His Emergency Fiancée (6 page)

This whole engagement thing had been one of his worst ideas ever.

It didn’t help that Kirsty’s hair smelt of apples and her skin smelt of the lemon shower gel she favoured.
Edible.
No. He wasn’t going to start thinking about his mouth on Kirsty’s skin. Or her mouth on his. Her hand stroking his back. Her legs twining round his waist and—

No. Oh, hell. If he moved now, she’d wake and she’d find out how aroused he was and the whole thing would disintegrate into a complete and utter mess. But if he didn’t move, he wouldn’t be able to stop his wayward thoughts. About seeing Kirsty’s eyes all soft and almost golden with arousal, her body stretched out under his own, the softness of her skin sliding against his…

He swallowed hard and tried to keep his hand still. Except it seemed to have a life of its own and his fingertips were tracing her skin, teasing her nipple into full hardness and then slowly sliding down to her waist, lower, across the soft satiny skin of her inner thigh.

Stop it, he told himself fiercely. She’s your
friend.
Plain little Kirsty. Though she wasn’t plain, except in her own mind. She had a pretty, heart-shaped face and laughing brown eyes. Her soft brown hair had natural streaks of copper and bronze in it, and the body entwined round his right now was all curves…

She might be wearing his ring, but it wasn’t a real engagement. He had no rights whatever where she was concerned. And he needed to remember that.

CHAPTER FOUR

T
HE
next morning, when Kirsty woke, Ben was still wrapped round her—but not quite as much as he’d been in the middle of the night. Gently, she eased her way out of his arms without waking him, gathered her clothes and wash-bag and headed for the bathroom.

He was still asleep when she crept back into their room to deposit her nightclothes and wash-bag in her case. He’d moved so he was lying on his back, his left arm curved up above his head. He reminded her of a little boy, long sooty lashes against his fair skin and a half-smile on his lips. For a moment, she could imagine a little boy lying in that bed—her little boy, looking exactly like his father in sleep, though without the beginnings of stubble shadowing his face.

Then she shook herself. What on
earth
was she thinking? She wasn’t going to get married and have children. Certainly not
Ben’s
children. Cross with herself, she tiptoed out of the room and headed for the kitchen.

Morag was already there, tapping away at a laptop.

‘Good morning, Kirsty,’ she said with a smile, tapping a few more keys to save the file and switch off the laptop.

‘Your web design stuff, I take it?’ Kirsty asked.

‘Indeed. Ben’s bound to say I’m an old fool.’ She grinned.

Kirsty shook her head. ‘He’s immensely proud of you, even though he probably doesn’t say it. You’re the most important person in his life.’

‘No, love, that’s you. Which is how it should be.’

She and Ben really had to tell Morag the truth.
Today,
Kirsty decided. She couldn’t go on deceiving Ben’s grandmother like this. It wasn’t fair.

But she wasn’t going to do it without Ben being right there at her side. His lies, his mess—so he should fix it.

‘Can I make you a cup of tea?’ she asked.

‘If you’ll let me make you some porage. Proper Scots porage,’ Morag emphasised.

‘The way Ben makes it, with a tiny bit of salt?’

Morag chuckled. ‘None of your brown sugar, honey or syrup in
this
country!’

‘Not even heather honey?’ Kirsty teased, then sobered. There was something she needed to know. And now, while Ben was asleep, was the perfect time. ‘Morag…before Ben wakes. There was something I wanted to ask you.’

‘Oh?’ Morag turned enquiringly as she stirred a pot of porage.

‘He worries about you.’ Kirsty took a deep breath. ‘He thinks you’re not telling the truth about your angina—that there’s something more seriously wrong.’

‘My dear,’ Morag began—and then they heard Ben’s footsteps on the stairs. ‘Later,’ she said in an undertone.

Later.
Kirsty took in the word, shaken. So Ben’s instincts were right. There
was
something more seriously wrong—and Morag clearly didn’t want her grandson to know. If all had been well, Morag would surely have said as much in front of him? But she wanted to talk to Kirsty later…Which meant that things were very far from fine.

Well, if Morag Robertson wanted to see her grandson happy and settled, that was exactly what she’d get, Kirsty determined. Whatever the problem was, however much time Morag had left, they’d make sure she was happy.

Ben walked into the kitchen, his hair still wet from the shower and his skin completely smooth again. Kirsty walked over to him, slipped her arms round his waist and dropped a light kiss on his mouth. ‘I wondered if the smell of porage would wake you, Mr Sleepyhead.’

Ben’s eyes widened. Kirsty had just kissed him! But…she’d been asleep when he’d woken in the night to find himself touching her. Surely he hadn’t—she hadn’t—they hadn’t…?

Help!

Since when would a kiss from his best friend scramble his brain like this?

Since the middle of last night, a little voice in his head informed him. Since you woke up with her all warm and soft and very, very female in your arms. Since you discovered that sex is definitely a word you associate with Kirsty Brown.

She was looking expectantly at him, obviously waiting for an answer. ‘Sorry.’ He shook his head to clear it. ‘What?’

‘I said, you obviously aren’t completely awake yet.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Lucky there’s one sensible person in this engagement.’

Then he realised. That kiss had been for Morag’s benefit, not his. She was trying to tell him something in code. But what? He looked at his grandmother, and then his pretend fiancée. Was Kirsty trying to tell him she knew what was wrong with Morag? He had to get her alone—and fast! But how?

‘Sit,’ Kirsty directed, nodding to the table. She finished making tea for the three of them, and Morag ladled out two large bowls of porage.

‘Yep, the same as Ben’s,’ Kirsty pronounced when she tasted it. ‘Not that he cooks very often.’

‘Oh, come on. I made you dinner the other night when you were late home.’

With an ulterior motive. He’d asked her to be his pretend fiancée. ‘Makes a change from leaving crumbs behind you,’ she shot back.

‘Do you not normally eat together?’ Morag asked, sounding surprised.

They stared at each other, aghast at how nearly they’d slipped up. Already.

‘When we’re on the same shift, we do,’ Ben said lightly.

‘If I’m not stuck in Theatre, dealing with one of his cases,’ Kirsty added.

The potentially nasty moment averted, Kirsty turned the conversation back to something light. ‘So where are we having this picnic, then?’

‘On the shores of Loch Ness, of course,’ Ben said immediately. ‘Surely you want to see Nessie?’

‘I’ve never seen her in my seventy-three years,’ Morag said, ‘and don’t you tell any of your tall stories, Ben Robertson. You know what happens to liars.’

He flushed deeply. ‘Um.’

‘Your nose grows?’ Kirsty guessed.

‘You get spots on the tongue. Lots of them. The same colour as the lie,’ Morag informed her.

At this rate, Ben thought, he and Kirsty both had extremely white and extremely spotty tongues.

They exchanged a guilty glance and ate the rest of their breakfast in silence.

Ben insisted on clearing up, to Kirsty’s amusement—considering he always left his breakfast bowl in the sink so it needed a good hour’s soaking that evening to get the hardened cereal off—and then on packing the picnic. It was weird to see him so domesticated. He looked…
married.

Not that she should be thinking about marriage and Ben in the same sentence. If he ever settled down, it’d be with one of his tall, gorgeous women.

‘So what time will the two of you be back?’ Morag asked.

‘Three of us,’ Ben corrected. ‘You’re coming, too.’

‘We came up to see you,’ Kirsty added, ‘not the scenery, beautiful as it is.’

Ben chuckled. ‘You should have seen her last night, Gran. You’d never have pegged her as a brilliant surgeon. She was a big feartie.’

‘A what?’ Kirsty asked.

‘A feartie. You know, a scaredy-cat.’ He winked and let his accent get even richer to emphasise the point that he was teasing her. ‘Ye’re a richt cooardy custard—even for a softie Sassenach.’

‘Don’t tease the lass, you bad boy,’ Morag admonished him.

‘I’ll go and get my coat,’ Kirsty muttered.

‘Me, too,’ Ben said, following her out of the room.

As soon as their bedroom door was closed, he looked her straight in the eye. ‘Explain.’

‘What?’

‘The loving fiancée act. Gran’s told you, hasn’t she?’

Kirsty shook her head. ‘She was about to, I think.’

He closed his eyes, shutting out the pain. ‘I knew it. I
knew
she was hiding something.’

‘Ben, I’m with you on this all the way. As far as she’s concerned, you’re happy and you’re settled with me. That’s the way we’re going to play it, OK?’

‘OK.’ He swallowed, and opened his eyes again. ‘It’s just…she’s all I’ve got, Kirst.’

‘You’ve got me, too,’ she reminded him. ‘Best-friend Kirst, remember?’

‘Yeah.’ He struggled to smile. ‘D’you think the ring’s enough to convince Gran?’

Was he asking her to take it one step further and actually
marry
him? ‘I don’t know,’ she mumbled.

‘Maybe…’ His voice was so soft that she looked up at him. He wasn’t smiling. Those blue, blue eyes were intense. And they were focused on her mouth.

‘Ben?’

Her heart skipped a beat as she remembered the previous night. Ben’s body curled round her own. Ben’s fingers touching her more intimately than any man since—no, not since Luke.
Even
Luke. Luke hadn’t bothered much with preliminaries.

And then Ben lowered his head. Hesitantly, as if he wasn’t sure he was doing the right thing, as if he might be making a monumental mistake—until his lips touched hers. Gently. Softly. Even shyly, she thought with shock, as if he wasn’t sure whether she’d push him away.

Which, of course, she ought to be doing. They were friends, not lovers.

But that didn’t stop her hands coming up to tangle in his hair. Glorious, soft and thick hair. And once she’d done that it was as if she’d unleashed a dam—and she discovered why every other woman at Jimmy’s dreamed of being kissed by Ben Robertson.

Because his kisses were incredible.

His mouth teased hers, nipping and caressing and cajoling until she opened her mouth, letting his tongue duel with hers. And his arms were round her now, pulling her hard against his body so she was left in no doubt about what the kiss was doing to him. His hand was stroking her bottom, kneading it gently, and the kiss went on and on and on, until the world seemed to be spinning round them.

And then he stopped.

‘Thought we’d better have a practice run,’ he said, though his voice sounded cracked. ‘Just so we know.’

Colour flooded her cheeks. ‘I beg your pardon?’

He had his back to her now so she couldn’t see his face—couldn’t tell what was going on in his head. ‘We’ve never kissed. Properly, I mean. So I didn’t want the first time to be in front of an audience.’

‘What?’

‘In case you pushed me away or slapped my face.’ There was still that strange, strained quality to his voice. Kirsty didn’t understand. ‘Why would I push you away?’

‘Because you’re my best friend and I’m not supposed to kiss you like that,’ he informed her roughly.

Kirsty was suddenly back on Planet Earth. What had just happened between them hadn’t been real. Not in his book, anyway. He’d done it so that if they had to kiss in public—as would probably be expected of a newly engaged couple—she would play her part and kiss him back for their audience’s sake, not back off or slap his face or make a smart remark.

Suddenly, the sun coming through the window seemed a lot less bright.

She shook herself. Ridiculous. She’d agreed to do this, hadn’t she? Especially after this morning, now Morag had as good as confirmed Ben’s fears. She couldn’t back out now—not without causing Morag a lot of needless hurt.

‘Morag’s waiting for us,’ she said quietly. ‘We’d better go back downstairs.’

Ben followed her down again, cursing himself. Kirsty looked as if she’d been thoroughly kissed, her lips reddened and slightly swollen. Hell, she
had
just been thoroughly kissed, and he still didn’t understand why he’d done it. He just hadn’t been able to help himself. Remembering how she’d felt in his arms, the softness of her skin against his, the way her body had responded to him even in sleep…

And now he’d just wrecked the best friendship he’d ever had. Because it would be the same as always—get too close and it’d all fall apart. So then she’d back off, probably end up moving out, and he’d lose her for ever.

You’re a complete idiot, Ben Robertson, he told himself roughly. And it’d serve you right if she walked out on you right now.

Panic fluttered in his stomach. Kirsty wouldn’t walk out on him—would she? Yesterday, he’d have said no, of course not. He’d have been confident. Today, now he’d kissed her…he wasn’t so sure.

And he didn’t like the feeling.

* * *

Morag didn’t notice any tension between them—or, if she did, she didn’t draw attention to it. She merely shepherded them out to Ben’s hire car and insisted on sitting in the back, which left Kirsty’s knees only a few centimetres from Ben’s…Gulping, she slid her hand through the grab handle at the top of the window and held onto it for dear life. It wasn’t just the narrow road that made her feel this nervous.

‘Feartie,’ Ben mouthed at her.

‘Mad driver,’ she mouthed back.

‘Kirsty, you’re perfectly safe with me. I’ve had two accidents, and neither of them were my fault—I was stationary at the time,’ he said in a low voice.

‘There’s always a first,’ she muttered. ‘And these roads—’

‘Are only dangerous if you take risks. Which I won’t. You’re perfectly safe with me.’ He gave her a very quick sideways glance. ‘And I’m nowhere near the speed limit, so you can stop braking.’