A Surprise Christmas Proposal. Liz Fielding

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СКАЧАТЬ I rubbed my hands down the front of my jeans before I left them on anything else, and headed for the door. Not before noting that the room, like the Dresden shepherdess, did not quite fit the glimpse I’d got of Gabriel York. It was a thoroughly feminine room. Presumably the territory of Mrs York. I blamed her for the bay trees while I was at it.

      And where was she when her husband needed her to walk his dogs? Pick him up off the floor? Call an ambulance…?

      The nearest dog—clearly an adolescent—leapt on me in his excitement as I ran down the stairs, nearly knocking me off my feet again.

      ‘Get off, you stupid hound,’ I said, pushing him away, trying not to look too closely at my employer as I stepped over him—if he’d fallen downstairs and broken his neck I’d rather not know—and went to open the door.

      I looked out. No ambulance… Well, it was building up to the rush hour, so it would undoubtedly have to battle its way through the traffic, like the rest of London.

      It was down to me, then. I left the door ajar, so that they could get in when they arrived, and turned back to face the man who lay supine and unmoving, taking up most of the floor.

      And I got a reprise of the ‘do something’ look from the dog lying protectively at his side.

      Deep breath, Sophie. You can do this…

      ‘Mr York…’ I knelt down beside him and it didn’t take a genius to see that even when he was on his feet Gabriel York wasn’t going to look terribly well. His skin had a yellowish pallor and his face was drawn-out and haggard with the sharply attenuated features of someone who’s lost a great deal of weight without any of the tiresome bother of going on a diet. He was wearing a black dressing gown over a pair of cotton pyjama pants—which, considering it was late afternoon, suggested that it wasn’t simply idleness that had stopped him from walking his dogs.

      He might, of course, have slipped on the stairs—his feet were bare—as he’d come down to answer the door. Or one of the dogs might have got underfoot in its excitement and unbalanced him.

      But, looking at him, I would have gambled that he’d just passed out. At least I hoped that was all he’d done; I gingerly touched his throat, seeking a pulse.

      I couldn’t find one.

      The hound who’d been guarding him, but who had shifted slightly to let me get closer, licked my hand encouragingly. I patted him absently, swallowing as I attempted to dislodge a great big rock that suddenly seemed to be stuck in my throat.

      How long had he been lying there? Was it too late for the kiss of life?

      How long had it been since I’d rung the bell and heard that distant thump that I was now certain had been Gabriel York hitting the floor? He was still warm to the touch, but then my own hands were freezing. I rubbed them together, trying to get the feeling back into them.

      I’d never actually given anyone the kiss the life, but I’d seen a demonstration once, years ago in the village hall, at a first aid course organised by my mother. You covered the victim’s mouth and blew. No, there was more to it than that. Think, think… I put my hand beneath his neck and tilted it back to clear the airway. I remembered that much.

      As I looked down into his face, forcing myself to take steady, even breaths—I hadn’t realised until then that my heart was beating rather too fast for comfort—it occurred to me that even in extremis Gabriel York had an austere beauty, that his wide, sensual mouth was the kind a girl might enjoy kissing under less trying circumstances. At least she would if she was into kissing and all the messy stuff that inevitably followed.

      Heartbreak, pain…

      I forced myself to concentrate, cupping his chin in my hand and placing my lips over his to seal off the air.

      His unshaven chin was bristly against my palm, my fingers. His mouth was cool, but not cold…

      I forced myself to concentrate and blew steadily into his mouth.

      At this point I nearly passed out myself from lack of oxygen. I’d been concentrating so hard on remembering what to do that I’d missed out the vital step of taking a breath first. Okay. I’d got it now. Breath in, mouth to mouth, blow. And again.

      How long was I supposed to keep this up? As if in answer, I heard that long-ago demonstrator sternly warning that once you began CPR you had to continue until relieved…

      How much longer was the ambulance going to be?

      I paused for another breath, and this time when I looked at him he seemed to have regained a little colour. Encouraged, I tried again.

      There was a definite change—the kind of response that if I didn’t know better would have given me the distinct impression that I was being—well, kissed back. No, definitely kissed back…

      Oh, sugar…

      I opened my eyes—that level of concentration had required my eyes to be tightly shut—and discovered that I was not imagining things. Clearly I had this kiss of life thing down to a fine art, because Gabriel York had his eyes open, too. Black, glittering behind quite scandalously thick lashes, and dangerously over-heated. Quite suddenly, I was the one in need of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

      Rapidly recovering my wits—I had a highly developed sense of self-preservation where thick dark lashes were concerned—I decided it was time to put a safe distance between us. He was having none of that; his arm was around my waist before the message from my brain reached my limbs, holding me with rather more strength than anyone who’d been unconscious just moments before should have been able to summon up.

      ‘Who the devil are you?’ he demanded.

      Huh? Whatever happened to, Thank you for saving my life?

      Charitably putting his brusqueness down to disorientation—and bearing in mind that my electricity bill was in his hands—I didn’t say the first thing that leapt into my mind. Instead I replied—somewhat breathlessly, it’s true—‘I’m Sophie Harrington.’ All my spare breath had been pumping up his lungs, okay? I would have offered him my hand at this point, and said the obligatory How d’you do?, but one of my hands was already busy cradling his chin, while the other was doing something Florence Nightingaleish in the vicinity of his brow. I immediately stopped that nonsense and, in the absence of any other bright conversation ideas, said, ‘I’ve sent for an ambulance. It should be here any minute.’

      ‘What the hell did you do that for?’ he demanded, with a lack of gratitude that I found just a bit galling, considering all I’d been through.

      ‘Because you were unconscious—’

      ‘Rubbish!’

      ‘You had your eyes closed, you didn’t respond to the doorbell and…and I couldn’t find a pulse.’

      ‘Where did you look?’ I stopped cradling his chin and pressed my fingers against his Adam’s apple. He moved my hand to the right and pushed it firmly beneath his chin. ‘Try there.’

      ‘Oh…’ He definitely had a pulse. His heart was beating almost as fast as mine.

      He made a move to sit up, but, hoping to retrieve some credibility in the first aid department, I said, ‘Look, you were out cold. I think you СКАЧАТЬ