The Boss's Virgin

She made herself scrambled egg on toast for supper and went to bed quite early, feeling absolutely exhausted. She woke up in the night crying, tears pouring down her face after a dream she couldn’t remember at all except that it had left her with a sense of terrible loss and loneliness.

She got up and went downstairs, made herself hot chocolate and took it back to bed, sat up against banked pillows sipping it, trying to remember what her dream had been about. She couldn’t track it down, though, just remember the feelings.

The trouble was, her mind was in confusion: torn, divided, constantly swinging between dread of seeing Randal again, of having to face his insistence that she must marry him, and a yearning to be with him, to be in his arms, in his bed.

He was right, of course; now that she had got to know Johnny she liked him, was already fond of him. Randal had shrewdly guessed that that would happen. By introducing her to his son he had hoped to disarm her and he had done it. She knew she no longer resented Johnny’s place in his father’s affections, no longer wanted Randal to put her first at his son’s expense. How could she want to supplant that poor, sad little boy, whose mother couldn’t be bothered with him, who had been starved of Renata’s affection all his short life?

Johnny was a lively, intelligent child who mostly hid his emotional problems, but Pippa had learnt that they existed, had seen the boy’s hurt response to his mother’s rejection.

No, she no longer wanted to come first with Randal. Johnny needed his father’s love as much as she did.

But she still couldn’t marry Randal. She had been puzzled at first, hadn’t been able to work out why she was so scared, but in the silence of that spring night she faced up to the reasons. She couldn’t take the risk. It was that simple. She was scared. Marrying Randal would be like bungee jumping off a cliff, afraid the rope would break, afraid she would hit the ground and be killed or horribly maimed.

She had been emotionally maimed last time. Four years ago she had had the guts to walk away from him, but she had been damaged by doing it. When they’d met again she had rationalised her instinctive need for flight, for getting away from him, had told herself it was because he had chosen his wife and child over her before and she needed a man who would put her first every time, but now she knew it hadn’t been that at all.

She was simply afraid of getting hurt again. It was a case of the burnt child fearing the fire. She couldn’t take the risk.

Finishing her hot chocolate, she switched off the lamp and lay down in the dark. She must clear her mind of Randal, mustn’t let herself think about him, must not keep turning over thoughts of him. She had to get some sleep. She was so tired. And no more dreams!

The answer was to think of something else. A holiday! That would keep her mind busy. Where should she go? Spain? Italy? At this time of year anywhere in the Mediterranean would be wonderful—not too hot, not too crowded. She must go to a travel agent and book herself two weeks in some lovely place.

She would probably go to a seaside resort, but one which could offer fascinating places to visit too. Somehow Italy seemed to her at this moment to offer more. She would get a brochure and choose somewhere. Anywhere, it didn’t matter whe

re, because she knew nothing much about Italy. Wherever she went it would be new and exciting.

She must have fallen asleep quite quickly because the next time she woke up it was morning and the room was full of golden light.

It was a lovely morning; spring was slowly turning into summer, the lilacs were out in clusters of white and purple, the roses were budding and the air was rich with the scent of blossom.

Pippa got up, showered, put on jeans and a white T-shirt, blow-dried her chestnut hair, then went downstairs for breakfast.

She had bran cereal with fresh fruit, which she sliced into her bowl: apple, banana, grapes. With it she drank a small glass of orange juice and then a cup of black coffee. After that she did some housework and then went out into the garden to mow the lawn.

While she was doing that Tom arrived, came round the side of the house to find her.

‘Where have you been?’ he demanded.

Switching off the mower, she smiled at him, pushing back her hair from her sun-flushed face.

‘Hello, Tom. I was visiting a friend.’

‘What friend?’ He had that belligerent look she was coming to recognise. ‘I suppose you mean Harding?’

‘Tom, don’t start on one of those inquisitions. I don’t have to tell you who I see, or where I go. So don’t bark at me.’

He made a growling noise in his throat like an angry dog and showed his teeth. ‘We may not be getting married, but I still worry about you. The man’s pure poison. Stay away from him!’

‘I’m not discussing him with you, any more than I’d discuss you with him!’

‘What does he say about me?’ he broke out, very red in the face.

She groaned. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Tom! Why are you here and what do you want?’

After a seething pause, he said, ‘I wanted to work out a timetable for the sale of the house. I can put down a deposit whenever you like, but when, exactly, do you want to exchange contracts?’

She took off her gardening gloves. ‘Come in and have a coffee and we’ll work something out.’

They sat in the kitchen, drinking coffee and writing out a proposed timetable for the sale.