Running From the Storm. Lee Wilkinson

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      ‘HOLD on,’ he instructed, and squeezed past her. ‘Now then, put your free arm around my neck.’

      She obeyed and, lifting her clear of the steps, he swung her up into his arms.

      Though he was no stranger to women, he was unprepared for how the weight of her slim yet curvaceous body lying against his set his heart beating faster.

      For her part, Caris felt distinctly awkward. Being carried was an unfamiliar sensation for a woman of five feet seven who weighed a hundred and thirty pounds and she was pleased they had the place to themselves so there was no one to stare.

      After a moment or two the awkwardness passed. He bore her weight with such ease that by the time they reached the car she was starting to feel safe, protected and feminine, and to quite like the novel experience.

      When she was settled on the front passenger seat, he crouched to pull off her sandal and examine her left ankle and foot. As his long fingers probed, she couldn’t prevent a wince.

      He glanced up sharply.

      ‘It’s all right,’ she assured him.

      His examination over, he reported, ‘There doesn’t seem to be anything broken, but it’s started to swell already, and it’s my guess that you have quite a nasty sprain.’

      Then, his tone vexed, ‘I’m an absolute fool! I should have had more sense than take you down there in those heels.’

      ‘It isn’t your fault,’ she assured him quickly. ‘I should have had more sense than go down. But I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. And it’s really not too painful.’

      As she moved her foot experimentally, a stab of agony made her gasp, giving the lie to her words.

      ‘Take your stocking off,’ he instructed. ‘I’ve a first-aid box in the trunk.’

      While he was gone, on the grounds that it was better to have bare legs than be odd, she took off both her stockings and put them in her purse.

      He returned after a moment or two with the box and, having applied an analgesic spray and a crepe bandage, asked, ‘How does it feel now?’

      ‘Much better, thank you,’ she replied cheerfully as she slipped her sandals back on and swung her legs into the car.

      ‘That’s good. Though I doubt if you’ll be doing much serious walking for a few days.’

      ‘Oh Lord!’ In the excitement of the moment, she had given scant thought to her vacation.

      ‘I suppose I ought to warn Sam that I may not be able to join the group. But I don’t want to disappoint her unless I’m forced to.’

      ‘Then why not wait until we get to the restaurant?’ Zander suggested. ‘If you leave it for a while you may have a better idea of just how much of a problem the ankle’s going to be.’

      ‘You’re right, of course.’

      When he had slammed the car door, he replaced the first-aid box and got behind the wheel.

      As he drove, his thoughts were busy. It was odds on that her ankle would prevent her from joining a trekking party, but would she still want to join her friend in Catona?

      He rather hoped not. Past experience told him she was already attracted to him, and he couldn’t wait to get her into bed.

      With a lot of women it would have been easy—too easy, in fact. Most of them had been so over-eager he’d soon become bored and only too keen to bring things to an end.

      But already he felt certain that this woman was different. Rather than being the worldly, extrovert, anything-goes type, she was quiet and self-contained and, beneath what he guessed was normally a cool, composed exterior, maybe even a little shy.

      Suddenly he was looking forward to finding out, filled with anticipation at the thought of getting to know her a whole lot better. Of holding her in his arms and making love to her.

      Smiling wryly to himself, he realized he hadn’t felt this interested and eager since he had been a lanky seventeen-year-old and really enamoured of the pretty girl who lived across the way.

      By the time they reached their destination the sun had disappeared behind the wooded peaks, and the air was the clear piercing blue that in mountainous regions reigns briefly between sunset and dusk.

      ‘Here we are,’ Zander said as he came round to help her out. ‘Le Jardin Romarin.’

      It was an old and picturesque building, with a jumble of pitched roofs and sloping gables. On each side of the stone steps leading up to the imposing entrance were tubs of spiky purple lavender and dark, glossy rosemary.

      ‘Careful now,’ he warned as she gathered up her purse and jacket and swung her feet to the ground.

      Favouring her bad ankle, she stood up cautiously; so far so good. But when she tried to put weight on it she was unable to prevent an exclamation of pain. ‘Bad, huh?’ he said sympathetically.

      ‘I don’t think I can walk,’ she admitted.

      ‘Then put your arms round my neck.’

      A sudden excitement surging through her, she obeyed, and once again found herself being swung up and held against a broad chest.

      This time she felt less awkward about being carried, but was more affected by it.

      She could feel the warmth of his body, the solidness of the bone and muscle she rested against, and, mingling with the clean masculine scent of his skin, the tangy aftershave he used.

      Their faces were so near to one another that she could see the faint laughter lines at the corners of his eyes, and a small, vertical scar by the side of his mouth.

      Such close contact sent a shiver of excitement through her, made breathing difficult, and set her heart beating faster.

      The door was opened for them and, having climbed the steps seemingly without effort, he carried her into an elegant foyer-bar where a small party of people were enjoying a drink while they waited for their table.

      Embarrassment washed over her, but when no one as much as glanced their way her discomfort faded.

      Feeling her relax, Zander asked, ‘Satisfied I won’t drop you?’

      Seeing her cheeks grow pink, and finding it a sweet amusement to tease her, he added wickedly, ‘Or are you starting to enjoy being carried?’

      She was saved from having to answer by a sturdy, silver-haired man wearing a dinner jacket and black bow-tie who crossed the foyer to greet them.

      ‘Zander, nice to see you again, mon ami!’ he exclaimed jovially.

      ‘Nice to see you, Claude.’

      With an unmistakable twinkle in his eye, the Frenchman asked, ‘Do I take it that you and madame are enjoying a lune de miel?’

      ‘Unfortunately СКАЧАТЬ