‘I’m not talking about marriage, or friendship or any of those soft, woolly things. I’m talking about sex, Flora. Sex.’ He released her suddenly and took a step backwards, a look of disgust on his face. ‘And that isn’t the sort of person you are, which is why I’m going to let you go now. I’m going to walk out of that door into my consulting room and you’re not going to follow me. You are a woman who deserves a conventional relationship with a reliable guy. I’m neither of those things.’

She licked her lips, shaken by everything he’d said to her. ‘I don’t think you should tell me what I want.’

‘You’re too naïve to play this game.’

‘I am not naïve. I’m not naïve, Conner.’ There was tearing agony inside her. He was going to walk away from her again. ‘Would it make a difference if I told you that I’m not a virgin? Is that what’s worrying you?’

He inhaled sharply and turned away, his profile tense. ‘Don’t tell me that.’

‘I just thought it might make a difference.’

A muscle worked in his cheek. ‘It doesn’t. And you might find this hard to believe, but the desire not to hurt you is the reason I walked away. And it’s the reason I’m about to walk away again. Because there are some rules that even I won’t break.’ He ran a hand over his face and then strode out of the room, leaving her shaking so badly that she could hardly stand.

He wanted her?

She sank onto her chair, staring at the door. He’d pulled back out of consideration for her? He didn’t find her repulsive?

She wasn’t ‘boring Flora’?

Her fragile, bruised confidence recovered slightly and her mind started to race.

CHAPTER EIGHT

CONNER lay sprawled on the huge sofa in the barn, mindlessly flicking through the sports channels on the television. On the floor next to him was a bottle of whisky and a half-filled glass. He stared at it blankly and was just about to pick up the bottle and do what needed to be done when someone hammered hard on the front door.

Conner reached for the remote control and increased the volume on the television, determined to ignore whoever it was who mistakenly believed that he might be in need of company.

There was no second knock, so he picked up the whisky bottle, satisfied that his unwelcome visitor had decided to go and bother someone else.

He stared at the television screen for a moment, too emotionally drained to find an alternative mode of entertainment. After a few moments some deep-seated instinct warned him that he wasn’t alone and he turned his head slowly.

Flora stood in the doorway.