of humour, his liveliness—all drew her out of herself, made her feel relaxed and confident for the first time in her life.
It made it all the more frustrating that she had to be a secret part of his life.
If only he could acknowledge me openly—not keep me tucked away here …
Yes, well, that was impossible. No point going over it again. No point starting to mope.
Grabbing her jacket, and slipping a waterproof around her, she picked up her keys and set off for a walk. She’d find a café and have some lunch, then pick up some shopping. That would pass the time.
Guilt plucked at her. Pass the time. Was that what she was doing with her life now? Finding things to do to while away the hours?
As she walked along the park’s pathways, heading vaguely towards the remains of Holland House and the beautiful glass Orangery, she started to think critically. Wonderful as it was to live in so beautiful a flat, with no money worries and a life of luxury that she’d never dreamt of, she could not live her life like that.
She should find another job, she knew—but doing what? Ian had insisted she give up the low-paid cleaning jobs she’d been doing when she’d met him. A thought struck her, and she stopped and stared at a leafless bush dripping water droplets along its branches. Why not take up some kind of charity work? Since Ian was insisting on paying her bills, why not take advantage of not having to earn a living by doing something to help others? What, precisely, she had no idea, but she could make a start, surely, by finding one of the many charity shops and volunteering her time—sorting out donated goods or working at the till. The charity shop could probably show her other pieces that needed volunteers, and she could take it from there.
Resolution filled her, and she could feel her spirits lift. Her mind ran on, wondering where the nearest charity shops were likely to be. Somewhere up at Notting Hill, probably, or down on Kensington High Street. And there would definitely be some around Shepherds Bush Green, surely?
She would start checking after lunch. She’d use her new laptop and the apartment’s built-in broadband to search, and then start phoning round to see what was available. With a reviving sense of enthusiasm she headed back to her flat. As she walked in she was hit by an exotic fragrance—it was the bouquet of lilies, giving off their wonderful scent, filling the living room with it. As it caught her nostrils she had a vivid recollection of the man who’d sent them.
He really was extraordinarily good-looking …
When the doorbell sounded just after six she jumped. She’d been doing a web search of charities, had got immersed in reading about the work done by them, and the time had flown by. Reading about just how terrible some people’s lives were had been a timely, sobering reminder. Yes, her life had had its challenges, no doubt about that, and every day she missed her mother, but what they’d been through had been nothing compared with the sufferings of so many in the world. It had certainly served to squash any resumption of her moping and self-pity because she could see so little of Ian.
The doorbell sounded again. With a mix of slight apprehension, slight irritation at being disturbed, and slight curiosity as to who it might be, she went to open the door.
‘Did the flowers arrive?’
The deep, accented voice did exactly to her insides what it had done the night before. So did the six-foot frame and the incredible looks and the way his dark eyes were resting on her …
She took a breath. It seemed very slightly strangulated, much to her annoyance.
‘Yes. Thank you. Though they were completely unnecessary.’ Her voice sounded staccato. Even brusque. She didn’t want to appear rude, but on the other hand there was no way she was going to be all over him for his over-the-top gesture of thanks for her very slight gesture of neighbourliness.
He seemed unrebuffed by her response.
‘Not at all,’ he contradicted her.
That faint smile was quirking at his mouth and doing, just as his voice and his looks had, what it had done to her yesterday.
‘The kindness of strangers should never go unappreciated.’ His eyes glinted with a hint of humour in their dark, gold-flecked depths. ‘You’ve no idea how badly I needed some coffee. It just never dawned on me that although these apartments come furnished there wouldn’t actually be any provisions in stock unless they’d been ordered beforehand.’ He paused. ‘Tell me,’ he went on, and now there was a quizzical enquiry in his voice, ‘have you succeeded in getting your coffee machine to obey you yet?’
Marisa swallowed. She knew exactly what she should do. She should say, No, and it doesn’t matter, thank you very much. Thank you for the flowers, but they really were quite unnecessary, I promise you. And then, politely but firmly, she should wish him good evening and close the door.
That was definitely what she should do. Anything else was madness. Asking for trouble. For complications. For something that she could do without and what was more to the point should do without.
I don’t need a tall, dark, handsome stranger in my life! And certainly not this one!
A little chill went through her. Besides, he could be anyone. Just because he wore a cashmere overcoat and a bespoke suit and Italian shoes, and lived in a luxury apartment, it didn’t mean that he wasn’t a serial killer …
Yet even as she entertained the possibility she knew it must surely be impossible. Whatever serial killers looked like, it was not someone who quite obviously spent most of his day ordering minions around and doubtless cutting deals with a string of zeroes in them.
Had he read the disquiet in her eyes? Interpreted her momentary hesitation as understandable reluctance to engage in conversation on her doorstep with a man she didn’t know? He must have, because before she could answer him he started speaking again.
‘I apologise,’ he said. ‘I’m being intrusive, and presuming on far too slight an acquaintance.’
If he hadn’t apologised she might well have made the answer to him that as she’d intended—she really might, she thought distractedly. But there was something about the open apology, the air of quizzical ruefulness, the slight backing off and withdrawal she sensed in his body language, that stopped her. Or was it, she thought with a kind of hollowing inside her stomach, the way those gold-flecked eyes were resting on her? As if they could reach deep inside her, hold her mesmerised until she gazed back at him.
‘No, not at all,’ she said awkwardly. She sounded very English, very stilted, she knew. ‘It was kind of you to offer to help with the coffee machine. But instant coffee is absolutely fine, and anyway I drink tea mostly.’
Oh, Lord, she thought, why on earth had she said that? Why had she spoken at all? Why hadn’t she just smiled and shut the door. Why—?
‘Quite right. Just what an English rose should drink,’ he replied.
And now, completely openly, there was amusement in his voice. It did even more to her than his accent did.
‘We Greeks, however,’ he went on, ‘drink our coffee like mud. A legacy from our Turkish overlords.’
‘So you are Greek!’
The words fell
