said it made her cheeks colour. But he had done it deliberately, spelling out her fears, her apprehension and unease.
‘But think about this,’ he went on, and his eyes held hers. ‘The Irish have a saying—“All friends were strangers to each other once.” Is that not true? We were not formally introduced to each other by mutual acquaintances—but so what? If I’d met you at a party I’d still have wanted to invite you to dinner. What difference does it make how we got to know each other?’ His voice changed, something in his eyes changed, and something inside her shimmered and caught, like a soft flame lit deep, deep in her being. ‘Now we do know each other. And over dinner, I trust, we will get to know each other more. But nothing, absolutely nothing, will happen that you do not want to happen. You have my word on this.’
His eyes held hers, and then, out of the solemnity, a smile slanted suddenly across his face. Carrie felt that dazzle glitter inside her, as it had done when she’d first seen that incredible smile in the car.
Slowly, she nodded, swallowing. She wasn’t being stupid—she wasn’t! She was simply being—
Carried away. Swept away. But why not? Why not? What was the harm in it? It was true, if she’d met him at a party she would not have been so nervous, so uneasy. And how could she walk away now? She didn’t have the strength of mind to do so. And she didn’t have the will. Why should she? He wasn’t some seedy, creepy bloke—he was…gorgeous. Fantastic. Devastating. Irresistible.
And someone like that would never appear twice in her life.
The elevator doors opened and she stepped out.
Champagne still seemed to be fizzing in her veins.
CHAPTER THREE
THE ‘somewhere quieter’ that Alexeis had promised was quieter indeed. It was the dining room of his suite, overlooking the gardens of the Embankment below, and the dark, flowing Thames beyond. Her eyes had widened when she’d seen the view, but she had not objected or said anything, simply stared out over the river and the shore beyond.
‘The Festival Hall, the National Theatre, the Hayward Gallery—all the South Bank,’ said Alexeis, coming up behind her. His hand rested lightly and very casually on her shoulder as he pointed them out with his other hand. She felt warm beneath his touch, through the thin material of her blouse. She was like a gazelle, easily startled—easily affrighted—and so he kept his contact brief.
He stepped away, feeling a wry smile tugging at his mouth as his eyes flickered over her rear view. She had called her uniform ‘stupid’. He had another word for it. But it was not one he would use in front of her. Instead, he would merely—enjoy it.
As, indeed, he proceeded to enjoy her company over dinner. He set himself out to dissolve her self-consciousness, her doubt about what she was doing here with him. He ventured several conventional opening gambits, such as London’s cultural life, but she said, looking rather awkward, that she did not go to the theatre and didn’t know much about art. Immediately the memory of Marissa and her spouting self-importantly about the art world impinged in his mind, and he realised it was refreshing not to have to discuss such subjects. Whatever it was they did talk about—nothing too demanding or intellectual—he was very conscious of not being bored in any way. He was also conscious that he wanted her to feel comfortable and at ease.
And above all responsive to him.
But he was not overt. For her that would have been crass. This was not a female to come on strong to. This was one to…woo. A flicker came in his brain. Had that been the word he’d intended? Yes—and it was the right one, too. Nothing will happen that she doesn’t want, he reminded himself.
Beneath the undemanding topics of conversation he was selecting for her benefit—tourist attractions in London was the current one—he considered her objectively. She must be in her mid-twenties, at least, and though she was reserved, it was a quality he liked about her. She would not have had appeal for him had she been otherwise. Nor, at that age, was it likely she was a virgin. Again, had she been, he would not have been in the slightest bit comfortable about what he was doing. But as it was—
She’s here of her own volition, and I’ve all but spelt out to her that she only has to say the word and I will send her home untouched! I intend no harm to her—none whatsoever! Only a night we will both enjoy…
With final resolution, he closed his mind down on the matter. He was here to enjoy the evening—and, even more, the night ahead, he hoped. He wanted to ensure, as he was certain he was more than capable of doing, that she, too, took as much enjoyment as he did.
Satisfied with his conscience, he poured them both more champagne.
The meal was leisurely, superbly cooked and presented, and highly enjoyable. When, finally, it was over, Alexeis dismissed the waiting staff and guided her to the sofa for coffee, making sure he sat at the far end from her. He did not want her getting nerves at this stage.
His eyes rested on her.
He wanted her. It was very simple. Very uncomplicated. She was a beautiful female of a type he had never before encountered—a complete antidote to the kind of self-assured, self-regarding, sharply sophisticated women that were his usual fare. And he was intrigued by the prospect of what it would be like to experience her.
He was already diverted by the difference in his approach to her from his usual style. He had to be careful, he knew, not to appear to patronise her. She obviously had no experience of the kind of lifestyle he took for granted, and he wanted her to find enjoyment in the occasion. It was as if he wanted to—to indulge her.
It was an odd thought. He did not usually indulge the women he selected for his bed—if he had, they would have taken ruthless advantage of it. But this girl? No. Instinctively he knew that she would not do so.
Yet again, the novelty that she presented intrigued him.
He watched, his long lashes swept down over his dark eyes, as she nibbled from a rich chocolate truffle served on a silver filigree dish.
‘I shouldn’t, I know,’ she said, a half-smile tugging at her mouth. She was not quite looking at him, as she had not quite looked at him all evening. ‘But I can’t resist.’
Alexeis smiled, stretching his arm out along the back of the sofa, but making sure it did not impinge into her body space. His eyes washed over her—the clinging blouse, the white apron, the tight skirt and the black stockings. The effect was erotic, yet very subtly so. He felt desire rise in him, and anticipation.
‘Then don’t,’ he answered. ‘Don’t resist.’
Her eyes fluttered—and satisfaction eased in him. Oh, she might be unaware of how alluring she looked, but she was not unaware of her own response to him. Or of what it was that was happening between them.
And that was exactly what he wanted.
She finished the truffle—supremely conscious, he could see, of his regard—and then reached for her coffee. He did likewise, his eyes going to the hemline of her skirt, riding up over her knees. He felt his arousal quicken. But he must hasten slowly, he knew—draw her to him with extreme care—or he would frighten her off. Again the novelty of having to do so intrigued him.
As she sipped her coffee, he could see that she was becoming nervous, uneasy. There was an abstracted, unfocussed air about her. Then, as she finished the cup, she set it down on the coffee table and got to her feet. Alexeis’s eyes followed the movement.
She stood, looking down at him.
‘I ought to go,’ she said. There was constriction in her voice. Agitation in the way she stood. ‘I ought to go,’ she said again.
Alexeis simply looked up at her, his pose still as relaxed as ever.
‘Do you want to?’ he asked.
She looked down at him, the soft fronds of her hair framing her face, the blackness of her stockings and the tightness of her skirt emphasising