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He flushed and turned away, obviously embarrassed. ‘God, I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m rambling on like this. I feel like a raging adolescent—I’ll be reciting poetry to you next!’ He took a deep, ragged breath. ‘There you are, though. That’s how I feel. If you want to come along for the ride, the spacecraft leaves in thirty seconds. I should warn you, though. I think the pilot’s gone slightly crazy.’
She gave a breathless little chuckle. There was a pulse beating heavily in her throat, and she felt unbearably moved and aroused by his honesty. She laid a hand reassuringly on his arm, and felt a shudder run through him. ‘It’s all right, Oliver. I understand.’
He turned back to her, his eyes searching. ‘You do? I’m damned if I do. Look, if it isn’t what you want, Bron, for whatever reason, then stop me now. Don’t play with me.’
Bronwen swallowed with difficulty. ‘Oh, Oliver … Are you serious?’
His eyes were steady on hers, and they softened with tenderness. ‘I’ve never been more serious in my life. Do you want time to think about it?’
In answer, she stepped closer and, reaching up, pulled his face down to brush his lips with hers. ‘I don’t want to waste our time. I feel the same—and I’m terrified.’
He hugged her close, and the breath sagged out of his body with relief. Thank God!’ he breathed, and then chuckled. ‘Come on, little lady, let’s go and eat before I do something very ungentlemanly and drag you off into the bushes!’
The crowd in the dining-room was thinning out by the time they arrived, and they took their salads out on to the terrace, eating with one hand while the fingers of the other were entwined.
After a while, Oliver gave up and pushed his plate away. ‘I can’t eat and hold you at the same time, and I daren’t let go in case you vanish.’
Bron followed his lead. She really wasn’t very hungry anyway. The feelings racing through her were nothing to do with low blood sugar and everything to do with the dancing blue eyes and the warm, generous mouth whose touch she had felt so briefly.
‘I won’t vanish,’ she murmured.
‘Promise?’
‘Promise. Will you?’
‘Vanish? No way. Where can I go? We’re in outer space!’
They talked for hours, comparing likes and dislikes, hobbies and interests, and in the end they simply sat, their coffee growing cold, and stared into each other’s eyes like moonstruck adolescents.
As the last rays of the evening sun dipped behind the trees, Jane and Michael came and joined them, and the spell was broken, or at least put on hold. Michael fetched fresh coffee and they chatted about the conference. Bron found it difficult to drag her eyes from Oliver and concentrate on what they were all saying. In the end she gave up and closed her eyes, listening to the sound of his voice, headily conscious of the pressure of his thigh against hers. She wondered what tomorrow would bring.
Time for bed,’ she heard him say, and her eyes flew open in alarm.
He caught her surprised look before she could cover it, and smiled teasingly. ‘I’ll walk you to your room. Goodnight, Jane, Michael.’
He held her chair, and placed a warm and comfortable arm around her shoulders as they walked towards the stairs. Her arm slipped naturally around his waist and she felt the hard nudge of his hip against her side as they crossed the hallway and went up the stairs.
At the door to her room, she stopped in confusion. Did he expect her to let him in? She really felt as if she would, if he made the slightest move towards her, and yet it went so against her normal character that she felt a wild flutter of panic.
He turned her into his arms and tucked her head under his chin, the steady, even beat of his heart reassuring under her ear. His voice rumbled gently above her.
‘I don’t want to let you go, but I must. You’re tired and so am I, and so much has happened. I want some time to absorb it, and I really ought to write up my notes on this evening’s lecture.’
‘Notes?’ she whispered vaguely, and wondered how he could think of anything so totally prosaic while she was floating on a cloud of cotton-wool.
‘Notes,’ he said, more firmly. ‘It’s probably more effective than a cold shower.’
He released her gently, and, with a slow smile and the gentle pressure of his lips fleetingly on her forehead, he was gone, striding quietly down the landing. Bron watched the empty hall for minutes afterwards, hugging herself and smiling softly, then with a little laugh she let herself into her room and prepared for bed.
Oliver. She lay in bed turning over the events of the evening in her mind, hearing his voice again and seeing the way his cheek dimpled when he smiled, and the twitch of his firmly sculpted mouth.
It’s all genetic, she told herself. He can’t take any credit for the way he looks. Oh, lord, what have I promised him? With her thoughts in turmoil, and a mingled feeling of panic and trembling anticipation, she fell asleep.
‘What we are talking about here is the Golden Hour, the time between admission and stabilisation for surgery in victims of severe trauma—for example, road-traffic accidents, burns, chemical leaks, explosions, et cetera.
‘In the USA, and now in some fortunate areas of Britain, specialist Trauma Units exist, and they are specifically set up as emergency treatment centres for victims of such incidents. They have highly skilled staff available twenty-four hours a day, to provide specialist care instantly on admission. No fudging around wondering what the hell to do until the consultant has come back from lunch, or trying to phone another hospital to find out what the current treatment for chemical burns is—instant, immediate, accurate treatment within the first hour—the Golden Hour.’
The lecturer paused, and papers were handed out down the rows. These are the statistics. I think you’ll be as impressed as I was when I saw them. They outline quite clearly the importance of getting the right treatment within those crucial early minutes. OK, let’s break for coffee to give you time to look at the figures. We’ll meet back here in an hour to discuss anything you want to raise, so please don’t waste your time—you aren’t here to have fun!’
A laugh rippled round the conference, and the delegates stood and shuffled towards the coffee-lounge. Beside Bronwen, Oliver stretched and grinned. ‘Hear that, little lady? We aren’t here to have fun! Let’s go and find a corner and look at his figures—although I’d much rather look at yours.’
‘Oliver!’ Bron blushed and laughed, and he grinned again.
‘I’ll be good,’ he promised.
‘I don’t doubt it,’ she muttered under her breath, and his startled grunt of laughter made her blush again. ‘You weren’t meant to hear that.’
‘I’ll bet! Come on, let’s go and lie on the grass by the lake and study this lot.’
‘I think we ought to stay here and concentrate.’
He gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘If you insist. Let’s go over the top. Michael! Grab two more coffees, there’s a good lad. I’ll find a space outside.’
Michael waved acknowledgement and turned back to Jane.
‘Those two seem to have scored a hit with each other,’ Bron commented, and Oliver shook his head.
‘Just a holiday flirtation. I don’t think either of them is taking it seriously.’
Their eyes met, and for a long moment Bron felt herself drowning in the depths of those endlessly blue eyes, but then Oliver looked away and swore softly under his breath.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Wrong? Nothing. Everything’s in perfect working order—it’s just a little public to react quite so strongly to you, and when you look at me like that my body gets a mind of its own. Come on, let’s go over there on the grass and sit down.’
He grabbed her arm and steered her quickly through the crowd, then they sank down on to the cool grass in the shade of a tree. He leaned against the trunk and studied her flushed cheeks with a reluctant smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. It’s OK for girls, it doesn’t show. You don’t know how lucky you are. Hell, I thought by now I could control my reactions, but no one’s ever got to me the way you do.’
‘Oh, Oliver, don’t apologise. You aren’t the only one.’
Bron wrapped her arms around her knees to hide the hard jut of her nipples against the thin fabric of her dress, and looked out over the lake. ‘Why is this happening to us?’ she asked in a strained voice, and she felt his hand reach out and trace the line of her shoulder under the strap of her dress.
‘I don’t know. I can’t think of a single thing I’ve done to deserve you, but I can’t tell you how glad I am—hi, Michael. Drag up a blade of grass and join us.’
Bronwen looked up to find Jane watching her curiously. ‘What did you think of the lecture?’
Jane raised an eyebrow. ‘Excellent. Have you seen the figures?’
‘We were just getting round to that,’ Oliver put in, and Michael snorted with laughter.
‘Bull! Right, grab a coffee and let’s confer.’
Bron listened, putting in the odd comment, but content by and large to listen to Oliver’s voice and to learn from his remarks. He was obviously very aware of current trends, and Bron was willing to bet that he was an excellent and conscientious doctor.
The conversation became more general, and she gathered that Michael was a senior registrar in the A and E department of Guy’s, where Oliver was a surgical SR. She also learned that Oliver was waiting for the results of his FRCS exams, which he had completed recently.
‘Hard?’ she asked, and he raised his eyes to the sky.
‘I’ll say! I’ve never worked so hard in my life. They were killers. I don’t think I stand a chance, but one can only try. The vivas were foul.’
‘Rubbish. You can’t fail. You’ve never got less than a first yet—bloody star student, this boy. Made the rest of us look as if we’d spent all our time in the bar——’
‘I wonder why that was?’ Oliver teased, deflecting Michael’s praise. Yet another aspect of him that Bron found so appealing.
He unravelled his length and stood up, stretching his arms high above his head. A sliver of tanned, hair-scattered midriff peeked out under the hem of his shirt, and Bron dragged her eyes away from it and got to her feet, making a production of brushing the grass off her skirt to avoid his eye.
Jane attached herself firmly to Bronwen’s side, said, ‘We’re just going to freshen up—save us a place,’ and steered her through the bar towards the cloakroom.
There she took her comb out of her bag, dragged it through her hair and eyed Bron in the mirror.
‘So what’s with you two? You’ve been making sheep’s eyes at each other ever since you met. What’s going on?’
Bron shook her head in denial. ‘Nothing. We just—I don’t know. I’ve never met anyone like that before.’
‘Well, I’ve certainly never seen you behave like this—the cool, calm, collected Dr Jones? Good grief, Bron, I always thought you were an iceberg, and yet if Oliver so much as looks at you I can see the smoke pouring off you both.’
Bron laughed. ‘Is it that obvious? Sorry. We’ll try to ignore each other.’
Jane shook her head vigorously. ‘Uh-uh. Go for it—get it out of your system. I won’t tell.’
‘Sister Hardy, if you so much as hint to anyone that I’ve been behaving like a moonstruck teenager I’ll get you transferred to orthopaedics—as a patient.’
Jane snorted. ‘You and whose army? Come on. Let’s go and tie the lecturer up in knots.’
In the event it was Oliver who had the lecturer tied up in knots, and the other delegates in stitches, but it was entirely good-natured, and resulted in an excellent discussion with much in the way of relevant contribution from many of the delegates.
By the time they broke for lunch, Bron was feeling light-hearted and cheerful, and they all took their salads out into the grounds and carried on the discussion.
Bron lay back in the cool grass and let the conversation wash over her. She was feeling intoxicated with the air and the sound of Oliver’s voice, and she closed her eyes and drifted in and out of a light sleep.
She awoke slowly to awareness of him; he was lying beside her propped up on one elbow and watching her sleep, and she smiled lazily and shaded her eyes.
‘Hi. Where are the others?’
‘Hi yourself. Gone for a walk.’
He leaned over her, and his shoulders blocked out the sun. She watched, breathless, as his mouth came slowly down and brushed hers with careful deliberation. ‘I’ve been wanting to do that for ages,’ he whispered softly. His head came down again, and this time he deepened the kiss, his hand coming up to tangle in her hair.
When he lifted his head, his eyes were smoky with passion and he swallowed convulsively. He lifted a lock of her hair and wound it thoughtfully around one finger, then tugged it gently. ‘I want to drag you off into my cave and make mad, passionate love to you, but the lecturer would be so disappointed if I wasn’t there to stir things up.’
He laughed a little shakily, and as he lifted his hand to graze her cheek with his knuckles she noticed he was trembling.
‘Oh, Oliver, I want you, too,’ she whispered, and he gave a low groan and flopped back against the grass.
‘What the hell are we going to do about it, Bron? I can’t think, I can’t concentrate; if I close my eyes all I see is your face. I didn’t sleep a wink last night. I just want to hold you in my arms and talk to you—I don’t really care if we make love or not. Hell, it’s far too soon!’ He groaned and rolled on to his stomach, burying his head in his arms. ‘I never behave like this, and I can’t believe you do either, but I have this overwhelming urge to take you to bed and make love to you until one of us begs for mercy! I’m just not sure I could cope with it yet.’
Bron took a deep breath. He was right, of course, she didn’t behave like this and never had, either, but what they had was different, special, and she wasn’t ready to let him go. She’d only had one affair before, and that was with someone she’d known for years. It had been a gentle and natural extension of their friendship and respect, and it had fizzled out just as naturally when he’d moved away for promotion; but, in terms of fireworks, already Oliver was winning hands down. If she let him go now, she knew she’d regret it for the rest of her life. When she spoke, her voice trembled slightly.
‘I won’t beg for mercy.’
He lifted his head and gazed at her seriously. ‘Oh, Bron—I’m not interested in a quick roll in the hay.’
‘Oh! That wasn’t—I didn’t mean…’
Her confusion must have shown in her face, because he pulled her into his arms and cradled her against his chest. ‘I’m not saying I don’t want to make love with you! I’m saying it’s more than that. I think you could come to mean a great deal to me, very easily. I just don’t want to blow my chances with you by pushing you into something you’ll regret later.’
‘I would never regret it,’ she said quietly.
‘You don’t think you would, but things—people, circumstances—change. Come on, let’s go back to the lecture and put things back into perspective. I don’t think I trust myself to be alone with you when you’re so vulnerable.’
‘Oliver! I’m not vulnerable, I’m making a choice.’
He looked down at her, and shook his head. ‘No, Bron, you have no choice. Where I’m concerned you’re as vulnerable as I am with you. We’re wide open to hurt, and we’ll have to protect each other. God knows, I’ll never forgive myself if I hurt you.’
He pulled her to her feet, and tucked her into his side for the walk back to the conference-room.
Jane and Michael were waiting for them, and they sat down just in time as the lecture began again. Bron made a conscious effort to listen, but it wasn’t easy, and she caught Oliver’s rueful grin more than once. He was obviously having the same trouble.
They broke for tea and stayed on the terrace with the others, and after the evening lecture they got together for a drink and a chat over the day’s notes. Whether it was the atmosphere, or Oliver’s presence, or just the fact that she wasn’t used to it, Bron felt the drinks going to her head and found it harder than ever to concentrate on what they were saying.
Predictably her notes were sketchy and filled with doodles—her name and Oliver’s, intertwined with love-hearts and arrows and trailing vine leaves. His were almost as bad, except that his doodles were restricted to ‘She loves me, she loves me not’, down the margin to the bottom line, ending with ‘She loves me not’.
Bron took his notes, drew in another line and wrote, ‘She loves me’, on it, and handed it back, and he gave a startled laugh.
‘Goodnight, all,’ he said briefly, grabbed Bron by the hand and towed her out through the french doors into the garden.
‘Just what are you trying to do to my blood-pressure?’ he said with a ragged chuckle, and tugged her into his arms to kiss her with all the pent-up emotions of the day. ‘Crazy girl,’ he murmured eventually against her hair, and held her, rocking her gently against his chest while the nightingale sang in the wood and the scent of orange blossom drifted round them in the warm, evening air.
Then with a sigh he put her from him. ‘Go on, go up to bed while I can still let you go.’ He brushed his lips lightly across hers and, turning her round, he propelled her gently towards the door. ‘Goodnight, my darling. Sleep tight. I’ll see you for breakfast.’
On considerably reluctant feet, Bron forced herself to walk away from him and upstairs.
The night was predictably sleepless; she lay, her mind filled with thoughts of Oliver, and wondered if he returned her love. How could he not? she thought dreamily, and finally fell asleep as the sun crept over the horizon.
She was woken abruptly by Oliver pounding on her door.
‘Bron? Open up, I’ve got something to show you!’
