Summer Kisses

Unable to help himself, Conner lifted a hand to touch her but then saw the trust shining in her dark eyes and took a step backwards, letting his hand drop to his side. ‘You’re the sort of woman who deserves to wake up next to a good man.’ His hand curled into a fist. ‘That isn’t me, Flora.’

‘You’re a good man.’

‘No.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because a good man wouldn’t do what I’m about to do,’ he muttered, knowing that he’d lost the fight. He reached out a hand, yanking her against him and crushing his mouth against hers.

A kaleidoscope of colours exploded in his head and any hope of pulling away vanished as she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed closer. He kissed her roughly but she gave back willingly and her mouth was sweet and warm under his.

And since when had sweetness had any place in his life?

He released her so suddenly that she swayed dizzily. ‘Conner—’

‘Don’t.’ With a rough jerk he disengaged himself from her arms. ‘Don’t offer yourself to me, Flora.’

‘Why not?’ Clearly sensing the tension and anger boiling inside him, she lifted a hand to his cheek, pushing aside her natural shyness. ‘It’s what I want.’

‘No, it isn’t what you want.’

She stood, looking hurt and vulnerable. ‘It is. I want you.’

The blood throbbing in his veins, Conner turned away from her, knowing that he couldn’t say what he had to say if he was looking at her. None of the things he’d ever done in his life had ever felt as hard as this and he steeled himself to do what had to be done. ‘Well, I don’t want you.’ His tone was rock steady. ‘I’m sorry if that hurts, but it’s better to be honest up front. I don’t want you, Flora. There’s no chemistry there at all.’

Her soft gasp was like a punch in the gut. ‘Conner—’

‘You kiss like a child, Flora. You don’t even turn me on.’ This time he altered his tone so that he sounded careless, even a little bored. Then he gave a dismissive shrug and strolled towards the door. ‘I suggest you find someone of your own age to practise on.’

Then he left the room, slamming the door so hard that the entire building shook.

Only when he was safely within the privacy of his consulting room did Conner finally release the emotion he’d kept firmly locked inside. He let out a string of expletives and thumped his fist against the wall. Then he sank onto his chair and stared at the door, willing himself not to walk back through it and tell her that he hadn’t meant a single word he’d just said. Because if he did that—if he sought her out and apologised—he wouldn’t be righting a wrong, he’d be making things worse.

Yes, he’d hurt her.

He’d hurt her so badly that he felt physically sick at the thought, and he knew that her gasp of pain and the shimmer of tears in her eyes would stay with him for a long time.

But he also knew that the pain would be infinitely greater if he took their relationship any further.

His eyes slid to the doorhandle and he gritted his teeth and looked away, ruthlessly ignoring the urge to go back and comfort her. Talk to her. What was there to say? He’d already said it. And better now than later. Better a small amount of private pain than public humiliation when the entire island discovered their affair.

They’d tear her apart and he wasn’t going to let that happen to her.

There was a tap on the door and he looked up with a growl of impatience, furious at having been disturbed. ‘What?’ He barked the word and the door opened slowly and a woman peeped nervously into the room.

‘Janet said to come straight through.’

‘What for?’

She blinked. ‘Surgery? I have an appointment with you.’

Conner stared at her blankly and then realised that kissing Flora had actually driven everything out of his head. Everything, including the fact that he was supposed to be seeing patients.

‘Of course. Sorry.’ He managed something approximating a smile. ‘Come in.’ And then he recognised her. Agatha Patterson, the elderly lady who lived in the converted lifeboat cottage on the beach. ‘I expect you’ve come to exact your revenge. I seem to remember raiding your flower-beds one night.’

‘You gave them to that girl—the pretty blonde one. I still remember how pleased she was.’

Conner gave a faint smile. ‘That was at least sixteen years ago so I’m guessing you’re not here because you’re worried about your memory. Am I supposed to apologise for helping myself to your flowers?’