slightly that Alex liked taking the tube rather than a taxi. Then again, on the tube people were careful not to catch anyone’s eye, so although he’d probably be recognised it was unlikely that someone would ask for an autograph or a photograph with him taken with the camera on their mobile phone. Besides, without the hat, people were more likely to think he was a guy who just happened to look like the archaeologist from the show, rather than being the man himself.
It was practically impossible to talk on the tube; there were just too many people squashed onto the train. During late spring and summer, rush hour seemed to last a lot longer; the office workers crushing onto the train were quickly replaced by tourists.
Isobel wasn’t sure whether it made her more relieved or uptight—or both at the same time. Relieved, because she didn’t have to make eye contact or conversation with Alex. And uptight, because it gave her time to think about what he’d said.
Getting married—to Alex.
Having sex—with Alex.
Oh, Lord.
She’d enjoyed her friendship with Alex. She always had.
And she’d married Gary because she’d loved him.
But a little bit of her had always wondered: what if Alex hadn’t had his string of glamorous girlfriends? What if he’d repeated that kiss when she was twenty-one? What if she’d ended up with Alex instead of Gary?
Panic skittered through her. She had to be insane even to be considering this. Marriage wouldn’t work. She’d had one serious relationship before Gary, so she was hardly experienced— whereas Alex had practically had a girlfriend at every dig, not to mention the ones in between. She’d never be able to live up to his expectations.
His words echoed in her head. I enjoy your company and I trust you. And that’s a much, much stronger basis for a marriage than being ‘in love’ with someone.
Was he right? Were friendship and trust a better basis for a marriage than love and desire? Should she have said yes?
A note appeared in front of her eyes. In Alex’s spiky, confident handwriting.
‘Stop brooding. “Dinner” means dinner.’
The last word was in capitals and underlined three times.
She faced him. Sorry, she mouthed.
He smiled, and it gave her a weird sensation—as if her heart had just done a somersault. Which was anatomically impossible and completely ridiculous. Especially as, at the age of thirty, she was way, way past the teenage heartthrob stage.
And then it was their stop.
The crowds of people swirling round them meant it was still impossible to talk. But she was aware that Alex was behind her on the escalator. So close she could have leaned back against him.
What would it be like to feel Alex’s arms round her?
What would it be like to feel his hands against her bare skin?
What would it be like to feel his mouth touching her body intimately?
‘OK?’ he asked when they were through the ticket barrier and standing outside on the street.
‘Fine.’
‘Liar.’ He caught her hand and squeezed it briefly.
The lightest contact…and it sent a shiver all the way through her. Woke nerve-endings she’d forgotten she had.
No.
It wasn’t possible for her to feel like this about Alex. And even thinking about it meant she was storing up trouble for herself. She’d loved Gary. Deeply. But it hadn’t stopped everything going wrong. So she had to keep some kind of distance between herself and Alex, not let her heart get involved.
Or her libido.
‘I’m not lying,’ she mumbled, but she didn’t look him in the eye until they got to the Moroccan restaurant.
Alex insisted on holding the door open for her. ‘I don’t care if it offends your feminist nature. It’s good manners and it’s how I was brought up,’ he informed her.
It was how she’d been brought up, too. ‘Thank you,’ she said, meaning it.
Stepping inside the restaurant was like stepping out of London and into a souk. The air smelled of cinnamon and cardamom, and the décor was as beautiful as she remembered it; the walls were painted shades of saffron and terracotta and deep red, there were rich silks everywhere, the wrought iron chairs were covered with bright silk cushions toning with the walls, and the silk hanging from the ceiling gave the place the effect of being in some rich prince’s tent. Tea-light candles flickered on the glass tabletops, and rose petals were scattered everywhere.
The waiter ushered them to the table and handed them each a menu.
‘Red wine OK with you?’ Alex asked, glancing down the menu.
‘Fine.’
‘Good. Meze to start, I think. Anything in particular you fancy?’
‘I’ll let you choose.’ Not that she wasn’t capable of choosing her own meal, but she knew how much Alex enjoyed it. And, as he’d said, his tastes were very similar to her own, so she knew she’d like whatever he chose.
‘What do you want for your main course?’
‘Chicken tagine. The one with preserved lemons.’
‘I think I’ll have the same. We’ll choose pudding later,’ Alex decided.
And after pudding…he’d go home with her.
And if she’d said yes to his proposal, he would have taken her to bed. Proved how compatible they were.
Her concentration went completely, and she was reduced to saying, ‘Mmm,’ and nodding in the right places as Alex talked to her about the dig he’d been on in Turkey before his return to London. And it was even worse when the meze arrived—a selection of dishes to share. Traditionally, Moroccan food was eaten with fingers and pitta bread was used to scoop up the dips, and every time she reached for one of the stuffed vine leaves or the aubergine and cumin dip or the felafel, her fingers brushed against Alex’s. In the past, it wouldn’t have bothered her, but tonight the lightest contact made her tingle. A sensual awareness that spread through every part of her body and made her wish that she’d been wearing a thick concealing sweater rather than a thin T-shirt that revealed her body’s reaction to his touch.
If Alex said one word about being able to see her nipples, she’d kill him.
She ate her chicken tagine in silence.
And then Alex sighed.
‘Would it really be so bad?’
‘What?’
‘Going to bed with me.’
She
