Mistress Of The Groom

He grinned as he modestly refused. ‘My girlfriend is very jealous,’ he said, casting a look at pink-faced Jane. ‘She looks fairly innocuous, doesn’t she? But, believe me, she’s a tigress when she’s defending her territory.’

She was still boiling at the memory later that evening, when Ryan refused to allow her into the kitchen to heat up some soup for her dinner, propping a chair under the doorhandle and ignoring her strident demands and savage kicks at the solid panels while he cooked up a storm. He finally let her in, but only when she had grudgingly agreed to share his meal.

The fact that his colourful stir-fry of vegetables and noodles was more delicious than anything Jane had yet cooked for herself added to her resentment. She was only slightly mollified by the sight of some of her bread, salvaged from the morning’s accident, cut into neat triangles and generously buttered.

He had taken her at her word about the electricity and set candles on the kitchen table instead of using the overhead light, the warm, flickering glow creating a romantic atmosphere that Jane hadn’t reckoned on when she had whined about the power bill. But for once Ryan was the perfect gentleman, allaying her fears as she ate by chatting about how he had learned to cook when his mother was doing shift work, how he had also looked after his baby sister, Melissa, and how his mother was now married to a chef who owned two restaurants, one of them in partnership with his stepson.

Jane said very little, concentrating on gingerly balancing her fork between the good fingers of her left hand, and as soon as dinner was over announced her intention of going to bed to read.

‘Is that wise straight after eating?’ frowned Ryan. ‘Why don’t we go for a stroll along the beach? The moon won’t be over the hills yet, but I have a torch in the Rover.’

Warm night, dark beach, crashing waves, sexy man... Jane could feel her heart palpitating at the possibilities.

‘I’m too tired,’ she said truthfully. Too tired to feel like wrestling her own desires as well as his! Ryan’s swift first aid had prevented her burn penetrating through many layers of her skin, but it was still smarting quite badly.

He followed her down the hall and watched her put the candle she was carrying on the low cabinet by her bed. ‘How are you planning to wash? After a hot day like today I know you must be dying for a nice soap-down so your skin is soft and clean when you slide between the sheets, but now you’ve got both hands out of commission.’

His words were so evocative that Jane instantly felt every grain of sand and every microscopic speck of dust weighing like boulders on her sun-parched skin.

‘My left one is much better than it was. I’ll manage.’

‘Not if your fork-handling is anything to go by. Don’t be silly, Jane. You’ll take ages and probably hurt yourself in the process. Why not let me give you a nice wash?’

Jane turned around, her mouth falling open. Standing in the doorway of her room, the devil even managed to look pious as he said, ‘You’ll feel much better afterwards.’

She could just imagine!

Her jaw snapped shut. ‘I think I’ll skip a wash tonight!’

He stepped over the threshold, seemingly undismayed by her vehement refusal. In the candlelit shadows he looked very big and very dark. ‘What about your night-things? What do you wear to bed?’

With her injured hand she had found it easier to sleep nude than struggle into one of the silky confections that the valuers had fastidiously overlooked. ‘None of your business.’

He took another step. ‘I see,’ he said and from the huskiness in his voice he saw all too well. ‘But maybe with me in the house you’d feel more secure if you wore something. Do you need me to help you get undressed?’

She shook her head, biting her tongue. He came closer and fingered the bottom of her T-shirt. ‘Are you sure?’

She nodded dumbly.

‘What about your bra? Does it fasten at the front or back?’

‘Back,’ she whispered. Trust him to know that her bra was the weak point in her defence. She had tried going braless after she had broken her hand, but her size had made it uncomfortable and she had been too self-conscious about the way her breasts moved beneath her clothes to go out that way in public. Putting on a bra with only one good hand had been difficult, but not impossible, but now...

Jane closed her eyes, surrendering to the inevitable. But he didn’t pull off her T-shirt. His hands were warm as they skimmed her waist under the loose fabric, separating to slide up around her ribs and meet again at the centre of her back. His breath was just as warm on her forehead as he deftly unhooked the tiny fastening and her full breasts shifted, settling lower on her chest, lightly brushing against his...

They stood for a frozen moment, then Jane felt him sigh and his hands fell away as he stepped back. She opened her eyes. His gaze was sombre, steady.

‘If you want any more help, you’ll have to ask for it.’

She couldn’t say it. She just couldn’t get the words out of her fear-locked throat, past her stubborn lips.

His nostrils flared and his features seemed to tighten, accentuating the broad, flat cheekbones and thrust of his jaw.

Without a word he peeled off her T-shirt and gently slid the bra down her arms. He knelt and unzipped her shorts and drew them off, along with her panties. Not once did he take his eyes off hers.

He rose to turn back her bed and guided her down onto the cool white cotton, draping the top sheet carefully over her voluptuous nudity. Then he left the room, returning a few minutes later with a bowl of warm soapy water, a face cloth, a towel and her hair brush.

Silently, rinsing the cloth often, he sat on the side of the bed and slowly washed her face, throat and shoulders, and the upper swell of her breasts that rose above the folded sheet. His face was a fascinating golden mask in the candlelight as he patted her skin softly dry and loosened her hair from its pony-tail, brushing it out in a wavy black fan across the white pillow.