Dead Of Winter (Willis/Carter #1)(65)

‘You don’t know me.’

‘And you don’t know me. That’s the fun of it. I’m sick of my life. We’ve all got our regrets. I want a fresh start.’

‘I repeat, you don’t know me.’

‘You’re right, but I think it’s better not to delve too deeply into people’s pasts. I think it’s better not to ask.’

Carmichael sat back in his chair and studied her then smiled. ‘I don’t have time for relationships at the moment, not personal.’

Nikki laughed nervously. ‘Really? Now that’s a surprise. Yeah . . . you’re right: you don’t know me from Adam.’ She came over to him, leant over and kissed him: a soft kiss that closed his eyes and opened his heart valves; a feeling he hadn’t had in a long time: his heart responding to the beat of another’s. He slid his hands up over her hips as she stood in front of him. He was drowning in her kisses. His hands went to her waist and she undid her wrap dress for him. He pressed his face against the silk camisole beneath her dress and breathed in the scent of her warm skin. His hands slid up beneath the silk and cupped her breasts, warm, firm. It was a long time since he’d felt something so perfectly human. His fingers circled her hard nipples then he stood and pressed the small of her back to him and kissed the curve of her neck. He went to take off her silk camisole but she wouldn’t let him. He got to his feet and led her to the bed, then kissed her again and touched her with a slow soft touch. His fingers barely brushing her skin. He waited until her body took control, until it needed him badly, then he rolled onto his back, pulled her to lie on top of him, facing the ceiling, and entered her. Neither spoke as she moved her body and he stayed hard inside her, touching her with feather-light fingers. ‘Stay still,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘Don’t move. I’m not going anywhere, just enjoy.’ His hands held her body and his fingers applied a gentle and increasing pressure between her thighs that sent shock waves through her body. He held her tight as he closed his eyes and allowed himself to let go. He stayed inside her as he rolled them both onto their sides. He smelt the scent in her hair and closed his eyes, feeling the kind of exhaustion that he had longed for on so many nights in the last thirteen years.

She held onto his arms around her. Then she lifted his hand and placed it on her breast and held it there. He felt her heart beat beneath his hand. ‘The way you made love to me . . . you knew what I needed.’

‘A fluke,’ he whispered into her ear.

She smiled. ‘Well it was a good one. How come you’re in this hotel bed with me? Can’t fathom you out. You’re Mr Tough guy . . . don’t mess with me . . . but inside you’re . . . different.’

‘Don’t be fooled by me. I told you I don’t have time for personal. You’re not exactly the straightforward kind yourself. You’re obviously well educated. You’re beautiful. You don’t have to be shy about your body. You feel like you’re lost.’

She pulled away from him and sat on the edge of the bed, her back to him. ‘Yes. I feel lost.’ She got up and went across to the chair where she’d put her clothes.

He lay on the bed and watched her get dressed. She picked up her coat from the chair. When she got to the door she looked back at him and lingered there with a smile.

‘Lovely to see you again.’

After she’d gone Carmichael lay back on the pillows and stared at the ceiling. He felt overwhelmed by a feeling of loss. He had not made love to someone like that since Louise. Why he had felt so much for a stranger, he didn’t know. He vowed to himself not to let it happen again.

As Nikki de Lange walked away from the room she felt in shock. She had hoped to get information from him that might say who he was but it hadn’t seemed to work out like that. He probably knew more about her than she did him. Her body had betrayed her. Her heart had taken over. Never before had someone made love to her like that. Never before had she let go enough to really experience it. There was something about him that was so familiar.

She took the lift down to the ground floor, crossed the lobby and walked along a busy Oxford Street crammed with Christmas shoppers. She gave up trying to hail a taxi and caught the Tube to Hammersmith instead, then she walked the twenty minutes to the Mansfield hospital. She didn’t pass Ivy on reception; instead she walked around to the back of the building and through the delivery bays, then left to the door to the private ward. There she punched in her code in the keypad and opened the door.

She walked to the end of the corridor and into the room at the end. Inside was a different world. It was her world. She hung her coat on the back of the door and reached for her uniform. She took off her dress. Beneath her silk camisole a scar ran all the way down the centre of her chest between her breasts. She pulled on the short-sleeved blue cotton top. Then went across to her dressing table by the bed and picked up a band to tie her hair up.

The locked-in boy lay there and listened to the noises in his room. He knew she would be coming soon. He could visualize the room. He knew where the hand basin was, where the door was, where his Arsenal shirt was on the chair. He knew that on either side of his bed there were monitors that flashed and beeped and each one had a different sound as if they were talking to one another. He recognized the door opening, the sucking sound as the air in the room passed over his body in its rush to escape the prison where he seemed to have been for ever. He tried to talk. He tried to say that he was alive. No words came out. He wanted to scream out that he existed but then came the soothing sound of her voice. She sang to him as she washed his body and he loved the feel of her gentle hands on him. She talked to him about her life. Always the same story: