The Fiancé He Can't Forget (2 page)

‘And I wasn't?' He gave a harsh sigh and rammed a hand through his hair. ‘Don't worry. I'll be good. You go and cut your cake and have your dance, and I'll play my part. I won't let you down.'

‘It's not me I'm worried about,' Ben muttered, but Matt pushed him towards his wife and turned away. He didn't need to scan the room for Amy. His radar hadn't let him down. She was right there, by the French doors out onto the terrace, talking to two women that he didn't recognise.

One was visibly pregnant, the other had a baby in her arms, and for a moment his heart squeezed with pain.

Ahh, Amy…

 

She could feel him watching her, the little hairs on the back of her neck standing to attention.

He was getting closer, she knew it. She'd managed to avoid him up to now, and she'd known it was too good to last.

‘Excuse me, Amy—they're going to cut the cake and then have the first dance.'

And then it would be time for the second dance, the one she'd been dreading, and she'd have to dance with him and look—well, civilised would be a good thing to try for, she thought as she turned round to face him.

‘OK. I'll come over. Give me a moment.'

She turned back to Katie and Laura, and after a second she felt him move away, and her shoulders sagged a fraction.

‘Amy, are you all right, honey?' Katie asked, juggling the baby with one arm so she could hug her.

She returned the hug briefly and straightened up, easing away. ‘I'm fine.'

‘Well, you don't look fine,' Laura said, her eyes narrowing. ‘Are you sick? You're awfully pale.'

‘I'm just tired. It's been a busy week. I'd better go.'

She left them, letting out a soft sigh as she walked away. She'd never told them about Matt, and she'd asked Daisy not to discuss it. The fewer people at the wedding who knew they had history, the better. It was hard enough facing his mother, who'd given her a swift, gentle hug and patted her back as if she was soothing a child.

She'd nearly cried. She'd loved Liz. She'd been endlessly kind to her, incredibly welcoming, and she hadn't seen her since—

‘Amy, we're going to— Gosh, sweetheart, are you all right?'

Daisy's face was puckered with concern, and Amy rolled her eyes.

‘Daisy, don't fuss, I'm just tired. We didn't go to bed
till nearly one and the cat was walking all over me all night. And we've been up for hours, if you remember.'

‘I know. I just—'

‘I'm fine,' she said firmly. ‘Matt said you're going to cut the cake.'

‘We are. Amy, are you sure you can do this? If you want to leave—'

‘I don't want to leave! It's your wedding! Go and cut the cake, and we can have champagne and cake and dancing and it'll be wonderful. Now shoo.'

Amy turned her round and pushed her towards her husband, who held his hand out to her and drew her into his arms for yet another kiss.

‘They do seem genuinely happy together.'

She froze. How had he crept up on her? She hadn't felt him approaching—maybe because she'd been so intensely aware of him all day that her senses were overloaded.

‘They are,' she said, her voice a little ragged. ‘They're wonderful together.'

‘She's very fond of you.'

‘It's mutual. She's lovely. She's been through a lot, and she's been a really good friend to me.'

‘Which is why you're here, when you'd rather be almost anywhere else in the world.'

‘Speak for yourself.'

He gave a soft huff of laughter, teasing the hair on the back of her neck. ‘I was,' he answered, and despite the laugh, his voice had a hollow ring to it. ‘Still, needs must. Right, here we go. I think Ben's going to make a bit of a speech to welcome the evening guests before they cut the cake.'

He was still standing behind her, slightly to one side,
and she could feel his breath against her bare shoulder, feel the warmth radiating from his big, solid body.

The temptation to lean back into him—to rest her head against his cheek, to feel him curve his hand round her hip and ease her closer as he would have done before—nearly overwhelmed her. Instead, she stepped away slightly, pretending to shift so she could see them better, but in fact she could see perfectly well, and he must have realised that.

She heard him sigh, and for some crazy reason it made her feel sad. Crazy, because it had been him that had left her, walking away just when she needed him the most, so why on earth should she feel sad for him? So he was still alone, according to Ben. So what? So was she. There were worse things than being alone. At least it was safe.

‘Daisy chose the music for our first dance,' Ben was saying, his smile wry. ‘It has a special meaning for us. While we're dancing, I'd like you to imagine the moment we met—just about thirty seconds after the kitchen ceiling and half a bath of water came down on my head.'

And with that, they cut the cake, the lights were dimmed and the band started playing ‘The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face'.

There was a ripple of laughter and applause, but then they all went quiet as Ben, still smiling, drew Daisy into his arms as if she was the most precious thing he'd ever held.

Damn
, Amy thought, sniffing hard, and then a tissue arrived in her hand, on a drift of cologne that brought back so many memories she felt the tears well even faster.

‘OK?'

No, she wasn't. She was far from OK, she thought crossly, and she wished everyone would stop asking her that.

‘I'm fine.'

He sighed softly. ‘Look, Amy, I know this is awkward, but we just have to get through it for their sakes. I don't want to do it any more than you do, but it's not for long.'

Long enough. A second in his arms would be long enough to tear her heart wide open—

The dance was over, the music moved on and without hesitation Matt took her hand, the one with the tissue still clutched firmly in it, led her onto the dance floor and turned her into his arms.

‘Just pretend you don't hate me,' he told her, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes, and she breathed in, needing oxygen, and found nothing but that cologne again.

 

Holding her was torture.

A duty and a privilege, as he'd said in his speech?

Or just an agonising reminder of all he'd lost?

She had one hand on his shoulder, the other cradled in his left, and his right hand was resting lightly against her waist, so he could feel the slender column of her spine beneath his splayed fingers, the shift of her ribs as she breathed, the flex of the muscles as she moved in time to the music. She felt thinner, he thought. Well, she would. The last time he'd held her, he thought with a wave of sadness, she'd been pregnant with their child.

One dance merged into another, and then another. He eased her closer, and with a sigh that seemed to shudder through her body, she rested her head on his shoul
der and yielded to the gentle pressure of his hand. Her thighs brushed his, and he felt heat flicker along his veins. Oh, Amy. He'd never forgotten her, never moved on. Not really.

And as he cradled her against his chest, her pale gold hair soft under his cheek, he realised he'd been treading water for years, just waiting for the moment when he could hold her again.

He sighed, and she felt his warm breath tease her hair, sending tiny shivers running through her like fairies dancing over her skin. It made her feel light-headed again, and she stepped back.

‘I need some air,' she mumbled, and tried to walk away, but her hand was still firmly wrapped in his, and he followed her, ushering her through the crowd and out of the French doors into the softly lit courtyard. Groups of people were standing around talking quietly, laughing, and she breathed in the cooler air with a sigh of relief.

‘Better?'

She nodded. ‘Yes. Thanks.'

‘Don't thank me. You look white as a sheet. Have you eaten today?'

‘We just had a meal.'

‘And you hardly touched it. My guess is you didn't have lunch, either, and you probably skipped breakfast. No wonder you had low blood sugar earlier. Come on, let's go and raid the buffet. I didn't eat much, either, and I'm starving.'

He was right on all counts. She
was
hungry, and she
had
skipped lunch, but only because she'd lost her breakfast. She never could eat when she was nervous, and she'd been so, so nervous for the last few days her
stomach had been in knots, and this morning it had rebelled. And that dizzy spell could well have been low blood sugar, now she came to think about it.

‘It's probably not a bad idea,' she conceded, and let him lead her to the buffet table. She put a little spoonful of something on her plate, and he growled, shoved his plate in her other hand and loaded them both up.

‘I can't eat all that!' she protested, but he speared her with a look from those implacable blue eyes and she gave up. He could put it on the plate. Didn't mean she had to eat it.

‘I'll help you. Come on, let's find a quiet corner.'

He scooped up two sets of cutlery, put them in his top pocket, snagged a couple of glasses of wine off a passing waiter and shepherded her across the floor and back out to the courtyard.

‘OK out here, or is it too cold for you in that dress?'

‘It's lovely. It's a bit warm in there.'

‘Right. Here, look, there's a bench.'

He steered her towards it, handed her a glass and sat back, one ankle on the other knee and the plate balanced on his hand while he attacked the food with his fork.

He'd always eaten like that, but that was medicine for you, eating on the run. Maybe he thought they should get it over with and then he could slide off and drink with the boys. Well, if the truth be told he didn't have to hang around for her.

‘You're not eating.'

‘I'm too busy wondering why you don't have chronic indigestion, the speed you're shovelling that down.'

He gave a short chuckle. ‘Sorry. Force of habit. And I was starving.' He put the plate down for a moment and picked up his glass. ‘So, how are you, really?'

Really? She hesitated, the fork halfway to her mouth. Did he honestly want to know? Probably not.

‘I'm fine.'

‘How's the job?'

‘OK. I like it. As with any job it has its ups and downs. Mostly ups. The hospital's a good place to work.'

‘Yes, so Ben says.' He stared pensively down into his glass, swirling it slowly. ‘You didn't have to leave London, you know. We were never going to bump into each other at different hospitals.'

No? She wasn't sure—not sure enough, at least, that she'd felt comfortable staying there. Up here, she'd been able to relax—until Ben had arrived. Ever since then she'd been waiting for Matt to turn up unexpectedly on the ward to visit his brother, and the monoamniotic twins they'd delivered last night had been something he'd taken a special interest in, so once Melanie Grieves had been admitted, she'd been on tenterhooks all the time. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Well, now it had, and it was every bit as bad as she'd expected.

‘I like it here, it was a good move for me,' she said, and then changed the subject firmly. ‘Who's Jenny Wainwright?'

He laughed, a soft, warm chuckle that told her a funny story was coming. ‘Ben's first girlfriend. We were thirteen or so. They'd been dating for weeks, and she wouldn't let him kiss her, so I talked him into letting me take his place on the next date, to see if I had more luck.'

‘And did you?'

His mouth twisted into a wry smile. ‘No. Not that time. I did about two years later, though, at a party, and
she told me he kissed better, so I went and practised on someone else.'

She laughed, as he'd wanted her to, but all she could think was that whoever he'd practised on had taught him well. She ought to thank her—except of course he wasn't hers to kiss any more. Regret swamped her, and as she looked across and met his eyes, she saw tenderness in them and a gentle, puzzled sadness. ‘I've missed you,' he said softly, and she gulped down a sudden, convulsive little sob.

‘I've missed you, too,' she admitted, her voice unsteady.

He stared at her searchingly, then glanced down. ‘Are you all done with that food?'

Food? She looked at her plate. She'd eaten far more than she'd thought she would, to her surprise, and she was feeling much better. ‘Yes. Do you want the rest?'

‘No, I'm fine, but I'm supposed to be entertaining you, so let's go and dance.'

Out of duty? Or because he wanted to? She hesitated for a second, then stood up, raising an eyebrow at him. Whichever, she wanted to dance with him, and she wasn't going to get another chance.

‘Come on, then, if you really want to.'

Oh, yes. He wanted. He got to his feet and led her back to the dance floor.

 

She'd always loved dancing, and he loved dancing with her, loved the feel of her body, the lithe, supple limbs, the sleek curves, the warmth of her against him.

He didn't get to hold her, though, not at first. The tempo was fast—too fast, he decided, after a couple of dances, so he reeled her in and halved the beat, cherish
ing the moment because he knew it wouldn't last. How could it, with all they had behind them? But now—he had her now, in his arms, against his heart, and his body ached for her.

The tempo slowed, moving seamlessly from one unashamedly romantic, seductive number to another, until they were swaying against each other, her arms draped around his neck, his hands splayed against her back, the fingers of one hand resting lightly on the warm, soft skin above the back of her dress, the other hand lower, so all he had to do was slip it down a fraction and he could cup the firm swell of her bottom and ease her closer…