And yet … She gave another sigh. And yet, something was lacking between them. She knew very well what it was: that vital ingredient. She had been honest with Tom from the beginning, telling him the truth about how she felt. She was not in love with him, even though she liked him so much, and to Pippa it was vitally important to love the man you married.
He had said he understood, accepted that, but he believed she would begin to love him once she was his wife, once they shared their lives fully, and maybe she would. She hoped so.
The car put on more speed. They were coming closer to the little cottage where Pippa lived. Tom came very fast round the final corner just as another car came out of a narrow lane to the right.
Pippa gasped, sitting upright, as tyres screamed on the road surface. Tom put on his brakes and tried to spin the wheel to avoid the other car, but it was too late. The cars hit each other with a violence that threw Pippa forward; she would have gone through the windscreen if her seat belt had not held, and if the airbag had not ballooned outward to cushion her fall.
For a moment or so she was too shocked to move or think, could not remember what had happened. Then she dazedly began to fight her way out of the billowing folds of the airbag, to sit up and take stock. At her side, Tom had also been cushioned by his own airbag, but he had already recovered enough to undo his seat belt and open the car door.
'Are you okay?' she shakily asked him.
'I think so. Stay here,' he muttered.
The other car, a long red sports car, was skewed across the road, its nose buried in the hedge.
Had the driver been killed? she anxiously wondered as Tom began unsteadily to walk towards it, but then the sports car's door opened and the driver emerged, a tall, lean man, whose immaculate evening dress seemed incongruous in this situation.
Pippa stared, her body pulsing with shock, her heart beating too fast inside her ribcage, her skin cold, her limbs trembling.
The two men faced each other, inches apart. 'Are you hurt?' Tom asked.
A deep voice answered curtly. 'Just cuts and bruises. No thanks to you. What the hell were you doing, driving at that speed?'
Defensively, Tom countered, 'Why did you pull out like that, without looking?'
'I stopped to make the turn. When I looked left the road was empty. I started to come out, then you appeared at about seventy miles an hour. I had no chance to avoid you.'
It was true. Tom had been driving too fast; he should have slowed as he approached the junction. That was what he normally did, but at this time of night he hadn't been expecting to see another vehicle turning out It was pure luck that the accident hadn't had worse consequences. They could all have been killed.
Tom didn't argue; no doubt he realised he wasn't entirely blameless. He was usually such a careful driver, it wasn't in character for him to take risks.
Glancing past the other man at his red car, he asked, 'Is there much damage to your car?'
They stood with their backs to Pippa, who huddled down inside her black velvet evening jacket, shivering, but not taking her eyes from them. Tom bent down to peer at the sports car's long, sleek bonnet.
'I'm afraid there are a lot of scratches on here.'
'Yes,' the other man agreed angrily. 'It will cost the earth to have the paintwork renewed and the car is new. What about your car? Is that badly damaged?'
He was over six foot, with a long, supple back and even longer legs. As he half turned to glance back at Tom's car she saw his strong features: hard, sardonic, an imperious nose, a generously cut mouth, heavy-lidded eyes, and the way his dark hair curled behind his ears.
He glanced at Tom's car. 'I see you have a passenger,' he murmured 'An eye witness. A woman? I hope she'll tell the truth if we have to go to court.'
'Don't be offensive,' Tom snapped. 'I admit, I was driving too fast, but I was on the main road. You were coming out of a small lane; you should have waited, let me go past I'll pay your garage bills; there will be no need to involve the police, or go to court. But if we did my fiancée would tell the absolute truth; I wouldn't ask her to lie.'
The other laughed curtly, his manner making it plain that he did not believe that.
Tom was bristling. Pippa saw his hands screw into fists, but he kept his voice level. 'We had better exchange addresses and the names of our insurance companies. By the way, I work for mine, so you need have no fear they won't pay.'
He turned away to walk back towards his own car. 'I'll get my documents.'
The other man leaned into the red sports car and emerged again with some papers in his hand. He began to follow Tom and Pippa turned her head away, face hidden by the high collar of her velvet jacket.
She sensed the other driver bending to stare at her and closed her eyes, hoping he couldn't see her clearly.
'Is your companion hurt?' he asked Tom, who was looking into his glove compartment for his documents.
'What?' Tom looked at her. 'Are you okay, Pippa?'
'Just tired,' she whispered huskily, not turning or lifting her head.
But she still felt the probe of the other man's grey eyes and her heart beat like a metronome.
'I'll get you home as soon as I can, darling,' Tom murmured, brushing a strand of her rich chestnut hair back from her forehead.
He turned towards the other driver, proffering the documents he held. The two of them used the bonnet of Tom's car to write down the information each needed. Still keeping her eyes almost closed, Pippa watched through her lashes, breathing unsteadily, hearing the deep, cool voice talking, hoping he wouldn't ask for her address or demand she speak to him.
If she could only get away, escape; she felt doom threaten her, a fate she was not strong enough to withstand. Hurry up, Tom, she thought. Don't stand there talking.
She knew that soothing voice he was using; he was trying to calm the other driver, placate him, talk him round. It was a technique Tom used in business every day; he was an expert at persuading people to do what he wanted.
They worked for an insurance company in central London. Tom was one of the executives who dealt with large claims. He needed all his tact, diplomacy, cool patience, to negotiate with claimants and lawyers. He was doing that now.
Stop talking, Tom, she thought desperately. Get back in the car and let's drive away. Take me home. Take me safely home.
The two men shook hands-a typically polite English gesture. They had come to an agreement.
'Goodnight, Mr Harding. I'll be in touch.'
The other murmured a reply, less clearly, shot another look into the car. Pippa tensed in dread, but he turned to walk away and she could relax a little, letting out her held breath. He was going.
Tom got back into the car beside her, groaning.
'Well, that was bad luck. My own stupid fault, driving too fast? He started the engine; it flared, raced, while he listened to it anxiously. 'Let's hope there isn't too much damage.'
'Did you notice much?
'One wing has crumpled, that will have to be replaced, and my door is badly scratched, but it could have been worse.'
'We could have been killed,' she agreed, her eyes fixed on the man sliding his long legs back into the red sports car. The night wind lifted his thick, silky black hair, winnowing it like caressing fingers.
Yes, it could have been much worse; it could have been disastrous. Her entire body was limp, as if she had barely escaped with her life. All the adrenalin had drained out of her. She yearned to be alone, in her cottage, to think, to recover from this.
Tom parked outside her cottage a few moments later and turned to kiss her. 'Goodnight, darling. I'm sorry about the accident.' He looked down at her, frowning. 'You're very quiet-are you angry with me?'
'No, of course not I'm very tired, that's all.'
'And having an accident didn't help,' he wryly said, grimacing. 'Sleep well, anyway. I'll see you on Monday.'
She got out of the car, waved to him as he drove off, and let herself into her cottage, switching on the light. Before she could shut the door again a furry black shape brushed past her and ran gracefully through the hall into the kitchen.
Groaning, she closed the door and followed. 'You're a nuisance, you stupid cat. I want to go to bed, not hang around here feeding you.'
Samson ignored her, nose in the air, his elegant black body seated pointedly beside the fridge. He knew there were the remains of a chicken in there, left over from the dinner she had cooked for Tom last night, and although he would eat tinned cat food if nothing else was available his favourite food was roast chicken.
Pippa knew she would get no peace until she had given in, so she got out the chicken and sliced some into Samson's bowl, added crushed biscuit, poured fresh water into another bowl, and put them down. The cat immediately started eating.