St Matthew's Passion: A Medical Romance by Sam Archer Page B

number of excuses for herself to put this moment off.
    At his door she paused, her fist poised. She took a few deep breaths to steady herself, then tapped four times.
    There was no response, and for a few seconds Melissa felt a sweep of relief. He’d gone home after all, and had left the light on by mistake. But then she heard footsteps and the door opened. Fin peered out.
    ‘Melissa?’
    ‘ Fin. Hi.’ She was momentarily lost for words. ‘I’ve come from the party. We wondered where you’d got to.’ This wasn’t at all the way she’d planned to start her speech, as if she’d been despatched merely to jolly him along into attending the Christmas do.
    ‘ I am coming. Just finishing -’ He broke off, looked at his watch. ‘Is that the time? Ten thirty?’
    ‘ Afraid so.’
    Fin sighed deeply, wiped a hand across his face. Then he opened the door wide. ‘Forgive me. You’re standing out there like a delivery boy. Come in.’
    Melissa stepped inside. The lamp was on at Fin’s desk and a pile of papers was spread across the surface.
    ‘ Just finishing this review article,’ he said, apologetically.
    He gestured at the armchair, just as he’d done on her first day, but she didn’t sit. Instead she stood watching him as he moved back round his desk and started to gather up the papers into some semblance of order. His sleeves were rolled halfway up his forearms, his collar button was unfastened with the tie knot pulled to one side and his shirt tails were partly untucked. He’d have looked like a schoolboy if it hadn’t been for the overwhelming aura of adult masculinity he gave off, the blue shadow on his jaw, the flop of disorderly black hair across his brow that added a raffishness to his appearance.
    He caught her looking and said, sounding genuinely puzzled, ‘Something the matter?’
    ‘ Fin.’ She took a step forward. ‘We need to talk.’
    ‘ Uh oh. The words every man learns to dread.’ He half-smiled, but still sounded perplexed if not downright concerned. Melissa approached the desk, her heart trying to force its way up into her throat. She was terribly afraid that her voice would seize up, and for a moment she didn’t say anything.
       Fin came out from behind the desk. He must have seen something in her face that alarmed him because he moved close to her and put a tentative hand on her shoulder. ‘Melissa, what is it? What’s happened?’
    She forced herself to lift her head and meet his gaze. Up close, she could smell the faint residue of the morning’s aftershave on him, the scent familiar to her from his car that night. His eyes probed hers, flicking from one to the other in turn.
    ‘Nothing’s happened,’ she murmured. ‘That’s the problem.’
    Somehow his face was closer, though she hadn’t noticed him move. His pupils were large and dilated within their circling grey irises. Normally they’d be smaller to accommodate the closeness of her own face. Their size meant he was stimulated.
    Through the glazed window came the muffled nighttime sounds of the city. In the room Melissa could hear the low intake and expulsion of his breath, the higher rhythm of her own respiration.
    He said, ‘What do you mean?’
    Was there a huskiness to his voice which hadn’t been there before? Her own voice barely more than a whisper, she said: ‘You know very well what I mean, Mr Finmore-Gage.’
    She became aware that his hand was still on her shoulder, a gentle, firm weight. Slowly Melissa brought her opposite hand up and laid it on his. The knuckles and bones were solid under the skin of her palm. She’d watched those hands countless times, usually sheathed in latex gloves and so deft, so delicate despite their power. But this was the first time she’d actually felt one.
    His other hand came up and touched her upper arm, lingering there. His pupils were so wide and black they dominated his eyes. Lightly, his breath touched her face. She closed her eyes, savouring it.
    ‘ Melissa,’ he