he’d intended to extract from her. He’d deliberately let her cool her heels over the weekend, knowing that Ian Randall never saw her at that time. For once—Athan’s lip curled—he’d be playing the devoted husband.
But with the weekend over he’d known he needed to target Marisa Milburne again, and continue with his strategy to part her from her married swain.
As with the Chekov, Hamlet was followed by dinner, over which their discussion of the production predominated. Yet again Marisa made sure she was wearing the kind of outfit that wouldn’t scream Find me attractive! and yet again Athan Teodarkis behaved scrupulously towards her, bidding her a chaste goodnight at her door once again.
Expecting another solitary weekend, Marisa was surprised when her doorbell sounded just before midday the following Sunday
‘It’s a glorious sunny day—can I persuade you to lunch at the Belvedere in Holland Park?’ Athan Teodarkis invited.
Her face lit. ‘Oh, that sounds wonderful! I’ve never been there.’
He smiled—that increasingly familiar quirking of his well-shaped mouth. ‘Then I must definitely take you. It’s memorable.’
She took a breath. ‘This time it’s on me. I insist you must be my guest for a change.’
His expression stilled. For a moment Marisa thought she had offended him. Then, his eyes still veiled, he gave a distinct shake of his head.
‘That’s not in the least necessary,’ he said, and there was a clipped note to his voice.
Marisa looked at him uncertainly. There seemed to be a shadow in his eyes. She couldn’t quite see into them. A little chill went through her.
Then it was gone. ‘Cook me a meal one evening,’ he said. ‘Simple fare will do me fine. Oh, and I can show you how to work that coffee machine of yours!’
‘OK,’ she said slowly, not sure whether it was still that momentary chill that disturbed her, or the prospect of Athan Teodarkis coming into her apartment, eating dinner there …
Had she really felt that chill? she wondered later, as they set off for Holland Park.
Athan set a brisk pace and she kept up with it—walking was one thing, after her rural upbringing, where transport was sparse and the wilds of Dartmoor were close at hand, she had become inured her to. It was, as he had said, a glorious day—but very cold. She was glad of her pure wool jacket and warm leather boots as they walked through the park towards the restaurant, which was situated in the ballroom that was almost all that was left of the grand Holland House that had once stood there.
She wished she’d brought a pair of sunglasses, as Athan had. As she glanced sideways at him she could feel her insides do a little somersault. What was it about dark glasses that made him look so … so even more than he already looked in spades!
She snapped her head away. He was glancing down at her, she was sure of it, and being caught gazing at him was not what she wanted. Did his mouth give that familiar quirk? she wondered. To cover herself, she started talking. ‘I do love Holland Park, even at this time of year. It’s a real haven. I come here all the time. It’s such a shame that Holland House itself got bombed in the war—all that’s left is enough for a youth hostel. And the Orangery, where the Belvedere restaurant is, of course. Apparently there’s an opera season in the summer. All outdoors. It must be wonderful on a warm summer’s night!’
She was babbling, but she couldn’t help it. He didn’t seem to mind, though, and made an appropriate response to what she’d said, and they continued chatting as they made their way towards the restaurant.
The setting was indeed memorable—an eighteenth century summer ballroom, with beautiful long windows all around that let the winter sunshine pour in. And lunch was superb. Marisa wondered again whether to offer to pay, for she felt bad eating at his expense a third time, but found she dared not mention it again. He would take offence, she was sure. It was probably something he just wasn’t used to. Even so, she felt she ought to insist, and it made her feel very slightly uncomfortable.
Apart from that, however, Marisa found she was the most comfortable yet in his company. He was, she realised with a little start, no longer a stranger …
She didn’t know much about him personally—but then they weren’t really talking about personal things. She was glad. She obviously couldn’t discuss Ian, but she also didn’t want to talk about her life in Devon. It was behind her now—she would not be going back. She felt a little flush go through her. Besides, Athan Teodarkis clearly saw her as a young woman of independent means, who lived in a plush apartment and wore expensive clothes. What would he think of her if he knew she’d been brought up in a run down cottage by an impoverished single mother who’d struggled to keep their heads above water?
But all that was a universe away from the way she lived now. She looked about her at the beautiful, expensive restaurant serving the most exquisite food, looked at the man she was lunching with, who headed up his own personal international company and casually talked about going to places in private jets and chauffeur-driven cars, and having an army of minions at his disposal. His sunglasses had a famous logo on them and his gold wristwatch was, she knew, a priceless heirloom. Athan Teodarkis had rich written all over him …
Sleek, assured, cosmopolitan, sophisticated.
Devastating …
A little thrill went through her. A susurration of awareness that of all the women in the world he could be choosing to spend his Sunday with it was her.
This was no one-off, no convenient using up of a theatre ticket. This was, she knew with a flutter of butterflies in her stomach, a genuine invitation to her personally. Because he wanted her company.
It was the only conclusion she could come to—and she came to the same conclusion over the following week, when he took her to a concert at the Royal Festival Hall and a production of Twelfth Night.
And invited himself to dinner at her flat.
She could hardly refuse, since she’d tacitly agreed that it was to be the way she would return all the dining out she’d done with him—not to mention the theatre tickets. Even so, she was very nervous. And not just because she had no idea what to cook that a man like him could possibly want to eat. Her culinary skills were entirely basic.
She admitted as much to his face, and was relieved when he smiled.
‘Actually, I was hoping you might see your way to a traditional English roast,’ he said.
‘I think I can stretch to that,’ she said, adding hopefully, ‘How do you feel about apple crumble for pudding?’ Along with roast dinners, pies and pastries were the one thing her mother had taught her.
‘Crumble?’ he quizzed.
‘Pastry without water!’ she exclaimed. ‘Loads easier!’
So it proved—and so did the rest of the meal, including the company. She’d done her best to provide a traditional English roast, and he certainly seemed very appreciative of it. For herself, though, her stomach was full of butterflies—and not because she was worried the meal was not up to his standards.
It was because he was sitting at the dining table in her apartment and there was no one else
