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It was disconcerting, made her feel vulnerable. Which was ridiculous; she often ordered outfits or lingerie when she needed a quick change for an unexpected meeting or lunch. They were picked out and delivered by any one of the many anonymous salesmen or women she employed and she never felt a moment’s hesitation about wearing things they had handled.
She didn’t even pick her own toothpaste; her concierge service took care of all her household purchases.
But Polly couldn’t help staring at the pretty lilac bra and pants, the sleeveless, fifties-style summer dress in a vibrant blue, the flared skirt ending just before her knees. Had he just grabbed the first things he had seen—or were they chosen especially for her?
Either way it was a choice between the dress or the tracksuit she’d slept in.
Slowly Polly slipped on the underwear and buttoned up the dress, her hands uncharacteristically clumsy. They fitted perfectly. Her figure was unchanged—for now.
Luckily she always carried a selection of miniatures from her favourite make-up brands with her and in just a few minutes she was ready, tinted moisturiser hiding the last of the damage from the evening’s tears, mascara and some lip gloss an armour to help her through the day. Slipping her feet into the flowered flip-flops Gabe had provided, she stepped out of the bathroom strangely shy.
‘Better?’ she asked.
‘That colour suits you. I thought it would.’ There was a huskiness in his voice that reached deep inside her and tugged, a sweet sensual pull that made her sway towards him.
‘Matches my eyes,’ she said, aware what a lame comment it was but needing to say something, to try and break the hypnotic spell his words had cast.
‘Non.’ Gabe was still staring at her as if she were something deliciously edible. ‘Your eyes are darker.’
Polly felt exposed before the hunger in his eyes. The dip of the dress suddenly seemed horribly low-cut, the hemline indecently short, her arms too bare. ‘I’ve never worn a supermarket dress before,’ she said.
‘No.’ He gave a quick bark of laughter and just like that the air of sensuality that had been swelling, filling the room, disappeared. ‘Polly Rafferty in prêt-à-porter. There’s a first for everything.’
‘I wear ready-to-wear all the time,’ she protested.
‘Designer diffusion ranges?’ He laughed again as she nodded. ‘What about while you were away?’
‘It pays to buy quality. It lasts longer,’ she told him, unwilling to admit that even her travelling sarong had cost more than the entire outfit she was currently wearing. ‘Now, I believe you promised me breakfast and then we need to decide what we’re going to do.’
‘We could just drive and see where we end up,’ Gabe suggested.
‘Oh, no, if I am taking a day off it needs to be well planned so I make the most of it,’ Polly told him. ‘And if you think I’m letting you drive my car one more time you’re crazy. My nerves won’t take the strain.’
Gabe grinned. ‘We’ll see,’ was all he said. ‘Come on, Polly. Let’s go and organise a day of spontaneous fun.’
* * *
Of course it had begun to rain. Why had he given up the golden beaches of California or the flower-strewn meadows of his home for this grey, drizzly island?
Although Paris could be rainy too, Gabe conceded. But somehow in Paris even the rain had a certain style. In the English countryside it was just wet.
‘Thoughts, Mr Spontaneity?’
Gabe sat back in his seat and considered. The prospects weren’t appealing: a walk, a tour round a stately home, a visit to yet another of the exquisite market towns where the old houses were built from the golden stone with which the region abounded. If they were going to do that they might as well return to Hopeford—the most exquisite and golden and historic of the lot.
The sea? But they were in the middle of the country and the nearest coast was over one hundred miles away.
He could, if he hadn’t been overcome with a ridiculous chivalry, have been on a train into the city right now. A visit to the gym, a couple of hours in the office and then a few beers in Kensington with some other émigrés. But there had been something vulnerable about the elegant Polly Rafferty slumped on a cheap hotel bed, that golden hair piled up into an untidy ponytail, red-eyed, white-faced. The circumstances couldn’t have been more different, the women more different, but for one heart-stopping moment she had reminded him of Marie.
Of Marie as she began to give up.
The irony was that he had spent the last ten years turning away from women who provoked even the smallest reminder of his ex. One hint of vulnerability, of neediness and he was gone—so why was he sitting here watching the rain lash the windscreen on a magical mystery tour to nowhere?
