Chapter One

“Is this what you’re looking for?”

Keira Grayson heard the man’s voice and knew what it meant without having to look. Even though she was crouched down, rooting among the fallen leaves by the notice board, she knew what he had in his hand. Not the pants, she pleaded silently, please let it not be the pants.

“They are yours, then?”

That voice again. It was two parts James Bond to one part Royal Shakespeare Company, and she just knew that this was going to be excruciating. Wincing as her thighs protested, she began to push herself to her feet. Goose bumps dimpled her arms as the wind whipped across the church steps. Her fingers were numb, and only her face felt warm and glowing.

“Forgive me for the intrusion, but do you need any help getting up?”

“I’m fine. Thanks. Really.”

Keira turned like a snail, trying to put off the moment she had to face the owner of that voice as long as possible. It was just what she didn’t need when she was late for the Wedding of the Century. Then again, it was a tiny humiliation compared to the way the year had turned out so far. What was losing your knickers in front of a handsome stranger compared to all that? She stuck on a smile, but her heart still pounded as she saw the stranger who’d picked up her thong from the church steps. Why couldn’t he be some harmless old gentleman with weak eyesight? Why did he have to be tall and dark and totally gorgeous?

He also had very dark blue eyes, a lovely natural tan (most likely from wintering in the Caribbean, like you do when you have a cut-glass accent like that) and an interesting nose. It would have been a boringly straight nose, but it had definitely seen some action at some point. Keira had seen similar noses before, but she doubted if Mr. Scarily Handsome’s had been damaged in a gang fight or “a bit of bovver down the boozer”, as her next-door neighbour liked to put it.

She doubted if Mr. Scarily Handsome had ever been in the boozer in his life. He looked made for sipping a single malt in some tweedy pub or propping up his college bar with a pint of real ale. It didn’t stop him from being hot, though, and right now he was gazing down at her with a look that flirted between amusement and politeness.

“If you aren’t sure,” he went on, “perhaps it would be best if I kept hold of it? We wouldn’t want the bride to find it here on the steps, would we?”

Keira was torn between curtseying and melting in a pool of drool. She went for the middle ground as usual: polite and friendly. Even her mum would have been proud of her. “No, er… We wouldn’t, and it does, um, appear to be mine. It was in my handbag, you see, it’s so small, the bag, that is, and there’s hardly any room for a mobile, and I was looking for my lipstick and…”

“…it just fell out?” he said, like a teacher who’d found her up to no good behind the bike sheds. Not that Victoria Lane Primary had bike sheds since a disaffected ex-pupil had set fire to them. Not that many of the kids had bikes. Whatever, thought Keira. Mr. Scarily Handsome hadn’t been near Victoria Lane; she’d have bet her gas bill on that.

He managed a small smile, his eyes doing that sexy crinkly thing at the corners. Keira’s stomach did a sexy crinkly thing too, which annoyed her immensely.

“Well, yes.”

“Ah.” As he held out his finger, the thong wiggled tantalizingly and her cheeks heated up again.

“Thanks,” she said, holding out her hand to take her knickers off the cheeky sod.

Her heart skipped a long, slow beat, and it was all she could do not to stare. It was his hands. Up close, she could see the myriad of tiny scars dusting his fingers and knuckles, like the sprinkles on a child’s cupcake. She dragged her gaze upward to his eyes. Dark blue, they were, like the indigo at the end of the rainbow, and right now they were looking puzzled. She felt a blush of shame flame her cheeks, and she smiled reassuringly.

“Is there anything wrong?”

She shook her head and gave him an even bigger smile. He must think she was a grinning idiot, but it didn’t matter. He was probably self-conscious enough without her making it worse, and besides, everyone had scars. It’s just that hers were buried deep inside.

“Nothing. Really. It’s just a bit…chilly out here. Thanks for finding, er…it. I’m staying at my friend’s after the wedding, and I hadn’t got time to collect any proper underwear—”

“Quite.”

“I grabbed it at the last minute,” she said patiently. Whew, this was like explaining a maths problem to one of the less able pupils. “It was a joke Christmas present from a friend, you see, and I was in a rush to get to the wedding, and I just stuffed it into my handbag and…” She sucked in a breath, desperate to tell him they were just so not her kind of pants. “It even has the price tag on,” she added, then instantly wished the words back. Okay, that was it. She was going to curl up and die, right here and now, on the steps in front of him.

“Really. It’s fine. It could have happened to anyone.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “You’re not teasing me, are you?”

“I wouldn’t dare, believe me.”

She didn’t. Opening her bag, she squashed the pants in the bottom as best she could, hoping Mr. Scarily Handsome would carry on up the church steps without saying anything else. When she glanced up from her bag, she found him still gazing down at her in an intense way that made her want to look away or melt on the flagstones in a puddle of shame.

A cool gust of wind blew round the corner, and she tugged her wrap tighter. “I suppose I’d better get inside.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Yes, better not risk hypothermia. Or pneumonia.”

Keira bridled. This dress wasn’t that low. “You think so?”

A smile touched his lips. “Not really. Bride or groom?”

“The bride, Carrie. She’s a colleague from school.”

“Then you’ll want the pews to the left of the altar.”

“Is it really that important?” she asked as the wind pasted her dress to her legs and goose bumps raced up her thighs.

“Absolutely vital. Particularly if the bride decides to get herself abducted by another man. That’s where the tradition comes from. In medieval times, women were often forced to marry. The groom needed his right hand free to defend his bride from other suitors.”

O-kayy, the man was mad as a fish as well as scary. “I don’t think that’s likely to happen,” sniffed Keira. “Carrie and Matt are crazy about each other. I think we’d have known by now if she was going to be swept off her feet at the altar.”

“Even so. Better to be safe than sorry.”

“Quite.”

Mr. Scarily Handsome narrowed his eyes and pushed back the cuff of his jacket to uncover a tanned wrist with a chunky watch. It was all dials and gold case and thick leather strap, just like the one she’d once dreamed of buying for Alex, back in the day when she’d thought he was worth it.

“Ah. At last. Here she is.”

Keira followed his gaze to the bottom of the church lane. A silver Rolls Royce had pulled up at the kerb, the paintwork gleaming in the pale October sun.

“I must be getting back to the groom,” he said, adjusting the creamy rose in his buttonhole. “And tell him his bride has just arrived.”

“So you’re the best man, then?” she asked.

Best man? Tom Carew gazed down at the achingly sexy girl in front of him and caught his breath. Her question had momentarily floored him, and that didn’t happen very often. Almost never, in fact. Tom didn’t allow himself to be caught off balance by anyone these days, let alone a woman. But how, he asked himself, could he ever be described as a “best man”? He wasn’t even sure if he was a good man, let alone the best. All morning he’d expected someone to come up, tap him on the shoulder and say, “Excuse me, sir. Aren’t you here under false pretences? We hardly think you qualify for the position.”

They hadn’t, of course. No one at the wedding, apart from perhaps his friend, the groom, thought he was anything but a gentleman. In fact, only two people on the planet knew the real and very ugly truth.

“You are the best man, aren’t you?” the girl asked again, pushing a strand of chestnut hair out of her eyes.

“Well observed,” said Tom, not caring whether she thought he was an arrogant, over-privileged cliché. And yet, she was looking up at him with an encouraging smile that made him feel like he was ten years old and about to get a medal for a race he hadn’t run in.

“Now I know you’re winding me up,” she said.

Tom’s heart skipped a beat as she shivered and flushed at the same time. He knew he shouldn’t have teased her, but he just couldn’t resist it. Her embarrassment was just so, well…so damn sexy. She was one of those old-fashioned girls, a dying breed with a slim waist, lush bottom and… He gave himself a mental slap on the face and tried to look intimidating again. It kept people at a distance, and that’s what he wanted right now, no matter how cute the girl’s blushes were, and the flush was spreading down her neck and into her cleavage. Tom was getting hot himself in the bloody penguin suit.

“I really think you’d better go inside,” he said gruffly as she tugged the wrap around her shoulders. “Don’t forget what I said about sitting on the left.” Pushing open the heavy oak door, he held out an arm. “After you.”

“Thank you.”

“No problem.”

Tom hesitated for a moment. Should he…shouldn’t he? Hell, why not? He thrust out his hand. “Tom Carew,” he declared.

The girl wavered too, before curling her cold fingers around his warm ones. “Keira Grayson,” she murmured, “world’s most embarrassing guest.”

“Pleased to meet you, Keira,” he said, standing aside so she could duck into the porch. “And forgive me, but next time, try to be more careful where you mislay your underwear.”

As Keira dashed into the church, clutching her handbag as if her pants might try to escape again, Tom allowed himself a wry smile. He hadn’t been able to help notice her rather lovely curves—no, correct that, stunning curves. Nice and generous, just how he liked them. Not that he looked at women these days, unless it was in the professional sense, but there had been something about her, something sassy yet sweet, that had fired his blood and made him want to behave very badly indeed.

He took a deep breath before stepping into the porch. Even if he did have a mind to look at a woman unprofessionally, this one was certainly not going to give him a second glance. He knew damn well he’d come across as sarcastic and arrogant, when really he was just amused and intrigued and, let’s be honest now, bloody turned on. He just couldn’t stop thinking of how wicked that sliver of Lycra had felt between his fingertips. Or how good the diamante string would look against its owner’s bottom.

Down, boy.

This is wholly inappropriate. It’s not the time or place and—

He felt a sudden stab, an acid jab in his stomach, and took a deep breath. Not now, he pleaded with himself. It’s a happy day, Doctor Carew, let’s keep it that way.

 

 

Squashing onto the end of a pew next to her best friend, Su Sharma, Keira glanced down at her shoes. The heels already had grass and mud clinging to them, and she was sure she could feel a blister erupting on her big toe. “Great,” groaned Keira under her breath. A blister was just what you wanted when you’d got a fieldtrip with a class of nine-year-olds on Monday morning.

She also felt decidedly underdressed and leaned closer to Su’s ear. “You know, I really wish I’d worn more dress.”

“Rubbish, hon. You needed a boost, a touch of glamour…especially after the year you’ve had,” hissed back Su.

Keira knew Su meant well, but it was going to take more than a quick haircut and a low-cut dress to haul her fragile self-esteem off the floor. Worse, this was threatening to be one of those “moments”. The ones when she was in serious danger of feeling sorry for herself, which was pathetic. Keira tried never to feel sorry for herself. She’d thought she was strong—she was strong, growing up without a dad, having to support her mum—but when it came to what Alex had done, it had been hard not to crumple into a heap and just howl at times. He’d managed to smash through her defences like a bulldozer, and she wasn’t sure she’d picked up the pieces yet.

“Uh-oh, it’s him,” murmured Su.

Keira stopped fumbling in her bag for a tissue. “Him who?”

“Posh Tom. The guy Carrie was telling us about at the hen party. You must remember.”

Looking up, Keira saw a tall, broad-shouldered figure taking his place beside the groom. Thick dark hair crinkled softly at the nape of his neck, his tan contrasting with the stark white of his wing-collar shirt. Even from behind, she recognised him.

It was the thong-snatcher.

Her heart thumped. “I’d have remembered Carrie mentioning someone like that.”

“Maybe you were at the bar or trying to see if hunky Carlos had arrived.”

Keira smiled to herself. Carlos, the stripping “fireman” booked for Carrie’s hen night, had warmed everyone up with his routine, especially Carrie. Carlos hadn’t done a lot for Keira. She didn’t go a bundle on fake-tanned blonds with thongs even smaller than hers.

But as for Tom… She shot a discreet glance in his direction as he tapped the pocket of his jacket and nodded at the groom. Hmm, thought Keira, he was checking if he’d got the wedding rings, by the look of it. One thing was for sure, he definitely wasn’t going to lose anything today.

“Quite cute, isn’t he? If you’re available, that is.” Su twisted her engagement ring just to show she wasn’t.

“Cute’s not the word I’d have used. If you ask me he’s…he’s a bit”—Keira pretended to study her order of service—“scary’s the word that comes to mind…”

“How do you know? You’ve never even met the guy.”

Maybe it was better not to tell Su about the thong, she decided, especially not if she wanted to avoid it being used in evidence against her on every girls’ night out for the next twenty years.

“I just do. Now, shhh. Carrie’s coming.”

As the church organ boomed out, Keira teetered to her feet and risked another glance at Tom. Her look was not quite sneaky enough this time, as he chose the moment to turn round and reach for his service sheet. He glanced at her and nodded politely. It wasn’t exactly a smiley gaze, but it wasn’t unpleasant, either—just intense and unflinching, thought Keira. Either that or he’d forgotten to put in his contacts.

He was giving the groom a pat on the back now, in that embarrassed, blokey way men use to show affection that they’d rather die than admit to. The organ was rising to a crescendo as she dug her nails in her palm. She couldn’t help thinking, for a moment, of what might have been. If she could have been that happy with Alex. If he had loved her enough to meet her halfway. If he hadn’t…

“Carrie looks amazing,” whispered Su as the bride swept past on her father’s arm.

“Yes, she does.” She bit her lip, wincing at the sharp pang. It did the trick. That scary feeling of being full to the brim, of being just on the very edge, had passed, and now all she had to do was get through the ceremony without her mascara running.

It was too many hours later at the reception that she finally got to ditch the shoes and scrunch up her toes in the velvety pile of the hotel carpet. What she’d seen of Tom Carew had been at a distance as he organised photographs after the ceremony, made small talk with people he’d never met and gave a speech that had taken her aback by its warmth. One look at Matt’s and Carrie’s beaming faces had told her how much they appreciated it.

Keira lifted a hand and waved. Carrie was hobbling over, the train of her wedding gown draped over one arm.

Keira hugged her warmly. “Carrie, you look sensational.”

“Thanks,” said Carrie, giggling. “You look very nice too. That’s what Matt’s Uncle Lionel says anyway, though I think ‘fit’ was the word he used.”

Keira pulled a face. “That’s just what I need—a geriatric stalker. You’ll have to get me his phone number at the rest home. Come on, give us a twirl.”

“Oh, okay, then. If you absolutely insist.”

“I do.”

A fortune in silk and beading rustled and sparkled as Carrie spun round. Keira felt a rush of pleasure. No matter what had happened to her, she couldn’t be cynical for long. It just wasn’t her style, and Carrie did look absolutely gorgeous. Gorgeous and happy. She smiled. “It’s a beautiful dress, Mrs. Landor. Shame about the groom.”

“Mrs. Landor. Oh gosh, that makes me feel like a Victorian matriarch,” said Carrie, grinning. “As for Matt, someone had to take him on.” She paused for a moment, turning towards the bar. “Oh, but Keira, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

Keira glanced over her shoulders and felt her heart drop twenty floors. Bearing down on them were the groom, Matt Landor, and Tom Carew. Worse, Carrie was up to something, and you didn’t have to be a genius to work out what.

“Keira. This is Tom. The Honourable Doctor Thomas Edmund Jasper Carew, actually. He and Matt have been working together for Volunteers Abroad, the medical charity.”

Surely not… Honourable? A doctor? Keira wanted to curl up and die. She’d dropped her pants in front of a lord. Well, virtually a lord.

“Dishonourable, more like.” Matt laughed, slapping Tom on the back.

Tom’s mouth twitched in embarrassment. Well, thought Keira, that made two of them.

“And this, Tom darling, is Ms. Keira Grayson, a friend from school.”

Carrie’s voice was a little too high and excited, which meant she’d spotted a matchmaking opportunity and was going to make the most of it. It hadn’t taken her friend long to turn into Mrs. Bennet

Keira felt the blood rushing to her face as Tom offered his hand. “Pleased to meet you. Do I need to curtsey?”

His eyes glinted. “Only if you feel the need.”

His fingers were every bit as strong as she’d remembered from the churchyard, and in the dim light of the hotel bar, the scars were barely visible unless you were looking for them. Don’t stare, she’d have told her pupils; it’s rude.

“Actually, we’ve already met,” he said, gazing down at her with a wicked gleam in his eye.

Now why wasn’t there a convenient chasm around when you wanted one? A nice big pit you could disappear into completely. Please don’t tell them about the pants, she pleaded silently.

“We bumped into each other before the ceremony.”

Her insides began to liquefy.

“Keira mislaid something from her bag, and I picked it up.”

Was that strangled sound really coming from her?

“Absolutely.” He looked directly into her eyes as she held her breath. “I found her mobile from the church steps.”

The tension ebbed away. Her shoulders slumped. It was all she could do to keep from letting out a cry of relief.

Carrie beamed. “Wasn’t that nice of Tom?”

“Very…noble,” Keira muttered through gritted teeth, still feeling the warm cradling of his palm around her fingers.

“Tom’s a GP at the health centre,” offered Carrie.

Keira shot him a hard stare. “Really?”

Now just what was an aristocrat doing working in the local NHS clinic? It just didn’t figure. But then, Tom Carew was full of surprises.

“So you’re a teacher?” he asked.

She just couldn’t resist it. Sorry, but it had to be done. He’d enjoyed himself at her expense once too often today.

She raised her glass to him. “Well observed.”

He gave a mock bow in return. “A teacher and a comedian. It must be my lucky day.”

Carrie gathered up her train. “We must go. My new in-laws await. Don’t forget to ask Tom to tell you about his work in Papua. It’s fascinating.”

Carrie offered her cheek to be kissed, and Tom duly obliged, brushing her face with his lips and giving a bone-melting smile. It brought brightness to his eyes, a softening of his expression that made him look… The only way of describing it was “at home”. Yes, that was it. Comfortable, rather than edgy and uptight.

“Fancy a pint, mate?” asked Matt.

“No, he doesn’t,” said Carrie firmly, laying a hand on her new husband’s arm.

“You go ahead,” said Tom. “I’ll join you in a moment.”

Keira waved her hand as Carrie dragged Matt off, cringing inside. Why did brides try to fix you up? As if they could somehow inject you with a dose of their happiness and good fortune. Well, fairy tales didn’t happen, especially not to the likes of her, and definitely not with minor aristocracy.

She couldn’t help glancing down at her bare toes. What must Tom think of her? No shoes, grubby feet, and he already knew—or thought he knew—what kind of underwear she wore. Well, she thought, two could play at that game, and she’d have bet fifty quid he’d got silk boxers on. They’d be black, of course, and clinging tightly to the contours of his firm backside. Suddenly, the urge to press her legs together was overwhelming. Fire shot through her as the image blew her brain. Tom, slipping his shorts over his thighs, the silk slithering over the powerful muscles she knew lay underneath.

“Can I get you some champagne?” he asked.

“Um. Oh yes. Yes, please.” So he was staying, then. He was probably just being polite.

He called to a passing waiter, completely oblivious that he’d turned her mind to mush. “Could we have some champagne, please?”

The waiter held out a silver tray. “Of course, sir.”

He was offering her a crystal flute, holding it by the stem to keep the wine chilled.

“So, you’re working as a GP at the health centre?” she asked, taking the glass carefully from his scarred hands. A cold bead of condensation slid down the stem and onto her fingertips.

“That’s right,” said Tom, helping himself to an orange juice.

Keira took a gulp of her wine. “Are you staying long in the city?”

“Not if I can possibly help it.”

She was momentarily floored. She hadn’t expected him to be rude; hadn’t seemed his style. She sipped her drink delicately and tried to keep her voice even, giving him another chance. “Is it that bad being back in London?”

“No, it isn’t. Look, I’m sorry. I was rather rude just then.”

“Yes, you were. In fact, if you were in my class, I’d really have to send you to the naughty corner,” said Keira in between unwisely large gulps of wine.

Tom raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure the naughty corner is politically incorrect these days,” he said.

Keira downed another large mouthful. “It is, but I think I could reinstate it, especially for you.”

He’d done it again. Made her breasts prickle against the lace of her bra. She couldn’t get the image out of her mind. The one that had Tom stripped naked and standing in front of her desk with a half smile on his lips, waiting for her command… What on earth had they put in this champagne?

His expression was deadpan. “Okay. I have apologised, but I can go to the naughty corner if you really want me to.”

She shifted uncomfortably, trying not to imagine Tom pinning her to the wall of the stationery cupboard, lifting up her skirt, his hands tugging down her knickers, his mouth settling over her nipples.

“That won’t be necessary,” she said, sounding prim as triple X-rated fantasies rampaged through her mind.

He was a doctor. She might have known he had an understanding of when people weren’t telling him the truth. His face softened. “I should explain. What I meant to say is, it’s not that I have an allergy to the locals. It’s just that I’m only here for a few months. I’m working a short-term contract at the health centre; then I’m going back to Papua. This situation is merely temporary.”

“Oh.”

Temporary. Tom had just stood her under the power jet and turned the setting to “icy blast”. She might have known that meeting him was too good to be true.

“That will be a loss to your patients.”

He set his empty glass down on the table. “I’m sure they can’t wait to see the back of me. I don’t think I’m what they were expecting.”

The silence was thick, filled only by the sharp scent of Tom’s aftershave and her heart, beating slow and hard. “You made a nice speech,” she said, trying to shift the conversation to more neutral territory. “It was very…sincere.”

“Thank you.”

“Short too.”

“Now you’re teasing me, Ms. Grayson.” His eyes sparkled sexily, making the blood beat in her head.

She gulped down another mouthful of fizz, hoping it would stop her feeling all shivery inside. “I’m not teasing you,” she said as bubbles burst on her tongue. “It really was very good. I mean it was witty and funny, but you managed to avoid any jokes about ex-lovers or tales about the groom dropping his trousers on a boozy night out.”

“You know,” said Tom, “I don’t actually recall Matt losing his trousers. Then again, there was plenty of stuff I left out. Theft of traffic signs comes to mind, and there was an incident with a sheep… I didn’t think it would go down well with his new in-laws.”

“You’re the soul of discretion, then?”

“It is rather useful if you’re a doctor. You have to keep a lot of secrets, Keira, be they great big ones or little tiny ones.”

She felt her cheeks warming again as he gave her that look that felt like an MRI of her innermost thoughts.

“So you’ve been working in the rainforest. Carrie said it was in Papua New Guinea, at the station where Matt used to be a doctor?”

“That’s right.”

He beckoned to the waiter again and selected an orange juice from the tray. Keira shook her head. No way did she need any more stimulants.

“How come you got to do that?” she asked. “Was it an exchange visit?”

“Absolutely. It was with a medical charity. They send health professionals to places where they’re most needed.”

“Papua sounds incredible. All those mountains, the jungle, the tribal culture.”

He lifted his eyebrows. “Most people in the UK have never heard of it.”

She laughed at his assumption. “There’s no need to sound quite so surprised. I am a teacher. We’ve been studying Melanesia with the children.”

Then he paused and looked hard at her. “Really? And what have you discovered?”

“Well—”

His dark eyes sparkled in the half-light. “I can see I’m going to have to be firm with you, Ms. Grayson, or I’ll never get anything out of you. Come on!”

“But…”

“No buts. You’re coming with me.”

He dumped his glass on a table and grabbed her free hand in his. Not gently, either, but firmly, his hand warm and confident around hers. Her head whirled like disco lights, and her heart thudded out a bass line. All because The Honourable Dr. Tom Carew was dragging her towards a darkened room, her body was zinging like she’d been rubbed down with a hot chili, and she didn’t want to do a damn thing about it.