The General's Virgin Slave (15 page)

"I'm sure." She grimaced. "And it's
not called explosion, you know. It's a ruptured
appendix."

"Now I know you're feeling better,
since you've started correcting me again." Chrissy rolled her eyes,
stuffing a caramel into her mouth.

Amanda managed a smile and her gaze
traveled slowly to the flowers in the vase by her bed. Orange
chrysanthemums and dark lush red dahlias. Really gorgeous. And all
those cards, crowded on so that some of them had fallen over and
dropped to the floor. It was nice to know so many people cared
enough to send something. Like Chrissy, she would never have
expected it.

But suddenly she was overwhelmed. Hot
tears flooded her vision.

"What's the matter?" Chrissy exclaimed
in alarm, probably because it was so rare to see Amanda Adams
cry.

"Nothing." She took the tissue her
friend offered. "I don't know. Must be the meds."

I will love him
forever.

Oh god, it had all been in her head.
All of it. All of him. Yet it had been so real.

Her heart ached with the
loss.

All her life she'd been searching for
a man like him and in the end, out of desperation, her imagination
had made him up, had sent him to save her.

She sank her face into the tissue and
sobbed, while Chrissy looked on in helpless horror.

* * * *

The doctor released her on Tuesday
morning and Chrissy drove to pick her up. Amanda was amused to see
that the car had been given a hasty clean up, inside and out,
specially for the occasion. There was even a new air freshener
hanging from the rearview mirror.

"I hope you didn't go to all this
trouble just for me," she muttered wryly.

"Well, yes. And no."

She looked at her friend who was
wearing a suspicious amount of mascara and some new earrings.
"What's going on?"

"Oh, I have to pick up a couple of the
new exchange students from the train station. Professor Collet was
supposed to do it but something came up, so I said I would. You
don't mind, do you? Besides you're good at languages and you can
probably understand them."

Amanda sighed. "Killing two birds with
one stone. Pick my half dead carcass up and two stray French men
while you're at it. Why should I mind?" They'd be awkward, sweaty,
chatty boys probably. Nervous and bouncy. Chrissy would only
volunteer to help out if she already knew they were
good-looking.

She stared out at raindrops hitting
the car window. It was a grim, gray October day, but it should have
been spring. She should have wildflowers in her hair and be waiting
for Marcus in that big bed, staring out at the stars in the velvet
sky.

Amanda closed her eyes. He'd been so
real, so full of energy. And this grief she felt was not fake, not
make-believe. No more than the love that wrenched at her
insides.

Nothing would ever be the same for her
again. How cruel life was, to put him into her mind, make her love
him, and then drag her back to this cold, miserable, dreary
reality.

"They're not French anyway," Chrissy
was saying as she swung her car across the lane to draw up along
the curb outside the station. Two men standing there, huddled in
big coats, dodged hastily aside, just missing the muddy splatters
as the front wheel tore through a big fat puddle. "They're Greek, I
think." She pressed her horn and waved through the
windscreen.

"I don't know any Greek," Amanda
muttered peevishly.

"Or Italian or something. I
forget."

The back door of the car opened and a
merry face looked in. "You are the girls of St. Michael's,
eh?"

"Yes, we are," Chrissy called out.
"Hang on, I'll open the boot and you can dump your bags in
there."

The second man had evidently had it
with the rain. He dumped his rucksack into the boot and ducked
hastily into the back of Chrissy's car without a word. Wet flecks
of rain hit the back of Amanda's head and he bumped into her seat
as he flung his tall form across the width of the small car. Not a
word. Not even "Hello".

Pretty damn rude.

She glanced in the rear-view
mirror.

Black curly hair. Most of his face was
hidden behind the tall collar of his coat.

Amanda took a deep breath. The car
bounced as Chrissy and the other man struggled to fit all the
luggage in the tiny boot of her Ford Fiesta. Through the wing
mirror she saw an excess of Italian flag patches sewn onto a duffle
bag that was big enough to hide a body.

It might take them a while to fit all
that in.

Well, she'd have to say
something.

"Benvenutti in
Inghilterra."

The man on the back seat looked up,
his black eyes clashing with hers in the rearview mirror. His thin
lips cracked open to mutter a surly, "Hi. I know
English."

Amanda stared. He stared back. "Have
we met before?" she managed in a tight squeak.

"Why?"

Her heart was racing. "You look
really, really familiar."

His eyes narrowed. "I am
Marcus."

Oh. My. Sweet. Jesus.
"Yes, yes you are." Her face flushed hot. Well he had warned
her:
He who lives well lives
twice
. "I mean. I'm Amanda. Amanda Adams."
She reached back to offer her hand. "Pleased to meet
you."

He grabbed her hand and a slow grin
eased cheekily across his face. It was like the sun coming out. His
grip was strong, his palm warm, his fingers... long. What else
would they be? Like the rest of him.

"Miss Amanda Adams." He
winked. "
O...kay
."

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ABOUT THE
AUTHOR

Georgia Fox
has lived in many different places, including a canal boat, but
sadly never in a windmill or a lighthouse. Maybe that's next! She
loves good company, spicy food, thought-provoking erotica and
excellent brandy. She also enjoys pushing the
boundaries.

In her life
she’s done a little bit of everything and somehow lived to tell the
tales.  Except those she's legally bound not to spill - for
now.
She doesn’t believe in
fairies, ghosts, flying saucers or conspiracy
theories.

But she still
believes in love.

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LLC

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