style="font-size:15px;"> Curious, intrigued, attracted, Amy couldn’t help studying him when he wasn’t looking. His thickly lashed eyes were brown and flecked with gold. The brows above them were heavy and intimidating. He had the most enormous shoulders and lots of jet-black hair that he wore long enough so that a lock constantly tumbled across his brow.
He was too amazingly gorgeous to believe, and far too male and huge to be sitting across from her in such a ladylike tea shop. But here he was.
Amy bit her lips just to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.
Despite his powerful body, he looked so elegant in his long-sleeved, black silk shirt and beige silk slacks. So grown up and successful compared to Fletcher, who wore old bathing trunks and T-shirts.
“Have you ever been to Hawaii?” she asked, struggling to make the kind of small talk that beautiful, polished Carol would be so good at.
Lame. Did she only imagine that he looked bored?
“No. Why do you ask?” His deep, dark, richly accented voice made her shiver.
“Because I live there. Because lots of tourists come there and I thought…maybe I’d seen you. I mean, you seem so familiar.”
“Do I?” Did she only imagine a new hardness in his voice?
He cocked his head and stared at her so intensely she couldn’t quite catch her breath.
Continuing to gaze at her in that steady, assessing way, his big, tanned hand lifted his wafer-thin teacup to his sensual mouth. She was too conscious of his stern lips, of his chiseled cheekbones, of those amber sparks flashing in his eyes, of his long, tapered fingers caressing the side of the tiny cup.
A beat passed. His eyes scanned the other women in the tea shop before returning to her. She swallowed.
When he grinned, she blushed.
“I—I’m not usually this nervous,” she whispered.
“You don’t seem nervous.” His low tone was smooth. Everything about him was smooth.
When she touched her teacup to lift it, it rattled, sloshing tea. “Oh, God! See? My hand is shaking.”
“Did you skip lunch?”
“How did you…? Why, yes, yes I did! There were so many things to look at in the markets. Sometimes I forget to eat when I shop.”
“I skipped lunch, as well. Maybe we’ll both feel better if we have a scone. They’re very good here.”
“Do you come here often?”
“Never. Until now. With you.”
“Then how do you know they’re good?”
“Reputation. I have a friend who comes here.”
Amy imagined a woman as beautiful as Carol. His friend would be delicate—slim and golden and well-dressed, the type who wouldn’t be caught dead shopping at the Camden Market. His type.
Ignorant of her thoughts and comparison, her companion was slathering clotted cream and jam on his scone. When he finished, he handed the dripping morsel to her. Then he made one for himself. When she gobbled hers much too greedily, he signaled the waitress and ordered chilled finger sandwiches and crisps.
Licking jam and cream off the tips of her fingers, she willed herself to calm down. He was right; she was shaking because she was starving, not because he was gorgeous and sexy and maybe dangerous.
She was perfectly safe. They were in a sedate tea shop with a table and a tablecloth, pink-and-gold china teacups and saucers between them. They were surrounded by lots of other customers, too. So, there was absolutely nothing to be nervous about.
“So, you haven’t been to Hawaii,” she mused aloud, staring at his hard, too-handsome face with that lock of black hair tumbling over his brow. “Are you famous?”
He started.
She bit into a second scone, and the rich concoction seemed to melt on her tongue. “A movie star?” she pressed, sensing a strange, new tension in him as she licked at a sticky fingertip. “Is that why you look so familiar?”
“I’m an investor.” He was watching her lick her finger with such excessive interest, she stopped.
“You don’t look like an investor,” she said.
“What did you have me pegged for?”
“You have a look, an edge. You certainly don’t seem like the kind of man who goes to the office every day.”
Did she only imagine that his mouth tightened? He lowered his eyes and dabbed jam on his second scone. “Sorry to disappoint you. I have a very dull office and a very dull secretary in Paris.”
“So what do you invest in?”
“Lots of dull things—stocks, mutual funds, real estate. My family has interests all over Europe, in the States…Asia, too. Emerging markets, they call them. Believe me, I stay busy with my, er, dull career. I have to, or I’d go mad.” His voice sounded bleak. “And what do you do?”
“I just have a little shop. I sell old clothes that I buy at estate sales and markets.”
“And do you enjoy it?”
“Very much. But it would probably seem dull and boring to someone like you.”
“The question is—is it dull and boring to you?”
“No! Of course, not! I love what I do. I live to find some darling item at a bargain price, so that I can sell it to a customer with a limited budget. Every woman longs to be beautiful, you know.”
“Then I envy you.” Again she heard a weariness in his voice. Only this time she sensed the deeper pain that lay beneath it.
“And you don’t think I’m boring…because I sell old clothes?”
He laughed. “Don’t be absurd.”
“No, really, you must tell me.” She leaned forward, holding her cup in two hands for fear of spilling. “Since we’re strangers, we can speak freely. Was your first impression of me…Did you think I looked boring and old?”
He set his scone down. “Who the hell’s been telling you a stupid thing like that?”
“My boyfriend.” Why had she admitted that?
“Then dump him.”
“I sort of did, but I’ve always loved him. Or, at least, I thought I did. Maybe he’s just been in my life forever.”
“So you’re the loyal, committed type?”
“Well, anyway, I can’t stop thinking about him. All day I thought about him. And the things he said.”
His black brows shot together so alarmingly her hands,
