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She laughed softly at their antics, content to sit and watch them a little longer.
After a while she felt a strange prickling in the back of her neck, a sort of awareness, as if she were no longer alone. Turning her head, she studied the back of the house, the stone-mullioned windows marching like sentries across the upper storey. She scanned them, wondering which one, if any, was Max’s room. He had said he slept at the far end of the house, but which of the end rooms?
She watched silently for several seconds, but there was no sign of life, however, and none of the curtains was closed; she finally concluded that he must sleep at the front of the house.
Crazy, she thought, returning her eyes to the view over the garden to the hills beyond. Why would he want to look out of the front when from the back he could see the sun rise?
The first brilliant arc appeared as she sat there, edging over the hills to her left and pouring over the landscape like molten gold. She felt peace steal into her heart—peace, and the realisation that she was more vibrantly alive now, this morning, than she had been for years. Like Sleeping Beauty after the Prince had kissed her, she thought.
But unlike Sleeping Beauty, she had responsibilities. She still had Stephen to think of, and he above all must come first.
Rising stiffly from the cold stone of the steps, she made her way over the damp grass towards the house, pausing briefly to stare again at the end window; then, head bowed, she crossed the terrace and went back round the side of the house, quite unaware of the man who stood watching her from the shadows of his room.
He shouldn’t have kissed her. It had been a big mistake—though not the first. The first, perhaps, had been to treat her like Pauline, expecting that she would shirk her responsibilities, failing to follow through as her predecessor had done.
Of course it was still early days, but after his phone call to Sam Carver he had realised his mistake. She had apparently been meticulously thorough in her explanations, soothing his fears without in any way denying the seriousness of his condition.
Max knew he owed her an apology for that—though not the kiss. God, no. That kiss …
His body heated at the memory, and he groaned softly as she stood up, her body clearly outlined by the early rays of the sun which turned the fine cotton of her nightgown to gossamer, clinging softly to her lush curves as she flitted through the damp grass like a pixie. The sun danced in her hair, so that it seemed like a halo of red and gold curls that tumbled over her shoulders in soft profusion.
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