Citroën convertible so sleek that it looked as if it might fly to the moon. It boasted French numberplates and the regulation hunk inside, who sported a bone-structure and designer sunglasses to die for.
Tessa watched his graceful emergence from the car: elegance oozing wealth, with the usual paraphernalia associated with money—gold watch and cuff-links, mobile phone attached to a Gucci belt and an expensive-looking tan which made him glow with smooth health.
This exotic vision tucked the sunglasses into the breast pocket of his eau-de-nil jacket, gave her road-bike the once-over and then settled a now-what-have-we-here gaze on her. Which she promptly returned with interest.
‘Evening,’ he drawled lazily.
‘Hello!’ she said, happy enough to embrace the world at that moment. ‘Bonsoir!’ she added, recklessly using up one of the five French words she knew.
Tessa leaned against her bike and pondered idly over his accent while he began the boringly obligatory male examination of her body: a studied and frank appraisal, which ranged from her expensively cut bob to the skintight leathers and neat boots and wandered slowly over the curves between.
Men! she thought scathingly, doing precisely the same to him. She found it rather pleasurable. He was something of a dish.
Their eyes met as they both finished their tours, both smiling in mocking acknowledgement of their insolence. But she hugged a secret to herself. It had been only eight months since misery had made her thin and she’d lost four stones in weight. He wouldn’t have given her the time of day back then!
But whatever her weight loss, she was still the same person. No, she amended. That wasn’t true. She was warier because of old humiliations—and one in particular. Her eyes flickered with the painful memory, attracting a more intense concentration of the stranger’s keen gaze. And as he stared deeply into her eyes she wondered if he saw beneath the recent make-over and her apparent confidence and could tell that once upon a time she’d been unloved and unhappy.
Apparently not. ‘You must be extremely hot in those leathers,’ was all he said. But the deep drawl reached into her bones like the slow ooze of warm sunshine, surprising her with its liquid sexiness.
‘Only when I get off my bike and let the heat catch up with me,’ she answered drily, thinking that it would be heavenly to take off her leather jacket. But what, she thought with a giggle, would Bedroom Voice make of her cropped cotton top and bare midriff?
And now she’d identified his accent. A Deep South drawl. An American. So much for the French numberplates, his Mediterranean colouring and the stylish clothes!
‘You seem to have met those conditions. So why don’t you remove your jacket?’ he enquired with an unnervingly warm interest in his eyes.
Her eyebrow arched to convey what she thought of complying with that idea with a wolfish male around. Too many zips. It’s not worth it. I’m only pausing for a short break and to admire the view.’
He gave a lazy grin of regret and a last, lingering appreciation of her firmly toned thighs, then dismissed her with a suddenness that left her slightly disconcerted. She felt she should go, but she needed a few moment’s rest—and something about the man intrigued her.
His languid manner had subtly changed, becoming businesslike and brisk. He’d removed an impressive-looking camera from the car and was focusing it on the slumbering village, firing off a series of shots.
A camera buff? she wondered idly. Somehow he didn’t look the type to be interested in such an amiable pursuit. This was a go-getter, a four-scalps-before-breakfast man. So…why act like a tourist?
Tessa’s curiosity got the better of her and she put her much used people-watching technique into serious operation.
Suave. Mid-thirties. Achingly handsome, with intelligent eyes. Gym-enhanced body—shoulders you could sit encyclopedias on—but which looked rather tense. His jaw showed signs of strain too, as though his teeth were tightly clenched. In concentration, perhaps? Or did he have a badly placed toffee? Her eyes danced with fun.
He—let alone the camera, she thought in amusement—was totally focused, photographing the village with an absorbed intensity. Oddly enough, what he saw didn’t please him. His tanned forehead bore the merest hint of a scowl which angled his black brows together a little. And was that potentially sultry mouth a fraction grimmer than before?
Perhaps he’d brought the wrong lens. Or perhaps he was on his last toffee!
Fascinated beyond caution, she said provokingly, ‘Smashing place, isn’t it?’ His head jerked around in surprise, as if he’d forgotten her presence. ‘Picturesque,’ she added, and drew a wilting chocolate bar from her pocket, peeling back the wrapper and nibbling at the dark chocolate with enthusiasm. ‘It would look good in a tourist brochure,’ she said encouragingly, hoping to glean some information.
‘From where I’m standing it looks in a dire state of repair,’ he replied, laconically lifting the camera for another shot.
‘So would you be if you were that old,’ she retorted cheerfully, appropriating her mother’s village and defending it loyally. ‘It’s obviously medieval—’
‘I am aware of that. I hope you’re not implying I’m a moron,’ he said in faint horror, and she shook her head in mock-solemn denial. ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he went on, and the sexy mouth twitched in private amusement. ‘The medieval period is a particular interest of mine.’
‘Then aren’t you being unreasonable in expecting the village to be in pristine condition?’ she said logically. ‘Personally, I think that slightly faded look is part of its charm—’
‘Charm is all very well,’ he returned, interrupting her again, and the offending buildings were given another faintly sour once-over, ‘but it doesn’t keep the rain out. I imagine you’d be desperate to leave if you had to live through the winter in one of those houses.’
Tessa’s eyes sparkled with anticipation. It was her intention to live in one of those houses! Though maybe not through the winter. She wondered sentimentally which one belonged to her mother.
‘You’re wrong. I’d love it,’ she declared fervently, thinking of the cramped flat she shared with her father. ‘Much nicer than being stuck in a characterless modern lump of concrete.’
‘You think so?’ he murmured. ‘Look harder.’
She did. ‘I see a quaint village with eagles flying over it’
‘Black kites,’ he corrected her. ‘If you had better eyesight,’ he went on, unaware that her eyesight had been beautifully corrected and she could see for miles, ‘you’d notice that the buildings are crumbling.’
‘Oh!’ she cried, a little embarrassed that she hadn’t seen anything of the sort, especially as she’d spent five years learning restoration skills. How easily her romanticism could blind her to reality!
‘Characterless or not, something modern would be welcomed by the people up there. Probably,’ the man said sardonically, ‘with open arms and shouts of unmitigated joy.’
‘Oh, surely not!’ she protested. ‘Exchange that setting? Those fabulous views of the river, the—?’
‘The
