Single Dads Collection. Lynne Marshall

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      He shouldn’t have touched her.

      Just the feel of her shoulders, tense under his hands at first, then gradually relaxing, and that little moan—hell, he’d nearly lost it.

      Bit tight? Rubbish. She’d been utterly floppy and she’d only tensed up again after she’d made that needy little noise.

      And her eyes, when she’d turned—wary, longing—he had no idea how he’d got out of there. If she hadn’t turned away when she had, God knows what would have happened.

      He snorted. Well, of course she’d realised that. That was why she’d turned back to her desk, because she’d realised that if she kept looking at him like that, he would have lost it.

      Might still.

      He growled with frustration and checked his watch. Eight-thirty. He’d fed Kizzy at seven-thirty. With any luck he’d got another hour, at least. He tapped on the study door and opened it a crack.

      ‘Are you OK if I go for a walk? Kizzy should be all right for a bit.’

      ‘Sure,’ she said, her voice a little strained. ‘Take your mobile.’

      ‘Done,’ he said, and went out into the blissful evening. It was gorgeous—a light breeze to take away the heat of the day, the sun low in the sky, creeping down to the horizon. He walked to the clifftop and sat watching the sun brush the sky with colour. It was the wrong way round for a sunset, of course, facing east as it did, but sunrise would be glorious.

      If he was up one night, woken by Kizzy, he might bring her here and let her see the dawn.

      He glanced at his watch, surprised at how dark it had become, and realised he’d been longer than he’d meant to be. Still, his phone hadn’t rung, so Kizzy hadn’t woken.

      Unless Em just hadn’t phoned him.

      He jogged back and arrived just as she began to whimper.

      ‘Milk’s in the microwave,’ Em told him, meeting him in the hall.

      ‘Thanks.’ He ran up and lifted the baby into his arms, and she snuggled into him, her little mouth working, feeling the material of his T-shirt and growing impatient.

      ‘Sorry, baby. Do I smell wrong? Never mind. Come on, let’s go and find some milk for you.’

      Em was waiting for him, handing him the bottle and going back into the study and shutting the door. Just as well. A little space would do them both good at the moment.

      He fed the baby, persevering through her fussing until she took the bottle in the end and settled down to suck, then he bathed and changed her and put her to bed.

      Ten. Just in time for the news, he thought, and watched it in silence on the edge of his seat, saw friends of his reporting from places he knew well, read between the lines, guessed the things they weren’t telling or had been ordered not to report.

      Did they miss him? Were they all having to work extra shifts, or were there things not being given coverage because he wasn’t there? Maybe some youngster was getting his first chance. Or hers. There were plenty of women now out there working in the field, covering stories every bit as dangerous as the ones he covered.

      He laughed softly to himself and shook his head. The most dangerous thing he had to do at the moment was dodge one of Kizzy’s special nappies.

      Or Emily. Keeping out of her way, keeping the simmering need between them under control because frankly things were complicated enough without that. And then she stuck her head round the door.

      ‘I’m off to bed now. The breast pump’s in the sink—it needs washing up and putting in the sterilising solution. There are four bottles in the fridge—should see her through. ’ Night.’

      ‘Good night,’ he said automatically, and switched off the television. They’d got onto the local news, and he didn’t need to know about the local protests about a meat-rendering plant and the woman who’d had her dog stolen.

      So he went into the kitchen and picked up the breast pump. Warm. It was still warm, the bits that went over her nipples still holding her body heat, the reservoir warm from the milk.

      And he had to wash it, knowing where it had been, aching to have touched her as closely as these bits of plastic.

      Dear God, he was losing it. It was just an ordinary, everyday thing, and he was turning it into something huge.

      Because it was.

      He didn’t know anybody else who would have done it for Kizzy, and it brought a lump to his throat. He didn’t want to be there in the kitchen. He wanted to be upstairs with Em, cradling her in his arms, holding her close to his heart, listening as her breathing slowed into sleep, but he didn’t have the right.

      He didn’t have any rights.

      He washed it up, put it in the solution, checked the bottles and went upstairs to bed.