Even the thought of it had her back in brisk, efficient neurologist mode. And well-mannered guest. 'I should help you wash up before I go.'
'Give me a kiss goodnight, and I'll let you off,' Jake said.
Lord, he was tempting. Lying there in the bed they'd just rumpled between them, his dark hair messy and his dark eyes laughing and his mouth looking so kissable. And was that a hickey on his collar-bone? Had she done that?
Oh, Lord.
She couldn't remember ever losing her control like that before. The few times she'd had sex, it had been all right—but not like tonight. Not that wild, fizzing, sweet feeling through her veins. Just looking at him sent shivers of desire running through her, as her body remembered how the way he'd touched her, the way she'd touched him, drove her crazy.
But tonight she was going to be sensible. She'd lost her head, yes, but she'd found it again. And now she was going to go home and study.
'Goodnight,' she said quietly, and leaned over to kiss him.
It was meant to be one little kiss. A gentle brush of her mouth against his. But he caught her lower lip between his, nibbled it, and Vicky almost ripped off her clothes and crawled back between the sheets with him then and there. With an effort, she pulled herself away. 'I have to go home.' Even though half of her didn't want to.
'I know.'
'I'll...see you tomorrow.'
'At work.' He smiled. 'Don't worry. Everything's going to be fine. This is just between you and me. Nothing's going to change between us on the ward.'
And that, Vicky thought wryly, was almost what she was afraid of.
CHAPTER NINE
Anyone who saw Jake smile at Vicky the next morning would assume he was merely greeting a colleague. He was completely professional. Nobody would ever believe that less than twelve hours ago she'd been in his bed, making incoherent noises of pleasure as he'd brought her to climax.
The memory made her blush. She just hoped that nobody had noticed it through her make-up. But nobody, even their sharp-eyed colleague Gemma, asked any awkward questions. So maybe, just maybe, this was going to work out all right.
Maybe she wouldn't have to give him up.
When she came off shift, there was a message on her mobile phone. 7.30? She texted back yes and headed for the supermarket. He'd cooked for her last night. Tonight, she was going to show him what she could do.
Jake paid the taxi driver and stood by the steps to Vicky's flat. It was crazy, feeling this nervous. But he'd told her the truth last night. The Honourable Victoria Radley was just a little bit intimidating. Especially as she lived in a posh mansion flat in the most fashionable part of Chelsea.
Stupid. He'd picked her up from here the day he'd taken her to the seaside. He shouldn't feel so out of place. And maybe he'd feel better if he knew who she would be tonight. The Honourable Victoria? Professional, cool Dr Radley? Or would she be his warm and sensual Bad Girl Vicky?
There was only one way to find out.
He pressed the buzzer and waited.
'Jake?' She sounded slightly breathless. As nervous as he was, maybe?
'Uh-huh.'
'Come up. I'm on the top floor.'
He pushed the front door open after he heard the buzz, and took the stairs up to the fifth floor. She was waiting for him at the top.
The Honourable Victoria. In another little black dress—she probably had dozens of designer dresses in her wardrobe—wearing a string of matched pearls, and with her hair piled on top of her head. Cool, beautiful and remote. The kind of woman you'd give diamonds and orchids.
What he'd brought her was entirely out of place.
It slammed straight into his gut. So much for his bravado on her doorstep. Now he was a real fish out of water, gasping for his natural element. He didn't belong here, any more than the Honourable Victoria belonged in his tiny flat.
And then he noticed Vicky's hands. Her fingers were linked together and her knuckles were white. She was as nervous as he was.
So everything was going to be all right. They'd get through this—together.
He smiled, walked up to her and kissed her cheek. 'Hello, beautiful.'
'Hi.'
'I wish I'd brought you orchids now.' He handed her the huge bunch of bright pink gerberas.
She smiled. 'I hate orchids. And I love these. Thank you. Come in. Can I get you a drink?'
'Thank you. Whatever you're having.' He followed her through into the flat. The carpet was the type you actually sank into, the pictures on the walls were original watercol-ours, and the furniture had the kind of patina that only came with age. Furniture that had probably been in her family for generations. Her high-ranking, posh family.
Way, way, way out of his league.
Even the wineglass she handed him was posh. Lead crystal, so thin and fine he was almost scared to take a sip in case the glass shattered. His confidence deserted him again and he watched in silence as she arranged the ger-beras on her kitchen window-sill—in a deceptively simple vase that had probably cost a fortune.