natural good manners coming to the fore, she managed, ‘Thank you, but I don’t want to take you out of your way,’ then waited in an agony of suspense. If he just handed over the shopping and walked away she would never see him again.
But, to her vast relief, he did no such thing.
With a little smile, he told her, ‘As it happens I’m going in the same direction.’
The excitement of seeing him—only it couldn’t possibly be him—and the sheer charm of that white, crooked smile sent her heart winging, making her forget, momentarily, the sadness that had been her constant companion over the last few weeks.
After a second or two, she said breathlessly, ‘Well, if you’re sure it’s no trouble?’
‘I’m sure.’
She returned his smile and, feeling as if something momentous had happened, tried to contain the fluttery excitement that was so unlike her.
As they began to walk on, the stranger—for in spite of that instant, joyful recognition she knew they had never met before—queried, ‘So you live on Roleston Road?’
‘No, just off, on Roleston Square. I’ve a flat in one of the old Georgian houses that overlook the Square’s gardens.’
He raised a well-marked brow. ‘You live alone?’
‘I do now.’
‘You’re very young to live alone.’
‘I’m not that young.’
Glancing at her lovely heart-shaped face with its flawless skin and almond eyes, the winged brows, the small straight nose and generous mouth, the long curly tendrils of seal-dark hair that had escaped from her collar, he said, ‘You look about sixteen.’
‘I’m twenty-five.’
‘Twenty-five,’ he repeated, as though the knowledge gave him some satisfaction. Then, harking back, ‘So how long have you lived alone?’
Her voice wasn’t quite steady as, with remembered grief, she told him, ‘Since my father died a few months ago.’
He caught the sadness in her tone and asked, ‘Was it unexpected?’
‘In a way. He’d been ill for quite a long time, but in the end it was sudden.’ Sophia could feel a tear begin to form but quickly brushed it away.
He probed gently, ‘And your mother?’
‘She died when I was about seven.’
‘Any brothers or sisters?’
‘No. I was an only child.’
He frowned a little. ‘Your father couldn’t have been very old?’
Sophia shook her head. ‘Dad was just sixty-two. He didn’t marry until he was thirty-six.’
‘And after your mother died he didn’t remarry?’ he questioned.
‘No.’ She shook her head again. ‘I’ve never understood why. Apart from the fact that he was good-looking and talented, he was kind and thoughtful, a really nice person with a wonderful sense of humour…’
‘In what way was he talented?’
‘He painted.’ Sophia smiled at the memory of her father’s talent.
‘It was his profession?’
‘No. He was a diplomat. Painting had always been his hobby. But when, after his accident, he retired from the diplomatic service, he did a lot more.’
‘Landscapes?’
‘Some, but portraits mainly. He painted one that’s very like you.’
He gave her a quizzical glance and, embarrassed, she wondered what on earth had made her blurt that out. Except that it was the simple truth.
‘Very like me?’ He sounded amused.
‘Yes.’
‘Really? And is his work good?’
‘I’ve heard it described as brilliant.’
Seeing a look on her companion’s face that might have been scepticism, she added defensively, ‘There’s going to be an exhibition of his paintings at the art gallery where I work.’
‘Which gallery is that?’ he enquired politely.
‘A Volonté.’
‘Then you’re an artist too?’
She shook her head. ‘Though I wanted to be, and went to art school with that intention, unfortunately I don’t have his talent.’
‘What exactly do you do at the gallery?’
‘As well as helping to sell pictures, I value them, set up exhibitions, take care of the photography and cataloguing and do any cleaning and restoring that may be necessary.’
Seeing her companion raise his eyebrows, she explained, ‘Before I joined the gallery I spent two years working in a museum cleaning and restoring old or damaged paintings. I found I had a flair for it, and it was work I really enjoyed.’
‘An invaluable skill.’
‘Dad thought so.’
‘You must miss him.’
‘I do. Very much.’ She swallowed past the lump in her throat.
‘I still haven’t got used to being on my own…’ She let the words tail off as common sense shouldered its way in. Normally she was somewhat reserved, even with her friends, so why on earth was she opening her heart like this to a man she didn’t know?
Only she did know him.
She had always known him.
‘Surely there’s a special boyfriend?’
‘Not now. I was engaged to be married, but when Dad became worse and I didn’t want to leave him alone in the evenings, it put a strain on the relationship. Philip resented the fact that I was no longer a free agent, and finally I gave him back his ring.’
‘It must have been hard for you.’
‘Not as hard as it might have been,’ she admitted honestly. ‘After he’d gone, I realized that, though I’d been fond of him, I hadn’t really loved him.’
She had also realized that she’d only imagined herself in love because he’d reminded her a little of the man in her portrait.
‘And there’s been no one since?’
She shook her head.
With a grin, the stranger said, ‘From the amount of shopping, I felt sure you must be feeding a small army of suitors.’
His teasing lightening the mood, she told him, ‘It’s for the old lady who owns the house and lives in the flat opposite. She’s on her own at the moment and she’s invited me to supper.’
‘Any chance of her taking a rain check? I was about to ask you to have dinner with me.’
Sophia’s heart leapt and then plummeted as she realized she couldn’t accept his invitation.
It took a lot of willpower, but still she said, ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t let her down. She’s really looking forward to the evening, and I’ve promised to do the cooking.’
‘Pity.’
He said nothing further and she wondered if he had regretted his spur-of-the-moment invitation and been relieved when she’d refused.
But somehow she didn’t think so.
They turned the corner into the quiet, tree-lined Square, its central gardens set with green lawns and bright flower-beds, and stopped outside the porticoed entrance of number twelve.
Yellow