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As she cut through her small, cheery lounge, with its white fabric sofa and colourful throw cushions, its view of her small courtyard, she froze.
Rio sat amongst the cushions on her sofa, his body still, in a seated position, his head bent over the coffee table. He wore the same clothes as he had the day before, though at some point in the night he’d discarded his coat. It hung on one of the chairs that were perched at the window.
She was so shocked she almost dropped the vase.
‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded, even as her body screamed at her to go to him, to close the distance and straddle him.
Her body begged her to give in to her craving but her mind was rejecting that idea wholesale.
He didn’t want her.
‘You can stay, cara. Stay. But you should know that all I will ever want you for is sex. It is the only part of us that I believe you weren’t faking. I’d even throw thirty thousand pounds into the mix if that made you feel more comfortable.’
He turned to look at her, his eyes probing hers before dropping, performing a cursory inspection of her figure.
‘I asked what you’re doing here,’ she said through gritted teeth.
He stood then, skirting around the sofa and crossing to stand right in front of her. He reached out, and for one thrilling, confusing second she thought he was going to hug her. But instead his hands took the vase from her.
‘Before you drop it on your feet,’ he explained with a tight smile.
She didn’t return the smile. ‘Rio.’ It was a warning. Though it was only one word, it showed how close she was to breaking point. It was both a plea and a closed door.
He compressed his lips; they were a line in his handsome face. More handsome now that she could see the hard angles of his cheeks, the cleft of his chin. She swallowed convulsively and looked away. Morning sun dappled the windows.
He turned and stalked towards the kitchen. Confused enough to be curious, she followed. He held the gloopy flowers around their stems as he tipped the water down the sink, then lifted them out and dropped them into the bin.
There were two coffee cups at the side of the sink and a plate that held crumbs. He’d eaten? Toast?
He was looking at her, and it was a look that penetrated her soul.
When he spoke, the words were quiet and husky with emotion. ‘You look better.’
She took it as an assessment of her health rather than as a compliment. Her skin was pale, her eyes red-rimmed, her hair still wet. ‘Thanks.’
His mouth twisted.
‘This is you?’
He pointed to the fridge and one of the many photos she had taped across its bland white front.
Her eyes slid sideways, taking in the old family photo he’d pointed to. It had been taken around the time she and Jack had finished secondary school. She’d been in a full-blown Sex and the City phase and was wearing a fabric flower hooked into her shirt that even Carrie Bradshaw would have called excessive, with lace pink and white petals. Her parents sat as their bookends, proud smiles on their faces.
‘Yeah.’
‘Your brother?’
‘My twin.’
He nodded, filing the information away. ‘You don’t look alike.’
‘No.’ She reached up a hand to her hair, tugging at its damp red length. ‘He got Dad’s colouring; I got Mum’s.’
Rio was in her kitchen, and the strange thing was she felt an overwhelming sense that he belonged. It was unnerving in the extreme.
He turned away, reaching for two more cups and hooking one under the coffee machine spout. He fed a pod into the top and pressed the button. The noise was reminiscent of his machine on Prim’amore.
