A Miracle for the Baby Doctor Page 9

  Fran reached out and took his hand, drawing him towards her.

  ‘You can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved,’ she said quietly, adding, ‘And you shouldn’t break yourself trying to fix someone else’s problems.’

  Maybe someone should have told him that a long time ago, for he’d very nearly broken himself. He had lost his fiancée, and for a while very nearly given in to the despair of failure.

  Had his face given him away? It was the last thought he had as she leaned across and kissed him.

  A gentle kiss, empathetic and yet redeeming. A kiss that grew to something else...to need and want and passion.

  Standing now, his hand against her head, beneath the soft brown hair, holding her close.

  Kissing her because now he had her answer.

  Fran found herself responding, kissing him in turn, slowly and carefully, relishing the contact of nothing more than lips until his hand slid from beneath her hair and his fingers trailed down her neck to slide a button undone and delve under the fabric of the opening, sliding beneath her bra to take the weight of one breast in his hand.

  Her body stiffened, wanting more, uncertain how to ask until a small whimper whispered from her lips. He caught her breath in his mouth and increased the pressure of his fingers, finding her hardened nipple, teasing it, while his lips still held hers captive.

  She wasn’t going to whimper again—whimpering was needy—but she did gasp as his fingers nipped her sharply, gasped and shifted against him as desire, hot and demanding, speared down to the moist place between her legs.

  ‘Bedroom?’

  He breathed the word as lightly into her mouth as she’d whimpered her need earlier, but didn’t wait for a reply. Instead, turning, he hooked an arm around her neck to keep her close as they walked back into the house.

  And the kisses didn’t stop, on her temple, on her ear, little kisses, barely brushing her skin, yet so erotic she was trembling again.

  His bedroom—she was pleased about that—the bit of her still capable of thought decided.

  But once inside there was no hurried rush of shedding clothes, no ripping or tearing. He was slow, teasingly slow, achingly slow, yet she was happy to let him set the pace.

  Steve let his hands explore her, wanting to know her shape, aware in some dim recess of his mind that her hands, too, were on a voyage of discovery. His shirt was definitely unbuttoned, and he had the sensation of a feather brushing across his chest, across his nipples, pressing them lightly.

  But most of his concentration was on Fran, on the silky texture of her skin, on the kisses he was trailing along her jaw line and down her neck, touching the pulse before moving on to taste the perfumed honey of that shadowed skin between her breasts.

  Now, clothes a puddle on the floor, shoes and underwear in tangled heaps, the urgency to feel skin on skin so great there was no more thought.

  Relief as skin met skin. Relief and relaxation as bodies fitted to each other, soft to hard, warmth transferring, parts matching as nature had intended, pleasure in the sharing of touch and feeling until excitement built again and demanded more.

  Steve tipped her back onto the bed and lay beside her, exploring again, his eyes holding hers, trying to read her reactions to his touch in her shadowed eyes. They gave away little, although he saw colour flare in her cheeks as he thumbed a nipple, enough colour to prompt further exploration, holding one full breast while he took that nipple in his mouth and suckled hard on it, feeling Francesca’s body arch, her hands reach out for him. But he kept on teasing, wanting to be certain that she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

  Teasing, touching, kissing, until she whispered, voice husky with desire, ‘Steve, I need you!’

  It was more than an invitation, more than a plea, and he slid into her welcoming heat and prayed he wouldn’t come too soon, desperately thinking of the seven times table to distract himself. But not even seven times nine could distract him from the joy of Francesca’s body, or the way she moved beneath him, uttering little cries of pleasure or delight, arching up to him, her arms clasped around his back, fingernails dragging through his skin as if she needed more and more of him inside her.

  Her legs clamped him now and they moved as one, riding a tidal wave, a tsunami of such power it swept them onto some distant, explosive planet, finally beaching them on a very foreign shore.

  ‘My God!’

  The words escaped Steve’s lips as he lay exhausted on the no longer smooth bedcover.

  ‘I couldn’t have put it better myself,’ Francesca muttered, but then she laughed, lying on her back and laughing, the sound so joyous Steve had to smile. Touched by it in some way, he took her hand and held it, while he too joined the laughter.

  Was laughter a normal reaction to good sex?

  He couldn’t remember laughing after sex before tonight, but actually, if he was honest, what he’d just experienced hadn’t been good sex, it had been mind-blowing, cataclysmic, all-consuming, out-of-this-world sex.

  And why had they laughed? It had seemed natural at the time, but now he thought about it...

  ‘You’re wondering about the laughter,’ she guessed. She’d propped herself on one arm and was looking down at him, still smiling, while the forefinger of her right hand traced the contours of his face. Slick with sweat, her skin was silvered by the moonlight that lit the room, and the tumble of hair that had escaped captivity was a dark cloud that partly hid her face.

  She was beautiful, so beautiful.

  ‘Probably totally inappropriate,’ she admitted, ‘but, oh, Steve, that felt so good! It was as if I’d never really made love with anyone before—never known it should be fun! So surely there’s nothing wrong with enjoying it while we can?’

  She sounded just unsure enough for him to reach up and pull her down on top of him so he could kiss her as he reassured her that there was definitely nothing wrong with it.

  Fran let him kiss her, her mind far too busy to be concentrating on kissing him back.

  For a start there was her reaction to what had just happened. Shouldn’t her body be burning with shame and confusion and probably regret?

  Why should it?

  She was a free agent, she could have affairs with anyone she liked—not that she ever had or probably ever would again, but there was nothing to stop her, was there?

  ‘Are you regretting it?’ Steve asked, no doubt alerted to the fact he’d lost her by her lack of response to his kisses.

  ‘No way,’ she told him.

  ‘Good,’ he said, nipping teasingly at her lower lip, then sucking on it, sending her nerves into a new frenzy. ‘Because it was something special between us and shouldn’t be regretted.’

  ‘Mutual attraction—I’d heard of it, of course, but never really known what it was,’ she murmured, but although her mind was managing the conversation, her body was squirming on top of his, moving to ease the need that was building again...

  She shifted to the side, propping herself up again while she studied his face, or what she could see of it in the gloom.

  A lazy smile drifted onto his lips, and his dark eyes gleamed.

  Devilishly!

  Lying there on the bed, nonchalantly naked, his eyes scanning her face, asking silent questions, he was so beautiful he took her breath away. Not classic-marble-statue beautiful, but man-beautiful. A forceful face, hewn rather than sculpted, slashes of cheekbones beneath deep-set eyes—dark as night those eyes beneath ink-black brows.

  Full, sensual lips, pale-rimmed to emphasise their shapeliness, lips that even now were moving, the smile changing from lazy to lustful, tempting her, teasing her, challenging her to make the first move this time.

  Or was she imagining that?

  ‘Well?’

  The throatily spoken word was definitely a challenge, bu
t could she take charge, make love to him?

  The idea excited her, but that was possibly because she’d lost her mind.

  ‘Too late,’ he murmured, reaching out to trace a circle around her breast, spiralling it closer and closer to her nipple while her body tensed and tightened, so wound up by the time he touched the pink bud she groaned out loud and flung herself into his arms, pressing her breasts against his chest to stop further torture, yet knowing she wanted more, needed more.

  Slower this time, learning from each other, learning what pleased and excited—delaying the final act and satisfaction because the foreplay was such fun.

  * * *

  She was on top of him again, looking down into his face, and she saw the gleam in his eyes and the slight smile on his lips as she made her admission.

  ‘Really?’ he asked, touching her again, still teasing, but his fingers brushing her skin so deliberately delicately that she wanted to yell at him to press harder. Which he eventually did, before spinning her into orbit somewhere in outer space, into a world of dazzling lights and sparkling fires that shook her body to the core.

  And this time when she collapsed on him, she was pleased he’d shouted out her name right at the end. She fell into an exhausted sleep, waking, confused about where she was, at two in the morning with a man she barely knew sound asleep beside her.

  His arm lay heavily across her waist and as she tried to ease out from under him, he murmured a protest and turned to pull her back, tucking her into his body so he surrounded her.

  Oh, the bliss of it! To be spooned so safely against a man. Nigel had never held her like this, neither had he liked to feel her wrapped around him, although as a child she’d always thought that must be the nice part of a marriage...

  Not that this was anything to do with marriage, or even a future—that was impossible—it was a holiday romance, nothing more!

  Fun sex, that’s all it had been, and all it would be.

  But thinking back—remembering—embarrassment crept in.

  Embarrassment?

  There had to be a better word—a stronger word—for how she felt right now. Embarrassment at her lack of restraint, at the laughter, at the things she’d said...

  Steve wouldn’t be embarrassed, so neither should she be. She should be mature—heaven knew, she was that—and sensible about this relationship.

  Enjoy it, definitely, and remember it with pleasure, but keep her emotions in check so at the end she could put it behind her as easily as he would.

  She snuggled closer, knowing this wonderful safe haven wouldn’t last and that she had to make the most of it, glean memories from it to keep her warm in the future.

  Memories to ease the ache she suspected she would feel in her heart?

  CHAPTER SIX

  HE WAS GONE when she woke—in his bed—and confusion over what to do next fluttered like moths in her head.

  Should she muss up the bed in her room?

  Of course not, she’d made her own bed every morning she’d been here. Why was she even thinking this way?

  To stop thinking about facing Steve in daylight?

  That moth was bigger than the rest, and its sudden presence got her out of bed, gathering her clothes and fleeing into her own room, where she crawled into bed for comfort rather than deception.

  But there was work to be done, and she was being pathetic.

  Pulling the sheet over her head, she hid from the truth.

  The truth that she had truly enjoyed their sexual encounter?

  Where was restraint in that?

  She thought about that restraint, the one that had shaped her thoughts and her decisions since childhood.

  Because of the guilt she’d felt when her father had left them, certain for some peculiar childish reason it had been her fault? Because she’d trodden so carefully after that, perhaps subconsciously not wanting to lose her mother as well?

  Nonsense! That was the past—gone so long ago it should be forgotten.

  She was a mature woman and although, admittedly, she hadn’t considered it post-divorce, she was entitled to a love life. She bounded out and headed for the shower. Those moths were not going to spoil her memories of a wondrous night.

  She was eating breakfast when Zoe arrived.

  ‘Steve still out on his run?’ she asked, a question that explained why he wasn’t around in the morning.

  ‘Must be,’ Fran replied, hoping she sounded more together than she felt.

  But there was work to be done and she’d need her wits about her, so work!

  Steve appeared, freshly showered, as she was walking to the lab.

  ‘Good morning, lovely lady,’ he said, with a smile that warmed her all over. ‘Can we check the red dishes? And the green ones? Forty-eight hours and we should be seeing some cell division on the reds and it’s probably late enough to see the pronuclei in the greens.’

  Fran smiled at the enthusiasm in his voice, though she did wonder if he was feeling all the physical things she was feeling.

  Like wanting to reach out and touch him, to move closer.

  Work!

  She couldn’t deny that Steve was passionate about his work but...

  Then he did touch her, one finger tilting her chin so their eyes met.

  ‘Okay?’ he asked, and she knew her smile in reply was probably way too delighted but she couldn’t help it.

  ‘Very okay,’ she told him. ‘So, come with me while I check?’

  Years of experience at ignoring any emotional highs or lows—mostly lows—made it easy to switch into work mode, although every nerve in her body was aware of Steve’s presence, and it took a great deal of strength to not accidentally brush against him.

  Arthur was already in the lab and as he lifted the dishes from the incubator she slid them under the microscope, checking each one before stepping back so first Steve and then Arthur could see the progress.

  ‘Look, this one is nearly perfect,’ she said, excited in spite of herself as she studied one of the Reds’ embryos. ‘I know the fact that they divide evenly isn’t really an indication of their strength or viability but the even ones always appear stronger to me. Far better than the ones that are lopsided or are dividing too quickly. That first one we checked had divided unevenly.’

  Memories of the night of love fled now as she was caught up in the miracle of procreation, although she continued to be sure she didn’t stand too close to Steve.

  The next two were also good, and they moved on to the green dishes, where pronuclei were visible in two of them.

  ‘It’s early yet,’ Fran reminded the two men. ‘Give them time.’

  ‘So, now you will look at Miss or Mister Yellow?’ Arthur asked, when he’d returned all the checked dishes to the incubator, clearly keen to see their success with the ICSI.

  Fran smiled at him, his enthusiasm was so infectious.

  ‘Let’s check the other yellows first, to see if they’ve been inseminated without help.’

  Nothing had happened, although one egg had divided without insemination, which was a common enough occurrence. It would have to be let go.

  ‘Okay,’ Fran finally said to Arthur. ‘Now we’ll check the last one, the one we helped.’

  He carried the dish carefully over to the microscope and Fran, not wanting to look, waved her hand.

  ‘You check it first,’ she said, and Arthur bent obediently over the microscope, adjusting the eyepiece then lifting his head to beam at them. ‘See for yourselves!’ he told them.

  They did, followed by high fives all round.

  * * *

  The Blues were the first couple to arrive that morning, Fran holding the dish with its special bath of fluid as Steve collected the eggs. Fran talked quietly and comfortingly to the couple a
ll the time, ignoring the man doing the procedure as much as possible.

  Wanting to separate out the eggs herself—and perhaps because her restraint was wearing thin—she sent Arthur in for the Browns, then, as the little polar body appeared on each egg, she divided Mr Blue’s specimen, washed and cleared of impurities, between the dishes and tucked them away, understanding now why such a small set-up had such a large incubator.

  She checked the purple eggs, smiling as she realised they were maturing nicely. Knowing he’d be trying IVM for the purple couple, Steve had made sure they had the chemicals and growth hormones ready for them and Fran had carefully fed the eggs the nutrients they needed.

  Thinking that tomorrow they’d be ready for the ICSI, she realised that she’d have to speak to Steve about collecting Mr Hopoate’s specimen.

  Maybe now?

  No, concentrate on work. She must check to see if Mr Yellow’s specimen still had viable sperm and if so, let Arthur do the ICSI, or at least the first stage of it, which involved clearing the little cloud from around the egg.

  But as she squinted into their regular microscope and saw that the only moving sperm were very lacklustre, Fran realised that they would need a new specimen before they could do the ICSI.

  Checking the remaining yellow eggs, she found them fine, nourished in their special liquid, so it seemed a shame not to use them.

  Now she had two valid reasons to see Steve.

  Pathetic, that’s what she was, but at least it was a relevant work visit.

  Arthur hadn’t returned with the Browns’ samples so she went up to the clinic, meeting Arthur on his way back to the lab.

  ‘You can get on with separating the eggs and cleaning the specimen. I won’t be long, I just want to see Steve about a couple of things.’

  She could have left off after the ‘I just want to see Steve’ bit and it would have been true.

  And really pathetic!

  Steve’s smile as she walked in produced what were, by now, familiar sensations of tingling, slight breathlessness and a warmth in her belly.