A Special Kind of Woman by Caroline Anderson Page B

want?
    To take her to bed and make long, slow, lazy love to her, he thought, and swore silently. Ain’t ever gonna happen, he told himself. Down, boy. You promised.
    He snagged a handful of chocolate mint sticks andnudged the stereo remote control, and soft music poured over them, lazy and romantic. They stayed there like that for ages, long after the coffee was finished and the fire had died down and the CD had played out, and then he stood up and drew her to her feet.
    ‘Come on, let’s get you to bed. You look wiped.’
    ‘You said you weren’t going to get me legless,’ she teased, and stumbled slightly against him.
    ‘Hopeless creature. You didn’t tell me you had no head at all for it.’
    ‘Of course I haven’t! I’ll have you know I’m a model of propriety,’ she said, and spoilt it by giggling.
    Owen gave up. Scooping her into his arms, he carried her up the stairs and along the walkway to her room, then set her gently down on her feet in the doorway. Her bag was there, all ready for her, and he thought she could probably manage to get herself ready for bed. If she couldn’t, well, she’d sleep as she was, because there was no way he trusted himself with her, not when she was so deliciously defenceless.
    He reached out a hand and cupped Cait’s cheek, and the moonlight streaming through the window beside him gleamed dully on the worn gold of his wedding ring.
    He looked at it in surprise. He hadn’t even thought about it for a while, but now it seemed out of place, somehow disloyal to both Jill and Cait. And if anything could have reminded him of his responsibilities, that was it.
    He dropped his hand to his side and gave her a crooked smile.
    ‘Goodnight, sweetheart,’ he murmured. ‘Sleep well.’
    His lips brushed hers lightly, and he turned and left her standing there in the doorway. He closed his doorfirmly, sat down on the edge of the bed and picked up the photo of Jill that sat on the bedside table.
    Odd, how he could hardly remember her now after all the time they’d been together. He could still hear her voice sometimes in things Josh said, but he found it increasingly hard to remember her face.
    Four years, he thought. Just a short while, and yet it felt like a lifetime.
    He could hear Cait moving around in her room at the other end of the walkway, and he wished it was a drawbridge that he could pull up, to keep them both safe from each other.
    He put the photo of Jill back on the bedside table to watch over him and keep him in order, and then he took off his clothes, crawled under the quilt and lay listening to the small sounds from Cait’s room until the house was quiet.
    Then he fell into a restless sleep, and dreamed of her…

CHAPTER SEVEN
    C AIT woke to sun streaming in and a pounding headache.
    ‘Oh, no,’ she groaned, and slid under the quilt, shutting out the light. Better, but not a lot. Oh, heck.
    ‘Serves you right,’ she told herself a while later when the little men had put their hammers down and seemed to be taking a tea-break. ‘You know you can’t drink.’
    She heard a firm tread on the walkway and scraped up the mental energy to wonder just how much of a fright she looked. She’d taken her make-up off the night before, but without fail a trace of mascara would remain and work its way down her cheeks in the night, giving her panda eyes.
    Her hair was on end, her head was thumping again and the last thing she wanted to do was put on a cheerful face. She decided not to bother. It was, after all, his fault.
    After a gentle knock, Owen popped his head round the door. ‘Hello, sleepyhead,’ he said softly, and she twitched the quilt down and looked blearily at him across the room.
    ‘Hello yourself,’ she growled. ‘You’re looking disgustingly chipper.’
    He smiled just a touch smugly. ‘How’s the head?’
    ‘Grim. How’s yours?’
    ‘Fine,’ he said, and finally had the grace to look apologetic. ‘I’ve brought you tea, if you fancy it.’
    Cait