‘Of course.’
Maggie smoothed the bodice of the dress flat against her stomach for the hundredth time as she waited for Nash to arrive. She inspected her image from all angles in her dressing-table mirror. It was the sort of outfit that clung and had she been even another month along, she couldn’t have worn it.
She checked her watch, pleased that she’d been able to get herself ready in such a short time. She hadn’t been discharged till close to four and managing to convince Nash she’d be okay to get ready without him hovering like a mother hen had taken another hour.
He’d finally left at five-thirty, to go and get ready himself before heading back to pick her up.
A knock sounded on the door and a ball of nerves in her stomach tangled a little tighter. She gave herself a quick once-over and made her way through the house, switching out lights as she went.
Nash could see her coming towards him through the glass panels in the door and almost sagged against it in relief. He’d been nervous about leaving her alone and had torn home, showered quickly, thrown his clothes on and roared back. His heart had pounded as he’d strode up the path and before knocking he’d spent a second calculating how easy it would be to kick the door in if Maggie didn’t answer within the minute.
All his macho protective instincts, however, died a quick death when she opened the door. He went from picturing her lying unconscious somewhere in the house to picturing himself tearing her dress off and throwing her on the bed.
‘Bow chicka wow wow,’ he whispered.
She looked amazing. Her satiny, off-white floor-length gown looked very Rita Hayworth. Its halter neck dipped to reveal a hint of unfettered cleavage. It was fitted in a wide band around her waist and then fell to the floor, hugging the lines of her body and flaring in a slight fishtail at the hem.
The material shimmered with a pearl-like lustre and moved with her body. He wanted to reach out and touch it so badly he knew he wouldn’t be able to think of anything else all evening. How the silk would feel gliding against his hand, how her erect nipples would feel beneath the material, the warmth of the fabric beneath his touch, the give of her curves.
She wore a chunky three-strand choker of black pearls at her neck and he curled his hands into fists to stop himself from stroking them.
Maggie’s heart gave a wild gallop at his appreciative gaze. ‘Bow chicka wow, yourself,’ she murmured.
He looked like a model. It was the first time she’d seen him in anything remotely formal and the effect was mesmerising. His black tux was stunning and she couldn’t decide which Nash was more handsome — the Levi’s Nash or the tuxedo Nash. Her brain flashed another image on her inward eye and she gave herself a mental slap.
Naked Nash, of course.
Nash’s gaze roved over her face, memorising every detail. She’d done her eyes up tonight with dark kohl and heavy mascara and they looked sultry and seductive. Luring him, tempting him to pick her up and spend all night here.
In bed.
Then he noticed the artful application of make-up on her temple and he pulled his mind out of his pants.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked, lifting his hand to stroke her fringe back, inspecting the site closely.
Maggie pulled away from his touch. She rolled her eyes. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Are you sure?’ he pressed.
Maggie knew if they didn’t leave right now she was going to burst into tears. She couldn’t take his concern. Not when it was motivated out of friendship and some sense of honour or guilt. He looked dashing and sexy tonight and she wanted nothing more than to drag him inside by his lapels and forget the damn ball.
But she was in an emotionally precarious state. The last thing she wanted to do was blurt out how she felt about him —all that would do was complicate things even further.
‘Yes, Nash.’ She moved forward, forcing him to step back, shutting the door behind her then brushing past him as she headed for his car.
Nash turned and watched her progress. The dress was totally backless and he almost groaned aloud.
How was he supposed to keep his hands off that?
The music coming from the band on the stage pulsed around the darkened ballroom and Maggie watched with envy as a crowd of party-goers, including Nash, let their hair down on the dance floor.
The tables were decorated with floating red candles, silver tinsel, red linen serviettes and lush green holly. The flames flickered and twinkled in the array of wineglasses cluttering the table and shimmered in the tinsel.
There was plenty to keep her mind off the dance floor, however. She’d reached minor celebrity status, being inundated in the early part of the evening by colleagues coming up to ask how she was and chat about the incident of the previous night. It had obviously rocketed around the grapevine and while she appreciated people’s concern, between them and Nash she was about ready to scream.
Her gaze flicked back to the dancers. Nash was up there with Zoe from A and E. If it was at all possible, he looked even sexier than he had when he’d been standing on her doorstep, which only increased her bad mood.
He’d wasted no time in modifying the tux, undoing the jacket buttons so the lapels gaped as he boogied exposing an expanse of chest clad in a classic white shirt. He’d untied the bow-tie so it hung casually down from the confines of the collar. The top two buttons of his shirt had been relieved of their duty.
With his hair all mussed from dancing, he looked like a movie star at an Oscars after-party. And he’d been wildly popular despite his initial reluctance to leave her side. But she’d bitten down hard on her jealousy and urged him to go and dance.
Anything to get some relief from his polite attentiveness and his damn aftershave. She’d thought it would help.
But it hadn’t. She was miserable.
It was some weird kind of self-inflicted torture, forcing herself to watch him with a string of other women. To face the reality of her life. Oh, sure, she knew there was nothing sexual about it, that Nash was just being a gentleman. But the truth was that he was going to London and there were going to be other women.
She might as well get used to it.
The song came to an end and Nash returned to the table and threw himself into the seat beside her. He’d much rather be dancing with Maggie but the lure of her bare back and fudge-brownie eyes were lethal and at least on the dance floor he was removed from the temptation.
‘Man, it’s hot out there,’ he said, taking a swig of his frosty beer. ‘How are you? Okay? Is your head aching?’
Maggie sighed. ‘I’m fine, Nash.’
‘Are you tired? We can leave any time.’
Maggie glared at him now, tired of being treated like a fragile piece of blown glass. ‘I swear to God, Nash, if you ask me one more time, I’m going to pour that beer over your head.’
Nash chuckled and held up his hands in surrender. ‘Okay, okay.’
A woman Maggie recognised from X-ray tapped Nash on the shoulder and he smiled at her. Maggie wanted to scratch her eyes out.
Nash stood to go with her but took a moment to bend down so his mouth was close to Maggie’s ear. ‘We’re leaving soon whether you like it or not.’
Maggie tracked his progress through the people milling around the edge of the dance floor, guiding his partner through the crush like a true gentleman, enjoying the back view as much as the front. How had she ever let herself fall in love with him?