In the Deep

mean.” He ran his fingers awkwardly through his hair. He looked embarrassed. His fringe flopped back over his brow. He stood taller than I was in my heels. Well built. Perhaps more girth than he needed, but I’ve always liked a bit of a bulk in a man. I especially liked thick thighs, and his swelled under his business pants. He wore the kind of clothes Doug might wear—the Doug I’d fallen for. And whatever my feelings were now about Doug, they remained conflicted and horribly confusing, and I found myself attracted to this man.

I hooked my purse strap higher over my shoulder and cleared my throat. “Thank you.”

“What?”

“The . . . uh . . . the heels. The compliment.”

He laughed. I liked the way his eyes crinkled and dimples appeared in his cheeks. And I laughed nervously in return.

“Look, could I . . . can I buy you a drink?” He gestured to the dark and intimate little pub entrance to his right.

“I was just on my way out.”

“Of course. No worries.”

“And . . . I’ve had a couple already.”

“Something to eat, then?” His smile deepened. “To help soak it all up.”

I realized his accent was Australian. With maybe a hint of British. Underscored by Canadian, or was it American? And there was no judgment in the way he said “soak it all up.” The moment—his manner—was curiously intimate, casual, easy. Simple. I hesitated as some vestigial thing reawakened deep inside me. I glanced back in the direction Dana had gone. I thought of my cold North Shore house across the bridge. All packed and boxed up and hollow. Chloe’s empty room. How long had it been since a man had noticed me in this way? I’d put on so much weight after Chloe, and it was not all off yet, but he didn’t seem to care. What I saw in his eyes was approval. It felt good.

“I’m in town for this convention,” he explained, “and it’s been a brutally long day. I need to decompress, and I could do with your company.”

I knew they served brandies by the fire in the dark pub, and one wall was lined with bookshelves of first editions behind glass doors. The chairs were deep and comfortable.

“I’m Martin.” He held out his hand. “Martin Cresswell-Smith.”

“Ellie Tyler.” I placed my hand in his.

“So, Ellie Tyler, how about the drink and a bite to eat?”

I hesitated and held his gaze. Had I sent out the wrong signals? Inadvertently invited the wrong kind of attention? He didn’t look like a serial killer. And I was safe inside this hotel, right? How wrong could this go?

You can be whoever or whatever you want, Ellie . . .

I smiled. “Sure. Why not?”

THEN

ELLIE

I looked for a ring. There was none. It didn’t mean he wasn’t married, but I’d decided in the washroom that if he sported a wedding band I was out of here. The server arrived bearing a cheese board with two glasses of port. Martin had selected a low table in front of the fire with two chairs turned partially toward the hearth. It felt private. Intimate.

“I hope you don’t mind me taking the liberty,” Martin said, gesturing toward the food and drink. “We can change the order if you don’t like—”

“It looks wonderful.” I reached for a glass, relieved to see he also seemed a little nervous. It suggested to me that picking up women on the way to the bathroom was not something he did routinely. Perhaps he really had seen something special in me.

He raised his glass. “Cheers,” he said, clinking his glass to mine. “To chance meetings.”

“To chance meetings.”

I liked the shape of his hands. And in spite of the hint of nerves, he possessed the air of easy authority that often came with established wealth. Thanks to my father, I’d met many men who carried that aura. And judging by his bronze Rolex and gold cuff links engraved with the initials MCS, combined with the elegant cut of his clothes and the Bolvaint shoes, Martin Cresswell-Smith was accustomed to financial success. I felt something inside me begin to open up. Hope. A possibility that I could live—really live—again. Laugh. Love, even.

“What are you thinking, Ellie?”

“That you don’t look like a serial killer.”

He laughed. Loudly. The sound rich and infectious. He leaned forward, a mischievous light twinkling in his eyes. “But I could abduct you. I could take you away from here to a dark and remote place.”

“Too risky. Too public. CCTV cameras.” I wiggled my hand toward the roof.

He glanced up. “Are there?”

I hesitated, not yet ready to share with him how much I did know about this hotel that bore our family name. “Well, I imagine there might be. In the lobby, at least. And you’d have to take me through the lobby, right?”

“Hmm.” He swirled the rich burgundy liquid in his glass. It caught the glow of the fire. “Maybe a rear service door?”

“Opening a back door would sound the fire alarm.”

He made a wry face. “Okay, you win. Abduction is out.”

I chuckled, reached for an artisan cracker, topped it with soft cheese, and popped it into my mouth.

“So where is the accent from?” I said around my mouthful.

“The better question is where isn’t it from.” He fell silent for a moment and I had a sense he was debating how much to tell me about himself. “I was born in Australia. Melbourne. My mother was originally from Canada. My father is in property development. Shopping malls. International resorts. So we traveled a lot when I was growing up. We spent three years in England, and I went to school there. Some time in the States—Nevada, New York. Then Portugal and France. A year in the Caribbean. Some months on the Red Sea living at a diving resort for a project my dad was working on there. A lot of time in Toronto. I live there now. My business is based in Toronto.”

“And you’re here as part of the AGORA convention?”

He nodded. “A chance to pitch