An Exception to His Rule(60)

                His hair was hanging in his eyes. All he wore were shorts but he could hardly have been more magnificent as he picked up the champagne bottle, Harriet thought as she caught her breath. His shoulders were broad, his chest was sprinkled with dark hair, his diaphragm was flat, his legs long and strong. He was beautiful, she thought with a pang. How was she ever going to forget him...?

                ‘In the circumstances,’ he said as he unwound the wire around the cork, ‘there is not only you and me to celebrate, there’s Charles Walker Wyatt. Wherever you are, Charlie, may you be safe and sound!’

                He popped the cork and poured the two glasses. He handed one to Harriet and clinked his against hers. ‘Charlie,’ he said.

                ‘Charlie,’ Harriet echoed. ‘May you be safe and sound!’

                His phone buzzed. He grabbed it and studied the screen, and breathed a huge sigh of relief as he read the message.

                ‘They’ve found him. They’ve found the site where it came down and the crew are all alive. Charlie has a broken arm and leg and a few gashes but otherwise he’s mostly OK.’

                Harriet flew off the settee into his arms. ‘Oh, thank heavens! Do you think they heard us, whoever is in charge of these things up there? I mean in heaven as well as North Western Australia? I think they must have!’

                He laughed down at her. ‘You could be right.’

                ‘Where is he?’

                ‘They’re taking him to Darwin Hospital. They’ll keep him there for a few weeks. Where’s your glass?’

                ‘Here.’ She went to retrieve it from the end table beside the settee and he held it steady in her hand while he refilled it.

                Then he looked down at her and raised an eyebrow. ‘So—I’m over and done with, am I?’

                Harriet looked down at herself. ‘Not at all,’ she denied. ‘I just felt a little—undressed.’ She grimaced. ‘Not that I’m particularly—overdressed at the moment.’

                ‘Stay like that,’ he advised. ‘Because I’ll be right back. I’ll just pass on the news to Isabel.’

                * * *

                She was sitting on the settee with the sheet covering her legs when he came back. He brought his glass over and sat down beside her. He dropped his arm over her shoulders.

                ‘Cheers!’

                ‘Cheers!’ She sipped her champagne then laid her head on his shoulder. ‘Any particular person in mind this time?’

                ‘Yes.’ He drew his hand through her hair. ‘Us.’

                ‘Well, we’ve both got brothers on the mend, so yes—to us!’

                ‘True,’ he agreed, ‘but I meant a toast to what just happened here on this settee between us and the hope that it may continue to happen for us, not necessarily in a study or a haystack—a bed would do,’ he said with a glint of humour. ‘In other words, when will you marry me, Harriet Livingstone?’

                Harriet, in the echoing silence that followed his words, asked herself why she should not have expected this. Because he’d told her he could never overcome the cynicism he’d been left with after the debacle of his first marriage?