Each time, Cain told her, “Sweetheart, why don’t you pull up those vintage-style panties I’m sure you’re wearing and sit tight.” She told him he was lucky he was driving the car or he’d be sporting a black eye. “Anti-violence, Madeline,” he reminded her. Their house hunting had been almost two months ago, and she’d spent more time in Cain’s company than she had with any man in a very long time. He’d done what Caz termed “courting,” taking her out to dinner, the theatre, going for walks, sending her huge bouquets of flowers. Kisses weren’t as charged as the kiss he’d given her in the shop’s back room. They were respectful and chaste and made her want the passion back. He’d also used each opportunity they were together to ask her to visit his father in Cambridgeshire. Madeline refused not just because she was essentially dating her hero’s son, but she had wrapped up Major Goldsmith in so much gratitude and expectation, and God only knew if the man wanted to put the whole sordid incident behind him.
