolling his eyes. "You'd do anything for a crispy strip meal and a box of popcorn chicken, wouldn't you?"

"Maybe," I taunted, meeting his gaze. But my attempt at innuendo backfired the moment I saw his speculative look and all at once, my mouth felt very dry.

"Popcorn chicken," Dad repeated with a disbelieving shake of his head, oblivious to my discomfort. "Still, it's your birthday, I suppose. Come on then, June."

And after a flurry of goodbyes, my parents left at last, leaving Drew and I alone on the driveway.

"She doesn't get any better, does she?" I muttered through clenched teeth, the sound of the engine fading into the distance.

"Oh, I don't know," Drew said after a pause for due consideration. "She only looked this time."

He didn't need to elaborate. Left to her own devices, Mum would've quizzed him about his 'plans for the future' until he was forced to invent a reason to leave.

"Oh God, I'm sorry."

"Hey." I could hear the sympathetic laughter in his voice. "Come here." And a moment later I was enveloped in Drew's arms, tucked in tightly against him, my head pressed to his shoulder. "It's okay, you know that, don't you? I should be used to it by now."

I did know that. But what I hadn't known was how different this would suddenly feel.

Had I never noticed before how he held me, gentle but firm, as though he could protect me from all the world's ills? Did he always rest his cheek against my hair when he hugged me? And had I seriously never noticed how good he smelled?

Disorientated by the direction of my thoughts, I opened my eyes again, hoping somehow that might bring me crashing back to my senses. It didn't. Being able to pick out the individual wool strands of Drew's favourite sweater—a sweater I'd bought him last Christmas—seemed to make things worse. "Thanks," I mumbled, feeling his arms tighten slightly as I spoke.

"S'okay. You all packed and ready to go?"

That brought me back to my senses. Somehow, I'd almost forgotten why he was there and the abrupt recollection caused an odd squirming sensation, right in the middle of my stomach. "Er, yes," I said quickly, pulling out of his embrace. "'Course I am." I shot him a smile as I turned to go back into the house, not quite meeting his gaze. "Thank God I left my bag upstairs. I have no idea how I'd have explained that away to Mum, do you? And you can bet your bottom dollar she'd have felt the need to ask about it. She doesn't know the meaning of the words mind your own—"

"Sam."

I stopped short at the bottom of the stairs, aware Drew was right behind me. "Business," I finished lamely.

"Are you all right?"

What in the world was I supposed to say to that? How did I even begin to explain that ever since he'd made the suggestion we spend a night together at a hotel, my sub-conscious mind—scrub that, my conscious mind—had been working on every possible permutation of how that might play out? That I was ninety-nine percent sure that I didn't want to sleep with him—but only ninety-nine percent sure? That there was this stubborn one percent that wondered, just wondered, what might happen if I did?

I spun on my heel, determined to put the idea of us going to bed together...

Well. To bed.

"Drew—" I faltered. But the way he was staring at me made whatever words I was going to use dry up in my throat. "Wh-what?"

He smiled. "You look beautiful." And he must've noticed my eyes widening, or maybe he heard the loud thunk my heart made when I recognised the compliment, for a second later, he added, "Not that you don't always look gorgeous. But tonight..." He let the sentence trail off for effect, long enough for a wash of heat to come surging into my face. "You look beautiful."

Oh God. Oh-God-oh-God-oh-God.

I turned and fled up the stairs. This had to stop, I decided, bursting into my bedroom and seizing my overnight case from the bed. It had to stop right now. I didn't need this. Not from Drew. Clearly, he was still under the misapprehension something could happen tonight and wasn't aware I was ninety-nine percent sure it wouldn't. No, make that a hundred percent sure. Nothing was going to happen. We'd already agreed, hadn't we? Because I couldn't afford for anything to happen.

No matter what he said, no matter what he thought, it would change everything. Although something had already changed, that much was obvious. The mere fact we'd had the conversation, that we'd discussed the possibility had somehow changed the dynamic between us. And unless I acted fast, things would only get worse, not better. I needed Drew to be my best friend, not my lover. I couldn't afford to lose the security of his friendship. I couldn't afford to lose him, full stop.

"Drew," I began again, even before I reached the top of the stairs, "listen. There's something we need to get straight, okay? About tonight? You see, I think—" I broke off with a gasp as I felt a hand sweep mine away from the handle of my bag.

He grinned at me over his shoulder, already jogging back down the stairs with my luggage. "You think far too much. Come on, woman, hurry up."

I had little choice but to follow him, collecting my handbag from the table in the hallway before throwing on my jacket. And after taking a quick look around to check I'd turned everything off and that my curling tongs weren't going to set fire to the house, I drew a deep breath, stepped outside and pulled the front door closed behind me.

By the time I reached the car, he was already stowing my case in the boot. "Oh my God," I exclaimed, seeing that he was wedging it in beside a much larger, curvier case. "You've brought your guitar? Please God, no. What the hell did I do to deserve that?"

"Hey." Laughing, Drew slammed the boot closed. "I thought I could serenade you this evening. You know, as it's your birthday and all."

"No way." I gazed at him in mock horror, recalling the agony that was listening to Paul and Drew's band all those years ago. "Please, please, please tell me you're kidding?"

He pretended to look offended. "What? You mean I can't sing to you? You don't want to hear the sweet sound of my instrument? The gentle strumming of my magic fingers?"

"Magic fingers?" I repeated, sniggering. "You've got magic fingers?"

Drew gave a dignified sniff. "Well if I have, you're never going to find out now," he said before jerking his head towards the passenger door. "Get in, it's cold."

I did as I was bid, feeling oddly restless. Displaced, somehow. "You rushed me," I grumbled when he slid in beside me and started the engine. "I hate being rushed. It always makes me feel like I've forgotten something."

He raised his eyes heavenwards. "Okay," he began in the manner of a long-suffering husband as he steered the car away from the kerb. "Packed your toothbrush?"

I grimaced at him. "Yes."

"Got clean undies?"

"Ye-es." It was my turn to roll my eyes.

Drew shrugged. "Right. And I packed the condoms, so what else could you possibly need?"

"Drew!"

"Not that we're going to need them, of course," he went on, laughing openly at my horrified expression. "Sam, relax. I remember the deal here and I swear, nothing's going to happen that you don't want to happen, all right?"

Actually, no, that wasn't all right. He seemed to be implying I might change my mind. "I'm not going to have sex with you," I said firmly, unsure even as I said it which one of us I was trying to convince.

He smiled, flipping on the indicator as we reached the end of the road. "I know, you said."

"I'm not!"

"I believe you, okay?" Drew was grinning now. "I get it. No sex. Mini-bar—yes, movies—great, room service—fine. But absolutely no sex."

"Good," I mumbled, wondering how long it would be before my cheeks stopped burning.

"Although I'm very experienced, you know."

That word again. "Drew..."

"And I'd be very gentle."

"Drew!"

He laughed as I buried my face in my hands. "Well. A guy could take offence, you know. Is it really such a bad idea?"

"It's a terrible idea."

"Because?"

I sighed, letting my hands fall back into my lap. "Because I don't want things to change between us. I like things the way they are."

"Who says things would have to change?" Drew's tone was measured, calm. "We could make sure they didn't."

"Could we?" I was aware my own voice held a note of hysteria. "See, I'm not sure that we could. Sex... Sex gets in the way of friendship. Everyone knows that."

He sent me a smile. "Well, everyone who's watched When Harry met Sally, anyway."

I pulled a face. "Do you think we could change the subject?"

"Sure." He concentrated on the by-pass for a moment, easing the car into a stream of traffic. "Which side of the bed do you like to sleep on?"

"Drew!"

"'Course, I could dare you to sleep with me."

I stared at him, appalled. "You wouldn't," I breathed. In the seventeen years of our acquaintance I'd never refused a dare and, God help me, he knew it.

"Wouldn't I?" He gave me a sideways glance, already grinning. "Oh-ho-ho, Samantha."

"Don't you dare!" I could feel my pulse quickening. "Please, Drew? Don't. Don't do this."

"Sam." The panic must have been blatant in my voice because a moment later, I felt his hand sliding over mine. "I'm kidding, okay? I told you—and I meant it. We're not going to do anything you don't want to do, all right?" And then to my utter astonishment, he lifted my hand to his lips and gently kissed the backs of my fingers. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," I muttered once he'd laid my hand back down and resumed his grip on the steering wheel. "It's not like losing your virginity's such a big deal anyway, is it? At least, it shouldn't be."

I could feel Drew's eyes on me again but this time he said nothing.

"Though just for the record, we wouldn't need the condoms," I ventured, finally daring to meet his gaze. "'Cos I'm on the pill. Not that you need to know that, of course."

The corners of his mouth twitched. "You're on the pill?"

"Yes." I frowned. "What's so funny about that?"

"You—Sam-I-don't-take-medicine-Bloom—you're on the pill?"

I scowled at him. "The pill's different."

He gave me a disbelieving look. "How exactly is it different?"

"The pill's not medicine, it's contraception," I protested, feeling my cheeks flame with heat again as he started to laugh. "Besides, they're tiny little things!"

"Still medicine," Drew retorted, shaking his head now. "Medicine you're taking every day. Medicine you don't even need to take. When you won't even pop a couple of paracetamol for a headache."

"It's not the same and you know it," I muttered, painfully aware of just how illogical that sounded. "You know why it's different."

"Oh, I know why you think it's different."

"It is different!" I wailed, wondering why the hell I'd even felt the need to tell him. "Taking the pill's not like taking painkillers. It's not like taking antibiotics. It won't..."

"Kill you?" Drew finished for me when I left the sentence hanging, no trace of laughter in his expression now. "You never read that little leaflet that comes in the packet, Sam? There's a list of side effects as long as your arm."

There was nothing I could say to that. Of course I'd read the leaflet and I could probably quote the risks to him right now, chapter and verse. But that was the thing about having a phobia, wasn't it? All phobias were irrational. Though I figured I probably had more to fear than most. There was at least some foundation to my phobia; it wasn't like I had a morbid fear of earwigs or something.

"So." I watched as Drew flexed his fingers on the steering wheel, heard his slow intake then exhalation of breath. "When did you start taking the pill?"

"About a year ago."

He fired me another sideways glance. "When you were with Matt?"

I chewed my lip, embarrassed. "Yep."

"You were going to have sex with him?" Once again, his voice held a note of incredulity. "That tosser?"

"Well, I didn't, did I?" I reasoned, touched and infuriated in equal measure. "Fairly obviously. But he went on and on about it—just like you are now, actually," I added, getting in the dig. "And so I thought I'd better sort myself out with some protection. Just in case."

"Great. You were prepared to have sex with Matt Addison but you won't even consider having sex with me," Drew murmured, the amusement in his tone softening the challenge of his words.

"But I didn't have sex with Matt Addison," I reminded him as we turned into Park Lane at last, a knot of anticipation tightening in my stomach when I glimpsed the hotel at the end of the road, floodlit and imposing. "And you can't say I haven't considered your kind offer."

"No," he conceded, steering the car into the car park and pulling straight into a space by the far wall. "No, you can't. And hey." Putting on the handbrake, he turned to me with an evil grin. "I've got all night to change your mind."

"Drew!"

His grin widened. "Come on, let's party," he said, unfastening my seatbelt. "The Regent Suite awaits."

"Oh my God." As the door closed behind the porter who'd carried our bags the whole ten yards from the lift and then had the cheek to hover for a tip, I spun around to see the expression on Drew's face, gratified to discover he looked as delightedly gobsmacked as I felt. "Would you look at this place? Would you just look?"

I could hear him laughing as I kicked off my shoes then raced across the floor to the enormous bed dominating the room. "Oh. My. God!" And with a squeal, I took a flying leap right into the middle of it, landing amongst the lavishly-embroidered cushions there, a confection of Regency green and cream. "Drew!"

A second later, I found myself airborne, the force of Drew's landing at my side bouncing me several inches from the bed. "Wow," he pronounced with satisfaction, the bedding yielding indulgently beneath me as I returned to earth. "This is good. This is really good."

"And look—look!" With Drew still testing the springiness of the mattress, it was quite a struggle to sit up, but I'd never seen anything like this room in real life, only in glossy magazines and on television shows about the lives of the rich and famous. "Look at all this. Look at the curtains. Look at the sofa. Look at the pictures!"

Everything matched, each furnishing colour-coordinated in the same shades as the cushions on the bed, the drapes a perfect length—even the carpet was the same colour green, a luxurious deep-piled swathe.

Drew sat up, grinning broadly. "That's my girl, the frustrated designer. Trust you to notice all that and not that." He motioned to the giant flat screen television mounted on the wall right in front of us and I felt my mouth drop open. "Now that's what I'm talking about," he said happily.

"Dear God," I breathed, feeling oddly weak all of a sudden. "Drew, exactly how much did all this cost?"

He rolled off the bed, landing on his feet like a cat. "It's the last week in November," he said airily, proffering his hand to me and swinging me up off the bed when I accepted it. "Low season. Maybe not quite as much as you think. And certainly nothing you need to worry about. Come on, let's check out the bathroom." He tugged me back across the vast room to the vestibule area towards a door I hadn't noticed when we first walked in.

"No way." The words came out as a whisper, but the acoustics of the large tiled room were such that they almost seemed to echo around us. "Fuck me."

As Drew was standing behind me in front of a floor to ceiling mirror, I caught his hastily repressed smirk. "I'd love to," he said, narrowing his gaze. "But you keep saying you don't want me to."

Deciding to ignore him I took another step forward, aware my eyes were like saucers as I gazed around the gleaming bathroom. At the toilet, the bidet, the sinks and the shower—and at the centrepiece of the room, a huge, sunken bath.

"It's a swimming pool," I murmured at last, my tone suitably reverent.

"It's a Jacuzzi," Drew corrected cheerfully.

"Really?" I stared some more, awestruck. So far today, I'd had a bath and a shower but it couldn't hurt to wash again, could it?

Though washing seemed far too tame an idea for what you could do in that tub.

"Sam, you're blushing."

"What?" I clapped my hands to my face, mortified he might even have begun to read my thoughts. "No, I'm not. I'm just hot. Aren't you hot? It's warm in here," I gabbled, spinning away from him and ducking back out of the door.

I could hear him laughing again, his fingers landing on my upper arm as he caught up with me. "One more room to see, I think," he said, guiding me towards another door I hadn't seen, this time because the panelling had been decorated to match the surrounding walls. "Et voila."

It was another perfectly colour-coordinated bedroom—with one immediately obvious difference to the room we'd just left. Instead of there being one super-king-sized bed, there were two single divans. And just as in the main room, there was a sofa, a wardrobe and another wall-mounted flat-screen television. Though unless it was my imagination, the latter seemed somewhat smaller.

Drew's gaze met mine. "It's still a very nice room," he said conversationally.

I nodded, glancing back at the single beds. "Very nice," I agreed.

"And I'm sure those mattresses are just as comfortable."

"Oh, I'm sure they are." I took care to keep my tone breezy.

His grin was impish. "Race you for it?"

"First person to get back to the other bed gets it?"

He tilted his head on one side. "First person to lie down on the other bed gets it?" he amended.

"You're on." I raised my eyebrows. "On three?"

I watched in amusement as he raised his eyebrows in turn. Neither of us had ever been known to play fair in these situations. The likelihood at least one of us was about to cheat stood at a hundred percent. The only thing that wasn't certain was which one of us would cheat first. "On three," he acknowledged.

I grinned. "Okay."

We assumed racing positions, Drew crouching down low, like an Olympic sprinter about to cover one hundred metres, me, knowing I had the distinct advantage of being in charge of the countdown, leaning forward just slightly, my left foot in front of my right.

"One," I announced dramatically, struggling not to giggle. "Two..."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him twitch and knew without question he had no intention of waiting for 'three'. And in the split second it took me to reach that conclusion, he was off. "You cheat!" I shrieked, grabbing his arm and hanging on for dear life. "You filthy, rotten, cheat!"

Breathless with laughter, Drew kept moving, half-towing, half-dragging me behind him—until I kicked him in the shin and he staggered to a halt. "Hey!" he roared as I relinquished my grip and tore on past him towards the bed. "Foul play. Foul play!"

The goal was in sight, almost in reach, when I made the rookie mistake of looking back to see where he was, screaming again as his hands landed on my waist, then gasping as he swept me off my feet. And then I was turning, flying through the air—and a moment later, landing heavily on my back, Drew beneath me, the bed beneath us both, the mattress giving an indignant squawk at the impact.

"You cheat!" I reiterated, just as soon as I'd regained enough breath to speak. "I demand a rematch!"

"I don't think so," Drew said, his voice muffled owing to the fact I was still sprawled across his chest. "I won, fair and square."

"You won?" I sneered, lifting my head so he could breathe—far more than he deserved. "I don't think so. If anything, this is a draw. We're both lying on the bed."

"Correction." I turned to see he was smiling triumphantly. "I think you'll find that I'm the one lying on the bed. You're lying on top of me."

"What?" I scrambled off to glare at him. "That's not fair!"

He grinned. "I think you'll find you agreed to the terms, Miss Bloom. The first person to lie down on the bed gets it. And see?" He used both hands to pat the bed. "I'm lying on it."

"Lawyers," I muttered. "You're all the bloody same. Always winning on minor technicalities."

"Absolutely," he agreed solemnly. "The devil is in the detail, as they say."

"Bastard." I stared at him in dismay. "You mean I have to sleep in the other room?"

"Well no, not necessarily. You've got an open invitation to stay right here with me, remember?" he drawled, once again patting the bed for emphasis. "It's not too late to change your mind."

He laughed when I groaned then bounced upright like Tigger, his eyes widening as though he'd had a brilliant idea. "Now what?" I demanded as he leapt off the bed. "Don't tell me. You're bagsying first go in the Jacuzzi as well?"

But he wasn't heading for the bathroom, he was heading for the wardrobe. And as he opened the door, I remembered what he was expecting to find. Sure enough, when he turned around, I saw he was holding out a pure white bath robe, an identical robe still hanging from the rail within.

"Yay," I cheered half-heartedly. "Would you look at that? What a wonderful surprise."

Drew gave me a contemplative look. "Nah," he said after a moment, shaking his head.

"What?" I frowned, realising a second later I'd inadvertently swallowed the bait. "Nah what?"

He grinned. "I have a proposition for you. A dare if you will."

Deep down, I think I already knew where this was going, knew exactly what he was going to suggest and given it was a dare, the terms I'd have to accept. "I'm listening."

"You can sleep in that bed," he jerked his head towards the bed I was still sitting upon, "on one condition."

I waited, once again raising my eyebrows.

"You have to take off all your clothes and only wear this bathrobe."

I fixed him with a withering look. "Have you got a bathrobe fetish or something?"

He smirked. "If it helps you to reach a decision, you should know that I'm going to do exactly the same."

"Really?" I murmured, not bothering to keep the sarcasm from my tone.

"Really," he murmured back, his smile almost saintly.

I sighed, scarcely able to believe I was considering such an outrageous idea. "And if I do this, I get to sleep in this bed? No tricks? I won't have to share it with you? I won't have to have sex with you?"

Much to my suspicion, something about the words I'd chosen seemed to entertain him greatly. "No tricks, I promise," he agreed, his tone remaining solemn. "Does this mean you're accepting my dare?"

For an answer, I slid off the bed. And trying to ignore his victorious grin as I plucked the robe from his fingers, I marched straight into the bathroom, allowing the door to bang shut behind me.

"What the hell are you doing?" I muttered at my reflection in the mirrored wall, holding up the bathrobe as if showing it to myself for the first time. "Would it have killed you to say 'no'? Just once?"

Funnily enough, my reflection didn't reply. Shaking my head, I turned to hang up the robe on the back of the bathroom door and started to unbutton my shirt. But when at last it was off and I'd stepped out of my skirt, I paused, fingering the silky cream-coloured material of my camisole top.

What if I didn't take everything off? How would he ever know? Unless he had reason to suspect, Drew wouldn't ask me to prove I was naked beneath the robe. Besides, there might be a way I could get him on a technicality this time, I realised, smiling at the thought. True, my bra would have to go; the straps were likely to show. But the much skimpier, spaghetti-like straps of my camisole probably wouldn't, not if I loosened them so much they fell off my shoulders.

I slipped the camisole over my head, trying hard not to catch sight of myself in the mirrors—no easy feat in this bathroom—and unfastened my bra, dropping it on top of the rest of my clothes. Then after replacing the top and shrugging into the robe, I twisted back around to assess the result.

Oh, there was no question I'd be one hell of a lot happier if I was wearing more underneath than a glorified lace-edged vest with matching bikini briefs but at least I could cope with this, I thought, tying the belt as tightly as I could. And taking one last glance to make sure there was no visible evidence of my undergarments, I reached for the bathroom door handle and wrenched it open.

Recumbent on the bed with his hands folded behind his head—and also apparently wearing nothing but a calf-length white towelling robe—Drew gave a low appreciative whistle. "Well, look at you," he said with a grin, pulling out a hand to beckon me nearer. "Care to join me?"

I surveyed him in silence for a moment, repressing a smile at the sight of his muscular but hairy legs sticking out from beneath the robe. "I think you'll find that bed's mine."

"Uh uh." He shook his head, looking amused. "I said you could sleep in this bed. This room's got the bigger telly."

It was then that I spotted the remote control on the pillow and saw the television was on. And somehow, it was no surprise to discover what he was watching: football, the volume on mute.

The only thing missing from this picture was a six-pack of lager.

"Run it past me again," I said, putting my hands on my hips. "Whose birthday are we celebrating here?"

He patted the bed, looking boyishly innocent. "Just checking out the equipment, gorgeous."

With a world-weary sigh, I clambered alongside, instantly mollified when he began arranging pillows behind me. "Madam," he announced when he was sure I was comfy, handing over the remote like a prize.

I beamed, I couldn't help it, a rush of contentment pouring from me. It all felt so gloriously decadent. This huge soft bed, the luxurious surroundings... "What's on pay-per-view?" I asked, snuggling up to his shoulder, certain he'd have found out in my absence.

"Ah," he murmured, sliding his arm around me. "For your delight and delectation, we have three quality choices. Romance, action—and porn."

I smiled up at him sweetly, laughing when he groaned. He already knew what I'd choose.

Sighing deeply, he reclaimed the remote, passing me the room service menu while he waited for the on screen instructions to load. "Pick something good," he advised. "You know how hungry you get when you're watching America save the world."

"We need popcorn," I muttered, scouring the card.

"It's not on there?" he said, pretending to be shocked. "What kind of establishment is this?"

In fact, there didn't seem to be much I fancied on the menu at all. Oh, I could have any amount of seafood by the look of things, a curious offering given we were currently more than a hundred miles from the nearest coast. But I'd never been partial to fish. And I was on the brink of suggesting I'd settle for a ham sandwich when I spotted the section on the back.

"That's what I want," I told him, stabbing my finger at the page.

Drew gave me a look. "Seriously? That's what you want?"

Shaking his head as I nodded happily, he grimaced and reached for the phone.

Did life get any better than this? Probably not, I decided, tipping my head back against Drew's chest and sending him a sleepy smile. He grinned down at me, clearly amused. "Comfortable there, are we?"

Oh God, yes. Not that I could quite remember how I ended up in this position, propped up between his outstretched legs, his arms folded loosely around me. "Fine," I sighed contentedly before squinting at the television, surprised to see the credits were rolling. "Oh. It's finished?"

"Mmm, it's finished," he agreed, mock solemn. "And it was fantastic, it really was. You missed a great twist there at the end."

"There was a twist?"

"Oh yeah. You know that guy that Anne Hathaway was pretending not to lust over?"

"The one with the stupid haircut?"

"That's the one." Drew smiled down at me again, brushing a stray curl away from my face. "Well, right at the end, he came back and shot everybody."

I sniggered, closing my still-heavy eyes. "Is that right?"

"Yep, everyone died."

"Really?"

"No." The disappointment in his tone made me giggle. "It would've been a much better film if he had, though. I can't believe you fell asleep and left me to watch that crap on my own."

I opened my eyes. "I didn't fall asleep."

"You were snoring!"

"You gave me champagne!"

Drew groaned. "Two glasses?"

"I'm a cheap date, what can I say?"

"Not that bloody cheap," he reminded me, nodding towards our discarded plates. I giggled again, seeing the remnants of our evening meal. "If I'd known you were going to order chicken nuggets and chips, I really would've taken you to KFC."

I gave him a beatific smile. "Hey, that's your fault. You put the idea in my head. And anyway, that wasn't chicken nuggets and chips. That was—" I drew quotation marks in the air "—'chicken goujons with thickly-sliced, hand cut potato wedges'. Not the same thing at all."

"From the children's menu."

"There was nothing on the grown-up menu I wanted!"

"At three times the price of a KFC."

"I told you, I'll pay half the bill."

He smiled again, shaking his head. "That's so not gonna happen."

I smiled back, happier than I could remember being in a very long time. "So what's next?" I asked before yawning hugely, stretching my arms above my head.

"Well. We've had dinner. Drunk a bottle of champagne. Watched Denzel Washington save the world." Drew ticked the items off on his fingers. "Watched Anne Hathaway nearly get the guy."

"She really didn't get him?"

"No, I told you, he shot everyone." He grinned, knowing I didn't believe him for a second. "So let's see," he murmured, pretending to consider for a moment.

Guessing what was coming—there was only one pay-per-view option left, after all—I groaned under my breath.

"We could check out the trouser press. I've always wanted to play with one of those."

I gave a snort at the unlikely suggestion.

"Or I could run you a nice warm Jacuzzi."

"Really?" Touched, I tilted my head back again. "You'd do that for me?"

"Sure." He sent me a teasing smile. "And while you're in there, I'll watch the porn."

I grimaced at him, fairly confident he didn't mean it. Because that would be just too weird, wouldn't it? Drew watching writhing bodies on screen, with me right next door in a bath full of bubbles? "The Jacuzzi sounds rather nice," I confessed.

"Okay." He reached behind us to turn up the lights then gently seized my upper arms. "Up you go," he coaxed, easing me forwards. "Give me five minutes and I'll—" He broke off abruptly, his fingers tightening on my shoulders.

"What?" I demanded, twisting around to look at him, only to realise exactly why he'd stopped the moment I caught the direction of his gaze.

Bugger.

"What's this?" Looking grimly amused, he reached around me and picked at the lace-edging of my camisole, now just visible above the top of my loosened bathrobe.

"Nothing," I lied, grasping the sides of the robe with both hands and hastily pulling it closed. "A trick of the light, maybe?"

"Sam?"

Oh no, he was giving me his best 'scary lawyer' look. "You didn't see anything," I babbled, already weighing up my options for escape.

"Is that right?" he said disbelievingly. "So you haven't reneged on the terms of my dare, then? You're not wearing any clothes under that bathrobe?"

"No," I squeaked, edging away from him. "I'm not wearing any clothes."

"You're not?" Drew matched my movements, wiggle for wiggle. "Because if I find out you're lying—"

"I swear!" I cut in, already starting to giggle. "I'm not wearing any clothes!"

"Really?" Laughing now, he shifted nearer. "Then you won't mind if I check that out for myself?"

"No!" I shrieked as he wrestled me down to the bed, knowing full well my strength was no match for his. And sure enough, within seconds, he'd rendered me helpless, his thighs holding my lower body in place, one hand capturing both of my wrists in a single swift movement, pinning my arms above my head.

"Hmm." That 'scary lawyer' look was back. "Let's see. What have we here?"

I squirmed beneath him, putting up as good a fight as I could manage. "I'm not wearing clothes!" I gasped between giggles. "See?" I added as he parted the top of my gown with his free hand, nudging the two sides open. "No clothes."

He smiled, gazing down at my camisole, now fully revealed. "I beg to differ," he said calmly. "You lose. This bed is mine."

"Ah no," I retorted triumphantly, shaking my head. "I'm not wearing clothes. This is underwear!"

"Underwear?" He gave a snort of laughter. "Since when is underwear not clothes?"

"Oh no, no, no. Technically, underwear isn't clothes."

Drew grinned. "You're calling me on a technicality?"

I gazed up at him, lying quite still beneath him, and gave him my most innocent smile.

"Nope." He shook his head, laughing now. "Nice try, gorgeous. But if you want the bed, this..." He reached for the bottom of the camisole. "This has to come off."

"No!" I stared at him in horror, no longer smiling. "Drew, please."

Already curling his fingers into the hem, he didn't seem to realise my mood had changed. "Sam, it has to come off."

"No." I struggled anew, watching his eyes widen as I bucked against him. "No, you don't understand."

"Ooh, up for a proper fight, are we?" He was still grinning, his hand tightening around my flailing wrists, pressing them down into the pillow, his other hand still tugging playfully at the camisole. And I realised in that moment he had no intention of taking it off. He simply thought I was afraid he'd reveal my breasts.

"Drew, stop," I pleaded as he edged it higher, pushing the silky material towards my belly button now. In another few seconds, he'd see. "For God's sake, I don't want the bed, okay?" I wailed. "I'll sleep in the other room!"

He stopped at once, his shocked gaze landing on mine. "You'll sleep in the other room?"

I swallowed hard, completely at a loss for words.

"Sam." He shook his head, the look of anguish in his expression almost too much to bear. "You know I'd never hurt you, don't you? Never in a million—"

"I know," I whispered, finding my voice at last. "It's not that."

"It isn't?" Drew didn't seem relieved. If anything, he appeared more worried than ever. "Then what the hell...?"

I witnessed the moment he figured it out, saw the flash of startled comprehension cross his face. And biting my lip so hard I thought it might bleed, I watched as his attention flicked back to my camisole, his fingers once again tangling in the hem. This time, he didn't pause until he'd eased it up to just below my breasts, his gaze settling on my newly exposed flesh.

"Oh Sam, no," he murmured.

My vision promptly blurred at the tenderness in his tone. "Drew..."

"Is this why you're still a virgin?"

Chapter 3

When I didn't reply, Drew looked up at me, his eyes narrowing. "Well?"

"I don't know," I mumbled, scared I'd make a fool of myself if I attempted a longer answer.

"You can do better than that."

"Drew..." Tilting my head back, I stared in desperation at the hand still holding my wrists above my head. "Please?"

"Fuck." He let go at once. "Sam—"

"Please? Can't you just leave it?" I brought my hands down, swiping at my wet face with one and trying to bat his fingers away from my rucked-up camisole with the other.

Drew was having none of it, his hand catching mine in an instant. "Answer the question," he insisted. "Is this the reason you're still a virgin?"

"Maybe." I blinked hard, determined to stem the flow of tears. "One of the reasons, maybe."

His fingers drifted to my abdomen, exploring my bare skin. And when he began tracing the longest of the scars there, fitting his fingertip into the slight indentation, I gave a shudder. "Don't!"

"What are the other reasons?"

"Drew, please," I begged, grabbing his hand before he could follow the ugly line all the way around my left flank. "Stop it."

His gaze met mine, his brown eyes soft. "Sam, do you think seeing this bothers me? Do you honestly think that anyone who really cared about you would give a shit?"

"I give a shit, okay?" I cried, glaring up at the ceiling as fresh tears began to pool. "I don't want people to see. I don't want people asking about it. I don't want to have to explain."

Drew grimaced slightly. "You don't tell people what happened?"

It wasn't really a question. He knew I rarely talked about it and that when I did, it was only in the most general of terms. "Would you?" I whispered.

He studied me for a moment. "Yeah," he said at last, nodding for emphasis. "Yeah, I'd tell people. Sam, I've never known anyone do something so brave."

I groaned, closing my eyes briefly, moisture escaping from the corners. "It wasn't brave."

"Are you kidding me?"

"It wasn't brave. It was stupid."

"Stupid?" He looked bemused. "How the hell could donating a kidney to your brother be stupid?"

"Because he died, Drew. Because maybe if I hadn't—maybe if we'd waited—" a sob welled up in my throat, unstoppable, my tears falling thick and fast now "—w-waited for another donor," I forced out, barely coherent, "he'd still be alive. He'd still be he-ere."

Muttering another expletive, Drew reached forward, scooping me up from the bed and pulling me into his arms. But it soon became apparent the arrangement wasn't exactly comfortable for either of us, our bodies mismatched in height, my lower limbs still trapped beneath his thighs. And moving aside, he promptly knelt down and hauled me towards him.

"It wasn't your fault, Sam," he murmured, wrapping me up so tightly it was hard to draw in enough breath to cry. "You know it wasn't your fault. Do you think the hospital would've been so keen on reaching an out of court settlement if it was?"

"No, but—"

"Not that they paid anything like as much as they would've done had it gone to court," he went on grimly. "You should've held out for twice the amount."

I tried to shake my head. "It'd gone on for too long as it was. Two years, Drew. It wouldn't have been fair on Mum and Dad."

Especially Mum. I'd hoped once the negligence claim was settled, she'd be able to get back to some sort of normality. Get back to being more like the Mum I remembered.

Wishful thinking.

"You deserved more."

"It was enough." Enough to buy my aunt's business from her and put down a sizable deposit on a house. Besides, it had never been about the money. It'd been about making sure what happened to us couldn't happen to anyone else.

"Why did they even let you do it in the first place?"

I knew that by 'they', he meant my parents. "They didn't need to 'let me'. I was eighteen. I didn't need their permission."

"But to let you do that, to let you take that risk..."

"I was a perfect match, remember?" I said lightly. Too lightly. "Me. Perfect. Can you imagine?"

His arms tensed. "Sam..."

"You wanted to know what was stupid?" I pulled out of his embrace, another tear rolling down my cheek. "Well, here it is. I was happy to take that risk. For the first time in my life I thought I could do something to make my mother proud." My voice started to break. "And guess what? I even managed to screw that up."

"Hey." Drew cradled my face in his hands. "You didn't screw it up, you hear me? They screwed it up. The hospital—that surgeon. Fuck, Sam." He shook his head. "We nearly lost you both."

"Yeah well, maybe I should've died too," I muttered, trying hard not to meet his gaze but finding it almost impossible given the way he was holding me, his fingers buried firmly in my hair, his thumbs brushing away my tears.

"Sam."

I closed my eyes. "Backfired on me big time, huh? There I was, trying to do the one thing that might just make her love me more—and I wound up making her hate me instead."

"Nobody hates you." I could hear the thinly-veiled pain in his voice, his desire to reassure me. "It wasn't your fault. Nobody blames you."

"Oh come on, Drew." A bitter smile twisted my trembling lips. "Mum hates me, you know that. She wishes it'd been me that died, not her golden boy Paul."

I'd been in my brother's shadow my whole life. No matter what I did, no matter how I tried, I couldn't measure up. My elder by two years, he'd been the brains of the family, the one who scored straight As, the one with the good looks. Me, I'd been no slouch and I hadn't fallen from the top of the ugly tree. But though I worked damned hard at school, I could never manage anything more than high-average grades and as for looks, I paled beside him in photographs. The contrast between us was so pronounced it was something of a family joke.

By rights, I should've hated him, except nobody hated Paul. He'd been the best kind of big brother, my protector when I needed protection, my tormentor when I needed teasing. So my decision to become a living donor hadn't been a tough one to make, even if I suspected now I'd made it for entirely the wrong reasons.

He'd been in his second year at Cambridge University when disaster struck. It shouldn't have been a disaster; he'd simply picked up a throat infection early on in the Michaelmas term. Having barely suffered a day's illness in his life—yep, he'd even been good at being healthy—Paul had no way of knowing he'd be allergic to the antibiotics the doctor prescribed. Worse yet, he'd had no idea his body was already reacting badly to the painkillers he'd been taking.

The double whammy put him in hospital within a week. Within two weeks, his kidneys had failed completely, damaged beyond hope of recovery. Paul being Paul, he took the thrice-weekly dialysis treatments in his stride, but it soon became apparent only a transplant could give him a shot at leading a normal life. Mum insisted we all take tissue-typing tests when she found out there was no way of telling how long he might wait on the transplant list. With Dad ruled out because of blood pressure problems and Mum only a partial match, the obvious choice became me.

Being young, fit and healthy, the transplant team told me I was an ideal candidate to have my kidney removed by keyhole surgery rather than by traditional open surgery. The recovery time would be shorter—weeks rather than months—and I'd experience less pain, they said. And with my A' level exams coming up in June, we set the date for the end of February.

"Do you remember?" I whispered as Drew pulled me back into his arms, allowing me to bury my face against his shoulder. "The night before the op?"

I felt him nodding, his hand stroking my hair.

We'd all been there at the hospital that evening, Mum, Dad and Drew with Paul and I in a two-bedded side room off the main urology ward. I could recall the party-like atmosphere as though it was yesterday, that almost tangible optimism, everyone laughing and joking. And I could remember exactly how I felt, the lightness in my spirit, the sense of euphoria. Knowing that for once in my life, I was the special one. That I was the one who was going to make a difference, whose selfless act of 'bravery' would change everything.

Well, everything changed, all right. It all went horribly, horrifically wrong.

I'd nearly died on the table, a 'surgical error' causing me to haemorrhage part way through the key hole procedure, the bleeding so extensive they'd had no choice but to open me right up. Incredibly, they salvaged my kidney and went ahead with the transplant but whether they should've done was debatable. By the time I woke up in intensive care five days later, Paul was dead, having developed a massive infection after surgery.

"It wasn't your fault," Drew repeated. "And I don't think your Mum blames you. No," he brushed his mouth against my temple as I made a disbelieving noise, "she doesn't, Sam. She loves you."

"Loves me? She can't even look at me, half the time," I reminded him.

He sighed. "Have you ever had this out with her? Told her how you feel?"

"Oh yes, 'cos that would be a great conversation to have," I said sarcastically. "Can you even imagine how that would go? "Hi Mum. Let's talk about how you feel about my mangled-up kidney killing Paul, shall we?" Yep, that's a fantastic idea. Pass me the phone, I'll do it now."

"Sam!"

I bit my trembling lower lip, determined not to lose my slim grip on self-control. But try as I might, I couldn't stop the tremulous sob rising through my body and Drew's murmur of dismay finally pushed me over the edge.

He held me while I wept, allowing me to cry the tears I'd tried so hard not to shed, all the while breathing soothing words into my hair, his body a solid wall of comfort against mine. "Happy birthday," he muttered as I calmed at last, the edge of irony making me laugh through the last of my tears.

"I really know how to party, huh?" I hiccupped, smiling as he drew back to look into my face. "God, I must look a mess."

Smiling back, he shook his head, tugging at the collar of my bathrobe and pulling it up to blot my face. "You look beautiful," he said softly.

Then he kissed me.

Too stunned to do anything to stop him, I let it happen for the first few seconds, only to discover I had no desire to stop him anyway. In the seconds that followed, I seemed to lose all touch with reality, all comprehension that this was Drew kissing me, instead losing myself in the wonder that was his mouth moving over mine.

And he was still smiling when it ended. Looking, in fact, rather like the cat that got the cream.

"Wh-what was that?" I gasped, striving to sound indignant and failing miserably, my heart still pounding with pleasure. "You can't—you can't just kiss me!"

He grinned. "I think you'll find you just kissed me back."

"I didn't!"

But I had. I knew I had. Worse still, he knew I knew I had.

"Well, make the most of it," I told him breathlessly. "'Cos that's the only kiss you're getting from me. It's never going to happen a—"

I groaned as he kissed me again. Not because I didn't want him to kiss me because, God help me, I wanted him to like you wouldn't believe, but because I couldn't let this happen. Not between us. "Drew—"

"Shut up," he murmured against my lips, a split second before deepening the kiss. And then it became pointless to argue, make that impossible to argue, his tongue holding mine captive, my eyes closing of their own accord as I surrendered to his will. Willingly.

"We're not doing this," I said when he let me up for air, scowling at him when his smile returned. "We're not."

"Of course we're not," he agreed amiably, sliding his hand down between us to make a none-too-subtle adjustment, grinning when I gazed at him in startled comprehension.

I might be a virgin, but I wasn't completely oblivious to the workings of the male anatomy.

"Crying women turn you on?" I accused, a fresh wash of heat searing my already hot cheeks.

"Crying women in bathrobes," he admitted, in the manner of one making an embarrassing confession. "I'm sorry. I've tried to get help, I really have, but apparently, there's nothing anyone can do."

"Oh, really?"

He laughed at my tone of disbelief, planting a kiss on my forehead. "Of course, you could always take the bathrobe off. That might work."

"Drew!"

He laughed again, covering my face with kisses now. My cheeks. My nose. My eyelids as they fluttered closed. "'Course, I'd be quite happy to take my bathrobe off, too."

"We're not doing this," I breathed again, less convincingly this time.

"Oh, we are so doing this." And abruptly pushing me backwards, he laid me down on the bed.

I gasped, watching in alarm as his hands moved to my belt, untying the already loosened knot. "Drew, you said—you said we weren't going to do anything I didn't want to do."

He smiled, opening my robe. "We won't. I promise."

"You promise?" I echoed, my heart beginning to thud in my ears again. "So if I said 'stop', you'd stop?"

Lifting his appreciative gaze from my scantily clad body to my face, he tilted his head on one side, looking amused. "Are you going to say 'stop'?"

Unfair, a little voice screamed in my head. "I might," I got out, finding it horrendously difficult to breathe.

"Then of course I'd stop." And straightening up, Drew reached for the tie of his own robe, a moment later revealing that he, unlike me, hadn't reneged on the terms of our deal.

"Oh God," I whimpered, twisting my head away at once.

I could hear him laughing, the soft flump of his bathrobe falling to the floor. "Don't be a baby, Sam. Look at me."

"I can't."

I felt his hand slide beneath my cheek. "Yes, you can," he chided, gently turning my face back to his. "There you go," he said solemnly. "Easy. Now look."

Swallowing hard, all moisture having deserted my mouth, I looked, keeping my focus strictly north of his navel. Even the sight of his bare chest was enough to take my breath away. Strange in itself given I'd seen Drew without a shirt maybe hundreds of times before in the summer, at the beach and the pool. But in this context...

Oh crap. This was completely different.

"You're still not looking."

"Drew!" I screwed my eyes shut.

"Samantha Bloom, do I have to dare you?"

Opening one eye, I knew I was beaten the moment I clocked his confident grin. "You bastard," I muttered. "Fine."

"Fine?"

I struggled upright, drawing a deep breath. And this time, after permitting myself a longer look at that broad expanse of masculine chest and abs—not bad for a guy whose idea of exercise was an occasional kick-about in the park—I let my gaze fall south. "Fine—whoa. Fuck."

There it was, erect and proud, jutting out from a nest of springy blond curls—a darker shade of blond than the hairs on his head, I noted absently. Though not before I'd noted the size.

There was no way in hell that would fit.

"You know what?" I said brightly, already edging away. "Now I come to think of it, those beds in the other room looked really comfy."

"Sam." Laughing, Drew seized my shoulders before I could shuffle more than a few inches and pushed me back down to the bed. "We're doing this."

"No, we're not!" I yelped as he followed me down. "We can't. We mus-umph..."

I moaned helplessly as he kissed me again, conscious I was losing the battle. Because no matter how much that little voice in my head urged caution, my body seemed to be arguing otherwise, every nerve ending on high alert, the dull ache low in my pelvis intensifying with every brush of his lips.

"You're not playing fair," I complained when he let me up for air, grimacing when he rewarded my words with a snigger. "You're not! You can't kiss me like this!"

"How can I kiss you then? Like this?" He dropped the lightest of pecks on my cheek. "Or like this?" Opening his mouth like a fish, he hovered piranha-like over my nose, the o-shape segueing into a grin when I gave a helpless giggle. "Or how about this?" His lips claimed mine again, slow and seductive, his tongue gently seeking my own.

"No." I blinked up at him dazedly when he pulled back, finding it hard to regain my train of thought. "That's not what I meant. I meant, if we're going to do this—"

"So we are going to do this?" He looked amused.

Oh, bollocks.

"Yes," I mumbled before I could change my mind, my heart promptly setting off at a gallop as he inclined his head to kiss me again. "I mean, no. Not like this."

"What?" His lips an inch from mine, Drew froze above me, looking understandably confused.

"We can't do this!" I wailed, throwing my arms out wide. "You can't do this," I added for clarification, growing increasingly desperate. "Oh for God's sake. You can't do this, like—like you actually love me!"

His face cleared, his brown eyes softening. "Sam, I do love you."

"Not like that, you don't," I fired back. "You're my friend."

"I'm your best friend," he amended. "Doesn't that make me the best man for the job?"

"Drew!"

Laughing when I growled in frustration, he gathered me up from the bed, pulling me into a much-needed hug. "So let me get this straight," he said gravely, brushing his mouth against my ear. "You're agreeing to this now?"

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

"We are going to have sex and you'll let me take your virginity?"

"Yes." Oh God, what was I doing?

"Just so long as we don't enjoy it?"

He laughed again when I let out a whimper. "Interesting terms," he murmured, planting another kiss against my temple before starting to tug at my robe.

"Wait..."

"Hey." Gently grasping my upper arms, he peered down into my face. "It's gonna have to come off sooner or later."

"I know. It's not that," I said, shrugging the robe straight off my shoulders to show I meant it. Because it wasn't. In my lacy camisole top and knickers, I was still wearing an awful lot more than Drew.

Shooting me a startled smile, he eased it out from beneath me. "What then?" he asked, balling it up and sending it sailing through the air to join his own bathrobe on the floor.

"I'm scared."

He gave a snort of disbelief. "Of doing this? Of me? Sam, I'll do my very best not to hurt you. We'll go really slowly."

"No," I groaned, shaking my head. "That's not what I meant."

Yeah, right the little voice in my head muttered sarcastically.

"What I meant was," I tried again, ignoring the little voice, "I'm scared of what this is going to do to us. Are things going to get...? Well, you know. Really weird?"

He nodded. "You mean, are we ever going to be able to look each other in the eye again?"

"Yeah." I darted him a tiny smile, relieved he understood.

"Are we ever going to be able to look at each other without imagining the other naked?"

"That sort of thing, yeah."

He grinned. "Will you ever be able to forget how I snogged you senseless and brought you to two screaming orgasms?"

"Drew." A surge of heat flooded my face. Trust him to take it a step too far.

"Okay, four screaming orgasms?" he suggested, laughing openly at me when I punched his arm. "No, something tells me we might have trouble forgetting all that stuff. But that doesn't mean things have to be weird. They'll only get as weird as we let them, Sam."

I bit my lip. "It's just, I don't want to lose you."

"What?" The laughter fading from his expression, he wrapped his arms around me and touched his forehead to mine. "You're not going to lose me, you daft bat."

I swallowed. "You promise? You promise that after this, things will go back to the way they were? That things will be the same?

"Sam..." He hesitated, his expression curiously unreadable. "Nothing stays the same for ever."

"This has to," I pleaded. "Please, Drew. Promise me."

He sighed heavily, at last giving me a resigned smile. "Okay. I promise."

I couldn't tear my gaze from his as he lowered me back down to the bed, the magnitude of what we about to do suddenly hitting me like a cannon ball to the chest. Because this wasn't how this was supposed to be, right? To have sex would've been an entirely natural progression for two people who'd fallen for each other, for a couple experiencing that indefinable spark that demanded their bodies be joined.

But this was different. We weren't that couple. We weren't in love or even in lust. We were Sam and Drew. Drew and Sam. Best friends, not lovers. Childhood playmates, not soulmates. And no matter how I twisted it around, I couldn't make the idea work in my head.

I could still bail out, I thought, a wave of panic rising through my stomach as he stretched out beside me, turning his body towards mine. Feign illness. Conveniently remember I'd forgotten to set the alarm at the shop.

"Sam."

Or I could just shout "Fire!"

"Y-yes?" I croaked.

He grinned. "You're looking at me like I'm the big bad wolf and you're Little Red Riding Hood."

"What big teeth you have," I quipped nervously, wishing I hadn't when he gave me a speculative look, his grin slowly spreading.

Fuck, how the hell could I have forgotten the next line?

"Nah, maybe later," he murmured affectionately, pulling me into his arms. "I'm not all that hungry just now."

I groaned into his chest as he ruffled my hair, his laughter rumbling against my ear. "There's not a chance you'll let that one go, is there?"

"I'm amenable to bribery."

Raising my chin, I gave him my best shocked look. "A respectable lawyer like you?"

He winked. "Darlin', there ain't nothin' respectable about me." And as if to prove it, he cupped my cheek in his hand and slanted his lips over mine.

Oh, Drew could kiss, there was no doubt about that, better than any man I'd known. It was almost too easy to let the last of my lingering doubts slip away, his mouth demanding my full attention.

When he lifted his head at last, he smiled down at me, his finger toying with the thin strap of my camisole. "So do I get to see everything or are you planning on keeping this on?"

"Is this the bribery part?" God, I sounded wantonly breathless.

"Nope." Though he was still smiling, his dark eyes were solemn. "This is the part where you find out I'm actually a sensitive guy."

A tiny something in my chest swelled and abruptly went ping. So he'd taken on board how much I hated my scars. "Sensitive?" I echoed, deciding to feign incredulity.

He grinned, kissing my nose. "I know, hard to believe, but it's true. Besides, seen one set of tits, seen 'em all, right?"

I gave a snort of laughter. "So sensitive. And so very practical. You'll just use your imagination, right?"

"Absolutely," Drew parried cheerfully. "Close my eyes, picture a lovely pair of thirty-two double Ds."

"Oh for God's sake." I pushed at his shoulders to give myself enough room to manoeuvre and reached for the bottom edge of my camisole, yanking it up and over my head. "There you go—oh." Even avoiding eye contact, I could tell he was laughing as he helped me disentangle the spaghetti straps from my fingers, my gesture of bravado as usual falling flat on its face. "Not thirty-two double Ds though, I'm afraid. So feel free to imagine something better."

There was a considerable pause before he replied—a pause during which, thanks to the heat of his scrutiny, I grew very warm indeed.

"You know, I'm not sure I could."

What?

"They're perfect. You're perfect. Beautiful, in fact."

"Drew..." I stifled a gasp, staring fixedly at the ceiling as he traced a fingertip from my neck to the valley between my breasts. "It's okay. You don't have to say stuff like that. I'm a sure thing, remember? You don't need to—"

"You honestly think I'm just saying that?"

"Listen." I hated hearing the hint of irritation in his voice. "I know you're trying to do this right. Do right by me," I added hastily. "But that doesn't mean you have to—"

"Look at me, Sam."

Pants. Now he sounded pissed. "Drew—"

"I said, look at me, Samantha Bloom."

Swallowing hard, I did as I was told. It would've been difficult not to, given his tone.

"Repeat after me."

"Drew!"

He made a growling sound low in his throat. "Repeat. After. Me."

I acknowledged his demand with a heartfelt sigh.

"I, Samantha Bloom."

"I, Samantha Bloom," I parroted, rolling my eyes.

"Do solemnly declare."

"What is this, a wedding? I thought we were just gonna have sex."

"Do solemnly declare," he repeated, lifting his eyebrows meaningfully.

I grimaced. "Do solemnly declare."

"That I am drop-dead gorgeous."

I gave him my best 'you can't be serious' look.

"Come on, Sam."

Shaking my head, I released another sigh. "That I am... Averagely attractive, I suppose. With my clothes on, anyway."

"That I am drop-dead gorgeous," he corrected, shaking his head in turn. "With or without my clothes."

"Drew!"

"Say it or I'll show you exactly why Little Red Riding Hood should be afraid of the big bad wolf's teeth."

He wouldn't. Would he? "But I'm not drop-dead gorgeous."

There was an odd glint in his eyes as he propped himself up on one elbow. "Sure about that?"

"Pretty sure, yes." I watched him uneasily. "Mirrors don't lie. Cameras don't lie. And I'm pretty sure that I'd kn-ow-ow!"

I shrieked as he bent his head over me, shrieking all the more wildly when his mouth promptly fastened over my left nipple and he started to suck. And then I couldn't shriek, the shower of sparks arcing to my groin so painfully pleasurable I couldn't focus on drawing enough breath.

"Ah," he murmured with satisfaction, mischief in his gaze as he lifted his head just enough to study my expression. "I thought you might like that." Trailing his lips from one breast to the other, he captured my other nipple, eliciting another squeak from me as he drew it deep into the moist heat of his mouth.

Then just as suddenly, he let go.

"Hey!" The whimper of protest escaped my throat before I could stop it, Drew's open amusement leaving me hot with shame.

"Oh, you want more?" he said innocently, that 'cat got the cream' look smugly back in place. "Then you're gonna have to say those words, Sam."

"Drew—" I broke off in dismay as he raised his head another inch. "But I'm not..."

He tilted his head on one side, glancing down at the swollen, rosy-tipped peaks he'd created before looking back up at me.

"All right. I'm—" I hesitated, my voice dropping to a near whisper when I continued "—drop dead gorgeous."

"Louder."

"Drew!"

"Louder, kiddo. Like you actually believe it."

"Fine." I bit my lip, closing my eyes briefly. "I'm drop dead gorgeous, all right?"

"Hmm." Laughing at my sulky tone, Drew caressed my cheek, his fingers sliding deep into my hair. "Oh sod it," he muttered. "I guess I'll just have to prove it."

I gasped as he kissed me again, his hand falling from my hair to my shoulder and then, as he deepened the kiss, sliding over my breast, the thumb brushing over my nipple mimicking the movement of his tongue. Once again, I felt those tiny pulses of pleasure low in my belly, the slow but steady tightening there, my body responding to his touch regardless of the warning bells in my mind.

Though those warning bells were fading into the distance fast now, the last of my reservations overwhelmed by my mounting desire, Drew seeming to know instinctively how to stoke that desire. When to tease and when to indulge. When to hold back—until I was on the verge of begging—and when to give me everything I wanted. Even more astonishingly, he seemed to know how to extract the same from me, to persuade me to match him kiss for kiss, to encourage my fingers to roam his body just as eagerly as his fingers explored my flesh.

My back arched from the bed as he kissed his way down to my breasts, my hands flying to his shoulders and then to his head when he again caught first one taut bud and then the other in his mouth, holding him in place while he suckled there, my breath coming in agonised gasps. And gradually, I became aware of a new sensation, of something pressing against my thigh.

Something heavy, and warm. And hard.

"Drew?"

"Yep." I felt his answering smile against my breast. "Mr Percy's very pleased to meet you."

"Mr Percy?" My helpless giggle turned into a groan as he lightly sank his teeth into my nipple. "It has a name?"

"Doesn't yours?"

"No-o." I repressed another moan as his hand swept downwards, edging beneath the waistband of my briefs. "It's never even crossed my m-mind." My body gave another involuntary jerk as his fingers slid lower, warm against my delicate skin.

"S'okay," he said softly, drawing back to watch as he palmed me gently there. "I'm sure we can come up with something. How about Kitty?"

"What?" And then I gasped, his fingertip gently parting my sensitive folds, slipping easily into the slickness between. "You can't—can't call it Kitty!"

"Why not?" He bent his head, suckling on my breast as he began to caress me in earnest, the combination making me ache with need. "Nice pussy," he murmured as I writhed beneath his hand. "Ooh. You're very wet, Kitty."

"You can't name my bits," I whimpered in mortification, closing my eyes, not knowing where to look as he continued to pet me. "We're not even supposed to be doing this."

"Is that right?" He sounded amused. "Well, that's pretty interesting. You see, for someone so damn sure we weren't going to do this, you sure seem to have gone to a lot of trouble."

Shit. I opened one eye.

"So much trouble, I'd say," he teased, grinning broadly as he glanced down to where his hand disappeared beneath my briefs, "it'd be rude of me not to take a peek."

"No!" I yelped as he hooked his fingers beneath the elastic, knowing I'd lost the battle even before he tugged them down. "You're wrong! I didn't do it because I thought we-ee..."

If I hadn't known where to look before, this was infinitely worse. I grimaced up at the ceiling, my nether regions, so ruthlessly pruned in the bathroom that morning, burning beneath the intensity of his gaze.

"You didn't?" I could hear his smile. "This work of art you've created down here—you keep Kitty like this all the time?"

"Of course," I lied, wanting to giggle when he released a snort. "You never know when you might get run down by a bus."

"Really?" he said solemnly, making me quiver as he brushed his fingers over the tiny patch of curls I'd allowed to remain. "No one ever told me you had to keep your pubes tidy. To think, all this time, I thought all you had to do was wear clean underwear."

"You live and learn," I replied, at last daring to look at him and rather wishing I hadn't when I saw the mischief in his expression. "Oh no. Drew, wait!"

Laughing at me already, he scooted backwards with my briefs, peeling them down and planting kisses in their wake. And then they were gone, and somehow he was between my legs, moving back towards me on his knees.

Oh fuck.

I didn't want to look, but I couldn't look away.

"Okay," I squeaked as Mr Percy came to rest against my inner thigh. "So we should really get this over with."

"You think?" He sounded amused.

"Yeah. Because then afterwards...

Oh God. Afterwards?

"We could maybe..." I took a frantic look around, my gaze falling on the room service menu still beside us on the bed. "Order some more chicken nuggets."

Drew shot me an incredulous glance. "You want more?"

No, not really. "Yeah, why not?"

He rolled his eyes. "You mean chicken goujons," he corrected laughing, making me gasp as he slid his hands beneath my hips. "And I suppose you're going to want some more chips too?"

"You don't mean chips—" I gave a yelp as he raised my bottom from the bed, propping me up on his knees while he reached behind me for a pillow.

What the hell...?

"You mean, thickly-sliced—"

"—hand cut potato wedges," he finished with a grin, promptly wedging the pillow underneath me.

"Yes." I did my best to hide my terror as he started crawling forward, repressing a moan as he settled over me. And now everything was touching, my heart was thudding wildly. "But if you're not hungry—"

Oh no, not again.

I groaned as he sent me a very hungry smile.

"You want me to let that one go too?" he offered.

I bit my lip. "You'd do that for me?"

He laughed, his head already lowering towards mine. "Sam, I'd do anything for you."

My eyes closed as he kissed me, chasing my embarrassment far away and pretty soon, nothing else seemed to matter. Only the feel of his lips on my lips, the rasp of his tongue against mine, his taste already so familiar to me.

But there was nothing familiar about the feel of his bare flesh moving over me, nor that insistently nudging hardness between us.

Though at least I'd figured out the reason for the pillow. It seemed we were now perfectly aligned.

"All right," he soothed as I tensed beneath him. "Try to relax."

"Easy for you to say," I muttered, turning my head into his shoulder as he slid his hand between us to make a small correction. "No one's trying to stick a ten inch pole up your—o-oh." His fingers were back at that wonderful spot he'd found before, sidetracking me from the discomfort.

"Better?" he murmured, laughing when I moaned in agreement. "Told you I had magic fingers."

He had, but when? Oh, earlier on, when he'd picked me up from my house. "You're still rubbish at playing guitar."

He laughed again softly, pressing a kiss against my hair. "Thanks for that—and 'ten inch pole'?"

I ignored the incredulity in his voice. "Why was it even in your car?"

"What, my ten inch pole?"

"No!" God, it was hard to concentrate while he was touching me down there. "Your—ow." I drew in a sharp breath as something suddenly seemed to give, the very tip of him easing inside me. "Your guitar."

"A mate of mine's flogging it for me on eBay. You really want to talk about that now?"

"Not necessarily." I could feel the tension in his shoulders, what it had to be costing him to hold himself in check. Almost as much as it was costing me to let him try. "We could talk about football instead."

"You hate football," he murmured, kissing me when I shot him a glance of desperation.

"I know, but this isn't working!" I wailed, wincing when he tried pressing forward again. "You're too big!"

"No, I'm not."

"Then why won't you fit? Am I too small?"

Why was he laughing?

"Women are built to have babies, Sam."

"Huh, well. Maybe I'm not," I muttered, burying my face back against his shoulder, yelping as he rocked into me again.

He sighed, apparently reconciling himself to the idea that conversation was an effective distraction. "What's that supposed to mean? You don't want children, or you just can't imagine having any?"

Yeah right. I owned a maternity wear shop, for heaven's sake. "I don't know," I lied, wincing as I felt him slide in another inch.

Because I wanted to have them, I knew that for certain. I just wasn't sure I still could.

And I really didn't want to talk about that now. "How about you?"

"Me? I want a whole football team."

"Eleven?"

"Fourteen," he corrected, smiling as I shot him an incredulous look "Well, there'll need to be a few subs, won't there?"

Though as outrageous as that sounded, it was still astonishingly easy to picture the family portrait; him sitting with a smiling blonde, their enormous blond brood congregated around them on three rows, all wearing England strips.

Drew would make a fantastic Dad.

The odd ache in my chest muted the burning between my thighs.

"Well you'd better meet the girl of your dreams pretty soon then," I quipped lightly. "You'll be too old to teach them all to play."

I realised my folly the moment his eyes narrowed in amusement, cringing as his head lowered over mine. "You're so gonna pay for that," he threatened against my lips.

He kissed me again and I groaned into his mouth, my fingers digging into his shoulders when his fingers picked up speed. I flailed helplessly beneath him as he discovered a steady, perfect rhythm, every undulation of my hips driving him just a little deeper. I barely noticed the burn as my flesh yielded to his possession, the stinging sensation somehow becoming part of the pleasure. And as his fingers kept up the relentless pace, delicious pressure began to coil until, quite suddenly, I felt an overwhelming sense of fullness. "Oh my..."

"Told you it would fit," he said softly, smirking as I opened heavy eyes. "But whoa—hang on gorgeous," he added quickly as I tried to move beneath him, grimacing when I flinched. "I know, I'm sorry. I promise it'll feel better in a minute."

A minute? "God, it..."

Hurts.

"It feels weird," I whispered instead. "That's really all of you inside me?"

For an answer, Drew took my hand and let me measure for myself, smiling as I gazed at him in awe. I felt the tautness of my opening, stretched so very wide around him and wondered why it didn't hurt ten times more.

"Huh," I murmured weakly. "So people actually enjoy this?"

His smile rueful, he hesitated just a moment too long before replying. "It gets better, Sam."

"No." I stared in sudden comprehension. "Don't tell me you're enjoying this?"

His guilty expression told me all I needed to know.

"Drew!"

He groaned. "No, not like that. Sam, I hate hurting you!"

"Really?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Looking suitably chastened, Drew cupped my cheek in his hand. "No, I'm not enjoying hurting you. But do you have any idea...?" Trailing off, he shot me another apologetic smile. "No, of course you don't, how could you?" He shook his head. "You feel incredible, okay?"

"Incredible?" I repeated. The idea was curiously gratifying.

His gaze softened. "Better than incredible. I can't even begin to describe how it feels."

"Try."

"Sam!" He laughed, the slight movement of his body making him ripple within me and he was right; it was already beginning to feel better. "You're serious, you really want to know?" Rolling his eyes at my expectant look, he blew out a long breath. "All right, it feels amazing to be inside you, okay? You feel so hot and wet. And soft. And God, Sam—so incredibly fucking tight."

Holy crap. The crude words were even turning me on. "So basically, you're telling me you want to fuck my brains out?"

Where the hell had that come from?

Drew's brows shot up in amusement. "Well. Yeah, I do," he confessed.

"Well, tough," I fired back, blushing furiously. "Cos I think you'll find we agreed we wouldn't enjoy this."

"Oh, I think you'll find we didn't."

"What?" I gasped as he eased his lower body from mine, his withdrawal leaving me startlingly bereft. "Drew!"

"You forgot to make me sign on the bottom line." He smiled down at me, brown eyes liquid with desire. "So I'm gonna try my best to make this good for you. Though to be honest, I think it might just kill me."

I could see he wasn't kidding, the signs of his inner battle etched across his face, his jaw tightening as he fought for self-control. And then he pushed and the breath I'd been holding stuttered out in pieces.

It was torment and it was torture and pretty much everything in between, his slow thrust stretching me impossibly wide, letting me feel every millimetre of his possession. And I whimpered as he pulled back, only to sob as he plunged deeper, my flesh aching as he nudged into yet more uncharted territory. "God, I'm sorry," he ground out, his voice unusually gruff. "I promise, Sam. I promise I'll make this better."

I clung to his waist when he drove into me again, my fingernails biting into his skin as I wondered how on earth he'd keep that promise. ""It's okay," I whispered. "It's not your fault this hurts. Everyone says the first time really—"

"Touch yourself."

"—sucks." I stared up at him as he stilled inside me. "I beg your pardon?" He couldn't mean...?

It seemed he did. He was already prying my right hand from his back.

"No," I breathed, mortified. "I can't!"

"Don't tell me you've never touched yourself, Sam. I know you have."

"But..." I didn't even want to contemplate how he knew. "Drew, I can't!"

"What?" He grinned, pulling my hand down between us, separating my middle finger from the others. "You mean, you can't in front of me?" Watching my face, he pushed it down into my slippery folds and firmly started to caress me with it. "Yes you can," his eyes closed briefly as I quaked, "see, you're doing it already. Now all you need to do is carry on," he slid his hand from mine, "without me."

Oh God, that felt so much better, my inner muscles clenching round him as I stroked, heightening the sensation in a way I'd never known. And he could feel it too, I could see it in his gaze, his eyes clouding as he slowly resumed moving.

In and out, so very gentle like he'd promised from the start, each languorous thrust building my desire. I could feel that delicious tension, a steadily tightening knot, like a purse string round my womb, drawing upwards.

"Good, so good," I whimpered, Drew smiling as he kissed me, my legs curling round his, trying to pull him deeper. "Need more."

"More?" I felt his smile widen, his movements still unhurried. "I think you'll find you've got most of me already."

"Drew!" I wailed, already hopelessly frustrated. And pulling out my hand, I slapped his butt cheek hard.

That got his attention.

"Ow!" he protested with a startled choke of laughter. "What was that?"

Oh crap. What the hell had I just done?

"You want more?" he said, still laughing, a wicked gleam now in his eyes. "Well, who'd have thought Sam Bloom would want it rough?"

I screamed as he plunged forward, giving me everything and more, filling me, oh, so much deeper than before. Heat blossomed between my thighs, engulfing me in waves, the tension mounting as he drove in ever faster. Until I could concentrate on nothing but the feel of him inside me, our limbs so entangled, I couldn't tell which were his and which were mine.

And though I knew what must be coming, I'd never come like this, with no control, at the mercy of another. It was overwhelming, all-consuming, this rising need within me, that tight knot burgeoning to fifty times the size.

"Drew." I heard the frightened voice, barely recognising it as my own. "Oh my God, Drew. Oh holy fucking..."

He scooped me up and held me and I shattered in his arms, then with a deafening roar, he shuddered into me. And as I clung to him still trembling with him buried deep inside, I could feel his heart, racing against mine.

For the longest time there was silence, my ragged gasps the only sound in the room. But as the seconds passed, I slowly became aware of Drew's warm breath against my hair, his skin slick with perspiration beneath my fingertips, his arms so protectively tight around me.

"Sam?"

I opened my eyes, fought for enough breath to laugh. "Still here."

His own choke of laughter rumbled in my ear. "Oh God, Sam."

"I know." I let my eyes drift closed again, my head slumping against his shoulder. "I'm so sorry."

"What?" I felt him tense, the small movement making him flex inside me, setting off a fresh shower of erratic sparks. "You're sorry?"

"I hit you."

"What?" The word was shot through with wry amusement this time. "Sam, I barely felt it. Here's me, feeling as guilty as hell—I can't believe I lost control like that—"

"Guilty?" It was my turn to tense.

"—and you're worried about hitting me? I wanted to be so gentle with you."

"Drew..." I pulled back, desperate to see his face. Was he kidding?

No, he wasn't.

"Are you crazy? It was wonderful," I whispered, biting my lip at the inadequacy of the word. "Amazing. You were amazing. I had no idea."

"Amazing?" He gave a disbelieving snort. "Sam—"

"Yes! I didn't know it was going to be like that. I didn't know..." How could I make him understand? "I didn't know I could feel like that."

Drew gazed at me intently, almost as though he was waiting for me to start laughing and tell him I was kidding, that it had been awful. But as I stared at him, willing him to believe me, I saw the beginnings of a smile. "So let me get this straight."

My shoulders sagged with relief.

"You actually enjoyed that?"

I shook my head, feeling the corners of my mouth twitch as his smile began to widen. "No, of course not," I lied. "Did you?"

"Oh God, no." He shook his head fervently. "Fuck no, not at all."

And groaning as his lips closed over mine, he pushed me back down to the bed.

"So..."

I smiled as he raised his head at last, dazed with drowsy pleasure. "Yeah, I know," I murmured happily. "What are we going to do now?"

"Well."

"No." I rolled my eyes at his suggestive tone. "We're not going to watch the pay per view porn."

"Spoilsport," he said with a sigh, now nuzzling at my neck. "Well, let's see, what else is there? Ooh, there's still the trouser press."

"Drew!"

But the memory of our earlier conversation provided sudden inspiration.

"What?" he asked suspiciously when I sent him my most innocent smile. "You've got a better idea?"

"Yeah, maybe." And then I grinned, I couldn't help it. "I think it's time you ran me that Jacuzzi."

Rain. Was that what that noise was? Thundering over the rooftops, splattering on the window pane...

Close enough. Still heavy with sleep, I wasn't ready to open my eyes. There was a reason I didn't want to open my eyes, didn't want to wake up. And I couldn't let myself focus on what that reason might be, could I? Because then I'd have to wake up. Then I'd have to...

No, that wasn't rain. Something like it, though. Something I'd heard before.

I gave a shriek as something buzzed violently beside my head, my eyes shooting open as I turned to see what it was. And then I gasped, for a moment not recognising anything around me. The curtains, the wallpaper, the table next to my pillow. The table across which Drew's phone was now moving, bouncing into the air a little each time it vibrated.

"Oh fuck," I breathed, my heart still thudding as I sank back into the pillows, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling.

That wasn't rain, that was a shower. And if I could have been in any doubt as to who was currently in the shower—not that I was—all doubt would have been immediately quashed as its occupant burst into song.

I listened to the sound of Drew's voice as I lay slack-limbed in the bed, groaning softly, the small smile tugging at my lips threatening to morph into a full-on grin. But I couldn't let it do that. This was the morning after the night before. A morning I wasn't sure I was ready to face.

If, of course, it was still morning. I wouldn't have been surprised if it was now mid-afternoon given the time we'd finally gone to bed—well, gone to bed to sleep. Because sleeping wasn't something we'd done much of.

In fact, I couldn't quite remember getting back into bed. I had a vague—very vague—recollection of Drew carrying me out of the bathroom, having wrapped me in an enormous bath towel when we eventually got out of the Jacuzzi.

Oh God. The Jacuzzi.

I moaned again, the dull ache between my legs intensifying as something low inside me contracted at the thought. This was the stuff I didn't want to remember—well, okay, maybe I did—I suspected I might treasure the memories until my dying day—but right now, it was way too embarrassing to recall.

Me straddled across Drew's lap, riding him, taking him so deep inside me as the water bubbled and fizzed around us. His hands on my hips, my breasts jiggling against his face, oh... The expression on his face, that look in his eyes as I soared from peak to glorious peak. The sound of his own pleasured groans ringing in my ears, echoing around that vast bathroom.

He'd called me insatiable.

"No-ooo." I pulled the duvet over my head, cringing.

How the hell were we supposed to go back to being best friends after that?

Drew's mobile phone buzzed again, making me jump even harder this time. For God's sake.

Pushing back the duvet, I gingerly stretched out a hand and picked it up. Three messages. Someone was being pretty persistent. No change there then. Drew got ten times as many messages in a week as I did. But at this time, on a Saturday morning? Still, at least it wasn't as late as I thought it might be; it was only just after nine.

What was Drew singing? I didn't recognise the song, though it sounded good. Still, Drew could make Twinkle twinkle little star sound good, he had a fantastic voice. I'd always loved hearing him sing, not that I'd dream of flattering his ego by saying so. But though I listened hard, I could only catch the odd word. It sounded rather like he didn't know the words either. There was definitely something there that sounded like da-di-dum.

Buzz.

I squeaked again as his phone vibrated in my hand. Four messages now? I grimaced at the idea that someone might be trying to get hold of him urgently. Because if they were, that meant I was going to have to go and tell him. Which meant I was going to have to get out of bed.

"O-oh God."

Flinching as I swung my legs out to the floor, I indulged in a soft whimper of pain. What the hell...? I hurt everywhere. My arms, my back, my legs—oh fuck, my thighs. It felt like I'd been to the gym and done half a million squats. I hadn't been in this much discomfort since...

I squashed down the thought, not wanting to go anywhere near those dark days in the hospital seven years ago. Compared to that, this was nothing. And steeling myself, I reached down for one of the bathrobes on the floor, slinging it around my shoulders. Drew might have seen all of me last night but it was different now; it was morning.

As I staggered towards the bathroom, I heard the shower turn off. And as I got closer, I saw to my surprise the door was ajar. I'd planned on knocking, on putting my hand round the door to pass him his phone and saying something chirpy and original, like "Morning!"—the kind of thing best friends say to each other all the time.

If I touched that door, it would only swing open wider and I might just see something I didn't want to see. Like Drew. Naked. Water droplets trickling down his skin.

"Hello?" Oh God, that sounded lame. "Drew?"

My breath caught as the door opened and there he was. Not naked—well, not quite, a towel slung around his waist. Still enough to cause another painful twinge down there though.

"Hey." His face crumpled into a smile at the sight of me. "Morning, gorgeous."

Gorgeous. He called me that all the time, right? "Your phone," I said, finding it ridiculously difficult to get the words out. "Woke me up. You've got four messages."

He grinned apologetically, draping the towel he'd been using to dry his hair around his neck before he took it from me. "Really?"

"Yeah, four, you popular bastard." It was an inane conversation to be having but it was the best I could do. I didn't know where to look. I couldn't look at Drew.

I definitely couldn't look at the Jacuzzi.

"What's going on?" I went on, desperate to take things back to a more familiar footing. "You got a hot date tonight or something?"

He grimaced, his phone beeping as he scrolled through the messages. "Not exactly. Though I am supposed to be seeing someone, yeah." Oblivious to the unexpected effect his words were having on me, I watched another smile lighten his face as he read.

"Oh." In my whole life, I couldn't remember having to work so hard to get the sound of a single syllable so absolutely right. Somehow, I managed to infuse that 'oh' with just the right amount of idle curiosity, even though something inside me seemed to be dying. "I didn't know you were seeing anyone at the moment."

"New receptionist at work," Drew murmured, still smiling, still looking at his phone. Not, thank God, looking at me. "I took her out for a meal on Wednesday night. Nice girl, really pretty. I said maybe we could catch a movie tonight."

"Right."

What the hell was wrong with me? Why did I suddenly feel so sick?

"Though to be honest—" As Drew looked up, I straightened my features just in time, somehow even managing a smile as he smiled at me "—I might just have to blow her off." But before I quite recognised the rush of emotion surging within me as relief, he added with a conspiratorial grin, "I'm knackered. Any idea why?"

I shook my head, clinging to that smile, knowing I was expected to play the game. "No idea."

He laughed, reaching forward to ruffle my hair. As though I'd kept him up late playing tiddly winks or something. Behaving like the Drew I knew of old, like nothing had happened between us last night.

Behaving exactly like I'd asked him to.

"Well, I'm out tonight," I heard myself saying as he pressed the phone back into my hand and turned back to the sink. "Going out to dinner, actually."

"You?"

Drew sounded faintly surprised but decidedly unfazed. If I'd been hoping for more of a reaction—and I realised immediately that's what I had been hoping for—this wasn't it.

"Yeah. Marco's in town, didn't I tell you?"

I knew I hadn't. And when Drew's gaze narrowed as it met my reflection in the mirror, I knew he knew I hadn't. He reached for his razor, pushing the plug into the sink. "What's he doing here?"

It was a simple question, his tone even. If there'd been even a hint of jealousy there, I knew I would've heard it. "I'm not sure. Business, I think. Anyway, he wanted to take me out for my birthday."

He snorted then, squirting shaving gel into his palm. "Yeah, I bet he did."

"What?"

His eyes met mine in the mirror again. "You wanna watch yourself with that one, kiddo," he said darkly. "He'll have you on your back with your legs in the air faster than you can say buongiorno."

"Drew!"

He laughed. "I'm serious. Sam, he's had more women than I've had hot dinners. He pretty much told me that himself, last time he was here, remember? He's a sexual predator. Just watch yourself, okay?" He winked. "Now that you're a sexually-enlightened woman an' all. He'll be able to smell it on you. In fact, fuck..." Still laughing, he leaned towards me and took a deep sniff. "I can smell it on you. You'd better take a shower."

"Drew!" I reeled backwards, my elbow colliding painfully with the doorframe. "Bastard."

He grinned, slathering the gel over his face now. "Five minutes, gorgeous, okay? Why don't you go and order us some breakfast while you're waiting? The full works, yeah? Eggs, bacon, sausage? I reckon we could both use a Full English this morning."

I slid away from the door, resisting the urge to slam it closed. And as I padded back across the room, the urge to cry became almost overwhelming.

So Drew was going to have no problem reverting our relationship to its previous status. There'd been no awkwardness, no loaded silences, just the usual light-hearted banter. No, it appeared things would go back to being exactly the way they were, the way I'd made him promise they would have to be.

I'd got everything I asked for so why did I feel like this? Like I'd been given the moon only for it to fall from my hands and roll away?

Sinking on the bed, I started to reach for the menu then realised his phone was still weighing heavy in my palm.

The twenty-first century equivalent of not listening at doors lest you hear something you don't want to hear must be reading text messages not intended for your eyes.

But though I knew I shouldn't do it, that no good could come of it, I still found myself opening his message inbox. And scrolling to the first message, from somebody called Angie, I started reading the words that had made him smile.

Hi there big boy. Really enjoyed the other nite. Looking 4ward to seeing u tonite. Bring those magic fingers with you ok? Xxx

I closed my eyes, but those words were still there, imprinted on my eyelids.

Bring those magic fingers with you.

So I wasn't the first girl this week to have had the benefit of those. The realisation brought me back down to earth with a jolt.

A jolt I really needed.

"You stupid..." I whispered then stopped, unable to think of a noun that described just how stupid I felt. What the hell had I been thinking? As if anything could ever develop between Drew and me.

Because if we were supposed to be a couple, wouldn't we already be a couple? He'd known me since I was eight years old, for heaven's sake. We'd had seventeen years to get it together and until last night we hadn't so much as kissed, save the occasional affectionate peck on the cheek.

So of course he was still dating; he'd probably still go out tonight. Carry on playing the field in the same way he had for years. Of course, at some point, he'd settle down, like Alice kept on suggesting. There'd be a wedding but I wouldn't be his bride. No, most likely, he'd pick me as his Best Man.

I looked down at the phone and quickly clicked out of the inbox then reached across and put it back on the bedside table. And by the time Drew emerged, breakfast was ordered and I'd packed most of my things back in my overnight bag.

"Sam?" He touched my upper arm as I passed him on my way to the bathroom, concern etched across his face. "Are we...? You know. Okay?"

I nodded, smiling brightly. "Of course we are," I said, rising up on my toes to kiss his cheek. "See," I glared at him meaningfully, "I can even look you straight in the eye."

He laughed, nodding slowly. "So, everything's still the same?"

"Yep, just the same. I—um." I motioned over his shoulder. "I'd better go and have that shower, right?" I added, trying to force an even wider smile. When he smiled back, I escaped into the bathroom and closed the door.

And only then as I slid down the tiles to the floor did I allow hot tears to fall, my body shaking with soundless sobs.

Because I'd lied. Nothing could ever be the same. Drew had been right all along.

Nothing stays the same forever.

Chapter 4

"Well, good morning, sunshine!" Alice trilled across the shop as I closed the door behind me, her tone laden with sarcasm. I located her position by the cash desk just in time to witness her pointed glance at the clock. "We were starting to wonder if you'd make it in today, weren't we Roxy?"

Eighteen-year-old Roxanne, our magenta-haired Saturday girl, was on her knees in front of a heavily pregnant customer, half a dozen dress pins protruding from her cherry red lips. She sent me a sympathetic eye roll before bowing her head again and continuing to adjust the hem of the customer's dress.

"I know. I'm sorry," I responded, cringing as I heard the automatic apology fall from my mouth. "It turned into a late night, that's all."

"A boozy late night too, by the look of it. You look awful."

God bless Alice for pointing out the obvious. "I had two glasses of champagne," I objected, picking my way around the racks of clothing and trying to ignore the blatantly curious but amused looks of my customers.

She uttered a soft snort. "Of course you did. I think I need to have a word with that nephew of mine. That's the second time in a week you've let him get you plastered. For someone who refuses to take painkillers, it's amazing how blasé you seem to be about alcohol intoxication."

"Alice! I swear I didn't..." I stopped in defeat as she cast me another disbelieving look. Why was I even trying to defend myself?

"Well, at least he had the decency to bring you into work."

Did anything ever get past Alice? Having first taken me home to drop off my overnight bag, Drew had merely laughed when I'd told him that if he was going to insist on dropping me off at the shop as well, we'd need to concoct a cover story—then laughed even harder when I bashed my knee in my haste to scramble out of his Audi before she spotted us. Still, at least the painful moment had overshadowed what I'd feared might be an awkward farewell. I could still see his shoulders shaking with mirth as he drove off, the bastard.

"He stayed over last night," I fibbed, dumping my handbag besides Alice's vast hold-everything-bag beneath the counter. "I didn't have the heart to wake him up when he crashed out on my sofa." Not that it was difficult to make that sound convincing. It had happened on more than one occasion in the past.

She uttered a harrumphing sound under her breath but made no further comment, instead fixing a smile in place as a customer came to the till with a white shirt over her arm. "Hello dear, can I take that for you?"

I resisted the urge to sigh loudly then muttered, "I'll go and put the kettle on then, shall I?" And after exchanging another glance with Roxy who nodded gratefully, I turned on my heel and headed for the door marked 'Private' at the back of the shop.

But as I headed for the kitchen sink, pausing en route to check out my reflection in the full length mirror on the wall—occasionally we used the kitchen as an extra changing room—I had to concede that Alice could be forgiven for assuming the worst. It certainly looked like I had a hangover. It felt like a hangover. The mere act of filling the kettle made my arms ache.

"Ow-ow," I whimpered, setting it down on the base and flipping the switch before slumping over the counter with a groan. And to think the day was relatively young. If having a night of passion equated to how one might feel after climbing to the top of Ben Nevis—and heaven help me, it was starting to seem as though it might—then the worst of the discomfort was surely yet to come. Would I even be capable of putting one foot in front of the other by the evening?

"Thank God you're here," Roxy said behind me, making me jump. "You won't believe how mad it's... Oh holy crap." She broke off as I turned around, amused astonishment in her voice. "You look completely shagged."

"What?"

She laughed, her heavily-kohled eyes hawk-like as she inspected me from head to foot. "Shagged," she affirmed confidently. "As in like, totally fucked."

"Roxy!" Startled by her candour—and her unnerving accuracy—I forced a 'how-could-you-even-think that?' laugh. "It was just a late night, that's all. Late night, too much wine—"

"And lots of sex," she finished triumphantly. She grinned. "Way to go, boss. I was starting to think that you and Drew were never going to get it on."

Uh oh. How was I going to nip this in the bud?

"Get it on?" I gasped, striving for innocence. "Me and Drew?" I tried another laugh, this time managing a much more convincing noise. "No!"

She shot me a dubious glance.

"Seriously," I protested. "It's not like that, honestly. We've been friends for years. Just friends, okay?"

"Friends?"

I nodded, surprised to hear disappointment in her tone. "Drew and me—we could never have that kind of relationship," I explained, struggling to keep my words light as the reality of that statement started dragging at my chest. "It just wouldn't work. He's not interested in me like that. And that goes for me too," I continued hastily before my heart could remind my head I was lying. "I'm not interested in him like that either."

"Right." But Roxy still looked sceptical. "I'm sorry. I just thought that you two..." She trailed off, shaking her head. "I don't usually get this stuff wrong." She gave me another considering stare. "You certainly look as though you've been up all night. And up in a good way, if you know what I mean?" Her face crinkled into a smile. "And you and Drew, I've seen you two together. You look like you should be getting it on."

"Ah well, looks can be deceiving." Hearing the kettle boiling behind me, I turned to reach into the cupboard for some mugs, relieved I'd only needed to sound convincing this time.

How the hell could she tell?

"What is it about being your age?" I burbled. "God, I remember being eighteen. Thinking that everybody was getting it on, and if they weren't, there must be something wrong with them."

Fuck, that was patronising. Not to mention another bare-faced lie. Thanks to the botched transplant, I could hardly remember being eighteen at all and as for getting it on... Well, I hadn't, had I? I'd been nothing like confident, self-assured Roxanne.

Though quite how she'd managed to become confident and self-assured, I had no idea. Needing an extra pair of hands in the shop at weekends, Alice and I had taken on a shy, mousy-haired sixteen-year-old girl who wouldn't say boo to a goose. Two years later, Roxanne sported spiky pink hair, wore only black and thought nothing of saying exactly what she thought. Our customers, once over their initial shock at her appearance, loved her, not least because she was also a dab hand with a sewing machine, willing and able to alter garments to fit at a moment's notice.

And if her lurid accounts of her personal life were to be believed, and having met a few of her boyfriends, I suspected they were, she knew more about relationships than I ever would. She definitely knew more about sex.

"Right." To her credit, Roxy sounded decidedly unfazed. "My bad."

At her age I'd have been mortified to think I'd got something like that wrong. How I envied her ability to let the moment pass.

"Oh, no problem. Easy mistake to make," I said brightly. Much too brightly. "It's not like you're the first person to think something might be something going on between us. But it isn't. So." I found myself glaring at the neat row of mugs on the shelf, fighting back unexpected tears. "What do you fancy, tea or coffee?"

"Tea." But suddenly, Roxy's arm was around my shoulders as though she was the woman who'd just turned twenty-five and I was the eighteen-year-old Saturday girl.

As though she knew damn well I hadn't been telling the truth. Could she tell? Or was she simply picking up on my vulnerable state? Having clocked my appearance in the mirror for myself, there was a good chance she'd simply decided I felt every bit as awful as I looked.

"Go on," she said, in the manner of a mother chivvying a reluctant child into school. "I'll make it. Alice needs you out there." The role reversal effect was as comical as it was touching. "Mrs Lewis is in the changing room getting out of that dress I was just pinning up. Can you tell her I'll have it hemmed by three so she can wear it tonight?"

"You sure?" I risked a sidelong glance in the hope I'd be able to work out how much she'd guessed.

Instead of getting a clue, I was rewarded with a grimace. Roxy-the-teenager was back. "Sam, it's your shop," she said with exaggerated patience. "You pay me to make the tea, remember? Get out front and serve some customers. I'll bring it out when it's brewed."

Roxy had clearly spent far too much time with Alice, I decided ruefully, already trotting obediently towards the door.

But the thought flew out of my mind the moment I stepped back into the shop.

"Whoa, what happened?" I muttered, sliding behind the counter beside Alice and motioning to the first in a long line of queuing customers to bring her purchases to the till. "Did we just have a coach load turn up or something?"

She sent me a harassed grin, deftly folding a pair of our best-selling maternity trousers and slipping them into a bag. "Now you know why we were pleased to see you," she said cheerfully. "It's been like this all morning."

After taking a burgundy chiffon dress from my customer and shooting her an absent smile, I turned back to Alice. "Really? Why, what's going on? How come it's so—?"

But before I could finish, she reached under the till and slapped a slightly crumpled newspaper on the counter in front of me.

Britain In Full Bloom, the headline screamed before adding underneath in smaller letters: What the nation's best-dressed Mums-to-be are wearing this festive season.

"Oh my God," I breathed, running a finger across the pictures that followed, recognising them from the shoot that had appeared in Mamma magazine a few weeks before. "I don't believe it."

"You didn't know?"

"No!" I could feel Alice's curious gaze on me as I stared at the two-page spread. "I mean, they said something about permission for syndication, but I never thought they meant anything like this."

"That's how I found out about you," my customer put in helpfully.

"And me," the woman next to her agreed, causing my head to jerk up from the paper. "It's so hard to find decent things to wear when you're this shape." She nodded down at her sizeable bump with a resigned smile. "You've got some fantastic things. Wish I'd known you were here when I was pregnant with Freddie."

"Thank-thank you," I stammered, rather overwhelmed. "You really came in here today because of this?" I scanned the top of the page for the date and saw my birthday, at the same time spotting I was looking at the Daily News.

Holy hell. My little shop had been recognised by a national newspaper?

"Well, let's see." Swiping the newspaper out from beneath my gaze, Alice held it aloft and raised her voice to address the queue. "Ladies? I'm guessing quite a few of you are here because you read this yesterday? Where have you all come from today?"

As I forced myself to snap into action, switching my attention back to the long line of customers who needed serving, I listened in mounting astonishment to their replies.

"Northampton."

"Cambridge!"

"Coventry."

"Milton Keynes. Well, just outside Milton Keynes."

"Sheffield," my current customer said, watching with a smile as I wrapped the dark red Maretti evening gown, folding in layers of tissue paper to protect the delicate fabric.

"Sheffield?" I echoed, gobsmacked. "Really?" It had to be a two-hour journey from here.

She nodded, grinning now. "Well worth the trip. I've been looking for something like this," she motioned to the dress, "for weeks now."

"It is beautiful," I agreed wholeheartedly. All of Marco's dresses were gorgeous, but this one had that certain something that set it apart from the rest this season. In fact, if I wasn't mistaken, there was only one of these left now, the one that adorned the mannequin in the window.

"Seems almost a shame that it's a maternity dress," Alice's customer said wistfully, peering over for a closer look as I reached for a box. "It's the sort of thing you'd like to wear more than once."

"Oh, but you could," Roxy chipped in, slipping behind me to place my mug of tea on the bench at the back of the shop, well out of harm's way. "Easy peasy to alter that design so that you could wear it after the baby's born. All you'd need to do is gather in the fabric here," she motioned towards the bodice of the folded dress, "and bring this part up so that isn't too long at the front. It'd look fantastic."

"Really?"

I watched with amusement as the woman's doubtful gaze travelled from Roxy's startling hair to the dress and back again. It was only too clear what she was thinking. But before I had a chance to leap to my young employee's defence, another voice chimed in.

"Oh yes," Mrs Lewis gushed, beaming across at us all from her position towards the back of the queue and holding up the dress Roxy had been adjusting when I'd first arrived. "Roxy's a star. I can't tell you how many clothes she's altered for me. That's the trouble with being five foot nothing tall," she added with a laugh as Roxy beamed back, making my heart swell with pride. "Everything's too long for me. I don't know where they found this girl but she's a treasure, believe me."

"She is," Alice concurred, earning another self-conscious smile from Roxy as she hastened towards Mrs Lewis to collect the dress. "And still at school, this one. Goodness only knows what we're going to do without her when she goes to university next year."

It was a thought I'd had numerous times over the last few months. But having been denied the chance to study fashion myself, I could hardly begrudge Roxy's designer dreams.

"They'll manage," Roxy threw back over her shoulder cheerfully, already heading for the sewing machine in the stockroom. "Sam's pretty handy with a needle and thread as well."

True enough, but trade was much brisker now than it had been two years ago. I simply didn't have the time to spend on alterations these days. No, I reflected, looking out across the crowded shop floor before smiling a welcome at the next customer in line, should Roxy leave, I'd have to consider taking on another part-timer. Or another full-timer, if we carried on being this busy.

But at least being busy meant I had to keep going. I couldn't pay attention to how my body ached or take any more than fleeting notice of my yearning to sleep. It was only when the morning rush died down at last and I found myself struggling to muster up the enthusiasm to change the window display—a task I usually loved—that I experienced an almost overwhelming urge to lie down in front of the mannequins, in full view of passers by on the High Street.

It didn't help that it was so dark this time of year, even at noon. I pulled a face as I peered out into the gloom, despondent at the thought that by the following weekend it'd be December and I'd be duty bound to put up some decorations. As it was, it seemed as though mine was the only shop in town whose window wasn't already bedecked with tinsel and fairy lights, my neighbours having declared the approach to the festive season within days of Halloween.

"Bah humbug," Alice said good-naturedly, coming up beside me. "No prizes for guessing what you're thinking about."

"I'm thinking about taking the frock off this dummy and putting one of those cream bat-sleeved tops on it with one of those stretch-top corduroy skirts we got in yesterday," I lied smoothly, looking up at the red chiffon dress on the mannequin before letting my gaze fall to the gorgeous gold strappy sandals on its feet. They were my gold strappy sandals, the result of an expensive impulse buy back in the spring. But having found no occasion to wear them, I'd figured the shop display might as well benefit from my act of stupidity.

Alice gave me one of her looks. "No, you're not."

I sighed, rolling my eyes. "I hate bloody Christmas," I said with feeling. "Can't I just go to bed and have someone wake me up in January?"

Slipping her arm around my shoulders, she hugged me to her ample bosom. "Well, going to bed's probably a good idea. You look terrible," she said bluntly. "Why don't you go home and grab a couple of hours so that you're a bit fresher for your date with Marco tonight?"

"We're only going out to dinner," I protested, feeling oddly guilty at the very idea of it being a date, memories of the previous evening flooding back full force. "To talk business," I added firmly as Alice gave me another look. "And I can hardly go home right now and leave you both in the lurch. What if we have another mad splurge of customers like we had this morning? Besides, I'm going to have to leave at three as it is. See if I can figure out what the hell I'm going to wear."

I bit my lip in consternation, mentally rummaging through my wardrobe. Wearing a white shirt with my favourite denim skirt wasn't going to work tonight. Having eaten out with Marco before, there was one thing I knew for certain. We wouldn't be dining at KFC.

Alice shook her head. "That doesn't matter. You still need a break and we're not busy right now, are we? Tell her, Rox." She steered me around to face the door as Roxy entered with an armful of bulging paper bags from the bakery at the end of the street. "Tell her that she needs to take half an hour off and put her feet up."

"Take half an hour off and put your feet up," Roxy fired off, her expression matching Alice's perfectly. "And eat your sandwich," she added, thrusting one of the bags under my nose. "Plain cheese, no rabbit food. Just like you ordered."

Growling under my breath, I gave the pair of them a 'who's-the-boss-around-here?' look, took the sandwich and stomped off to the kitchen.

Not that I really objected to their heavy-handedness. My protest was only for show. As I sank down on to the ancient brown sofa that had once taken pride of place in Aunt Sarah's front room, it occurred to me I'd never been more relieved to sit down in my life.

"What the hell did you do to me, Drew Barnett?" I whimpered, wincing as I shuffled around so I could stretch my legs out lengthways across the cushions. "I'm broken."

But the sudden image of Drew in my mind, the recollection of the way he'd gazed down at me as he settled over me, his brown eyes liquid with desire, made me realise with a start that it wasn't just my body that felt bruised.

How on earth had I managed to convince myself nothing would change between us? I'd known right from the beginning our relationship might suffer so why, in the end, had I ignored that nagging core of doubt? Why had it never occurred to me that I stood to lose far more than my virginity?

How could I have been so blind to the possibility I might just lose my heart?

"Oh no, stop," I muttered, jerking my head up from the armrest, alarmed to recognise the destination of my thoughts. I hadn't lost my heart. Drew was my friend, my best and oldest mate. Nothing more, nothing less. And I didn't need him to be any more than that, did I?

Or did I?

Oh God.

"Praying?" Roxy asked as she came back into the kitchen.

I'd said those words aloud too? "Not exactly," I said, straightening up with a frown when she stared at the paper bag discarded beside me. And as she continued to fix me with an Alice-worthy glare, I reached for it and pulled out the sandwich. "Just thinking."

"You know," she began after a pause, "you could try having a power nap."

"I look that bad?"

"Well..."

Roxy's hesitation said it all. Sighing, I peeled back the clingfilm and took a bite of bread and cheese.

"It's just, Alice says this Marco guy's quite something," she went on, still watching me closely. "And mega rich. And she reckons that you and he could..." Her eyes gleamed for a moment. "You know."

"Rox!" Appalled, though not surprised to discover Alice had shared that particular delusion, I groaned softly. "No, I don't know, okay? Marco is a business associate. I'm not interested in him in any other way. He's a friend, that's all."

"Like Drew."

I could feel her speculative look. Oh, Roxy was nobody's fool.

"Yes, like Drew," I said firmly, ignoring the fact it was now clear she hadn't believed a word of my earlier explanation. "Nothing's going to happen. Marco and I are going out to dinner, that's all."

"Right." She pursed her lips. "Well, if I were you, I think I'd still have a power nap. Put your head down for twenty minutes, take the edge off things. I'll come in and wake you up, if you like. Make sure you don't sleep too long. Or better yet... Ooh, yes." She appeared decidedly animated now. "You should have a caffeine nap. Rufus swears by them when he's got a late night gig."

Rufus was the somewhat unlikely name of her latest boyfriend, a lean and wiry twenty-year-old who wore even more make up than Roxy herself and played drums in a local band. "A caffeine nap?" I repeated, not comprehending.

She nodded. "You drink a really strong cup of coffee and then put your head down. It takes something like thirty minutes for the caffeine to get into your system, so that when you wake up again, you're raring to go."

"Blah." I shuddered at the thought. "There's no way in hell I could drink a cup of strong coffee right now. I'd be sick."

"Really?" Her eyes widened. "Not pregnant, are you?"

"Roxanne Delaney!" Hoping my use of her full name would impart just the right amount of outraged indignation, I flapped a hand at her. "Go away! Let me eat my lunch in peace.

And grimacing at the sound of her laughter as she left, I gave up my half-hearted attempt to eat my sandwich, wrapping it back up in the bag and dropping it over the side of the sofa.

Pregnant. Such an evocative word.

I leaned back, lowering my head to the armrest again, my hand creeping over my tummy as I wriggled into a more comfortable position. Would I ever know what that would be like? How it would feel to have another little person growing inside me? To watch the skin grow taut as my belly rounded?

To be fair, I didn't know it was impossible. Before I'd consented to become a living donor, the doctors had said there was no reason why I shouldn't bear a child, so long as my remaining kidney remained healthy and I was monitored throughout pregnancy. But that was before the operation. That was before I'd wound up in intensive care, fighting for my life.

My mother had been the one to raise the issue again during an Outpatients appointment several months later. While I got dressed following the examination, she and the doctor had moved to a consulting room next door. And although I was fairly sure she didn't think I was listening—she'd lowered her voice to something akin to a stage whisper—I heard my mother ask the question I'd been too afraid to ask.

I bit my lip, recalling the lengthy silence that followed. I hadn't needed to hear all of the doctor's eventual reply to get the message. Having done some research of my own on the internet, I could fill in the gaps. If I managed to get pregnant, there was a risk that I'd be unable to carry the baby to term. And if I did manage to carry a baby for the full nine months, the effects to my own health might be catastrophic.

It was the reason I'd started taking the pill last year when it'd started to look like my relationship with Matt might develop into something more intimate. It was also one of the reasons why my relationship with Matt hadn't developed into something more intimate. I'd found it impossible to get over the fear the pill might not work. That something might go wrong, that I'd forget to take one.

But Drew and I hadn't used any other contraception last night.

I squeezed my eyes closed, squirming as I remembered telling him we wouldn't need condoms. Had I been out of my mind?

What if, by some miracle, he'd got me pregnant? Because it happened sometimes, didn't it? Running a maternity wear shop, I'd heard numerous tales over the years. Babies born to women who thought they could never have them, babies born to women who thought they were going through the menopause, babies born to women who hadn't even realised they were pregnant until they went into labour. And yes, babies born to women who claimed they'd taken the pill religiously but still managed to conceive.

Why on earth hadn't that thought worried me last night?

It was a question for which I had no sensible answer. I'd wanted to know how he'd feel inside me, his flesh moving against my flesh and oh God, it'd felt amazing. But that shouldn't have caused me to abandon common sense. And so what if the other day, I'd heard a customer say that, for men, using a condom while having sex was equivalent to taking a bath with your socks on? Drew had been perfectly willing to use protection, after all. But I'd wanted him to enjoy being with me as much as possible. I'd figured that for an experienced guy, having sex with a virgin probably wasn't all it was cracked up to be, and letting him go 'bareback' seemed the least I could do.

Keeping my eyes closed, I released a shaky sigh, letting my fingers settle just beneath the waistband of my jeans. Pregnant. With Drew's baby? No. Weighing up the odds, it didn't seem at all likely.

Still, it couldn't hurt to imagine, could it? Just for a few moments. To conjure up the shocked but delighted look on his face when I told him—yeah, well, this was my fantasy, right? To witness my mother's reaction when I told her. And oh, to experience the wonder of noticing my body changing shape whenever I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror.

I could have my pick of the finest maternity clothes in the country. I could even wear the dark red chiffon dress from the window, I decided, smiling to myself at the thought. And suddenly, it was all too easy to visualise myself in that dress and see myself in Drew's arms, to picture us dancing, my bump—our bump—between us, Drew's eyes dark with love and pride as he whirled me about the room...

"Sam."

The voice seemed to come from a long way off. So far off, in fact, I decided I could safely ignore it.

"Sam!"

Bugger. It was nearer this time, but I was warm and happy and oh-so-very comfortable. Couldn't whoever it was see that and leave me alone?

"Come on, Samantha. Time to wake up now," another voice cajoled.

Alice's voice, I realised, at exactly the same moment the words 'wake up' registered in my befuddled brain. "Wh-what?"

"I've made you a cup of tea," she said, slowly coming into focus courtesy of the light spilling in from the door that separated the shop from the kitchen. "Marco will be here in a minute."

"What?" Properly awake now, I sat bolt upright with horror, immediately noticing two things. One, it was almost dark outside. There was no way I'd only been asleep for half an hour. And two, I was still wearing my shirt and jeans. The shirt and jeans I'd planned to change out of when I went home at three o'clock. "Alice!"

"Don't look at me like that," she chided, her eyes narrowing as she thrust a mug towards me. "You looked exhausted when you came in this morning. I didn't have the heart to wake you up. You were sleeping like a baby."

Baby. Oh God, I'd been dreaming about having Drew's baby?

Mortified, I ignored the tea and turned on Roxy who was hovering nervously behind Alice. "But you said you'd wake me up! You said I should sleep for half an hour. A power nap, that's what you said!"

"Don't blame me!" Roxy directed an anguished glance at Alice as I swung my legs off the sofa to the floor, then hastily backed away when I scrambled to my feet and stumbled towards the light switch. "She wouldn't let me wake you up. I tried to tell her."

"Power nap?" Alice sneered as the room flooded with light. "As if sleeping for a few minutes could make up for having a broken night's sleep.

"But it can!" Roxy shot back hotly. "There's been loads of research done on it. If you don't believe me, look it up on the web."

"Oh." The older woman tutted, raising her gaze to the ceiling. "Like I've got time to skate the web."

"Surf the web," Roxy and I corrected in unison.

"Well you should make time," Roxy added. "There's loads of useful stuff out there. Just about everything you could ever want to know."

"I know all I want to know for now, thank you very much," Alice retorted with dignity. "And if there was something I did want to learn about, I'd buy a book. Remember those things? Printed pages bound together, spine down the back?"

"Hey!" I waved an imaginary white flag at my colleagues. "Hello? Remember me? The girl you left to sleep all afternoon so that now she's only got..." My gaze lifted to the clock above the door.

Dear God, that couldn't be right.

"Twenty minutes?" I choked. "You let me sleep until ten past four?"

"Now, don't panic," Alice began, using the same soothing tone she kept for those customers who suddenly found themselves in labour whilst browsing through our selection of nursing bras. "I know twenty minutes doesn't seem much time—"

"You think?"

"—but I think you'll find it's more than enough."

"What?" I watched in mounting disbelief as she motioned to Roxy who promptly headed back into the shop. "Of course it's not going to be enough! Even if one of you drives me home, there's not going to be enough time for me to change into something halfway decent and get back here by half past four. It's not even as though I know what the hell I'm going to—"

And then I stopped, my mouth dropping open in astonishment as Roxy, trying but failing to hide a smile, came back into the kitchen, a swathe of burgundy chiffon over one arm, a pair of gold strappy sandals dangling from her fingers. "Oh my God," I murmured, all at once understanding what they'd done. "Rox!"

"It was that customer this morning who gave me the idea," she said, dropping the sandals on to the sofa. "You know, the one—"

"The one who said it was a shame this was only a maternity dress," I finished wonderingly as she shook out the gown then held it against me, her head tilting on one side as she appraised her handiwork. "Roxy." My eyes filled with tears. She'd altered it exactly as she'd said she would, the excess material expertly taken in. "You shouldn't have."

"Hey!" There was a sharp note to Alice's voice. "It's one dress, Sam. We can spare it, surely? It's not like we do this all the time. And let's be honest, it's not as though we get many size ten ladies in here, is it? You know as well as I do, we'd have been lucky to sell this frock at full price."

"Oh, Alice." Too late, I realised she thought I was annoyed. "No!" Swallowing hard, I gazed down at the dress and then at Roxy, my vision still blurry. "God, I love you both for doing this. It's beautiful. I can't believe you've gone to all this trouble just for me!"

Alice gave a dismissive shrug. "Roxy did all the hard work. And we thought if you needed any underwear, we've probably got something out the front that might do the job."

I nodded dazedly, unable to shift the lump in my throat. "I don't know what to say."

Roxy grinned. "Then don't say anything. Just get dressed and let me do your hair, will you? Ooh." She gave an excited squeal, making both Alice and me laugh. "Hurry up! I can't wait to see how this looks."

Shooing them away, I closed the door and peeled off my clothes, grateful that if nothing else, spending the night with Drew had prompted me to don some of my more expensive lingerie that morning. It would've been criminal to wear greying underwear underneath this, I decided, slipping the flimsy fabric over my head and shivering slightly as the cool layers of chiffon rippled against my skin.

Much to my relief, it seemed to be a perfect fit. I'd been half-afraid Roxy might've been overzealous with her alterations. But when I tiptoed barefoot across the floor to sneak a peek in the mirror on the far wall, my breath left my lungs in a noisy rush.

"Sam?" Roxy called, her voice bright with excitement. "Can we come back in yet?"

Dazed, I reached for the door handle, unable to avert my eyes. And as I continued to stare, both Roxy and Alice appeared in the mirror, flanking me either side.

"Well," Alice pronounced at last, her gaze travelling the length of my body and back again. "Who knew that you'd scrub up so well?"

"Alice!" I heard Roxy admonish, watching in my peripheral vision as she reached around to plant a light punch against the older woman's upper arm. "She looks fantastic. Amazing."

"Oh, I know," Alice retorted matter-of-factly. "Just makes it all the more astonishing that we only ever see this girl in jeans." She picked at the newly ruched bodice of my gown. "Would you look at the tiny waist she's got?"

"It's hardly tiny," I spluttered, heat rushing to my face as Roxy's gaze targeted my midriff. "Look, this isn't really me, it's the dress! It's the way Roxy's altered it."

"Bollocks," Roxy said cheerfully. "I didn't do much. This is all you. Wow. And hey, you haven't even got the shoes on yet. Hang on."

"Roxy!" As she scurried to the sofa to fetch my sandals, I laughed in disbelief. "You don't need to—Rox!" But before I could protest further, she dropped to her knees beside me and began sliding my left foot beneath the gold straps. "I could've done that for myself," I finished helplessly as she eased on the other, seeing the already unrecognisable girl in the mirror grow inches taller.

"Just her hair now," Alice observed.

"I'm on it," Roxy said, reaching into her pockets as she stood up, producing a gold clip in one hand and a hairbrush in the other. "Doesn't need much. Just a—"

"Ow!" I gasped as she seized my half-arsed pony tail, yanked out the band and started brushing. Hard.

"—simple..."

"Ye-ow!"

"Twist," she finished triumphantly, giving my hair one final yank that felt as though she'd pulled out every strand by the roots before twirling it up behind my head, and securing it in place with the clip. "There Sam, you great big baby. Open your eyes and take a look."

I opened the eyes I'd instinctively closed against the pain, only to blink hard as I stared at my reflection. It couldn't be me. Not really. This girl looked beautiful.

"Oh yes," I heard Alice say as we all stared, this time her tone rich with approval. It might even have been pride. "Perfect. Cinderella, you shall go to the ball."

Roxy giggled. "Shouldn't that be Sam-barella?"

The girl in the mirror started to smile—and so did I. It was me. "Well, if I'm Cinderella," I mused wonderingly, "when do I get to meet Prince Charming?"

"Ah well, cara. Maybe I can help with that?"

All three of us jumped at the sound of the amused male voice. Alice was the first to recover. "Marco!" she exclaimed, making a beeline for the tall, dark-haired man leaning casually against the doorframe. "How long have you been standing there?"

"A while," he said with a grin before bending to kiss her on both cheeks, a gesture that made the usually staid Alice blush like a teenager with a crush on a pop star. "Long enough to see that Samantha has two wonderful fairy godmothers."

"Huh." I gave a soft snort as he came towards me, trying not to notice the way his eyes zoomed to the low cut V of my dress and wishing I'd had time to redo my make up. "Ugly sisters, more like."

"Hey!" Roxy protested, though with rather less vehemence than I might have expected. A quick glance at her face confirmed my instant suspicion: lust at first sight. But then Marco tended to have that effect on women.

Still smiling, Marco shook his head. "Believe me, I've encountered my fair share of ugly sisters in my time," he said, reaching me at last and opening his arms for the embrace he clearly expected. "And no one here deserves that title. Oh, Samantha!" He sighed with pleasure as I stepped forwards, planting more exuberant kisses on my cheeks before sweeping me close. "It's been too long. Far too long."

It would be wrong to say there wasn't a part of me that experienced a distinct thrill at being pressed so firmly against Marco's warm torso, his well-defined musculature clearly discernable through his cotton dress shirt. But I noticed the thrill from an almost abstract perspective, as though I was somehow observing my response from afar. "It's not been that long," I reminded him, laughing. "We met up at the exhibition in June, remember? Earls Court? Olympia?"

"Well, it feels like a long time. And look at you." He thrust me away from him, a hot wash of embarrassment flooding through me as he studied me at arm's length, his eyes warm with appreciation. "Never before have I seen you like this. Bellissimo. Molto bellissimo. Although..." His gaze narrowed. "Have I seen this dress before?"

"It's one of yours," Roxy piped up, seeming to have recovered her composure although there was a tell-tale breathiness to her voice. "I altered it."

"Oh, did you now?" Letting me go, Marco slowly turned towards her. I watched in amusement as he eyed the girl up and down, his expression abruptly darkening. "You thought you could just alter my design?"

"Well, yes." But the normally self-confident Roxy's smile faltered under his intense scrutiny. "It was a fab dress to start with, but Sam hasn't got a bump. So I had to change it, didn't I?" She straightened up, squaring her shoulders. "Besides," she added defensively. "You just said she looked bellissimo. That means 'beautiful', doesn't it?"

"Very beautiful," Marco agreed gravely. And then he smiled at me, the effect rather like the sun appearing from behind a cloud. "I take it this is Roxy?"

As I nodded, Roxy looked from Marco to me and then to Alice, her eyes widening. "Oh God," she breathed, looking ruffled. "For a moment there, I thought you were seriously piss—" She broke off abruptly as he started to laugh. "That's not fair," she accused, waggling a finger at him. "I thought—"

"You thought I might be one of those mad designers who get all precious about their creations?" Marco turned to me, still laughing. "Samantha! You haven't told her much about me."

"I didn't think I needed to. I can usually rely on Alice to do all that." Much to my delight, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Alice start to bristle. "She must have left out the part about you being a terrible tease."

"I told her what she needed to know," she said indignantly. "No more, no less."

"Which was?" I prompted, earning myself a horrified glare.

"That I'm rich and very good looking, of course," Marco said with a careless shrug, grinning as Alice's flush deepened. "What else could she possibly need to know?"

"What else?" I murmured in agreement, winking at Roxy.

"She told me that you're a great designer, too," Roxy said loyally. "Although that's pretty obvious. That dress, for example." She gestured towards me, tracing my outline with her fingers. "It's gorgeous. Have you never thought about doing something other than maternity wear? I reckon you could—"

Marco groaned, theatrically clapping his hands over his ears.

"What?" Roxy raised her mystified gaze to mine. "Oh God, what did I say this time?"

Never one to bear a grudge for long, Alice's smile reappeared as we exchanged glances. "Let's just say that's not something Marco particularly wants to do right now," she said, laughing as he pulled a face at her.

"Why?"

"Because," I began slowly, "Marco's worked long and hard at not being a womenswear designer. Of course, he's probably going to have to give in and give it a whirl someday." I grinned as Marco made a growling sound under his breath. "Seeing as that's the family business, an' all."

"The family business?" Roxy repeated, her brows furrowing. "Maretti?"

"No, Maretti is just my mother's name." Marco released a world-weary sigh then scowled again. "I'm Marco Maretti-Salvani."

"Salvani..."

We waited patiently, knowing it could be only seconds before the penny dropped. And when it did, Roxy uttered an ear-piercing shriek.

I must have ordered stock from Marco for over a year before I discovered the truth, I reflected, checking my lipstick in the mirror one last time before opening the bathroom door and heading back towards the stairs. Marco had persuaded me it might be a good idea to accompany him to a few other trade shows that year and we'd been on a flight to Milan. He'd asked me to hold his passport while he adjusted his seatbelt and out of sheer nosiness, I decided to check it out. It was only after I'd finished giggling at the particularly delightful sideburns he was sporting in his passport picture that I spotted his full name, a moment that'd had a similar effect on me as it had on Roxy.

"Maretti-Salvani?" I'd exclaimed, expecting him to laugh off the coincidence. "Huh, no wonder you never tell anyone that bit. It'd be pretty tough to live up to expectations, wouldn't it? Not that your ranges aren't fantastic—'course they are," I babbled on at once, conscious I might be digging myself into a hole. "But if people thought your clothes actually were Salvani, they'd expect—"

And then I'd stopped, the look on his face a sight to behold. "Oh no. Oh God, no. You have to be kidding."

But he hadn't been. Marco was son and sole heir to the founders of one of the largest fashion houses in Europe, a fact he'd somehow managed to hide from nearly all of his customers, including me.

"Why?" I'd demanded, just as soon as I'd managed to get over the shock. "Why set up under a different name? Surely if you'd labelled your maternity wear as Salvani, it would've flown off the shelves."

"Exactly." Keeping his voice low so no one would overhear, Marco had given me a withering glance. "But I don't want women to buy my clothes because they're Salvani. I want them to buy them because they like them. Because I designed something they really want to wear, not because they think it's something they should wear."

It was impossible not to admire Marco's desire to make it in the rag trade on his own terms. He'd raised his own finance, made his own contacts and set up his own design team, refusing to accept any assistance from his parents. And over the last ten years, he and his now ex-wife Elena had built the company into a thriving and extremely successful business.

But as I descended the last of the stairs and pushed open the kitchen door, I remembered that the last time he visited, Marco had admitted he was facing increasing pressure to bring the company in under the Salvani umbrella. His parents, particularly his father, were keen to see him take a leading role in the family firm. "Papa seems to think that now I've had a chance to get my little project out of my system, I'm ready to play in the big league," Marco had told me, rather bitterly. "He doesn't seem to understand how important Maretti is to me."

There was a bit of me that envied him that, though. At least his parents cared about his future and what he did with his life. My parents appeared to take little interest in my business. Or in me, for that matter.

"Here she is," Alice said brightly when I entered the shop, giving me a wholly approving smile as she surveyed my appearance. "Marco's outside, dear, waiting in the taxi."

"Oh, right." I didn't try to hide my surprise as I reached for my coat and shrugged it on. Marco usually hired a car when he visited. "Maybe we're not going all that far tonight, then."

"Bet you still end up going somewhere really posh. You're both all dressed-up," Roxy put in as she passed me with an armful of clothing from the changing rooms. She still looked star-struck, I noticed with amusement. "And hey." She stopped, leaning closer to whisper in my ear. "Who needs Drew when you can have that sexy studmuffin Marco, eh? Pwoar."

"Roxy!"

But she whirled away giggling before I had a chance to protest and, with a heartfelt sigh, I retrieved my handbag from under the counter and left them to close up for the day.

"So that's the famous Roxy," Marco said with a grin once I'd settled next to him in the taxi, feeling more than a little self-conscious at being so glammed-up. "Quite a character, isn't she? I think I'm flattered, though. I just heard her tell Alice that I'm 'pretty fit for an old bloke'."

"Oh God." I bit my lip then laughed at his mock-aggrieved expression. "Well, technically, I s'pose, at thirty-six you're old enough to be her father."

His eyes widened. "Thanks a lot," he murmured, grimacing at me as I continued to laugh. "I can always rely on you to keep my feet firmly on the ground."

"Is that why you're not driving tonight?" I asked innocently, motioning around the taxi as we pulled away from the kerb. "Night vision not quite as good as it used to be, now that you're getting on a bit?"

"My vision, night and day, is perfect, thank you," Marco retorted. "No, I just thought that seeing how I've accidentally booked myself into one of Britain's better hotels—well, so far it seems to be, anyway." We exchanged smiles, it being a running joke between us that he found hotel accommodation in Britain less than satisfactory most of the time. "I thought I might risk taking you back there for dinner."

"Okay. So which hotel is that, then?" But even as I asked the question, I realised I knew what he was going to say.

Dear God, no. Anywhere but there.

"The Park. Do you know it?"

Oh, I was extremely well-acquainted with the interior of the Regent Suite. The rest of the hotel remained a bit of a blur, though.

"I know it," I said, trying to keep my tone as light as possible. "The food's supposed to be good."

Well, I could vouch for the chicken goujons and the thickly-sliced, hand-cut potato wedges, anyway. From the children's menu. Oh, and the hotel's Full English breakfast had looked fabulous, not that I'd managed to eat much of it.

"Excellent," Marco said, looking pleased. "I thought we could go for a drink in the bar first and eat later, if that's okay?"

It was fine. As long as nobody recognised me as the girl who'd checked out of the very same hotel this morning, of course. With another guy. But surely the odds of that were low, I decided. For a start, I looked completely different tonight. I barely recognised my own reflection. And the chances of the same staff being on duty had to be equally low, didn't they?

"I take it you had a good time last night?"

I started at the question, for a split second wondering how he knew what I'd done the previous evening. "I—er..."

"Your birthday?" He smiled. "Happy birthday, by the way. I do have a present for you, but I left it at the hotel. Don't let me forget to give it to you later, will you?"

"Oh!" Doh. "Right, yes. Thank you," I got out at last. "You didn't need to get me anything. That's so sweet."

Marco shrugged off my reply. "You spent the evening with Drew?"

"I—yes." Nonplussed again, I brushed an imaginary speck from my dress. Was it possible he knew something after all? Had Roxy dropped a hint? "How did you know that?"

He grinned. "Samantha, there are very few people whom you allow to take you to dinner. I consider myself lucky to be one of them. If it wasn't Drew then it would've had to have been someone new in your life."

"Oh." Really? I didn't allow people to take me to dinner? News to me. I didn't get that many invitations. And then all at once, I understood his true motive for asking the question. "Oh." I started to laugh. "I get it, you're fishing. Is this your roundabout way of asking whether I've got another boyfriend yet?'" I demanded, groaning when he raised his eyebrows. "Sorry to disappoint you, but no."

"Do I look disappointed?" Marco gave me an innocent smile. "And Drew...?"

"Is out tonight with his latest girlfriend," I said, knowing Marco knew Drew of old, and trying to ignore the flare of pain I experienced in my chest at the thought. "Angie, I believe her name is."

"Good for Drew."

Yeah, good for Drew. I tried to draw in a deep breath, my lungs still tight. Drew being with another woman wasn't something I wanted to think about. And yet I couldn't help but think about it. Somehow, I was going to have to pull myself together. Somehow, over the next few days and weeks I was going to have to learn to carry on as though nothing had ever happened. Get through another crappy Christmas and behave as though what happened between Drew and me last night hadn't affected me in any way, save for ridding me of my virginity.

But how the hell was I going to do that?

"Samantha?" Marco rested a gentle hand on my shoulder. "You okay?"

"Er." I swallowed down the sudden lump in my throat. "Yes, of course. I'm just a bit tired. I'll be fine in a minute. It's been really busy in the shop today."

"Because of the article in the Daily News?"

"Yes, you saw that? Wasn't it fantastic?" Grateful for the change in topic, I injected as much animation into my response as I could muster and by the time we'd finished discussing the pictures, not to mention the inevitable exposure the feature had provided for some of Marco's business rivals, we'd arrived at the hotel.

To my relief, I didn't recognise either of the receptionists behind the front desk but I stood well back when Marco went to check his messages, just in case one of them remembered me. Not that I was entirely sure why I was worried. It wasn't as though anyone was going to shout, "Oi, weren't you here with that other bloke last night?" across the foyer, was it?

But I experienced a sense of release as we moved into the bar, a large and airy space filled with curving leather sofas and sturdy round tables which extended at the far end into a conservatory, a huge Christmas tree taking pride of place just inside the French doors. As it was early, there were only a few couples dotted around the dimly lit room and a lone barman stood behind the bar, polishing glasses. He smiled as we approached—probably in relief, he'd looked bored out of his mind—and threw the cloth he'd been using under the counter. "Good evening, sir. Madam."

Marco looked at me. "Champagne?"

"Um." My still-delicate tummy gave a none-too-subtle lurch at the idea. "Maybe later," I hedged. "I could do with a soft drink first. If that's okay? A coke, please?"

I heard Marco sigh. "Ah well, at least you didn't ask for diet coke," he muttered resignedly before adding in a louder voice, "and I'll have a large red wine."

"House red all right for you, sir?" the barman asked, already readying my drink. And only half-listening as Marco murmured his agreement, I realised how thirsty I was. It'd probably been a mistake to refuse the tea Alice had made me when she woke me up, I reflected, smiling my gratitude as the barman pushed the glass towards me before taking a long, satisfying sip.

"And your room number, sir?"

"Er." Marco fished in his jacket pocket for the cardboard folder that contained his key card. "'The Regent Suite'," he read aloud.

A small fountain of coke spewed from my lips, spattering droplets all over the highly polished bar in front of me.

Marco began pounding me on the back, apparently under the impression I was about to choke to death. "Samantha, cara!" he exclaimed. "Are you okay?"

"I'm—I'm f-fine!" I coughed as the barman sprang into action, his cloth reappearing within seconds, all evidence of my misdemeanour almost immediately blotted away. "Oh G-god!"

Oh God, indeed. The Regent Suite?

"Just—just went the wr-wrong way," I spluttered helplessly, not sure which fact to be mortified by most—the fact I'd almost vomited coke all over the barman or the fact that tonight, Marco would be sleeping in the very bed in which last night, I'd lost my virginity.

The second fact. Hands down. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.

"Are you sure?" Marco looked horrified. "What was in that coke?" He peered into the glass as though half expecting to find it laced with rusty nails. "Samantha?"

"Nothing, it was fine, really," I pleaded, recovering now, but still breathing hard. "I was drinking too fast, that's all. My fault. Stupid." I risked a glance at the barman. "I'm so sorry," I apologised meekly.

He waved a dismissive hand but didn't meet my gaze. "Happens all the time, madam, don't worry."

Ha. I was damned sure it didn't.

"Maybe we should go and sit down?" an anxious-sounding Marco suggested in my ear.

"Okay." And still cringing, I turned away from the bar, only to see the heads of all the other couples in the room immediately look away in turn. Oh, great.

"Actually," I faltered, "maybe we could go out on to the terrace for a few moments? I know it's cold, but the fresh air..."

Marco planted his wineglass on the bar and moved behind me, one hand easing beneath my elbow and his other arm sliding around my waist. Moments later he was guiding me across the floor, steering me around the tables towards the Christmas tree then out through the door, the wintry air feeling cooler than ever as it blasted over my super-heated face.

"Well," I said flatly as we walked across the patio, "that wasn't at all embarrassing."

Marco uttered a soft snort of laughter, hugging me closer to him. "Being with you is never less than entertaining."

"Gee thanks," I sighed with a weary laugh of my own, leaning my head against his shoulder. "You'll be telling me next that's why you bother making the extra trip to see me every time you come to London. The sheer entertainment value."

"Hmm." I could tell Marco was pretending to consider the idea. "Obviously, that does come into it. But it's got more to do with you being my best customer."

It was my turn to snort. "Marco, I'm not your best customer. You've got dozens of customers who order more stuff from Maretti than me. What about that guy in France, Durand? He's got a whole chain of shops."

"That's not what I meant. I don't mean 'best' as in 'makes me most money'. Well, not yet, anyway."

"Not yet?" I lifted my head, twisting around to face him. "Marco, we've talked about this before. I haven't got the funds to start another shop, and if you're going to suggest the mail order thing again—"

"No, that's not what I had in mind. Not this time. But I've been talking to Elena, and although we don't agree on much these days—"

That was an understatement. The words 'acrimonious divorce' scarcely covered the animosity between them.

"—we are agreed that somehow, every time we launch a new collection, you seem to know instinctively which items will sell well."

"I wouldn't say instinctively," I protested, nonetheless cheered by the praise. "I s'pose I know what will work and what won't. What colours will work and what won't. I mean, for example," I carried on, warming to the theme, "blocks of neon pink might well be on-trend for the rest of the fashion world, but it's a hard colour to carry off when you're the size of a small hippo."

"Exactly." Marco nodded adamantly. "But these things, however obvious they might sound, still seem to pass some of my best designers by. You, though—you seem to know what trends will adapt to maternity wear. You only have to look at the pieces we produce each season and you seem to know which ones will sell and which ones won't. You only buy the ones you know will sell."

"I know." I bit my lip, feeling rather guilty. "I should probably take more chances, but I know my customers and—"

"No, cara, you misunderstand me. I'm not saying you should. I'm saying that I think you're right to pick the pieces that you pick. Every season, the pieces that you pick are the pieces that sell the best. Like this dress you're wearing." He stopped, turning me around so that I faced him again, causing a fresh wave of heat to ripple through me, despite the chill. "You knew it would sell. And we've completely sold out."

"Pity," I murmured with a grin, attempting to lighten the mood. "I was going to order some more."

He smiled, shaking his head. "I'm being serious."

I frowned, getting the oddest feeling that somehow, I'd missed a crucial part of the conversation. "Serious about what?"

"I need you." He gave a shrug. "Simple as that."

"You need me?" Oh dear God, where was this going? "For what?"

He reached forward to take my hands, his expression now completely solemn. "Samantha, I need you to come and work for me. I need you to come to Italy."

Chapter 5

It was no good, I just wasn't hungry anymore. And sighing heavily, I stopped pushing slender carrot sticks around my plate and laid down my knife and fork.

I knew Marco was watching me. I could feel his quiet amusement. Oh, true to his word, he hadn't pushed me for an answer. Not yet, anyway. But now, now I'd given up all pretence of finishing my meal, the inevitable moment had to be at hand.

"Well?"

Sure enough, when I forced myself to look up at last, Marco was smiling, his dark eyes warm.

"Good." I gave a fervent nod then fired him a smile of my own. "Just too much food. Eyes bigger than my tummy. Maybe if I hadn't had a starter..."

His smile broadened and we shared a knowing glance. He knew I was playing for time. "You don't want a dessert, then?"

I shook my head in regret. "Nowhere to put it. Do you think they'd let me have a doggy bag?"

"A doggy bag?" Marco's brow furrowed as he reached for his glass and took a sip of red wine. "You have a dog now?"

"No!" Giggling, I shook my head again. "In Italy, if you're at a restaurant and don't eat all of your meal, can you ask them to put it in a box or a dish so that you can take it home? You can in England—though maybe not here," I added hastily, attempting to straighten my face as a diner at an adjacent table, a heavily made-up woman in her mid-fifties who had clearly been ear-wigging on our conversation, sent me an incredulous glare. "Anyway, that's what a doggy bag is."

"I see," Marco murmured, though I wasn't at all convinced he did. "Well, if there's something you would like, I will ask."

"No," I assured him, reaching across the table to touch his arm. "Really, I'm full. Full to bursting. Thank you. That was a wonderful meal."

And it had been, much to my relief. My heart had sunk when I read the menu, realising the dining room menu mirrored the room service menu and deciding the chef had, in my view, an unhealthy preoccupation with seafood. But Marco, wise to my dietary foibles, had immediately accosted the waiter for fish-free alternatives. The result had been watercress soup, rich and deliciously creamy, followed by melt-in-the-mouth lemon chicken.

Marco looked pleased. "You're very welcome. Very welcome indeed. I am just hoping..." He paused to smile at me again then set his wine glass back down on the table so he could clasp my hand between both of his. "I am hoping that maybe I've done enough to persuade you to come to Italy. We could have many more dinners together at my house in Treviso."

I held my breath. This was it then. He wanted my decision. I stared down at our entwined fingers, somewhat taken aback to see them linked that way. For all I was used to Marco's overt displays of affection, it felt oddly intimate.

"I promise you, no fish," he added, as though making a huge concession. "I will tell Maria that fish is off the menu."

I laughed softly, knowing it was expected. I knew of the legendary Maria, of course—she was Marco's housekeeper—but we'd never met during my brief stays in Italy. "Oh, but are you sure?" I gave a sort of half-groan, shaking my head slightly.

"About the fish? I think I can live without it for a while."

"No!" I rolled my eyes at him. Marco had a habit of taking whatever you said literally. "I mean about me being the right person for the job. Let's face it, I have no qualifications, no experience—nothing. All I have is a sort of gut feeling for what looks right."

"That's exactly why I want you." In stark contrast to my inner turmoil, Marco appeared calm and unruffled. "The fashion courses these young designers take—they stifle creativity and flair. Make them clones of one another, so that they follow the trend, not set the trend. And with that," he flapped a hand at me as I protested I wasn't sure I could ever be a trend-setter, "they lose that innate sense of style. They stop trusting their own gut feelings and—how do you say it?—go with the flow. The best, they're still good. Very good. But they have lost that certain something. That something I see in you."

Again, I experienced a warm inner glow. It had been a long time since I'd last received a compliment like that. Oh, people had congratulated me on my success with the shop. But rarely did anyone infer I might be able to do even greater things with my life.

I returned my gaze to the hand that continued to grasp mine, absently noting Marco's well-manicured but strong long fingers, the contrast of his white shirt cuff against his olive skin. This was so hard. If I looked at him, I knew I'd cave. Knew I'd lose all sense of perspective and reason and just be reckless. But there was more than my livelihood at stake here. "The shop," I began.

"I told you. I will pay you so you can pay someone to help Alice. She will manage without you. And you will still be able to choose the stock you buy from Maretti." He gave a soft chuckle. "Of course, you won't need to choose, because if you decide to work for me, you'll know that you want everything anyway."

I nodded, unable to hide a smile. "And you're sure that if I find I don't want to stay—or, well." I risked a glance at him then. "You might decide that you don't want me to stay. I might be rubbish at all this."

He laughed, shaking his head. "Three months, bella. That's all I'm asking. If it doesn't work out," he shrugged, "you come back to England, carry on as before. But..." He lifted his free hand to my face and cupped my cheek. "You won't be rubbish."

Okay. There was definitely something different about this. I wasn't just imagining it, was I? Marco's fingers felt silkily warm against my skin, awakening a sensation I'd only just learned to recognise as...

Oh dear God.

But Marco didn't feel that way about me, did he? I would have noticed before, wouldn't I? He was just being his usual touchy-feely self, that was all. Nothing had changed, I told myself, trying to relax and keep smiling.

Or more strictly, Marco hadn't changed, I realised. But it seemed that what had taken place here last night, at this very hotel, in a suite two storeys above us, had changed me forever. The thought of Drew, who'd already moved on and was at this very moment dating another woman as though nothing had happened between us, caused an odd cramping sensation in my chest.

"I hope you're right," I murmured absently.

Marco's gaze narrowed. "Does that mean you're saying yes?"

Frowning, I replayed what I'd just said in my head. Oh, what the hell. So what if going to Italy was reckless? Other than the shop, there was nothing for me here in Stow Newton, was there? What on earth did I have to lose, after all? Exactly where had being sensible and rational landed me until now? Exactly no-bloody-where, that was where.

"Yes," I said decisively before level-headed Sam could reassume control and force me to chicken out. "Yes. I'm saying yes."

Marco beamed—there was no other word for it—but nothing could have prepared me for what happened next. Because suddenly, he was leaning towards me across the table and, before I could do anything about it, kissing me rather thoroughly on the lips.

Startled, I was dimly conscious of losing my balance, of needing the hand he was still clasping. Wrenching it free, I heard an ominous thunk as my fingers collided with something cool and smooth, Marco pulling away just in time for me to watch the wine glass bounce from the pristine cream table cloth, a torrent of red wine arcing upwards before splattering spectacularly all over the front of Marco's dress shirt.

"Oh my God." My lips tingling, I stared helplessly at the carnage and watched the pool of wine seep into the tablecloth, creating a rapidly-expanding circle of crimson. I was acutely aware of the woman seated at the next table, her look of disdain causing my already hot cheeks to burn with shame. But if that wasn't enough, waiting staff swooped in on us from all directions, fussing over Marco, who it had to be said, appeared rather as though he'd been shot at point blank range in the chest, and using napkins to mop furiously at the table before any of the liquid trickled over the side to the carpet.

Without even realising I'd pushed back my chair, I found myself standing beside the table, clutching my handbag under my arm and battling an almost overwhelming urge to flee the scene. Only when a now laughing Marco grasped my hand did I return to my senses and started to stammer a string of half-finished apologies. "Marco, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to—I mean, oh God! I can't believe I... Can you ever forgive me? I—"

"Samantha, stop," he said firmly, taking my coat from the maitre d' and grinning as he escorted us from the dining room, moving us swiftly away from the prying eyes of the diners around us. "It was not your fault. I caught you off guard, no? But I was so pleased you said yes. I was beginning to think you would turn me down."

"But your shirt." I turned to look at him as we arrived back in the relative sanctuary of the lounge bar, my breath catching as I witnessed the damage at close range. "It's ruined!"

Marco glanced down at himself, smiled ruefully then gave an unrepentant shrug. "It's only a shirt."

Shit. That one glance told me what I really hadn't wanted to know. "An expensive shirt?" I whispered, my heart sinking all over again. "Not—not Salvani?"

He grinned. "Of course. But who cares? I have a hundred of them. Besides, you said yes. That calls for a celebration, don't you think?" And before I could utter another word, he gave me my coat and strode purposely towards the bar. "Have you got an ice bucket?" I heard him ask the barman. "We're going to need champagne."

The barman, naturally, the same barman who'd witnessed my amazing Trevi fountain alla Coca Cola display earlier, did an almost imperceptible double take as he took in Marco's just-been-stabbed-with-a-kitchen-knife appearance, glancing at me with amusement before sending Marco a polite smile. "Of course, sir. Which champagne would you like? We have Veuve Clicquot, Moet and Chandon, Bollinger..."

I listened in a daze as he rattled off what was clearly an increasingly expensive list of bottles and was grateful to be distracted by a familiar frantic buzzing sound. Throwing my coat over my arm, I reached for my handbag and delved inside, pulling out my mobile phone and squinting at the display.

It was a message from Drew. Just for a second, my heart seemed to go into freefall—a sensation that was quashed the moment I saw the contents of the text.

Hv u got my leather jacket? Can't find it n e where!

I frowned, trying to remember. Had he been wearing it when he dropped me off at the shop this morning? Actually, I didn't think he had. But he had been wearing it when he picked me up last night. He'd probably tossed it into the back seat of his Audi.

No, hvn't seen it, I texted back, before adding, more helpfully than he deserved, Look in ur car!

Marco was still deliberating over vintages when Drew replied, lightning fast.

Already hv. Never mind.

I seriously doubted he wasn't concerned. He loved that jacket. I'd once accused him of being surgically attached to it, he wore it so much. Though I'd be quite sad if he had lost it. There was something about the softness of the battered brown leather, the way it felt against my face when I snuggled up beside him in the cinema...

"Right, all organised." Marco's voice broke into my thoughts, making me jump. "They're going to bring it upstairs for us."

"Upstairs?" That got my attention. "Wh-what?"

He motioned towards his shirt, smiling serenely. "Well of course, we could sit here in the lounge. For you, cara, I guess I could live with everyone staring at me. But if I'm honest, I would much prefer to change into something a little..." His smile widened. "Drier."

Oh God. I could hardly refuse, could I? But going upstairs—that meant going to his room. That meant...

Fuck.

"Yes, of course," I heard myself saying meekly. And after rewarding me with another smile, Marco began shepherding me towards the lift.

"We will find it easier to talk there, anyway," he said reassuringly. "Much less noisy. We can start making plans, decide when you will come to Italy."

"Yes," I agreed, attempting to reassure myself those were the only plans he had in mind. Because however much I tried to ignore it, I could suddenly hear Drew's voice in my head.

You wanna watch yourself with that one, kiddo. He'd have you on your back with your legs in the air faster than you can say buongiorno.

Marco wouldn't though, would he? He'd never made amorous advances towards me, not in the whole five years we'd known one other. Surely if he had any plans to hit on me, he'd have hit on me before? All right, so he'd kissed me just now but that hadn't meant anything, had it? Of course it hadn't.

Unless...

Unless Drew hadn't been kidding and it was possible for Marco to sense my newly-acquired sexual enlightenment.

He'll be able to smell it on you.

As we waited for the lift to descend from the fourth floor, I dropped my chin to my chest and inhaled deeply.

"Samantha?"

I lifted my head to find Marco peering at me curiously. Shit, shit, shit. "Oh!" I exclaimed, forcing a bright smile. "I was just—just..." Fuck, he'd just caught me sniffing my own cleavage. What the hell could I say?

He tilted his head on one side. "You're tired, cara?"

Oh thank God. He thought I'd been trying to hide a yawn. "A little," I confessed, grateful that this at least was the truth. "It's been rather a long day."

Understatement of the year. Had it only been twenty-four hours since Drew and I curled up together in fluffy white robes on that wondrously huge bed in the Regent Suite, and watched Denzel Washington save the world on the enormous flat screen television?

No, not even as long as that. As the lift doors swished open at last and Marco accompanied me inside the brightly lit car, my gaze rose to the digital display above the gleaming brass plate of buttons.

9:48.

"Well, now you can relax," I heard Marco say behind me and as I dragged my eyes from the clock, I watched in the mirror as he reached up to loosen his silk tie, clearly intent on doing a little relaxing himself. But if that made my mouth go dry, witnessing my own reflection for the first time since I'd left the shop made my stomach lurch—and not because the lift had started its ascent.

Yikes, was I dreaming? Surely I hadn't looked like this earlier? No, I was damned sure I hadn't. I'd never have allowed myself to go out dressed like this, never in a million years!

What the hell had I been thinking? There was so much... So much flesh on display. The plunging V-neck of the deep red dress, coupled with the way Roxy had nipped in the waist, accentuated the curve of my breasts, making them appear much larger than I knew them to be. No wonder I'd been receiving so much attention. It hadn't just been my Coca Cola spewing antics in the bar or the red wine bloodbath in the dining room. No wonder that woman at the next table had looked at me daggers.

Judging by the appreciative look on Marco's face as he watched me survey myself in the mirror, it seemed he certainly didn't have an issue with how much of my flesh was on display. "Hai l'aria cosi bella questa notte," he murmured.

I swallowed nervously. "Th-that could be a problem though, couldn't it?"

Marco's eyebrows shot upwards, an indulgent smile tugging at his lips. "What, you looking so beautiful tonight?"

"No." Really? Slutty, maybe. But beautiful? "The fact I didn't know what you just said without you translating for me. Marco." I turned round to face him, glad to have an excuse to stop looking at my reflection, although my re-acquaintance with the brilliant crimson splodges across the front of his shirt still came as an unpleasant shock. "I can't speak Italian! How in the world am I going to cope, working with the rest of your designers? I won't understand what—"

"Samantha." He planted warm hands on my upper arms and dipped his head so he was looking directly into my eyes. It was disconcerting enough to be faced by all that Italian chiselled-jaw perfection. The aromatic addition of fine wine evaporating from his warm chest left me weak at the knees. "It won't be a problem, okay? All of my team speak English. Very good English. And I will insist that they speak in English to you."

"But—"

"Ah-a-a." Shaking his head, Marco waggled a finger at me. "No buts. They don't like it, they can go work somewhere else. Besides." He gave a dismissive shrug. "You'll learn Italian, no problem. Truly, it won't take long."

I wondered whether now was the right time to tell him how abysmally I'd failed my French GCSE, but decided it probably wasn't, just as the lift bell pinged and the doors slid open on Floor Two.

Help. Was I really going to have to do this?

Oblivious to my misgivings, Marco led the way along the short corridor, stopping when he reached the door at the end. And after fitting the keycard into the slot with a deftness born from innumerable stays in innumerable plush hotels, he ushered me into the room.

Unsurprisingly, the Regent Suite looked exactly as I remembered it. There, taking pride of place, was the huge bed replete with green and cream embroidered cushions. There, over by the elaborately dressed windows, was the perfectly co-ordinated green and cream striped sofa. And there, to the left, was the partially open door to the en suite bathroom, allowing a glimpse of shining chrome, gleaming tiles—and the Jacuzzi.

I didn't know where to look. I didn't want to look. Everything my gaze fell upon reminded me of the night before. The picture on the wall above the bed, the composition of which made a lot more sense now I was looking at it the right way up. The deep pile of the carpet on the floor, which I happened to know was every bit as soft as it appeared. The trouser press, which funnily enough, Drew had never got around to experimenting with.

Arrrgh!

"Not bad for an English hotel room, is it?" Marco said cheerfully, throwing his key card down on the bed and turning to me. "I was very pleasantly surprised. So." He waved to the sofa. "Sit down, make yourself comfortable while I find another shirt. Make—ah. Make yourself at home." He flashed me a perfect-toothed grin, clearly delighted to have remembered the appropriate English expression.

Managing a smile, I did as I was bid, although making myself 'comfortable' proved to be a tall order. Oh, the sofa itself was comfortable, the squishy cushions moulding themselves wonderfully to my weary body. But having to sit there in full view of the super-king-sized bed was anything but comfortable.

What the hell was wrong with me? Why had my imagination gone into overdrive? Because when I looked at that bed, all I could see was Drew and I lying upon it. Naked. Flesh pressed against flesh. Limbs gloriously tangled together.

It was like accessing my own private porn movie.

I dragged my gaze away, deciding to focus on Marco instead, who by now had opened the right hand wardrobe door—not the left door, thank heavens, behind which I knew two bathrobes would be residing—and was considering a closely packed rail of clothing. Good grief, he was only staying a couple of days, wasn't he? Clearly he didn't believe in travelling light.

"So when will you need me to come to Italy?" I asked, watching as he pulled out one pristine and perfectly pressed shirt and then another, holding them against his person as though there was some discernable difference between them.

Marco thrust both shirts towards me, his head tilted on one side. "Which should I wear?"

I frowned, leaning forward for a closer look. Ah, the collar on the first shirt was slightly wider and there was a faint white stripe shot through the fabric of the second. "That one," I told him, pointing at the second shirt.

He smiled approvingly, hanging the shirt I'd chosen on the back of the door before thrusting the other one back on the rail. "Well, cara. It's nearly Christmas, of course. I can't ask you to come to Italy before the New Year, although obviously, the sooner you can come to me..."

Not bothering to finish the sentence, he sent me another winning smile as he unfastened his tie then started to unbutton his wine-soaked shirt.

Oh holy cow. He was going to undress right in front of me?

"May-maybe I could," I said quickly, feeling I ought to turn away but soon finding I couldn't, mesmerised by the sight of Marco's lightly-tanned chest being revealed one tantalising inch at a time. Besides, that would look odd, wouldn't it—me jerking my eyes away? He'd think I was embarrassed and that really would be embarrassing. And he clearly wasn't self-conscious at all.

Why would he be? a little voice in my head said, utterly spell-bound by the time he reached the last button. He had the body of a Greek god—no, that should be Roman god, shouldn't it?

Whatever. My mouth had gone dry again.

"I could ask Roxy to do a few extra hours over the Christmas holiday," I squeaked. "She'd probably appreciate the extra money. She's saving up to go to uni next year. And that would probably buy Alice enough time to advertise for an assistant—"

"No, Samantha," Marco broke in, looking concerned. "Truly, I can't ask you to come sooner. At Christmas, you must be with your family. That's what it's all about."

I shook my head. It'd been a long time since I'd experienced anything resembling a 'family Christmas'. "It wouldn't matter," I told him as he crossed to the bathroom, his ruined shirt dangling from his fingertips. I still couldn't tear my gaze from his seriously ripped torso. "Honestly. Christmas isn't like that for us. Not anymore. Not since..."

He paused in the doorway, his eyes warm with understanding. "Not since your brother died?"

"No."

Of course, he didn't know the full story. Few people did. It was so much easier, I'd discovered early on, to keep the facts of my brother's death separate from my part in the whole sorry catastrophe. I could tell people he'd died from kidney failure, that although he'd had a transplant, it had failed. I could cope with the sympathy I received for the loss of a sibling. But sympathy expressed over my own brush with death? It merely rubbed salt into the wound. A wound that refused to heal.

"That must be difficult." His voice was soft.

You have no idea, I wanted to tell him. But telling him would've opened the door to questions I didn't want to answer. "Yes," I said instead, forcing a small smile. "You know," I rose to my feet, "you should probably rinse that shirt out in cold water. I'll do it for you if you like."

"No, cara." Marco's horrified grimace was almost comical. "I wouldn't dream of letting you do that. It will take only a moment. And then—" He broke off at the sound of a loud rap at the door, appearing momentarily disconcerted. "Oh, of course," he said, his smile returning. "Room service. The champagne. No, I will rinse my shirt. You open the door, please?"

Smiling back, I nodded, feeling an odd mixture of relief and remorse when the half-naked Italian disappeared into the bathroom. Men with bodies like Marco's should come with a health warning stamped across their foreheads, I thought as I headed across the room.

Caution: seeing this man undressed may seriously increase your heart rate.

Although bizarrely enough, I wasn't entirely sure I was into muscular men. Oh sure, getting to see Marco without his clothes was something of a treat, there was no doubt about that. But maybe it wasn't a sight I'd want to see all the time. His body was almost too perfect. How could any normal girl live up to that, let alone someone like me? No, I decided, feeling a new smile tugging at the corners of my lips as I reached for the handle and wrenched the door open. Marco was pretty. Very pretty. But the naked man in my most erotic, most x-rated daydreams, well. He looked a lot more like...

The man standing right in front of me now.

Chapter 6

Drew's eyebrows vaulted towards his blond hair, his mouth opening then closing uselessly, the shock of seeing me there apparently robbing him of the power of speech.

And then he laughed. "No way," he said disbelievingly. "Really? You had the same idea? You figured I must've left it here too? Great minds, eh? Oh but Sam, you didn't have to come! And how the hell did you get past the people on the front desk? When I asked if someone could check to see if I'd left my coat in the room, they said, oh no, they couldn't possibly disturb one of their guests and that I'd have to wait until... Wow."

He broke off, looking me up and down as though seeing me properly for the first time and his grin widened. "You look good enough to eat. Don't tell me that you got this dressed up for Maretti? He must've thought his luck..." He stopped again. And as his eyes cut from my face to somewhere over my right shoulder, a wash of dismay flooded through me as I realised just what it was he'd seen that'd caused his expression to freeze.

Or rather, who he'd seen.

"Drew," I faltered, turning to follow the direction of his gaze and hoping against hope it wouldn't be as bad as I feared. That by some miracle, Marco might have found another shirt in the bathroom, or at the very least, grabbed a towel.

No such luck. No, having emerged from the bathroom looking surprised but pleased, Marco remained stripped to the waist, all olive-skinned and beautifully contoured, his six-pack thrown into marvellous definition by the overhead lighting in the hallway.

"Drew!" he exclaimed warmly, striding forwards with his right arm extended and giving the other man's hand a vigorous shake. "How great to see you! It seems such a long time since we last met. How long must it have been? Was it last summer? Yes, it was, but..." He paused and I watched helplessly as the cogs in his brain whirred, his smile slipping as his brow furrowed in confusion. "How did you know that we would be here?"

"Oh," I put in, relieved Marco hadn't overheard the bit about looking for a coat but not daring to make eye contact with Drew all the same. "I sent him a text message earlier, didn't I? Said that I—that we were at a hotel in town. And—" oh God, how could I get out of this? "—that we were just having dinner."

The just was for Drew's benefit, of course. Because this looked bad, didn't it? Really, really bad. Me, in a hotel room, and not any old hotel room at that, with a semi-naked Marco.

"And," I hurried on, "I s'pose that Drew... That Drew must have—"

"Yes, that's right. I guessed where you were and just thought I'd pop in to say hello," Drew interjected drily, propping a denim clad shoulder against the door and thrusting his hands into the pockets of his faded jeans. "There's only one decent hotel in town, after all. It had to be here, didn't it? And hey, fancy that." Drew seemed to have no qualms about making eye contact with me. "You're in the Regent Suite."

"Yes indeed," Marco agreed, oblivious to the irony. "I cannot believe that you didn't tell me about this hotel before. It's not bad at all. And even better, it's been a very good evening—and about to get better still, because..." He beamed, looking very pleased with himself. "Drew, you should know that Samantha and I were about to have a celebration, weren't we, cara?"

Drew glanced at me before taking a rather more meaningful sidelong look at the bare-chested Marco. "Is that right?"

No, not that sort of celebration! My heart began to beat a little faster. Dear God, did he honestly think...? Surely not. This was getting out of hand.

"Yes," I heard Marco reply as I tried to look as innocent as possible and gave my head an almost imperceptible shake, hoping Drew would get the message. "You see, Samantha has agreed to come to Italy to work for me."

Drew's eyes widened. "Really?" he said after a pause, a pause so brief Marco couldn't have noticed it.

But I had.

"Only for three months," I hastened to assure him and in the same moment realised I was reassuring myself. Because until then, Marco's offer of a job hadn't seemed entirely real. And even though I'd accepted his offer, I hadn't even begun to comprehend the magnitude of my decision. Oh God, how could I have said 'yes' so quickly? Was I crazy?

"Three months, Drew," I said again, my voice sounding peculiarly far away. "That's probably all it'll be. You see—"

"Oh no, cara, it'll be longer than three months," Marco interrupted, nudging my shoulder and sending Drew a conspiratorial grin. "Won't it? Once she starts working for Maretti, she won't want to leave! Why would she? She'll be working in Italy, the home of fashion, with top designers, with the best materials, in a wonderful environment."

"Marco!" I protested, turning to him. "That's not what we agreed. I have a shop, remember? I have responsibilities here in England."

He shrugged. "Of course. But nothing that couldn't be rearranged, reorganised, don't you agree, Drew? It would be a simple matter to dispose of her shop. To sell it as a going concern?"

"It's not just the shop!"

"Oh yes, quite simple," Drew cut across me, seeming to have recovered himself now, his tone icily civil, "if that's what Sam wants to do. I'd imagine that even in the current economic climate, she'd receive a fair price. It's a highly successful business. A niche market, you might say."

I sent him a despairing glance. "But I—"

From somewhere behind Drew came the sound of someone quietly clearing his throat. "Excuse me, gentlemen—madam?"

I looked past him to see a man dressed from head to toe in the hotel's distinctive bottle green livery, pushing a cloth-covered trolley upon which was a bottle in a shining silver bucket.

"Room service?" he offered, inclining his head towards the bucket

"Ah yes, of course!" Marco exclaimed, motioning to Drew he should step aside. And as he obliged, we all watched as the man wheeled the trolley in, produced two champagne flutes with a theatrical flourish and then seized the bottle from its nest of crushed ice.

"I should go," Drew said, frowning. "Leave you both to it."

"Drew..."

"No, stay," Marco insisted, as though he hadn't registered the sarcasm in Drew's tone. Maybe he hadn't. How was he to know that was a blatant dig at me? "I'm sure that," he leaned forward to peer at the porter's name badge, "James here could bring another glass?"

Drew shook his head. "That won't be necessary, thanks all the same. It's getting late and to be honest, I'm pretty tired. You see, I ended up having a rather late night last night," he added pointedly.

A rush of heat rose into my face. Oh God, no. Marco already knew he'd spent at least part of the evening with me. It wouldn't take much to put two and two together, surely?

"Ah, I see." Marco shot him another knowing grin. "With a lucky lady, eh?"

"Not exactly, just helping a friend do something she'd never done before. I won't bore you with the details," Drew responded lightly. But my rush of relief was short-lived as he met my gaze again, his brown eyes cold. "She turned out to be a really fast learner though. Apparently, she's putting her new-found skills into practice already. Looks like there'll be no stopping her now."

I stared at him, stung. What?

But Drew had already turned away, a polite smile fixed in place by the time he addressed Marco again. "So I should get going," he said. "Let you get on with your, er..." He hesitated. "Celebration. You'll have a lot to talk about, no doubt."

What could I say? I wanted to tell him that this wasn't what it looked like but how could I do that with Marco standing right there? How could I say anything without giving the game away and letting Marco know something had happened between Drew and me?

Though more to the point, I thought, feeling hotter and hotter, why was Drew behaving this way anyway? He was the one who'd been out on a date with another woman tonight, the same woman he'd slept with the other evening if the 'magic fingers' text I'd read on his phone was anything to go by. He'd been the one who'd made it abundantly clear this morning that, as far as he was concerned, it was business as usual between us. And he'd been the one who apparently had no qualms about sleeping with me, even though he'd recently commenced a relationship with another woman. So why the hell should he care if I did plan to sleep with Marco? What business was it of his if I did?

"Yes, indeed," Marco agreed cheerfully, unaware of my mounting irritation. "We must start to make plans for Sam's arrival in Italy, of course. Discuss the arrangements in more detail. But it's been good to see you, my friend," he went on as Drew held out his hand for one final shake. "I hope very much to see you again soon, meet up for a longer chat."

Drew nodded, responded in kind then turned to leave, the smile he sent in my direction not quite reaching his eyes.

Still not knowing what to do or how to feel, I let him get as far as the doorway before my feet made a decision. And as Marco looked on in surprise, I raced after him into the hall, the door to the Regent Suite slamming closed behind me as I hurtled down the narrow corridor. "Wait! Drew!"

He carried on walking as though he hadn't heard, only drawing to a halt when he reached the lift doors.

"Hey!"

As I caught up with him, he muttered something under his breath, pushed the call button and only then twisted around to face me. I almost wished he hadn't. The exasperation in his expression made my heart plummet into my strappy gold sandals.

"Drew..."

He blew out a breath. "Italy, Sam? Seriously? Have you even begun to think this through?"

"I know." I chewed my lower lip. "I know it all seems a bit sudden. But—"

"A bit?" He gave a disbelieving snort. "You mean it isn't sudden? You mean you and Maretti have been planning this for a while? Is that what you were about to do in his room just now then—some more planning?"

"Oh, come on." Keen to lighten the mood, I tried a laugh. "You know it isn't what it looks like, right? You know that I—"

"Please." Drew held up a hand to stop me. "Spare me the explanation, okay Sam? Of course it's what it looks like. But you're a grown up. You can do whatever you want. I just thought you had more sense. And I definitely thought you had more sense than to wear a dress like that in front of Maretti."

"What?" Shocked, I took an involuntary glance down at myself, feeling my face flush to match the folds of red chiffon. "What's wrong with my dress?"

"Oh, there's nothing wrong with the dress, so long as you don't mind looking like a—" He stopped abruptly as though appreciating he was about to go too far, instead settling for a despairing shake of his head. "Are you really that naïve? Don't you know what kind of effect something like," he grimaced as he motioned towards the low cut bodice of my dress, "that has on a guy like Marco Maretti? Do you really not have any idea what kind of message you're sending him?"

What the hell...? Completely taken aback, I felt my eyes growing wider and wider. "Drew," I began, not knowing quite what I was going to say. "Look—"

"Or do you know?" he added, his eyes narrowing, that cold glint returning. "Maybe you're not that naïve after all. Maybe this is all part of the deal?"

"What?" I gazed at him, bewildered now. "What deal?"

"You know." He gave me a withering look. "You get a job in Italy, he gets laid. Nice work if you can get it."

Drew made the mistake of staying exactly where he was while his words permeated into my consciousness. It was a mistake, because my reaction was to take a wild swing at him, my hand colliding with his face with a resounding slap.

Have you ever had one of those moments when you feel totally disconnected from your body? When, although you know you must be awake, it feels more like you're dreaming and that what you're experiencing can't be real? I had one of those out of body moments as Drew staggered backwards a step or two, his hand flying up to his cheek as though to shield himself from my next blow. I watched in horror as he swore under his breath, touching a tentative finger to his mouth before checking it for signs of blood.

"Oh God," I whispered. "Drew."

"Jesus, Sam," he muttered then winced. "That damned brother of yours taught you well."

It was true Paul had been the one to show me how to throw a punch but I'd never hit anyone like that before. I wasn't a violent person. I much preferred peaceful, harmonious solutions to problems. I'd never previously felt the need to settle an argument with my fists. But now—oh God, now...

I'd hit Drew twice in twenty-four hours. What the hell was wrong with me?

"Fuck," I mumbled, surreptitiously flexing my throbbing fingers behind my back, my eyes burning as a sudden pool of tears threatened to blur my vision. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—"

"No, I'm sorry." He shook his head again. "I shouldn't have." As the lift bell pinged to signal its imminent arrival, Drew glanced over his shoulder at the doors. "Still," he continued when they finally rumbled open and he backed into the empty car, doubtless worried if he took his eyes off me, I might attempt another swipe, "I guess it's a relief to know you're quite capable of looking after yourself."

I swallowed hard, my mouth horribly dry. "Drew..."

He held up his hand again. "But do me a favour? Just promise me one thing? One little thing, okay?"

I stared at him miserably as, still watching me like a hawk, he reached across to the lift controls and pushed the button for the ground floor. Unsure what was coming and equally unsure I wanted to promise him anything, my head bobbed once just the same.

"Be careful." Drew sent me a grim smile. "Make sure he wears a condom."

And with that, the doors promptly closed and he vanished, leaving me alone in the hallway with my mouth wide open.

I gazed at the doors for what felt like a month, half-expecting them to open again. Half-expecting Drew to re-emerge, grinning like a Cheshire cat, eyes bright with mischief as he shouted, "Gotcha!"

But he didn't. And by and by, I heard another door opening some distance along the corridor. I looked up just as the uniformed man with a now empty trolley reached me. There was a hint of amused recognition in his expression as he met my gaze and, to my horror, I suddenly realised why. Oh pants, it was the same guy who'd brought champagne and chicken goujons to the Regent Suite last night. The guy who'd just delivered champagne to Marco was the same guy who'd seen me in that very room with Drew, snuggled up together in bathrobes on that huge, bouncy bed.

Doubtless he was, even now, speculating about my presence there with another barely-clad man. But professional to the core, he merely gave me a polite nod as he passed then trundled on, the faint rattling of the trolley wheels fading into the distance.

"Samantha?"

I turned to see a concerned-looking Marco standing outside the door to the Regent Suite and hastily plastered on a smile. My unwilling cheek muscles burned with the effort. "Hi!" I exclaimed brightly—rather too brightly, I realised—and made an effort to dial it down a notch. "Sorry about that. I just wanted to tell Drew that—"

Shit, tell Drew what?

As I cast around for something convincing to say, part of my brain registered Marco was fully clothed. He'd put the clean shirt on, completely concealing that bronzed muscular torso, and now looked the very image of respectability. Why the hell couldn't Drew have turned up five minutes later? Why was life so unfair?

"I just wanted to..." Oh, yes. "Wanted to thank him again for his birthday present," I said in a rush. But my relief at happening upon something plausible was soon dampened by the realisation Marco would feel obliged to ask what Drew had given me.

To my surprise though, Marco's expression cleared and he gave a vigorous nod. "Ah, of course! Your birthday. I almost forgot." He beckoned to me. "Come, cara! I too have a gift for you."

I managed another bright smile and started back along the corridor, rediscovering as I moved just how much of me was aching. In fact, I concluded, allowing myself a grimace as Marco disappeared back into his room, pretty much every part of me was sore. No doubt I'd been running on sheer adrenalin for most of the evening, that and the couple of hours sleep I'd managed to grab after lunch. But the excitement of being offered a new job in a foreign land had definitely worn off. Drew's reaction had seen to that.

How much longer was I obliged to stay here with Marco to discuss the finer details of an offer I probably shouldn't have accepted? How rude of me would it be to fob him off with my "actually, I'm really sorry but I'm knackered" excuse and leave? Probably very rude, I decided, heaving a sigh. It still wasn't that late, at least, not by Marco's standards. I knew from experience he rarely turned in before midnight. Could I keep going until then without collapsing in a heap? What time was it now, anyway—a little after ten, maybe? Oh God, was that all?

I groaned under my breath, reapplied my fake smile and opened the door.

Marco, kneeling in front of one of the bedside cabinets, sent me a quizzical glance as I entered. "You okay?"

"Me? I'm fine," I lied, jumping slightly as the spring-loaded door closed behind me. "I was just thinking about, um. Well, nothing important," I finished weakly. "Really."

"Really?" Marco raised an eyebrow before turning back to the drawer he'd opened. "You're sure, cara?"

I chewed on the inside of my cheek, eyeing the ice bucket on the desk across the room. Would it look really odd if I went over and plunged my stinging fingers into it? Unfortunately, it probably would.

"You're having second thoughts about working for me."

Releasing a sigh, I perched on the edge of the bed and watched as he rummaged through the drawer. "Well, not exactly," I began tentatively. "Marco, you have to know I'd love to work for you. And it's wonderful of you to even offer me the chance and I know I said that I'd do it but..."

He looked up again. "But now you're wondering whether you should have said yes so soon? You're wondering whether you should have asked me for some time to think it over?"

"That obvious, huh?" I gave him a small smile.

"Oh, Samantha." He smiled back. "From the moment Drew arrived, I knew you'd started to have doubts. It was clear he didn't approve."

"Well..." But there was no point in denying it.

"And what he thinks matters to you. It always has. You've always looked to him when it comes to making important decisions."

Whoa, steady on!

"I wouldn't put it quite like that," I protested, feeling more than a little indignant. "Sure, I ask his advice about things, of course I do. I've known him a long time. I value his opinion. But that doesn't mean that I only do the things that he thinks are a good idea. At the end of the day, the decisions I make are mine and mine alone, okay? If he didn't agree with something I wanted to do, it doesn't mean I wouldn't do it. If I thought it was the right thing to do, I'd go ahead, whatever he had to say about it."

Marco was grinning. "Okay, okay. I believe you."

"Good," I said, still bristling. "Because that's how it is, all right? I call the shots. I decide when and what I'm going to do. I manage my shop perfectly well, thank you very much, without—"

"Samantha." I heard him push the drawer closed then felt his hand on my arm. "I hear you, bella. Forgive me? It was just an observation."

"All right." I nodded my acceptance, at the same time wishing that the rather uncomfortable feeling he might just have a point would go away. But Drew had been an integral part of my life for what felt like forever, hadn't he? He was my best friend. He was intelligent, intuitive, incisive—one of the cleverest people I knew. And besides, he was my lawyer. It was only natural I'd run ideas past him, wasn't it? But that didn't mean I'd always go with his opinion. No, I was pretty sure if I put my mind to it, I could come up with plenty of occasions where he'd thought something a bad idea but I'd proved him wrong.

I was just too tired to think of any right now, that was all.

"Okay." Rising to his feet, Marco presented me with a small, beautifully gift-wrapped parcel and smiled as I muttered a startled thank you. "Then let me give you a little more time to think about it, yes? You can let me know your decision by, let's say, the end of December? By New Year's Eve?"

"Are you sure?" I gazed down at the candy-striped wrapping paper, twisting a loop of gold ribbon around my finger.

"Of course. Now open your birthday present."

As I grappled with the paper, he headed for the desk and collected the champagne flutes. "You know, you really shouldn't have," I murmured, at last uncovering a dark blue box and recognising it as the type that almost certainly contained jewellery. "There was no need to get me anything."

Marco grinned at my hesitation. "Just open it, will you?"

I opened it, feeling my eyes widen when I saw what was inside. It was a gold bracelet watch, its heart-shaped links glittering in the lamplight. "Oh, Marco..."

"You never seem to know the time," I heard him say, his voice half-amused, half-chiding. "Always, I hear you asking everybody, "What time is it?" And then I realised I'd never seen you wear a watch and wondered if maybe, you just didn't have one."

I nodded, barely able to drag my gaze away, a lump rising in my throat as I studied the deceptively simple-looking but ornate chain, the oval pearlescent watch face. "I haven't worn one in a while," I confessed. "Not since..." I let the words trail off, reluctant to explain. This wasn't the right time. "Well, not for a few years anyway."

"But you'll wear this, won't you? You do like it?"

Hearing the consternation in his tone, I looked up with a smile, hoping he wouldn't spot the tears gathering in the corners of my eyes. "Marco, it's beautiful. Of course I like it! Thank you so much." I rose from the bed to plant a kiss on his cheek and Marco, hampered by dint of having a champagne flute in each hand nonetheless managed to give me a surprisingly close hug.

"You're welcome," he said happily, resting his cheek against my hair. "Here." He let me go, set the glasses down on the bedside cabinet and took the box from me. "Let me put it on for you."

"Oh." But it seemed there was little I could do, other than obediently offer my right arm. I watched as he eased the bracelet from its presentation mounting and unfastened the clasp, my heart thumping ridiculously loudly when he looped it around my wrist, the metal cold and unfamiliar against my skin.

"There," he said, looking pleased as he held out my hand to inspect his handiwork and thankfully not seeming to notice I winced when he grasped my fingers. "It looks well on you, cara."

It did, there was no denying that. It was quite the most beautiful piece of jewellery I'd ever been given and almost certainly the most expensive too. "It's beautiful," I told him again, forcing myself to smile, hammering back my misgivings. "Thank you."

Marco gave a nonchalant shrug. "My pleasure. Now." He reached for the champagne flutes and gave me one. "Let's toast your birthday properly, shall we?" He clinked his glass against mine, his eyes seeming to darken slightly as he regarded me for a moment. "Happy birthday, bella," he said, taking a sip of the effervescing liquid and motioning I should do the same. "Happy birthday, my beautiful Samantha."

"Hardly," I said with an embarrassed giggle, just as soon as I managed to swallow. "But thank you all the—o-o-ohm!"

I yelped as Marco's lips landed on mine, his free hand settling between my shoulders before sweeping upwards to the back of my head, holding my face to his as his tongue slid expertly into my mouth. Caught off guard, at first all I knew was the taste of champagne and red wine, the potent mixture assaulting each and every taste bud, his tongue swirling relentlessly against my own. But within a moment I knew I was in trouble, as holding me ever tighter, he deepened the kiss and made for my tonsils, groaning his pleasure into my mouth.

Suffocated, I tried to pull away but Marco was having none of it, his arm dropping to my shoulders and holding me in place, his lips curving against mine. "Bella," he murmured, allowing me to snatch a breath but no more before his tongue returned and he let out yet another, protracted moan.

I finally managed a whimper of my own, my own free hand coming up between us to frantically push against his chest, shoving him backwards until he was forced to release my mouth with a loud smacking sound. I fell backwards on to the bed, droplets of the champagne I was holding showering over my hand. "Marco!"

He stared down at me, breathing hard, looking rather taken aback.

Oh God, now what should I do? I didn't have a clue. Although sitting up—and sitting up quickly at that—seemed wise for a start. I eased myself upright, resisting the urge to wipe my already sore and now dripping fingers on my dress and discreetly rubbing them against the bedclothes instead.

"Well," I murmured at last, glancing down at my remarkably intact champagne flute then tentatively touching my bruised tongue to the roof of my mouth. "That—that was very..." Oh God. "That was..."

Marco appeared to give himself a little shake. "Mmm," he murmured. "Si. That was..." He met my gaze, amusement playing at the corners of his lips. "Yes. Very."

Inexplicably, I felt my own lips twitch. But this wasn't funny, was it? This was exactly what Drew had warned me could happen, wasn't it? He'd warned me, over and over, that Marco might try to find a way into my knickers. So why the hell did I want to laugh?

"Marco?"

"Samantha." He tried to look innocent, failing miserably.

"So, er. What was that, exactly?"

"Cara." He crouched down and made as if to kiss me again, laughing when I ducked away and brushing his mouth against my temple instead. "That," he murmured into my ear, "was because you are a very beautiful woman. But sadly, I fear I've a little too much wine."

Maybe I hadn't had quite enough, I thought wryly, raising my now not quite full champagne glass to my lips and swallowing its contents in three long gulps, the icy cold bubbles soothing my battered tongue. "Is that right?"

"Yes. But no matter." He smiled again, his chocolate brown eyes dark with promise. "I'll just have to seduce you another time. Besides," he went on, missing the experience of seeing my jaw drop as he straightened up, "we have business to discuss. It's the golden rule, yes? Business before pleasure?"

He motioned towards the sofa and I got up to follow. But as I watched him take a detour en route to collect what remained of the Bollinger, giddiness swept through me in a huge wave and I promptly sat down again with a gasp.

"Samantha?"

"I'm okay," I said automatically as he hurried back towards me. "I think I—ooh." The room seemed to give another ominous heave. "Got up too fast, maybe? I don't know. Weird, or what?" I heard myself laugh weakly, feeling him take my champagne flute from me. "Everything's sort of spinning."

Had I had more to drink than I thought I had? The waiter had continually refilled Marco's wine glass at dinner, but I thought I'd only had a glass or two at the most. Perhaps it had been more, after all. Or maybe it was because Marco had quite literally taken my breath away just now, leaving my poor brain starved of vital oxygen?

"I'll get you some water," he said. "Stay right there."

I nodded. I had no intention of arguing. Everything seemed to be shifting around me. The pictures on the walls. The pile of the carpet. Even the wardrobe doors undulated in and out of focus.

Frowning, I tried to concentrate on those doors, wondering what it was about them that tugged at a memory. There was something I needed to do, wasn't there? Something I needed to check?

"Here." Marco was back, pressing a tumbler into my hands. "Drink this."

I drank gratefully as he sat beside me on the bed, recognising with some surprise just how thirsty I was. Never mind alcohol—had I simply not drunk enough today full stop? I certainly felt better after a few glugs. Better enough to recall what it was that was nagging at me about that wardrobe.

"I'm okay, honestly," I assured him as he watched me with anxious eyes. "I think it's just that maybe I'm really tired, and maybe," I shot him my best, mock-embarrassed smile, "just a little bit tipsy?"

He sighed, shaking his head with a smile. "You always were a very cheap date."

I pulled a face at him and he laughed. "Do you think," I began, one part of my still-addled brain desperately trying to come up with a plan, "that we could talk business tomorrow? Before you fly home? You're not leaving until tomorrow evening, are you?"

Marco smiled. "You want me to call Reception and arrange a taxi for you?" he guessed. "Although, of course..." His smile widened and he put his arm around me. "You could always spend the night here with me."

"Marco!"

"What?" He grinned, that innocent look reappearing. "There's a spare room next door, you know. This is a suite, remember? What did you think I meant?"

I rolled my eyes.

He laughed, leaning over to kiss my forehead again. "Okay. I'll get you a taxi."

"Wait." I touched his arm as he reached around me for the telephone. "Could you maybe get me some more water first?" I proffered him my now empty glass. "Please? I think I might be dehydrated."

"Of course." Marco leapt to his feet. "One moment, cara."

"Thank you. Oh, and Marco?" Inspiration striking just as he reached the bathroom doorway, I sent him a sweet smile. "Do you think you could make it really cold this time? Let the water run for a bit, p'raps?"

I waited until he'd disappeared before attempting to stand, praying I wouldn't feel quite so dizzy this time. But to my relief, although everything went a little bit swirly for a moment, the ground didn't feel quite so spongy beneath my feet. I took a deep breath, darted unsteadily to the wardrobe and wrenched open the left hand door.

There they were. Two white fluffy bathrobes nestling side by side. I swallowed hard, wishing the mere sight of them didn't cause something to clench low in my abdomen, then pulled them aside. Nothing. Behind the robes were three empty hangers. I frowned. Drew hadn't left his jacket here after all. Maybe it really was lost then?

Sighing, I was about to close the door when I caught sight of something lying in a heap at the bottom of the wardrobe. Something dark and brown and...

Leathery.

"Here you are, bella. But I'm not sure it's much colder, I'm afraid."

Shit, Marco was coming back! Bending down, I balled up the soft leather jacket and closed the door, only then realising I had no place to hide it. How the hell was I going to explain where I'd got it from? "Fuck," I muttered under my breath as a waft of Drew's aftershave, both familiar and delicious, assaulted my already reeling senses. "Come on, Sam. Think!"

I looked around frantically, my gaze landing on my own coat draped across the back of the sofa. And racing across the room, throwing Drew's jacket over my arm as I went, I snatched up my long black coat, threw it over the top and took a wild dive towards the sofa.

"Oh." Stopping short outside the bathroom door, Marco regarded me with understandable surprise. "You're over there now."

Sitting primly with one knee crossed over the other, I gestured to my coat and my handbag as he came to hand me the refilled tumbler. "Just getting these," I said cheerfully. "So I'm all ready to go when the taxi comes."

Marco's brow furrowed when I started to drink, gulping down the water as fast as I could. "There's no rush. I haven't even phoned Reception yet."

"Ah-mmm," I murmured into the glass as I swigged the last mouthful then handed it back to him. "About that. I've been thinking. I could just go down to the front desk and ask in person, couldn't I? Let you turn in for the night."

"Let me turn in?" His eyes narrowed still further. "Samantha—"

"'Cos it has to be getting late, right?" I hurried on, aware I was burbling like a lunatic now. "What time is it, anyway? Oh, of course." I could feel his bemused gaze upon me as I carefully pushed my coat—and Drew's coat beneath it—further up my arm and consulted my birthday present. "Huh. Yes. It's half past eleven," I announced and beamed up at him.

What? Half past eleven? Startled, I took another look at my glittering new gold watch.

"It isn't half past eleven, it's half past ten," I heard Marco say patiently. "The watch—it's set an hour ahead of Greenwich Mean Time. That's the time in Italy right now. Cara," he gave me another concerned look, "are you sure you're okay? Are you still dizzy? Maybe I should ask Reception if there's a doctor—?"

"No, no," I interrupted, realising there was a real danger he might not let me go. "Really, I'm fine. Just tired. And a bit squiffy, of course." Hamming it up for all it was worth now, I grinned manically and bobbed my head from side to side for emphasis. "But fine, honestly. I think I just need to get home. Drink some more water. Get some shut-eye." And to prove I really was okay, I hauled myself to my feet, swaying only slightly before finding my balance.

"Right," Marco said, sounding unconvinced. "All the same, I think I might come downstairs with you. Make sure you get there in one piece."

I couldn't argue, could I? And to be honest, I was rather grateful for his support on the way back to the lift. I hadn't noticed before, but the floor seemed perilously uneven in places. It was pretty difficult to walk in a straight line.

He left me in the seating area in Reception while he went to order my taxi and I listened as he gave instructions to the girl behind the front desk. It was quite something to be Marco Maretti's friend, I thought, feeling oddly proud. Even from here, I could see the deference in the Receptionist's expression, hear the obsequious politeness in her tone. Of course, it wasn't as though anyone at the Park had been less than courteous to Drew and me the evening before, but unless I was imagining it, there was something different about the interaction between Marco and the hotel employees. A sort of tacit acknowledgement of his superior status, I supposed.

"All done. The taxi's on its way." Marco squatted beside my armchair, smiling benignly at me. "They said it should be here in just a minute or two. I've given them your address, so all you need to do is get in it and let the driver take you home."

Did Marco think I might have forgotten where I lived? Oh well. I guess I had been acting rather strangely. "Thank you," I said, returning the smile.

"You're welcome. You know," his gaze travelled to the coat draped across my lap "you might want to put that on. It's pretty cold out there tonight."

"Oh." I clutched at the sleeve of my black woollen coat. "Yes. I'll put it on in a moment. I'm er, quite warm at the moment." As there were goose pimples dotted all over my arms, I sincerely hoped that Marco wasn't observant enough to question the validity of that statement. "Listen," I carried on hastily, "you don't need to wait here with me. I'm not feeling dizzy any more—not sure what that was about, actually—but anyway, I think I'm up to getting in a taxi on my own. Why don't you go back upstairs, finish off that champagne, put on a movie...?"

He grinned as I trailed off. "Samantha, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were trying to get rid of me."

"No, of course not! I was just thinking that there was no point in us both sitting down here and that you could..." To my enormous relief, because I didn't have any idea how I might have talked my way out of that one, the doorman beckoned towards us. "Ah, it's here already. That was quick."

Saying nothing, but then he didn't need to—I could see the amusement in his expression—Marco held out a hand to help me. I rose slowly, more to make sure neither coat slipped from my grasp than because I was unsteady on my feet then turned to smile at him. "Thank you for a wonderful evening. It's been..."

He laughed. "Interesting?" he suggested.

"Yes." I knew I was blushing. "Very. And I'll call you tomorrow, okay? To talk about—business."

He was still laughing. "Okay." He pulled me towards him and kissed me on both cheeks, making no attempt to kiss me on the mouth this time, much to my relief. "Tomorrow," he agreed, letting me go. "Sleep well, cara."

"Thank you. You too. Oh." As I reached the door, the doorman obligingly holding it open for me, I remembered my manners and twisted around to shoot Marco one last glance. "And thank you again. For the watch?"

He grinned, raising a hand in farewell. "Prego, cara. Ciao."

Dear God, but it was cold outside, the frosty late November air seeming to slice straight through to my bones. I took the steps as quickly as I dared, which frankly wasn't all that quickly—I didn't want to run the risk of tripping now—and made a beeline for the taxi-cab parked at the kerb, inwardly cursing Drew and his brown leather jacket every step of the way.

"Evening, love," the driver said, sending me an amused look via the rear view mirror as he watched me clamber into the back of the cab, gasping for breath. "Bit chilly not to be wearing a coat, isn't it?"

"Just a bit," I said through chattering teeth, snatching up Drew's jacket and tossing it on to the seat beside me before tugging my coat around my shoulders. "Fu-oh."

The driver chuckled at my hastily substituted expletive. "Had to leave in a hurry, did we? Couldn't pay the bill?"

Great, a comedian.

"Yep, that's it," I agreed, my attempt to play along rewarded as he flicked a switch on the dashboard and jets of hot air began streaming into the back of the cab. Oh, bliss. I huddled into my coat, rubbing my arms. "They wouldn't let me do the washing up, so I thought I'd better leg it."

"Good for you." The driver gave me another smile. "They charge way too much for grub in these places. So love, we're going to Chesterton Close, is that right?"

Home. God, it seemed like years since I'd been home. It couldn't only have been a day, could it? But yes, that's all it had been. Drew had picked me up at six, yesterday evening. He'd taken me to the hotel, ordered me room service. Taken my virginity. Broken my heart.

I frowned. Broken my heart? He hadn't broken my heart! He was my best friend, not my boyfriend. That deal had never been on the table and I'd never even considered that it could be. Our relationship just wasn't like that. There'd been more girls than I cared to remember, flitting in and out of Drew's life, and I'd been perfectly content to watch them come and go. Besides, what we'd done last night, we'd done as friends, not lovers. Well okay, yes, of course we'd had to become lovers, but not in that way.

It hadn't meant anything to Drew though, had it? He clearly considered we were still friends and nothing more. He'd been out tonight with another woman, for heaven's sake. He'd had plans to go out with Angie, whoever she was, even before he took me to the Park last night. Which had to mean he'd never considered anything more would come of what we were planning to do there. I felt an odd pang in my chest.

So where did he get off, calling me naïve, telling me to watch out for Marco Maretti? What gave him the right to tell me I shouldn't go to Italy, that I hadn't thought it through? And why the hell should I take it from him that my dress made me look like a...? Like a what? He'd never finished that sentence, had he?

"Chesterton Close, love?"

"Oh!" With a jolt, I realised I still hadn't answered the cabbie's question. "Sorry. Yes. Thank you."

And then I looked at Drew's jacket, crumpled up beside me on the seat.

"Wait." I caught the cabbie's enquiring gaze in the mirror. "Actually, no. Could you take me to 22b Montague Street, please?"

Chapter 7

Montague Street was about a mile from where I lived, slap bang in the middle of town. Drew had purchased number twenty-two, a dilapidated and frankly rather ugly two storey building, on moving back to Stow Newton three years ago. He'd intended to do the place up in his spare time, convert it into two flats and flog them off at a profit as soon as possible.

In the event, he'd done everything except sell the flats, staying put in the top flat where he'd camped out during the renovation and renting out the bottom flat to a work colleague. It was far too convenient a location to leave, what with its proximity to the High Street, secure off-street parking, the fact it was staggering distance from his favourite pub and also—the cherry on the cake as far as Drew was concerned—that it was two streets away from the railway station.

But there was no getting away from the ugliness. It didn't help that the rest of the street wasn't exactly picture postcard material, being comprised of ramshackle terraced houses, a row of disused garages and a second hand car lot. Understandable then, that the taxi driver appeared somewhat dubious about the prospect of dropping me off there.

"Is this the right place?" he asked with a frown. "You sure you meant Montague Street?"

I smiled grimly. "Yep."

"Will you be okay here? Do you want me to wait?"

I resisted the urge to laugh. Right now, there seemed to be enough adrenalin coursing through my veins for me to consider going a couple of rounds with a heavyweight boxing champion. "I think I'll be fine, thanks." Gathering up Drew's jacket and my handbag, I leaned forward to inspect the taximeter. "How much do I owe you?"

"You don't, love. It's all been paid for already. Charged to the hotel."

"Oh!" Trust Marco. I hadn't even known you could do that sort of thing. "Well, er—thank you." Was I supposed to tip him anyway? Deciding to err on the side of caution, I gave him a couple of pound coins. "Thanks."

"No, thank you love," he called as I got out. "And hey, wait a mo?" He wound down his window and held out a business card. "Take this, just in case? I'm on all night. Just ask for Joe."

I pushed it into the side pocket of my handbag with a smile. "Thanks."

He nodded, gave me one last concerned glance then drove on, leaving me alone in the dimly lit street, the roar of the engine fading into the distance.

Right then.

Pulling my coat around me more tightly, I looked up at Drew's flat, somewhat surprised to see there weren't any lights on. For a split second, I knew a moment of regret. Perhaps it might've been wise to check he was home before letting the cabbie go. But a quick peek through the slats of the wooden gates guarding the small parking area to the right of the building reassured me on that score. He was there all right—well, his car was there. And anyway, he'd said he was going home, hadn't he?

Oh yes. If I remembered rightly, he said he was tired because he'd 'ended up having a late night last night'. He'd been 'helping a friend do something she'd never done before' but luckily, she was a 'fast learner' and—what was it, again? She was 'already putting her new-found skills into practice'?

The mere recollection was enough to set me in motion again. I hammered on his front door, knowing full well there was little point in ringing the bell. It hadn't worked for over a year.

A dog barked twice. Other than that, nothing.

Shivering now, I stepped back to the pavement and looked up at the flat for signs of life. He was up there, I was almost certain. But no lights were going on and I couldn't see any fluttering of curtains. Either he was choosing to ignore the racket or he was in such a deep sleep, nothing short of Armageddon was going to wake him.

I banged on the door once more, wishing I had something heavier than my fists at hand. "Drew!" I shouted when there was still no response. "Come on!" And deciding I no longer cared it was late at night or that I might just upset his neighbours, I thundered on the door yet again. "Drew! Get down here now and—oh!"

I practically fell inside the door as it swung open, only saved the indignity of hitting the floor because Drew reached out and dragged me inside, his strong fingers cutting in through the sleeves of my coat as he kicked the door closed behind us again. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he demanded gruffly, his breath warm on my face in the darkness.

"Trying to get you to hear me. Where the hell were you?"

"In bed." Drew sounded aggrieved. "Sleeping. Well, I was almost asleep, anyway. What's going on? What are you doing here? Are you okay?"

"Am I okay?" I echoed sarcastically. "Okay? Sure, I'm fine, Drew. Never better. And how are you? Have a nice evening, did we?"

"Jesus." I felt rather than saw him shake his head. "You're drunk."

"I'm not drunk!"

"You bloody well are. I can smell it on you. You're four sheets to the fucking wind!"

"I am not bloody drunk, okay?" I growled, wrenching myself out of his arms. "If you must know, I came here to bring you your fucking jacket, you ungrateful, miserable git."

"I see." It was Drew's turn to sound sarcastic. "Well in that case, I s'pose I'd better say thank you, hadn't I? Cos I don't know how I could possibly have managed to live through the night without it."

"Oh, you—" I made a frustrated growling sound through my teeth, threw his jacket at him and blundered towards what I hoped was the stairs. It was difficult to see anything in the darkness, but I was pretty sure they were straight ahead of me.

"Yes, why don't you come on in?" I heard Drew say behind me as I fell headlong over the first step, that dry note back in his voice. "Go on up, make yourself at home, slap me about a bit more. And I'll make us a nice cup of tea, shall I?"

"Why the fuck can't you—ow—put any lights on?"

"Because," he said with a heavy sigh, making me squeak as his hands looped around my waist, "some of us can see perfectly well in the dark. Come on."

Hauling me upright, he frogmarched me up the stairs and into the flat, only then pausing to flip on a light switch. I blinked hard, momentarily blinded. "I didn't think you'd really be in bed," I muttered as he tugged my coat from my shoulders and hung it up with his jacket. "I thought..."

I squinted around the room, searching for evidence he hadn't really turned in for the night, glancing at the battered brown leather sofas, strewn with newspapers as usual, the multitude of discarded mugs on the coffee table and finally at the overflowing bookcase on the far wall, legal tomes and paperback thrillers contending for shelf space. No clues here. Drew only tidied up on very special occasions. "I thought you were just saying that to..."

"To what?" He swept past me to switch on a lamp.

"To make a—" I stopped again when he came straight back, realising for the first time he was clad only in a grey t-shirt and plaid boxer shorts, his blond hair sleep-tousled. He reached around me and turned off the main light again, returning the room to a more comfortable level of brightness. "Point," I finished wearily.

"Damn right I was making a point." Drew left his hand against the wall, half-trapping me in place, his body casting a long shadow over mine.

I winced, noticing the faint but distinct pink mark to the right of his top lip. Holy crap, had I hit him that hard? "Drew..."

"What's that?"

The steely note in his voice brought all thoughts of making an apology to an abrupt halt. I followed his gaze to my wrist. Damn. "It's—it's a watch." I'd meant to take it off. Why hadn't I taken it off?

"I can see it's a watch, Sam." He snatched up my hand to make a closer inspection, whistling under his breath. "A fucking expensive one at that. Very pretty. You let him give you this?"

He said the word 'him' as though Marco was a particularly unpleasant slug who'd just crawled out from beneath a rock.

"It's a birthday present," I told him, trying to pull my hand from his. "That's all. I couldn't—"

"You let him get you a watch when I've wanted to get you one for years? Telling me you wouldn't wear one even if I did so there was no point?"

"I'm not going to wear it, okay?" I could feel my eyes prickling as I managed to yank my fingers free and began grappling with the catch on the delicate bracelet. "I could hardly say I wasn't going to wear it, could I? That the last time I wore a watch..." I trailed off, too close to tears to finish.

I didn't need to finish anyway. Drew knew the last time I'd worn a watch had been at the hospital when I donated a kidney to my brother. In that small, two-bedded side ward, the night before our operations, Paul and I had become embroiled in a half-serious, half-joking debate about how he'd never be able to repay me for my generosity which had evolved into a kind of 'shucks, we're family, what's mine is yours' play fight.

We'd swapped socks, shampoo, towels, even the cardboard vomit bowls sitting on top of our lockers and had eventually traded our watches. Mine was a simple but girly affair with a big face and a black leather strap which Paul had had to buckle on the last hole, his a day-glo orange Velcro diver's watch. It had looked ludicrous perched there above my hand, but not nearly so ludicrous as my watch looked on Paul's rather less dainty and considerably more hairy wrist.

By the end of the evening, we'd swapped most things back again but kept our newly-acquired watches. It seemed a comforting thing to do, even if we would have to take them off before going into surgery.

The watch Paul was wearing stopped during the night. He showed me it in the morning, the hands frozen at three forty-seven.

Hope that's not a bad omen, sis.

I managed to unfasten the clasp at last, pulling the golden chain from my wrist with trembling fingers. "What was I supposed to do?" I croaked, wrenching my handbag from my shoulder and dropping the watch inside. "Tell him thanks but no thanks? I was in his room, for heaven's sake. I could hardly—"

"What the hell were you doing in his room, Sam?" Drew demanded. "What the fuck were you thinking?"

That brought me up short. Blinking hard, I gave him an incredulous look. "What do you mean, what was I thinking? What do you think I was doing there? You think I wanted to be there, in the Regent Suite of all places? What was I supposed to do? Tell him that I couldn't go upstairs with him, even though he'd just offered me the job of a lifetime? Tell him it was a lovely offer, but would he mind if we stayed in the bar to discuss all the details? And anyway, for your information, we couldn't stay in the bar, okay? He was covered in—"

"How about telling him that you needed some time to think about it?" he put in before I could tell him about Marco's wine-soaked shirt. "What about that, eh? Did you think for even a moment that you didn't have to say yes, there and then? That it might be a good idea to take a little time to weigh up all the pros and cons, think through all the consequences, give a thought to all the other people it was going to affect?"

Incensed, I felt my breath catch in my throat. "You think I didn't think about any of that?"

"Well, did you?" Drew's eyes seem to bore into mine. "What about Alice, Sam? What's she going to do if you bugger off to Italy? She's fifty-six, for heaven's sake. Who's going to give her another job? And Roxy—"

"Do you honestly think," I interrupted, slowing the words right down, fighting to maintain control of my increasingly squeaky voice, "that I didn't even consider them? That their welfare wasn't the first thing I thought of? That the first thing I wanted to make sure of was that they'd be okay?"

He gave a derisory snort, breaking eye contact to shake his head. "Bollocks."

"Bollocks?" I repeated as he pulled away, gazing after him in disbelief as he padded off—barefoot, I noticed now—to the kitchen part of the open plan living area. "You think I'm not telling the truth?"

"Oh, I think you think you're telling the truth," I heard him mutter, making a lot of noise as he picked up the kettle, filled it from the tap and slammed it back down on the base. "It's just that you're so fucking unbelievably, stupidly naïve."

That word again. I swallowed, battening down the hurt as I trailed after him. "Don't hold back, will you?" I said, hating the unsteadiness in my voice. "Say what you really feel."

Not looking at me, Drew blew out an exasperated breath.

"I'm naïve?" It was odd, the sudden burning sensation I could feel in the middle of my chest. A kind of knot, pulling tighter and tighter. "Because I'm daring to believe I could do something better with my life? Because for once, I'm wondering whether I really have to settle for running a maternity wear shop in Stow Newton, or whether there could be more, that I might just get to do what I always wanted? That maybe I could have a shot at being a designer. That maybe, just maybe, I could have something that you've just taken for granted, that I could have a career? That's naïve?"

"Oh, fucking naïve, if you think Marco Maretti's going to give you all that." His tone was brusque. "Serve it all up to you on a plate, no strings attached? Come on, Sam." He shot me a scornful glance. "Get real. Since when in this world did anyone get anything for nothing?"

I stared at him across the breakfast bar, bewildered. "But he doesn't want anything!"

Closing his eyes briefly, Drew planted both hands on the worktop and groaned. "For God's sake."

"He doesn't, okay? He said that he needed me, okay? That he could see something in me that he doesn't usually see in the rest of his designers—"

"Oh, I bet he does."

"—and that he wanted someone who hadn't had all their creativity 'trained' out of them. Someone who didn't follow the trend but..." I stopped, his words filtering through. "What? What the hell are you trying to say?"

Drew sent me a pitying look.

"You have to be kidding." I gave a disbelieving laugh.

"You think? Take a look at it from my point of view, okay?" As the kettle boiled, he reached into the cupboard for two mugs and threw teabags into each one. "I go to the Park to see if I've left my jacket in the room I stayed in last night, only to find that the girl I stayed there with is there again, in that same fucking room, only this time with a naked Italian."

"He wasn't naked!"

"He was getting there. God only knows what I might've walked in on if I'd come by five minutes later. And then," a scowling Drew waved down my splutter of protest, "the two of them feed me this cock n' bull story about him offering her some fantastic job in Italy, when it's completely bloody obvious to me that he's just come up with the best fucking ruse in the world to get a woman up to your hotel room."

I frowned as he poured water into the mugs, much of it slopping over the sides. "But it wasn't a ruse, as you so charmingly put it. It's a genuine offer. He says he really needs me in Italy. And the only reason we had to go up to his room was because he got red wine all over his shirt."

"Really?" Drew paused after opening the fridge, peering at me over the door. "Fuck, you have to hand it to him." He shook his head. "The guy's a genius."

"What?" I stared at him, confused. And then the penny dropped. "No, it wasn't like that! He didn't spill the wine over himself, you dickhead. It was an accident! I'd just told him that I'd take the job in Italy and then he—"

I stopped abruptly, realising it probably wasn't a good idea to tell Drew that Marco was kissing me at the time.

"Yeah, about that," he said grimly, not appearing to notice I'd broken off mid-sentence. "I can't believe you said yes, just like that. Are you crazy?"

"I didn't say yes just like that!" I fired back. "Haven't you been listening? It's not a permanent thing, okay? It's a three-month contract, that's all. I'd be over there to help them finalise the collection and then I'd come home. Finished. End." I waved my hands from side to side in a cutting motion. "Finito."

"Finito," he mocked under his breath, fishing out the second teabag before dropping the teaspoon on to the drainer with a clang. "Sam, you can't even speak the language. You're going to need more than bloody finito and arrivederci to get by over there, you know."

"No, I won't! Marco said—"

"Ooh, Marco said," he parroted, pushing my mug of tea in front of me. "Marco said, Marco said..."

"—that he'd tell his staff to speak English when I'm around. He said that most of them speak really good—oh, will you stop it!" I wailed as he continued to chant the phrase over and over. "Because of you, I've almost certainly blown my chance of going anyway, okay? After you went, I told him that I needed some more time to think about it, all right? Made myself look like a complete idiot probably, saying yes I'd go and then having to tell him that I wasn't sure after all. God only knows what he thought."

He stopped chanting. "You told him you wanted to think about it?"

I sighed, sinking on to a stool and dumping my bag on the breakfast bar before bending down to tug my sandals from my aching feet. "Yes."

"Hallelujah."

Startled, I straightened up in time to see Drew pump a celebratory fist into the air. "What?"

"Thank the Lord for that. Kiddo, you can't just go off and do stuff like that, okay? There are too many things to consider. You need to think about the shop, your staff, who's going to do the books. The ordering, payroll?"

I watched open-mouthed as he reached for the biscuit tin, tucking it under his arm before picking up his own mug of tea. "And then there's your house," he went on as he rounded the breakfast bar. "What would you do with that? You can't just leave it standing empty for months on end. And your parents..." He trailed off, his eyes narrowing as he clocked the expression on my face. "What?"

I shook my head incredulously. "You really haven't been listening to a word I've said, have you?"

"Of course I—"

"No, you fucking haven't!" I glared at him, so angry now I was growing hot all over. "You patronising bastard! Just where do you get off, Drew Barnett? Where do you get off, thinking you know better than me, treating me like I'm just a stupid little girl who needs telling what to do? Where do you get off, behaving like I haven't got a clue about running a successful business, behaving like I'm the sort of person who'd just go skipping into something without giving a thought to the consequences? This is me, Drew. Since when did I do anything without weighing up all the pros and cons?"

"Right." Drew put down the tin and his mug of tea then folded his arms, eyeing me up and down. "So you weighed up the pros and cons of wearing that dress then?"

"What?"

"You go out to dinner with a man like Maretti in that 'please fuck me' dress and you're telling me you weighed up all the pros and cons?" He shook his head as I gaped at him, speechless. "Were you out of your fucking mind?"

We stared at one another, the hum of the fridge unnaturally loud in the quiet kitchen, my heart thudding even louder.

"I should go." I slid from the stool and made a clumsy attempt to push it back beneath the breakfast bar. "I really shouldn't have—"

Drew caught my hand as I reached for my bag, whirling me towards him with such force I collided against his chest. Then, before I had a chance to catch my breath, his mouth came down over mine.

The thundering in my ears became a tumultuous roar, a wash of heat surging through my body like molten lava, spreading fire until every part of me was aflame. His hands burned on my waist, branding me as they swept slowly upwards, holding me to him in an act of raw possession, binding me ever closer as his lips parted my own. And as his tongue sought mine, insistent but astonishingly gentle, I kissed him back, every part of me hot and tingling, the fiery ache low in my belly threatening to rage out of control.

"What are you doing?" I gasped when we finally came up for air. "Making another point?"

"Could be," Drew countered glaring down at me, brown eyes liquid. "Why, are you weighing up all the pros and cons?"

"Bastard."

"Aw, come on, Sam," he coaxed sarcastically. "Tell me the pros."

Oh, the pros were easy. I wanted more, oh God, so much more. I was virtually on the point of self-combustion. "No," I whispered.

His eyebrows rose. "Okay, then. How about the cons?"

"Drew, stop it. We can't!" I moistened my lips nervously as I gazed up at him. "This is a really bad idea-ah!"

I moaned with pleasure as his mouth came down again, took my misgivings and kissed them to oblivion. He found the restraining clip at the back of my head and tugged it away, raking his fingers through my hair as it tumbled to my shoulders. His hands moved to my body, hot through the chiffon, finding all the places I hadn't realised yearned for his touch, making me tingle and ache in equal measure as he caressed and explored. The small of my back. The curve of my waist. The tender skin on the underside of my arms.

Scrabbling hungrily beneath his T-shirt, my eager fingers rose up and over his taut warm skin, growing bolder as he groaned his appreciation. But then he forced me to cling on tightly, his mouth leaving mine and moving downwards, trailing butterfly kisses along my jaw to my ear.

My head tilted as he worked lower, kissing my neck and then my shoulder, the sound of my breathing increasingly ragged in the silent room. He traced the plunging V straight to my breasts, and as he lingered there, his breath warm against the rise of my skin, his hand swept from my waist down to my knees before brushing upwards, collecting the folds of my skirt as it rose until he found the bare skin beneath.

He tracked inwards, swathes of fabric looped over his wrist, the fingers pressing between my legs demanding access. And when I took a trembling step to the side, his hand explored the soft skin within, painting progressively wider taunting circles. I shivered when he finally made contact with the silky fabric covering me there, caressing me with firm but gentle movements. But it was when he edged beneath the elastic that I nearly flew apart, his fingers delving deep between my folds.

I could hear the squelching wetness, knew Drew was smiling when he straightened, his lips curving against mine as he kissed me. His hand moved ever faster, the strokes blurring into a continuous simmering heat and a familiar ache started low inside my belly. But just as I grew certain he intended to make me come, he slowed the rhythm, slid further back and pushed inside me.

Going rigid in his arms, I cried out into his mouth, his invading fingers too much for my still tender flesh. He gazed at me, eyes wide with comprehension. "You're sore," he breathed ruefully, gently extricating his hand. "Sorry, gorgeous. I didn't think."

I swallowed when he let me go, dismayed to feel the chiffon floating back down over my thigh, my body throbbing with unrequited need. "Drew..."

He shook his head and raised his glistening fingers to my lips.

"No!" I gasped, as smiling, he pushed his index finger inside, forcing me to taste myself. It was musky but surprisingly sweet.

"Good, huh?" He sucked the middle one himself. "Mmm, very."

"Drew!" But before I could think of anything even approaching a sensible response, he placed his hands upon my waist, allowing them to glide sensuously over my hips as he slowly knelt before me. Grabbing fistfuls of my dress, he bunched the fabric up around my middle, holding it there while he pressed a kiss between my thighs.

"Yum," he murmured approvingly. "You smell incredible—oh ho." His eyes brightened with remembered mischief. "Little Red Riding Hood."

I remembered too, yelping as he abruptly caught the waistband of my briefs between his teeth and tore them away, my hand pushing at his head as he rooted against me. "You can't!" I pleaded as he peeled my underwear the rest of the way down, planting nibbling kisses against me as they fell. "Oh God, you can't!"

It seemed he could.

I felt his insistent tongue push inwards as his hands resumed their firm grip on my hips, tasting me in one long, swirling swipe then another as my fingers combed uselessly through his hair. It was only on the third spine-tingling pass I managed to snatch a handful of blond curls. He groaned, the sound vibrating right into my womb.

"Oh, is that the game we're playing?" he said, looking up at me with narrowed eyes, the determination in his expression making me quake. "We're playing dirty?" His hands abruptly tightened on my waist as he rose. "Then I think it's time I showed you all the rules, Sam."

He lifted me, ignoring my protests and wrapping my legs tightly around his waist, leaving me in no doubt at all about the state of his arousal. But if I'd half-expected him to carry me to his bedroom, I was wrong.

Instead, he bore me to the sofa, ordering me to hold on tight as he swept the newspapers upon it fluttering to the floor then set me down, the leather soft and cold beneath me. And as he kneeled before me again, I gasped as he hooked his forearms beneath my knees and tugged. My back slammed down against the seat cushion as my lower half shot forward towards him, displaying all of me—everything—to his suddenly ravenous gaze.

"Oh no," I whispered as he interlaced my fingers with his, holding me well and truly captive underneath him. "Drew, please—don't! Please."

I shrieked as he lowered his head, his hands still grasping mine and his elbows pressing my thighs so wide, there was nothing I could do to prevent his mouth from initiating a thorough and lengthy investigation of all my worldly goods. And investigate it did, his tongue taking a torturously slow and considered route along the length of that most intimate channel, twirling and tasting, teasing and caressing until I forgot my shame and howled with pleasure, growing steadily more incoherent with desire.

"I need to come!" I begged as he settled into a relentless, driving rhythm, his tongue circling, pressing deeper, stroking harder. "Please, Drew! Please! I need to..."

It broke over me like a sunburst, its fireball centre right beneath his mouth exploding, heat and pressure blasting outwards in a series of violent waves. My ears filled with an ungodly wail as I bucked and strained against his hands, my arms and legs tensing as the searing pleasure rolled on and on through the whole of my body, radiating to the very tips of my fingers and toes before slowly fading to embers.

Still aglow, I opened my eyes to find Drew over me, smiling down at me as he brushed my hair from my face, his lips mere inches from mine. How had he got there? When had he let my hands go? Had I passed out?

"Hey there, Red," he said softly. "Welcome back."

"Hey," I whispered, smiling back as he kissed me. "Huh." I took a tremulous breath. "That was..."

"Yeah, it looked that way." He grinned. "Ready for me to make another point?"

"Another...?" I stopped, realising in a heartbeat Drew wasn't just above me, he was against me. Blunt and hard and... "Oh!" I wailed again as he surged into me, sliding deep, the delicious friction overwhelming as he stretched me wide beneath him.

"Jesus, Sam," he groaned, jerking convulsively inside me when he bottomed out. "You feel amazing."

"Oh God." I flung my arms around him and clawed at his T-shirt, so full I wondered whether he might just turn me inside out when he withdrew. "Go slow," I begged. "Please? You're kind of making—making a huge point this time."

His choke of laughter made his abdomen brush mine. "Yeah? Well, I wanted to make sure you got this one," he murmured, making me hiss as he levered his body away. "This one," he drove in once more and I moaned, "this one's important, Sam. This one," he eased back again, his flesh rippling smoothly against mine, the sensation taking my breath away, "is the point of all points. This one," he grinned as I let out another groan, "is all you need to know."

"What—o-oh—do I need to know-oh?" I gasped, holding on for dear life now. It was probably obvious, but right now, I was barely capable of speech, let alone reason.

"You don't know?"

"If I knew... Oh, holy fuck!" I shook beneath him as he filled me again then again, finding it nearly impossible to hold on to my train of thought. "You think I'd ask—if I knew?"

"You really don't know?"

"No!" That simmering ache low in my belly was building anew, an expanding bubble of heat and pressure, growing more intense with every thrust. "Please? Just—just tell me! Get to the point!"

"Sam..."

I stared up at him when he slowed, withdrawing almost to the tip before bracing himself above me. There was something in his expression I didn't quite recognise. Lust, yes. Frustration—almost certainly. But the rest?

"I love you."

"Wh-what?' I felt my eyes widen. "You—you... What?"

He shook his head slightly, his smile wry. "I love you. I've always loved you. I will always love you. I've loved you as long as I can remember."

Was this real? I could feel myself trembling as I gazed back at him, my mouth opening and closing uselessly. Maybe I had fainted, after all. Maybe none of this was real. Maybe, even now, I was asleep in my bed in Chesterton Close, having the dream to end all dreams.

"I love you, kiddo. That's the point, okay?"

A little golden flame kindled somewhere beneath my ribcage, growing warmer, bigger, brighter with each passing second, seconds in which Drew watched me, his smile gradually widening. Oh. Oh. This was real. He loved me. He really loved me. Just as I loved him. "Drew!"

He kissed me, slowly and seductively, swallowing my startled gasp as he sank back inside me with a groan of his own, plunging deeper than ever, reigniting the cinders still smouldering there. I clung to him with a sob, my legs curling around his as he began stroking harder and faster, making me burn with pleasure, that shimmering glow becoming steadily brighter, until there was nothing but Drew and me and that brilliant warmth, illuminating me from the inside out, shining from my very core.

He loved me.

I came with a shuddering cry, my hips slamming into his as my body arced from the sofa, sending him so deep I heard him yell out in turn. And then his hands were under me, lifting me upwards, suspending me in place as he juddered into me, once, twice, three times.

We stayed there locked together like that for several long moments, taking it in turns to drag gulps of air into our lungs while my flesh fluttered around his in a series of weakening spasms. Until at last, as though by some unspoken agreement, he gently dropped my lower half back to the sofa and our panting turned to exhausted laughter, Drew's breath warm across my ear as I shook beneath him. "Holy shit, Sam."

"I know." I could feel the elated grin stretching across my face even as I became aware of just how incredibly uncomfortable I was, my dress rucked up into a lumpy ridge beneath me and pressing into my spine, my thighs burning under his weight. "That—that was... Drew!" My weary giggle became a gasp as he flexed inside me. "No! No more, please. You've got to let me up!"

Smiling at the moan he wrought from me as he eased himself away, Drew's smile grew wider still when it became clear I couldn't move. "Want a hand there, gorgeous?" he teased, watching me whimper in pain when I made a second vain attempt to straighten my trembling legs. He laughed at my string of expletives, hitching up his boxer shorts then leaning forward to scoop me up. "Come on," he said, rocking back on his heels before heaving us both to our feet. "I think we'd better get you to bed."

His bed? Was that what he meant? I felt another surge of elation—then felt something that definitely wasn't elation oozing down my inner thigh.

"Oh God, wait!" I made a wild grab at my dress as it slithered downwards, finding my fingers almost as uncooperative as my legs. "Not—not like this! Help me! Don't let it get all messed—" I stopped as Drew caught hold of the hem, grinning at me in perfect comprehension. "I need to clean up," I told him needlessly. "Before I get..." Was there a polite term for it? I couldn't think of one. "Stuff. All over it."

"Stuff. Of course." He nodded solemnly but his eyes danced. "You're planning on wearing this dress again, then? After everything I said?"

I pouted, the effect rather spoiled when my knees gave way and Drew had to make a rapid adjustment to keep me upright. "It isn't a 'please fuck me' dress. It's a maternity dress."

"Yeah yeah." I could hear the laughter in his voice as, still holding up the dress, he manhandled me in front of him, his arms closing firmly around my middle

"It is!" I protested weakly as I leaned back against him, wondering whether I'd ever be able to walk again unaided. "It's from the shop. Roxy altered it. She made me wear it."

"Of course she did." He tried to steer me in the direction of his bedroom. "So it's not so much a 'please fuck me dress' as a 'please knock me up' dress then? It's a good job you're on the pill."

"Drew!"

He laughed, pausing en route to prop me up against the breakfast bar and snatching a few sheets of kitchen roll from the dispenser there. "Here you go."

I stared at the wad of soft paper he pressed into my hand. "I'm supposed to clean myself up with that?"

"No, gorgeous, I'm going to run you a bath. That's just to get you started."

"A bath?" I gazed at him in grateful wonder, my aching body melting at the prospect. "Really?"

He nodded, smiling. "Really. And then I'm going to put you in my bed, snuggle up beside you and we're going to go to sleep. Sound okay?"

It sounded like heaven. I nodded, rather unromantically stuffing the paper towel between my legs before throwing my arms round his neck. "I love you."

"So I should bloody think." His mouth brushed my temple. "I don't do this for every girl, you know."

The words crash-landed through my euphoria. "No?"

For heaven's sake, how stupid was I? How the hell could I have forgotten?

I had to work hard at keeping my tone light, at trying to keep my body from tensing. "What do you usually do at the end of an evening of passion then? Sling the lucky cow out with her bus fare?"

"Are you kidding?" I could feel his smile against my ear. "You seriously think I'd pay for sex?"

No, I was pretty sure he'd never need to. But the sobering thought of Drew doing what he'd just done to me with any other woman made something tighten painfully in my chest. "What then?" I said with forced jollity. "What about the girl you dated the other night? How did you get rid of her?"

"Hey." He pulled back to look at me, the eyes searching my face darkly amused. "What kind of bloke do you think I am? You think I'm a jump-into-bed-on-the-first-date kind of bloke?"

I tried to keep my face neutral as the words of the message I'd read on his mobile phone only that morning swam through my mind.

Hi there big boy...

"Sometimes, maybe."

"Sam..."

"And anyway," I hurried on, needing to get the words out before I lost my nerve, "weren't you supposed to be going out on another date tonight?"

He watched me for a moment, an odd little smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "I phoned and called it off. I told you I would. Not that it really was a date. Just a 'if you're not doing anything and I'm not doing anything let's catch a movie together' thing. Nothing serious."

I stared back, desperate to believe him. Could I have got it wrong? In my haste to read the message before being caught in the act, had I somehow misinterpreted the words? "You didn't go out with her?"

He grinned. "D'you honestly think I had the energy to go on a date? And as for jumping into bed, if you'd asked me earlier if there was any chance of that happening tonight, any chance at all... Especially with you."

It sounded like an admonishment. "I'm sorry," I whispered.

"Sam!" He laughed, cupping my cheek in his hand and kissing me. "I'm not." And then he stooped to lift me, swinging me easily up into his arms. "Oh, shut up," he murmured affectionately when I started to protest. "It's gonna be about a year before you can walk, John Wayne."

He carried me the short distance to his bedroom and set me down on the end of his bed before retrieving a wonderfully warm towel from the radiator. "Get undressed, wrap yourself up in this and I'll go and run that bath," he ordered as he handed it to me, grinning when I gave him a mock salute.

But when he disappeared and I attempted to tug my dress over my head, I discovered obeying his instructions might not be so simple. Roxy had, after all, practically sewn me into the dress. Oh well, it could wait, couldn't it? Drew would have to help, I decided. And collapsing backwards on the bed, I gazed up at the haphazard constellation dotted across the ceiling and heaved an exhausted but ecstatic sigh.

I'd bought the pack of tiny adhesive luminescent stars for him after seeing the newly renovated flat for the first time. They'd seemed the obvious finishing touch for his bedroom, painted as it was in shades of blue and indigo but I'd never seen them from this angle before. Despite spending more hours with him than I could remember, I'd never spent the night in his bed. When I'd stayed over, it had always been in the spare room. Not tonight, though.

No, tonight I'd join the ranks of women who'd lain beneath these stars.

I felt my smile slip at the thought—and at the uncomfortable reminder it brought with it. And try as I might, I couldn't push it away. I couldn't prevent my gaze from skating down the wall to the small wooden chest of drawers beside the head of the bed. Because there was what I was expecting to see, exactly where I knew it would be. His mobile phone, plugged in to charge.

It would be madness to look. Madness to extend my hand just a little more and grab it. Madness to go into the 'Messages' menu and scroll down through the inbox until I found the text I'd read earlier. Madness, because Drew had only gone to run me a bath and would surely be back any minute.

"Call the men in white coats," I muttered, swinging my legs around to the side of the bed as I picked it up, the charging cable making a soft scraping sound as it trailed behind it across the varnished wood. "Don't do this, Sam."

There it was, proof if I ever needed it. Mad? I was fucking certifiable. Talking to myself, urging myself not to do the one thing I knew damn well I was going to do.

I hesitated. There'd be time to talk to Drew in the morning, the whole of Sunday, in fact. Maybe I could just tell him what I'd seen on his phone that morning, confess to being a green-eyed monster and let him explain it all away. There was bound to be a logical explanation, wasn't there? Surely I'd just let my over-active imagination run away with me?

But if I wasn't supposed to look at that message again, I reasoned wildly, Drew would come back right now. I could just say I wanted to know what time it was. Easy. I pressed a button and the little screen flared to life. 23:42.

So that was the time then. Not daring to breathe, listening all the while to the sound of running water in the background, I pushed another button then another. There. I'd done it now. This was it. All I needed to do was...

I shrieked as the phone buzzed violently in my palm. Clapping my other hand over my mouth—rather pointlessly, it occurred to me a moment later—I froze, waiting for Drew to come running. But he didn't. And as the seconds passed, my heart pounding in my ears, my gaze slowly fell to the tiny display.

Message: Angie

Angie? At eleven forty-two?

With shaking fingers, I stabbed at the phone again.

Fab 2 c u tonite, Mr MF. Had a gr8 time. Hope u found ur jacket - def not here. C u Mon. x x x

I swallowed as I read the words again. How many interpretations could there be of Fab 2 c u tonite then? Mr MF—Magic Fingers, a little voice in my head sneered cruelly—clearly had seen Angie again this evening. They'd had a 'gr8 time'. She even knew he'd mislaid his jacket and by the looks of things, it was possible he could have left it at her place. So how did any of that fit with Drew's claim he'd 'phoned and called it off'?

I clicked out of the screen and set the phone back down on the chest of drawers, my breathing coming fast and hard. Why would he lie? Why would he say he hadn't gone on a date when he obviously had? Why would he make a point of telling me he loved me if there was someone else in his life? And why on earth would he...?

Make a point. My heart seemed to skip a beat.

Oh no. Oh God, no. As the awful realisation dawned, a rush of heat rose from the pit of my stomach and crashed over my head in a nauseating wave.

Because I'd got it all stupendously and horrifically wrong, that was why. I'd come within about a millimetre of making a total and utter idiot of myself. My throat constricted as I put what I'd taken to be his declaration of undying love on rewind.

He didn't love me, at least, not like I loved him. That hadn't been what he meant, had it? No, he loved me as a friend. As someone he'd always watch out for. Someone who needed protecting from herself. Someone he didn't want to see hurt by the womanising ways of Marco Maretti. As someone he'd even occasionally fancy having sex with. A fuck buddy, wasn't that what I'd heard Roxy call it?

But he didn't love me in the way I needed him to love me. Longed for him to love me. As someone he wanted as a soul mate, always and forever.

Tears stung my eyes. I blinked them back furiously. Now was so not the time to cry. Now was the time to figure out how the hell I going to get out of Drew's flat without giving away what a monumental fool I'd almost been.

I stared down at my feet, at the faint red marks criss-crossing the skin there. Shoes. I needed my sandals. My keys. My bag.

Finding a strength I didn't know I possessed, I pushed myself upright, no longer caring about my dress as it slid downwards, merely willing my legs to support me. They did, but they felt like jelly as I hobbled out of the bedroom door, my knees protesting fiercely with the effort. There was my handbag on the breakfast bar where I'd left it, my sandals on the floor beneath it. And there, a few feet away, screwed into a tiny ball, were my knickers.

I'd just bent to pick them up when I felt Drew behind me, his hands landing on my hips.

"What are you doing? Bath's all ready." He sounded amused, one hand lazily caressing the length of my spine as I made a grab for the sandals. "Thought I told you to get this off," he added, his tone chiding as he slipped a finger beneath the shoulder strap of my dress and gave it a gentle tug.

"I—I couldn't." I straightened up, not daring to turn around even though his arms folded around me when I tried to reach for my handbag. "I—" I stopped, a fresh wave of tears threatening to overwhelm me as he held me against him, resting his cheek against my head. "I'll do it in a minute," I got out somehow. "In the bathroom."

"What?" Laughing, he dropped a kiss into my hair. "You're surely not telling me you didn't want to get undressed in front of me, are you? Like I haven't already seen everything you've got, gorgeous. Hey." His voice softened. "This isn't still about those scars?"

"Maybe—maybe a little," I whispered, taking refuge in the lie and pushing at his hands.

Much to my guilty relief, he let me go at once. "Sweetheart..."

"I know. I'm sorry," I choked out, snatching up my handbag and moving quickly out of reach. "I guess it's going to take me a while. I know it's stupid."

"Sam!" Drew sounded bewildered.

As well he might, I thought, staggering blindly towards the bathroom. "Just—just give me a minute," I begged, willing him not to chase after me. "I'm okay, all right? I just need to—just need to..."

I burst through the bathroom door, slammed it closed and fumbled for the bolt, catching my finger as I rammed it home. And as I stared at the tiny triangle of ripped flesh as it began to bleed, everything blurred.

"Sam." His voice was close, urgent but gentle. I could picture him leaning against the door, one hand against the frame. I could even imagine the look in his eyes.

"I'm okay." My own voice was surprisingly steady, considering the rate at which tears were thudding on to my dress, each one creating a dark circle on the fabric. "Really."

"We need to talk about this."

I bit my lip, fighting a sob. "I know," I lied.

"I'm going to make us another cup of tea, okay? Seeing as we didn't get to drink the last one."

Tea. The great British panacea for all woes. "R-right."

"And you're going to get into that lovely warm bath. Sort yourself out. And then we're going to talk."

I didn't answer him. Couldn't answer him, the tears flowing down my cheeks so quickly now I'd probably have drowned if I'd opened my mouth. But maybe he hadn't expected an answer, because he didn't speak again.

Steeling myself at last, I wiped my face with the back of my hand and straightened up. I looked longingly at the foaming bath water, the cloud of steam above it having already misted the mirrored cabinet over the sink. I could see and smell the vanilla-scented candle he'd lit for me, burning brightly on the windowsill. And then my gaze rose to the window itself, too tiny to squeeze through even if I hadn't been in a first floor flat.

The only way out was the way I'd come in, back through the door. There could be no easy escape, no avoiding some kind of confrontation. About the only thing I could do was attempt to speed up the process.

I put the seat down and sat on the loo while I rummaged through my handbag for my own mobile phone. Then flipping it open with one hand, I unzipped the pocket on the side of my bag with the other, extracted the business card I'd dropped in there earlier and punched in the number.

It was almost ridiculously easy. Phone call made, I set about tidying myself up as best I could, then used the clean flannel he'd left for me on the side of the bath to scrub at my face, clearing away tears, make-up and all, wishing the whole while I could just climb into the wondrously warm water and sink down until the bubbles closed over my throbbing head. But there wasn't time, I concluded, a decision confirmed wise when at last I bent down to fasten my sandals and heard two perfunctory beeps from a car horn in the street below.

If I was lucky, I thought, my heart pounding now, Drew would still be in the kitchen. I could bolt out of the bathroom, get my coat and hurtle down the stairs before he could do anything more than shout my name. Better yet, he might be on the sofa, already sipping at his tea.

The last place I expected to find him when I emerged was sitting cross-legged on the tiled floor outside the door, smiling up at me as he proffered me a mug. Which was pretty stupid because it was exactly where I should've expected him to be. How many times had he ambushed me before?

"Sit down," he said, patting the space beside him. "Let's get this whole bloody scar thing sorted once and for all. Because, Samantha Bloom, there are some things you really need to get through your thick..." But then he stopped, his eyes narrowing as he finally seemed to take in my appearance. "Why are you still dressed?"

I took in a breath but it did nothing to quell my rising sense of panic. So much for bolting. "Drew."

"You've got your shoes on. You didn't get in the bath?"

I shook my head, biting my lip. "I'm sorry. But I need to..." I motioned helplessly towards the stairs.

"You're going?" He sounded startled.

"I've got to," I whispered, wondering just how I was going to get around him. He'd always been so much quicker than me. If I made a dash in either direction, he'd simply pull me down and wrestle me to the floor. The only thing that might weigh in my favour was the mug in his right hand. "I can't stay."

Still staring at me, he nodded slowly. "Okay." But my relief was short-lived. "Why?"

"Please, Drew. Don't. I've got—got a taxi waiting outside."

"You called a taxi?" Following my gaze to the mug, he frowned. "But surely you know I would've...?" He sighed in exasperation. "Look, Sam. I'm not going to stop you. I'm just not following what's going on here, that's all. Are you going to tell me what this is all about, kiddo?"

Kiddo. He'd called me that for as long as I could remember, but now it was just another brutal reminder of how he really felt about me. Why hadn't I realised before? Because that was all I was to him, wasn't it? Someone he viewed more as a little sister, even if that made what we'd just done practically incest.

"We can't do this," I said helplessly, watching him flinch as my voice broke on the words. "We should never have done this."

"Sam!"

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him reach for me as I feigned a break to the left then crashed into his right arm. The sound of the mug shattering as it hit the tiles flooded my ears as I sprinted for my coat but I didn't look back, tearing it from the peg so vigorously I heard the lining rip. And then I was stumbling down the stairs, wrenching the front door open and sprinting across to the waiting taxi, falling into the back seat with a breathless, "Please! Just go!"

Joe didn't hesitate. The tyres screeched as he put his foot to the floor and swerved the car away from the kerb, not looking back at me until we'd rounded the corner and were halfway down the next street. He slowed then, his eyes meeting mine in the mirror just as they had earlier. "You all right, love?" His gaze narrowed further. "That your phone ringing?"

"I'm fine." I reached into my bag and switched my mobile off without looking at the display. "Just want to go home now, that's all."

"Chesterton Close?" He sent me a sympathetic smile when I nodded. "Bit of an evening, eh?"

I averted my gaze, gnawing hard on my lower lip. For all this man had turned out to be an unexpected knight in shining black cab, I couldn't allow myself to collapse into a gibbering heap now. God only knew what he was thinking already. Probably something along the lines of I could've told you this might happen, I decided miserably.

But to my relief, he made no attempt at further conversation, instead letting the whine of the engine do the talking. Closing my eyes, I let the sound wash over me and tried not to think either, digging my nails into my palm every time an unwelcome memory surfaced until my hand throbbed as much as my head.

I gave him twenty pounds when we pulled up outside my house, refusing the change though it equated to a pretty hefty tip. In return, I could feel him watching me with something akin to paternal concern as I limped up the driveway. I knew he waited to see me turn the key in the door before driving away.

The phone began ringing the moment I stepped over the threshold as though Joe the cabbie hadn't been the only person watching me. I ignored it, heading straight for the kitchen and yanking open the wall cupboard next to the fridge, pulling a plastic sandwich box from the top shelf and letting it clatter on to the work top. I tore off the lid, my head pounding now as I pulled out the bottle of painkillers and carried it across the kitchen, setting it down in the centre of the round table.

With equal ceremony, the continuing ringing of the phone acting as macabre accompaniment, I filled a large tumbler with water from the cold tap then sat down at the table, wincing as tender parts of me met the hard seat of the pine chair.

I could disconnect the phone. Pull the plug out from the socket and leave it dangling over the side of the dresser. But there would be no respite from the pain. I knew from bitter experience that getting to sleep while a headache like this one raged through my skull would take hours. It would take every relaxation technique I knew—and I knew plenty—but exhausted though I was, I wouldn't drop off before dawn. Not without help—and the help I relied on most wasn't available to me now. Would it ever be again?

Picking up the bottle with trembling fingers, I pushed down the child-proof cap and twisted it off then tipped two pills into my hand. I stared at them then at the glass of water. It wasn't difficult, was it? All I had to do was pop them into my mouth, take a big gulp of water then swallow. Easy. Pop them in. Drink. Swallow.

Too easy.

I dropped the bottle with a gasp, springing backwards as it clattered to the table and fell on its side, spewing several more tablets across the polished wood. And then I dived forwards, scooping the pills into my hand and snatching up the bottle, pouring them back in before screwing the lid back on tightly as though I'd managed to round up half a dozen poisonous spiders.

It was only when I noticed my panicked breathing was the loudest sound in the room that I realised the phone had stopped ringing. I froze, waiting for it to start again. He wouldn't give up that easily, would he? He'd phone again. Either that, or do exactly what I'd done to him earlier. Turn up in person and start hammering on my front door.

A cold feeling of dread slowly spread through my limbs.

This wasn't over, was it? It could never be over. He wouldn't let this go. Oh, he might not phone again until the morning, he might think better of demanding I answer the door to him tonight. But sooner or later, he'd wheedle the truth from me. Sooner or later, I'd have to confess I'd fallen head over heels in love with him and had been crazy enough to believe, just for a few gloriously golden moments, he felt the same way about me too.

Maybe one day, some day in a far-off future I couldn't imagine, I'd find all this hilariously funny, just as I was certain he would the moment I told him. Maybe I'd even wonder what I saw in him. But right now, just the thought of him knowing how much of a fool I'd been was mortifying. Particularly as I was certain I couldn't switch this feeling off, now it had been well and truly switched on. I loved Drew Barnett with all my heart and soul, even if he didn't feel the same way about me. There wasn't a thing I could do about it.

Though there maybe was a way I could make sure he never found out.

I looked at the digital clock on the cooker. 00:12. Not that late, really. Certainly not late by some people's standards.

Willing the phone not to ring before I could reach it, I plucked it from the dresser and pressed the button for a dialling tone, just to make sure Drew couldn't call me while I searched my purse. And after finding the green foil-printed card, I put it on the table in front of me, took a deep breath and pressed in the number.

"Yes, good evening," I rattled off when a measured female voice answered politely, half-expecting to be reprimanded for ringing after midnight. But after listening to my request, she put me through without argument and the next voice I heard was male and sounded decidedly wide-awake.

"Pronto."

"Marco, it's me. I've made up my mind. How soon can I come to Italy?"

Chapter 8

"How did it go last night?"

"Fu—" Bent double over the large box I was unpacking, the unexpected sound of Alice's voice behind me almost made me topple head first into it. "For heaven's sake!" I squeaked, grabbing the sides of the carton for stability. "Don't do that to me!"

"I'm waiting."

Shit. I could tell from the hard note in Alice's voice that one, she had no intention of apologising, and two, that there was no way I'd be able to duck out of answering the question. I deliberately took my time over placing a pair of polythene-wrapped maternity jeans on the stockroom table. "They weren't in."

She sucked in a reproving breath. "Liar," she snapped. "You chickened out again, didn't you?"

"Alice..."

"Sam, you're leaving the country tomorrow. Tomorrow, Sam!"

"I know!"

"You've promised me every day this week that you were going to tell your parents."

"I know, okay? It's just..." Groaning, I reached down into the box and pulled out another pair of jeans. "It's not that simple, is it?"

"Well."

Oh, how well I was getting to know that 'well'. I slapped the packet down beside the first. "Don't," I begged, even though I knew begging was futile. "Please? Spare me just this once. Just—"

"You didn't really expect this would be easy, did you? To do this to them—to your mother, especially—at this time of year? You must have considered all of this when you said yes to Marco, surely?"

Of course I hadn't. I hadn't given any of it a thought when I picked up the phone and told him I wanted to come to Italy. I'd had one idea in my head and one idea alone: Drew couldn't find out what a fool I'd been. And when Marco had phoned back a short time later to announce he'd booked my plane ticket and I'd be flying out to Treviso the following Sunday, I'd felt nothing but relief. It was only when I broke the news to Alice the next morning the full implications of my decision were abruptly and forcibly driven home.

"You're joking?" she'd accused, gazing at me across the shop as though she thought I'd lost my mind. "Right now? Three weeks before Christmas?"

"He needs my help," I'd protested, wishing I'd taken the time to formulate a more convincing argument. God only knew, there'd been plenty of opportunity. I hadn't slept at all the night before. "If I go now, then they can finalise the catalogue, start getting the pieces made up, get a head start on the—"

"Well, that's all very lovely for Marco," Alice cut in, her brow furrowed in disbelief, "but how exactly am I supposed to manage here without you? In case you haven't noticed, we're busier than we've ever been. Now as you know, I'm not afraid of hard work, but I'm not superwoman. I can't do it all on my own!"

"I know that," I answered as patiently as I could, my heart sinking at her reaction. Somehow, I'd managed to persuade myself she'd be pleased. She, after all, had been the one who'd been so keen for me to go out to dinner with Marco. "I never intended that you would. Obviously, we'll have to take someone on while I'm away—" I grimaced as she gave a snort "—and I'm sure Roxy wouldn't mind doing a few extra hours here and there."

"Oh, Sam." She sent me a pitying look. "Where in the world do you think we're going to find someone at such short notice, someone who can replace you? At this time of year, I suppose we might be able to get a college student, someone who wants to make some money over Christmas, but the chances of finding somebody decent and reliable?" She shrugged, turning away to snatch up a cerise pink blouse that had been abandoned on the wrong rail. "Dear God, I can't believe you've been so irresponsible."

"Alice." I bit my lip, staring after her. "It's only for three months. It's not forever. I'll be back before you know it."

"Who's going to do the ordering?" I could hear her muttering, as though to herself. "Do the books, pay the bills? Muggins here, I suppose?"

I swallowed. "Well, yes, I was hoping you might do some of that. But if you'd rather not, I s'pose I could do things from Italy. I'm sure Marco will help me sort out internet access and then I could—"

"Wait a minute." She'd rounded on me then, eyes wide with sudden realisation. "Next Sunday? You mean the fifth?"

Oh dear God. How could I not have realised? Just as I'd thought I couldn't sink any lower, a fresh wave of misery descended over me like a cloud. Bugger, bugger, bugger.

"Sam!" Alice sounded as appalled as I felt. "You can't go then. Not that day. Your mother..."

"I've got to go. Marco's already bought the ticket." But there was a horrible wobble in my voice. "She'll understand. Well, she'll just have to understand, won't she? She can't expect that I'll always be able to—I mean, I can't spend the rest of my life..."

But I hadn't been able to finish the sentence. Instead, I'd had to walk away, letting my hair swing forward to hide my tears.

That had just been the start of a miserable week. And even though Roxy had tried hard to be upbeat about how fabulous an opportunity it was for me, it was only too clear she was concerned about what the implications of my absence might be for her. Deep down, I understood their worries about the shop and their ability to keep things running smoothly, although recruiting a temporary replacement had turned out to be a simple affair despite Alice's gloomy predictions.

Margaret had been the second person we'd interviewed from the recruitment agency, a sweet and clearly capable lady in her late forties who'd been only too pleased to accept a three-month position. Alice made me suffer nonetheless, only speaking to me when absolutely necessary—or to harangue me about not telling my parents of my impending travel plans.

But what made me most miserable of all, perhaps perversely, given how worried I'd been at first, was that Drew had made no attempt to contact me whatsoever. Well, unless he'd left messages on my mobile phone, of course. I hadn't managed to summon up the courage to switch it back on. But he hadn't come to the shop or shown up at my place after work. Instead, after that first night when the phone wouldn't stop ringing—and for all I knew, that hadn't been Drew calling anyway, just a drunk who'd dialled a wrong number—my house had seemed eerily silent in the evenings.

Though why on earth had I expected otherwise? I'd stormed out on him, hadn't I? Why would he want to contact me? To him, my behaviour must have seemed pretty irrational. Make that completely irrational, I concluded wretchedly. I could hardly blame him for wanting to keep his distance.

"Well?"

I jumped, realising I'd been miles away and that Alice, right here, right now, once again appeared to be waiting for an answer. Unfortunately, I no longer had any idea what the question had been.

She rolled her eyes. "For pity's sake," she said with a weary sigh. "I think I've had just about enough of this. Get your coat and borrow Roxy's big umbrella—it's raining cats and dogs out there—and go and see your parents right now."

"What?" I gaped at her. "No, I can't. It's Saturday morning. I need to be here. It could get—"

"Busy? Well, you won't be here next Saturday, will you?" she interrupted grimly. "So we may as well get used to it. Roxy?" She raised her voice. "Sam's going out for a while, is that okay with you?"

"Fine," Roxy called back—rather too quickly I decided when her head appeared around the door a moment later, her hair smoothed into a sleek pink bob today. "I've got a feeling that if the rain doesn't stop, we're not going to get busy any time soon. Still, I guess that means we can put up the Christmas dekkies."

I grimaced at her. "Were you listening?"

"Of course I was bloody listening. It's not like you were keeping your voices down, is it?" She looked unabashed. "And I really don't see what your problem is. Just go and tell them that you're going to Italy! You're a grown woman, aren't you? You can do what you like."

Alice and I exchanged glances. "Oh yeah," I said with forced breeziness. "Whatever I like."

Roxy frowned. "Am I missing something here?"

I held up a hand in defeat. "Alice can tell you all about it while you're putting the fairy lights on the tree," I mumbled, sidling past them both.

"Well, can Alice tell me about what happened between you and Drew as well then? 'Cos that's what this is all about, isn't it? Why you're going to Italy, I mean."

My hand froze on the kitchen door handle.

"Holy crap." Her tone softened abruptly. "I'm right, aren't I?"

"What?" I could feel Alice's eyes burning into my back. "Something happened between you and Drew? What do you mean, something happened?"

"Nothing." My voice cracked. "Nothing happened, all right?"

"You two had a row?" Alice clearly had no intention of letting me off the hook. "But I thought you said he was okay about you going to Italy?"

I hadn't. When I'd first told her of my plans, her exact words had been, "And what does Drew have to say about all this? Does he think it's a good idea?" I'd simply taken the coward's way out and nodded.

"Oh, come on, Alice. Seriously? A row?" Roxy mocked before I could answer. "You're kidding me, right?"

"Well, what then?" I could sense the older woman's mounting irritation. "If they didn't have a row—?"

"Sex, doh. They had sex, okay?"

"Rox!" I pressed my forehead against the door, the gloss paint cool against my heated skin. "Oh, God. Please let me be dreaming."

There was an ominous pause.

"Sam? Is this true? You—and Drew?"

"Uh-huh." I glanced up towards the ceiling and blinked hard. "But don't worry, it's over. Well, to be honest, it never really began," I added, forcing out a laugh that sounded brittle even to my own ears. "So actually, there's nothing to be over."

"Sam." Roxy's voice was gentle. "Of course it's not over! He loves you! Don't you know how long he's been waiting for you to realise that? He absolutely adores you, you daft cow. Anyone with half a brain can see that."

"Nice try, Rox." The lump in my throat was getting so big, I couldn't swallow it down anymore. "But I'm afraid you've got that all wrong. He's seeing—seeing someone else. And that's okay. 'Course that's okay. I'm fine with that, really." And blinded by tears now, I wrenched open the door and part-stumbled, part-fell into the kitchen.

In the seconds that followed, I was only dimly aware of Alice ordering Roxy to close the shop, telling her to turn over the sign on the door and stick up a 'Back in fifteen minutes' post-it note. But I couldn't fail to notice being swept into matronly arms, or being held so tightly it almost hurt. Neither could I have missed Alice's murderous hiss of, "I'm going to swing for him—I'm going to bloody swing for that boy!" in my ear while I buried my head into her shoulder. "He promised me," she muttered. "I made him swear he'd never hurt you!"

At length, she pulled back to inspect my face, taking the box of tissues Roxy proffered and pulling out half a dozen sheets. "This is what you get if you leave a child and go off gallivanting around the world," she announced, mopping at my soaked cheeks. "I told my brother it was a bad idea."

"Th-they emigrated," I felt obliged to hiccup to a puzzled-looking Roxy. "Drew's parents, I mean. And his s-sister, Cathy. To New Zealand. But Drew was n-n-nineteen, Alice. He wasn't a child—no, he wasn't!" I insisted as she made a harrumphing sound. "He w-was at university wh-when they left!"

Alice's lips set in a firm line. "This is my fault," she said tightly, steering me towards the settee now and making me sit down.

"How can it be your fault?" Roxy protested, still round-eyed. "Drew's a grown man."

"Yes, and I should've given him some guidance. Helped him understand the right way to behave around women."

"What?" She spluttered with laughter. "Alice, just what century do you think we're in? And anyway, from what I've seen, Drew already knows exactly how to behave around women! He's got no problems on that score."

"If by 'no problems', you mean, no problem leaving a trail of broken hearts in his wake," Alice retorted with dignity, "sure. Look at poor Kayleigh, for instance. Such a lovely girl, and yet—"

"Kayleigh's not broken-hearted," Roxy exclaimed. "For heaven's sake, they were never going out in the first place! It was all pretend, okay?"

"What?" My voice joined Alice's in chorus.

"What do you mean, 'all pretend'?" Alice demanded.

Roxy sighed. "Fake," she rephrased with barely concealed impatience. "Not real. Make-believe. Got it? They weren't in a relationship at all. According to Rufus, there was this guy who was stalking her for a while. So she and Drew cooked up a plan to pretend they were an item so he'd leave her alone long enough for her to take out an injunction. And it worked really well. He backed off. But in the end, this guy got arrested by the police, anyway. Turned out that Kayleigh wasn't the only woman he'd had a thing for—he'd been making a right nuisance of himself. He'd had loads of restraining orders taken out against him. Think he might even have ended up with a jail sentence in the end."

I stared at Roxy in stunned silence.

"Are you absolutely sure Drew's seeing someone else?" she asked, not unkindly.

"I..." The lump in my throat returned. "Yes. He—he keeps getting all these text messages," I got out at last. "It's the way they're worded."

Her eyes widened again. "You read his text messages?"

"I know." I couldn't hold her gaze, a sickening wave of heat rising into my chest. So much for our employer-employee relationship. Some role model I was turning out to be. "I know I shouldn't have. And the stupid thing is—the really stupid thing is..." I put my head in my hands and groaned. "I've got no right to expect him not to see anyone else anyway! I was the one who made him promise it wouldn't change anything, that we'd still just be friends. It's not like we're together. We're not in a relationship. We're not even pr-pretending to be an item..." I let the words trail away to a whisper, a fresh wave of tears threatening to engulf me.

"I don't understand." Alice sounded bemused. "You slept with my nephew but you're not...? You're not in a relationship?"

"Never mind that." Roxy dropped on her knees in front of me and dragged my hands from my face. "Does he know?"

"Know what?" I said bleakly. "Know that I read his text messages from Angie? Know that I'm insanely jealous? Know that I'm madly in love with him? Know that I'm going to Italy 'cos I'm positive he doesn't feel the same way about me and I'd rather not make a complete idiot of myself?" I flinched in self-disgust. "No."

"Sam. You haven't told him?" There was an uncharacteristic note of compassion in Alice's voice.

"Angie?" Roxy persisted. "That's her name?"

I nodded then jumped violently at the sound of someone hammering on the front door.

Alice whirled around. "For heaven's sake!" she exclaimed, peering out into the shop. "Can't they read the sign?"

"Best let 'em in," Roxy said, ever the pragmatist. "It's piddling down out there, after all. Might be the only customer we get all day."

Grumbling under her breath, Alice bustled away. By the time I heard her calling an expertly cheery if patently insincere, "Hello there, sorry about that! Terrible weather, isn't it?", I'd helped myself to another tissue and heaved myself off the settee to inspect my appearance in the mirror.

"Well, you're a sorry sight," I admonished my reflection, for once grateful I hadn't bothered to put on mascara. But then I'd given up on eye make-up days ago, finding it rather more practical at present to use a brighter than usual shade of lipstick to detract from my sallow complexion.

"These texts." Roxy came up behind me as I cautiously blotted the outer margins of my eyes. "What did they say? Can you remember?"

Of course I could. Every word. Probably best not to admit that, though. "Stuff about how she'd had a great time, how she was looking forward to seeing him again. And yucky stuff." I lowered my voice, glancing around to check Drew's aunt wasn't in earshot. "Called him 'big boy'. 'Mr Magic Fingers'. That sort of thing." I drew in a shaky breath and fluffed up my hair. "Anyway. I s'pose Alice is right and I should just get this telling my parents thing over with." I nodded towards the huge green and white striped golfing umbrella presently drying in a corner. "Can I borrow your Dad's umbrella?"

"Sure. He doesn't know I've got it. Hope he wasn't planning on playing today." There was a pause. "Sam?"

I turned to meet her gaze and for a split second, saw something I didn't quite recognise there. "What?"

"Oh." She shrugged. "Nothing. Well, except... I just wanted to say..." She sent me a wry smile. "Good luck?"

"Yeah, thanks." I managed a wry smile of my own and reached for my jacket. "I think I'm going to need all the luck I can get." But just as I was about to pick up the umbrella, some sixth sense made me pause and turn around. "Rox, how did you know for sure?"

She looked blank. "What?"

"That I spent the night with Drew?" I winced when her expression turned part rueful, part mischievous, afraid she was about to confirm Drew's theory it was possible to smell sexual enlightenment.

"Ah. That. My brother's got a job for the Christmas holidays. He's working at the Park as a night porter. Said he thought he recognised you. Said he brought you up some chicken goujons and a bottle of champagne and that you and this bloke—who I've gotta say, sounded a whole lot like Drew—were looking all cosy on the bed, cuddled up together in those posh bathrobes they have there."

James. Oh God, that's why he'd looked so familiar. True, I'd only met him a couple of times and only briefly at that, but still...

"I did tell him that if he was planning on keeping his job, he might want to think about being a bit more, well. Discreet."

I rolled my eyes. "You think?"

Her smile widened as she reached for the open umbrella. She collapsed it for me and handed it over. "I'm sure he'll get the hang of it."

"I'm sure," I murmured. I'd almost made it to the door when I stopped again. "So does that mean that he didn't tell you—?"

"That the next night, you were in exactly the same room with some Italian guy who'd ordered some champagne—and that he thought that the same guy he'd seen you with the night before was there as well, only he really didn't look too happy?"

I groaned and she grimaced sympathetically.

"Nah. Come to think of it, I'm sure he never mentioned that."

It wasn't just wet outside, it was freezing, an arctic wind whipping soggy leaves into a frenzy as I picked my way down the High Street trying to avoid the worst of the puddles. Roxy was right, it would be a quiet day. It might only be three weeks until Christmas, but only the most determined and hardiest of shoppers would be foolish enough to venture out in this weather.

And me.

Oh God, I so didn't want to do this. In my head, I'd rehearsed endless versions of the discussion I needed to have with my parents but none of them seemed right.

I sighed, pulling my scarf up around my neck in a vain attempt to keep the chill at bay. Maybe it was better not to have a plan. Maybe I should just trust to fate that whatever I came out with would be the right thing to say.

It wasn't far to my parents' house from the shop, only a couple of streets in fact. Of course, its relative proximity had played an instrumental part in me working there in the first place. After the transplant—after Paul had died and I'd nearly died—my recovery had been painfully slow. The mere effort of getting up and dressed in the morning was almost too much for me, the desire to crawl back beneath the bedcovers fully-clothed overwhelming at times. To say I had zero energy barely describes the endless exhaustion that engulfed me back then. There were days when I couldn't summon the energy to eat, let alone sit upright and talk.

Not that anyone around me wanted to talk, particularly my mother. She spoke to everyone in monosyllables for months, only resorting to short sentences when elaborate hand gestures failed. Whatever Drew said, there was no question in my mind that my mother held me responsible for Paul's death, that if I hadn't been so inconsiderate as to nearly bleed to death on the operating table, he'd still be with us.

Looking back at that dark time, it was only too clear we were all in a very bad place. Of the three of us, my Dad seemed to cope the best, but maybe that was because he could go to work. He at least had that daily distraction of being somewhere else, of being surrounded by people who weren't paralysed by grief, of talking about ordinary things like the weather, newspaper headlines and football.

My mother went through the motions of caring for me, it should be said. She prepared my meals, helped me bathe, made my bed and washed my clothes. But the one thing I could have used more than anything at that time, and the one thing she couldn't seem to give me, was love. I could understand that, though. I found it pretty hard to love myself too. I was a burden and I knew it. The original plan had been for me to return to school within a couple of weeks of the operation. I'd been a good student so at first, no one had any doubt I'd be able to catch up on missed lessons. But when Easter came and went, it became clear there was no hope of me finishing my A'level studies.

"You can start again in September," my form tutor said kindly when she came to see me, not long after the beginning of the summer term. "It'll be a lot easier on you to repeat the year and really do yourself justice in the exams next time around." But I'd seen the hastily disguised look of dismay in her eyes when she first entered the immaculate living room—my mother never seemed to stop cleaning—and found me sprawled listlessly across the sofa. I guess I wasn't exactly a pretty sight. Though I avoided mirrors at all costs, even I knew my clothes hung from me and that my hair, once lustrous and shiny was now a lank and thinning mess.

Things only started to get better when Drew came home from university that June. I hadn't paid much attention at first when he arrived at our house one Saturday morning, assuming he was paying my parents a visit out of respect for Paul. As usual, dressed in a saggy sweatshirt and even baggier jogging bottoms, I was curled up in a chair and struggling to stay awake, despite it only being lunchtime.

"Sam? Fucking hell, is that really you?"

I opened my eyes to find him standing right in front of me. And as I gazed at him in bleary surprise, he took a long hard look at me.

"Right," he said at last, holding out his hands. "Put your shoes on. We're going for a walk."

I'd protested, naturally. I could barely get up the stairs without being left a weak and trembling mess, so the idea of leaving the house, of having to walk farther than the short distance between the front door and the car, filled me with horror. But Drew wouldn't be dissuaded. We made it to the end of the road that day, a mere hundred yards, Drew practically carrying me on the return journey. Undeterred, he came back the next day and the next, pushing me further each time. "The next lamp post," he'd urge, grinning when I looked at him daggers. "All right then, to that red car just there, okay?"

And little by little, I remembered, it got easier. It helped that Drew chattered away non-stop while we walked, not caring whether I responded or not. He'd managed to get himself a holiday job and was working at a local firm of solicitors, Crandy and Aldred, or as he rather irreverently called them, Crusty and Undead, on account of the advanced age of the senior partners. He did wonderful impressions of the eccentric receptionist, Mrs Warble, and regaled me with stories about her barking down the phone at prospective clients and scaring half of them away. Just as well they were the only solicitors in Stow Newton back then, I decided. They'd never have stayed in business now.

But Drew being Drew, he won all three of them over, progressing from glorified tea boy to being trusted with conveyancing work by the end of the summer—something which he swears put him off property law for good. And after work each day, he'd turn up at my house and drag me off for a walk. Although, after the first week or so, I didn't need dragging, finding to my surprise I rather enjoyed our daily tramps around the housing estate.

By and by, the circuit grew bigger and began to incorporate a stroll around the top end of the High Street. The second time we took that route, my Aunt Sarah spotted us and invited us into her maternity wear shop for a cup of tea while she and Alice cashed up for the day. It became part of the routine and I began to look forward to seeing Aunt Sarah and Alice just as much as I looked forward to seeing Drew. As I grew stronger, I helped them clear up, hiding my misgivings about some of the larger and frankly rather hideous garments I ferried from the changing rooms back to the rails and attempting to make subtle suggestions about which items they should display in the window.

Things snowballed from there. When Aunt Sarah needed to take an afternoon off to attend a hospital appointment, I volunteered to help Alice in the shop. Soon I was there most days, grateful for both the distraction and the opportunity to be out of the house. It wasn't long before Sarah insisted on paying for my assistance. Minimum wage, true, but enough to make me feel useful. Though when she finally showed me the books, meticulously updated each day in her copperplate handwriting, I realised the business could barely spare me that.

"Aunt Sarah," I'd said, half-afraid to ask the question that had started burning in my mind, given all of the tolerable bits of my life now revolved around my stints in the shop, "don't you think that maybe this place could do with...?" I'd hesitated and almost chickened out. "A bit of updating?" I finished in a rush.

She'd gazed at me then over the top of the gold half-moon glasses she wore, her grey eyes, so much like my father's, narrowing in consternation. "As in, a lick of paint? Well, I suppose—"

"No," I'd interrupted, deciding it was now or never. "Well, yes. That too, maybe. But what I really meant was, maybe we could get some trendier things to sell?"

Laugh if you will, but I'd taken to buying all the mother and baby magazines I could lay my hands on. Goodness knew what the bloke in the newspaper shop made of it, I wondered, feel myself smile again at the memory, because although I'd started to regain weight by then, I was still stick thin. But I scoured every glossy page, writing down the suppliers of the most flattering garments the pregnant models wore in an attempt to gauge what sort of clothes In Full Bloom should stock.

To my eternal relief, Aunt Sarah was neither shocked nor outraged, instead encouraging me to evaluate all the maternity clothing available in the market at that time and to see if I could source new suppliers. So I did. Some, of course, wouldn't speak to me, preferring to deal with the giant chain stores and far larger outlets than ours. But others did, the smaller ones in particular happy to send us sample garments sale or return.

By the time Drew went back to university in October, things were picking up nicely. In an attempt to get our existing stock converted into cash, I got Aunt Sarah to show me how to use her sewing machine and started playing with designs of my own. It was at that point we began offering a bespoke fitting service. I found it fascinating to see how inserting a dart here or a tuck there could change a shapeless sack into a flattering tunic, and how different a dress could look on a petite woman if shortened to knee length, or how simply changing the buttons could alter the appearance of a blouse.

And as my relationship with our new suppliers improved, I found myself invited to trade fairs and exhibitions in the UK and then, rather excitingly for someone who'd never been abroad, Paris. Which was where, of course, I later met Marco.

I sighed as I turned into Maple Drive, my pace slowing as I passed the first of the semi-detached houses. Back in the seventies, each pair must have been identical, sharing a rectangular lawn, the driveways to the left and right leading to their respective garages and each garage in turn linked to the garage of the next pair of houses. Now that uniformity had mostly vanished. Some had extended front porches and had installed double-glazing, others had bedrooms over the garage, still others had divided that front expanse of lawn with a fence or hedge, presumably to avoid that most ancient of neighbourly conflict over whose turn it was to cut the grass.

Having owned it for more than twenty years, my parents' house was one of the neatest in the row and still shared its lawn, owing to the fact that my father rigorously mowed the whole thing every Saturday, or Sunday if it rained—even in December if the weather was mild—regardless of whose turn it was. Their house remained practically unmodified, aside from the double-glazing they'd had put in a few years ago. A slice of almost perfectly preserved history, I realised as I reached the bottom of the sixth driveway and drew to a halt behind Dad's Volvo. Apt, really.

Drawing a deep breath, I walked to the front door and rang the bell. As I expected, my father answered—for some reason, my mother never came to the door when he was home—and greeted me with a smile of genuine pleasure. "Sam!" he exclaimed, leaning forward to kiss me as I wrestled with the umbrella. "Lovely to see you. Wasn't expecting we'd see you here until tomorrow."

Ouch. Stab of guilt number one. "Ah well, I was wondering whether you might be able to do me a favour," I said, surprising myself a little with the words, but deciding to go with the flow.

"Oh?" He ushered me straight into the kitchen where my mother stood at the sink, elbow deep in suds, washing up the breakfast things. "Sam's come to ask a favour," he repeated for her benefit, helpfully holding out a tea towel when she slowly turned around. She took it and dried her hands while appraising me up and down in the way she always did, as though she half-expected I might have grown another head or something since she last saw me.

"What's that then?" she asked. No lovely to see you from her, I couldn't help noticing. But then she never did say such things, did she?

"I'm going..." I stopped abruptly and reordered my thoughts. "I mean, Marco's asked me to go to Italy. I was wondering whether you could pop around to my place every now and again while I'm gone. Pick up the post and so on."

"Well, of course," I heard my father say behind me. "That's no trouble at all, is it June? Especially seeing as you looked after this place for us so well—and old Bluey, of course," he paused to smile and reached down to stroke the Persian cat stretched across one of the kitchen chairs, "while we were cruising the high seas a few weeks ago. When are you going?"

Bluey opened one eye then put his head back down on his paws, feigning sleep. In that moment, I rather wished I could pull off the same trick.

"Tomorrow," I admitted.

There was a flinty silence. "You mean Monday?" my mother suggested.

"No." My voice was small. "I mean tomorrow. My flight's at eleven-forty."

"In the morning?"

No, of course not, I felt like saying sarcastically. Marco thought it would be a good idea for me to arrive in Italy in the middle of the night. But I didn't and simply nodded instead.

"But tomorrow is..." She left the sentence hanging, her startled expression conveying her dismay far more eloquently than words. Stab number two.

"I know, Mum." My mouth was dry. "I'm sorry. But Marco paid for my ticket and—"

"Well, tell him to unpay for it," she threw back, her voice rising more than an octave."

"June," my father interjected. But although he at least spoke in a reasonable tone, he made no further attempt at mollification.

I swallowed hard. "I'm going," I said quietly. "I know the timing's not great, but I need to go. I want to go," I amended, realising I was trembling now. "And the other thing you should know is that I'm going to be away a while. Until February, probably."

"You're not going to be here for Christmas either?"

I shook my head, looking to my father for help, only to discover his face was an unreadable mask. "This was bound to happen eventually," I tried. "Things do change over time. Like if—if..." I rummaged around in my panicked mind for an example. "If I had a boyfriend, or hey, got married even, he might want me to spend Christmas day with his parents."

"You?" Her face crumpled into an unpleasant sneer. "Have a boyfriend? Get married? Like that's ever going to happen, Little Miss Picky!

And there it was. Stab number three.

"Right," I said weakly, even as a part of me marvelled at my ability to get straight back up again and volunteer for another assault. "Maybe not. But I'm not going to be here for Christmas anyway. And I'm not going to be here tomorrow, either. I'm sorry."

"You're sorry?" she shrieked, the sudden increase in volume startling Bluey enough for him to leap from the chair and scuttle away. "Sorry? After all this time, you still think saying sorry makes everything all right? You think that—?"

"June!" my father broke in at last, putting a hand on my shoulder. "Let's calm down, shall we? Sam..." He bent his head to meet my gaze, his grey eyes beseeching. "Go into the living room and sit down, eh? Just give your mother a second to—you know?"

Oh God, did I have to? But what were my options? I could just leave, of course. Take to my heels and run, just as Bluey had.

I didn't, of course. No, I did exactly as I was told, turning away and moving off down the hall.

When I was a child, the living room had been an uncluttered and comfortably furnished space. And in many ways it still was, I thought as I looked around, trying not to listen to the muted but obviously heated discussion in the kitchen. The room was pristinely tidy, with everything in its proper place. It was just that every available surface was covered with mounted photographs. The walls, the mantelpiece, the top of the wall unit, the coffee tables positioned beside the chairs and the settee. Each decorative frame displayed a different picture of Paul, charting his development from gummy-smiling baby to gurning young adult.

And yes, just as I'd suspected, there above the hearth was a new wooden frame, decorated with hibiscus flowers, identical to the one my mother had presented to me on my birthday. Though something inside my chest clenched tight as I moved forwards to take a closer look. Because for once, Paul wasn't the only person in the photo.

Sure, he was front and centre, aged around eighteen at a guess and holding his battle-scarred guitar, the familiar deep gouge down one side testimony to the day he'd got a little too carried away and launched himself, rock-god-like, from the school stage into an adolescent audience unfamiliar with the concept of crowd surfing. But there beside him was Drew, his head huddled close to Paul's behind a single microphone, both of them grinning like lunatics.

I didn't want to look but somehow couldn't tear my gaze away, the unexpected sight of Drew, years younger but still so very familiar, causing such a flare of pain it was suddenly hard to breathe. Oh God. God help me, I loved him! Which was so stupid. So pointless. So fucking, bloody, hopeless.

"Right then. Here's what you're going to do."

I jumped at the sound of my mother's voice, acutely aware of how blurred my vision had become, of just how near I was to blubbing.

"You're going to call Marco." Her voice was brittle. "You're going to tell him you're very sorry, but you won't be coming tomorrow because of family commitments."

"Mum!" Shocked, I swung around to find her standing right behind me, hands planted on her hips, her face pinched and pale. "I can't do that!"

"Oh yes you can, young lady, and you will. We'll pay for you to go to Italy on Monday instead, so it won't cost him any more than it would've done anyway. Your father and I have agreed."

I could see him hovering awkwardly in the doorway now but he wouldn't meet my gaze. All at once, he seemed smaller than I remembered, as though he'd somehow lost the ability to draw himself up to his full height. "Dad," I pleaded, bewildered by this turn of events. "You know I can't do that. Please, help me out here, will you? You know I can't just let Marco down like that!"

"Let Marco down?" My mother's eyebrows disappeared into her fringe. "What about your brother, Samantha? It's his birthday tomorrow, for crying out loud! His twenty-seventh birthday!"

I gazed at her in disbelief. "I know that, Mum, okay? Do you think I don't know that? Do you honestly think I could forget that?"

"Then what were you thinking, Sam? What possessed you to say that you'd go?"

"Oh, for God's sake!" I yelped. "I wasn't thinking, okay? I didn't even think about the date. Marco just said 'Sunday' and that was it." Blinking furiously, I thrust my hands into my hair and tilted my face to the ceiling. "I didn't realise, okay? I've had so much on lately, I just didn't make the connection, that's all!"

"That's all?" she echoed, her tone icy. "You didn't forget, you just didn't make the connection, that's all?"

"Yes!" I brought my hands down with a wail, my eyes stinging as I met her steely gaze head on. "Is it such a crime, Mum? That I didn't immediately think, 'Ooh, can't go then. It's my dead brother's birthday, I'll miss his birthday party'? Is that really such a crime?" I swallowed, my mouth horribly dry. "That for the first time in seven years, I didn't work out exactly what day of the week his birthday was? And that when I did, that for the first time in seven years, I wondered whether it might be okay for me not to be here?"

"Of course it's not okay!" she cried, leaning forward now, her eyes more white than brown. "It's Paul's birthday, Sam! How do you think he'd feel about you not being here?"

"Feel?" I gave a choke of incredulous laughter. "He's dead, Mum! I'm pretty sure he's not going to feel anything!"

"Sam."

"And you know what?" I stormed on, ignoring my father's quietly desperate plea. "I'm pretty sure if Paul were here, he wouldn't give a fuck whether I was here or not! I'm damned sure he wouldn't want this whole fucked-up charade of celebrating his birthday every year. What the hell, Mum? Why the hell do you make us do it?"

I could see her flinching now, visibly growing smaller with every barbed challenge, every expletive—and yet a part of me didn't seem to care. A part of me had clearly been waiting for an opportunity like this for a long time.

"Every bloody year," I heard myself say wildly, "the same, fucking farce. Celebrating his birthday. Making us all sit at a dining table set for four people, even though the guest of honour can't be there. Can't ever be there, 'cos he's dead. You making us all eat fish pie 'cos it was Paul's favourite. Do you have any idea how much I hate fish these days?" I squeezed my eyes closed for a moment and shuddered. "Baking him a cake that he'll never see and never eat. Lighting all the candles on it, making us sing 'Happy Birthday'. Putting presents on his chair. Presents he can't bloody open because he's not fucking here, Mum! He's gone. He's dead, don't you get that? Dead! Never coming back."

"Sam!" Dad's tone was sharper now. "That's enough!"

"You're damned right, that's enough!" I fired at him, finding a new focus for my anger, so long suppressed, I'd had no idea how potent it was. "I've had enough, that's for sure. How could you let her put us through this, Dad? As if it wasn't bad enough that Paul died in the first place, we have to relive it all, year after fucking year."

"You don't think we should try to keep his memory alive?" my mother hissed. "You think we should just forget?"

"Forget?" I gave another gasp of mirthless laughter and waved around at the rows of photographs. "As if any of us could. Look at this place! All the pictures. It's a bloody shrine—a shrine to your precious Paul. Your perfect Paul."

"He wasn't perfect, Sam. No one's saying—"

"You're saying I shouldn't have photos now?" Mum screamed, her turn to ignore my father. "You don't know what it's like, Sam, to lose a son. You have no idea!"

"I know what it's like to lose a brother!" I shot back, so hot now, I felt dizzy. "I know what it's like to feel like it's all my fault. I know what it feels like to have everyone blame me. Know how it feels to know that people think he might still be alive if it wasn't for me. I know how that feels, okay?" Tears scalded my cheeks. "But you don't know what it's like to know your own mother wishes you'd died instead, do you? Because I know. Just admit it, Mum. You wish I'd died, not Paul."

I'd heard people talk about 'a ringing silence' but until that moment, I'd never experienced one. Air thick with tension, fuelled with enough static electricity it should've made everyone's hair stand on end, yet the quiet so absolute I could only hear my own heartbeat. A silence that lengthened into deafening proportions as I stared at my mother and she stared back, her expression stony.

And then I was in flight, in the hallway and snatching up Roxy's umbrella before my father could call my name, yanking the door open and racing out into the rain. I didn't look back when he called again, didn't stop to put up the umbrella. Instead, I bowed my head and charged blindly up the street, gasping for breath by the time I reached the corner of Wharf Road and the High Street, my lungs burning, my face raw from the relentless onslaught of rain and tears. Staggering to a halt, I fumbled in my pocket for a tissue and swiped at my cheeks with cold-numbed fingers.

So now you know, a little voice in my mind taunted.

I closed my eyes, bracing myself against a fresh wave of self-pity.

Isn't it about time you stopped crying?

A bubble of bitter amusement welled up in my chest. Hearing voices? Dear God, to top it all, now I was going mad.

Well, isn't it?

I opened my eyes, drawing one deep breath and then another, aware of my gradually slowing pulse. It was a good point, I conceded, even if I wasn't sure who the hell was making it. Because hadn't I cried enough over the years? Fat lot of good it had done me, too. It couldn't change the past, could it? And I couldn't keep taking responsibility for the way my mother felt. I couldn't change the past. That wasn't within my power. So yes, wasn't it time I simply moved on?

A fresh start in Italy awaited me. I could reinvent myself if I wanted to. Stop being Sam and become Samantha. Marco only ever called me Samantha, didn't he? I could leave miserable Sam behind. Sad Sam, her broken family, her disastrous love life—they could all stay put in Stow Newton, while Samantha moved on to bigger and brighter things.

I dabbed at my eyes again as this seed of hope took root, multiple possibilities beginning to unfurl like tiny tendrils.

But first things first, I thought, sniffing hard before breaking into a stride again, I needed to get back to the shop. Ask Alice very nicely if she wouldn't mind keeping an eye on my house, seeing how I hadn't quite managed to give my front door key to my mother. Help serve customers—if any more braved the weather today, that was—and get through the rest of the day. Maybe even help Roxy put up the decorations? Hell, that'd be a first. A wan smile tugged the corners of my mouth upwards at the thought of her reaction. Me, enthusiastic about Christmas? Well, why not? Samantha could be enthusiastic, couldn't she? And then? Then I'd go home and finish packing.

Finish packing for a brand new life.

Chapter 9

Of course, by the time I got back to the shop, my adrenalin-fuelled euphoria had dissipated to guilt-ridden despair. Alice took one look at me as I stumbled through the door and was there in an instant, her arms around me. "No need to ask how that went," she said, before exclaiming, "Sam, you're soaked through!" then, "Oh my darling, don't!" as I promptly burst into tears. "Everything's going to be all right!"

"It isn't!" I wailed, letting her peel my coat from me, the tightness in my chest making it hard to breathe. "I've just made everything so much w-worse!"

She pulled me close again, encouraging me to sob out the whole sorry tale, puncturing my account every now and again with muttered invective. And when at last I was done, she kissed my forehead and steered me towards the comfy chairs outside the changing rooms. "Sit," she insisted in a voice that would brook no argument. "Let's get you dried off a bit."

"I'm okay," I croaked but she didn't seem to hear, already en route to the kitchen. "Alice, don't." I didn't deserve her fussing over me, let alone her sympathy.

Oh God, what had I done?

"You know what you need right now?" she called, reappearing a moment later with a hand towel. "Lovely hot bath, I reckon." And with that, she swept up my sodden hair and gave it a vigorous rub. "Stiff drink too, but I don't expect you'll have anything stronger than orange juice at your place, more's the pity. There." She lifted my hands and clapped them over my towel-covered head, gesturing I should continue the drying process. "I've put the kettle on. Let's make you a nice cup of tea then see about getting you straight home, my girl."

"Alice, I can't." Letting the towel fall, I buried my face into the soft and now rather damp cotton. "You know I can't. I've got to go back. Try to sort things out."

"Over my dead body."

Startled by the vehemence in her tone, I peeked out to find her glaring at me from the doorway, her arms folded. "But..."

"No way." She gave her head an adamant shake. "You are not going back there to grovel and apologise for what you said—something that's needed saying for years, if you ask me. No," she reiterated, waggling a finger at me when I tried to argue. "You're going home and that's final. Going home to pack so you're all set to get on that plane tomorrow morning." She patted my shoulder and turned to go back through the door. "Call it my first executive decision if you like, seeing as you're going off and leaving me in charge."

"But what about Dad?" I shuddered, picturing the horrible scene that must surely have unfolded at my parents' house after I left. "Poor Dad! I can't leave things as they are. I can't just fly to Treviso without—"

"Poor Dad?" She twisted back around. "Sam, this is the life your father's chosen! He's made his bed, he can damn well lie in it for a while. All this time, all these years, he's just let your mother wallow in it all, never having it out with her. Letting her walk all over any feelings the pair of you might have. The way he's let her treat you both." She shook her head then whipped the towel out of my hands. "It's not right. It's not healthy. It's high time he realised it can't go on. And if this is what it takes to make him realise, then good."

I rose to follow her into the kitchen, my body feeling curiously heavy, my knees like sponges. "But what if he doesn't know what to do? What if he can't cope?"

"Sweetheart." Alice's tone became gentler. "He needs to deal with this. Not you. You've got other things to think about now. This is your time."

"I thought you didn't want me to go to Italy." I watched as she reached into the cupboard above the kettle and brought down two mugs. "I thought you said... Wait." Two mugs? Glancing around the room, I spotted a box of Christmas trimmings on the sofa. "What have you done with Roxy?"

"Roxy? Er, she's popped out for a bit."

"What for? It's a bit early to fetch the sandwiches, isn't it?"

"Ah, well." She sounded rather vague. "Not busy, are we? And there were a couple of other things she needed to do, so we thought—you know."

"Right." I narrowed my gaze at her, bemused by this ineloquent version of my assistant manager. "I kind of thought the whole place would be kitted out like Santa's Grotto by now."

"Tinsel," she announced triumphantly, as though she'd only just remembered what it was called. "That's what she's gone to get. Not enough—" she hesitated "—purple, apparently. She won't be long, I'm sure.

Deep joy, I thought wryly, wondering what on earth Roxy was planning to do with it before remembering that the new Sam—Samantha—had resolved to wholeheartedly embrace Christmas this year. "Okay. Fine."

"Fine?" Alice fired me a look not dissimilar to the one I'd sent in her direction moments earlier. "You just seen the Ghost of Christmas Past or something?"

"Maybe," I agreed with a weary smile, raking my fingers through my ratty hair in an attempt to restore some order. "Can't go on hating Christmas forever, right? So maybe I won't go home just yet. I could give you both a hand, couldn't I? It'll be much easier with the three of us."

"No, Sam. You look shattered already. The last thing you're going to feel like doing tonight is packing your suitcase if you stay here for the rest of the day. Here." Turning to me, she pushed a mug of tea into my hand. "Much better to get everything done out of the way this afternoon, don't you think? You can get yourself an early night then."

"But I haven't got that much packing to do. I've decided I'm not going to take loads of stuff so it won't take—"

"How are you getting to the airport tomorrow?"

I sighed, acknowledging defeat. "I've booked a taxi," I told her as she led the way back into the shop. "It's coming at eight."

Alice frowned. "Won't that be expensive?"

"That's what I told Marco, but..."

"Marco's paying," she guessed, nodding her approval and perching beside me on the front edge of the sales counter. "Well, so he should. Dragging you away from us, three weeks before Christmas."

"Alice." I pulled a face. "You've got to admit, the timing's turned out to be pretty good really. All things considered."

"Yes, I suppose." She studied me over the rim of her mug, her glasses steaming up slightly. "And there's no question it'll be good for you to get away. Just how long has it been since you had a holiday anyway? I can't remember the last time you had more than a day off."

I managed an indignant laugh. "It's not going to be a holiday. I'm pretty sure Marco wants me to work, you know."

"Not all the time, surely? And goodness knows, that's a lovely part of the world you're going to. Not far from Venice, is it?"

"No, not far." Probably not the best place to visit while suffering from a broken heart though, I thought. Wasn't Venice meant to be the City of Love?

"Well then. It'd be criminal not to make the most of it, wouldn't it? Ah..." Alice's tone brightened as she peered around me to the door. "Customers," she announced. "You stay there and drink your tea." She strode forward, her welcoming smile already in place.

Dear Alice, I thought, listening as she engaged the two women—a mother and her newly pregnant daughter—in friendly conversation, feeling unexpectedly wistful as I realised how much I was going to miss her. I'd seen her practically every day for more than six years and the bond between us had become strong.

In fact, it struck me she'd more than filled the void left by the withdrawal of my mother's love, which was quite something, given that lifelong spinster and former midwife Alice had never had children of her own. "Never wanted to be bothered with all that," she'd always maintained, though I wasn't sure I believed her. Aunt Sarah had been similarly childless but at least she'd married. Her husband Tom had died before I was born. Ironic then that the three of us should run a maternity wear shop, though Alice's midwifery experience had certainly come in handy from time to time.

But Alice wasn't the only person I'd miss, was she? I was going to miss Roxy and her relentlessly sunny attitude to life. I was going to miss my customers too. Over the course of their pregnancies, I got to know some of them pretty well, especially those that returned to the shop pregnant with a second or even third child.

And, oh God, I was going to miss Drew.

The thought slid into my head without warning, causing such a burst of pain beneath my ribcage my breath hitched. Biting my lip hard, I jumped down from the counter and marched back into the kitchen, tipping the remains of my tea into the sink before putting the mug into the washing up bowl and filling it with hot soapy water. I washed up the other mugs abandoned to the draining board after an earlier cup of coffee, then, feeling more resolute, I plucked up the box of Christmas trimmings from the sofa and carried it out into the shop.

"Hey, what d'you think you're doing? That's my job!"

I glanced up to see Roxy standing by the door. She'd obviously only just returned because she was still wearing her black raincoat, along with a rather sodden-looking black velvet hat. "Not any more," I said brightly, forcing a smile. "Thought I might give you a hand for once. So come on, where is it?" I gave her an expectant look, my gaze having first travelled to her empty hands.

"Where's what?" She looked across at Alice who was now at the cash till with her customers, bagging up one of the new pairs of jeans we'd unpacked that morning and a pink tunic.

"Tinsel," Alice called cheerily. For a split second, I thought I saw a flicker of consternation in Roxy's expression. "Purple tinsel, of course."

Was it my imagination or had Alice just put a lot of emphasis on the word 'purple'?

"Oh!" Roxy's face cleared. "Yes!" She shot me a theatrical grimace. "Couldn't find any. No one seems to have it, can you believe that?"

I could, actually. This was Stow Newton after all, hardly the shopping capital of middle England. "So you didn't buy any tinsel at all then?" I looked down into the box at the assortment of tangled strands. "Some more red might've been nice."

"More?" She grinned, taking off her coat. "It's nearly all red, Sam. I know it's your favourite colour but a little bit of variety wouldn't go amiss."

It was my turn to grimace at her. "Variety like red and purple? Not exactly a classic combi, Rox."

"No," she admitted curtly, her gaze meeting Alice's as the older woman escorted her satisfied clients to the door. "How did it go with your Mum and Dad, anyway?"

"Not good," Alice responded for me once they'd left, pushing the door closed behind them. "Which is why she's taking the afternoon off."

"Alice!"

"Good idea," Roxy agreed. "Get your packing finished."

"I haven't got much packing to do!"

Neither of them seemed to be listening. It was a conspiracy, I realised. The decision to send me home had clearly been made in my absence and there didn't seem to be a thing I could say to change their minds. "Still a bit wet," Alice said, producing my coat with an apologetic tut and holding it out so I could push my arms into the sleeves. "I'll run you home in the car so you don't get even wetter. You'll be okay on your own for a few minutes, won't you Rox?"

"Of course. But first..." Roxy threw me a smile over her shoulder as she jogged across to the changing rooms then pulled back one of the gold curtains with a flourish. "Da da!"

"Oh!" I gasped as a multi-coloured bunch of helium-filled balloons sprang forward, bobbing energetically and straining against the counterweight of a teddy bear perched on a stool, the strings secured parachute-like to the straps over his little arms and legs. "What's all this?" I found myself moving nearer, the words on the balloons jumping out at me now. We'll miss you! Sorry you're leaving! Good luck! Fresh tears welled up in my eyes. "No! You shouldn't have!"

"We were going to get you flowers," I heard Roxy say.

"But that seemed daft," Alice chipped in. "Because you're leaving tomorrow. You wouldn't get the pleasure from them, would you? So we thought—"

"Balloons!" Roxy finished gleefully. "And hey, you can take the teddy with you, 'cos he's only little, isn't he? He'll fit in your suitcase. And when you look at him, you can think of us, stuck here in boring old Stow Newton while you're—you're..."

"Having a fantastic time," Alice said at once, her arm coming around my shoulders. She gave me a squeeze when I leaned into her, brushing her lips against my hair. "But we really are going to miss you, don't you have any doubt about that. It's not going to be the same around here without you."

'Oh God." I blinked hard, overwhelmed. "I'm going to miss you too. In fact, you know," I managed a smile, "maybe I won't go. Yeah, p'raps I'll stay here with you after all."

"No!" Roxy exclaimed. She put her arm around my other side. "Don't you dare! You've got to go! You're going to have an amazing time, do you hear me? And besides." She shot me a meaningful look. "I need you to big me up to Marco's Dad when you meet him. Get me an internship at Salvani next summer."

"Rox, I probably won't even see Marco's Dad," I protested, half-laughing now. "But yes, all right!" I added, relenting as she pulled a disappointed face. "If I see him, I'll tell him how wonderful you are, okay?"

"Good," she said, nodding solemnly. Then she grinned, hugging me again. "Aw, come on, boss. Everything's going to be all right, isn't it, Alice?"

"Yeah, 'course it is," I said, forcing a smile as Alice asserted her agreement and hugged me fiercely in turn. And then I looked at the balloons again and found myself smiling for real. "Oh. Purple tinsel."

There was a slight pause.

"I know!" Roxy gave a dramatic moan. "Alice, as if!"

"Well, what was I supposed to say?" Alice said. She sounded miffed. "I'm not used to making up cover stories, am I? I don't do subterfuge. Smoke and mirrors."

"Yes, but tinsel? And purple tinsel? Why not gold, or green or...?"

Grinning as they continued to bicker behind me, I knelt in front of my 'bouquet' and stretched out a hand to stroke the teddy bear's soft brown fur. So cute, I thought as I fingered the tiny pair of blue dungarees he was wearing, enormously touched Alice and Roxy had gone to so much trouble.

I was going to miss them both so much.

That now familiar hurt burned in my chest. Oh God, was I doing the right thing? Was I even strong enough to do this? Strong enough to leave everything and everyone I loved behind?

I took a deep breath. Of course I was. And anyway, it was much too late to back out now.

Funny then, how the words 'it's not too late' kept whirling around my head.

The next morning, sitting halfway up the stairs, I peered down through the gloom at my suitcase, parked neatly beside my overnight bag in the hallway. In the end, it had taken me less than half an hour to pack, just as I'd known it would. I'd be travelling light. A few pairs of jeans, an assortment of tops... Well, they were the only clothes I possessed, other than a certain red dress, of course. I'd always used to love clothes. Like Roxy, I used to make my own, but in recent years, I'd somehow got out of the habit of making anything nice for myself. Besides, I'd had no need of a more extensive wardrobe. I wasn't sure of the dress code at Maretti but if I was expected to be suited and booted then I'd just have to go shopping, wouldn't I? It might provide a means of bonding with my new colleagues.

I winced at the thought, shifting slightly in an attempt to relieve the numbness in my left buttock. It occurred to me I should probably move but somehow, I couldn't summon the will. There was nothing left to do. There hadn't been since five o'clock yesterday afternoon. And now it was... I glanced down at the handset in my hand before remembering I was wearing a watch for once, the one Marco had given me. Both phone and watch were in agreement. It was seven forty. Still twenty minutes to go before the taxi arrived.

Which meant there was time.

Sucking in a deep breath, I brought the phone up in front of me and tapped a button to bring up the directory. There it was, his name at the very top of the list, above Mum & Dad, above Shop, above Alice, testimony to the fact that until ten days ago, his number was the one I'd phoned the most. Could I really leave the country without calling him one last time, even though he hadn't been in touch with me?

Though to be fair, maybe he'd tried. After much deliberation, I'd unplugged the landline last night, half-fearful my parents would call, half-fearful they wouldn't. And I'd let the battery in my mobile phone go flat days ago without reading so much as a single text message or listening to any voicemail. My mobile wasn't coming with me, that much I'd decided. If I needed a phone in Italy, Marco could get me fixed up with a pay-as-you-go type contract. It would probably work out cheaper anyway.

Drew. If I pressed that key, would it make things better or worse? Would I find the right words? Could I explain without explaining, excuse myself without making an excuse, convey just how much I was going to miss him without giving myself away?

Or—and this was a radical thought—could I simply tell him the truth?

I hit the button and raised the phone to my ear, closing my eyes as I rested my cheek against the wall, not knowing what I was going to say, only that I was going to say something. Anything. It didn't matter what, did it? I'd made a big enough fool of myself already, I decided, as the number connected and rang out for the first time then a second. I couldn't sound any more foolish if I tried.

Ring, ring.

And if I could clear the air, have a stab at putting things right, make light of my stupidity, hell. Maybe we could even laugh about it all one day.

Ring, ring.

Or not. When it rang out for a seventh time I straightened up, my pulse slowing, the cold wash of disappointment chasing the adrenalin from my veins. He wasn't going to answer, was he? Was he asleep, sleeping so deeply he couldn't hear the phone, even though I knew he had a phone right by his bed? Was he ignoring the sound because he knew it would be me?

No. He wasn't answering because he wasn't home.

I stabbed at 'End Call', biting my lip in a desperate attempt to hold myself together. Of course he wasn't home. He'd be with Angie at her place. In her bed, his body curled around hers, their naked limbs tangled together...

Blinking the image away, I rose to my feet and stumbled down the stairs, my legs stiff and uncooperative after sitting in the chill for so long. I could check everything one last time even though I'd already checked three times. Check that the back door was locked and deadbolted, that all the windows were firmly closed, that the taps weren't dripping, that the cooker was switched off at the socket, that the fridge really was empty, that the thermostat for the central heating had been left at a suitable temperature—Alice had cautioned against turning the whole system off. "Not in winter, silly. That's asking for trouble."

Not that I needed to worry about anything. She'd taken the spare key when she dropped me off the day before, promising to call in twice a week to make sure all was well and to pick up the post.

Three months. It didn't sound long but it was finally sinking in just how long it was. In three months it'd be March. The worst of the winter would be over, the daffodils in bloom. And by then, like the seasons, maybe I too would be changed. A stronger, more confident Sam, with new skills and abilities. Well, a girl could dare to dream.

By the time I'd worked my way around the house, it was five to eight. And right on time, after I'd made one last trip to the bathroom and was heading back towards the stairs, I heard a car draw up outside.

But when I pulled the door open, suitcase already in hand, I stared in open-mouthed astonishment. Because instead of the black cab I'd been expecting, there on my driveway stood a dark blue Volvo estate.

My father's car.

"Dad," I faltered as he climbed out, my voice a startled croak. "What—what are you doing here? I'm waiting for a taxi. It'll be here in a minute."

"I know. I'm not planning on holding you up."

I watched him walk towards me, my heart beginning to hammer in my chest as I realised he was alone. Oh God, he had to come just as I was about to leave? When he'd had all yesterday afternoon and evening to re-establish contact? "But this really isn't a good time, Dad. I'm sorry." I dug my fingernails into my palm, my eyes prickling ominously. "I can't do this. Not now."

He slowed to a halt in front of me, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Even through a blur of tears, I could see he looked shattered. Older somehow. And yet for all that, there was a hopefulness in his expression I hadn't seen for years. "I was wondering if you'd let me take you to the airport. So we can... You know. Talk."

"I've booked a taxi," I whispered automatically.

He nodded. "It's okay. I can deal with that when it comes. Let me take you, Sam. Please? There're some things I need to tell you. Things I need to say."

I gazed at him for a moment, dimly aware of a flare of headlights at the end of the cul-de-sac, the familiar chug of a diesel engine. "What if I don't want to hear them?"

Shock zinged down my spine. I'd spoken those words aloud?

"Then I won't say anything." To his credit, my father almost managed to conceal the heartache in his tone. Almost. "We don't have to talk. I'll just drive you to the airport. Make sure you get there safely. Sam..." He looked over his shoulder at the approaching cab. "I can't make things up to you. It'd be stupid to even try. But I do want you to know I never stopped caring. Never stopped loving you. Haven't always done a great job of showing you that, I know, but..." And then he swore under his breath.

Another jolt of electricity rippled through me. I'd never heard him swear. "Oh God, I know that, Dad. I love you too."

He turned back around, his eyes suspiciously bright. "You'll let me take you, then?"

I hesitated. "But it's Paul's birthday today. Surely...?"

"No." He shook his head "It would've been his birthday," he corrected. "But it isn't. And I've talked about it to your Mum—I mean, we've talked about it—and we've agreed not to do the birthday thing anymore. 'Cause it's not..." It was his turn to hesitate. "Well, it's not helpful, is it?"

"She actually agreed?" I stared at him. "But—"

"She's not alone, don't worry. Mrs Jenkins—you remember, the woman who lives next door?—said she'd be happy to stay with her, share some lunch. So please, Sam? Let me do this?"

I swallowed. "I—give me a moment?" And after putting down my suitcase, I darted down the driveway to the taxi and motioned to the driver to wind down his window.

"Well, good morning Miss Chesterton Close," he said with a grin. "We meet again."

Joe. "You're the only cabbie in Stow Newton, right?" I said once I'd recovered. "Is that it?"

His grin broadened. "Heard the address, couldn't resist taking the fare." He threw a glance at my father who was making his way towards us. "Don't tell me you've got more man trouble?"

"Ha ha. He's my Dad." I bit my lip. "And he's just offered to take me to Stansted."

"Right." Joe's smile wavered. "I see."

"And I feel really bad about sending you away but I—"

Before I could finish, my father gently elbowed me aside. I watched in startled—and grateful—astonishment as he peeled a couple of notes from his wallet and pressed them into Joe's hand. And then a newly smiling Joe was reversing back off the drive, his arm raised in a gesture of farewell and in a matter of seconds, Dad and I were alone again.

"Right then," he said simply. "Let's get you to that plane."

"Ladies and gentlemen, as we start our descent, please make sure your seat backs and tray tables are in their full upright position. Make sure your seatbelt is securely fastened..."

Descent? Startled, I opened my eyes and looked around to discover many of my fellow travellers fumbling with seat controls and seatbelts. But we couldn't be landing already, could we? I'd only flicked through about five pages of the glossy magazine I'd picked up in WHSmith at Stansted—no way had we been in the air long enough.

I checked my watch. Apparently, we had been in the air long enough. More than an hour had passed since I'd last looked at the time. Just to be certain, I looked towards the window, and as luck would have it, a gap in the clouds allowed me to snatch a glimpse of buildings below. Which meant that somehow, I must've dozed off before I had a chance to read—I stared down at the magazine spread across my lap—99 Ways To Please Your Lover Tonight. Me, who never slept on aeroplanes. Though I probably shouldn't have been surprised. When, after all, had I last had a decent night's sleep?

"You'll need to put that forward an hour dear, now we're over Italy," a friendly voice said to my left.

"What?" I turned to see a bright-eyed little old lady sitting in the seat next to me and followed her gaze back to my wrist. "Oh, yes. Thank you."

She smiled. "You're welcome. And you know," she added conspiratorially, "I've always had a soft spot for number seven."

As I sent her a startled glance, she tapped at the magazine on my lap.

7 ~ How to give your man the perfect blow job

"It's always been lucky for me, dear. Works a treat," she said, a rather dreamy expression on her face now. "He'll be like putty in your hands."

"Right," I heard myself say faintly. "Er, thanks."

"Feeling better now?" she carried on cheerfully as I grappled with my seatbelt, blushing furiously.

Thanks?

"Only you looked a bit peaky when we got on. You certainly look a lot better than you did."

Oh dear, just how bad had I looked earlier? I managed a brief nod, returned her smile and then, deciding it might be better for my sanity to avoid engaging in any further conversation, made a show of studying the magazine.

Still, it probably wasn't surprising she'd been concerned. I'd felt decidedly rough by the time Dad dropped me off outside Departures. There was no question we needed to have the conversation we'd had, but in the process, I'd had to allow so many long-buried emotions to be dragged back up to the surface.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart."

We'd driven in silence for quite a while, so those first three words, softly spoken, made me jump as much as they might have done had my father bellowed them through a loudhailer.

"Sorry for what?" I said, equally quietly, my heart still pounding.

"Ah, Sam." His fingers clenched on the steering wheel. "Sorry for everything. You name it, I'm sorry. Sorry I let your mother treat you differently to Paul. Sorry your brother got sick. Sorry I let you donate one of your kidneys to him."

"But I wanted to."

"I know." He sighed. "But there's no way we should've let you do it. Well, no way I should've let you do it," he amended after a further moment of consideration. "Your mother was never going to see things rationally. But I should've done."

I chewed my lower lip. "You couldn't have stopped me, Dad."

"I might've managed to persuade you it was a bad idea. But I didn't even try."

"Because it wasn't a bad idea. No one seemed to think it was a bad idea. None of the doctors, anyway. It was supposed to be straightforward."

"Well, they were wrong." He shot me a sidelong glance, his expression pained. "It was about as un-straightforward as you could get. And all this time..." He drew in a deep breath. "All this time, you've felt like it was your fault he died?"

I gazed at him helplessly. Surely the words I'd blurted out yesterday at my parents' house hadn't come as a total surprise to him? "Maybe not my fault, exactly," I said at last. "But you can't tell me that if Mum had been given the choice, she'd have chosen me over Paul?" My voice cracked on his name. "If she could've picked which one of us should live..."

"Sam." I watched a muscle working in his jaw, saw new lines appearing on his brow as he squeezed his eyes closed for a moment. "Oh sweetheart."

"It's not your fault."

"It certainly isn't yours." He shook his head slightly. "But I am to blame for a lot of this. I should've done something years ago. I've let things go on for far too long."

I touched his arm, stricken by his anguished expression. "You did your best."

"Hardly." His lips twisted. "I just kept hoping she'd..."

"Snap out of it?"

I saw the beginnings of a grim smile. "Something like that. I kind of thought when the court case was settled things would start getting back to normal."

I nodded, remembering with a pang how I'd said the same thing to Drew the night of my birthday.

"But I should've realised things wouldn't be that simple. How could they be? How could being awarded a huge lump of cash make up for losing a son?"

I risked a small smile of my own. "Well, you get to go on Caribbean cruises when you retire."

"Oh God, don't remind me." He returned a comical grimace. "Never again."

I frowned. "It wasn't that bad, was it?"

"You have to be joking. It was hell on earth." He shuddered. "Hundreds of people trapped together on a boat, most of them playing at being rich, putting on fake posh accents. Your mother loved it, of course. She got to pretend to be someone completely different. Bragged about her beautiful house, her husband's amazing career." He hesitated. "Her two wonderful children."

"Two?" But I could already guess what was coming next. "You mean, she talked about Paul as if...?"

"As if he was still alive, yes."

I watched him as he gazed out at the road ahead, watched that little muscle twitching in his jaw again, and, not for the first time, wondered how he'd managed to bury his head in the sand for so long.

"Call me stupid," he said at length, after we'd navigated a roundabout and turned on to the motorway, "but I didn't tackle her about it while we were away. I figured..." He sighed again. "I told myself that having a holiday was exactly what she needed and that maybe she just needed to do the play-acting thing one more time, get it out of her system once and for all. 'Course." He released a short, bitter laugh. "I was kidding myself. Again." He threw me a look. "But you already knew that, didn't you?"

I drew in a slow, steadying breath. Prayed to whoever might be listening that when I started to speak, the right words would simply flow out. "Dad..."

"It's all right. You don't need to say it." He reached across to rest his hand on my knee. "I've told her we're going to get some help. And she's agreed we need some. She's finally accepted things can't right themselves on their own. Because after yesterday—after what happened when you came around—"

"I'm sorry." Biting my lip wasn't working any more; tears were escaping from the corners of my eyes and there wasn't a thing I could do to stop them. "Oh God, I'm so—"

"No, Sam." His hand sought mine, his voice gruff. "Don't say sorry again, okay? Not ever. If anyone should say sorry, it's me." He squeezed my fingers. "I've tried so hard not to see what was going on. It was easy enough to do when I was working. I could've retired a year ago, you know that? They offered me early retirement, the full package. But I didn't want to take it."

I couldn't get rid of the lump in my throat. "Well, we all cope in different ways," I croaked. "Going to work was your way of coping. Pretending Paul's still alive sometimes, that's Mum's way of coping. There's—there's no such thing as normal grief, you know?"

"What about you?" He sent me another sidelong look. "What's your way of coping? You seriously planning on keeping Drew Barnett at arm's length for all eternity?"

I stared at him in open-mouthed astonishment.

"You can't keep him waiting forever, you know."

"It's not—" Why was my throat so dry? "It's not like that."

"Oh, Sam." My father's lips twisted into another wry smile. "It's exactly like that, my girl. I've seen the way he looks at you. Poor boy's got it bad. So have you." He glanced at me again. "Haven't you?"

I'd shaken my head, not daring to meet his gaze. "He's with someone else."

"If he is, it's only because he can't be with you."

I couldn't bring myself to answer, couldn't trust myself to speak. And after several seconds ticked by, my father's hand had found mine again. "Sweetheart, listen to me. You, me, your mother—we've spent so long trying not to talk about things because it hurts. But the truth is, there's one thing we should've all learnt by now. It hurts even more if you don't."

So then I'd confessed all. Found myself telling him everything, giving him all the gory details including some details that, on reflection, a daughter probably shouldn't share with her father. But it had helped to talk, I realised, bending to retrieve my handbag from under the seat as the plane taxied to a halt at the gate. Somehow, having an in depth, no-holds-barred conversation that hadn't skirted any of the difficult issues, but that had instead met them head on was a curiously cathartic experience.

More than that, I reflected as I shuffled off the plane with everyone else and followed the crowd to baggage reclaim, it was like getting a piece of my life back. As a child, I'd spent hours with my Dad, helping him in the garden, watching him build things in the garage, the whole time chatting nineteen to the dozen. How come I'd never realised until now that when Paul died, my relationship with my father, not just my relationship with my mother, had changed?

When had we stopped talking? When had I stopped talking? To think I'd been arrogant enough to believe I'd been dealing with my grief far more effectively than my mother.

"Samantha! Over here, cara!"

My head jerking up at the familiar voice, I scanned the faces of the people around me in the Arrivals Hall, spotting my new employer a mere second before he wrapped me up in an exuberant hug. "Hi!" I gasped, laughing as he lifted me, suitcase and all, from the ground. "Whoa... Marco!"

Grinning broadly, he set me down, swept my case from my hand then kissed me on both cheeks. "Ciao bella! It's so good to see you again."

"It's only been a week," I reminded him, still breathless. "Anyone would think you haven't seen me for a year."

He held me at arm's length then, his smile fading. "Looks as though it could've been a year," he pronounced, shaking his head. "You've lost weight."

"Have I?" I supposed that for Marco, having spent his formative years surrounded by fashion models, registering the loss of even a few pounds came as second nature. Though maybe he was right. My faithful black jeans were feeling decidedly loose. "Well, that's good, isn't it?" I said lightly, allowing him to thread his arm through mine and lead me across to the exit. "There'll be more room for all that pasta you're going to feed me while I'm here, right?"

"No, not good." He turned his head so I could see his scowl. "It's no good at all. And I... Urgh." To my surprise, he rattled off an unintelligible stream of Italian under his breath.

I narrowed my gaze at him. "Something wrong?"

He squinted back at me then breathed out an extra long sigh. "Yes. And no. But I'll tell you in the car. It's cold out here—the car is warm. Come." And sliding his arm around my waist, he hurried me outside, across the access road and over to a sleek black car parked in a nearby car park.

"So what's up?" I asked anxiously when he slid in beside me at last, having stowed my suitcase safely in the boot. "Are the designs for the new collection not going well? Supplier problems?"

"No, no." He flapped a hand at me, that familiar even-toothed grin back in place. "Everything is fine." I watched with some awe as he pushed a button on the dash and the engine purred into life. If I thought the interior of Drew's Audi was impressive, this was something else. This car was probably worth two of Drew's car. Maybe even three or four, come to think of it.

"Then...?"

"I'm sorry, cara. I can't have you to stay with me at my house just now."

"Oh." My stomach suddenly felt oddly hollow. "O-okay."

"No, Samantha, it's really not okay. The apartment I was going to give to you—there has been a burst water pipe." He raised his hands expressively. "Water everywhere. Through the ceiling, down the walls. Carpets soaked. Furniture soaked. No way you can stay there, no way at all. So I've booked you into a local hotel while I arrange for repairs, all expenses paid."

"Marco," I protested. "You didn't need to do that! I just need a sofa to sleep on for now. Any old sofa, I don't mind."

He frowned. "But I would mind. You come to work for me at my request, to do me a great favour—and I have nowhere suitable for you to sleep? No, of course you must be in a hotel." Then he smiled. "I think you'll like it. It's right in the centre of town. The hotel belongs to my Uncle Alberto. I've asked for you to have one of their best rooms."

"No!"

"Yes, cara." He switched his smile into full persuasive charm mode. "Hey, it's December. It's quiet for the hotel this time of year."

It was clear he wasn't going to be swayed. How ironic. Just weeks earlier, I would've leapt at the chance to stay in a smart hotel—had leapt at the chance, in fact. And now, all I could think about was that I'd be alone. That I'd be on my own in a hotel room, in a strange city, in a foreign country, with only my thoughts and an Italian phrase book for company.

"Well, thank you," I said as brightly as I could manage. "It'll only be for a few days though, right?"

He shrugged, switching on the windscreen wipers as it started to rain. "A week? Perhaps two."

Oh God, two weeks? I turned to look out of the window and pretended to admire the passing scenery, not that there was much scenery to admire. To my horror, we already appeared to be approaching the outskirts of the city but it was only mid-afternoon, even factoring in the extra hour. Did he intend to drop me off at the hotel and leave me to my own devices for the rest of the day?

"I've been thinking, though. It seems to me you could do with a little holiday. A paid holiday, of course," he added as I turned back to look at him, wide-eyed. "Just for a few days, eh? You can explore the city. Maybe visit Venezia?"

"What? No!" I gasped, finding my voice again. "That's very kind but I've come here to work. I don't need a holiday."

"I disagree." He gave me a long look—a disconcertingly long look, considering he should've been watching the traffic ahead of us. "Look at you. All thin. All pale. And this is before you start working for me? I can just imagine what Alice will say to me if I send you back to her in March, ill and exhausted. What Roxy will say."

"Roxy won't care so long as I manage to get her an internship with your father next summer," I muttered.

Marco laughed. "She wants an internship with Salvani?"

"I know. She sets her sights high, that one. Of course, I told her I probably wouldn't be able—"

"Done."

I stared at him, a choke of laughter leaving my throat. "What?"

He grinned. "I'll arrange it. She's a talented girl, I've already seen that."

"You can arrange it? But—"

"My father and I are getting on better now. I think I've finally managed to make him understand what I want to do with Maretti, how I wanted to build up a business of my own. But I've promised him I'll start taking on more responsibility at Salvani in the coming year. So I can arrange an internship, no problem. But on one condition, cara." He met my gaze, his dark eyes boring into mine, his tone serious. "You agree to take a few days off before you begin working for me. Otherwise..." He made a slashing movement with his hand. "No deal."

"Marco!" But I knew I was beaten. Marco wasn't in the habit of making promises he couldn't keep. I had no doubt at all he'd follow through with his offer if I agreed to the conditions—and how could I deny Roxy the opportunity of a lifetime? I sighed. "Three days."

"As a starting point for negotiation." His triumphant smile broadened when I grimaced at him. "Ah Samantha, you might even enjoy it. When did you last take some time for yourself?"

I didn't answer him, just as I hadn't answered Alice when she asked the same question. Instead, I listened in resignation as he reeled off a list of all the sights I should see, at the same time doing my utmost to quash a mounting sense of despair. It probably would be better than I was imagining, I told myself when we turned off the busy ring road and headed into town, Marco gesturing towards the window at intervals, pointing out various local landmarks, most of which I couldn't properly see through the misty gloom. But the weather wouldn't be this bad all the time, would it? And it might be fun to wander the streets, explore ancient churches, to absorb the history and the culture. Drink endless cups of cappuccino whilst people-watching from a café overlooking a piazza.

Alone.

"Here we are."

I looked out through the rain-spattered side window as the car drew to a halt and did a double take. "H-here?"

"Yes, cara. Where else?" He sounded amused.

I stared up at the imposing white-washed building, at its arch-shaped windows, at the flags neatly interspersed between ornate balconies bedecked with greenery. And then, as my gaze came back down, I made out the lettering above the portico. Clocked the five gold stars. "But you said..." I stopped, realising Marco was already out of the car and was retrieving my suitcase. "You said the hotel belonged to your uncle," I accused the moment he opened my door. "This is a Lombardi hotel!"

He grinned. "Yes and it belongs to my mother's brother," he said, a uniformed porter stepping forward to relieve him of my bag. "Well, okay. To my mother's family, to be accurate."

"Your mother's family own the Lombardi hotel chain? The international hotel chain?" My mouth suddenly felt dry. "All of it?"

Laughing now, Marco extended his hand to help me out of the car. "Another secret I've kept from you, huh?" he said as a second porter appeared and opened a large green umbrella above Marco's head. "Sorry, Samantha." He tilted his head in mock-apology. "Now you know everything about me."

I rolled my eyes at him, allowing him to escort me inside. Though it was just as well he was still holding my hand when we entered Reception because if that hadn't been the case, I suspect I might have turned around and bolted. "Marco!"

The circular atrium was a vast expanse of cream and gold-streaked marble, even the pillars lining the main thoroughfare to the front desk glittering in the light cast from a series of enormous crystal chandeliers. In the semi-circles to the left and right were elegant cream leather sofas and glass-topped tables. But most mesmerising of all, right in the centre, was a huge Christmas tree, perfectly decorated with hundreds of glass ornaments and further embellished by what must surely be more than a thousand tiny yellow fairy lights.

Seemingly as much unaffected by this sight as I was entranced, Marco's fingers tightened around mine as he half-led, half-dragged me around the tree towards the desk then commenced a rapid-fire exchange in Italian with one of the reception staff.

"Marco." I tugged at his sleeve as soon as there was a break in proceedings. "This is too much. It's very kind but I really can't stay here."

"Samantha." He raised a finger and pressed it to my lips. "Hush."

"But—"

Grinning, he turned away as the receptionist came back and moments later, I'd been relieved of my passport and given a keycard in exchange. Only then did Marco turn back to me. Resting his hands on my upper arms, he peered down into my face, his expression now unexpectedly solemn. "Okay," he said. "This man here," he indicated to the porter still guarding my suitcase, "will see you to your room. It's on the top floor. I'm assured it has beautiful views over the canal and across the city."

I looked back up at him, unnerved. "You're going? You can't stay for a while?"

He didn't answer, instead continuing to gaze at me as though he was trying to solve a particularly taxing problem. Then he shook his head and smiled. "Call me tomorrow," he said softly, dipping his head to kiss my left cheek and then my right. "But only when you're ready. No hurry."

I watched him stride away. "I'll call you in the morning then, okay?"

But Marco merely glanced back over his shoulder and waved. "Buona serata, bella," he called cheerfully then disappeared from view behind the Christmas tree.

Buona serata. Have a good evening. Right.

I looked at the porter. "Well," I faltered. "Um..."

With an obliging nod, he picked up my suitcase and motioned towards a bank of lifts and, after taking one last hopeful look in the direction of the Christmas tree, I trailed after him across the atrium.

The top floor turned out to be the fourth floor, my room at the very end of a wide, panelled corridor. And after motioning I should hand over my keycard with a deferential "Signorina?" he opened the door and ushered me inside.

After the splendour of the Reception area, I probably shouldn't have been shocked. But my breath hitched as I gazed around the room, taking in the burgundy damask wallpaper, the gold-trimmed mahogany furniture, the dark-framed windows to the front and side sumptuously dressed by heavy burgundy and gold-fringed curtains, the parquet floor...

The huge mahogany four-poster bed.

"Oh dear God," I said faintly, unable to prevent myself from touching the nearest highly-polished turned wood post and staring at the burgundy and gold striped canopy, the matching drapes and damask bedclothes. "This isn't at all over the top."

At the sound of a faint but polite cough, I came back to my senses long enough to appreciate the porter had parked my suitcase on a luggage stand and was now hovering for a tip. I scrabbled in my bag and finally produced five Euros, hoping it was enough. "Grazie."

He took it with a smile, thanked me in return and left.

The silence, after the door clicked closed behind him, was absolute. I was suddenly acutely aware of my heartbeat, of my breathing, of how my knees felt weak and jelly-like. Of how close I was to bursting into tears.

"No," I said, my voice sounding peculiarly loud. "Come on, Sam. Pull yourself together."

Yikes, was I going to turn into one of those people who talked to themselves now, who felt the need to narrate their every move? Was that what a few days of being on my own in a hotel room might do to me? "Please let it only be a few days," I whispered, responding to my own thought and in doing so, compounding the fear I might be going ever so slightly mad. Oh well. "Let's find out what we can see from up here, shall we?"

We?

Feeling my lips twist into a wry smile, I took off my coat and put down my handbag then crossed the room to the closer of the two windows, pulling back the net curtain to discover a canal below, lined by trees and a row of buildings washed in various hues of cream, yellow and pink. Beautiful, even in the pouring rain. From the other window, just as Marco had promised, I could see right out across the historic city, towers and church spires thrown into sharp silhouette against the darkened sky. Later, I thought, I could venture downstairs, ask for a guide to the city and start making plans to explore. Though maybe...

I turned around, my gaze falling on the brochures artfully arranged across the round mahogany breakfast table behind me. Ah. No need to go downstairs then.

I started investigating the room in earnest then, ignoring the bed—I wanted to save that for last—and moving slowly around the ornate furniture, which was considerably more robust than it appeared. I ran my fingertips across the glossy surfaces, pulled out drawers and opened cupboards. I examined the delicate shades of the wall-lights—Murano glass, if I wasn't mistaken—and though I hesitated in front of the large flat-screen television, I decided against re-experiencing the joys of Italian broadcasting, opting instead to study an enormous gold-framed picture of the Rialto Bridge in Venice. Then I came to a huge, three-door mirrored wardrobe.

"Wow," I murmured after taking a few seconds to examine my pallid reflection. "Maybe Marco was right about you needing a holiday. You look like shit, Sam." And with this cheery self-insult I pulled open the left hand door only to find myself face to face with a full-length burgundy bathrobe. "Oh. Fuck."

It occurred to me I shouldn't have been surprised to find it there. This was a five star hotel after all, in a league far above that of the Park in Stow Newton. Of course the Lombardi Treviso supplied complimentary bathrobes. Though the sight of one probably shouldn't have made me want to weep.

I bit my lip, instinctively fingering the luxuriously thick towelling, blinking until the embroidered gold monogram on the breast pocket came back into focus. Then on impulse, I pulled it from the hanger, momentarily surprised to find there wasn't another one hanging behind it—but then I supposed, with another twinge of self-pity, the staff knew the room would have single occupancy—and headed for the door I'd spotted to the right of the four-poster bed.

The bathroom was every bit as impressive as the bedroom, the marble floor gleaming in the light from the spotlights in the ceiling, the walls mosaic-tiled in shades of cream and gold. There were his and hers sinks with gold-coloured fitments, a toilet and a bidet, a large rectangular bath at one end and an equally large walk-in shower at the other.

Torn between which to choose but now keen to wash away the grime of travelling, I hung the robe on the back of the door, stripped off then used the loo while I made up my mind, finally settling on the shower when I padded across to collect a couple of towels from the selection piled up on a rack. The lure of the shower head, approximately the size of a dinner plate, was impossible to resist.

To my surprise though, when I pulled open the screen door it was to find the interior coated with droplets of water, as though it had recently been used. Unsettled, I surveyed the rest of the bathroom again. Everywhere else looked pristine; the sinks, the bath and the mirrors all shone. So maybe the maid hadn't had time to finish wiping out the shower after she cleaned it, I speculated, looking back at the cubicle. It didn't look dirty, just wet. Nothing I could justify complaining about anyway, especially as I wasn't paying for the room. Decision made, I stepped inside, turned on the shower and, the moment the water began to run warm, ducked beneath the spray.

Bliss. There was no other word to describe it, the water thundering over my head at just the right temperature, massaging my shoulders, easing away the tension in my neck and spine. I closed my eyes and simply wallowed in the deluge, only reaching for the shampoo several minutes later. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to be on my own for a few days, I thought, lathering up my hair for a second time. If push came to shove, I could quite happily spend the whole time in the shower. So long as the hot water didn't run out, of course, not that it showed any signs of doing so.

Eventually however, I was forced to conclude it was possible to have too much of a good thing. I grimaced at my wrinkled fingertips once I'd dried myself with the towels then dragged on the enormous bathrobe, sighing with bittersweet pleasure as the soft fabric swamped my bare skin.

But now what? I checked the watch I'd placed safely on top of the clothes I'd piled up on the vanity unit. Half past four. Too late to go out for a walk then. A glance at the window confirmed it was already getting dark and I wasn't sure how safe it would be to potter about the streets on my own. I could unpack my suitcase. That'd take all of five minutes. I could order room service though it seemed a bit early to do that. Still, it couldn't hurt to take a look at the menu, I decided, picking up my clothes and carrying them into the bedroom, especially if it was in Italian and needed translation.

It didn't. After locating the card beside the glossy travel guides on the table, I discovered every item already had its English equivalent listed underneath in italics. Oh well, at least reading the names of the dishes confirmed I wasn't in the least bit hungry, though I probably should have been. I'd had nothing to eat all day except the Danish pastry my father bought me at the airport before my flight. Not that I'd particularly wanted to eat that either but he'd insisted. Maybe he'd thought I was looking a bit thin too.

Entertained by the thought, I wandered back across to the wardrobe and turned sideways. But soon realising it was impossible to discern whether I'd lost weight or not while wearing a bathrobe, I shrugged it off my shoulders and let it fall to the floor.

Hmm, maybe. I pulled a face at myself in the mirror as I twisted this way and that, posing like I'd used to in my bedroom when I was a teenager, the way I'd posed before I acquired the scars criss-crossing my lower torso.

For the first time in ages, I experienced a strong urge to look at them—really look at them. And to my surprise, I had to concede they weren't that bad. Somehow, I realised, splaying my hand across my abdomen and letting my little finger fall into the groove of the biggest scar, they weren't as ugly as I remembered. Not nearly so angry. Perhaps they'd faded over time. Or more likely, I thought with a wry smile, it was a trick of the light, the wall lights providing something better described as a warm glow than illumination.

And it was then I heard it, a sound that made me freeze in place. A sound I instantly recognised, would've recognised anywhere even though I hadn't heard it for more than seven years. A sound that immediately conjured up an image of my brother sitting cross-legged on his bed, cradling his most prized possession and singing at the top of his voice.

The unmistakeable half-twanging, half-squeaking sound of fingers leaving the fretboard of a guitar.

With a gasp, I swung around but there was no one to be seen. Yet there had to be someone there. The noise had been too real. It couldn't possibly have been a figment of my imagination. Unless...

Just how old was the hotel? It couldn't be haunted, could it? But even if it was, the rational part of my brain reasoned as I scanned the room, heart thudding, why on earth would my brother be haunting me there?

Deciding the sound had come from the direction of the bed, I stared at it in terrified silence, at first seeing nothing but the billowing drapes and the canopy. And then all at once I saw the guitar propped up against the pillows. The very same guitar I'd seen in the photograph at my parents' house yesterday, complete with distinctive slash down one side.

"Don't jump."

I screamed, even though that rational part of my mind was again working on the only possible explanation, even though I knew that voice—oh God, knew that voice so well. Screamed until I was swept backwards against a firm warm body and a hand came across my mouth to muffle the sound.

"Sam, stop it," he urged, laughing as I yowled into his palm. "Shut up! Someone'll come to find out who's being murdered in a minute!"

I shut up, pushing against his arms hard enough to find the space to turn around, only for him to crush me to him again. "You?" I wailed, glaring up at him, my pulse still pounding in my ears. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Chapter 10

Drew glared back down at me, the amusement rapidly fading from his expression. "Oh, I could ask you the same thing, Sam Bloom. What the hell are you doing here in Italy? You said you'd told Marco you'd changed your mind about the job. Remember that? So what made you change it back, eh?"

"Drew..."

"You ran away from me. Broke my favourite mug, too."

"I know." I couldn't breathe, could hardly speak for the lump in my throat. "I'm sorry. But I—"

"You owe me two pound fifty for that mug. I bought it from Crowsthorpe market years ago. I really liked that one."

"I'm sorry."

He shook his head. "Not good enough." But then as he continued to glower down at me, I saw his lips twitch. And as I followed the direction of his gaze it was to discover he was staring at the place where my chest met his, the only difference being that his chest was covered and mine was bare.

"Drew!"

With a snort of laughter, he let me go, making a show of averting his gaze as he bent to pick up my robe. "Oh Sam, come on." He kept his head turned away while he wrapped it around my shoulders. "I'm a guy, okay? And you're gorgeous. You can't blame me for—"

"What are you doing here?" I cut him off, backing away from him, my face burning as I yanked the robe around me and fumbled for the belt. Then remembering I'd already asked him that—and that he'd turned the question back on me—I hastily amended, "I mean, why are you here? H-how are you here?"

There was a pause. "You need to give Roxy a pay rise," he said at last.

Something in his tone made me look up, a mixture of wistfulness, amusement and something else I couldn't quite figure out. Until I realised what he'd said.

"Oh God," I breathed, going from hot to cold in a second, my stomach lurching. "Oh—oh no."

"Yeah." He sounded grim now. "She told me to give you this, by the way." Unable to turn away, I watched transfixed as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a length of purple tinsel. "I haven't got a clue why. But she said you'd understand."

I stared as he draped it around one of the bedposts, watching the fibres sparkle and dance in the light. "Oh God," I whispered again. "That's where she was." No wonder Alice had struggled to come up with a plausible excuse for Roxy's absence in the shop yesterday morning. "She came to see you."

"She did." Drew's voice retained that same grim note. "Told me some very interesting things as well."

"Oh God." It seemed to be all I could say. And feeling ridiculously weak at the knees, I hobbled over to the table by the window and collapsed into a chair. "Oh God, I'm sorry."

He didn't move. "But you know the thing I don't get? Why you didn't just ask. Ask me if I was seeing someone else. You know I'd never lie to you, so you've got to know I would've told you. So why didn't you ask me? I don't get it."

I dropped my head into my hands and cringed.

"Or do I?"

"Oh God."

"See, if you'd asked that question, you'd have had to admit something to me, wouldn't you, Sam?" Drew was back in scary lawyer mode. "You'd have had to tell me you looked at the text messages on my phone, wouldn't you? My private, personal text messages."

"I'm sorry," I got out, my voice little more than a squeak as I raised my feet to the front edge of the padded seat and hugged my knees. "I didn't mean to."

"You didn't mean to pick up my phone, go into my inbox and scroll through my messages?"

"No." And then, realising I couldn't very well deny it, I whimpered, "I mean yes, okay? But it wasn't like that."

"It wasn't? Why did you do it then?"

"Oh God." Hugging my knees even more tightly, I pressed my face against them and began to rock. "You—you said you'd got a date. With the new receptionist."

"Which I told you I was going to cancel. And I did."

"I know! But you were getting all these text messages. So many of them. And I brought you your phone 'cos I thought it might be something important. And you looked through them and one of them seemed to make you smile—smile a lot." The words tumbled out in a rush. "And I wanted to know what made you smile like that. Who made you smile like that."

"You're talking about when I was in the bathroom?" He sounded surprised. "You mean when we were at the Park?"

I raised my head. "Of course I mean when we were at..." I trailed off, my eyes widening as I looked at him properly for the first time. "Oh my God." How could I not have noticed before? "There were two bathrobes in the wardrobe. You're wearing the other one!"

Drew glanced down at himself, tucking his thumbs into the lapels of his own burgundy gown. "Yes," he said drily. "Well spotted, Sherlock. But I fail to see what that's got to do with—"

"You're wearing a bathrobe." I shook my head, unable to make any sense of this new discovery. "H-how? When did you change into it? How could you have—?"

"Oh no. Don't try to change the subject, Miss Bloom."

"What? I'm not trying to change the subject!"

"Talk me through why you read my text messages, Sam." He tilted his head on one side, considering me with narrowed eyes. "What was going through your mind when you took that decision to invade my privacy?"

"Drew!" I stared at him helplessly, at a loss as to whether he was angry or amused. Yes, he'd just called me 'Miss Bloom', something he'd done hundreds of times before in play-fights. But he'd never looked at me the way he was looking at me right now. "I told you, it wasn't like that!"

"Then tell me how it was."

"You..." I swallowed, desperately trying to work some moisture back into my mouth. "You'd just told me you were supposed to be going on a date that evening. And when you told me about her, you were reading one of your messages and you were smiling. So I thought—I assumed the message must be from her. And you were finishing off in the bathroom and I'd still got your phone and I—I wanted to see why you smiled. I know I shouldn't have done it, okay? I don't know why I did." But as my eyes welled with tears, I dropped my gaze.

Because I did know, didn't I?

"And there was a message there from someone called Angie and it said..." I drew in a shaky breath. "It said—"

"Catch."

"What?" But before I could do any more than look up, I realised something was hurtling through the air towards me. The fact I caught it had more to do with the accuracy of Drew's aim than any reflex action on my part. I looked down to discover I was clutching his mobile phone.

"You need to know that there's absolutely nothing on that thing that I don't want you to see. There never has been and there never will be."

A tear rolled down my cheek. "That's not the point, though. I shouldn't have looked."

"No." Drew's tone softened. "But the real point is, I should've told you about Angie."

"What?" My chin jerked up then. "No! You don't have to tell me everything! You've got a right to keep some things to yourself and if you don't want to tell me stuff then you shouldn't need to. It shouldn't be any of my business who you're seeing, who you're going out with. Like Kayleigh." I took a chance on meeting his gaze. "I didn't need to know you weren't really going out with her, did I? Because it was none of my business."

He winced. "Roxy told you? Sam, I'm sorry. But I didn't tell you because—"

"Because it was none of my business. Because there was no reason in the world why you should tell me."

"No, Sam." He sighed. "Because I couldn't tell you. Given the circumstances, the fewer people who knew what was really going on, the better. It was a dangerous situation to be in. Pretty stupid too in hindsight but it seemed a good idea at the time. And luckily for Kayleigh, it all worked out in the end."

I shook my head. "It was none of my business."

"Actually, it was. Is." Drew's tone was gentle again. "Which is why I should've told you about Angie. I did get quite close to telling you a couple of times, but..."

Sensing motion, I looked up to see he was walking away from me. And when he moved around the four-poster to pick up the guitar, I felt a reluctant smile tug at the corners of my mouth. "What are you going to do? Tell me in song?" I asked, not bothering to hide my sarcasm as he perched on the wide padded stool at the foot of the bed and slung the strap of the guitar over his shoulder. "The Ballad of Angie and Drew?"

He shot me an unexpected grin. "That's not a bad idea, actually," he said, striking a chord before singing:

There once was a wanker called Andrew

I gave an involuntary snort and his grin widened.

Who didn't know wh-at to do

He wanted to learn how to play guitar

Some lessons were well overdue

"Too bloody true," I interrupted. "What the hell are you doing with my brother's guitar, anyway?"

He struck another series of chords then paused. "You know," he said, giving me a speculative look, "you should probably know that the way you're sitting right now, with your knees up like that, I can see right up your..."

I let out a little gasp as he whistled, immediately dropping my feet down from the chair to the floor and gathering the bathrobe around my legs.

"Not that I haven't seen it all before, of course," he continued cheerfully, starting to strum again. "And let's face it, you were putting on quite a show before. You're going to kill me, you know that, Sam Bloom? There's me, doing everything I can to stay quiet so you don't know I'm here, and there's you, prancing around naked in front of the mirror. You've lost weight, by the way."

I felt my mouth drop open, my cheeks flushing even hotter. "You were watching me? You were here the whole time? But," I took a glance around the room, "where were you? How did you...?"

He grinned. "I honestly don't know how you didn't see me. I swear you looked straight at me at one point. I kind of half hid behind the curtains," he nodded towards the drapes at the head of the bed, "but they didn't quite do the job."

"And you had a shower!" I accused, a piece of the puzzle dropping into place. "Didn't you? That's why the shower was all wet. That's why you're wearing that robe. Then how long...?" I watched as his fingers skated across the strings of Paul's guitar, my head aching as I tried to find homes for the rest of the jumbled pieces. "How long have you been here?"

"Since about twelve thirty. Well, I had to do something to pass the time, didn't I? I couldn't exactly unpack." He pulled a face at me. "You'd have noticed all my stuff straightaway. As it was, I thought you might see my bag under the bed. It seemed the safest place to stash it and given the way you went through all the drawers and cupboards earlier, I guess it was. But isn't that shower fan-bloody-tastic? Don't know about you, but I could've stayed in there for—"

"Wait." I stumbled to my feet, increasingly fascinated by the effortless way his fingers were moving across the fretboard, finally hearing the complicated riff he was playing. Flawlessly. "You—you can't play the guitar."

Drew smiled up at me as I ventured a little nearer. "That's harsh. I think I'm a lot better than I used to be."

"No, I mean..." I shook my head, confused. "You're good. Too good."

He sent me another smile. "You remember Paul and I both used to have lessons years ago? Not that it did me any good, but back then I couldn't see the point of practising, could I?"

"With..." I frowned, knowing I should be able to remember the teacher's name. My brother had carried on having lessons with her well into his teens. "Mrs Sherborne?"

"That's right," he agreed, picking out another riff. "Well, I looked her up about a year ago to find out if she was still teaching. Figured if she'd got the patience to teach ten year olds, she might be able to teach me to play a few chords now. 'Cos I kept seeing Paul's guitar every time I opened the cupboard over the stairs and... I don't know, it just seemed wrong that no one was playing it."

"You've had his guitar all this time?" I wondered whether my mother had any idea. Since his death, she'd jealously guarded my brother's possessions, refusing to part with any of them.

Though he nodded, he didn't quite meet my gaze. "He gave it to me to look after, the day before the operation. He was a bit worried your Mum might do something stupid. You know how she hated it being all scratched, kept going on about how everybody else must think she and your Dad were too tight-fisted to get him a new one?"

I remembered only too well. And Paul had good reason to be worried. Knowing Mum, she'd have thrown it out and bought him something brash and shiny as a recuperation present. But he'd loved his battle-scarred second hand Fender, saying nothing could beat the tone. "And Mrs Sherborne, you found her? You've been having lessons with her then?"

"Yeah. I didn't think she'd remember me. I was just a kid the last time she saw me. But she did. Seemed really happy to hear from me too. God knows why, 'cos I must have been her worst pupil ever. Still." He grinned. "Maybe that's why she remembered me. Anyway, we fixed up a time and it all went from there, really."

"Right. Well, that's—that's good." I cast my mind back over the times I'd gone with Dad to her house to pick up Paul after a lesson, remembering a plump-ish jolly lady with curly black hair. I'd liked her.

"It has been good." But there was an odd note to his voice. "You see, it's been more than just lessons. Because, well. You see..."

I watched him, feeling more unsettled than ever. It wasn't like Drew to stumble over words. And then, something clicked in my head. I could see the cheques my father had written out to pay for Paul's lessons. The name of the payee.

"Oh my God!" I burst out. "Mrs Sherborne—Angela Sherborne? Angie is Mrs Sherborne?"

"Yes." His brow furrowed. "Of course. I thought you—"

"You've been having an affair with Mrs Sherborne?"

Drew fired me a searching glance. Then with an air of resignation, he began sliding the guitar strap from his shoulder.

"Oh God! That's what's been going on?" I watched in disbelief as he calmly rose to his feet and carried the guitar to the wardrobe, placing it inside. "That's why she sent you those messages?"

"Sam..."

"That's why she called you 'Magic Fingers'?"

Heaving a sigh, Drew closed the wardrobe door. "You got me," he said, in the manner of someone who'd been caught stealing. "And my word, it's been torrid, let me tell you. Red hot passion all the way."

"But..." Even without the sarcasm in his tone, I could tell from the glint in his eyes he was mocking me. "She called you 'Big Boy'!"

"Well." He gave me a salacious look, steadily closing the space between us. "Of course she did. You should know."

"Drew!"

"Ah Sam, I can't deny it," he said solemnly. "We just had this spark from day one. Right from the moment she opened the door when I went to her house for my first lesson and she said—" he adopted a falsetto "—'Drew Barnett? No... But you're such a big boy!'" His voice dropping back to its normal pitch, he added with a grin, "Now that's what I call an ice breaker. We both fell about laughing. And naturally," his grin widened, "I haven't let her forget it since."

I bet he hadn't. I was already getting the sinking feeling he wouldn't let me forget what I'd just said, either. "But you said it was more than lessons," I said weakly as he caught my hand and started to unpeel my fingers from the phone I was still clutching.

"It was." He put the phone down on the table behind me but didn't let me go, instead letting his hand fall into mine. "Much more. In fact," his expression turned thoughtful as he gazed down at me, "you could probably call it therapy."

All at once I was hyperaware of his skin against mine, of a tingling sensation that extended far beyond my fingers, shooting through my wrist and up my arm. "Oh?" I whispered, even as I realised he was now so near, I could feel the warmth exuding from the rest of his body.

He nodded. And then, still holding my hand, he lifted his other hand and grazed his knuckles against my cheek, gently brushing back my damp hair. "You know," he said softly as I started tingling there—started tingling everywhere, "you've never asked me why I left London three years ago. Not once."

I stared at him, conscious of having that 'not really there' dream-like feeling, as though somehow it wasn't really me standing in front of him. "I thought you didn't want to talk about it," I heard myself say. "I figured if you wanted to tell me, you'd tell me. Because sometimes, there are things you don't want to talk about with anyone, aren't there?"

That's how I'd felt of course, I recognised with a blinding flash of self-insight. Me, who'd mastered the art of not talking about things.

He smiled. "I loved that you didn't ask me," he confessed. "And yet at the same time, I really wanted you to."

I trembled as he caressed my cheek again, closing my eyes as his fingers slipped into my hair. "You did?"

"Yeah." He brushed his lips against my forehead. "Although it's probably just as well you didn't. Spending time with you, just being myself, getting back to feeling like me again—it's probably what I needed more than anything."

I opened my eyes to find him inches away, his brown eyes so very dark, so very close to mine. "Tell me?"

He kissed me again, my nose this time, then let out a slow breath. "Some people might call it executive burnout," he said at last, the note in his voice letting me know he wasn't entirely convinced. "And looking back on it, I should've seen it coming a mile off. Those last couple of years at Uni, I worked my socks off to get my degree, to get that First and then to get my LPC. Not because I wanted to work that hard but because..." He paused, his lips twisting. "Because I had to. Because it was the only thing I knew how to do. The only thing that made any sense."

I had to blink hard. "Because of Paul."

Drew nodded. "Because of Paul, yeah. Because he shouldn't have died. Because he was only twenty and I was so fucking mad at the world. Mad at God. Because," his smile was again wry, "we men don't do talking about our feelings, do we? Don't go in for any of that namby-pamby stuff. Nah, we push on with things, get on with stuff, act like nothing ever happened. Work right on through it."

"Drew..."

Moving nearer, he kissed away the tears I couldn't hold back any longer, the tender gesture only making me want to cry even more. "And then of course," he said softly, "things got worse. I got the training contract in London, didn't I? I was in the office before six in the morning and I was usually still there at nine at night. That's if we didn't have to pull all-nighters, which seemed to happen all the time. Doing endless researching, endlessly drafting documents, performing due diligence, the whole time under massive pressure to bill clients for more and more hours. I drank gallons of black coffee, hardly slept—and even when I did, I just dreamed about it all. It never stopped." Drew sounded uncharacteristically weary. "Still, I did it. I did it for more than two years."

"But Alice always said you were happy." I felt a dull ache in my chest at the idea of him being miserable. "Whenever she spoke to you on the phone, she said it sounded like you were loving it. Having a ball."

"Because that's what I told her. And—I know this is going to sound weird—but I think I thought I was having a ball. I didn't have time to think about it. Everything seemed to go at a million miles an hour. There were times when I didn't even know what day it was, let alone whether I was happy. I just kept going and going and going, until..." He stopped, his lips twisting again.

"Until what?"

"Until Alice got narked when I'd phoned to tell her I wouldn't be coming home for Christmas."

"Alice?"

But now, I could clearly recall the day she'd come into the shop a picture of aggrieved indignation. "He can't even come to see me for a couple of hours," she'd complained bitterly. "I'm the only family he's got in this country and he can't make time for a cup of tea and a slice of Christmas cake?"

And then I remembered how she'd muttered something about Mohammed and mountains. Remembered her declaring she'd just have to visit him instead, whether he liked it or not.

"She turned up out of the blue on Christmas Eve," Drew said. "Didn't tell me she was coming. When the doorbell rang, I thought it was the pizza guy. But it wasn't, of course. And when she saw the state of me, saw the state of my flat..." He smiled ruefully. "I think she might've toyed with the idea of getting me sectioned under the Mental Health Act."

"That bad?"

"I hadn't shaved in about a fortnight. Hell, I probably hadn't washed for a couple of days, maybe more. Plus I'd just downed the best part of a bottle of Jack Daniels. And the flat, yeah, well. Bombsite." He shot me a sudden grin. "Best let Alice tell you about that."

"So... She persuaded you to come back?" I found myself wondering how I'd never made the connection before. Only weeks into the New Year, Drew had returned to Stow Newton, found himself a new job in Oxford and put in an offer to buy 22 Montague Street.

He pulled a comical grimace. "Not sure 'persuaded' is the right word. You've experienced one of Alice's 'I'm saying this for your own good' speeches, right?" He grinned again when I nodded. "Then you can probably guess how it went. Actually, in all seriousness, I'm not sure what might have happened if she hadn't turned up when she did."

I wasn't sure I wanted to think about it.

"And of course, once I started to think about it, what she said made a whole lot of sense. Stow Newton—okay, it's hardly the centre of the universe but it's home. It's where I grew up. Where I know everyone." He brushed his fingers over my cheek again. "Where you were. Although," he continued, just as that delicious tingling started all over again, "when I told Alice I was looking forward to spending time with you again, she nearly blew a gasket. 'Don't even think about doing any more than that!'" he said, in a near-perfect imitation of his aunt. "'That poor girl's heart is fragile enough without you trampling all over it!'" I'd just started to smile when he added, still in character, "'Besides, she's with a very nice young man at the moment'."

"Tim Cosby?" I spluttered, after taking a second to figure out whom she'd meant. "'Nice young man'? He was forever trying to put his hand down my pants!"

Drew scowled. "Yeah, well. I wish I'd known back then he didn't get any further than that."

I studied his expression. "Oh my God," I breathed, light dawning. "You were jealous?"

His scowl deepened. "Of course I was bloody jealous. Okay, it wasn't just the thought of Alice yelling at me that stopped me from making a move on you. I couldn't let myself feel that way about you back then. You were Paul's kid sister, for heaven's sake. It would've been too..." He hesitated. "It didn't feel like it was something I should do. Doesn't mean I wanted to see you with anyone else though—especially not a wanker like Tim." Then he smiled. "But Sam, you know I've always loved you. I told you, remember? Made quite a point of telling you, if I recall."

I felt the blush start somewhere in the middle of my stomach, the heat blossoming outwards until I felt hot all over. "But you called me 'kiddo'," I muttered, no longer daring to meet his gaze, instead staring fixedly at the top of the bedpost behind him.

"What?" He gave a startled laugh.

"That's—that's why I wasn't sure." Oh God, did it have to be this difficult? No wonder I'd avoided talking about my feelings for so long. "That's why—why I ran."

"That's why you took off that night?" As I buried my face into his shoulder I could practically hear the cogs turning in Drew's brain. "You broke my favourite mug because I called you 'kiddo'?"

"No. Yes, sort of!" My voice was muffled against his robe. "I thought maybe you meant you'd always loved me as a friend. Like a sister."

"A sister? After what we did? You think I'd do that to my—"

"I kn-o-ow!" I wailed, squeezing my eyes tightly shut. "But you had another text from Angie and it said—it said..."

"You read another one?"

"I didn't mean to! I just wanted to check that I'd read the first one right but then another one came and it was from her and..." I winced in shame. "I mean, I know now that it wasn't what it looked like, but I thought—I thought..."

I felt Drew's hand on the back of my head, his fingers tangling into my hair. "You know," he said eventually, "it's ironic. 'Cos you want to know what I spent the whole evening talking to Angie about—the whole bloody evening?" And grasping a handful of my hair, he none-too-gently tugged my head from his shoulder.

"You," he said, looking straight into my eyes. "How much I loved you, how much I wanted to be with you—but how you kept insisting things had to go back to the way they were. That we had to stay friends and nothing could change. And all the while," he raised his gaze briefly to the ceiling, "I kept picturing you with Marco Maretti, wondering what the hell he was doing. Whether he was trying to make a move on you. It was killing me."

I moistened my lips nervously. "He did try to kiss me."

"I know." To my astonishment, Drew grinned. "He told me." And as I stared he continued, "While we were in the car today. He picked me up from Marco Polo Airport earlier. The poor bloke's spent the whole day chauffeuring you and me around. And I take it all back, okay? He's actually a really good bloke. Spent fifteen minutes doing an 'Alice' on me though, telling me how if I ever hurt you, if I ever let you down, I'd have to answer to him. And frankly," Drew's grin became crooked, "I was a little bit scared by the end. I mean, the guy's Italian, his family's loaded. He's probably got links to the Mafia."

"Marco was in on it all? You mean..." I experienced another light bulb moment. "There wasn't a water leak at his house?"

Drew shook his head, still looking amused. "Nope. That was Roxy's idea. She was on a bit of a roll by then. She was the one who got us all organised, rang around, found me a flight. Marco's dead impressed by her, by the way. If she takes that internship, don't be too surprised if she doesn't ever come back."

Roxy's internship. It'd been a done deal even before Marco made me promise to take a holiday. Typical. "And Angie...?"

His eyes softened. "Angie's been a really good friend. She's really looking forward to meeting you again sometime. We've talked about me bringing you over for a while, but..." He smiled. "I didn't want to tell you I was learning to play the guitar. To start with, I wasn't sure if I'd ever be any good and I figured if no one else knew what I was doing I could pootle along at my own pace, no pressure. And then, when I realised I was getting better, I thought it'd be a laugh to surprise you one day. But of course by then, going round to see Angie was much more than going round for a lesson. We'd spend half an hour playing guitar—and an a hour and a half chatting."

"What about?"

"Everything. Anything." He caressed my cheek before adding, almost apologetically. "Paul."

Of course. I gazed at him helplessly, my vision blurring. All this time, all these years, he'd needed someone to talk to. But I hadn't been that someone because I couldn't be that someone. The realisation was crushing. "Drew..."

Shaking his head, he gently touched the tip of one finger to my mouth. "You see, I still hadn't dealt with anything. Sure, I came home, started working in an office where people were sane and actually had lives outside work. I caught up with old friends, started socialising again, started going down the pub. But no one really mentioned Paul. And if his name did happen to come up someone would change the subject in three seconds flat. Usually me." He grimaced. "So stop looking at me like that, 'cos I didn't want to talk about him anymore than you did."

"But Angie did?"

"She made me." He pulled another face. "You see, what I didn't know at first is that she isn't just a music teacher. She's done quite a bit of counselling over the years and apparently it really worried her that I wouldn't talk about Paul. So she kept trying to get me to talk, always talking about him, telling me little anecdotes about the time he did this and the time he did that. Until in the end, I yelled at her to back off. Which," he looked decidedly sheepish now, "was pretty embarrassing and left me feeling like I could bawl like a baby." And then he laughed. "Ah, sod it. I did bawl, okay?"

I bit my lower lip, perilously close to bawling myself. "Welcome to my world," I said, managing a smile.

He grinned, wiping a tear from my cheek with his fingers. "Oh no you don't, okay? That's not fair. You know how I feel about crying women in bathrobes. Now what am I supposed to do? Finish the story? Or," he jerked his head towards the bed, "should I just tie your hands to the bedposts with Roxy's tinsel and ravish you senseless?"

Oh God. As the image flashed into my head in glorious technicolor, everything south of my navel contracted. "Is—is there much more to tell?"

"Samantha Bloom!" His eyes widened in amusement. "The things I've still got to learn about you." He cupped my hot face in his hands. "And lucky me, I've got a whole week to start learning."

"A week?" I whispered, just as his lips were about to land on mine. "I told Marco three days!"

Drew smiled. "Doesn't matter what you told him. Marco and I agreed on a week. And then—but only if you want to, Marco says—you can start working for him. You don't have to. It's your decision. Though now I've had a chance to think about it, I think you should. Like you've said all along, it's a fantastic opportunity." His smile broadened. "Who knows, maybe you'll get snapped up by Salvani."

"But if I stay, I won't see you! You'll be in Stow Newton and I'll be here and—"

He silenced me with the gentlest of kisses. "Wanna bet? See," he kissed me again, laughing softly when I trembled, "I haven't taken any leave this year. I've even got a week in hand from last year. So I was thinking I could be here as much or as little as you want me to be. Every weekend, if you like. And if you end up staying more than three months..."

My eyes slid closed as he captured my mouth for a much longer kiss, his fingers drifting into my hair before falling to the collar of my robe to caress the bare skin beneath.

"...then I'll just have to learn Italian. Try international law. Or," his lips curved against mine, "I could forget law and we could buy a vineyard or something."

I gave a breathless laugh, opening my eyes again "Seriously, you'd do all that? Give up your job—for me?"

"Ah Sam, I've told you before." His hands explored further beneath my robe, easing the heavy towelling from my skin, pushing it from my shoulders until it abruptly fell to my elbows, leaving my top half bare. "I love you," he said with a smile, gazing at me with undisguised pleasure. "Always have, always will. I'd do anything for you."

And stooping slightly, he swept me off my feet then carried me over to the four-poster bed. But to my surprise, he didn't set me down, instead clambering on his knees with me into the middle of the mattress before collapsing backwards against the pillows. "What the hell are you doing?" I giggled as he yanked the sleeves of the robe from my arms then adjusted me across his lap.

"It's Christmas," he said grinning. "Well, nearly. And seeing as you're the best present I've ever had, I really ought to unwrap you slowly." He lowered his head to kiss me, his eyes darkening. "Although to be honest, I'm really not sure if I can. Because between you and me, it's going to be tough not to go mad and rip off the paper."

I gasped as he nudged my chin backwards, his lips blazing a trail of kisses across my neck, my collarbone, the soft rise of my breast. At the same time, I could feel his hand moving over my stomach, gradually edging beneath the robe still covering my lower half. "You—you could, you know," I breathed, letting out a shuddering cry as he gently bit my nipple. "I wouldn't mind if you—oh—did. Really."

"No?" I could feel his breath against my skin, hear the amusement in his voice. "Well, I s'pose I could always—" his fingers began working on the tie at my waist "—open the next one slowly. And say, the next one. And the one after..." He gave a sudden growl of frustration. "Jesus, Sam. What kind of knot is this?"

"A reef knot? Maybe a granny or something? I don't know-o-o..." I shrieked as he lifted me again, pitching me around until I was half-sitting, half-lying between his outstretched legs, my right arm still up around his neck. "It's your fault it's so tight!" I squeaked, watching him use both hands to grapple with the problem now. "You're the one who made me jump. You're the one who hid behind the curtains and then told me you'd seen me prancing about with no clothes on. You're the one who..."

But the words died on my lips as, having worked the knot loose at last, he promptly swept my gown wide open and peered down over my shoulder. "Well... I have to say, this looks lovely." He grinned as I rolled my eyes at him. "How did you know exactly what I wanted?"

I sniggered, my snigger turning into a sob when he promptly kissed me, thoroughly and deeply, his tongue on a mission to explore every part of my mouth. As the seconds passed, the warm hands that had settled first on the tops of my thighs smoothed upwards, worshipping my hips then my waist, sweeping back over my belly before rising slowly. Much too slowly. I moaned into his mouth when he finally palmed my breasts.

"Aw," he sighed happily, catching the ridiculously sensitive peaks between his fingers and making me whimper even more. "God, I love all the little noises you make." And as if to prove it, he kissed me again, swallowing my helpless cries as he traced feather light circles around my nipples with the pads of his thumbs.

"Drew, stop it!" I begged, half-laughing, half-gasping for breath when he eventually let me up for air. "My turn, please? I can't even touch you like this. Let me touch you. This isn't fair!"

"Are you kidding?" I could hear the outraged amusement in his voice, one hand leaving my breasts now and snaking downwards. "Do you have any idea of the view I've got from up here? How beautiful you are? God." It was Drew's turn to moan. "I've never been more turned on."

Given I could feel the evidence of his arousal through the thickness of two bathrobes, I didn't doubt it. "But that's not the point! I want to—" Then I stopped, noticing his fingers were now skirting beneath my navel, taking a lazy zigzag path down my abdomen. "Oh no..."

"Oh yes," he corrected, his breath warm against my ear. The fact I could both see and feel what he was doing was almost too much to bear, his touch teasing but deliberate. I could hardly breathe by the time his hand ventured lower to toy with the edge of my curls. And when at last his fingers sank gently into the folds beneath, I arched into his hand.

"Drew!" I yelped as he started to stroke me, the crackling evidence of my slickness plain to hear. "Oh God—o-oh—slowly! Please..."

"Whoa." He laughed the word, kissing my temple. "And I thought I was turned on. You seem to have made a bit of a puddle down here."

"Bast-ar-ar-ard!"

As I groaned he laughed again, the movement of his middle and index fingers leisurely but unrelenting as he turned his hand, encouraging my thighs to part wider. And then, as if he considered that wasn't stimulation enough, the hand over my left breast began moving again, his thumb firmly strumming my nipple.

"Oh," I breathed, the pressure already building between my legs, a familiar wash of heat radiating from my very core, making me ache with need. "Drew, don't. Please..."

Nudging my face to his, he kissed me again. "Gorgeous," he gave me a rueful smile, "I'm not going to last two minutes once I'm inside you. Not this time. So just relax and let me—"

"No!" I pleaded, willing him to understand. "Please, I want you inside me—now!"

Still stroking me, still caressing me incessantly, Drew shook his head. "I'm serious. I might only last a minute. Thirty seconds even."

"I don't care!" I wailed, terrifyingly close to the brink. "I need to feel you inside me when I—when I..." I trailed off, unexpectedly embarrassed to say the word. "Oh God. Please!"

His smile widened. "When you what?"

"Drew!" Grabbing the nearest thing I could find for leverage—which happened to be his left calf—I yanked myself free from his arms, toppling forwards on to the bed. When I lifted my head, I could hear him laughing and when I looked up, I gasped. Because in the mirrored doors of the wardrobe I saw myself on my hands and knees, stark naked, my bottom raised in the air. And as I stared, I watched Drew toss aside the bathrobe I'd left in my wake then make short work of discarding his own.

"You want me inside you when you what?" he demanded, now equally naked, making eye contact via the mirror. He crawled up behind me, making me squeal as he moved between my legs, his heavy erection pressing against me. "Say it," he urged my reflection, reaching under me to cup my breasts and smiling when I moaned. "Say it and I'll make it happen."

"Oh God, you feel huge," I mumbled, suddenly rather scared. "Maybe—maybe this isn't..." I drew in a shaky breath as one of his hands found its way beneath me again, his fingers gliding easily through the wetness. "Please!"

He watched me. Watched me watch myself, the way my eyes widened with each deft stroke, the way my lips parted. "Tell me what you want."

"Drew!" Pretty soon, it was going to be impossible to tell him anything. "Please. Oh, please."

He looked amused, the hand holding my breast gliding around to my waist as the movement of his other hand quickened, bringing me frighteningly close to the point of no return. "Come on, use your words."

"In me!" I cried, rocking my hips in frustration now. "I want you in me when I come, okay? I want you-oo-oh!"

His hand abruptly sliding beneath me, he found my opening and was there, hot and blunt against me. And with his fingers spreading me wide, he pushed hard, making me sob with relief as he pressed inside me, opening me wider still, the intense stretching sensation almost overwhelming. "Dear God," he groaned. "I'd forgotten how good you feel!"

Remembering the mirror, I looked up to see his eyes hooded, his face contorting as he pulsed against me. But as he slid further and further in, it became increasingly difficult to keep watching, my own eyes closing on each mini thrust. "You're going so deep. So deep," I gasped incredulously. "There can't be—you can't...? Fuck!"

Drew answered my unfinished question with one last, sustained surge forward, filling me so utterly it felt as though his whole body had merged with mine, his arms coming around me when he stilled at last, holding me to him. "Incredible," he groaned, sounding hoarse. "God help me. Sam, I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you, I swear."

"Make what up to me?" I realised I was trembling, my knees wobbling, making him move inside me despite his best efforts to hold me in place. But then I lifted my head and saw his expression in the mirror, saw the pure, undiluted desire there and I knew. "I don't care. I love you," I said, holding his gaze, watching his eyes darken abruptly. "I love you. I want you. I want this."

I hissed as he grasped my hips and pulled back, the dragging sensation of his flesh leaving mine almost painful, tortuously slow. Then I wailed, Drew impaling me in one glorious thrust, groaning with me as he drove in to the hilt, juddering against me before withdrawing and doing it all again. And again. And again, each pass making me shiver with pleasure, occasionally touching an exquisitely sensitive part of me that throbbed every time he found it. Craving more, I pushed into him, meeting his thrusts, angling my hips in an attempt to have him stroke that same place, learning by and by that if I leaned backwards against him... Oh yes. A little more—yes...

"Sam." I felt rather than heard Drew laugh my name, his laboured breath warm against my ear.

My ear? Disorientated, I opened my eyes only to gasp as I saw our reflection. Somehow—I couldn't for the life of me figure out how—I was no longer on my hands and knees, but kneeling over his lap, facing outwards. "How did—how did you do that? Oh!" I groaned when he pulled me closer, his hands circling my waist as he plunged deep. "That feels so good."

"Me?" Still thrusting, still hitting that wonderful spot, he kissed my temple. "It was you. I couldn't have stopped you if I wanted to. Not that I wanted to. You've got to admit," he nodded towards the mirror, "this looks pretty hot."

It did. Positively pornographic in fact, a lurid scene framed by mahogany bedposts and the burgundy and gold finery of the drapes and canopy around us. Me, my still-damp hair wild, my cheeks flushed, my rosy-peaked breasts heaving as my body gyrated over his. Drew, his face a picture of concentration as he drove in and out of me, his hands roaming my skin, investigating my every curve and hollow.

"But I read about this," I gasped, startled. "This—this was number ten."

His brows lifted in amusement. "What the hell have you been reading?"

"I can't watch." I closed my eyes, almost frightened of the ache building between my thighs, of the way that place inside me seemed to be swelling now with every thrust. "Oh God, I'm going to come anyway!"

"That's the idea. Hey." His voice softened. "Look at me." He brushed a kiss into my hair when I didn't respond, tilting my head back against his shoulder. "Not in the mirror. Right here."

I opened my eyes to find him smiling at me. "Drew..."

"No more mirror." He kissed me tenderly, one hand working over my lower tummy again, wandering downwards. "Just you and me now."

"Drew."

His mouth captured mine as warmth swirled through my womb, Drew thrusting faster now, his fingers relentless. I gasped at the increase in pressure. Then, time seeming to stand still, every muscle of my body tautening, the pressure turned into impossible pleasure. Shuddering as the ferocious wave hit, I sobbed helplessly, my orgasm roaring through me like fire. And suddenly, it was Drew who was violently shaking, shouting my name as he plunged deep inside me.

"Sam?" He sounded breathless.

"Still here."

I felt his smile of recollection against my lips. "If I promise never to call you 'kiddo' again, will you promise not to run out on me this time?"

As I gave a gulp of laughter, he tightened his arms around me and tumbled us sideways to the bed. "I don't think I could run if I tried," I panted, whimpering as he slid out of me and attempted to straighten his legs, pushing mine forward with his. "Right now, I don't even think I can walk."

"Yeah," he murmured contentedly. "Get used to that."

Giggling, I closed my eyes as he snuggled up to me, his hand closing over my breast. "Thought you said you'd only last thirty seconds? I made that about forty-five," I teased then yelped as he pinched my nipple. "What did you do—imagine the England football team losing the World Cup final or something?"

"Marry me."

Opening my eyes, my heart seemed to skip a beat as I stared at the bedpost in front of me and the tinsel wrapped around it.

Football...

"Sam?"

I swallowed hard, the tinsel becoming a shimmering purple haze. "There's something you—something I should have told..." My voice cracked on the words. "Oh God."

"You're crying?"

"No." But as I felt him raise himself on one elbow behind me, I buried my face into the bedclothes.

"Sam, gorgeous." He stroked my hair, sounding ruefully amused. "If it's that terrible an idea—"

"It's not that."

"Then...?"

"You said you wanted a whole team, remember? Subs and all."

There was a pause. And then I felt his arms beneath me, gathering me up from the bed, turning me to face him as though I weighed nothing. "Children?" he demanded, his eyes soft. "That's what this is about? Just because you overheard your mother asking the doctor that time if you'd still be able to have them?"

"You know about that?" I gazed at him incredulously.

"Alice told me. And she said you told her you didn't even hear what the doctor said. That there's probably no reason at all to think you won't be able to have a baby even though you've only got one kidney, so long as you're healthy. So long as we take good care of you. But Sam, even if it turns out we can't have children of our own, I wouldn't care, okay? It's you I want. And anyway, there are other ways of—"

"Alice told you all that?"

"Okay, okay. I'm sorry." His lips twisted guiltily. "But I saw the look on your face when we were talking about it at the Park, all right? When you said you didn't know if you wanted children, I knew damn well you were lying. So I asked her about it yesterday. I knew you'd have talked about it with her. Well," he smiled, "that she'd have wormed the truth out of you at some point, anyway."

"Years ago," I admitted with a wry smile of my own. "But then that's Alice for you."

"She'd have made a good lawyer."

I raised an eyebrow. "Is there any such thing?"

"Oh!" Drew pretended to scowl. "You'll pay for that, Mrs Barnett."

I shrieked as he scooped me into his arms and promptly rolled on to his back, pulling me on top of him. "Mrs Barnett?" I panted laughing. "Wait a minute, when did I say 'yes'?"

He grinned up at me. "You will," he promised, sliding his hand behind my neck. And pulling me down, he kissed me, slowly and comprehensively, until I was dizzy with pleasure. "By the way," he murmured just as I felt the first stirrings of his re-arousal beneath me, "what the hell is number ten?"

For a moment, I was too dazed to work out what he meant. And then I remembered. "Oh. I was reading this magazine article on the plane called 99 Ways To Please Your Lover Tonight."

He let out a hungry growl. "Please tell me you've still got that magazine?"

I nodded, amused. "Want me to get it?" Pushing myself upright until I was straddled across his thighs, I glanced around to see where I'd left my bag, my gaze instead falling on the tinsel twisted around the bedpost. "Although..." I gave him a contemplative look and leaned forward to retrieve it, then grinned at his expression when I reached for his hands. "Somebody sitting next to me on the plane highly recommended number seven."

"What's number seven?" He looked suspiciously from me to the tinsel I was wrapping around his wrists.

Looping the tinsel back around the post, I tied the ends in a bow. "Guess."

"Sam?" Drew watched me crawl backwards, his eyes widening when I found the perfect position between his knees. "God, seriously? Because, you know, you don't have to..."

"Ah, but I want to. You see," I sent him a butter-wouldn't-melt smile, "I love you Drew Barnett. Always have, always will."

He groaned as I lowered my head.

"And I'd do anything for you..."

Epilogue

"Well, good morning to you, Samantha. Or should I say afternoon?" Alice jerked her head towards the clock on the wall behind the counter as the shop door tinkled shut behind me. "Yes! Afternoon!"

I smiled at the faux outrage in Alice's tone. "Don't tell the boss," I said, weaving through the rails of clothes towards her. "I've heard she can be a right bitch if you're late." She gave a grunt of amusement as I kissed her on the cheek. "Sorry. I really didn't think I'd be so long."

"Busy at the dentist, was it?"

"Very," I agreed, grateful that she'd already turned away to fold up some maternity jeans and hadn't taken the opportunity to read my expression. I was never going to get any better at lying. "I think there must've been an emergency or something. I had to wait ages."

"Oh well." Alice was brisk. "At least it's all over for another six months. No fillings needed this time?"

"No, everything's fine." Though come to think of it, I probably ought to make an appointment to make sure that was true. Another thing to add my ever-burgeoning to-do list. I bent to put my bag behind the counter, staying down for just a little longer than necessary to make a play of searching for my mobile phone while my heated face cooled down. "Have we—erm...?" Actually, where was my phone? "Have we been busy this morning?"

"There was a bit of a flurry around eleven. Sold a couple of dresses, one of those short red tartan skirts and a nursing bra. Nothing I couldn't handle."

"Oh, I'm sure it wasn't." I frowned, rummaging through the pockets now. It wasn't there. Where had I left it? "So, do you want to take a break now I'm back? I don't mind if you want to have your lunch. I'm quite happy to—"

"Good Lord, no. I'm fine," she cut in. "Though you could put the kettle on. I could certainly use a cup of tea." She shot me a hard stare as I straightened up. "And by the look of things, so could you. Is it warm outside or something? You're all flushed."

"Can't find my mobile," I said hastily, falling upon the easy excuse. "I'll give Drew a call from the office in a minute and ask if he's seen it."

"That husband of yours working from home today then?" Alice's voice wafted after me into the kitchen.

Husband. I smiled at the warped reflection of myself in the chrome kettle as I flipped the lid and filled it from the tap. I wasn't used to that word, even three months after our wedding. It still gave me a warm fuzzy glow inside. "Yes, working from home."

Or at least, he would be, once he'd driven back to Knottswood Avenue after dropping me off at the shop. We'd moved into our brand new house five months ago. It had been a frantic but exhilarating time, organising all the wedding preparations as well as selling my house and Drew's flats in Montague Street.

And all the hard work had definitely been worth it, everything falling into place just in time for what everyone later told me was a wonderful wedding, a small but perfectly formed affair. Just fifty members of our close family and friends helped us celebrate, with Drew, his best man Iain, his father and my father wearing grey morning suits. Marco had insisted on designing and making my dress, a beautiful strapless A-line ivory gown glistening with Swarovski crystals hand-sewn by Roxy. A gown that was somehow made all the more beautiful because my mother had been there to help me step into it, to fasten the corset, adjust my veil and tell me, with tears in her eyes, just how very proud she was of me. Time had finally delivered the healing everyone promised it would.

Funny though, I ruminated, drumming my fingers lightly on the counter top as I waited for the kettle to boil, how the day itself had already condensed into a series of images set amidst a whirl of smiles and laughter. Dad and I getting in the wedding car. Arriving at the church. The look of utter adoration in Drew's eyes as he watched me walk down the aisle...

"Sam, you have remembered it's Tuesday, haven't you?"

"Oh, shit. Marco." I clapped my hand to my mouth and turned to Alice, now standing behind me, eyebrows raised. "Shit, shit, shit. How long have I got?"

"About three minutes, don't panic. But," she added as I hurried towards the stairs, "you might want to think about washing your mouth out, young lady."

I looked back over my shoulder to stick my tongue out at her. "Just for that, you can make the tea."

Although Marco and I had originally planned for me to stay in Italy for three months, I ended up staying for almost eight. Having rarely spent time away from home, let alone in a foreign country, it had been a mind-broadening experience, learning to cope with the difference in culture, the altered pace of life and the language. Okay, so I couldn't say I'd become fluent in Italian but I acquired enough vocabulary to hold my own in most situations and I understood far more than I could say. I could swear in Italian too, I reminded myself, making a mental note to do so next time I had cause to curse in Alice's earshot.

Mostly though, I'd spent the time learning as much as I could about design, about fabric, about what putting even the most basic garment together entailed. From day one, Marco insisted I be immersed in the entire process, from pattern-making to draping and cutting techniques, tech-pack creation, fittings, ordering samples and fabrics right through to approving pre-production and top of production samples. It had been an exhausting and ultimately satisfying experience but also one that left me in no doubt that being involved in all of that really wasn't something I wanted to do for the rest of my life.

Of course, it hadn't helped to be separated from Drew. After the first few weeks, I missed him so much it felt akin to physical pain, despite him coming out to Italy every other weekend—he spent a small fortune on air fares—and our lengthy Skype calls each evening. Not that I admitted I was pining away; that seemed ridiculous. I'd been given the opportunity of a lifetime to work for Maretti, and Drew was endlessly supportive, assuring me over and over he was happy I finally had a chance to show what I could do and that I should make the most of it. I figured I owed it to him, to myself and to Marco to put in as much effort as possible and worked increasingly long hours in order to get everything done.

But my nightly conversations with Drew were never enough. I yearned to be physically near him, for him to hold me, to sleep beside him and to wake up in his arms. It was only when Roxy arrived in July for her summer internship with Salvani that I discovered Drew had also been hiding his true feelings, not wanting to guilt me into coming home.

Within hours of setting foot on Italian soil, she'd set out in no uncertain terms how much she thought Drew was missing me, berated me for not asking for more time off, expressed horror at how skinny she thought I looked, and demanded I take Marco to task for inundating me with work. A contrite Marco immediately agreed I should take two weeks' leave and paid for my flight back to the UK two days later.

I smiled, recalling that pivotal moment. It had been during those two weeks that Marco and I first experimented with teleconferencing—I suspected Roxy might have had something to do with coming up with that idea too—and found it was possible for me to carry out a key part of what I'd been doing in Italy without me actually needing to be in the country. A month after going back to Treviso, I returned to Stow Newton for good and, when my house sold within days of it going on the market, moved into 22b Montague Street—and pre-marital bliss—with Drew. The last eight months had been, no contest, the happiest of my life.

Reaching the top of the stairs, I was disconcerted to find I was out of breath. That was a new development, I thought wryly, shooting a glance at the large monitor mounted on the wall of the newly-refurbished store room. Good, the screen was still black. With any luck, I still had a minute or two to regain my composure for the first of the twice-weekly calls I had with the Maretti design team. Though this was usually the shorter of the two calls and was often a fairly straightforward one-to-one chat with Marco during which he brought me up to speed with new orders and production status. The other call generally involved several of the designers, models and clothing samples.

At first, I worried what they'd make of the idea of me reviewing their efforts from a thousand miles away but to my surprise they carried on as though I was right there in the room with them. Somehow it worked, despite me not being able to feel fabrics and having to go largely on what the piece looked like, the colour and how it draped. The plan was that I'd go out to Italy twice a year in order to help finalise the winter and summer collections—although there was now a definite question mark over whether I'd be able to make a second visit this year...

"Hey gorgeous."

Startled, I swung around with a shriek, Drew's soft chuckle at my reaction turning into a mock-indignant yowl as I slapped him hard on the rear. "You bastard! You know you can't creep up on me like that!"

Still laughing, he scooped me forwards and planted a loud kiss on my forehead. "It wasn't deliberate," he protested. "I tried to stamp my feet a bit coming up the stairs. You must've been miles away. Where were you, mmm?" His lips brushed briefly over my nose then settled for a longer, much sweeter moment over my mouth. "No, don't tell me. I can guess."

"What are you doing here?"

"You left this in the car." He brought something up from over my shoulder but before I could see what it was, it slipped through his fingers and straight into the top of my dress. "Oh." Drew's smile widened into a grin as we both peered at my mobile phone, now neatly wedged in my cleavage. "You know, now you've got all that extra room down there, that could be an excellent place to start keeping it—ow!" he finished with a groan as I swiped him again. "God, we've got to get you some help for that violent streak of yours."

"Drew!"

"Okay, okay." With an air of relish, he slid a hand into my dress and slowly, with far more caressing of flesh than was strictly necessary, extracted the phone between finger and thumb. "Here. My guess is you didn't put it back in your bag after you called your Mum to tell her we're—"

"Ssh!" I put a finger to his mouth, taking a hasty peek behind me at the monitor. "I've got a conference starting any second!"

"Ah, Sam." Catching my hand, he tugged it away. "Come on, we're still playing the 'don't tell anyone' game?" He pulled a face. "Kiddo, I got it before, okay? I understood why you wanted to wait a while. Wait until... Well, you know," he finished resignedly as I gave him a glare. "But I really thought that after this morning, after we saw the..."

When I fired another anguished glance at him, he sighed and reached around me for the remote control on the desk behind us, just as I heard the crackle of static that signalled the monitor had burst into life. "This teleconference is controlled from the other side, right?" he asked. "It's on an automatic timer at Marco's end?"

I nodded, turning to see that as yet, no one appeared to be waiting for me at Maretti. Marco's chair was empty, the huge oval conference table devoid of papers. "I guess he's running late."

"Great." Pointing the remote at the monitor, Drew peered at the buttons then gave one a decisive stab, a small 'mute' symbol appearing in the top right hand corner of the screen. "There you go, sorted. When he comes, he'll be able to see us but won't be able to hear us. Okay?" But Drew's eyes were much softer than his words as he set the remote back down.

"You think I'm being silly," I said, burying my face into his shoulder as he pulled me close.

"Nope. Fucking insane." I could feel his smile against my hair. "You honestly think you're going to be able to keep this," his arms tightened around me, pulling me closer, "from folks around here for much longer? From Alice? Don't think so, gorgeous."

"But Mum says you can hardly tell," I protested feebly. "She says that I'm just like she was, that I'm not..." I broke off, aware Drew's attention had been diverted. "What?"

"Listen."

I did as I was bid, Drew comically waggling his eyebrows at me as a high-pitched and decidedly girlish giggle came from the tall speakers either side of the monitor. But when I twisted around in his embrace to look at the screen, the room still appeared empty. "Probably coming from the corridor outside," I said with a shrug. "The meeting room's not that far along from main reception. I expect it's just someone..." The words died on my lips as another round of breathless giggles met my ears, this time accompanied by fragments of excited Italian. "Or maybe not. Oh. Oh."

"You understood that?" Drew's breath was warm against my ear. "Translate for me, woman!"

"Erm." I blinked hard, shocked. There was still no sign that anyone was in the room and Marco was due to arrive for our telephone conference any moment now. But if I'd really heard what I thought I'd just heard, he was about to come across a very interesting situation.

"Sam? What did...?" Drew left the question unfinished as we heard another voice, this time male. And this time, extremely familiar.

"Ti voglio da morire!"

"No way." I felt my eyes widen. "No way! That's—"

"Marco?" Drew exclaimed.

As if in answer, a dark-suited figure lurched on to the screen, sent sprawling backwards across the conference table by a propelling hand. "Voglio fare l'amore con te," a female voice said, her tone sultry. "Voglio sentirti fino in fondo dentro di me."

"Holy shit," I whispered.

Drew's fingers tightened on my arms. "What did she say?"

"She said 'I want to make love with you'. She said—well, I think the nearest translation is..." Fino in fondo dentro meant 'all the way inside' didn't it? My lips twitched as I looked back over my shoulder at him. "'I want you deep inside me'."

"Fuck."

"Quite. You think maybe he's forgotten we're supposed to be having a teleconference?"

"Stuff the teleconference. Who is this girl?" Drew waved at the monitor, his eyes narrowing as another slender hand appeared from the right of the screen, its owner just out of view. "You never said he was seeing anyone."

"That's because I didn't know he was. Drew..." I winced as the mystery girl pushed at Marco's shoulders once again, pressing him down to the table. "I er... I really don't think we should be—"

"Sono tutto tuo," Marco intoned before I could finish, his voice low and uncharacteristically husky. "Vieni qui e baciami."

"Subito," the girl teased. "Ma prima..."

"Oh no," I murmured, transfixed as those hands trailed sensuously down Marco's chest, sliding all the way down to his waistband. "Oh dear God, no."

There was a faint jingle as she undid his belt, followed by the unmistakeable rasp of a zipper.

I felt my husband stiffen behind me then finally stop breathing altogether as we watched her fingers slowly venture within.

"Mmm," the girl sighed approvingly, clearly having found her prize. "Magnifico!"

"Jesus." Drew's breath came out in a noisy rush. And making an odd whimpering noise when she pulled out both hand and prize, he promptly raised his arm to cover my eyes. "Okay, maybe it's time to—"

"Here we are." The sound of Alice's cheery greeting made us freeze once again. "Thought you could probably use a cup of tea, Drew, so I've brought one up for you too."

Wrestling Drew's arm aside, I turned to discover she was standing in the doorway with a tray. "A-Alice," I stammered. "I—ah..."

"Oh, so sorry," she interrupted, obligingly lowering her voice to a murmur. "Has the call started already?" She squinted in the direction of the monitor and frowned. "Oh. What exactly are we looking at today?"

"Nothing." I felt my face go even hotter as I hopped from one foot to the other in a futile attempt to block her view. "Nothing! I mean, um... It's just, erm... Just..." What could I say? "Th-thanks for the tea. That's really—"

"Good Lord." Alice put the tray down on the cabinet just inside the door and marched forward to openly stare at the screen, brows furrowing further. "Isn't that...?"

"Think so," I admitted, my voice little more than a squeak.

"And is that...? Actually holding his...? Oh my!"

As one, we inhaled sharply as a dark head appeared and rapidly descended over Marco's unfastened trousers.

"Whoa," Drew said, sounding unsteady. "Not wasting any time, is she? I don't think I've ever seen anyone get going so—ooh!"

"Ooh," Alice and I agreed, flinching with him in unison. "That's... enthusiastic," she finished wonderingly. "Are you supposed to do—that—quite so quickly?"

"Oh my God!" Coming to my senses at last, I wrenched myself out of my husband's grasp and sprang to the edge of the desk. "Enough!" I wailed, turning my back to the monitor and flinging my arms out sideways. "We can't watch this, okay? This is... No, stop that!" I yelped as Alice and Drew tilted their heads in an attempt to peer at the uncovered part of the screen.

But now that I wasn't watching, I soon became aware that what I could hear through the state of the art speakers behind me sounded positively pornographic. Marco's groans of pleasure were growing ever louder and were now punctuated by the occasional obscene slurping sound.

"Is it wrong that this is turning me on?"

"Drew!"

"Sam," he chided, laughter in his tone as he swept me away from the desk. "It's not like we can actually see anything. Look." He nudged up my chin. "See? Her hand's in the way—oh. Well, it was."

I groaned, grabbing his hand to cover my eyes, and when the sound was unwittingly echoed by Marco's companion, amplified fourfold by the speakers, both Alice and Drew snorted with amusement.

"Oh Marco. Troppo grande," the girl murmured as I tried not to watch through Drew's fingers, before lowering her head and immediately proving that it couldn't be.

It was then that a jolt of recognition rippled through me. I knew that voice.

"Why don't they know we're here?" Alice asked, sounding puzzled. "Can't they see us? Hear us?"

"Oh, of course! We're on mute," Drew said with sudden comprehension. "They can't hear us. And as for seeing us..." He winked at me as I pulled his hand away from my face. "Too busy to notice, I think."

"Drew, I know who that is," I told him urgently, searching through my memory, trying to make the connection. "The girl, I mean. I know her voice." Could it be Marianna from Reception? She'd always had a crush on Marco. Or Luisa, the new designer? No, she wasn't a brunette. "I do. I just can't place it."

"You can't place it?" Alice swivelled around. "What? Oh come on, you're kidding me, right?" To my astonishment she sent me a pitying look. "Sam! You're seriously telling me you don't know who that is?"

"You do?" Drew looked as startled as I felt. "Then who...?"

I stared at the screen, at the glossy dark head bobbing up and down, at the well-manicured hand clutching Marco's hip. And then... "Oh my God," I gasped, turning back to Alice who was nodding grimly. "Oh holy, fuc—"

"Language!"

"—porca puttana!" I corrected mid-expletive, already diving for the remote, the groans of pleasure emitting from the speakers rapidly reaching a crescendo. "Maretti, stronzo!" I stabbed at a button to no avail. "How could you? How could you? I swear I'm going to..." Why wasn't it working? Ah, it was that button... "I swear I'm going to kill you!" I yelled in triumph when the mute symbol disappeared from the top right hand corner of the screen, neatly coinciding with the moment Marco let out an almighty roar.

For several seconds there was silence. Well, silence bar the sound of Marco's laboured breathing and the noisy thumping in my ears—and, at length, a rather loud swallow.

"Magnifico," Drew murmured admiringly, shrugging when I twisted to glower at him. "Well, it was, you have to admit. Credit where credit's due."

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I addressed the screen as a shamefaced Marco began struggling upright, adjusting his clothing as he rose. "And you!" I added furiously as his blushing escort finally sidled into camera range, raking her fingers through her dishevelled hair in an attempt to neaten it. "You! What are you even doing there, Roxanne Delaney? You're supposed to be in London doing a fashion degree!"

"I can explain, bella," Marco said, still rather breathless. "No," he insisted as Roxy opened her mouth to speak, putting his arm around her, "let me tell them, tesoro mio."

"Tesoro mio?" I repeated in disbelief. "Marco, she's half your age! You're old enough to be—"

"—her Papa, yes I know," he interrupted, holding up a hand. "But believe me, Samantha. I have never had a single fatherly thought about her. Not one!"

"Well, that's a relief," Alice said drily.

"It's true!" he exclaimed. "I know she's only nineteen years old but already, she has such a wise head on her shoulders."

"We saw," Drew interjected, sending Roxy an evil grin. "Such a wise head. Really like the new look by the way, Rox. What happened to the pink hair?"

"Oh..." Rolling her eyes at him, Roxy gave her shiny brown bob a defiant shake. "Pink's so yesterday, don't you think?" she said airily, before turning to Marco with, "For heaven's sake, will you shut up? You're making things worse! Just let me explain, will you?"

To my astonishment, he immediately deferred. "Fine," he murmured. "Of course, cara mia."

Moving closer to the camera, she steepled her fingers together as though in prayer. "Sam, please. I know what this must look like, but honestly, it's not like that. You see, the thing is, we're..." She hesitated then looked back at Marco, her expression suddenly softer than I'd ever seen it. "We're in love."

"What?" I stared, unable to make sense of the words, not in relation to Roxy and Marco anyway. "But you can't be! You haven't—you don't... You..." I shook my head, bewildered. "How?"

"The usual way," Marco put in. I couldn't help but notice the way he was watching Roxy, the tenderness and pride in his gaze. "We spent some time together, and then a little more—and then," he raised his palms in a helpless gesture, "we found we never wanted to be apart."

"But how have you managed to spend time with each other?" I couldn't put this together. "Apart from when you made my wedding dress—oh, and last summer of course—but that was only for a few weeks when Roxy was doing her internship..." I felt my eyes widen in understanding. "You're telling me this started last summer?"

Marco and Roxy exchanged loaded glances. "Yes," Roxy conceded as Marco nodded.

"While I was still in Treviso?"

"We-ell." Roxy looked a little sheepish. "Things started getting really serious when you went back home for those two weeks."

"Started getting really serious?" I repeated. "You mean things were serious before I left? But you were only there a few days before I left! You mean to tell me that you and Marco got together the day you arrived in Treviso?"

"No," Marco said, after exchanging another meaningful glance with Roxy. "We—er... We had lots of telephone and Skype calls before she arrived."

I gazed at them both, the words going round and around in my head. In love. Serious. Before Roxy arrived in Italy. And suddenly the penny dropped.

"That's why you did it?" I accused, glaring at Roxy. "Why you told me I needed to go home? You planned it all along, didn't you? Telling me Drew was missing me, that I should ask for time off, that I needed a break, that I'd been working too hard! It was all so you and Marco could—"

"It was all true!" she fired back. "Drew was missing you, you were working too hard—Marco had been piling too much responsibility on you—" when Marco grunted in protest she turned to him, hand on hip "—well, you were! She looked ill when I arrived. She did need a break!"

"All so you and Marco could spend some time together without me knowing?" I demanded. "So you could keep things secret?"

"No, it wasn't like that. I knew damn well what would happen if you knew what was going on. I just wanted to see how things would work out without having to creep around all the time, pretending we weren't seeing each other, or worse still, you finding out and going ballistic at Marco. And anyway, you're a fine one to talk about keeping secrets, Sam!" Roxy finished, her eyes gleaming. "You're keeping a pretty big one of your own right now, aren't you?"

"I..." Nonplussed, I threw Drew a nervous glance. "I don't know what you—"

"Oh, for goodness sake, Sam," Alice cut in bracingly. "Did you honestly think we wouldn't notice the giant cardigans—"

"—the baggy jumpers?" Roxy continued. "All the extra layers you've been wearing—"

"—the empire line dresses?" Marco finished seamlessly, sharing a smile with Roxy. "Because what would we know about the sort of clothes a woman who's five months' pregnant wears, eh? Why would any of us know something about that?"

"Oh," I whispered weakly.

"Finally. Thank God!" Drew muttered, drawing me backwards into the warm haven of his arms, one hand passing over my tummy and smoothing down the camouflaging layers of fabric to proudly reveal my now sizeable bump.

With all eyes on me, my own began to prickle. "You noticed, huh?"

"We notice everything about pregnant women," Alice said, fishing a handkerchief out of her skirt pocket and passing it to Drew. "Though to be honest, Marco was the first to notice."

"When he did the final fitting for your wedding dress," Roxy added helpfully. "We had to make a few last minute adjustments, didn't we Marco?"

"Indeed we did," he agreed. "Your bust measurement increased by six centimetres in a month."

I felt my husband shake with silent laughter behind me.

"So it wasn't exactly hard to put two and two together," Alice continued. "Or to work out you weren't going anywhere near the dentist this morning. How did the ultrasound scan go anyway?"

"I..." Letting out a guilty sob, I turned to give Drew an accusing stare.

"What—you think I told her?" He shook his head with a smile, reaching down to gently blot the tears now streaming down my face. "Don't blame me, you daft bag of hormones."

"Then how—?"

Alice shrugged. "I used to be a midwife, Sam. I have my sources. So come on, spill the beans!"

Drew cupped my cheek in his hand. "Can I tell them?" he asked, his smile broadening when I nodded. "We're having a boy," he said happily, his announcement eliciting a chorus of congratulations. "And everything's fine. Most importantly, Sam's doing fine. All the tests they've done show everything's exactly how it should be. And Baby Barnett's due to make his grand entrance on the sixth of October."

"That's wonderful news!" Marco exclaimed. "I'm so happy for you!"

"You're going to make amazing parents," Roxy said warmly. "The absolute best. Yay—I'm so happy it's not a secret anymore! Do you have any idea how hard it's been pretending we didn't know? All the times we've chatted on Skype and I've had to—"

"Oh no you don't!" I interrupted, turning back to the screen to fix her with a teary glare. "You don't get to complain to me about keeping secrets and having to pretend when you've been doing exactly the same thing to us!"

"I'm not pregnant!"

"I should bloody well hope not." I shot Marco a warning look for good measure. "You're supposed to be in the middle of a degree—you're supposed to be in London right now! What the hell are you doing in Treviso?"

"See? You're going to make a fabulous Mum," Roxy said with infuriating calm. "You sound just like mine. Stop yelling, Sam—it's not good for the baby. Think of your blood pressure. And stop worrying about me, will you? We've got it all worked out. Marco's father pulled some strings at the university in Venice and got me a place there." She grinned at Marco. "Turns out it's pretty useful knowing someone with the name Salvani in these parts."

"So you'll be starting again in Venice? When? In October?"

Once again, Roxy looked sheepish. "Not exactly. I've transferred across from my old course, you see."

Alice frowned. "You mean you've started already?"

"She came back with me after the wedding," Marco confessed.

"In March? It's nearly June now!"

"I know, I know." He reached for Roxy's hand, brushing his lips against her fingers as they exchanged an intimate look. "But it just felt right, you understand? We didn't want to waste another moment. Life is too short to waste. And we are in love." He smiled, his gaze now only for Roxy. "So very much in love."

I watched them, a battle raging between my head and my heart. My head screamed that Roxy wouldn't turn twenty years of age until September and Marco was nearly thirty-eight. It reminded me he had wooed and pursued a string of women in the six and a half years I'd known him and that he'd almost certainly break her heart. My heart, on the other hand, couldn't help but be swayed by the way he was looking at Roxy, the almost fierce display of tenderness in his eyes, the adulation in his expression, passion seeming to exude from every pore. I'd never seen him look at anyone that way.

Marco Maretti had got it bad. In fact, I realised with a jolt, if anyone's heart was at risk of being broken, it was probably his.

"That's amore," Drew murmured in my ear, apparently reading my thoughts.

"Okay, fine." I sighed. "But do you think the next time you're planning on putting on a show via teleconference you could give me a bit of warning first?"

"Ah, yes." Marco appeared appropriately embarrassed. "I'm so sorry, cara. We—I—completely lost track of the time. I thought it was only eleven o'clock. I had no idea it was later." He gave Roxy an adoring glance. "When I'm with this beautiful girl time seems to lose all meaning."

"Oh God." Roxy rolled her eyes comically. "I don't know whether to snog you or send for a bucket."

"Well, I know what I'd prefer," Marco told her, his tone honeyed. "And I think you should snog me."

"Whoa whoa whoa!" Alice exclaimed as Roxy tilted her face to Marco's. "That's quite enough! What is it you young folks say—find a room?"

"Get a room," Drew corrected grinning. "And I have to admit, I rather like the sound of that myself," he murmured in my ear. "Fancy coming home with me? I don't think I want to get any work done for quite a while."

I stared up at him, my traitorous body already responding to the idea. Pregnancy hormones had a lot to answer for. "Alice," I began a few seconds later, not taking my eyes off Drew's. "Would you believe I've just remembered I've got an appointment at the hairdresser's this afternoon?"

"Not for a minute. You had a cut and blow dry last week. But seeing how you're the boss, you should already know you can do whatever you damn well please," she continued, softening the words by brushing a kiss on my cheek before bustling off to pick up the tray of now cold tea from the cabinet. "I think I can manage. Besides, you know I'm a firm believer that pregnant ladies need plenty of rest."

"Oh, I'll make sure she spends the rest of the afternoon in bed," Drew called after her mischievously, laughing when she gave a loud snort on her way out of the door.

"Drew!"

"Sounds like an excellent idea," Marco said, making me jump. I'd almost forgotten he and Roxy were still there. "Samantha, we'll catch up on Thursday, shall we?" he suggested as I turned around to regard the monitor. "And I promise, cross my heart, it'll just be an ordinary meeting with the design team."

"Sounds good," I agreed. "See you then. Take care of Roxy!"

He grinned, putting an arm around Roxy as she waved in farewell. "Oh trust me," he said, shooting her a look that was pure lust. "I fully intend to. Bye Drew—ciao bella."

The monitor went black.

"Well," Drew said, sounding amused. "That was... Unexpected."

"Educational, even."

He laughed, turning me around in his arms. "Yes, I hope you were taking notes. Although I'm happy for you to try some slower practice runs. At say, maybe half that speed? 'Cos I have to say, at one point, I thought her lips were going to catch fire."

I giggled as he kissed me, closing my eyes as he buried his fingers in my hair. "Do you think she'll be okay?"

"Roxy? Oh, I'd have thought so. So long as she puts some lip salve on straightaway—ow!" Drew grinned as I cuffed him in the shoulder. "Sam, she's as tough as old boots. Nineteen going on ninety. She can take Maretti any day of the week." He pursed his lips. "Well, we've already seen that she can. Magnifico."

I narrowed my gaze. "Don't even think for a moment I'm going to start calling anything you've got to offer 'magnifico', Drew Barnett."

"I should fucking hope not," he said, steering me towards the door. "That's not even close to being the right word to describe the pleasure I'm about to offer you."

"Oh really?"

"Oh, you know it, baby."

Laughing, I took his hand as we reached the top of the stairs. "So how would you describe it then?"

He took three steps down then turned to face me. "Gigantico."

"That's not even a proper word!" I protested as he continued down the stairs with renewed enthusiasm, towing me after him. "Gigantesco is Italian for gigantic."

"Oh really?" Drew gave a low growl of appreciation. "Well, that could work. Say it again?"

I sighed, rolling my eyes. "Gigantesco."

"Again?"

"Gigantesco."

Drew pulled me close at the bottom of the stairs. "Just one more time, so I get used to hearing what you're going to say when—ow! Stop hitting me, woman!"

I kissed him instead. "Voglio sentirti fino in fondo dentro di me," I told him solemnly, smiling when he groaned in comprehension.

"Oh, I think that can be arranged."

And giggling like teenagers, we raced back though the shop and hurried out to the car.

###

About the Author

Emma Lilly (also known as Lily Evans but growing weary of being mistaken for being a certain young wizard's mother...) lives in Northamptonshire, England with her husband and teenage son.

Emma started writing novels at the age of seven and hasn't stopped writing since! Luckily, she has plenty to write about, thanks to taking her time settling on a career. So far, Emma's varied occupations have included selling electronic widgets, teaching, nursing and working in the Civil Service.

She loves watching films (especially romantic comedies!), cooking and reading.

She also enjoys taking long walks along sandy windswept beaches so it's a bit of a shame she lives around 75 miles from the nearest coast...

Other titles by Emma Lilly on Smashwords!

Caught by the Tide

Solstice
