of the brain, which started about four days after the rash first appeared. Any signs of drowsiness, breathing problems, convulsions or a stiff neck and dislike of bright lights and Rachel would drive Sophie straight to the nearest emergency department.
‘Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!’
‘How’s my best girl?’ Oliver’s deep voice asked.
Rachel blinked and glanced at the clock. Lunchtime. Oliver never came home at lunchtime. Ever.
He walked into the kitchen, with Sophie sitting on his shoulders. ‘Hi,’ he said, giving Rachel the broad grin which had made her fall head over heels for him as a student.
Despite the fear gnawing in her stomach—the fear that today was the day when Oliver would bring everything into the open and she’d learn something she really, really didn’t want to know—she couldn’t help smiling back. ‘This is a nice surprise.’
‘I can’t stay long—but I thought you’d be going stir-crazy, being cooped up at home, so if you want to go out and have a walk or something?’
Her fairy godmother had definitely been at work. ‘Thanks. I could do with ten minutes to myself,’ she admitted. ‘Want me to make you a sandwich first?’
‘No need.’ Gently, he lifted Sophie from his shoulders and set her on the floor. ‘I brought supplies. Bacon and Brie baguettes to go, from the Red Lion. Plus the stuff to stop the itching. And something special for my little girl.’ He fetched a carrier bag from the hall, and fished out five comics for preschoolers.
‘Ooh, Daddy! Thank you!’ Sophie squeaked.
‘And for Robin.’ He put a puzzle magazine on the table, and Rachel blinked in surprise. Oliver had noticed that Rob liked doing puzzles?
‘And...’ He brought out a bottle of red wine and a DVD. A romantic comedy—the sort of film he absolutely hated and Rachel adored. ‘Something for us, tonight.’
For us? He was actually planning to spend time with her tonight? Rachel was so shocked that she burst into tears.
Immediately, Oliver put his arms round her and held her close. ‘Hey. It’s OK,’ he said, stroking her hair. ‘Soph’s going to be absolutely fine. Don’t worry about work—the practice will manage without you for today, and I’ve got a locum to cover you from Monday. I’ve known Caroline Prentiss for years.’
‘Caroline Prentiss?’ The name sounded familiar, but Rachel couldn’t think why.
‘She’s just moved back into the area—she was looking for a locum job, so that’s all sorted. And I’ve asked Prunella to chase the lab for Megan’s serum results.’
Which meant they’d get the results double-quick—everyone was scared of Prunella, except Oliver. ‘Thank you,’ Rachel muttered against his chest. ‘Sorry. I’m just being...’ Her voice tailed off.
‘You’ve been cooped up with a sick toddler all morning, and I don’t pull my weight in the house. It’s no wonder you’re feeling tired and tearful.’
And relieved, Rachel thought. This was the Oliver she knew and loved: a workaholic, but one who still found time for those he loved. Maybe he was right. Maybe they’d just been at cross-purposes these last few months. Everything was going to be all right.
‘Why’s Mummy crying?’ Sophie wanted to know.
‘Because she’s feeling a bit out of sorts, too,’ Oliver said. He kissed the top of Rachel’s head, then stepped back. ‘Right, you. Go and get some fresh air for five minutes. I’ll make us a coffee, then we’ll have lunch together. Just like we should have done yesterday.’
When he’d been too busy. And he was even busier today, covering for her as well as doing his own list. Guilt flooded through her. ‘You had to cancel things, didn’t you?’
He shrugged. ‘They can wait.’ He smiled. ‘Five minutes. Or I’ll eat your baguette as well as my own!’
She knew that look. Teasing, loving... Her husband was back. And he wasn’t—absolutely wasn’t—having an affair. He loved her, she loved him, and all was right with her world again.
So why was there still that little niggle in the back of her mind?
CHAPTER FOUR
OLIVER worked that evening, just as Rachel knew he would. But when she was reading a story to Sophie, he came upstairs to kiss the children goodnight. Then he took her hand and led her downstairs into the living room. It wasn’t dark outside but he’d already pulled the curtains.
‘Just you and me now,’ he whispered. ‘You, me, a film and a bottle of wine.’
He’d uncorked the Merlot to let it breathe; he poured two glasses and handed one to her. ‘It’s been too long since we did this, Rach.’
And whose fault is that? she wanted to ask. Who is it who spends every minute in his wretched office in the evenings? But she took a sip of wine instead, savouring the taste.
He took the glass from her hand, set it down beside his own, then sprawled on the sofa and patted the space next to him. ‘Come here.’
She lay with her back to him, spoon-style, and his arm curved round her, pulling her back against him. It was how they’d often spent Friday nights when Robin had been tiny, watching a good film together and sharing a bottle of wine. They’d have the baby listener turned down low—the flashing lights would tell them if Robin was crying—and often they’d only catch the first half of the film, because then Oliver would start to kiss the back of her neck and slide his hand under the hem of her top, and they’d be so lost in exploring each other that the film would be forgotten.
Did he remember those nights, too? Maybe, because the arm around her waist tightened. Rachel relaxed against him. It felt so good to be in Oliver’s arms again, to feel the warmth of his body against hers.
‘Rach,’ he whispered, nuzzling her shoulder and she arched back against him. He kissed along the line of her neck. ‘I love the way you smell,’ he murmured. ‘The way you taste.’ His hand slipped under the hem of her top and he cupped her breast. ‘The way you feel.’
Which was exactly the way she felt about him. She twisted round so she was facing him, and cupped his face in her hands. ‘Me, too,’ she whispered, and kissed him.
‘I want you so much,’ he told her when he broke the kiss. His pupils were huge, edged with a narrow rim of blue, so his eyes looked almost black with passion.
Everything was going to be all right. They were going to make love, and everything was going to be all right.
Slowly, he undid the button of her jeans and slid the zip down. He teased her, his fingers drifting over her midriff; Rachel made a small sound of impatience and tilted her hips.
‘Something you wanted, Dr Bedingfield?’ he asked, his voice low and husky.
‘You,’ she replied, her voice equally husky.
‘I think that can be arranged.’ He gave her a smile that managed to be teasing yet smouldering at the same time, and a thrill of desire ran down her spine.
It didn’t take him long to remove her jeans—or her to remove his. Her top followed, then his T-shirt. And finally they were skin to skin. Rachel could still remember the first time they’d made love in her narrow single bed at university, the heady excitement of exploring each other’s body fully for the first time, learning where each other liked to be touched and stroked and kissed. That headiness had never quite gone away, for her. Even now, she thrilled at how good Oliver’s body felt against her own.
And right now he was all hers.
‘Rachel.’ He breathed her name as he kissed his way down her collar-bone, stroked the length of her spine, then finally took the hard peak of one nipple into his mouth.