Richard tossed her skirt and drawers into a far corner of the room—the farther away the better, as far as he was concerned—straightened, and stared. He had imagined, of course. What red-blooded man wouldn’t? But the daydreams didn’t even come close to the reality of Amy, her skin milky pale against the red silk coverlet. Richard just stared, openmouthed, at the perfection of her, of her perfectly proportioned arms and legs, the gentle swell of her stomach, the curves of her hip bones.

“You’re so little,” he marveled. “So little and so perfect.”

Amy leaned up towards him, twining her arms around his neck. “So are you,” she announced, as his hands locked around her waist and began to ride up her rib cage towards her breasts.

“Ow!” he pulled away in mock offense.

Amy blushed. “Not little. Perfect, I mean. At least, I think I mean—”

She looked so charmingly befuddled that Richard decided there was only one humane thing to do. He stopped her mouth with a long, passionate kiss.

Arms, legs, and lips intertwined, they slid sideways towards the pillow. Richard’s hands roamed the length of Amy’s body, igniting urgent prickles of sensation wherever they touched. He ran his tongue along the rim of her ear, and Amy squirmed, murmuring incoherently. She squeezed him tighter, clutching the warm skin of his shoulder blades, pressing up against him so close that she could feel the groan that welled up in his chest. She touched her own tongue delicately to his ear and was rewarded by a shudder that ran through his entire body. She heard the sharp hiss of his indrawn breath, and then . . .

Amy frowned in confusion. “Why are you counting in Greek?” she asked.

“So I don’t”—Richard’s hand slid up the inside of her thigh, toying with the dark tangle of curls at the base of her legs—“explode.”

“Oh,” said Amy, who didn’t quite understand, but didn’t at all care, because one of Richard’s nimble fingers had slipped past her curls into the moist core of her, and, oh goodness, was it possible for anyone to feel like that? He was touching her the way he had touched her that night on the Seine, only this time, with Richard’s naked body pressed against her, his unmasked face taut with passion above hers, it felt ten times better and Amy wasn’t sure she would live through the experience. She cried out as he slipped a finger into her slick sheath.

“Oh, bloody hell,” groaned Richard. Pulling away, he tugged at the buttons of his breeches. One popped off and ricocheted off the wall. Amy half-giggled, half-sobbed, her hands joining his in peeling off the tight buckskin. “Damn!” cursed Richard as the trousers bunched around his ankles. Frantically kicking them off, he rolled back towards Amy, grabbing her up in his arms and kissing her with a passion unabated by stubborn articles of clothing.

“Where were we?” he wheezed.

Taking his hand, Amy showed him. Richard’s blood went from overheated to boiling in the space of a second. He would have started counting in Greek again but he didn’t think it would do any good. Feeling her begin to squirm again beneath him, he slowly eased his hand away and replaced it with the tip of his shaft, biting down hard on his lip in the effort not to plunge straight in.

Amy quivered as the unfamiliar fullness eased between her legs, her body straining upwards, desperately wanting more. “Please . . . ,” she breathed.

“This . . . might . . . hurt.” Richard’s words emerged in a series of pants.

Amy’s nails dug into the hard muscles of his upper arms, the pressure of his arousal against her sensitive nub driving her half wild with unfulfilled desire. “Oh, Richard . . .”

It was more than flesh and blood could bear. With the sound of his own name whistling in his ear, Richard plunged, checking only slightly as he felt the barrier of her virginity giving way. Amy stiffened beneath him. “Should I stop?” Richard asked, steeling himself to withdraw.

Amy bit down on her lip and shook her head. “Don’t.” She lifted her face to his. “Don’t stop, please.”

Richard wasn’t sure he could have if he wanted to, but he tried to move more slowly as Amy’s body adjusted to his, his tongue sliding through her lips in unconscious imitation of the movement of their bodies. Slowly, clumsily, she began to rock her hips in small circles against his, whimpering as her passion built to a crescendo. She locked her legs around his back, drawing him deeper inside, pushing, straining, begging for more.

Richard abandoned all attempts at restraint. With a primal cry he drove deeply into her. Kissing him frantically, nails clawing into his back, Amy bucked against him. She cried out her pleasure as a thousand diamond sparkles exploded across the back of her eyes and bathed her body in effervescent splendor. A moment later, as she quivered beneath him, Richard gave a hoarse cry and collapsed against her.

Still incapable of speech, Richard rolled Amy over so that she was lying half on top of him.

Amy reveled in the feel of Richard’s warm, wonderfully male body under hers. Her leg snuggled comfortably between his thighs, and her breasts squished against his side. She flung an arm across his chest, and rubbed her cheek in the perfect hollow between his shoulder and neck, a space clearly formed with Amy’s head in mind.

“Mmm,” she murmured, rubbing her fingers idly through the damp hair on his chest. “So happy.”

“Mmm,” Richard agreed, blowing away a strand of dark hair that had decided to invade his nose. “I don’t know how I’m going to keep my hands off you when we get back to London.”

“Do you have to?” Amy lifted her head, looking gratifyingly distressed by the notion.

“Until we’re officially married.”

“How long can that possibly take?”

“Weeks! Months!” howled Richard. “All of those . . . things that go into a wedding,” he added with disgust.

“Drat,” said Amy. “Maybe we should just stay on the boat.”

“Not a bad idea.”

“Do you think it might storm?” The words plucked at Amy’s memory and she smiled to herself as she remembered the last time she had uttered something similar, on another little boat making its way across the Channel.

Richard’s eyes fastened on hers. “I know one particularly rough crossing that took four full days.”

Amy lifted herself up on one elbow and gazed down into Richard’s face. “Do you have a distinct sense of déjà vu?” she asked conversationally.

“Hmm. There are,” Richard mused with mock seriousness, “some crucial differences.”

“And those might be?”

“Last time”—Richard’s hands slid up Amy’s ribs to her breasts—“you were fully clothed.”

“That’s only one difference.”

“But a crucial one, don’t you agree?”

“I’ve thought of one,” Amy said, when she could speak again.

Richard considered. “I’d still have to pick your not being fully clothed.”

Amy shook her head. “Think.”

“I give up.”

“This time, I love you.”

Chapter Forty-One

Onslow Square looked much prettier in the sunlight.

Or it would have, had I not been in the grip of a massive hangover which turned the sunlight glinting off iron railings and car windows into a direct affront. I huddled into the entryway of Mrs. Selwick-Alderly’s building and contemplated the buzzer. Part of me was inclined to pop two more Tylenol, call Mrs. Selwick-Alderly with dire tales of bubonic plague, and flee home to my darkened flat.

Of course, that meant getting back on the Tube. The Tube is not the place for a queasy stomach.

If it had just been a matter of an unsettled stomach, I might have braved the Tube. But I was weighted in place by the bundle in my arms. In a capacious Waterstone’s bag, I carried the bulging, plastic-wrapped package of manuscripts. I had promised Mrs. Selwick-Alderly that I would return it today, so return it today I must.

Last night . . . what had I been thinking? I resisted the urge to bang my head against the intercom. I had made an absolute ass of myself in front of Colin Selwick. Oh God. I hadn’t fallen over, had I? Or sung anything? I desperately searched my mental archives, wincing as I flipped through last night’s collection of embarrassing memories. No falling and no singing. I could always call Pammy tonight and make sure. I didn’t think there were any big black spots in my memory, but that’s the problem with black spots, isn’t it? You can’t know they’re not there because you can’t remember them in the first place. Urgh.

What I did remember was bad enough. Why in the hell did I have to hit him with that glow stick? And the glow stick was minor compared with grabbing him and yanking him across the room. Not that any of it mattered, I reminded myself for the fiftieth time. If anyone ought to be ashamed, it was Colin Selwick. What was the idea of letting me think his sister was his girlfriend? To be fair to him, I was the one who had leaped to the conclusion that she was his girlfriend. But he might have disabused me of the notion. The only reason I could come up with to explain why he hadn’t done so was that he was afraid I would fling myself at him if I thought him girlfriendless. Not exactly flattering. Do I look that desperate?

I really hoped Colin Selwick had gone back to Selwick Hall. Or out to a movie. Or anywhere. I didn’t care where, just so long as it wasn’t 43 Onslow Square.

Okay. Enough dithering. I would return the manuscript, have a cup of tea with Mrs. Selwick-Alderly, and go home. Nothing to make a big deal about. I pressed the buzzer.

“Yes?”

“It’s me, Elo—”