The Surgeon's Miracle by Caroline Anderson Page B

arms and easing her closer.
    The tempo had slowed, and he rested his cheek against her hair and breathed in the curiously intoxicating scent of apples. Her body settled gently against his, so he felt thesoft press of her breasts against his chest, the light brush of her thighs, the curve of her waist under his hand.
    He could feel himself responding, felt her breath catch, then ease out again as she settled yet closer, and suddenly he couldn’t take it any more. He was too tired to control his reaction, too tired to fight the need to hold her; the lack of sleep was beginning to catch up with him, and he didn’t count the few hours he’d spent trying not to fall off the miserable excuse for a bed in the dressing room, so he forced himself to ease away and meet her eyes. ‘To be honest, I could call it a night, Libby, unless you want to stay up? I’m bushed.’
    ‘I’m more than happy to give up. These shoes are killing me,’ she murmured. Her eyes were soft, luminous, and he wasn’t sure if she’d misunderstood his intentions. He hoped not. He really had meant it when he had said no strings.
    They made their way upstairs, and at the bedroom door he hesitated. He couldn’t go in there with her—not now. Not yet. He couldn’t trust himself while his arms still held the memory of her body swaying against him for dance after dance after dance. ‘I just want to say goodnight to my parents,’ he said a little desperately. ‘I need to head off in the morning early and we probably won’t see them before we go. Don’t wait up for me.’
    And turning on his heel he left her there, walking swiftly away before he gave in to the temptation to usher her through the door, strip off that dress that only he had seen the top of, and make love to her until neither of them could move another muscle.
     
    So that was her told.
    Don’t wait up for me, indeed. Of course not. Why would she? After all, she wasn’t really his girlfriend, and she’d done her job now, fended off the girls all evening, smiledand laughed through one dance after another in his arms so he didn’t have to dance with them.
    Show only, just a smokescreen, a deflector for the poor, love-lorn Charlotte and her cohorts, Libby thought wearily, and unpinning the orchid from her shoulder and removing the shawl, she peeled off the dress, pulled on her nightdress and took off her make-up, cleaned her teeth and slid into the chilly bed.
    It would have been nice if he’d been in it with her, she thought, and then laughed softly to herself. Nice? There would have been nothing nice about it, it would have been amazing. Incredible. And utterly not going to happen.
    She turned over so her back was to the door, and waited for him. She’d turned out the light in her room, leaving on the dressing-room light so he could see, and lay there in the semi-darkness waiting for his return, knowing that when he came back to the room he’d expect to find her sleeping, but she couldn’t sleep, for some reason. Not until he was back.
    Eventually she heard him moving quietly around, heard the click of the switch as the light went out and the room settled into darkness, and then at last, exhausted, she drifted off to sleep…
     
    It was pitch-dark when she woke.
    She could hear him moving around, and she sat up and peered towards the noise.
    ‘Andrew?’
    ‘Oh, Libby, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. I was going to get a drink from the kitchen.’
    ‘I could do with one, too. Can I come with you?’
    ‘Sure. We can make a cup of tea, if you like.’
    She turned on her bedside light and then regretted it instantly, because he was wearing a pair of loose cotton scrub trousers and nothing else. They hung low on his hips, showing the taut, firm abdomen, the broad, deep chest and wide shoulders she’d found so fascinating the previous morning when he’d emerged from the shower in his towel, but that had been before she’d danced with him, before she’d felt that solid,