Best Of Makeovers Bundle Part 12

He nodded. 'When I explained what I'd been doing there-that I hadn't been smas.h.i.+ng windows or vandalising the old place-Mick, the foreman on the building site, lent me a hard hat and gave me a proper tour. He showed me the architect's plans and how to read them, and I was hooked. I spent every spare minute there, watching them restore the house little by little.'

'Did you skip school?'

He chuckled. 'I would have done, if I'd thought I could get away with it. But Mick said that maths was important-if I was serious about a career in restoration, I'd need to know about angles and calculations, load-bearing walls and the like. Science was important, too, because I'd learn about the properties of different materials. And history was really important because you can't do a proper restoration job if you don't have a feel for the history of the place.' He smiled. 'Then, in the last term of middle school, we had to do a project on a building in the village. Everyone else did theirs on the church-but I did mine on the old house.'

'An excuse to help with the restoration?' she guessed.

He nodded. 'I wrote down everything that was happening, drew bits of the building before it was restored and then everything afterwards. I'd never been interested in art before, but that's when I discovered that I could draw. Not portraits-I don't sketch people.' Not usually. Though he'd found himself sketching Cyn, the other day. Doodling while he was on the phone. 'Though I sketched all the craftsmen at work and explained what they were doing-how they replaced all the worm-eaten woodwork, matched the carvings in the mantelpieces, and made new mouldings and cornices for the ceilings.'

'Were they okay about you sketching them while they were at work?'

He smiled. 'Oh, yes. They loved the fact that someone young was actually interested in the old techniques instead of wanting to do things with a fast turnover and a quick profit, so they talked me through exactly what they were doing. Then I pleaded my case with Mick and got him to give me a job in the school holidays-not a proper paid job, but I wanted an excuse to hang around the house without getting in the way. I drove my parents insane until they agreed. I just did a bit of fetching and carrying, at first, taking them mugs of tea and stuff, but his team realised it wasn't just a fad with me. So they taught me the basics, and let me practise making joints or carving decorations on offcuts of wood. I could even show you the precise bit of wall that I plastered.' He grinned. 'They probably redid it after I'd gone home, but as far as I'm concerned that was my bit of wall.'

Cyn was laughing, but he was pretty sure she was laughing with him, not at him.

'Your parents must have been really proud of you,' she said. 'Ten or eleven years old, and you'd already sorted out your career and got a job-you knew exactly what you wanted to do.'

Proud of him? Hmm. That was a sticking point. 'The thing is, my dad's a doctor. I was supposed to follow in his footsteps-except I wanted to make buildings better, not people.'

She took his hand, very briefly, and squeezed it. 'I'm sure he understood. You were following your dreams.'

Max wasn't so sure. He could still see the disappointment in his father's eyes when he'd realised that Max wasn't going to change his mind, do science A levels and then study medicine. Max had chosen maths, technical drawing, English and history, followed by a degree in architecture. He'd left it to his younger brother to go into the family business.

'I sometimes feel that I let my family down,' Max said softly. 'Every choice I made, it wasn't what they expected of me. What they'd hoped I'd do. Studying architecture instead of medicine. Going to London instead of settling down. Taking the risk of going it alone instead of staying with a steady, long-established architectural practice.' Even thinking about it made his skin itch with guilt, and he wanted to get away from the subject. Fast. 'What about you? Did you always want to do computer programming?'

'I was good at maths,' she said. 'I liked numbers-the fact they're so ordered and they behave in a logical pattern. You know where you are with numbers.'

Whereas you were never completely sure where you were with people. Yeah, he could understand that.

'But it meant I always finished my work early. And I got bored, waiting for the others to catch up, so I used to read a book under the table. When I was on my third detention in a row for reading in cla.s.s, the headmaster sent for me. I thought I was going to be in trouble, but he was really nice about it. His specialist subject was maths; he'd looked at my work and thought I was probably bored in cla.s.s.'

'Which you were.'

She nodded. 'The school was pretty flexible about timetabling, so I switched to the maths cla.s.s of a higher year group and took the exams a couple of years early.' She smiled. 'Then the headmaster introduced me to computer programming. I loved it-I loved the way you could feed in a set of figures and make something happen. I remember the first time I wrote a program that printed out a huge letter "C", all made up of just one letter. The rest of the cla.s.s just couldn't get the hang of it and spent ages rehas.h.i.+ng their code-it took them weeks to print out their own initial letter-but to me it was all so obvious. All you had to do was be logical and work through the program in an ordered way.'

Logic and order. Welcome to Cyn's world. 'So you made up your own programs at home?'

'Only in theory, because Mum couldn't afford to buy me a computer. I made excuses, but eventually the headmaster guessed it was because of my family circ.u.mstances.' From the look on her face, that still rankled. 'He came up with a couple of suggestions, but no way was I going to accept charity. So I stopped doing the extra lessons at lunchtime.'

Proud and determined to go it alone. He liked that. 'So you just left it there?'

She wrinkled her nose. 'I would have done, but then the headmaster suggested I talked to the local computer dealer and ask them for a Sat.u.r.day job.'

'So you could learn about programming there?'

She shook her head. 'Not at first-I just did the filing, worked the cash till and made coffee for the technicians. But I was reading everything I could get my hands on, including borrowing books about programming from one of the technicians, and I begged my boss for some time on the computer in my breaks. He realised I was serious about it, so he let me help Philip, the senior technician, build a system from scratch. Mum wouldn't take any housekeeping from me, so I saved my wages and spent them on second-hand components, then built my first system at home. With a bit of help from Philip, that is.'

Max had never had to worry about money. He'd taken the family computer for granted. Cyn's background was so very, very different-but she understood him. Understood the need to know more and more and more. Understood the need to be the best at what he did. Because, deep down, she was just the same.

'What sort of programs did you write?'

'Computer games.'

'What kind of games?'

She smiled. 'Nothing with huge graphics needing lots of memory-not with the kind of machines we used back then! They were just card games and word games, with a little bit of animation to make it more fun. It helped my friends relax when they'd been revising for exams.'

And it got her the all-important acceptance among her peers. Though probably not from Mich.e.l.le Wilson and her cronies: they'd have used it as yet another point of difference to underline. The fact that Cyn understood numbers.

Then he frowned. 'That game Lisa's always playing at lunchtime...is that one of yours?'

'The wordbug one, where you make words out of other words?'

'Yeah. She and her mates send each other emails comparing their high scores.'

Cyn chuckled. 'That's years old.'

'Haven't you thought about selling it? Setting up on your own?'

She shook her head. 'No, it's too much ha.s.sle, what with the copyright and the distribution-even though I know I could probably distribute it on the web. No, it's not what I want. I wrote that for fun. Besides, it's too old-fas.h.i.+oned to be a fast-seller, so no company would take it on; most people nowadays prefer the shoot-'em-up arcade games with plenty of graphics.' She shrugged. 'Anyway, I like working at RCS. I get to play with different systems and talk to different clients-they tell me what they want, and I make it happen. I love seeing their faces when they realise I've built exactly what they needed, and kept it simple so they won't have to spend months retraining their staff. Plus I love Gus, Mark and Rob.'

'Gus, Mark and Rob?' he queried, his hackles rising. Who the h.e.l.l were they?

'My team.'

Well, of course her team would be male. Most techies were male. That little stab of jealousy was ridiculous. Grow up, he told himself.

Maybe she'd realised what lay behind his silence, because she added, 'They're like the kid brothers I never had.'

There was a hint of wistfulness in her voice. Though, if she'd been an only child and had gone to a school where she hadn't really fitted in, she was bound to have been lonely as a kid.

Max suddenly realised that they were standing by Tower Bridge. 'Um. Sorry, I didn't mean to drag you out for this long.' He'd just lost track of time with Cyn, telling her about his beloved buildings and learning what made her tick. They'd just wandered along the river bank-and he hadn't been aware of anything else except the woman by his side. 'Sorry. It was only meant to be a bit of fresh air, something to blow the cobwebs out.'

'I've enjoyed it.'

'Me, too.' And he didn't want it to stop. 'We can get the tube from here and change at Moorgate-though we'd probably have to wait for ages for a train.' Not that he'd mind waiting with her. 'Or we could walk back to Bank again.' It was a long way, but please let her want to walk back again. Let her want to spend time talking to him.

'We could see if the busker's still there,' she said.

His smile felt a mile wide. 'So walking's okay with you?'

'Yeah, it's fine.'

Walking it was, then. Max resisted the urge to punch the air and cheer.

And talk about a back-to-front courts.h.i.+p. Last week, they'd spent the night together. Skin to skin, wrapped in each other's arms. They'd made love on Sunday morning-as far as they could go without a condom, that was. Tonight, this was more like their first date. Getting to know each other, walking hand in hand. He'd told her things he hadn't even told Gina, mainly because Gina had always seen his work as a rival and had never wanted to talk about it. Cyn would never see architecture and restoration as the 'other woman', because she felt the same way about her own job. Her job was who she was; just as his job defined who he was.

They turned round and started to retrace their steps. 'You never know, the busker might do a request for us,' Max said.

Cyn laughed. 'He might.'

Mmm. Max thought he could ask for a song that reflected the way he was feeling right now-the way he wanted to kiss Cyn. Remind himself of how she tasted. Remind her of the way things sizzled between them when they were skin to skin.

The sky was overcast, though every one of Vulliamy's globe lanterns looked like a full moon reflected in one of those infinity mirrors, if they stood between two of them and looked from side to side, seeing the lights stretch on and on and on.

It was all the excuse he needed. Max stopped beneath one of the lamps, spun Cyn to face him, and yanked her into his arms.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

CYN was hallucinating. Definitely. In real life, she was stuck in the middle of the party, talking to the client, pretending to smile and have a fabulous time when inwardly she was desperate to get a taxi, go home and fall into bed. No way was she standing under a lamp on the bank of the Thames on an overcast evening in early March, with Max's arms round her. No way was his hand inside her wrap and sliding down her spine, pressing her tightly against his body. No way were his lips brus.h.i.+ng lightly against hers, tiny b.u.t.terfly kisses that aroused her so much she was completely unable to keep a cool head. She wasn't really here, tipping her head back and offering him her mouth...was she?

She opened her eyes. Max's eyes were only centimetres from her own. So close that she could see his unfairly long black lashes and the dark navy rim around his slate-blue irises. His pupils were huge with desire, and he had that intense look on his face that she remembered from earlier tonight and the previous weekend. The same look that he'd given her just before he'd kissed his way down her body and sent her spiralling over the edge.

'"If ever any beauty I did see,"' Max whispered, '"Which I desired, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee."'

His voice was low, husky with longing. But she didn't quite understand. Was he saying he thought she was beautiful? She must be hearing things. Cyn knew she was nothing out of the ordinary. She was a little under average height, and if she was honest with herself she could do with toning up and losing about twenty pounds...

And then she forgot to think when Max kissed her again. All she could do was slide her hands into his silky dark hair and kiss him back. The rest of the world didn't exist any more. Just Max, the warmth of his mouth against hers and the hardness of his body crushed against her. Just Max, and his hand sliding up over her belly to cup one breast.

She forgot where they were. All she wanted was for him to rip down the last barriers between them: the lace of her bra and the silky-soft material of her dress were way too much. She needed to feel his hands against her skin. Properly. Feel his thumb rubbing against her nipple.

And she hardly dared think about what she wanted his mouth to do to her.

As if he could read her mind, he eased his hand under the neckline of her dress. The tips of his fingers reached the edge of her bra, and Cyn began to quiver. He was still kissing her, his mouth demanding more and more, and then, at last, his hand cupped her breast properly. Skin to skin.

She shuddered as his thumb rubbed against her nipple. The friction was good, but it still wasn't enough. She wanted more. Needed more. She rocked her hips against him; he broke the kiss and took a sharp intake of breath.

'Do you have any idea what you do to me?' he asked, his voice husky.

'The same as you do to me,' she answered in a whisper.

'I want you.'

'Yes.'

She wasn't sure what she was saying yes to. Yes, she knew he wanted her? Yes, she wanted him, too? Yes, there were only the two of them right here and now, so what was there to stop them?

His hand was inside her dress now. And if there were any pa.s.sers-by, they'd have no idea, because his long coat and her wrap hid everything. They'd just think that she and Max were sharing a pa.s.sionate kiss.

Friday-night lovers.

It wasn't as if she'd drunk too much champagne. Knowing that she was already so tired more than one gla.s.s of wine would send her straight to sleep, she'd stuck to sparkling mineral water at the party. No, it wasn't alcohol making her feel this reckless. It was Max. The fact that she could feel how hard he was, through his trousers. He wanted her as much as she wanted him-she'd turned him on that much.

The memory of what they'd done last weekend was too much for her. She wanted him to make love with her again. Here and now. Her surroundings just faded away; all she was aware of was Max. The muskiness of his scent; the taste of his mouth on hers; the feel of his fingertips on her skin.

She slid her fingers underneath the hem of his sweater. Soft, soft cashmere. And even softer skin underneath. His belly was washboard-flat-though she didn't think that Max was like Karl, heading for the gym every night after work.

He broke the kiss again and his breath hissed. 'Cyn, if you keep touching me like this, I'm not going to be responsible for-'

The rest of his words were choked off as she whispered, 'Good,' and undid the b.u.t.ton of his trousers.

The lamplight hid nothing: she could see shock sliding over his face, swiftly replaced with a surge of need.

'Yes,' he ground out, pressing her backwards until her back was braced against the lamppost.

Knowing that what she was doing was hidden by their clothes, she slid the zipper downwards. Slowly. Very slowly.

He whimpered, and she took pity on him. 'Is this what you want?' she asked, sliding her fingers under the hem of his jockey shorts and curling them round his shaft.

'Oh-h-h. Yes.' His voice sounded cracked, as if he'd had to force the words out, and his fingers tightened on her breast. 'Cyn. I need...need to touch you, too. Properly.'

The longing in his voice made her feel even more reckless. 'Then what's stopping you?' she asked, her voice soft and almost taunting. 'Who's going to see?' n.o.body. Not with her wrap and his coat hiding them.

He kissed her again. Hard. And then she felt him bunch the skirt of her dress at her waist, pulling the hem upwards until it was high enough to give him the access he wanted. His hand slid between her thighs, and she felt him s.h.i.+ver as he realised she was wearing hold-up stockings.

He nuzzled the skin below her ear. 'If I'd known you were wearing stockings...Did you wear them for him?'

Was that jealousy? Oh, bless. There was no need. 'I wore them for me,' she said softly. 'But you like them?'

'Oh, yeah.' His voice dropped in pitch. 'I like them. I like that I can touch you.'

His fingers drifted over the warm, soft skin of her inner thigh, teasing her. And then it was her turn to s.h.i.+ver as he cupped her s.e.x. She could feel the warmth of his hand, feel the blood pulsing in his fingertips-as hard and fast as her own blood was pumping round her body.

Only a thin barrier of cotton and lace separated them, but it was still too much of an obstruction. 'Touch me,' she invited huskily.

He didn't need her to ask twice. His fingers quested, found the lacy edge of her knickers, and pulled it aside. She tilted her hips and widened her stance slightly as he eased one finger into her.

'So warm and wet and ready for me,' he murmured against her mouth. 'I want you so much.'

Mmm, she could feel that!

'I need you inside me,' she said, stroking him. 'Now.'

'Yes,' he breathed and jammed his mouth over hers.

Just as he started to lift her higher against the lamppost, ready to enter her, a loud wolf-whistle split the air.

They both froze.

Their surroundings suddenly rushed back in on her. They were practically at the point of having s.e.x on the middle of the Embankment. In full public view. They could both get arrested for this!

'Stay exactly where you are,' Max muttered to Cyn, 'or I think we're both going to get very, very embarra.s.sed.' He kept his body s.h.i.+elding her, turning only his head to face the pa.s.ser-by who'd whistled at them. 'Ish Friday night,' he slurred. 'Kish my woman under the moon. Thash amorray, right?' He broke into the opening lines of 'That's Amore', waving one hand at the globe lamppost as he warbled.