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She was speaking again, saying something about dream holiday destinations, and he turned his attention back to her. Her expression was more animated now, as if she were losing the guard that she’d put up against him all evening.
Was it deliberate, this lightening up, or was she unconscious of it?
Whichever it is, animation only makes her yet more beautiful.
As she spoke his gaze rested on her. Sitting across a dining table from her like this, he could see exactly why Ian Randall was so smitten with her. She could have been wearing a sack, for all her appearance was seeking to mute her beauty. Hers was a beauty that shone like a star.
Can I really go through with this?
The unwelcome question uncoiled again in his mind, troubling him. It had seemed easy enough when he’d decided this was the best, fastest and most irreversible way of terminating her relationship with Ian. But now that he was only a few feet away from her, dining with her, talking with her … drinking in her blonde, perfect beauty … was it really such a good idea? Were there hidden dangers that he did not see ahead of him?
He pushed the thought aside ruthlessly. Of course there was no danger—not to him. He would do what he intended, achieve what he’d set out to do, and then walk away, his purpose accomplished. Unscathed. Of course unscathed.
Why would he even be thinking of anything else?
Not the way her cheekbones seem to be sculpted out of alabaster, or the blue of her eyes seems to catch the reflection of a tranquil sea, or her mouth seems as tender as a newly ripe peach …
He tore his mind away from cataloguing her physical attributes and back to what she was talking about. He realised he had no idea what she’d just said.
‘I’m sorry—you were saying …?’ he said.
She seemed to have faltered to a stop, and he wondered at it. Then he realised she was simply looking at him. A faint colour was staining her cheekbones—those cheekbones carved from alabaster, he thought, then pushed it aside. Her eyelashes swept down over her eyes, veiling their expression. But it was too late—he’d seen it, recognised it …
Knew it for what it was.
Marisa felt heat flare in her face, dipped her gaze swiftly. But she knew it was too late. Knew that she hadn’t been able to disguise her reaction to the way he’d just been looking at her. The power of his gaze, the message clear and unambiguous in his eyes. She felt hot, then shivery, as if one moment her blood was heating in her veins, and the next it had drained from her, pooling somewhere very deep inside her. She felt a breathlessness, a constriction in her throat, a hectic beating of her heart.
She fought for composure. It wasn’t supposed to happen! This wasn’t supposed to be anything like this. She was here with him only because he’d invited her to the theatre, then to dinner afterwards—it wasn’t a date, not in the romance sense. Of course it wasn’t!
He’s a stranger! I don’t know him!
But she knew enough.
Enough to tell her that when he looked at her he was looking at her not as someone to accompany him to a play or to talk to him about it afterwards.
All that stuff she’d told herself about how he was behaving like she was the wife of a friend, or a colleague, or a middle aged woman … it mocked her—made a fool of her self-pretence.
Jerkily, she got on with eating. That was what she must do—focus on the meal, on getting to the end of it. Making herself chit-chat about anything and nothing—it didn’t really matter what.
And don’t look at him—not like that. Ignore him—make myself ignore him—if he looks at me.
It took self-discipline and effort—a lot of effort—but she managed to stick to her resolve. For the rest of the meal she made light, bright conversation, doggedly not meeting his eyes, not gazing at him, not paying any attention at all to the way his eyes seemed to be flecked with gold, or the way lines formed around his mouth when he smiled, or the way his head turned, the way his strong, long-fingered hands curved around the stem of his wine glass, or the way his deep, accented voice played on her nerve-endings like the low bass notes of a song that pulsed slow and heavy in her veins …
But it was as if there were two of her. One that was doing the light, bright chit-chat and another, watching from inside, wanting to do what she was not allowing herself to do. To drink him in, feel the power of his physicality, his presence, his impact on her.
In the taxi back to Holland Park she was as jittery as a cat, sliding to the far side of the seat, deliberately putting her handbag down beside her, as if to form a barricade against him, and then leaping out of the cab as fast as she could when they alighted. She kept up the hectic, inconsequential chatter as they ascended in the lift, ignoring—doggedly ignoring!—the fact that they were enclosed in a small, six-by-six box with no one else, alone together, and the moment the lift doors opened she was out in the corridor and turning towards him.
‘Thank you so much for a lovely evening,’ she said, in the light, b
right voice she had kept up so determinedly. ‘It was so kind of you—I really enjoyed myself.’ She put a bright social smile on her face. ‘Goodnight,’ she said airily.
Athan looked down at her. OK, so she was holding him off. Keeping him at bay. Well, he would go along with it—for now.
He gave her the faint half-smile he’d used before. ‘Goodnight, Marisa—I’m glad you enjoyed yourself. So did I.’
There was nothing in his voice or his expression to show her that he was playing along with her, but he was sure he saw her colour deepen fractionally before she turned away and got her key out of her bag to open her front door. Did she fumble slightly as she did so? And was that for the reason he wanted it to be? He watched her open the door and step inside, her hand lifting in a little half-wave of farewell as she shut the door on him.
For a moment or two he stood looking at her closed apartment door, his own face closed as well. Eyes masked. Thoughts went through his head. Conflicting, disturbing thoughts that were a waste of his time. That interfered with his purpose.
