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* * *
She’d given him the perfect getaway clause. One moment of chivalry could have marooned him here with this sharp-tongued girl for the rest of the evening. All he had to do was say thank you, retrieve his coat and be on his way. The words hovered on his tongue, but Marco paused. There was something he rather liked about her defiantly pointed, uptilted chin, the combative spark in her blue eyes. It was a nice contrast to the tedium that had made up his evening so far.
‘Take your time and warm up. I’m in no hurry. The fresh air is just what I needed after being in there.’ He gestured behind him to The Chelsea Grand. ‘I was at the most overcrowded, overheated party imaginable.’
‘Me too! Wasn’t it awful?’
‘Unbearable. What a shame I didn’t see you in there. It would have brightened up a dull evening. No one ever enjoys these Export Alliance affairs, but it’s necessary to show willing, don’t you think?’
Her eyes flickered. ‘Oh, yes, I hope the evening wasn’t too much of a bore.’
Marco deliberately didn’t answer straight away, running his gaze over Sophie assessingly. She was a little under average height, with silky blonde hair caught up in a neat twist. Her eyes were a clear blue, her mouth full. She wasn’t as poised as his usual type, but then again he was bored of his usual type, hence the last six months’ dating detox. And fate did seem to have brought them together; who was he to argue with fate? He smiled straight into her eyes. ‘For a while there I thought it was. But now, maybe, it has...possibilities.’
With interest he watched her absorb his words, his meaning, colour flushing high and quick on her pale cheeks. She stepped back. ‘Well, it was lovely meeting you, Mr Santoro, but I really should try to get back before I need a team of huskies to whisk me home. Thank you so much for lending me your coat. I think I’m warm enough to risk another five minutes looking for transport.’
‘Or,’ he suggested, ‘we could wait out the storm in the comfort of a bar.’ There, the gauntlet was thrown; it was up to her to take it or not.
He rather hoped she would.
Sophie opened her mouth, then closed it again. Marco could practically see the arguments running through her mind. She didn’t know him. It was snowing and impossible to get home. What harm could one drink do? Was she acknowledging the sizzle of chemistry in the air? That indefinable quality that stopped him from taking his coat and walking away, that stopped her from saying a flat no. He could almost smell it, rich and ripe.
Sophie sighed, a tiny sound, a sound of capitulation. ‘Thank you, a drink would be lovely.’
‘Bene, do you know somewhere you would like to go? No? Then if I may make a suggestion, I know just the place.’ He took her arm and she allowed him, as if the process of saying yes had freed her from making any more decisions. She was light under his hand, fragile as he steered her away from the hotel and down to the lights and bustle of the King’s Road. Neither of them spoke, words suddenly superfluous in this winter wonderland of shadow and snow.
The bar he’d selected was just a short walk away, newly refurbished in a dazzling display of copper and light woods with long sleek tables for larger groups and hidden nooks with smaller, more intimate tables for couples. Marco steered Sophie towards the most hidden of these small areas, gesturing to the barman to bring them a bottle of Prosecco as he did so. Her eyes flickered towards his and then across their small hideaway with its low table for two, its intimate two-seater sofa, the almost hidden entrance.
‘Excuse me for just a minute, I’m going to freshen up.’
‘Of course, take your time.’ He sat down and picked up his glass and smiled. The dull evening was suddenly alive with possibilities. Just the way he liked it.
* * *
What am I doing? What am I doing?
Sophie didn’t need to look at a price list to know the bar was way out of her league—each light fitting probably cost more than every piece of furniture she owned. And she didn’t need to be a mind reader to know why Marco Santoro had selected such a small, hidden table. The whole scenario had seduction written all over it.
She’d never been the kind of girl handsome men in tailored suits wanted to seduce before. What would it be like to try that girl on for size? Just for once?
The loos were as bright and trendy as the bar, with huge mirrors running all along one wall and a counter at waist height. Sophie dumped her bag onto the counter, shrugged off the coat, hanging it onto the hat stand with care, and quickly tallied up her outfit. One dress, black. One pair of tights, nude. One pair of shoes, black. One silver shrug, wet. Hair up. Make-up minimal. She could do this.
