A Perfect Hero

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‘You too. Thanks for a lovely evening.’

She touched his cheek with her hand, and then climbed out of the car and shut the door, watching until his tail-lights disappeared from view.

Then she let herself back inside and prepared for bed, certain she wouldn’t be able to sleep. So he thought they could have something really special, something that deserved time to flourish. She wondered where it would lead—to heartache, or to a lifetime of happiness? Maybe neither. Only time would tell.

She snuggled down in bed, her head crowded with images of Michael, and fell asleep in seconds.

Oh, Michael, she’s lovely!’

Clare stood on the quayside and gazed in admiration at the little sloop. Built on traditional, classic lines, she was sleek and graceful, and Clare fell in love on the spot.

Michael slammed the boot of the Volvo and strolled to her side, a confident, cocky grin on his face. ‘Isn’t she great? I know every inch of her, inside and out—I helped my grandfather build her the year I was ten. She handles beautifully—he really knew what he was doing. Come on, let’s get all this stuff stowed and take her out.’

He led Clare on to the pontoon that ran out like a finger into the marina, with little branches off it at intervals to which boats were moored in orderly profusion.

‘I may be biased, but I think she’s the prettiest,’ Clare told him as they arrived at the Henrietta and she got her first close look at the boat.

‘I’m biased too, but I happen to agree with you!’ He shot her a cheeky grin. ‘Here, hold this lot.’ He handed her some bags and hopped nimbly aboard, uncovering the cockpit and stowing the cover neatly under the seat in the stern.

Then he took the bags from her, dropped them into the cockpit and held out his hands. ‘Welcome aboard,’ he said, and as she leapt forward he caught her under her arms and swung her on to the deck.

She fell against him, laughing, and as she straightened his head came down and he kissed her lingeringly.

‘Good morning,’ he said huskily.

‘Good morning yourself,’ she replied, suddenly breathless. ‘What can I do?’

He waved a hand at the bags. ‘Get all this lot stowed away in the cabin and come back and keep me company.’

She scrambled somewhat inelegantly over the high step of the hatchway, down the two rungs of the companionway into the main cabin, and took a deep breath.

Oh, yes. Varnish, and seawater, and diesel, and the unmistakable smell of the bilges. Clare hadn’t realised how much she had missed messing about in boats until she had caught that evocative smell. Heavens, it took her right back to her childhood! Suddenly light-hearted, she looked around her.

On her right was a desk next to a bank of navigational equipment, charts, radio and so on, and on her left a little galley, with a gimballed stove designed to remain stable as the boat tilted from side to side. In front of her was the main seating area, with two long benches down either side that would convert to berths, one L-shaped, with a fixed table in front of it that would collapse to make a double berth.

There was a door directly opposite her that led, she imagined, to another little cabin in the bows, and the ‘head’, that ghastly contraption that passed for a loo on board small boats.

She looked around her at the cabin, and a little smile touched her mouth. This was Michael.

There were a few books—Nicholas Monsarrat, Neville Shute, Hammond Innes—a couple of bottles of wine and one of brandy, two jars of coffee and some powdered milk, a few tins of staples—everything a man like him would need for a quick getaway.

She heard his light tread behind her and turned.

‘Are you a loner?’

He looked startled for a second, and then smiled. ‘No, not really, but I do need to escape every now and again and top up. Will that worry you?’

There he goes again, talking as if we have a future, she thought with a soaring heart.

‘No, it won’t worry me at all. We all need solitude periodically.’

He gave her a brief hug. ‘What do you think of her?’

‘Oh, she’s lovely—just right. All wooden fittings and personal touches—not at all like a modern boat.’

He laughed. ‘You don’t sound as if you approve of modern boats!’

‘Well, they have their place, I suppose, but they’re characterless by comparison.’

‘Thank you,’ he said simply, and hugged her again. After a moment he eased away from her with a reluctant sigh and headed for the hatch. ‘We need to get under way if we’re going to catch the tide up the Deben. There’s a sand-spit across the mouth of the river that closes it off at low tide, but if we go now we should make it just about right.’

She found a picnic in one of the bags and wedged it in the corner of the galley, and dropped the other bag, full of towels and sweaters, on the quarter bunk under the cockpit. Then she clambered back over the hatch to join Michael.

There’s a light breeze picking up—just do us nicely,’ he said, and pressed the starter button. The engine turned, coughed, and fired immediately. He cast off, jumped nimbly back on board and steered her carefully over to the lock. The top gates were open, and the lads working the lock made her fast and stood by to steady the boat as she lowered.

Tide’s only just coming in now, so we’ve got quite a long way to go. Will it worry you?’

Clare shook her head. ‘Must make it tricky if you get back too late,’ she said. ‘Do you have to find another mooring outside overnight?’

‘Oh, no—they have a motto here, “Lock around the Clock”—you can come and go whenever you please. Just as well—when I got her here from the Scillies it was nearly midnight.’

‘Isn’t that a bit hair-raising in the dark, in strange waters?’

He laughed. ‘Hardly strange! She’s been moored near here for fifteen years—my grandfather lives in Holbrook. I know this coast like the back of my hand.’

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

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

‘OK?’

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

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

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

‘Happy?’

‘Oh, Michael, you have no idea …’

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

‘What ferry?’

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

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

‘I won’t. Take your time.’

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

‘Well done.’

She laughed breathlessly. ‘It was awful!’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Well, ditto!’

Their eyes met.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She nodded, beyond speech.

‘Are you sure?’

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

‘Oh, my love …’

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

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

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_1cf0051f-5cb2-5e11-bfa5-fde5e6e77898)

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

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

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

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

‘I’m glad. Neither have I.’

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

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

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

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

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

That feels good,’ he murmured.

‘Can I touch you?’ she asked hesitantly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘So? All little boys have scarry knees. They probably aren’t any worse than mine.’