‘How ridiculous of him. I’m very glad to hear he’s no longer around, though.’
Fran did not say she was starting to be quite glad as well. She said, ‘I’ll make us some coffee, shall I?’ and got up to switch on the kettle, running hot water on the plates stacked in the sink. She reached for the washing-up liquid at the same moment that Michael leaned over for the tea-towel; his hand brushed hers, and there was a sharp jab of excitement beneath her ribcage. Ridiculous, of course, but still…
But still, when his hand took hers again, there was a soaring delight. Fran discovered that she had turned from the sink to face him. He was standing so close to her that she could see the little flecks of light in his eyes. She was just trying to decide whether to make some light, subtly inviting remark (although she had rather forgotten how to do that kind of thing and she had never been particularly good at it anyway), or to step back and finish the washing-up and pretend nothing had happened.
Before she could decide, she discovered that she was in his arms without quite knowing how she had got there or which of them had moved first. His kiss, when it came, was at first gentle and exploratory, and then was not gentle at all. When finally he released her, his eyes were glowing.
Fran said, breathlessly, ‘When you let the barriers down, you do so quite spectacularly.’
‘I didn’t mean to put up barriers. Sometimes it just happens. But I’ve wanted to do that ever since I opened the door of Deborah Fane’s house and found you on the step,’ he said. ‘You looked like a defiant urchin – all tousled hair and accusing eyes.’
‘I thought you looked like an extremely urbane wolf,’ said Fran, involuntarily. ‘One who might prowl the groves of academe.’
‘A book of Elizabethan sonnets in one hand and the key to the bedroom in the other?’
‘Something like that. As a matter of fact, I nearly got back in the car and drove away like a bat out of hell.’
‘I’m glad you didn’t. Could we have dinner tomorrow night? I’ll leave the bedroom key behind, although I can’t promise anything about the sonnets. You’ve got the kind of face that could inspire someone to be quite poetic.’
‘I wouldn’t mind if you recited limericks,’ said Fran. ‘And I’d love to have dinner with you tomorrow – oh, blast, no, I can’t. I really do have a parent evening tomorrow.’ In case he thought this was a put-off, she said, ‘I could manage Tuesday or Wednesday, though.’
‘Tuesday? Eight o’clock? And we’ll try to get to the Italian place this time, shall we?’
Francesca’s instant reaction to this was that the Italian restaurant was only a short walk from this house, and that he would bring her home, and that she would almost certainly ask him to come in for a final drink or a cup of coffee…Don’t plan too far ahead, though. Don’t let your mind run away too wildly.
Still, there was no harm in thinking that she could serve the coffee in Trixie’s little sitting-room on Tuesday – the furniture was a bit weather-beaten, but there was an open fire and she could lay the fire ready for lighting as soon as she got home from school. She might as well use some of the applewood logs a neighbour had let Trixie have last month. And he liked music, and there was her own CD collection upstairs. Mozart and apple-scented firelight and some really good filtered coffee. Perhaps a brandy with it. She would set the glasses on the little low table, and the firelight would glow on them. I’m sounding like a romantic fourteen-year-old. I don’t care.
She would not get too stupidly dreamy, though. For the moment it was enough to smile at Michael, and say, ‘Tuesday at eight it is. I’ll look forward to that.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE