There was a lamp burning in the corner of the room, giving a soft, golden light to the proceedings. When he eased back from kissing her, he saw that her face was softly tinged with the pink of arousal, her lips swollen, her breathing ragged.

Need and want warred with care and consideration, so he was strung tight with conflicting desires as she began undoing the buttons of his shirt with fingers that quivered. Damn, he wished he’d sprinted over here in nothing but a robe. Would have saved him an agony, an eternity told out in buttonholes.

After an eon, she got the last one undone and smoothed the shirt over his shoulders and down his arms, as though she were afraid of wrinkling it. But her touch was soft and sure. And she did the maximum touching of his bare skin.

He reached for the hem of her nightgown-silk and lace, not flannel-and brought it slowly up, unwrapping her like a gift. Her skin was post-summer golden. She was long, a little curvier than her clothes had led him to believe, her breasts small and high. “Beautiful,” he murmured as he kissed her again.

She undid his belt, opened his fly, and then surprised the hell out of him when she reached inside and cupped him with her long-fingered, capable writer’s hands.

He heard his breath draw in on a sharp hiss, felt the curve of her lips beneath his own. She was pleased with herself for shocking him, he could tell. He nudged against her hand a little, letting her explore to her heart’s content until he felt things getting a little too warm, then he backed away, toed off his trainers, stripped off his jeans and socks, and came back against her, rubbing her naked body with his.

She was so soft, her skin fine and paler, even with her light tan, than his darker, hairier body. He probably looked like some great hairy beast to her. He must take extra care to go slowly, gently.

Oh, she liked them hairy, she thought. Loved the rasp of his hair-roughened chest against her sensitive breasts. Loved his darkness against her paler skin.

His mouth was everywhere, it seemed, nipping at her, eating her up.

The bed was a mess from where she’d tossed and turned in it for hours, trying fruitlessly to convince herself she wasn’t scared. That the villain she’d so brilliantly created was in fact that, a product of her feverish and far too fertile imagination. That he wasn’t at this moment creeping up the stairs to stab her in the heart as he had his last victim. But it was no good. As she’d written the victim, she’d become her. Of course, only through feeling terror could she portray it for the reader. But imagining herself murdered took its toll. Why couldn’t she have found her niche writing fairy tales for toddlers?

When Arthur wrapped his arms around her she felt comforted, not confined; when he pushed her to her back on the rumpled bed her skin trembled with excitement, not fear.

He spread her legs and she felt herself burn with need. Oh, God. He was so big and gorgeous and it had been so long. He played with her, kissing her all over, touching her with hands that were as tough and leathery as she’d guessed, but that were surprisingly gently and sure.

He’d brought condoms, thank God, since she hadn’t packed any.

When he fitted himself to her, she felt that moment, that eternal moment, when he hovered on the brink. Not yet lovers, soon to be, and then, impatient of waiting, she grabbed his hips and pulled him into her.

He spread her, filled her. And when their passion grew, he stabbed into her, her gorgeous, sexy villain, thrusting again and again. Even though she cried out, it wasn’t a dreadful end she experienced, but something new and very exciting.

When at last they slept, the night was at its thickest and darkest, but she felt warm, comforted, and very, very safe.

The sound of rain drumming softly on the roof woke her. Meg’s eyes opened slowly and her whole body reveled in the luxury of a good, deep sleep. And she was warm, so warm.

Gradually, she came to full consciousness and became aware of the naked body pressed against hers, the soft puff of Arthur’s breath against her hair, and that his big, workingman’s hand was curled possessively round her breast.

She needed to pee, she needed coffee, she wondered what time it was. But still she didn’t move. She remembered the way they’d made love last night, learning each other, exploring, touching, tasting.

The wind kicked up, and the rain drumming on the roof was joined in chorus by the drops slashing against the windowpane. What a great day to stay in bed and be lazy. They could make love all day, eat the food she’d bought-thank heavens-only two days ago. He could build them a fire. They’d be as cozy as alpine skiers nestled up at the lodge after a hard day on the slopes, with their roaring fire and their glühwein. Did Arthur ski? She knew so little about him. Except that he was the most exciting lover she’d ever known.

She turned to look at him, his dangerous face softened by sleep. A coarse black beard already shadowed his jaw.

She’d make him breakfast, she decided. And she’d give herself a whole day off. Sliding out carefully, she padded to the bathroom. She’d shower, get the coffee on, and make her new lover breakfast. How long had it been since she’d been this excited about a man? She pondered the question as she stepped into the shower and decided that she’d never in her life been this excited about a man.

Arthur woke to the sound of water. At first he thought it was rain, then realized it was the shower. He glanced over at Meg’s spot, but of course it was empty.

He blinked at the clock. Ten. They’d had a good lie-in, then. But after the night they’d spent, their bodies had needed the rest. He stretched, enjoying the pull in all his muscles, and the slight scent of Meg that clung to the bedclothes.

He didn’t really need to be at the pub until evening. Joe was covering the lunch shift. Maybe he’d take Meg out for a good old English fry-up. Bangers and beans, eggs, fried tomato and fried bread, with lashings of hot tea. Then he’d bring her back here or take her to his place…

Except that she’d been very frank about her need to work. Sure, she’d been the one to ring him up in the wee hours, but still, if he wanted to see her more than when she was shit-scared in the middle of the night, he’d have to show her he was sensitive to her need to work.

Reluctantly, he rolled out of bed, yawning, and shoved himself back into his clothes.

He was dying for a pee, but he’d wait until he got home, not sure how she’d feel about him barging into her bathroom to relieve himself on such short acquaintance. Of course, he’d been inside her body and knew the taste of her intimate juices, but women were incomprehensible about the bathroom.

She seemed like a closed-door type. The shower had stopped, so he banged on the door in passing.

“I’ll be off then, love,” he said. He wished he could join her in the shower, or take her back to bed all damp and smelling of soap, but she’d likely have his hide if he distracted her from her precious book.

Her voice sounded odd. “You’re going?”

“Yeah. Hope the work goes well today.”

“Thank you.” She didn’t open the door, so he’d likely been right.

“Well, cheerio.”

“Yes. ’Bye.”

He whistled as he ran down the stairs. He ought to do some tidying up at home, and maybe some shopping. And he’d definitely change his sheets. After all, nobody could work all day and night every day. Not even Meg.

Because he was preoccupied he did a very stupid thing. He walked right out of Meg’s front door without having the bloody sense to have a doss out the window first, which is how he all but bashed straight into Maxine.

He recoiled at the sight of her, feeling as stupid as though he’d been caught by his nanny doing something naughty. Her knowing smile didn’t help.