Now, floating in the blessed anonymity of the ocean, she wondered how she could have loved him so agonisingly then, and five months later be running away from him?

The question tortured her as she sank deeper into the water, reliving the events of yesterday, when she’d slipped out of the home they shared without telling him where she was going. She’d left him a note that she’d managed to write on a large pad:

I’LL CALL YOU LATER TODAY, CELIA.

She’d hated the deception, hated herself for doing it, but she’d had no choice. She loved him now as much as she’d done on that evening, five months ago, when she’d wondered, sadly, if she would ever see him again. If anything, she loved him more.

And yet she’d escaped him, knowing that if she didn’t she would go mad.

THE PR contract had been arranged the next day, and over the following week there had been a good deal of coming and going between the two firms. But it had never been Francesco who arrived. Celia had resigned herself to not meeting him again when there was a knock on her front door in the evening.

She’d gone to the door, switching on the light as she went, so that the visitor should have some illumination. She lived without lights.

‘Who is it?’ she called.

‘It’s me,’ came his voice from behind the door.

He didn’t need to identify himself further. They both understood that there was only one ‘me.’ She opened the door and put out her hand, feeling it enfolded in his.

‘I came because—’ He stopped. ‘There are things we need to—Will you let me in—please?’

She stood back. ‘Come in.’

She heard the click as the door closed behind him. He was still holding her hand, but for a moment he didn’t move, as if he was unsure what would come next.

‘I didn’t think you’d come back,’ she said. ‘The contract—’

‘The hell with the contract,’ he said with soft violence. ‘Do you really think that’s why I’m here?’

‘I don’t know what to think,’ she whispered. ‘I haven’t known all week.’

‘I’ll tell you what to think of me—that I’m a coward who runs away from a woman who’s different, more challenging than other women. I run away because secretly I’m afraid I can’t match up to her. I just know I’ll let her down and she’ll be better off without me—’

‘Isn’t that for her to decide?’ she asked joyfully.

His hand tightened on hers and she felt him raise it, then his lips against her palm.

‘I couldn’t keep away from you,’ he said huskily. ‘I tried, but I can’t. And I never will be able to.’

‘I’ll never want you to,’ she said in passionate gratitude.

His lips were burning her hand, igniting her whole body so that she longed for him to touch her everywhere. She drew his face towards her and felt the urgency of his mouth at the first touch of hers. It was as though she’d given him the signal he’d been waiting for.

Now she knew that she’d wanted this since she’d sat with him in the restaurant, listening to his words and trying to picture the mouth that shaped them. His lips on hers, coaxing, inciting, urging, pleading, had been the temptation that teased and taunted her.

And all this week, after he’d gone, she’d been haunted by dreams of the impossible, of his body lying naked against her in the equality that darkness would bring. Now he was here, and joy and excitement possessed her body and soul.

‘Celia,’ he said huskily. ‘Celia—’

She stepped back, drawing him after her towards the bedroom, reaching up to turn out the hall light, so that the place was dark again and only she knew the way.

It might be madness to rush helter-skelter into love. Caution was indicated. But her circumstances and a combative nature had always made her despise caution. Besides, Francesco had tried it and it didn’t work. It was a relief, setting her free.

She touched his face, letting her fingers gently explore its planes and angles, the wide mouth and sharply defined jaw, the slightly crooked nose. He was just as she wanted him to be.

She remembered everything. Floating now on the cushion of water, cut off from the world, she recalled details that she’d barely noticed at the time. They’d been obscured by the sweet fire flaming through her, engulfing all in its path, yet they’d endured in some corner of her consciousness, to be relived later.

Now they made her heart ache for their cruel contrast with the present. Francesco was still the same man who’d won her love by his gentleness and his open adoration of her. He was still the man who’d taken her to bed and loved her with slow, reverent gestures that had brought her flesh to eager life.

The pressure of the water on every part of her body was bringing back those memories. With his very first touch she had felt that he was touching her everywhere. As his lips had lain gently against her breast the reaction had flowed up from her loins and out to every part.

She had been eager to welcome him in, reaching for him, drawing him close, moving with his rhythm. Everything had felt natural because it was with him. His skin, touching hers, had been warm, growing more heated as his passion mounted.

To make love in blindness was an act of trust, but hadn’t failed her. He had been a tender lover, gentle, considerate even in the intensity of his ardour, and above all, generous. Looking back, she often said that her passion had started the day they’d met. Her love dated from that first night together.

When the first explosion of delight had been over and they had fallen apart, stunned and joyful, she’d propped herself up on one elbow and begun to explore him.

‘After all, I can’t see you,’ she teased. ‘I have to find out in my own way.’

‘I guess you were going to discover my feeble muscles and pot-belly some time or other.’ He laughed.

‘Yup. Let’s see, now, is this your shoulder?’

‘It’s at the top of my arm, so I guess it must be.’

‘Nothing feeble about that muscle,’ she murmured. ‘And it continues very nicely along here.’

‘You’ve left my arm behind. That’s my chest.’

‘Mmm,’ she whispered, kissing the pectoral muscles one by one. ‘You don’t have any hair on your chest. I prefer that.’

‘Are you saying you’re an expert?’

‘Blind teaching is very modern these days,’ she said in a serious voice. ‘We take lessons in everything.’

There was the briefest pause before he said cautiously, ‘Everything?’

‘Almost everything.’

‘Are you making fun of me?’

Her lips twitched. ‘Do you think I am?’

‘I wish I could be sure.’

‘Well, you can decide about that later. Where was I?’

‘Exploring my chest.’

‘Let’s leave that for the moment. I don’t want to rush this.’

‘I don’t want to rush it, either,’ he said huskily, letting her fingers roam over his thighs, relishing every moment.

‘You have very long legs,’ she murmured in a considering voice. ‘At least, I suppose they are. I don’t have many points of comparison.’

‘I wish you didn’t have any—unless, of course, you learned that in the leg class?’

She stifled her laughter against his chest, and at last she felt him relax enough to laugh, as well.

Francesco didn’t relax easily, she could tell. It had been a real shock to him when she’d made a joke about her blindness, but he’d soon get the hang of that. She would teach him. In the meantime, they had other business.

‘Now, about that pot-belly of yours,’ she murmured, letting her fingers continue their work. ‘It doesn’t feel very pot to me.’

‘I don’t keep it precisely there,’ he said in a tense voice.

‘You want me to move?’

‘No, just…keep doing…what you’re doing.’

She did as he wished, realising that their previous loving had barely taken the edge off his passion and he was once more in a state of heated arousal. He was hard and hot in her palm, and she indulged herself in pleasure until, at the precise moment she intended, he lost control and tossed her onto her back.