his smile, Charlotte reflected with a surge of triumph that things seemed to be going her way. Thanks to the company flat being occupied, she might have several more days of what should be fairly close contact to try and increase that interest.
His grey eyes were still looking into hers and, afraid he might read her thoughts, she said quickly, ‘Won’t you tell me about The Villages?’
‘They’re wonderful places to live, with first-class restaurants, good theatre and a great variety of night-life. The best known is undoubtedly Greenwich Village, with Washington Square as its heart…’
He talked knowledgeably about The Villages and their history until they reached an area where the streets no longer conformed to the rigid grid system and had a friendly, small-town feel to them.
The main thoroughfare, with its boutiques and cafés, its bookstores and art galleries, was busy and bustling with Christmas shoppers.
Snow was piled along the edges of the sidewalks, white and uneven, like miniature mountain ranges and, despite the sunshine, a row of icicles hung from an upper storey windowsill.
The stores were bright with decorations and tinsel. In one window a red-coated Santa rode on a loaded sleigh pulled by prancing reindeer, while in another elves and furry woodland creatures tied a green scarf around the neck of a carrot-nosed snowman.
Leaving the main shopping centre and most of the traffic behind them, they reached a quieter residential area and turned left into Carver Street.
A cul-de-sac lined with bare snowy trees and elegant brownstones, Carver Street meandered a little, like an amiable drunk.
At the end, standing detached and fronting on to the street, was a small three-storey house with a steeply-pitched roof and overhanging eaves.
It was built of pink and blue bricks in a herringbone pattern and its garden was surrounded by a high brick wall.
Five steps, an iron handrail on their right, led up to a central front door with a black wrought iron lantern hanging over it.
On either side of the door were two long windows with rounded tops and small square panes of uneven glass that picked up the light. Above the polished brass knocker, shaped like a lily, hung a holly wreath with a scarlet bow.
The whole thing was so totally unexpected that Charlotte wanted to pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.
‘This is where I live,’ Daniel told her. ‘As you can see, it’s really quite small.’
In a city like New York this charming little house should have appeared totally incongruous, an anachronism, but somehow its aura of calm serenity, its air of belonging here, made it look as much at home as the Statue of Liberty.
Stopping by the kerb, the chauffeur sprang to open the car door.
‘Thank you, Perkins.’ Daniel stepped out first into several inches of snow.
Turning to take Charlotte’s hand, he said, ‘Mind you don’t slip.’
She heeded his warning and descended carefully.
The sun had disappeared, leaving a sky of icy pearl, and the air was decidedly chill.
Conditions underfoot serving as a good excuse, he put an arm around her waist while they crossed the sidewalk and climbed the steps.
Just for a moment it gave her the perilous illusion of being cared for.
Taking an ornate iron key from his pocket, he opened the door and, standing aside, ushered her in. ‘Welcome to The Lilies,’ he said with grave courtesy.
‘Thank you.’ She stepped over the threshold and wiped her feet on the doormat.
Ducking his head to follow her, he felt a surge of pure elation. The woman he’d wanted for so long was in his house at last and he couldn’t wait to get her into his bed.
But he couldn’t afford to rush things a warning voice reminded him. In the past it had never mattered if a woman refused—there was always another one in the offing—but Charlotte Michaels was different, and this time it did matter.
As Daniel closed the door behind them Charlotte gazed around the living-room with unfeigned delight. It was old-fashioned and utterly charming, with period wallpaper and white plaster cornices decorated with sheaves of lilies.
The minimum of furniture, all of it glowing with the patina of age, stood on dark oak polished floorboards and on the right a small graceful staircase curved up to the second floor.
A bright fire burnt in the grate of a purply-blue ceramic fireplace adorned with garlands of white lilies, and a thick white sheepskin rug lay in front of the hearth.
Grouped nearby was a trug-shaped log basket, a hexagonal coffee table, a single wing-backed chair and a settee covered in dull gold velvet and piled with cushions.
Various other rugs and curtains tied back with bows picked up and echoed the indigo-blue of the fire-surround.
Between the long windows a tall beautifully decorated Christmas tree with a star on top stood in a tub. It was a fresh one and Charlotte could smell the pungent scent of pine needles and resin.
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