Page 90 of Me and Mr. Darcy

Move’s the pity, whispers the lustful little voice inside me.

Ignoring it, I try recollecting the evening’s events. We were talking on the balcony, I remember that, and how sexy he looked, yup, I definitely remember that bit and— Ouch – my butt gives a painful twinge – of course, we went horseriding and my horse bolted and then . . .

Blank.

‘You’re awake.’

A voice startles me and I take a sharp breath as I see a figure looming over me.

A face coming into close-up.

Spike.

Make that two Spikes.

Woozily I look up at him and try focusing. For a horrible moment there’s not just one selfish lying pig of a journalist, there’s another selfish lying pig of a journalist until, squinting hard, both blurry images merge into one.

‘What time is it?’ I mumble groggily.

He glances at his watch. ‘Nearly four a.m.’

I try to sit up, but he stops me with a wet flannel.

‘No, you need to lie still.’

‘Huh?’ I groan, then realising my head is killing me, I flop back down on to the pillow.

‘You’ve got a bit of a nasty bump on your head, but don’t worry, you’re going to be OK,’ he soothes, pressing the cold flannel to my forehead.

Tentatively I touch my forehead. ‘Ouch,’ I whimper, flinching as my fingertips brush against a lump the size of an egg. ‘What happened?’

‘I don’t know exactly. I went looking for you – after the phone call,’ he adds, looking sheepish. ‘When I found you, you’d completely passed out.’

‘Where did you find me?’ I murmur, still desperately trying to piece everything together.

‘Near the stables.’

‘Oh . . .’

My mind starts whirring. I must have hit my head on something and blacked out, and yet somehow managed to stay in the saddle until Lightning found her way back to the stables . . . Or maybe I rode back to the stables but I just can’t remember because I fell off as I was dismounting and hit my head on the floor and it’s made me lose my memory . . . Or maybe—

‘I bumped into some kids when I was looking for you.’ Spike interrupts my confused cerebral ramblings. ‘They said they’d last seen you smoking a joint with them.’

‘Oh . . . right, yeah.’

Now that might explain my amnesia.

‘And drinking two glasses of champagne.’

That as well.

‘One of them was yours,’ I point out weakly.

Spike sighs and scratches self-consciously at his burgeoning beard. I notice he’s taken off his jacket and tie, undone his collar and rolled up his sleeves to reveal two thick, hairy forearms, one of which is now disappearing into the neck of his shirt. He starts awkwardly scratching his collarbone. He’s obviously feeling guilty about the whole thing. Either that or he’s got fleas.

‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he begins self-consciously. ‘I feel somehow responsible – that’s why I offered to watch you – make sure you were OK. Someone had to stay. You were pretty out of it.’

‘Thanks,’ I say stiffly. Jesus, how embarrassing. Why did it have to be Spike who found me? Talk about bad luck. He must be crowing right now. ‘But I’m fine now, so you can go,’ I add, and pull up the bedcovers in a ‘closed for business’ kind of metaphor. Which is when I suddenly realise that I’m not wearing my pyjamas. In fact, I am not wearing anything.