wary of touching the shiny chrome taps in case she left marks.
Bright stunned eyes stared at her from the pristine mirror. Walls the palest of pale mint-green complemented darker green mottled floor tiles, the crystal-clear shower. Matching it all were the softest, fluffiest towels she’d ever snuggled her face into.
She washed her hands, massaged moisturiser into her skin, breathing in its mild perfume.
She loved the beautifully appointed bedroom too. Also with a green theme, nothing bright or glaring, and as tranquil as a country spring morning—including a painting of a clear stream flowing between banks of willow trees. It was her own calming space, where she might be able to achieve meditation.
Sitting cross-legged on the luxurious cream carpet, she rested her elbows on her knees. Shut her eyes. Black terror. They flew open. She concentrated on the rural scene. Breathe in. Breathe out. Count slowly. Count the flowers in the grass. Count the trees or rocks. Block out everything else. Her inner fears receded—a little.
She stretched, unravelling her legs to lie flat, gazing up at the downlights strategically recessed in the ceiling. By tucking her chin in tight she could see her toes. For how much longer? She rolled over to do twenty push-ups. Did the building have a gym? If she didn’t work she’d need to start exercising more.
She brushed her hair and went to join Ethan in the spacious open living area. Too tidy. Too clean. To her, not lived-in. No magazines or books scattered around. No bowls of fruit or nuts. The only personal touches were two framed photos on one shelf of a too organised bookcase.
His dark hair showed over the top of the long red couch, his low, rich voice lured her forward. As if sensing her, he turned, spoke into the mobile held to his ear. ‘Hang on a minute.’ He covered the mouthpiece, studied her with reflective cobalt eyes. ‘Okay?’
Her reward, when she nodded, was a full-blown lethal Ethan James smile that blew her composure sky-high. ‘Give me ten minutes. If you’re thirsty, I’ll have coffee.’
The kitchen area was TV-cooking-show-perfection: black granite benchtops–—including an island—with stainless steel appliances. It enforced her earlier assessment. His apartment contained top-of-the-range exclusives with a wood and leather theme. Had he given carte blanche to the same interior designer who’d decorated the hotel?
She hadn’t cooked in a kitchen with an island since—since she’d sold the three-bedroom house, mortgaged to the hilt, that she still couldn’t bear to see ever again. Not since hired contractors had packed up the contents and put them into storage arranged by her solicitor.
She clamped her teeth together and focused on the coffee machine—top-brand, naturally.
‘Bronze pod for me. Biscuits in island cupboard. Top shelf.’ His voice floated through the room, accompanied by soft clicks as he dialled another number.
Everything she needed, including a decorative wooden box with the word ‘TEA’ inlaid on the lid, sat on the bench. She activated the machine for his coffee, then opened the box. A delighted ‘Wow...’ whispered from her lips. Her blind lucky dip into one of the sixteen compartments of herbal tea—some quite exotic—produced lemon and ginger.
Ethan waited while his project manager verified figures, his eyes tracking Alina as she made two trips, carrying mugs and a plate of biscuits into the lounge. There was nothing hurried in her movements—hadn’t been from the moment they met. Except when he’d challenged her about her husband and her child.
His eyes did a slow full-body scan, from the short wavy hair framing her pretty face down to the sleek white blouse, over her still flat abdomen, over slender shapely hips, ending at dainty bare feet. His own body enjoyed every second of the journey.
Quiet and unassuming, she’d have been overshadowed by the vibrant Spanish women he’d chatted up on his visits. Or would she? She disturbed him in a sensual way, new and puzzling, and definitely unwanted in their current circumstances.
‘Ethan? You still there?’
The voice in his ear jolted him out of his daydream. Reality ruled.
He gave due praise to his colleague for an urgent problem solved and ended the call. Dropping his mobile by the files on the table, he took an appreciative drink of the strong adrenaline-reviving coffee.
‘Thanks for this.’ The object of his distracting thoughts was now curled up in one of the lounge chairs with a notebook and pen, completely oblivious to the effect she had on him.
‘What’s the title of the latest?’
Alina frowned.
He indicated her notebook. ‘List?’
‘Ah... Personal items. Clothes. What I have won’t do for living your lifestyle.’
Her voice held an audible hint of resignation that sparked a twinge of sympathy. He understood her reluctance, but couldn’t change his stance. He was taking the only course of action he’d be able to live with, irrespective of personal preferences or consequences. Those must be considered collateral damage.
‘I’ve ordered a credit card for you.’ He held up his hand to stop her interjecting. ‘No argument. Having you here is my decision, so I’ll cover any costs you incur because you’re living with me.’
‘I have money.’
Enticingly stubborn, eyes fiercely defiant, mouth so tantalisingly kissable...
He’d eventually win—just not easily. Every step was a walk in a minefield and they’d hardly entered the paddock. Knowing women as he did, he figured once she began to shop for her growing figure and new social commitments she’d realise he was right.
‘Compromise? Accept the card. Use it at your own discretion.’
Her gaze shifted over his shoulder to the photos on the bookshelf. Leon and Louise on their wedding day. With him at a social event. Her eyes softened. She played it down but she’d cared for them too.
He watched neat white teeth bite into a chocolate-covered biscuit, inexplicably imagined them nibbling on his neck. Selecting a plain shortbread, he stretched his legs and crossed his ankles. Wondered what it was about her he found so fascinating.
‘Compromise it is. I have final say,’ she stated with determination, causing him to chuckle out loud. ‘Is there a gym in the building? Or nearby. Until I find a job I’ll—’
She stopped as if stunned when his body jerked forward. Coffee dregs splashed onto the table. His eyes narrowed.
A job? She wanted to work? Hell! He stood, drew in a ragged breath and quelled his exasperation.
‘Wait.’
He strode to the kitchen, brought back a cloth and mopped up the mess. She watched him warily. How could he explain his world to a woman who’d depended only on herself for so long?
Sitting by her side, he took her hand in his, felt her resistance. Held on. ‘In the social circles I grew up in few women worked. There was always a hint of condescension when my parents spoke of those who did—even those with a profession. My contemporaries are a mixture, mostly by choice. I make no judgement.’
He
