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And then her mum had the stroke, her first. Even now she could remember the shock of going to the hospital and seeing the IV drip in her mother’s arm.
That day Sam’s life had changed for ever. She had never fully recovered. But neither had she given up. She might not be able to tint eyelashes anymore, but she had taught herself to paint—first still-life, then people. Her friends, her carers...
And her daughter.
Glancing over at the portrait her mother had done of her, Effie felt her legs tremble as the misery she had been fighting all afternoon threatened to take her feet out from under her. Despite her frailty, Sam was still her biggest supporter, and getting the loan, getting the business up and running, would have made her mum so happy.
If only she hadn’t forgotten her phone. She never had before, but she had been distracted.
Distracted...
Her skin felt suddenly too tight, and as she pictured Achileas’s fierce blue gaze a shiver of heat prickled over her.
Would she have forgotten her phone if she hadn’t locked eyes with him in the corridor? Probably not. Only then she would never have come back to the hotel. Never bumped into him. Never felt his hand on her waist or breathed in the tantalising scent of his hard, muscular body.
She stared at her portrait. Unlike her, Achileas Kane was unequivocally beautiful, and it was okay to think that. Like admiring a beautiful painting in a gallery. But that didn’t take away from how rude and arrogant and full of himself he was.
And yet if she could bottle how he made her feel in those few dizzying moments when he pulled her onto the seat beside him that perfume would be an instant bestseller.
There was a knock at the door.
Oh, no.
She turned and gazed across the room, her heart not just sinking but plummeting like a stone down a well. There was only one person who ever knocked on her door at this time of the day.
Mark worked at the Stanmore too, as a porter. He had an unrequited crush on Emily and wanted to cross-examine Effie about her at every opportunity. To that end, he had taken to dropping in on his way home from work. Normally she just made him a cup of tea and let him talk, but she couldn’t face him tonight.
She would just have to pretend she was going out.
Picking up her coat, she pulled it on quickly and unlocked the door.
‘Good evening.’
Effie blinked.
It wasn’t Mark. It was Achileas Kane, his big body filling the doorframe, his blue eyes fixed intently on her face. For a moment she couldn’t breathe, much less speak. How had he managed to find her? More importantly, why was he here?
As if he could read her mind, he held out a folder...her folder.
‘You left it in my car.’ He frowned. ‘Are you going out? Or going to bed?’
Her heart fluttering like a moth inside a glass, she stared at him, still lost for words. ‘Neither,’ she said at last.
His gaze swept assessingly over her in silence. ‘In that case, perhaps you could invite me in.’
In where? Into her flat?
She stared at him in shock and confusion, then shook her head. ‘I don’t let strangers into my flat, Mr Kane. Just my friends. And people I have to let in. To read the meter or fix the boiler.’
‘I see.’ He shifted against the frame. ‘Well, we might not be friends, but I wouldn’t say we were strangers. And if it helps, I could always pretend to read the meter.’ There was a beat of silence and then he said quietly, ‘Please, Effie.’
It wasn’t a big deal. He’d just called her by her name. But something about the way he put the emphasis on the second syllable made her head feel light, and she let the gap between the door and the frame widen.
‘Okay, you can come in—but you can’t stay long. I have work tomorrow.’
‘At the Stanmore.’
‘How do you know that? And how did you find out where I live?’
