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‘So you’ve been here ten years?’ Her voice sounded a little desperate as she made an obvious attempt to change the subject. ‘You’re not bored yet? No plans to leave?’
‘None.’ He gestured for her to be seated as he added, ‘Disappointed?’ just to rile her a little more.
‘Why would I be concerned whether you live here or not?’ she said stiffly, sitting primly on the edge of a chair.
Her skin was the colour of honey peppered with spice and the red hair was a combination of endless shades. Fighting the urge to touch her, Morgan walked to the chair furthest from Willow’s and sat down, stretching out his legs and taking a swig of his Negroni. There was a short silence and as he looked at her he found he’d tired of the game. Leaning forward suddenly, he said quietly, ‘We got off to a bad start, didn’t we? And it hasn’t improved since. Can we come to a truce? I promise I’ll try not to annoy you if you try and relax a little. If nothing else it will make life easier the next time I rescue you from a burning building or whatever.’
For a moment he thought she was going to freeze him out. Then a shy smile warmed her face, her eyes. ‘Do you think there’s going to be a next time?’ she murmured ruefully. And before he could answer, went on, ‘In spite of my track record so far I promise I’m not an arsonist in the making.’
He grinned. ‘I never thought you were. Unlucky maybe…’
She inclined her head. ‘Thank you for that—you could in all honesty have said stupid. It must appear that way.’
His smile died, a slight frown taking its place. ‘Why would I be so crass? We all make mistakes. Life is a series of learning curves. It’s when we don’t learn from them the problems start.’
She nodded, but as Morgan stared at her there was something deep and dark in the clear green eyes that disturbed him. ‘You don’t believe that?’ he asked gently.
She finished her cocktail before she spoke and a slow heat had crept into her cheeks. ‘I believe it. It’s just that…’
‘Yes?’ he prompted quietly, wanting to know more.
‘I suppose I’ve found others aren’t so generous. Some people expect other people to be perfect all the time.’
Some people? It had to be a man who had hurt her enough to cause that depth of pain. Telling himself to go lightly, he said softly, ‘I guess you get flawed individuals in every society who are either selfish enough or damaged enough to expect perfection. Personally I’d find being with a “perfect” person hell on earth, having enough faults myself to fill a book.’
‘That sort of person doesn’t see their own faults though.’
Her voice had been curiously toneless. Morgan kept all emotion out of his voice when he said, ‘Are you speaking from experience? And you don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to.’
Her eyes flickered and fell from his, but her voice was steady: ‘Yes, I am.’ She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘That’s a beautiful clock. Unusual.’
Morgan accepted the change of conversation with good grace although he found he was aching to know more. ‘It’s a French timepiece I picked up at an auction in France some years ago. The clock itself is mounted in a stirrup and horseshoe. I like unusual things. Things that don’t follow a pattern. Unique things.’
Her gaze moved to the two bronze figures either side of the clock, each in the form of dancing fauns. ‘I can see that. Are the fauns French too? They’re very beautiful.’
‘Italian, eighteenth century.’
They continued discussing the various objects of art in the room in the couple of minutes before Kitty put her head round the door to say dinner was ready, but Morgan found it difficult to concentrate. Who was this man who’d hurt her so badly? If it was a man. But it had to be; he felt it in his bones. What had he been to her and how had she got mixed up with him in the first place? Not that it was any of his business, of course.
He took Willow’s arm as they walked through to the dining room where Kitty had set two places. She had lit candles in the middle of the table and the lights were dimmed; clearly their discussion about her matchmaking had had no effect at all.
Willow’s hair smelt of peach shampoo, which was fairly innocuous as perfume went; why it should prompt urges of such an erotic nature the walk to the dining room was a sweet agony in his loins, he didn’t know. He glanced down at the sheen of her hair as he pulled out her chair for her and resisted the impulse to put his lips to it.
Pull yourself together. The warning was grim. He was acting like a young boy wet behind the ears and on his first date with a member of the opposite sex, not a thirty-five-year-old man who had shared his bed and his life with several women in his time; some for a few months, some longer. Experience told him Willow Landon was not the sort of woman who would enter into a light relationship for the hell of it, she was too…
