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‘The sitting room’s probably the best place,’ she suggested quietly.
He walked in and glanced around. Like the whole cottage it was small, but cosy-looking, with a chintz-covered sofa and armchair, a small open fireplace, a TV in the corner and a worn carpet on the floor.
He sat himself down on the sofa. The armchair was obviously the grandmother’s, so he avoided it. The granddaughter was standing, hovering, clearly still bewildered.
Dante sat back, crossed one long leg over the other, and began. He would take charge of this affair from the start.
‘You will no doubt be wondering what I have to say to you,’ he opened. ‘It is this. I have a proposition to put to you—a business proposition, shall we say? It will be of mutual benefit to us both. And...’ He paused, then said significantly, ‘And most of all to your grandmother.’
‘My grandmother?’
The waitress from last night stared at him.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Hear me out.’
He saw her swallow again, her hand clutching at the open door as if for reassurance. Dante’s gaze took her in. She was in a pair of dark leggings, bagging at the knees, over which she wore a large, loose and completely shapeless top which did nothing for her. Its short sleeves were tight around her upper arms. Her dark hair was screwed up into a flattened knot, unflattering to her face.
A flicker of pity went through him. There were many reasons, he knew, why females neglected their appearance or turned to food for comfort, and surely, he allowed, a young woman—in her mid-twenties, he estimated—whose days were spent looking after an elderly woman with deepening dementia, had reason to find comfort where she could.
Especially if she is facing losing her home....
He saw something change in her face as he glanced at her, and immediately shuttered his gaze. It was obvious what her expression had indicated. She did not like being looked at that way and she was all too used to it.
He felt a swell of pity go through him again. Then he put the emotion aside.
Time to get down to business.
And quite definitely time to steel himself.
Connie stood there, half hanging on to the door, while the man who might as well have landed from another planet—the planet of beautiful people, she thought, bemused—or, indeed, stepped through from a movie screen, proceeded to set out for her what it seemed he had come to tell her.
And as he did so she felt herself wonder if there was something wrong with her ears. Because what he was saying to her was just....
Impossible.
Insane.
Absurd.
Ludicrous.
Unbelievable.
Unreal.
He fell silent finally. She stared at him, unable to speak. Unable to credit what she had heard him say. Yet say it he had.
‘Well?’ he prompted.
His face was without expression, and she couldn’t understand why.
‘You can’tpossiblybe serious,’ she said faintly.
Something shifted in his eyes—eyes that were quite impossible for her to look at, so she kept shearing her own gaze away. It told her that he, too, was of that opinion. And yet he had said it quite seriously. She felt an unpleasant lump form in her insides.
‘It makes sense,’ came the answer.
The accented voice, just as much to die for as the entire man, was cool. Impersonal.
