Tender Touch. Caroline Anderson

ran her hand through her hair, stiff and dry with plaster dust, and shook her head. ‘Amazing. You are clever.’

      He shot her a look. ‘Are you being sarcastic?’

      ‘I thought it was my idea to look for it?’ she offered nonchalantly.

      ‘Damn women—they want all the credit,’ he grumbled, but he couldn’t keep the grin off his face. ‘I tell you what, why don’t you go and wash that dust out of your pores and put on something clean while I’ll finish off in here, then we’ll celebrate our good idea? OK?’

      ‘My good idea,’ she flung over her shoulder. Lord, the thought of a bath was tempting. She stripped off her filthy clothes, choking on the dust as she did so, and ran the bath, humming softly. Her hands hurt, and she was tired, but there was something so satisfying about getting to grips with the house.

      The bath was wonderful—hot, clean, and gradually her hair became her own again as she finally rinsed out the last of the choking dust.

      She could hear the vacuum again, and as she pulled on her towelling robe and wound her hair up in the towel she wondered what he was doing.

      She found him in her sitting-room, pushing the vacuum round the dusty floor.

      ‘It drifted under the door—sorry. I should have thought of that and blocked the gap.’

      She laughed. ‘It’s fine by me—it needed a good clean, anyway.’

      He turned the machine on and chased her up the stairs with the hose, but in her haste she caught her foot in the hem of her dressing-gown and fell against the steps, winding herself slightly.