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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, her heart tumbling around inside her.
His eyes held hers, and her own eyes widened—dilated. Something changed in his. Flared with sudden light.
She jack-knifed to her feet.
‘Oh, my goodness!’ she exclaimed, her voice slightly too high-pitched. ‘I … I think I left the oven on. I can’t remember turning it off when I took out the apple crumble. What an idiot I am! I’d better go and check—’
She hurried out to the kitchen. She hadn’t left the oven on. She knew she hadn’t. But she’d had to break the moment. Had to stop what was starting to happen. Because …
Because—
Because if he stays …
But she mustn’t think about what wou
ld happen if he stayed. Must only head back into the sitting room, smile brightly and say how late it was.
Which she did. And she stayed standing, making it pointedly obvious that she expected Athan to stand likewise. Which he did. But she was all too aware he did so with a kind of suppressed amusement, as if he knew perfectly well why she’d suddenly become so animated and hyper. He strolled towards the door, pausing when he got there. She trotted after him, mouthing politenesses which he replied to with an appropriate murmur. But when he turned back to her she could see, quite disastrously, that glint in his eye.
‘Sleep well,’ he said.
His voice was low, and his accent more pronounced. Or maybe she was just more sensitive to it.
‘Yes. Thank you.’ Her reply was staccato. More high pitched than her normal voice. She felt wired, with adrenaline coursing through her. Why didn’t he go? Walk out the door?
Stop looking at her like that.
For one long, endless moment he seemed to be just letting his gaze rest on her. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking—knew only that if it was what she thought he was thinking he could just un-think it. Because—well, just because, that was all.
She’d think about why afterwards. But not now. Definitely not now when, as if in slow motion, she saw his hand reach out towards her, felt his fingers graze her cheek, so lightly, so incredibly and devastatingly lightly. It was a moment only—scarcely there, hardly enough time to register it. But it made her skin glow, and even after his hand had dropped away it was as if he was still touching her.
