Runaway Wife. Margaret Way

He was clearly much older, with a wealth of experience behind those dark eyes.

      “A baby,” he concluded.

      “I don’t think so.” Her fingers clenched white. She was quite old enough to have had bad experiences.

      He didn’t miss the movement of her fingers. “You know about tragedy?”

      “Tragedy spills into lots of people’s lives. Maybe not on the level of what happened to you. What did happen to you?” she asked after a pause.

      “Miss Graham, I’d have to know you a whole lot better before you could ever make that breakthrough,” he answered sardonically. “Besides, I’m pretty sure you’re not willing to tell your story.”

      “Investigative reporter? Something tells me I should know you.” He had far too much presence to be an ordinary everyday person.

      “You don’t,” he assured her briskly. “Anyway, we’re not adversaries. Are we?”

      “I hope not, Mr Thompson. It’ll be a whole lot safer to be on your side.”

      “You amaze me,” he offered freely. And she did.

      “You amaze me,” she admitted in wry surprise. “I hadn’t bargained on more than a brief introduction. Are you always like this with strangers?”

      “You’re not a stranger,” he said, with a dismissive shrug of his powerful shoulders. “I hadn’t bargained on liking you either.”

      “Ah, so I wasn’t wrong. I could feel the hostility when you first arrived.”

      “You assumed that,” he corrected.

      “No. It’s true.”

      “All right,” he shrugged. “For a few moments you reminded me of someone I used to know.”

      “Someone no longer in your life?” At his expression her smile faded.

      “Exactly.” The brilliant dark eyes became hooded. “Anyway, apart from a few similarities you’re not like her at all.”

      “That’s good. You had me worried until you smiled.”

      “That’s it? A smile?” he questioned, with a faint twist of his mouth.

      “Yes,” she said simply, almost with relief. She didn’t add that as a big man he was in such possession of the space around him. Necessarily the dominant male. Colin had lacked this man’s presence, for all her husband’s arrogance and physical attributes. How she wished her life had gone otherwise.

      Poignancy left its imprint on her face. Women like her always made a man protective, Evan thought. “Well, I’ve got an hour or two to kill,” he found himself saying. “Would you like some help picking out furniture?”

      “You mean you accept me as your neighbour?” Her eyes lit up.

      “I accept that in some way you’re very vulnerable.”

      “You’re accustomed to vulnerable people?”

      “I’m not a doctor. I’m not a psychiatrist or a rocket scientist either. But I know a lot about people in pain.”

      “Then you know too much,” she said quietly.

      That contained emotion caused him to make a further offer. “How about lunch?” He, Evan Thompson, the loner! “Then we look at furniture, if you like.”

      “You’re being kind, aren’t you?” Kindness was there, behind the brooding front. People mattered to him. As they did to her.

      “Kind has nothing to do with it,” he said crisply. “I’m hungry.”

      “Okay, that would be very nice.” She walked towards him as he rested his powerful body against the doorjamb. “Why don’t you call me Laura?” She gave him a spontaneous smile that would have had Colin enraged. Her normal smile, or so she thought. Uncomplicated.

      Evan found it captivating. “Then you must call me Evan.” He held out his hand. After a slight hesitation she took it, her hand getting lost in the size of his.

      It was warm and firm, but never hurting.

      “There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” he asked, one eyebrow raised. “You didn’t really think I was going to crack your fingers?” He turned her hand over, examining it. “Delicate, but strong. Are you any good as a pianist?”

      The effect of his skin on hers was the most electrifying thing that had ever happened to her. She couldn’t pull away. It was as though she was held by a naked current. “People seemed to think so.”

      “Conservatorium trained?”

      “Wh-a-t?” It was so hard to concentrate when every nerve seemed to be jumping.

      He released her hand. “I asked if you were Conservatorium trained?”

      “I graduated. I’d begun studying for my Doctorate of Music.” She managed to speak calmly.

      “So what happened?”

      “Life.”

      “An unhappy love affair?” Something had overwhelmed her.

      “Desperately unhappy,” she admitted. “But that’s all you’re getting out of me.”

      “There are worse things than unhappy love affairs,” he said.