didn’t demur; there was no competition when it came to the comparative attractions of the music and Alex Matheson! He was fascinating with a capital F.
‘I’m wearing my thermal underwear under this, but if anyone asks you to be a bridesmaid in winter have your excuses ready.’
‘I think that scenario is unlikely, but thanks for the advice. Tell me, are you really?’
The warmth enfolded her like a warm blanket as they walked into the farmhouse. Or was it the warmth and interest in his grey eyes? He had a peculiarly direct way of looking at a person, which could be vaguely unsettling, but Hope rather liked it. The less energetically inclined were clustered in groups in the unpretentious ground-floor rooms of her parents’ eighteenth-century farmhouse. The wedding was an intentionally small, intimate occasion with an emphasis on informality.
‘Am I really what?’
Alex’s eyes briefly touched the long line of her thighs outlined by the rose-coloured clinging fabric. He tried to picture long johns underneath the fine layer and found his mental picture kept shifting to frivolous lace and shimmering satin.
‘Wearing thermal underwear?’ He delivered the line straight-faced, but she liked the lick of humour in his eyes. It was refreshing to meet a man who wasn’t over-awed by her reputation, or at least one who was interested. He was interested, wasn’t he? A bizarre thought suddenly occurred to her…
‘Do you know who I am? Oh, God, that sounds awful.’ She winced. ‘I mean, people—men—tend to treat me…’ She struggled in vain to explain what she meant. How did a girl say that a lot of the nice men were too scared to approach her, and that the sort of men who wanted her as a trophy left her cold, without sounding wildly conceited?
‘Like a goddess?’ he interjected smoothly. The humour was more pronounced now. ‘Understandable.’
His grey eyes made a slow but comprehensive journey from her toes to the tip of her gleaming head. He looked as if he approved of what he saw. That in itself wasn’t unusual—most men did like looking at Hope—it was the fact she wanted him to like what he saw that made the experience strange.
‘But not very desirable.’ He was interested. A hiccough of excitement made her heartbeat kick up another gear. She was well accustomed to meeting interesting and important people, but there was something about this man that put him in a league of his own.
‘I’m not being reprimanded for not showing due reverence, then?’
Hope chuckled, a warm rich sound. She stopped abruptly, a frown wrinkling her brow. ‘I don’t quite remember—you’re not married, are you?’ Size sevens straight in the mouth, Hope—nice touch!
Alex didn’t seem to find her direct approach undesirable. ‘Not even slightly.’ There was the faintest of quivers around his firm rather delicious mouth.
‘Good. Can we be friends?’
Hope Lacey, he decided, blinking, had a smile that could stop a charging rhino in its tracks. She really is enchanting, and I’m a push-over, he concluded wryly.
‘Friends’ had a nice, uncomplicated sound, but the feelings this man was arousing within her were far from simple. ‘The last time I met you I probably called you Mr Matheson.’
Alex winced; he’d been trying to forget that. ‘You did.’ He doubted they’d ever exchanged more than a passing greeting. There had been very little common ground between a man in his late twenties and a teenager. If he recalled Hope at all it was as one of the coltish daughters of his neighbours, Beth and Charlie Lacey.
‘I was in my teens then, and you were?’ He had the sort of face that was impossible to give an age too. His body certainly showed no signs of wear and tear!
‘I’m forty now—next week, actually.’
He was a man who got directly to the point, Hope noted appreciatively. There was quite a lot to appreciate about him. He wasn’t pretty, more arresting, she concluded. His features were strong and angular, his high cheekbones had a Slavic cast and his jaw was square and firm. His Roman nose had obviously been broken at some point, but Hope found she didn’t disapprove of this irregularity.
‘I’m twenty-seven. It’s amazing how time has diminished the age-gap.’
‘Has it?’ His lips compressed in a cynical smile and Hope noticed with interest that though his upper lip was firm, his bottom lip was altogether more sensually full.
‘Certainly,’ she replied confidently. ‘Unless you still want me to call you Mr Matheson?’
‘Call me Alex. But it won’t do anything to lessen the age-gap. And shall I call you Lacey?’
‘That’s a professional thing; my friends call me Hope.’ Someone murmured an apology and Alex moved aside to let them pass. He had the sort of shoulders that could single-handedly block most hallways; they were massive, as was his chest, and it made him seem taller than he actually was.
She stood five-eleven in her bare feet, and nose to nose, as they were now, she could look him directly in the eye. Alex put one hand out to brace himself against the wall as the guests moved past. This close, his physical presence was literally overwhelming.
‘I bet you can’t buy a suit off the peg.’ She closed her eyes and allowed herself a small groan. ‘I’m not always so personal.’ She’d spoken in response to a surge of unexpected panic that had attacked her.
‘You can be as personal as you like with me, Hope. I like directness. You’re right. I have my clothes made to measure.’
He had to shave twice a day too, she realised, noticing the shadow across his jaw. She was gripped by a sudden and frighteningly strong urge to sink her fingers into his lush dark hair.
‘This is silly,’ she breathed with a frown.
‘And dangerous,’ he agreed drily.
Hope stared in a dazed fashion into his eyes. As she watched, the pupil expanded until it almost met the dark rim that surrounded his grey iris. Her eyes slid slowly to his mouth…she licked her dry lips nervously. It ought to be illegal for one man to have this much earthy sex appeal.
‘You too?’ She was amazed he’d replied to her soft self-recrimination.
The lines bracketing his strong mouth deepened as he smiled a little grimly in response. His expression remained enigmatic. She instinctively recognised that he wasn’t the sort of person who permitted his emotions to rise close to the surface.
‘Your halo’s crooked.’ He inclined his head towards her corn-coloured hair.
The puzzlement vanished from her face as her fingers touched the coronet of dried rosebuds that was wound into the Pre-Raphaelite curls her hair had been teased into. The tiny village church had been lovingly decorated with garlands of the same pink roses, bound together with lichen and rosemary on a base of rich, rosy velvet.
‘It was a lovely service,’ she remarked dreamily. ‘Lindy looked beautiful.’
‘I suppose she did.’
‘Suppose!’ she echoed indignantly.
‘I was looking at you. You looked like a glowing Botticelli angel.’
This was unexpected enough to take her breath away. He wasn’t the sort of man she would have associated with flowery compliments. ‘I’m no angel.’
‘No,’ he agreed in that slow, deliberate manner of his. ‘That would be boring. I can’t abide being bored, even by an angel.’
‘Looks don’t compensate for lack of character, then?’
‘You’ve got both.’ He spoke calmly, as if he were simply stating the obvious.
‘Some people take convincing.’
‘I’m a quick learner.’
‘Talking