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It might all be the prelude to seduction but Gillian was woman enough to thrill to it and she was rather flattered by the glow in his eyes, the warmth in his voice and the soft, subtle persuasion of a rare kind of lovemaking.

She relaxed and settled down to enjoy the evening and his company. He proved to be a very interesting and amusing host. Their mutual profession, with the common bond of a Kit's training and the recent association at Greenvale, combined with a shared sense of humour and a love of the ridiculous and similar tastes in music, art and books provided them with plenty to talk about and much more to like in each other than they had expected to find.

Later, Gillian made herself comfortable on the sofa, shoes kicked off, while he sat at the piano and played for her. All her favourites. Mozart, Brahms, a little Beethoven, some Strauss. He played well and with a sensitive touch, linking each piece of music with some improvisation of his own.

Gillian lay back against the cushions, listening raptly, admiring his good looks and the clever hands that seemed to be equally at home whether wielding the healing knife as a surgeon or playing beautiful music like a trained pianist or driving the sleek Mercedes like an expert. Or caressing a woman's slender body towards the ultimate ecstasy, she suddenly thought, with a catch of her breath as he glanced up and met her eyes.

He smiled, warm and enchanting and very endearing, tumbling her heart and her senses.

Gillian knew that she loved him very much. She stilled the dismayed quiver of her heart because he would never be hers. She meant to be grateful for whatever the gods were kind enough to grant—even if it was only one night in the arms of the man she loved. She would give with all her heart for his delight, his satisfaction, she vowed.

She smiled at him with love, with tender longing, with unmistakable desire. On a sudden discord, he rose from the piano and moved towards her.

For a moment, he looked down at her, intently searching the lovely eyes that looked back at him so steadily. Then he bent to kiss her. Gillian drew him down to her, body arching. He pressed her close against the cushions and she knew the heavy throb of his body's leaping passion.

His kiss was urgent, demanding. His hands were busy with the long zip at the back of her dress and then he drew the thin material from her shoulders to bare the small, tilting breasts. He kissed each one, lips lingering on the enchanting buds of her nipples. Fire shot through her loins and she clung to him in sudden abandon, saying his name on a surge of longing.

He lifted her, carried her from the room against his heart. Effortlessly, he took the stairs, making nothing of her slender frame. Gillian's arms clung about his neck. She pressed her lips to his cheek, heart thudding, body swept with the flame of a desire that would not be denied.

She trembled on the threshold of a new and wonderful world that she would surely find in his embrace ...

Mark
undressed her with many kisses and infinite tenderness, every touch of his hands a homage to her beautiful body. Gillian was reassured by his gentleness, his patience. He made sensual love to her with slow, sweeping caresses. Wave after wave of delicious longing carried her closer to the ultimate surrender. She had never suspected the near-ecstasy that could vanquish all the natural hesitation of a girl who hovered between innocence and fulfilled womanhood.

Suddenly she panicked and pulled away from the urgency in his embrace. Controlling his disappointment, he kissed her and stroked the pale hair, soothed her gently.

She loved him for the self-control that wouldn't force her to. give before she was ready. She loved him. She couldn't disappoint him—or herself.

She moved against him, kissed him with warm, sweet lips. His response was instant, demanding. He was trembling with the passion that insisted on satisfaction but which he was determined to school to ensure her fulfilment. He wanted this to be a memorable experience for them both. She was very lovely, very responsive and very dear to him.

At the last moment, she panicked again.

'For God's sake, Gillian!' The despairing reproach was wrenched from him. It took every ounce of his control to master the urge to take her by force.

'I'm sorry,' she said swiftly, penitent. 'I'm not teasing. Truly I'm not. I'm just scared ...'

He swept the hair from her face and searched the shy eyes, puzzled. 'Tell me why.'

She laid her hand on his cheek in a caress. 'It's the first time,' she said simply.

He was stilled, astonished, profoundly thankful that her response to his lovemaking, so sweet and so sensuous, had been born of instinct rather than experience.

Then he kissed her, with love. 'Then I'm honoured,' he said softly.

Gillian was glad that she had told him. He couldn't be anything but gentle, patient, very tender. But there was a hint of reverence in his taking of her that filled her with new and deeper love for him.

It was magic.

It was heaven there and then.

But only because she loved him with all her heart.

'I love you,' she said on a murmuring sigh as he lay on her breast, spent and content. She stroked the crisp dark curls, the strong neck, the bare shoulder with its rippling muscles.

She sensed .his smile, lazy and accepting.

'Lovely Gillian,' he said, his arm tightening about her. He didn't believe the words she had spoken in the golden aftermath of their lovemaking. Women often spoke of loving at such times. It seemed to ease a foolish sense of guilt that a man neither experienced nor really understood.

He was very near to loving her, he knew ... nearer than he had been in all his life to a final commitment to a woman. But he had to be very sure. That kind of loving could never be easy for a man of his proud and independent spirit. When he loved, it would be lasting. It would need a very special woman to content him for the rest of his life, he felt.

Just now, he believed that Gillian might be that woman. But until he was really sure he wouldn't say. He didn't know how he hurt her sensitive feelings with that non-commital reply.

Gillian had given all she could, heart and soul and body. All she asked of him was a kindly lie, she thought sadly, a fleeting reassurance that she mattered to him.

Later, she would be glad and grateful that he couldn't be anything but honest, she knew.

Just now, she wished that he could pretend to love ...

They drowsed in each other's arms, lovers reluctant to part. Gillian didn't want the night to end. For a few hours, he was hers—and she might never have anything more to remember. At least she had this memory of tender and very precious delight and she knew she would cherish it for ever.

One day, there might be another love in her life. But there would never be anyone quite like Mark. He would always have a very special place in her heart and mind. He was her first love. She was glad that he was her first lover. It proved that she had been right to hold on to her virginity until this moment and this man came together.

They slept and made love again in the early morning, without tension or haste. He knew just how to please and delight her, Gillian thought, heart welling as they clung to each other in mutual and magical wanting.

She fell more deeply into love with each kiss, every touch of that languorous lovemaking—and, loving him, she refused to remember that he would soon belong to someone else. Loving him, she clung desperately to the dream that he loved her ...

Mark rolled over to look at his watch. 'It is Saturday, isn't it?' No clinic, no appointments, no need to end the idyll too soon.

She leaned across him. 'No, it's ten to six,' she said lightly.

He laughed. 'The girl who came to dinner and stayed for breakfast,' he teased softly.

Colour prettied her small face in the way that he loved. He kissed her.

'I don't regret it,' Gillian said quietly.

'Do you think that
I
do?' He thrust his hands through the silken cloud of her hair to cradle her small head. 'I've only one regret,' he said tensely. 'We wasted too much time, Gillian.'

She was suddenly emotional, tears in her eyes. She felt that he was reminding her that the dream was about to end. It was Saturday. It was the day of Hugh Penistone's birthday and the dinner party that would also celebrate Mark's decision to marry the man's daughter, made long before she had come to Greenvale. Time had run out. His life, if not his love, would be committed to the lovely Louise in future. She felt he would be loyal. He might be a sensual man but he was also a sensitive one and she knew he wouldn't lie in her arms once he had promised to marry Someone else.

Gillian was too proud to let him see those tears or realise the terrible heaviness of her heart. She had known from the beginning that there was no future in loving him. Heaven knew that he hadn't encouraged her to love him or given her the slightest reason to suppose that he would ever love her. Even the night in his arms had passed without one word of love from him, she thought bleakly.

'You shouldn't have been such a pig,' she said lightly. 'I might have liked you sooner.' She rubbed her cheek against his bare shoulder.

He smiled wryly. 'I couldn't get close to you for prickles,' he reminded her, very dry. He drew her down into his arms and she nestled against him, storing up every memorable moment for comfort in the days when she would miss him and mourn him with all her heart.

But she didn't mean to spoil the lovely present with bleak thoughts of the future. She would simply make the most of the moments that she had left to her.

They lay in the wide bed, talking, kissing, teasing each other like long-time lovers. Being together was so right, Mark felt, content and comfortable in her company. He had never felt quite so relaxed with any woman. She was all that any man could want, he felt—even a man as self-sufficient as he had always been. He was tempted to tell her that he would want her for the rest of his life.

But there was plenty of time, he decided.

He knew that Hugh Penistone hoped that he would marry Louise. He knew that Louise thought she had brought him to the point of proposing. He knew the rumours that were flying about the town thanks to Louise and her friends.

He had toyed with the idea. Louise was beautiful, sophisticated, clever and confident. She had seemed a suitable wife for a man in his position. He realised that she was spoiled and selfish and superficial but most of the women he knew were much the same.

It had taken someone like Gillian, with her refreshing honesty and proud spirit and innate warmth of heart to show him that he needed much more from a woman than Louise could ever give him. For some days, he had known that he wouldn't ask her to marry him. He had been trying to let her down gently. They had known each other for a long time and he was fond of her. But he would have to be more blunt with her that evening. He didn't think she would be too hurt or too disappointed. She didn't love him any more than he loved her.

He regretted that he wouldn't be able to see Gillian that evening. But there would be plenty of other evenings now that he had broken through the barrier of her mistrust and won the liking that was so important to him. There would be all the time in the world to clarify the way they really felt about each other and discover if it was destined to lead to marriage, he thought confidently.

Meanwhile Gillian fretted because they seemed to talk of everything but the Penistones. She couldn't mention father or daughter or the pending dinner party.. Mark had never discussed his relationship with Louise or his plans where the girl was concerned and Gillian was much too proud to ask if he meant to marry her. But so many rumours couldn't have sprung out of thin air, she thought heavily. Besides, it seemed that rumour had turned into concrete fact during the last few days. Everyone was expecting an engagement to be announced that weekend ...

Reluctantly, they got up at last and took it in turns to shower. Dressed in jeans and a bright orange shirt, Mark went down to cook breakfast for them both. His elderly housekeeper didn't live in and he was used to looking after himself in her absence.

Released from his confinement in the kitchen, Henry went wild in the garden, barking at the birds and chasing imaginary cats as if he was a puppy instead of a respectable eight-year old. Mark decided to bath him after his adventures with the rabbits, declaring that he smelled to high heaven. Gillian helped, her slight figure enveloped in one of Mark's bathrobes. Her elegant dinner frock was scarcely suitable for struggling with a wet and exuberant and very solid labrador.

She rolled in the grass with him, giggling as if she were an eight-year old instead of a highly-trained and very efficient theatre nurse. Watching, Mark felt his heart turn over in his breast, proving that it wasn't a medical impossibility. She was so lovely, so appealing, so very natural—and so unlike any other girl that he had ever known.

Whatever happened, he mustn't lose her!

He drew her up and into his arms and held her close, cheek pressed to the rumpled mass of her pale hair. 'Oh, Gillian ...' he said achingly, moved almost beyond expression by a new and quite overwhelming dependence on her for his happiness.

She stood in his arms, thankful, heart soaring. Surely there was all the loving and longing that any woman could want in the way he held her, the way he looked. What words did she need?

No words were said, in fact. But she felt there had been a promise in his parting kiss when she finally drove away in her Mini, much later that morning, on her way home.

Somehow the flat didn't feel like home any more. She let herself in, carrying the daily pinta, scooped some letters from the floor and went into the kitchen. She filled the kettle and switched it on for coffee and then she went to change. Her frock had been so right for the previous evening. In the bright light of day, it was incongruous.

Gillian looked at herself in the long mirror and wondered why she didn't look different. She felt different! She felt alive and glowing and touched by enchantment. She felt loved and she didn't care if the whole world declared that Mark meant to marry Louise Penistone. Perhaps it had been in his mind. But she just didn't believe that he could do it. Not now. Not when they were so right for each other!