His Emergency Fiancée (5 page)

He coughed.

‘What?’

‘You’re supposed to open them now.’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘Why?’

‘You know…’ He made a rolling gesture with his hands.
‘Share
them. They’re my favourites as well, remember?’

‘Typical. The man gives me a present and expects half,’ she grumbled teasingly. She opened the box—and her eyes widened in surprise. Nestled among the chocolates was another box, much smaller.

A box that could only contain one thing.

‘Open it,’ Ben said softly.

She did, and she wasn’t sure if the diamond nestled against the blue velvet was sparkling madly or if she had tears in her eyes. ‘Ben…you didn’t have to do this.’

‘Gran’ll expect it, remember?’

‘Mmm.’

‘Here.’ Ben took the ring from the box, lifted her left hand and slid the ring onto her finger. A plain little platinum ring with a flat-cut diamond that did sparkle madly.

‘It’s beautiful.’ She examined it closely. Amazing what they could do with silver and cubic zirconia nowadays. This looked exactly like the real thing—but, of course, it couldn’t be. This was a fake engagement so it’d be a fake ring. Ben would be practical about it. ‘And it fits,’ she said in surprise.

‘I borrowed the ring your parents got you for your twenty-first for sizing,’ he admitted.

‘And the box?’ she asked, suddenly noticing that the silk lining the top of the box subtly bore the logo of the most exclusive jeweller in Southbay. A jeweller that definitely didn’t sell cubic zirconias.

‘It came with the ring, Kirst,’ he said softly.

Her eyes widened. He
hadn’t
been practical about it. In fact, he’d gone stark, staring mad! ‘Ben, this must have cost you a fortune. I can’t wear this! Why didn’t you just get a cheap one?’

‘Because Gran would know. And she’d ask why I hadn’t bought my fiancée a proper ring.’

There was no answer to that. Kirsty took refuge in the chocolates.

* * *

When they landed at Inverness, they picked up the hire car Ben had booked and he drove them through narrow roads which had Kirsty alternately peeking through her hands at the incredible view of the loch and closing her fingers again so she couldn’t see a car coming the other way.

‘I thought surgeons were supposed to have nerves of steel?’ he teased.

‘We do, in an operating theatre. This is different. Ben, you’re driving like a maniac!’

He chuckled. ‘No, I’m not. There are plenty of passing spaces, and I know this road well enough not to take it for granted and start speeding. We’re perfectly safe, Kirst.’

Half an hour later, she had to admit he was right when he parked outside his grandmother’s cottage. Morag came out to welcome them, hugging both of them.

‘It’s good to see you again, Kirsty. Come in, come in,’ she said. ‘Ben, you bring the bags.’

‘Yes, Gran.’

‘And no cheek,’ she warned teasingly. ‘Kirsty, my dear, you’ll have a cup of tea?’

‘Please. I’ll make it,’ Kirsty said, following Morag into the large kitchen.

‘No, no, lass. It’s no trouble. Sit yourself down.’ She waved towards the scrubbed pine table and chairs at the other end of the kitchen.

Kirsty eyed the table and the supper Morag had set out ready for them. Triangles of home-made bread draped with smoked salmon, light, fluffy scones with home-made raspberry jam, and oatcakes with a hunk of strong cheese and home-made tomato chutney. ‘Wow.’

‘It’ll take Ben five minutes to finish that lot,’ Morag said.

‘Three. He’s got help,’ Kirsty corrected, and they both laughed.

Morag hugged her. ‘I was so pleased when Ben told me. You’re the right one for him. I knew it when I met you, all those years ago. And don’t you go telling me you were just friends all along—I saw how you looked at each other, even back then.’ She lifted Kirsty’s hand. ‘And what a beautiful ring. It suits you, lass.’

‘Thank you.’ Kirsty looked at her. ‘And how are you, Morag? Really, I mean?’

‘I’m fine. I’ve got my pills and I do what the doctor tells me.’

‘As much as Ben does?’

Morag’s lined face creased with laughter. ‘I try. But I’m fine. It’s really nothing.’

‘Angina
isn’t
nothing. It can be very frightening.’

‘I’m old enough and wise enough to cope,’ Morag reassured her. ‘And you can tell Ben that, too.’

‘Tell me what?’ Ben asked, appearing in the kitchen with their bags.

‘I’m perfectly all right, so I don’t want any nagging from either of you.’

‘I wouldn’t dare, Gran.’ He smiled at her. ‘I’ll take these upstairs, shall I?’

‘Do. Of course, you’ve been together for so long,’ Morag said, ‘I’m not going to be old-fashioned about it.’

Kirsty’s stomach lurched in warning. Old-fashioned about what?

‘So I’ve put you in the same room,’ Morag continued sweetly.

The same room? Morag was expecting her to share a room—a bed—with
Ben
? ‘I—er…’ Floundering, she looked at Ben.

Ben simply walked over to Kirsty and put his arm round her shoulder. ‘Thanks, Gran.’

Wasn’t this where he was supposed to make some comment about respecting his grandmother’s generation and offer to sleep on the sofa?

But he didn’t. Kirsty started to panic. She was wearing his ring—a very expensive ring, at that—and now she was sharing a room with him…

Somehow, she got through the rest of the evening, making light conversation with Morag. And then, at half past nine, Ben made things worse. Much worse.

‘Gran, it’s been a long day and Kirsty worked a half-day shift before we left. Would you mind if we had an early night?’

‘Not at all. There’s plenty of hot water and I’ve put towels in your room.’

Ben hugged his grandmother. ‘Thanks, Gran. See you in the morning.’ He hooked his arm round Kirsty’s shoulder. ‘Come on, you. Time for beddie-byes.’

Kirsty submitted patiently until they were in their room. Then she blew her top.

‘I can’t believe you just did that!’ She kept her voice low, but the anger in her voice was clear.

‘Kirst, she’s made an effort to be modern. I couldn’t throw it back in her face. It’d be rude.’

‘I said I’d act as your fiancée, not that I’d
sleep
with you!’ she hissed.

‘Kirst, this isn’t a long-drawn-out way of seducing you. Your honour’s perfectly safe with me.’

Which made her feel even worse. She had to face it. Ben Robertson had the most gorgeous women at the hospital flinging themselves at him on a daily basis—so why would he even
look
twice at plain little Kirsty Brown, let alone anything else?

‘You’ve had a long day and you’re tired. Have a bath.’ His lips twitched. ‘I would offer to wash your back, but I think you’d take it the wrong way right now.’

‘It’s just…’ No, she couldn’t explain it to him. She couldn’t explain what she felt to herself!

‘Kirst, we’ve shared a room before. We had that all-night revision session when we were students, remember? You fell asleep on the end of my bed.’

Yes, she did remember. She’d woken up with her face stuck to her notes—and with Ben curled round her, his arm round her waist, pulling her back against his body, and his cheek against her back. It had thrown her a bit, but she’d decided it had just been tiredness and proximity. Ben hadn’t meant anything by it. And she certainly wasn’t going to wreck the best friendship she’d ever had by trying to make something of it and, three weeks later, being relegated to the ranks of Ben’s ex-girlfriends. So she’d wriggled out from his arms and made them both a cup of very strong coffee and pretended nothing had happened.

‘Go on. Bath. I’ll be modestly attired by the time you get back.’

And he was. In tartan pyjamas.

Her lips twitched as she took in the sight. ‘I don’t believe you’re wearing those.’

He grinned. ‘I bought them specially for this weekend. What did you expect? Black silk boxer shorts?’

Her stomach gave a lurch. Ben in sexy undies…No, she didn’t want to start thinking about that. They were just friends. Good friends. Very good friends…and this ‘engagement’ was purely to keep Morag happy and Chambers off her back.

‘I thought we could go for a picnic by the loch tomorrow,’ he said, clearly sensing her embarrassment and tactfully changing the subject. ‘Gran said something to me about going out for a meal in the evening—there’s a ceilidh in the village hall, tomorrow night.’

Ceilidh? Didn’t that mean intricate dances? She panicked. ‘Ben, you know I’ve got two left feet.’

‘Even
you
can dance at a ceilidh, Kirst. It doesn’t take long to learn the steps and your partner will always help you out if you get stuck. It’s years since I’ve been to one, but they’re great fun. You’ll love it.’ He patted the bed. ‘Come on. Time to sleep.’

‘Yeah.’ She slid into bed beside him.

‘’Night, Kirst.’ He kissed her lightly on the cheek and switched out the light.

* * *

Kirsty woke in the middle of the night, feeling warm and very comfortable. She was about to drift back into sleep when a few things suddenly hit her, and her eyes snapped open. Number one, the hem of her demure, baggy, knee-length nightshirt was somewhere above her waist.
Well
above her waist. Number two, there was a hand underneath said nightshirt—an arm encircling her waist and fingers curved round her naked breast. Number three, there was a male body curled spoon-style behind hers—an
aroused
male body.

She took a deep breath. Be sensible, Kirst, she told herself. You know it’s a basic physiological reaction of the male in sleep—it’s nothing to do with
you.
The fact he’s touching you like that—well, that’s just propinquity. You’re his best mate, nothing more. He barely even registers you as female!

And if she tried wriggling out of his arms now, she’d wake him and they’d both be embarrassed and…it was easier just to stay where she was.

Except it wasn’t. Was it her imagination, or had the neckline of her nightshirt slipped lower, too—and could she really feel his mouth against the curve of her neck, or was that just his breathing?

Her mouth went dry. This was crazy. She didn’t think of Ben in those terms. So why was she suddenly imagining what it would be like if he touched her, gently rolled her onto her back and kissed his way down her body? Why was her nipple hardening under his touch? Why was she feeling that weird tingle deep inside her belly?

Because you’re mad, Kirsty Brown, she told herself crisply. It’s not going to happen—and if it did, you’d lose him for ever. It’s
not
worth it.

Sex wasn’t anything to get worked up about. Hadn’t she learned that the hard way, all those years ago, with Luke? Weeks of thinking that he loved her, that he wanted her…and all the time he’d had another motive in mind. A cruel, mocking motive.

Money. A bet. On how long it’d take him to seduce her.

Ben wasn’t like that, she knew—but even so, nothing could ever happen between them. Even if Ben wasn’t so gorgeous and she wasn’t so plain, it still wouldn’t work because he couldn’t handle commitment. She wanted a man who’d stick by her—and Ben wasn’t that man. Tonight…was an aberration.

She closed her eyes, told herself firmly to relax and stop being so silly. When that didn’t work, she started counting sheep—except they were all wearing tartan pyjamas and reminded her too much of the male body curled round hers, with only the thin cotton of those same tartan pyjamas between them. Then she fell back on the old student standby of naming every single bone in the skeleton, followed by the major organs, the muscles, the arteries…and finally she drifted back to sleep.

* * *

Ben woke some time later, disoriented. He was in a strange bed and there was a very feminine form nestled snugly into his body. Her legs were entwined with his own—even her feet were—whatever she was wearing was pushed up well above her waist, so his hands were resting directly on her skin, and…

Oh, no. He suddenly remembered where he was. In his grandmother’s cottage and sharing a bed with Kirsty!

He swallowed hard. There was no way he could move without waking her. And she’d be hideously embarrassed if she realised how entangled they were. He really ought to move his hand.

Bad idea, he thought as his thumb brushed her nipple and it hardened at his touch. Very bad idea. But he couldn’t stop his thumb brushing her nipple for a second time and his fingers curving back round her swelling breast. It was a perfect fit. Beautiful, lush curves spilling out over his fingers…

This is Kirsty, remember? No sex, he reminded himself crossly. He didn’t associate things like that with Kirsty. For goodness’ sake, she was wearing the unsexiest nightie in the world, a big baggy thing with teddies on that came down to her knees.

Except right now it was nowhere near her knees. And he’d just discovered what sort of a body hid behind her white coat at work and the baggy T-shirts and sweaters or the huge, shapeless towelling robe she wore at home. A body he’d never actually seen in all the years he’d known her—they’d never gone swimming together and Kirsty wasn’t one for sunbathing. A body that was much more delectable than he’d ever have guessed.

His mouth went dry. His body might be telling him to wake her gently, to touch her and kiss her and bring her to the point where they were desperate to be one, to let her body enfold his so he could take them both to paradise and back—but he couldn’t. Get close like that and she’d change. He’d change. Their whole relationship would change—and he didn’t want to lose her. Get involved, and they’d be ripped apart within weeks. Ben didn’t do long-term relationships. Except friendship.

Kirsty didn’t do relationships either. She was married to her career. Always had been. She’d been top of their class all the way through their student years, and he’d only done so well because she’d made him study with her. She was clever and bright and good with patients—he’d overheard her at work and she always managed to reassure anyone who was in a tizzy.

But she never went out, except in a group. If any man so much as approached her, he got a polite but very firm rebuff—she didn’t even dance with anyone on the rare occasions he’d persuaded her to go clubbing. It was as if she had sworn off men for good. He was sure something had happened in their first year as students, but she’d always evaded the subject. And ‘men’, he thought grimly, would include him. He didn’t want to lose the only other woman in his life who’d been constant.