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Tim's lives unnecessarily? What if Philip had children of his own?
    Was now the time to ask him? In a field on a cold December night where stars were now beginning to appear as faint blurry dots in the skies?
    She steeled herself. 'What happened to your wife, Philip?"
    She took him off guard with her question, though perhaps that was because these days he had schooled himself not to remember Carla more than was absolutely necessary. The living had to let go—he knew that—just as he knew how hard it could be.
    He used the same words as the press had done at the time. 'She was involved in a pile-up on the motorway.'
    She nodded, painfully aware of how much the bereaved

           
    resented other people's silence on the subject. She remembered when her mother had died, and people had seemed to cross the road to avoid her. 'Was it...was it instant?'
    No.' The word came out more harshly than he had intended, but he did not want to discuss Carla, not now. God forgive him, but he wanted to lose the pain of death in the sweet, soft folds of living flesh. 'Can't we go somewhere warmer, if we're going to talk?'
    She shook her head. Tim would be out of nursery soon enough and she had no desire to take Philip home and have him see her little house with all its childish paraphernalia, which might just alert his suspicions.
    And where else to go to talk in Langley on one of the shortest days of the year—the pub would have shut by now. There was always the hotel, of course, she reminded herself, and a shiver of memory ran down her spine.
    I don't think there's any point in talking. What is there left to say?'
    He watched the movement of her lips as she spoke, saw the tiny moist tip of her tongue as it briefly eased its way between her perfect white teeth, and a wave of lust turned his mouth to dust. 'Maybe you're right,' he agreed softly. 'How can we possibly talk when this crazy attraction is always going to be between us? You still want me, Lisi— it's written all over your face,' and he reached out and pulled her into his arms.
    'D-don't,' she protested, but it was a weak and meaningless entreaty and she might as well not have spoken for all the notice he took of it.
    He cupped her face in the palm of his hand and turned it up so that she was looking at him, all eyes and lips and pale skin, and his voice grew soft, just as once it had before. 'Why, you're cold, Lisi,' he murmured.
    It was the concern which lulled her into staying in his arms—that and the masculine heat and the musky, virile

scent of him. Helplessly, she stared up at him, knowing that he was about to kiss her, even before he began to lower his mouth towards hers.
    The first warm touch of him was like clicking on a switch marked 'Responsive'. 'Philip,' she moaned softly, without realising that she was doing so, nor that her arms had snaked up around his neck to capture him.
    The way she said his name incited him, and he whispered hers back as if it were some kind of incantation. 'Lisi.' Her mouth was a honey-trap—warm and soft and immeasurably sweet. He felt the moistness of her tongue and the halting quality of her breath as it mingled with his. Even through the thickness of his greatcoat, he could feel the flowering of her breasts as they jutted against him and he felt consumed with the need to feel them naked once more, next to his body and tickling both hard and soft against his chest. 'Oh, Lisi,' he groaned.
    All she could think of was that this was not just the man she had found more overwhelmingly attractive than any other man she had ever met—this man was also the biological father of her child, and in a way she was chained to him for ever.
    Just for a minute she could pretend that they had been like any other couple who had created a child together. They could kiss in a field and she could lace her fingers luxuriously through the thick abundance of his hair, and feel the quickening of his body against hers and then... and then...
    Then