But instead of rushing her off, he took her into his arms, kissing her hard until she relaxed against him. ‘I want us to talk when we get back tonight,’ he said, raising his head and stroking her mouth with his lips as he spoke. ‘We can’t go on like this. You realise that, don’t you?’
She looked back at him and her eyes were dark with the desire he had aroused, that and the slight chill she’d felt at his words. Had he finally got tired of her? Had seeing Margaret made him realise he couldn’t be bothered to deal with someone who had so many hang-ups, someone who was such an emotional mess? And then she caught the thoughts. She was doing it again, she thought wretchedly, letting the anxious, uncertain little girl out of the closet. She nodded, trying to remove any trace of her fear from her voice when she said, ‘Yes, I know.’
‘Good. No argument, then?’
He hadn’t actually added—for a change—but the words hung in the air between them along with his smile. She tried to smile back but it was hard. ‘No argument,’ she said weakly.
‘You’re in danger of being reasonable. I shall have to bring you to the walled garden again if it has this effect on you.’
The mocking quality to his words was enough to clear the weepy feeling and enable her to say, half joking and half meaning it, ‘Don’t push your luck, Nick Morgan.’
‘As if. I seem to remember the last time I did that with you I nearly lost part of my face.’
She smiled sweetly. ‘Don’t exaggerate. I had great faith in your agility.’
‘Agile I might be, but the long jump done backwards isn’t exactly my forte.’
‘Are you saying there’s something you’re not good at?’
They continued to spar on the walk back to the house, Nick’s arm round her shoulders and his hard thigh brushing hers. She wondered what he would say if she suddenly stopped and told him that she loved him, that she knew there would never be anyone else in the world for her and that he had become the centre of her universe.
Probably nothing, she answered herself wryly as they entered the house. He’d be too busy running in the opposite direction. Like Jenny had said last night, commitment wasn’t an option as far as Nick was concerned, not the for ever type anyway. Love was one thing, devotion quite another.
Once in her room, Cory changed into a sleeveless cream creêpe dress which was hand-painted with squiggles in a rich chocolate shade that matched her hair. It was the dress she’d brought with her for evenings and it was eminently suitable for a Sunday lunch at which Margaret would be present, she thought, turning this way and that in front of the mirror. Classy, understated elegance. Exactly the look she needed for today.
After making up her face very carefully to emphasise her eyes, she put her hair up in a casual knot at the back of her head, leaving a few loose tendrils about her face. Standing back, she surveyed the overall result. Cool and tasteful. She frowned. Should she had gone for warm and sexy instead? But she couldn’t compete with Margaret’s flamboyant colouring and lovely figure, which was on the voluptuous side in all the right places. This was her, Cory James. She would never be a Page Three girl.
She squared her shoulders, picking up her handbag. She glanced in the mirror one last time with the sort of look that said, once more into the breach, dear friends. Margaret—beloved god-daughter, brilliant lecturer and old flame—I’m forewarned this time. And forewarned meant forearmed.
Nick’s mother’s house turned out to be a rambling old place, beautifully furnished with some lovely antiques but the carpets were worn in places and the sofas were the type where you didn’t have to worry about dropping cake crumbs. Vibrant colours, lots of big throws, magnificent paintings on the walls—some of them Catherine’s own—and a general air of the house being a home rather than a showpiece. Nick had told her that his mother’s success with her paintings and his father’s shrewd handle on investment and financial matters meant Catherine was a very wealthy woman, but material things meant very little to her. Her dogs—seven at the last count—and cats—five—were her priority.
‘Every time there’s a dog or cat that stays at the sanctuary for a while because no one wants it, home it goes to join the crazy