The Secret in His Heart. Caroline Anderson

position.’

      He paused, his hand on the fridge door, and looked at her over his shoulder. ‘You didn’t,’ he said honestly. ‘Joe did. It was his idea. You were just following up on it.’

      ‘I could have let it go.’

      ‘So why didn’t you?’

      Her smile was wry and touched with sadness. ‘Because I couldn’t,’ she answered softly, ‘not while there was any hope,’ and he straightened up and shut the fridge and hugged her, because she just looked so damned unhappy and there was nothing he could do to make it better.

      No amount of taking care of her was going to sort this out, short of doing what she’d asked, and he wasn’t sure he would ever be able to do that, despite that visceral urge which had caught him off guard. Or because of it? Just the thought of her pregnant with his child …

      He let her go, easing her gently away with his hands on her shoulders and creating some much-needed distance between them, because his thoughts were suddenly wildly inappropriate, and the graphic images shocked him.

      ‘Why don’t you stick the kettle on and we’ll have a cup of tea, and then we can take Saffy for a walk and go to the pub for supper.’

      ‘Are we still going? I thought you’d just been shopping.’

      He shrugged. ‘I didn’t bother to get anything for tonight. The pub seemed like a good idea—unless—is Saffy all right to leave here while we eat?’

      She stared at him for a second, as if she was regrouping.

      ‘Yes, she’s fine. I’ve got a big wire travelling crate I use for her—it’s a sort of retreat. I leave the door open all day so she can go in there to sleep or get away from it all, and I put her in there at night.’

      ‘Because you don’t trust her?’

      ‘Not entirely,’ she said drily. ‘Still early days, and she did pinch the steak and the sausages.’

      ‘The crate it is, then.’ He smiled wryly, then glanced at his watch. ‘Why don’t we bring your luggage in and put it in your room while the kettle boils? I would have done it before but things ran away with us a little.’

      Didn’t they just? she thought.

      He carried the dog’s crate, she carried her overnight bag and the bag of stuff for Saffy—food, toys, blanket. Well, not a blanket, really, just an old jumper of Joe’s she’d been unable to part with, and then when Saffy had come home she’d found a justification for her sentimental idiocy.

      ‘Can we leave the crate down here?’ she asked. ‘She’ll be fine in the kitchen, she’s used to it.’

      ‘Sure. Come on up, I’ll give you a guided tour. It’ll take about ten seconds. The house isn’t exactly enormous.’

      It wasn’t, but it was lovely. There were doors from the entrance hall into the ground floor living space, essentially one big L-shaped room, with a cloakroom off the hallway under the stairs, and the landing above led into three bedrooms, two doubles and a single, and a small but well-equipped and surprisingly luxurious bathroom.

      He showed her into the large bedroom at the front, simply furnished with a double bed, wardrobe and chest of drawers. There was a pale blue and white rug on the bare boards between the bed and the window, and on the edge of it was a comfy armchair, just right for reading in. And the bed, made up in crisp white linen, sat squarely opposite the window—perfect for lying there drinking early morning tea and gazing out to sea.

      She crossed to the window and looked left, over the river mouth, the current rippling the water. The window was open and she could hear the suck of the sea on the shingle, the keening of the gulls overhead, and if she breathed in she could smell the salt in the air.

      ‘Oh, James, it’s lovely,’ she sighed.

      ‘Everyone likes this room.’ He put her bag down and took a step towards the door. ‘I’ll leave you to settle in.’

      ‘No need. I travel light. It’ll take me three seconds to unpack.’

      She followed him back out onto the landing and noticed another flight of stairs leading up.

      ‘So what’s up there?’ she asked.

      ‘My room.’

      He didn’t volunteer anything else, didn’t offer to show it to her, and she didn’t ask. She didn’t want to enter his personal space. Not under the circumstances. Not after her earlier speculation about his love life. The last thing she needed was to see the bed he slept in. So she didn’t ask, just followed him downstairs, got her walking boots out of the car and put them on.

      ‘In your own time, Slater,’ she said lightly, and he gave her one of those wry smiles of his and got off the steps and led her and Saffy out of the gate.