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Dante, hi—I’ve ended up coming south via London. Can I come to your hotel? Is half-six OK?
As she sent it, she wondered whether it would suit him for her to be in London tonight. Maybe he had made other plans for the evening? Well, too late now. And if she didn’t go through with this tonight, she’d lose her nerve completely.
She felt the butterflies swoop inside her again, staring at the blank phone screen as the taxi made its slow way through the busy London traffic from Knightsbridge.
Was she mad to be doing what she was?
The butterflies swooped again. And then again as Dante’s reply flashed up.
It conveyed surprise that she wasn’t at the cottage, but made no objection to her coming to his hotel.
I’ll be in the cocktail bar.
She texted back a quick thumbs-up and then sat back, letting the butterflies swoop again.
And go on swooping...
CHAPTER FOUR
DANTEGLANCEDAThis watch. Nearly ten to seven. They’d agreed half-past six. Ah, well, she probably wasn’t used to London traffic at this hour, slowing down the taxis. He still wasn’t sure why she’d come via London at all—it was hardly en route to the West Country from the Lake District. Still, it would save him driving down to the cottage. And a couple of days in London would do Connie good, he thought.
He’d booked them in for dinner at the hotel’s excellent restaurant, and changed his room to a suite. Maybe tomorrow night she’d like to go to a show, or a play? London’s West End provided a rich choice. He’d ask her tonight. As well, of course, as starting the necessary conversation about what she wanted to do with her life going forward.
Another pleasing thought struck him. Now that she’d spent time pampering herself at the wellness resort, while she was in town he could encourage her to indulge herself some more—go shopping, buy some new clothes, have her hair done...that sort of thing. He’d always felt sorry for her, even though he’d understood why the last thing she’d cared about was the way she looked. But now, surely, she could focus on herself for a change.
Memory sifted through him—how he’d noticed all those months ago that, despite her baggy clothes and scraped-back hair, she had incredibly lovely eyes. Blue, deep-set, long lashed... In fact, the most beautiful he could remember seeing on a woman.
The barman placed the second martini he’d ordered in front of him, and Dante took an appreciative sip. The bar was filling up and he glanced at his watch again—more impatiently this time. Nearly seven and still no sign of her.
The pianist settled at the white baby grand in the corner really was very attractive, he thought.
He flicked his eyes away. No, not appropriate...
He moved his gaze on, resting it on the entrance to the lounge, as he took a mouthful of his martini. Then, just as he started to lower it back to the surface of the bar, he stilled. A woman had just walked into the lounge and paused, standing in the entranceway. Framed in the light.
And this time it was totally impossible for Dante to move his gaze away...
Connie paused, the butterflies inside her now starting to flap manically. It had taken more nerve than she’d thought it would just to walk into the hotel lobby. Now, though, she was going to need every bit of courage she possessed. For an abjectly cowardly moment she wished she was back at her cottage, hundreds of miles away. Not here, and about to do what she was going to do.
Her thoughts skittered. She did not want to think about why she was doing it. It had been an impulse on leaving the resort, feeling so good about herself for the first time in a long time. She’d wanted to keep that going—build on it. To head for London and meet up with Dante there, not at the cottage.
At the cottage in the country she’d just be the same old Connie. But here, meeting him at his elegant five-star hotel, where she’d always felt overly conscious of the frumpy, dumpy way she looked...
Surely that justified what she’d done today? That was why she’d done it, wasn’t it? Gone shopping for the outfit she was wearing. To look more the part for a swanky hotel. Not for any other reason. None she would admit to, anyway.
Or dare admit to...
A sudden fear struck her as she walked to the entrance of the cocktail lounge. She was about to come face to face with Dante. She hadn’t seen him since the funeral, weeks and weeks ago. And now, after her time at the resort, after what she’d done today in London...
Will he think me ridiculous?
Fear darted in her. Then subsided. If he did think her ridiculous...well, he would not show it. She knew him well enough to be certain of that. He’d always been courteous, tactful—kind, in fact, about how utterly different she was from the type of women a man like him would normally be seen with. Her self-consciousness, she knew, came from herself—not from Dante making her feel it tactlessly or cruelly.
She swallowed, still nervous, pausing in the entrance to the dimly lit cocktail lounge, unaware that she was silhouetted against the brighter light of the lobby behind her. She let her eyes adjust, heard low blues music coming from a grand piano nearby, wondering where Dante was.
Then, with relief, she saw him, and her breath caught as it always did. He was sitting on one of the tall bar stools, looking as effortlessly fabulous as usual.
He was in a business suit. The dark silk of his tie contrasted with the pristine whiteness of his shirt, and she could see the glint of his gold watch strap around the wrist of the hand holding his martini glass. His sable hair, immaculately cut, feathered over his brow and the nape of his neck. His features, as ever, looked as if he were gracing a movie screen.
