You can say that again, thought Sam, but she took refuge from her wicked thoughts in the steam curling off the chocolate. The alcohol fumes and heady scent made her gasp in delight. Wow. It reminded her of a Bakewell tart … or was it something else, richer? She took a sip. Sweetness combined with the kick of booze. A warmth spread instantly from her lips and mouth, down her throat and through to her toes. This was both dangerous and delicious at the same time.

‘Well?’ Gabe asked.

‘It’s like a liquid Black Forest gateau. It’s amazing.’ She sipped again, letting the flavours and alcohol sink into every cell of her body.

‘That’s because it’s made with black cherry bourbon. I picked it up when I was last in the States. One of the better things to come out of there.’

Sam sipped and sighed. ‘The best, I think. It’s gorgeous.’ Like the man who made it, lounging next to her with his dark hair tousled and damp, and no idea of the sinful thoughts in her mind or the feelings he’d aroused in her body.

‘Glad you like it.’

As they sipped in silence, she became aware of the sensuousness of her surroundings: the sofa, the warm wooden furniture and thick brocade curtains drawn either side of a curved bank of windows facing the sea. The moon had retreated behind the clouds again so outside the night was dark, though rain spattered the windows and the roar of the waves was still loud. Sam heard the clock tower strike the quarter hour. In a very short time, the first slivers of dawn would creep into the sky. The festival was hours away … but it might as well have been years.

‘This is a spectacular house, Gabe. I’m impressed.’

Gabe shook his head. ‘Don’t be. None of the furniture’s mine.’

‘What was in the removal van, then?’

‘You mean you didn’t have a look?’

Sam rolled her eyes. ‘No.’

‘Cooking stuff and gadgets, mainly. Office equipment like a desk and chair. A few home comforts – sound system, computer stuff, TV.’ He smiled. ‘And my own mattress. The one in the master bedroom must have seen some action so I’m glad I brought my own.’

Her cheeks warmed up. She wished she hadn’t asked.

Her sense of the surreal was also taking over. Had she dreamt all the years of loss and struggle, rebuilding her life? And here he was smiling at her, all damp, tousled hair and firm body beneath the thin sweater. She was as much in danger of falling in love with him as she had ever been, and her initial anger that he was back had cooled.

He’d said the hot chocolate was grown-up, and so were they. Perhaps it was time they talked properly. After all, they might never have the chance again.