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Water. She was in desperate need of water.
Maya forced her lids open and winced at the pain behind her eyes once she did. For heaven’s sake. She hadn’t even had the whole bottle. Just went to prove what a lightweight she was. After all, wasn’t that a point that Matt had continually made? How often had he told her that she needed to let loose a little? To not be so constrained and proper all the time.
Maybe if she had done so every once in a while, her tolerance level would be a little higher.
Well, if he could only see her now. Sprawled out on a couch in what appeared to be the back room of an Italian art studio that she’d followed a stranger to. She could hear soft Italian voices from somewhere in the building. Two male voices and one female. Maya didn’t understand a thing that was being said. She heard the sound of a door open, then close.
Maya struggled to sit up. She wore a soft cotton tunic of some sort. She vaguely remembered stepping behind a curtain to take off her clingy wet capri pants and tank top, nearly toppling over in the process.
But she also remembered other things. Gentle, sympathetic chestnut-brown eyes. Wavy hair so dark it had reminded her of the moonless New England sky. A set of strong arms steadying her on her feet after helping to lift her out of the water. Who was he, exactly?
She really had no idea of the identity of the man who’d brought her here.
A gasp escaped her chest. How utterly mortifying. She’d left herself at the total mercy of a complete stranger. A stranger in a foreign city where she didn’t know a soul. No one would even know to come looking for her if this handsome artist man turned out to be a cold-blooded psycho killer.
Maya bit back a groan. Definitely one of the dumber things she’d done. But it wasn’t as if she’d followed the man back to his private residence. Technically, she was in a public place of business. There’d even been browsers in here when they’d arrived after her drunken mishap with the gondola. Sure. Like that kind of reasoning would pass muster with Uncle Rex if he ever got word of any of this.
Uncle Rex. She hadn’t technically lied to him and the rest of her family. She’d just bought herself some time, inadvertently doing the same for Matt. She’d concocted a vague tale about Matt running into some kind of emergency at work that would delay his travel and that he would join her in Europe as soon as he could. Just a small fib in order to postpone the nastiness that was certain to follow once she announced the demise of her engagement to the man her family considered to be the catch of the decade. Little did they know.
Little had she known.
Sudden tears stung the back of her eyes, exacerbating the pounding pain in her head. Fire burned behind her throat. All her earthly possessions for a drop of water.
The universe answered her prayers.
“May I come in?” she heard a masculine voice ask from the doorway. “I heard rustling. Figured you must be awake? Sì?”
“That might be one word to describe it.”
Her rescuer walked in carrying a tray of assorted plates and dishes as well as a steaming carafe. But the only thing Maya could focus on was the glass pitcher of icy water with wedges of lemon floating on top.
“How do you feel?” he asked as he set his load down on the marble table between them.
How could she possibly answer that? So many apt descriptions came to mind. Embarrassed. Ill. Thirsty. Out of her element.
And to dig deeper, she was utterly confused as to what her future held now. A boring dead-end job. Her most significant relationship in complete shambles. Nothing to look forward to. She forced the thoughts away and focused her eyes on the man standing before her.
Maya had to suck in a breath. Now that her gaze had cleared, she realized her memory of their initial encounter had not done the man justice. He was breathtakingly handsome. Tall and dark, with broad shoulders and richly tanned skin. He wore dark pleated dress pants with a pressed collared shirt the color of the Cape sky at dawn. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a print ad for expensive men’s cologne.
She pulled on the collar of her smock. Dear heavens, in contrast to this stellar specimen of a man, she must look like a walking demolition site.
Without waiting for her answer, he lifted the jug of water and began pouring into a clear glass with yet another lemon wedge at the bottom. So the man had mind-reading skills in addition to killer good looks. Either that or she looked as parched as she felt.
