Wedding Bell Wishes. Lynne Marshall

maybe there’s another way of doing things.’

      ‘Let’s agree to disagree, shall we?’

      Sean had closed off on her again, Claire thought with an inward sigh—and now she could guess exactly why his girlfriends didn’t last for much longer than three weeks. He’d drive them crazy by stonewalling them as soon as they tried to get close to him, and then either he’d gently suggest that they should be just friends, or they’d give up trying to be close to him.

      She also knew that telling him that would be the quickest way of ending things between them; and from the few glimpses she’d had she was pretty sure that, behind his walls, the real Sean Farrell was someone really worth getting to know.

      ‘OK, I’ll back off,’ she said. ‘But you have absolutely nothing slushy and relaxing on here.’

      He coughed. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m male.’

      She’d noticed, all right.

      ‘I don’t do slushy,’ he continued. ‘But...’ He took the MP3 player gently from her and flicked rapidly through the tracks.

      When the music began playing, she recognised ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’, but it was a rock version of the song.

      ‘The band played this at Ashleigh’s wedding,’ he said, ‘and I found myself looking straight at you—that’s why I asked you to dance.’

      ‘And there was I thinking it was because it was traditional,’ she deadpanned.

      ‘No. I just wanted to dance with you.’

      His honesty disarmed her. Just when he’d driven her crazy and she was thinking of calling the whole thing off, he did something like this that made her melt inside.

      He drew her into his arms, and Claire was surprised to discover that, even though the song was fast, they could actually dance slowly to it.

      ‘And then, when I was dancing with you,’ he continued, ‘I wanted to kiss you.’

      She found herself moistening her lower lip with her tongue. ‘Do you want to kiss me now, Sean?’

      ‘Yes.’ He held her gaze. ‘And I want to do an awful lot more than just kiss you.’

      Excitement thrummed through her, but she tried to play it cool. ‘Could you be more specific?’

      ‘I want to take that dress off,’ he said, ‘lovely as it is. And I want to kiss every inch of skin I uncover.’

      ‘That sounds like a good plan,’ she said. ‘So what do I do?’

      He smiled. ‘I’m surprised you don’t already know that one. Isn’t it what you’re always saying? Be spontaneous. Follow your heart. Go with the flow.’

      ‘So that means,’ she said, ‘I get to take that prissy suit off you?’

      ‘Prissy?’ he queried. ‘My suit’s prissy?’

      ‘It’s beautifully cut, but it’s so neat and tidy. I’d like to see you dishevelled,’ she said, ‘like you were that morning in Capri.’

      ‘Would that be the morning you threw me out of your bed?’

      ‘Yes, and don’t make me feel guilty about it. That was mainly circumstances,’ she said.

      ‘Hmm.’

      ‘Besides, I can’t throw you out of your own bed,’ she pointed out.

      ‘Now that’s impeccable logic.’ He frowned. ‘Though, actually, if you said no at any point I hope you realised I’d stop.’

      She stroked his face. ‘Sean, of course I know that. You’re...’

      ‘Dull?’

      She shook her head. ‘I was going to say honourable.’

      He brushed the pad of his thumb across her lower lip, making her skin tingle. ‘You normally call me regimented.’

      ‘You can be. You were tonight, and I nearly left you to it and went home.’ She smiled. ‘But there’s a huge difference between regimented and dull.’

      ‘Is there?’

      ‘Let me show you,’ she said. ‘Take me to bed.’

      ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

      To her surprise, he scooped her up and actually carried her up the stairs. She half wanted to make a snippy comment about him being muscle-bound, to tease him and push him, but at the same time she didn’t want to spoil the moment. She was shocked to discover that she actually quite liked the way he was taking charge and being all troglodyte.

      Once they were in his room, he set her down on her feet.

      His bedroom was painted in shades of smoky blue—very masculine, with a polished wooden floor, a rug in a darker shade that toned with the walls and matched the curtains, and limed oak furniture. But what really caught Claire’s eye was his bed. A sleigh bed, also in limed oak, and she loved it. She’d always wanted a bed like that, but there really wasn’t the room for that kind of furniture in her flat. Sean’s Victorian terraced house was much more spacious and the bed was absolutely perfect.

      ‘The last time you took your dress off for me,’ he said, ‘your underwear matched. Does it match today?’

      ‘That’s for me to know,’ she said, ‘and for you to find out.’

      ‘Is that a challenge?’

      ‘In part. It’s also an offer.’ She paused. ‘Um, before this goes any further, do we have Monday’s problem?’

      ‘We absolutely do not,’ he confirmed.

      ‘Good.’ Because she was going to implode if she had to wait much longer.

      He drew the curtains and turned on the bedside light; it was a touch lamp, so he was able to dim the glow. Then he sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Show me,’ he invited.

      She unzipped her dress and stepped out of it, then hung it over the back of a chair.

      ‘What?’ she asked, seeing the amusement in his face.

      ‘You’re a closet neat freak,’ he said.

      ‘No. Just practical. This is linen. It creases very, very badly. And I’m not walking out of here looking as if I’ve just been tumbled in a haystack.’

      He gave her a slow, sexy smile. ‘I like that image. Very much. You, tumbled in a haystack.’

      She shook her head. ‘It’s not at all romantic, you know. Straw’s prickly and itchy and totally unsexy.’

      ‘And I assume you know that because you’ve, um, gone with the flow?’

      ‘Listen, I haven’t slept with everyone I’ve dated, and I certainly haven’t slept with anyone else as fast as I fell into bed with you,’ she said, folding her arms and giving him a level stare.

      He stood up, walked over to her and brushed his mouth against hers. ‘I’m not calling you a tart, Claire. We both have pasts. It’s the twenty-first century, not the nineteen-fifties. I’m thirty and you’re twenty-seven. I’d be more surprised if we were both still virgins.’ He traced the lacy edge of her bra with one fingertip. ‘Mmm. Cream lace. I like this. You have excellent taste in clothing, Ms Stewart.’

      ‘It’s oyster, not cream,’ she corrected.

      He grinned. ‘And you have the cheek to call me prissy.’

      ‘Details,’ she said. ‘You need to get them right.’

      ‘We’re in agreement there.’

      She coughed.

      ‘What?’ he asked.

      ‘I’m