setting was indeed memorable—an eighteenth century summer ballroom, with beautiful long windows all around that let the winter sunshine pour in. And lunch was superb. Marisa wondered again whether to offer to pay, for she felt bad eating at his expense a third time, but found she dared not mention it again. He would take offence, she was sure. It was probably something he just wasn’t used to. Even so, she felt she ought to insist, and it made her feel very slightly uncomfortable.
Apart from that, however, Marisa found she was the most comfortable yet in his company. He was, she realised with a little start, no longer a stranger …
She didn’t know much about him personally—but then they weren’t really talking about personal things. She was glad. She obviously couldn’t discuss Ian, but she also didn’t want to talk about her life in Devon. It was behind her now—she would not be going back. She felt a little flush go through her. Besides, Athan Teodarkis clearly saw her as a young woman of independent means, who lived in a plush apartment and wore expensive clothes. What would he think of her if he knew she’d been brought up in a run down cottage by an impoverished single mother who’d struggled to keep their heads above water?
But all that was a universe away from the way she lived now. She looked about her at the beautiful, expensive restaurant serving the most exquisite food, looked at the man she was lunching with, who headed up his own personal international company and casually talked about going to places in private jets and chauffeur-driven cars, and having an army of minions at his disposal. His sunglasses had a famous logo on them and his gold wristwatch was, she knew, a priceless heirloom. Athan Teodarkis had rich written all over him …
Sleek, assured, cosmopolitan, sophisticated.
Devastating …
A little thrill went through her. A susurration of awareness that of all the women in the world he could be choosing to spend his Sunday with it was her.
This was no one-off, no convenient using up of a theatre ticket. This was, she knew with a flutter of butterflies in her stomach, a genuine invitation to her personally. Because he wanted her company.
It was the only conclusion she could come to—and she came to the same conclusion over the following week, when he took her to a concert at the Royal Festival Hall and a production of Twelfth Night.
And invited himself to dinner at her flat.
She could hardly refuse, since she’d tacitly agreed that it was to be the way she would return all the dining out she’d done with him—not to mention the theatre tickets. Even so, she was very nervous. And not just because she had no idea what to cook that a man like him could possibly want to eat. Her culinary skills were entirely basic.
She admitted as much to his face, and was relieved when he smiled.
‘Actually, I was hoping you might see your way to a traditional English roast,’ he said.
‘I think I can stretch to that,’ she said, adding hopefully, ‘How do you feel about apple crumble for pudding?’ Along with roast dinners, pies and pastries were the one thing her mother had taught her.
‘Crumble?’ he quizzed.
‘Pastry without water!’ she exclaimed. ‘Loads easier!’
So it proved—and so did the rest of the meal, including the company. She’d done her best to provide a traditional English roast, and he certainly seemed very appreciative of it. For herself, though, her stomach was full of butterflies—and not because she was worried the meal was not up to his standards.
It was because he was sitting at the dining table in her apartment and there was no one else around. Oh, she could tell herself all she liked that she was behaving with him no differently than if he hadn’t been a drop-dead gorgeous male who raised her heart-rate just by quirking his half-smile at her, but she knew it wasn’t true. Knew that for all her deliberately dressing in a cowl-necked jumper and jeans, with minimal make-up and her hair in a casual ponytail, she was all too aware that Athan Teodarkis was having a powerful impact on her.
Knew that she was having an increasingly hard time in keeping that awareness at bay, and was wondering just why she had to …
By strength of will she managed to get through to the end of the meal, keeping up a semblance of unresponsiveness to him, behaving outwardly as if he weren’t having the kind of impact on her that he was. She wasn’t sure just why she felt it was so vital to do so, only knew that it was.
I can’t lower my guard—I just can’t!
But it was getting harder—much, much harder.
Out in the kitchen after the apple crumble—which she’d served with custard and clotted cream and had had the satisfaction of seeing him polish off up, though just where it had gone on his lean, powerful frame she had no idea—he tackled the fearsome coffee machine, calling her over to explain the mechanism to her.
She was far too close to him. Far too close, his hand was pointing out the controls, his shoulders were almost brushing hers, his hip jutting against hers. His face was far too close as he turned to explain something to her. She jerked away, pulse leaping.
Had he noticed? Noticed the way she had drawn away and started to gabble something to cover her nerves? Something about how she loved cappuccino but hated espresso. She didn’t think he had—or at any rate, he didn’t show that he had, and that was what was important. That he didn’t think she was getting ideas about him.
Flustered, she busied herself retrieving coffee cups from one of the cupboards and setting the tray. She carried the tray through and set it down on the coffee table, sat herself squarely on the armchair, leaving the whole expanse of the sofa opposite for him. No way was she going to let him think she wanted him up close and personal beside her.
Did he smile faintly as he saw where she’d sat herself? She wasn’t sure and didn’t want to think about it. Wanted only, as they drank coffee accompanied by music of her choice—some brisk, scintillating Vivaldi, definitely nothing soft and romantic—to get to a point where she could smother a yawn, thank him for coming and wait for him to take his leave.
Because that was what she wanted, wasn’t it? Of course it was! Anything else was unthinkable—quite unthinkable. Unthinkable to covertly watch him drinking his coffee—rich and fragrant now that it was no longer instant—with one long leg crossed casually over another, his light blue cashmere sweater stretched across his chest so that she could almost discern the outline of his honed pecs and broad shoulders, his sable hair glinting in the lamplight, and the faintest dark shadow along his jawline that made her out of nowhere wonder what it would feel like to ease her fingertips along its chiselled line …
She blinked, horrified at herself.
This had to stop, right now! She mustn’t start getting ideas—ideas that involved her and Athan Teodarkis up close and personal. The trouble was, that was exactly what was happening as they sat there, chatting about this and that, with him so obviously relaxed, like a cat that had dined well, and her curled up on the wide armchair opposite, with good red Burgundy coursing slowly through her veins and the low light from the table lamps, and the Vivaldi now changing to something a lot slower, more meditative and soothing …
Seductive …
He was looking at her, his dark, opaque eyes resting on her, with a veiled expression in them. Conversation seemed to have died away, desultory as it was, and Marisa tried to make a show of listening to the music.
Not looking at Athan.
Not taking in the way the light and shadow played with the planes of his features, the way his broad shoulders were moulding to the deep cushions of the sofa, or the way his long, jeans-clad legs seemed lean and lithe, how his fingers were curled around the coffee cup, shaping it as if they were cupping her face …
There was a knot inside her. A knot of intense feeling like a physical sensation. As if she couldn’t move. Couldn’t do anything except sit there, her hands splayed on the wide arms of the chair, her breathing shallow,