The Valtieri Baby. Caroline Anderson

him, and he might not be feeling great today, but his body clearly didn’t care about that. It was interested in Anita, and saying so.

      No way was she taking off his clothes and finding that out!

      Which meant he had to do it on his own, and frankly he wasn’t sure he could one-handed. The first thing he had to do, though, was use the bathroom, because he wasn’t going to wander around the house half naked. He knew his limitations, and keeping a lid on his libido was one of them. The more he was wearing when he was exposed to her, frankly, the better.

      There was no sign of his washbag, so he assumed she must have put it in the bathroom already. He frowned, feeling another pang of guilt, which was silly. It was nothing he wouldn’t have done for her, and he wouldn’t have taken no for an answer about helping her undress, either. Clearly his skin was tougher than hers. And she wouldn’t have been so rude.

      Guilt again.

      He limped to the bathroom, spent a few infuriating minutes in there struggling to clean his teeth with the wrong hand, and when he opened the door she was outside.

      She hadn’t been able to stay away. She’d gone into the kitchen, steaming mad with him, deeply hurt—

      I’d have to be dead before I let you undress me.

      What was that about? He’d been keen enough for her to undress him five years ago, for goodness’ sake, so what on earth had changed so much that he wouldn’t even let her help him when he was injured? She’d thought they were friends still, but clearly not. They’d crossed a line when they’d had the affair, and now—now everything was different, and there was no going back.

      They couldn’t just undo the fact that they’d been lovers. She realised that, but this was nothing to do with sex! Except clearly, for him, taking off his clothes was something he did on his own, or a prelude to lovemaking. Often, for them, the only prelude, she remembered, because on occasions they’d been so desperate they’d almost torn each other’s clothes off—

      ‘Oh, stop it! This is ridiculous!’

      She slammed the dishwasher shut, battened down the hatches on her memories and swiped a cloth over the worktop. The plates were in the dishwasher, the kitchen was tidy.

      And still he was in the bathroom.

      In difficulties?

      So she’d gone to investigate, listened outside to the sounds of frustration as he struggled with something—his toothbrush?

      And then the door opened, and she saw the pain etched into his face, the frustration, the tiredness, and she just wanted to hug him. He shook his head, closing his eyes briefly, and when he opened them she could see guilt written all over his face.

      Goodness knows what was written on hers. It must be a mass of emotions, and it seemed he could read them all.

      ‘I’m sorry, cara,’ he said gruffly, reaching out one-handed to hug her, and then she was there against him, her arms around him, her face buried in his chest just breathing him in and holding on.

      ‘I’m sorry I flounced off,’ she mumbled. ‘You look awful. I’ve been so worried about you—’

      Her voice hitched, and he sighed and rubbed her back gently. ‘I’m fine, Anita. Come on, don’t cry. Go and make us some hot chocolate, and I’ll get my clothes off. No more tears, eh?’

      She eased away, sniffing slightly and scrubbing tears from her cheeks. ‘Sorry. I’m such an idiot—’

      ‘You’re a lovely idiot. I’m lucky to have such a good friend.’

      There. He’d said it. Friend.

      Not lover.

      She nodded, and walked away towards the kitchen to make the hot chocolate, and he gritted his teeth and made it the last few steps to the bedroom.

      Then he looked at his foot.

      The nurses had struggled to get his trousers on over it without hurting him. What hope did he have, one-handed? He couldn’t do it alone.

      Which meant asking Anita.

      She came back with the hot chocolate while he was sitting on the side of the bed scowling.

      ‘Problem?’

      ‘I can’t get my trousers off on my own,’ he said grudgingly.

      She suppressed a smile. ‘No, I don’t suppose you can. And you need something to keep the weight off your foot in the night.’ She plonked the chocolate down on the bedside table, threw the bottom of the quilt back and put two pillows in the bed.

      ‘OK. That should do it. So, are you sleeping in the trousers, bearing in mind that you’d have to be dead to let me help you?’

      He winced at the mild tone which belied a world of hurt—hurt of his making. He deserved her sarcasm. Hell, he deserved more than that. It would serve him right if she left him to struggle on his own. So he swallowed his pride. He needed her help, like it or not, and he realised he might have to grovel to get it.

      ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that quite as it came out. No, I’m not sleeping in them, but I have no idea how to get them off, I just know it’s going to hurt.’

      ‘Not if I do it—assuming you’ll let me help you?’ she asked more gently.

      He shrugged, hating it but out of options, and unfastened his trousers, pushing them down to his knees before sitting back down on the edge of the bed. He felt naked and vulnerable. Ridiculous. He’d been fine with the nurses, so why was he worried about Anita?

      Because I know what it’s like to make love to her.

      ‘Just do it, Anita,’ he said, and she gave a little shrug and knelt down at his feet, which brought her eyes in line with the telltale bulge in his jersey shorts. And just south, on the inside of his muscular thigh, was the transparent dressing over his wound.

      She winced. ‘That was close. It could have been really catastrophic.’

      ‘My sex life’s not really your problem,’ he said shortly, struggling with her proximity and wishing she’d just look somewhere else before he gave himself away, but she just rolled her eyes.