The thick brows above his eyes lifted and she couldn’t help noticing that they were as black as the curling lashes that framed his deep-set dark, quizzical eyes.
‘Are you all right?’
He had an almost accent—it was there somewhere in the perfect diction and the deep, smooth drawl. There was a smile and something else in his eyes that was as lushly velvet as his voice.
It was the something else that intensified the violent quivering in the pit of her stomach.
She lifted a hand to push the hair from her cheek, the rain-soaked strands tangling in her slim fingers while beneath the film of moisture her face felt hot.
‘Fine, fine... I’m fine.’ And surprisingly she was, for someone who had quite clearly lost her mind and couldn’t stop shaking.
She just hoped the internal tremors did not show on the outside, but she realised that on the plus side she would no longer need to pretend to have a clue what people were talking about when they mentioned lust at first sight.
On the minus side, she knew in a distant corner of her mind that she was making a total fool of herself because she didn’t have the skill or the experience to hide what she was feeling.
His incredible cynical eyes said he knew exactly what was happening between them.
‘You’re wet,’ he said, dragging a hand across his own hair, removing the excess moisture from the jet-black strands, then he reversed the gesture, causing his hair to stand up in sexy damp spikes. As he stood there just staring at her, Marisa had the oddest feeling he could see the thoughts swirling in her head, so maybe that was why he suddenly said abruptly, ‘Would you like to come inside?’
‘Inside...?’ she echoed stupidly.
Without taking his eyes from her face, he gestured with a tip of his head towards the entrance of the Madrigal Hotel.
She paused long enough so that he had to know she’d considered it before she began to babble, hating the breathy sound of her own panicked voice as she took refuge in good manners.
‘No, no, I’m fine. I’m sorry I got you wet and thank you for...’ She stopped short, figuring she had already made herself look as ridiculous as it was humanly possible to. She shook her head but didn’t move, her soggy feet feeling as glued to the ground as her eyes were to the face of this tall, imposing stranger.
He arched a dark brow. ‘Well, if you change your mind I’m here all week.’
His offer, if that was what it was, broke her free of the paralysis that had gripped her, and with another shake of her head, this time with her eyes safely on the pavement in front of her, she turned around and in seconds was lost amongst the body of people surging along the wet pavement. Her heart was pounding so loudly it felt like a sonar locator as she rushed on, welcoming the cooling caress of the rain as it hit her hot face.
After the initial surge of relief that she’d escaped—from exactly what was not a question she wanted to explore—she found herself wondering what would have happened if she had accepted the stranger’s invitation.
Really, Marisa, you’re not that naïve, are you? mocked the voice in her head as she squelched along, the rain numbing the heat of embarrassment in her cheeks. Or was that excitement?
That would have been the end of it, and should have been the end of it had fate and her school friend Cressy’s domestic emergency not intervened.
‘It would be good,’ Cressy had said when they’d bumped into one another the previous week, ‘to catch up.’
It was the sort of vague, socially polite thing that people said without actually meaning it and Marisa had responded in the same vein, never for a second expecting to be asked to follow through.
But Cressy had invited her out for a meal, and in the end it had been Rupert, so cheered at the prospect of her getting out, who had made her agree.
That evening she left him with his chocolates and a video of his favourite film and went out, and it was actually quite nice to dress up and get out of her comfortable clothes for once.
That was the funny thing about clothes—especially when you added some bold red lipstick—and she left the house looking everything she knew she wasn’t: sexy and confident.
Cressy, who was still struggling, she said, with her post-baby body, pronounced herself envious, but when Marisa watched her face as she scrolled proudly through the photos of her husband and baby twin boys on her phone Marisa knew her old friend was lying. Cressy wouldn’t swap what she had for a size-eight figure and a few glamorous outfits!
They had not even selected their food when Cressy received the phone call from home.
‘Yes, give him one spoonful if his temperature is up. It’s in the bathroom cabinet in the boys’ room, top shelf. Yes, I know you’ll be fine and I will have fun... Love you...’ Cressy slid the phone back in her clutch bag but she gave Marisa a rueful look and sighed. ‘Sorry, Marisa, but...’
‘Rain check. Don’t worry, I get it. You go home...make sure your boys are all right.’
Cressy’s relief was obvious.
Marisa finished her own cocktail and the one Cressy had not touched, and it was still only nine p.m. She was left all dressed up with nowhere to go but home again, where Rupert, who always retired early, would already be in bed, helped by the live-in nurse who had been with them for a few weeks now. Marisa decided to walk back as it was a lovely evening, and somehow she found herself standing outside the Madrigal, which was almost on her way home.
The stranger wouldn’t be there, she reasoned, shivering as she thought of him. It was still so early...why not go in for a nightcap? She’d always wanted to see what the Madrigal was like
