The Perfect Match (3 page)

He had moved to his present house six months earlier. In a prestigious part of town, it was one in a small close of similar properties originally built to house local members of the clergy. Ruth, Jenny's aunt-in-law, lived there, three doors down; several high-ranking executives from the town's largest corporate employer, Aarlston-Becker, owned adjacent properties.

There were those who, Guy suspected even now, felt that such a house was far too grand, far too good, for a mere Cooke, even one like himself who had gone from grammar school to university and from there to all the art capitals of Europe before returning home to set up in business.

He glanced at his watch. He still had another hour before he needed to leave for Charlie Platt's house, but he had a good two hours' worth of paperwork on his desk in front of him, he reminded himself sternly.

Chrissie groaned as she straightened up and her aching back muscles protested. She had spent virtually the whole of her time since arriving in Haslewich cleaning her late uncle's small house, a task she could only relate, in terms of stress levels, to the mythical job of cleansing the Augean stables.

Every racing paper that Charlie had bought during his tenure in the house—and there had been many of them—instead of being thrown away had simply been tossed in an untidy pile on the spare-bedroom floor.

This was the very room that Chrissie had planned to occupy during her hopefully brief stay. And that was just for starters. Letters, bills, in the main unpaid, junk mail, you name it—Uncle Charles had kept it.

Chrissie suspected they must have grave doubts about her at the local supermarket when she had very nearly cleaned them out of their supply of rolls of black plastic refuse sacks.

Her initial idea had been to burn the waste paper on a bonfire in the terraced cottage's small back garden, but she had soon recognised that there was far too much of it for such easy disposal and instead she had been forced to apply to the local authority for their advice and assistance on its disposal.

This morning, a couple of friendly workmen plus an open lorry had arrived in the street to remove the sacks of paper she had prepared for them.

The cottage was one of a terrace of similar properties built into what had originally been one of the town's boundary walls using, Chrissie suspected, stone 'reclaimed' from the walls themselves and the castle, which had been virtually destroyed during the Civil War.

It could, she admitted judiciously, with a little imagination and an awful lot of determined hard work, be turned into a very attractive home for a single person or a young childless couple.

Several of the other cottages in the street had already undergone or were undergoing this process and the shiny brightness of their painted front doors high-lighted the air of shabby neglect that hallmarked her uncle's cottage.

Now that she had emptied the small second bedroom, she did at least have somewhere to sleep. Her mother would have been grimly approving, no doubt, had she seen the fervour with which she had scrubbed and sanitized both the bathroom and kitchen before allowing herself to use them. She still had her reservations, though, about the wisdom of using the ancient fridge, which had formerly been home to various, thankfully unidentifiable, mouldy pieces of food.

But the worst ordeal of her visit still lay ahead of her and that was her appointment tomorrow with her late uncle's solicitors.

His clothes she had already consigned to another much smaller collection of plastic liners ready for collection by a representative of a local charity.

The house had, as she and her parents had already guessed, revealed no material assets likely to provide enough money to help to settle his debts, with the exception of a rather attractive small yew desk.

When Chrissie had mentioned this item to her mother, she had said instantly that the desk had originally belonged to her grandmother, Chrissie's great grandmother.

'Don't arrange for it to be sold, Chrissie,' she had begged her daughter. 'We'll have it valued instead and I'll buy it from the estate. I asked Charles what had happened to it after Mother died and he said he didn't know.' She had given a small sigh. 'I suppose I ought to have guessed that he'd keep it for himself.

I'm just glad that he didn't actually sell it. I suppose it's too much to hope that he kept Nan's Staffordshire figures, as well?'

'I'm sorry, Mum, but they're definitely not here,'

Chrissie had told her, promising that she would have the desk appraised independently as well as by the dealer she had arranged to come and value the small, and she suspected, mainly worthless bits and pieces she had found round the house.

The desk certainly was a very attractive piece, all the more so now that she had cleaned and polished it; sturdily made it was, at the same time, very prejtily feminine.

Chrissie glanced at her watch. The dealer she had been recommended to contact by her late uncle's solicitors would be here any minute. Once he had checked over and removed the bits and pieces she had placed on one side along with all the cottage's furniture—apart from the desk that was in the front room—she could arrange for the estate agent to view the cottage and put it on the market.

Tiredly she stretched her body but at least she had the satisfaction of knowing that every single nook and cranny of the small house was now clean. She still had the remnants of some of the cobwebs on her person to prove it, she acknowledged ruefully as she caught sight of the small grubby mark on her once pristine white T-shirt.

GUY knocked briefly on the cottage door and then waited. Knowing the way Charlie Platt had lived, he had deliberately changed into a pair of faded, well-worn jeans and an equally faded and now rather close-fitting T-shirt. The days when he had been considered an undersized weakling were now long past. It had caused him a certain amount of wry amusement when he attended antique fairs to be mistaken for one of the helpers brought in to carry the heavier pieces of furniture.

Chrissie heard the knock on the door and went to open it. Guy started to glance at her with brief dis-interest, preparatory to introducing himself, and then looked at her again whilst Chrissie returned his look with the same shocked intensity.

She had heard, of course—who hadn't?—of 'love at first sight' but had always wryly dismissed it as a fairy-tale fantasy.

Surely no one in these modern times could possibly be stricken so instantly, so totally, in the space of less than a minute, or know immediately that
this
was the one, the
only
person with whom they could spend the rest of their lives.

But none of these admirably logical and sensible thoughts came anywhere near entering her head now as she simply stood and returned the intensity of Guy's silent visual contact with her.

Outside in the street, in the rest of the world, people went about their normal daily business, but the two of them were as far removed from that kind of mundanity as it was possible to be, transported to a world of their own where only the two of them existed.

Chrissie could feel her pulse jumping, her heart beating with frantic haste, her breathing growing far too fast and shallow, as she and Guy continued to search one another's face, the recognition between them both instant and compelling.

That he was good-looking and very physically male she had noted automatically when she opened the door, but her reaction to him now went deeper than that, much, much deeper. It encompassed not just his outward appearance, his physical attributes, but his deeper inner self, as well.

It was almost as though there was some psychic, soul-deep bond between them that both of them had instantly recognised and responded to. There could surely be no other reason for the sheer intensity of their shared sense of recognition and awareness, Chrissie reasoned as she mechanically stepped back into the cottage knowing that Guy would follow her in.

Guy couldn't believe what was happening to him.

He knew there was a story within the family that along with the physical genes inherited from their wild Gypsy ancestor, there were those Cookes who also inherited some of his more spiritual and psychic gifts, but
he
had never had any occasion in the past to consider himself one of those so gifted, nor indeed to put very much credence in their existence.

He was far too much a modern twenty-first-century man for that, and yet he was intensely aware of that startling moment of unexpected insight he had experienced when the cottage door opened and he had seen
her
standing there, had known the moment he looked at her that he was confronting his own fate. Somehow he already knew just how that wonderful waterfall of dark red hair would feel slipping through his hands, against his body...how
she
would feel, how she would taste, how she would smell and even how she would look...cry out in the moment of their shared physical coming together. He knew...he knew...

He could hear the blood pulsing in his ears and feel the rapid-fire volley of his heartbeat that sounded like a warning drum roll. He knew as he looked at her that she was
the
woman, the
one
woman, who would make his life-—him—complete. He knew, too, that if he were to stretch out his hand to her now, she would put her own into it and silently follow him; allow him to lead her
...take
her, in every sense of the word, but she was no dependent, naive clinging vine. On the contrary, he recognised that she was an extremely well-grounded and femininely powerful woman.

As he stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind him, he reached out instinctively to touch her face. Immediately Chrissie turned her head and pressed her mouth to the hard palm of his hand.

Guy heard himself groan as he drew her towards him with his other hand. Her body fitted perfectly within his, as he would fit perfectly within hers.

He didn't know which of them was trembling harder as he bent his head and replaced the hard warmth of his palm against her lips with the even harder warmth of his mouth. He only knew that the tiny, agonized sound of delight she made beneath his kiss was echoed a thousandfold deep within his own body.

Chrissie could feel herself trembling violently as she gave herself over not just to Guy's kiss, but to the new role that fate had devised for her. She had never imagined minutes ago when she opened the door to him that she was opening the door to her future. She had never been the kind of woman to rush into any kind of physical intimacy—just the opposite—yet here she was, knowing that no matter how far the intimacy went between the two of them, it could be nowhere near as intense as the silent, emotional bonding they had already shared.

Never had she imagined that she could react like this to a man's touch, to his kiss, that she could want him so immediately and so overwhelmingly, that she could feel the urgent almost violent desire within him to tear aside the barriers of their clothing and know her utterly and completely and to share that desire, to know just how much he ached for the feel of her skin against his, beneath his, and how much she shared and returned that ache.

She could hear him whispering beneath their shared hungry kisses how much he wanted her, how much he had longed for her in his life—unintelligible, dis-jointed words that ran together from a raw trickle of sound into a sensual flood.

How long they stood there, kissing, touching...

wanting,
Chrissie had no idea; she only knew that when he finally released her, she was trembling so much she could hardly stand up, that her mouth felt swollen and bruised, that his mouth looked...

looked...

She swallowed as she looked at him and he reached reassuringly for her hand, then held it tenderly in the firm, warm grip of his own.
"Coup defoudre,
I believe the French call it.'

'They would,' Chrissie replied shakily. She ached to be back in his arms. She ached all over for him, she admitted, inside and out, and it was nothing like the aches and pains she had been suffering because of her hard physical work cleaning up the cottage, nothing at all.

God, but he wanted her, Guy recognised. He wanted her so much that he didn't know how he was managing to keep his hands off her. He had never considered himself to be a highly sexed man, but right now...

'I've never experienced anything like this before,'

Chrissie confessed.

'Good,' Guy told her tautly, adding rawly, 'I think I'd want to kill any other man who might have—'

Chrissie stopped him, shaking her head, but she knew what he meant. She felt equally savage and un-characteristically jealous of any other woman who might have had the same effect on him as she quite obviously had had.

She took a deep breath and forced herself to try to come back down to normality, but it was almost impossible. 'I want you so much,' she admitted shakily.

Then Guy was bridging the small gap between them and taking her back in his arms.

For several long minutes, the only sound was that of their increasingly passionate kisses and strained breathing. Chrissie had no idea which of them it was who lifted Guy's hand to her breast; she only knew that the sensation of his holding her, touching her
there,
made her whole body jerk in a frenzy of physical need, a sensation like a jolt of electricity running straight from her breast to her womb, convulsing her whole body with a deep-rooted, aching need.

'Please don't, please don't,' she whispered huskily, even though she was the one who arched back against him, guiding his hand whilst he rubbed the tip of his thumb over and over her T-shirt-covered nipple until she was pleading frantically with him to soothe her aching flesh with the healing suckle of his mouth.

Chrissie had never pleaded with a man to make love to her before or imagined she might want to, but this whole situation was a world apart from anything she had experienced before, completely foreign terri-tory to her, a place where the old rules, the old guide-lines, meant nothing and where the only things she had to guide her were her own senses and needs and his.