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‘All of them?’ she said smilingly, hoping he couldn’t sense what the kiss had done to her equilibrium. ‘Blonde, red and brunette ones?’
He didn’t say anything for a second, but then one of his hands touched her hair. ‘I only dream warm brown with tones of red these days.’ His eyes moved over her face. ‘And grey eyes, small nose, full, kissable lips. Mmm, very kissable lips…’
She stopped him with an upraised hand as he went to take her into his arms again, laughing as she said, ‘I hate to tell you, but these kissable lips have left lipstick on yours. Unless you want to be thought of as a very modern man I suggest you wipe it off before we go out.’
He took her arm, gently moving her into her hall and closing the flat door before he said, ‘One thing at a time…’
This time the kiss lasted longer and was more intimate, his arms moulding her body into his and his lips firm and warm as they took what they wanted. Rosalie was aware she was kissing him back and that it would be giving him all the wrong signals, but she couldn’t help it, she told herself feverishly. He only had to touch her and she seemed to melt and lose all reason.
Not that that was any excuse, she admitted honestly in the next second when she was free again, but it was the truth none the less.
‘I’ll need to do my lipstick again.’ She took a backward step as she spoke as though she thought he was going to reach for her again, her cheeks pink.
‘Sure,’ he said softly, his eyes laughing at her as he took out a crisp white handkerchief and began to wipe the scarlet from his mouth. ‘Go ahead. I’m not going anywhere.’
Once in the taxi—which had been clocking up the kissing time—he took her hand, asking her about her day and telling her about his, and what had been happening the last couple of weeks. They continued with the same kind of easy inconsequential conversation once they got to the nightclub, a lush affair with a very good jazz band and a dance floor that demanded closeness.
Their table was in a nice spot—not so near the band that they were deafened, but close to the dance floor—and after Kingsley had ordered a bottle of champagne he leant back in his seat, the bright blueness of his eyes holding hers. ‘I’m glad the ankle mended so well,’ he said quietly. ‘We can do this more often now.’ His eyes challenged her to disagree.
She stared at him, aware that the hint of intimacy that had been hanging in the air between them since the kiss in the hall was stronger than ever. ‘As often as your busy life and mine allows,’ she said at last, aiming to make it casual but knowing she hadn’t responded quickly enough for that. ‘Which won’t be all that much, I suppose.’
He gave her a long, silent look. ‘Then we’ll have to make sure it is, won’t we?’ He shifted in his chair and every nerve in her body registered the movement. ‘Friends should see each other often,’ he drawled with lazy mockery.
Friends? She didn’t know how to take that.
He was watching her with a kind of amused speculation, his lips curving just the slightest. He knew just how he affected her. She shrugged carefully just as the waiter appeared with the champagne, and once he had gone and she was sipping her glass of frothy bubbles Kingsley leant forward, all amusement gone. ‘I like you very much, Rosie,’ he said huskily. ‘It’s important you know that. I didn’t like the way you were on my mind at first, but then…then I welcomed it. I don’t want to rush you, I still hold to that, but the way I feel about you…’ One finger touched her mouth, slowly outlining her lips.
What was he saying? She took a big gulp of champagne. She didn’t know where she was with this man from one moment to the next. One minute intense, the next mocking. Chameleon man.
He had sat back in his seat again as she had reached for her glass, and now he said quietly, ‘Does that bother you?’ He was watching her very closely.
Her smile was brittle. ‘Of course not. Everyone likes to be liked, don’t they?’ A strange feeling was taking hold of her, uncertainty telling her she would be faintly relieved if he was still talking about just an affair and nothing more. But only faintly. Which was more crazy than anything that had gone before. A man like Kingsley wasn’t for her. She knew that.
‘I don’t know,’ he said levelly. ‘You tell me.’
‘There’s no harm in liking.’ She shrugged offhandedly.
‘And if liking grows to something more?’ he pressed softly.
She blinked, tearing her eyes away from his. She tried to think of something to say to bring the conversation back to normality and failed utterly.
‘I see.’ His voice was very soft, very deep.
Her heart quickened, her uneasiness transparent. ‘What do you see?’ she asked boldly, because she really wanted to know.
He didn’t answer that. What he did say was, and still very softly, ‘We’ve a long way to go, haven’t we?’ It was a statement, not a question. He observed her in silence, waiting.
A different waiter appeared with two menus, and Rosalie was so pleased to see him she could have kissed him. She took hers with such effusive thanks the poor man backed away with something like alarm on his face.
When he had gone with a promise to return in a few minutes, Kingsley took the menu out of her hands, his touch very gentle. He lifted her chin, forcing her eyes to meet piercing blue, and then he said, ‘You told me about your mother and father, Rosie, can’t you tell me about him?’
‘No.’ One word, but blatant in what it conveyed.
He gave her a lo
ng, searching look. ‘Okay.’ He released her, picking up her menu and placing it in her nerveless fingers. ‘I’d recommend something but as it would mean you eating something else I won’t try that one again,’ he said pleasantly.
She glanced at him, relieved when he smiled at her. ‘That was stupid,’ she admitted weakly, feeling he deserved some sort of apology. ‘But at the time you seemed so arrogant.’
