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“Tom’s a GP at the health centre,” offered Carrie.
Keira shot him a hard stare. “Really?”
Now just what was an aristocrat doing working in the local NHS clinic? It just didn’t figure. But then, Tom Carew was full of surprises.
“So you’re a teacher?” he asked.
She just couldn’t resist it. Sorry, but it had to be done. He’d enjoyed himself at her expense once too often today.
She raised her glass to him. “Well observed.”
He gave a mock bow in return. “A teacher and a comedian. It must be my lucky day.”
Carrie gathered up her train. “We must go. My new in-laws await. Don’t forget to ask Tom to tell you about his work in Papua. It’s fascinating.”
Carrie offered her cheek to be kissed, and Tom duly obliged, brushing her face with his lips and giving a bone-melting smile. It brought brightness to his eyes, a softening of his expression that made him look… The only way of describing it was “at home”. Yes, that was it. Comfortable, rather than edgy and uptight.
“Fancy a pint, mate?” asked Matt.
“No, he doesn’t,” said Carrie firmly, laying a hand on her new husband’s arm.
“You go ahead,” said Tom. “I’ll join you in a moment.”
Keira waved her hand as Carrie dragged Matt off, cringing inside. Why did brides try to fix you up? As if they could somehow inject you with a dose of their happiness and good fortune. Well, fairy tales didn’t happen, especially not to the likes of her, and definitely not with minor aristocracy.
She couldn’t help glancing down at her bare toes. What must Tom think of her? No shoes, grubby feet, and he already knew—or thought he knew—what kind of underwear she wore. Well, she thought, two could play at that game, and she’d have bet fifty quid he’d got silk boxers on. They’d be black, of course, and clinging tightly to the contours of his firm backside. Suddenly, the urge to press her legs together was overwhelming. Fire shot through her as the image blew her brain. Tom, slipping his shorts over his thighs, the silk slithering over the powerful muscles she knew lay underneath.
“Can I get you some champagne?” he asked.
“Um. Oh yes. Yes, please.” So he was staying, then. He was probably just being polite.
He called to a passing waiter, completely oblivious that he’d turned her mind to mush. “Could we have some champagne, please?”
The waiter held out a silver tray. “Of course, sir.”
He was offering her a crystal flute, holding it by the stem to keep the wine chilled.
“So, you’re working as a GP at the health centre?” she asked, taking the glass carefully from his scarred hands. A cold bead of condensation slid down the stem and onto her fingertips.
“That’s right,” said Tom, helping himself to an orange juice.
Keira took a gulp of her wine. “Are you staying long in the city?”
“Not if I can possibly help it.”
She was momentarily floored. She hadn’t expected him to be rude; hadn’t seemed his style. She sipped her drink delicately and tried to keep her voice even, giving him another chance. “Is it that bad being back in London?”
“No, it isn’t. Look, I’m sorry. I was rather rude just then.”
“Yes, you were. In fact, if you were in my class, I’d really have to send you to the naughty corner,” said Keira in between unwisely large gulps of wine.
Tom raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure the naughty corner is politically incorrect these days,” he said.
Keira downed another large mouthful. “It is, but I think I could reinstate it, esp
ecially for you.”
He’d done it again. Made her breasts prickle against the lace of her bra. She couldn’t get the image out of her mind. The one that had Tom stripped naked and standing in front of her desk with a half smile on his lips, waiting for her command… What on earth had they put in this champagne?
