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‘As long as you let me pay,’ she said. ‘My treat—seeing as you shared your prize with me.’
He smiled. ‘I didn’t mean in a restaurant. I don’t live far from a tube station. Come and have lunch with me.’
Go to his home?
She’d have to be crazy, especially given the way her body had reacted to his on the balloon. ‘It’s a bit early for lunch.’ It was barely eleven.
He shrugged. ‘We were up early. I’d say it’s lunchtime.’ He raised an eyebrow, as if challenging her. He couldn’t make it any clearer that he thought she was being a coward.
Well, she wasn’t. ‘Lunch,’ she said, lifting her chin, ‘would be lovely.’
‘Good.’
He unlocked the front door of a tiny Victorian terrace with a pocket-handkerchief-sized front garden. The décor was neutral—which she’d expected from a rented house—though a brief glance into the living room as she passed the open door showed framed photographs clustered on the mantelpiece. So clearly he was trying to make the place home rather than just somewhere to live.
‘Anything I can do to help?’ she asked.
‘You can put the kettle on, if you like.’ His eyes glittered with amusement. ‘Don’t worry—I have English coffee.’ He retrieved a cafetière and a bag of ground coffee from the cupboard above the kettle, and sliced open the seal. ‘If I was going to make proper coffee—the way I drink it—I’d use a briki.’ It must have shown on her face that she didn’t understand, because he said, ‘It’s a Greek coffee-pot—you use it straight on the stove.’
He’d already removed his jacket and hung it on the newel post, but now he stripped off his sweater to reveal a white V-necked T-shirt. One that clung in all the right places.
He’d looked hot in a suit. Gorgeous in that leather jacket and sweater. But now, in jeans and that white T-shirt, he was completely edible.
Madison only just stopped herself touching him.
But no way could she keep her fleece on. She was melting as it was. ‘It is OK if I put my fleece on top of your jacket?’
‘Sure. Now, let’s see.’ He was rummaging in the fridge and stacking a pile of ingredients on the worktops. ‘Anything you don’t eat or you’re allergic to?’
‘I like all food.’ As long as she didn’t have to cook it.
‘Good. So we’ll start with toasted pitta and hummus, then chicken and salad.’ He handed her a bottle of milk. ‘No sugar for me, please.’
It felt oddly domestic, making coffee for them both while he chopped salad. She’d never done this with Harry. Then again, she and Harry had hardly ever been at home together. They’d nearly always eaten out, neither of them being particularly fond of cooking. ‘Anything else I can do to help?’ she asked when she’d filled their mugs, added milk and returned the bottle to the fridge.
‘You can lay the table in the dining room, if you like. The cutlery’s in the top drawer and plates are in the cupboard next to the kettle.’ Meanwhile, he was whisking lemon juice and olive oil and fresh herbs in a bowl as if he were a born chef.
She collected the cutlery and went through to the dining room. There was a small dining table with four chairs, and a computer table with a desk lamp and laptop; next to it was a bookcase, stuffed with textbooks she recognised and other books that were printed in Greek and could have been anything from medicine to poetry. There were more photographs on the mantelpiece and a stunning watercolour of a Mediterranean seascape.
She’d just finished laying the table and was about to take a closer look at the photographs when Theo walked in, carrying a plate with hot pitta bread and a bowl of hummus.
‘Lunch. And I’m really ready for this. Must be the fresh air.’ He gave her another of those knee-buckling smiles.
The hummus was good—to the point where she suspected it probably hadn’t been bought from the deli counter of the local supermarket. And when he brought in the next course—a salad of cucumber, tomatoes, olives, red peppers and salty feta cheese, to go with chicken he’d marinated briefly in that dressing before grilling it—she knew for sure that he’d made it himself.
Theo Petrakis was simply gorgeous. Body, mind and heart—she’d seen him in action in the department enough to know he was kind and clever. And he was a great cook to boot.
If she wasn’t careful, she could really fall for him.
‘That was fabulous,’ she said when they’d finished. ‘You’re an excellent cook.’
‘That wasn’t cooking,’ he said. ‘That was throwing stuff together from the fridge.’ He held her gaze, his dark eyes flecked with green and gold and grey. ‘One evening I’ll cook you a proper Greek meal, if you like.’
