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‘Were the chimes for Louise?’ Freya asked Stella, who was writing up the board against a background of screams from a woman in the bathroom.
‘Yes.’ Stella nodded. ‘Maternal compromise.’
And then there was paperwork—so much paperwork—only today Freya used it as an excuse and a reason for lingering at the nursing station until well after four, when Kelly came back.
She was wearing a pink theatre cap and still somehow brimming with energy as she and Stella commenced restocking the emergency trolley.
‘Mum dropped her blood pressure. Thankfully they were straight onto her. The baby’s out.’
He was doing well for dates, but it was Louise that was the main concern. The small tear on her spleen had extended and, as Dr Mina had explained, the signs of hypovolemia were more subtle in pregnancy.
Freya was utterly exhausted as she made her way home.
‘Cheer up, love, it might never happen,’ said the flower seller, and Freya managed not to shoot him a look.
She stepped into her flat and just flopped onto the couch—lay there staring at the peeling paint on the ceiling, feeling utterly wrung out. Every second at work she felt as if she were on a roller coaster that didn’t allow time for catching her breath, or time to reflect.
Poor Louise... She’d been incredibly well taken care of—Freya knew that—but it was all so different from everything she was used to.
Which was what she had wanted, of course. And she was certainly getting experience. But it was draining her.
Stella had told her there would be a case follow-up for Louise, in which Dr Mina would go into greater detail, and Freya was truly grateful that she’d been sent down to Casualty to observe. She really was gaining experience, and if ever a mother came into Cromayr Bay with blunt force trauma...
Freya halted herself there, but it was too late. She knew in that moment that she was imagining herself back at home, just as she had this morning.
But she wasn’t just here to gain experience. If she’d wanted that, as Richard had pointed out, she could have gained it rather more locally.
No, she had moved to London.
Freya hauled herself to the shower and then, having pulled on a robe, surveyed the contents of her fridge.
There wasn’t much. She had meant to stop and pick up a few things on her way home. Now she had neither the energy nor the enthusiasm to go out again.
A knock on the door had her padding down the hall—she guessed it would be her neighbour, as their post got muddled on occasion.
Instead it was an unexpected sight for sore eyes.
Richard.
He’d had a haircut and was clean-shaven. And he was wearing a suit, but no tie, and he looked incredibly tired but still breathtakingly handsome.
‘What are you doing here?’ Freya asked.
He tried not to notice that she wore only a robe and that her hair was wet as he answered. ‘We have a film to see.’
CHAPTER FIVE (#ufa772c71-6473-5118-bbbe-2fb399325060)
‘STELLA ASKED ME earlier if I’d enjoyed it...’ said Richard.
‘She asked me too.’ Freya smiled. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said it was very good, and then I had the awful feeling I was going to be questioned further, but thankfully she had to rush off...’
‘Yes, it’s been one helluva day,’ Freya said. ‘How’s Louise?’
‘Critical.’
‘I’m not a reporter, Richard. You can tell me how she really is.’
‘She’s very unstable. She’s had a splenectomy and a Caesarean and has been given a lot of blood. It’s going to be a very long night for her.’
‘Poor thing.’ She was about to let him in, but then she shook her head. ‘To be honest, I’m not really in the mood to go out.’
‘Fair enough.’ Few women refused him, but he found it was rather refreshing. Richard liked her ways.
‘We’ll do the film another time, maybe?’
‘Sure.’
Freya looked at him. He was a man she could never keep, but that didn’t matter now. For in her heart Freya knew she would be leaving London soon.
‘You can come in,’ Freya said. ‘If you want to.’
And Richard did want to.
He came through the door and Freya could feel his eyes on her bottom as she led him down the hallway.
His eyes were on her bottom—for a moment—but then he looked at the trail of moisture her hair had left on her robe, and then he looked down to her long, bare legs.
He didn’t notice the mustard carpet, nor the curtains hanging too short, he simply noticed her. As he had from the very first day they had met.
They faced each other, and the want that had been there for a long time, certainly on the doorstep last night, seemed to have followed them into her flat.
‘I’ll go and get dressed.’
Please don’t, Richard thought, but didn’t say.
As if she could hear him Freya looked up into his eyes.
‘If you disappear on me, at least I’ll know what to tell the police,’ he said.
‘Sorry?’
‘She was wearing a pale robe...’
‘Oh.’
Freya didn’t really understand, but there was a smoky edge to his voice, and as he further explained their eyes locked.
‘I don’t usually notice what women wear—well, not to the extent that I do with you.’
This morning Freya had regretted her sensible decision last night not to invite him in. Now she wanted to be reckless.
Richard felt as if he could see the barriers between them tumbling down before his eyes. And, yes, desire did reside behind her green gaze.
‘What else was this woman in a pale robe wearing?’ Freya asked. ‘Slippers?’
‘No,’ Richard said, his eyes never leaving hers. For he had already seen her painted toes. ‘Her feet were bare and her hair was damp...’ His hand came up and he picked up a heavy coil of black hair, as he had ached to do from day one. ‘And,’ he added, ‘I’m quite sure she didn’t have any underwear on...’
He watched her mouth part in a smile and lust punched like a fist as they teased and flirted and turned each other on.
‘I wish you hadn’t shaved,’ she whispered as his mouth came to hers.
And then she changed her mind, because instead of rough kisses she got the tang of cologne and Richard’s clean-shaven cheek against hers.
‘Smooth can be good,’ he told her as his hand slid behind her neck.
Her skin flared beneath his fingers and the feel of his cheek had her mouth searching for his.
But then he spoke. ‘Freya...’
She frowned at the slight hesitation in his voice, for it was unfamiliar. He was always, always so confident and direct.
Freya pulled back her head and those gorgeous eyes of his awaited her.
Richard was not one to spoil the moment, but his conscience niggled and he wanted to make things absolutely clear to Freya. People could trust him with their lives, but not with their hearts, and he wanted to be sure she understood that before things went further.
‘Don’t rely on me.’
It was the oddest thing to say, perhaps, and yet the kindest.
‘I get it, Richard.’
He wasn’t going to be the cure for her loneliness. Richard Lewis wasn’t going to be the love of her life.
Yesterday it might have mattered. But now she knew it didn’t have to last for ever, or even for more than this night, because her time in London was finite. And she wanted this night with him.
It was Freya who moved to close the gap between their mouths. But it was definitely Richard who kissed her, softly at first, but warmly and thoroughly. Freya’s mouth felt so exquisitely tender that even the gentlest of his kisses felt bruising.
The moan as his tongue slipped inside came from her. And then, for the first time since she’d arrived, London fell silent. Save for the sound of them.
His breathing was ragged and their mouths were frenzied. And surely he’d kissed the oxygen from her because he made her dizzy, and his tongue was so expert and thorough that it made her crave more of him.
His hands undid the belt of her robe. He freed one arm, then the other, and as it slid to the floor she felt cool air on the back of her body—a contrast to the warm rough fabric of his suit and the press of metal and buttons on her naked front.
Freya had never known such raw passion. Their tongues jostled and then she was pressing herself into him, her hands clutching his hair as his hands spanned her waist.
He guided them so that they moved to the wall as if as one. His kisses were certainly not smooth now—they were indecent and delicious and Freya was lost in them. Their chins bumped, their teeth clashed. She wanted to climb him and wrap her body around him.
Freya was tackling his belt, to free him, and then she felt his hard warmth leap towards her hand.
Richard reached into his jacket pocket for a condom, and it was an impatient pause for them both as he sheathed himself. She ached to have him inside her, and he ached to be there too.
And so he rectified things, thrusting in and taking her against the wall.
Freya had never been so thoroughly taken, and it felt sublime. He lifted her so that her legs could wrap around him and she knew she had never moved so seductively. He exposed a side to her that she did not recognise, because she had always been a touch reticent in bed.
Not now.
His fingers dug into her buttocks as she ground against him, and instead of feeling herself holding back, she was more herself with him.
She was so light that he could put one hand against the wall and hold her round her waist with the other. And then he changed the pace...
There was a scream building in her throat, which was clamped closed, so it waited there, trying to burst free. And then there came a breathless shout from him, followed by a rush of energy along her spine as he came deep within her. Finally her scream found its release, but it came out in staccato sobs as she throbbed to his beat.
His hands soothed now, rather than inflamed, and he seemed to know that this wasn’t a Freya she knew.
And it wasn’t.
Her head came to his shoulder and she felt the fabric of his jacket. He was completely dressed, and she was utterly naked. And now there was a smidgen of shame creeping in for Freya—just a curl of guilt as he lowered her down to the floor, yet still held her tightly.
He buried his head in her damp hair and then she felt his lips near her ear. ‘I only wanted a cup of tea.’
Richard made her laugh. He just did.
Having sorted out his clothes, he picked up her robe and helped her into it, then did up the very same belt she had so readily allowed him to open.
They were both still a touch breathless, still trying to find their balance again—but, God, they felt better.
She went and sat on the sofa, where she’d been lying earlier. Richard looked utterly normal—not even particularly dishevelled. His hair fell into perfect shape, whereas Freya was quite sure hers was in knots.
But she didn’t care.
He came and joined her on the sofa, and though they didn’t speak it wasn’t awkward. It was nice to lie down with her head on his lap, looking up at him as he played with her hair. It was relaxing not to speak.
He looked around at her flat and saw for the first time the mustard carpet and odd curtains. Even odder, though, was the fact that there was nothing that spoke of her.
Well, there were some books and magazines on a shelf, but there was a large picture on the wall of a horse and carriage, and he was certain it hadn’t been wrapped in a blanket and lovingly moved down from Scotland.
‘Do you like horses, Freya?’ he asked.
‘Not particularly. Why?’
‘There’s a picture of one on your wall.’
She looked over to where his gaze fell. ‘I know. I can’t get it down.’
Well, that wasn’t quite true. Freya had a little step ladder, which she’d used when she’d re-hung the curtains, but she simply hadn’t got around to taking the horse and cart picture down. It wasn’t as if she had anything to replace it with. It would do for now.
