the wine in his glass, looked down at the golden liquid and then, when he looked up...
There she was.
Art straightened. His mouth fell open. Rooted to the spot, he could feel the throb of sexual awareness flower and bloom into something hot and urgent and pressing.
She was...bloody stunning.
That body, long-limbed and rangy under the challenging attire, was spectacular. Lean and toned and effortlessly graceful. She lacked the practised art of the catwalk model, the strutting posture and the moody expression, and she was all the sexier for that.
And she wasn’t wearing a bra.
He did his utmost not to stare at the small, rounded pertness of her breasts and the indentation of pebbly nipples pushing against the fine cotton.
He could see Rose’s whole body react to that leisurely appraisal and the horrified look on her face which accompanied her involuntary response. It galvanised her into speech and action at the same time, moving into the kitchen whilst simultaneously pinning a bright smile to her face as she quizzed him on where they were going.
Art snapped out of his trance.
‘I’ll just grab my bag.’ She interrupted her nervous chatter to look around her.
‘Why?’
‘Car keys, for one thing!’ she announced gaily.
* * *
The kitchen felt too small for both of them to be in it. He was wearing nothing more than a pair of dark trousers and a white shirt, staple components of any wardrobe, and yet he looked jaw-droppingly beautiful. He filled the contours of the shirt to perfection. She could see the ripple of muscle under the fabric and he had rolled the sleeves up so that her eyes were drawn to his forearms, liberally sprinkled with dark, silky hair. The minute her eyes went there they couldn’t help but move further along to his long brown fingers and it was then a hop and a skip until she wondered what those fingers would feel like...on her and...in her.
‘What? Sorry?’
Had he said something?
‘I’ve ordered a taxi so there’s no need for you to drive,’ he delivered smoothly, allowing her no time to lodge a protest.
‘You’re so good at taking over,’ Rose murmured, blushing and smiling.
‘I can’t help it,’ Arturo said without apology. ‘It’s part of my personality.’
He lowered his eyes and offered his arm to her.
‘It’s been a while since...’
‘Since?’
‘Since I’ve been out for a meal.’
‘You mean...on a date?’
‘Is that what this is?’ They were outside and he was opening the car door for her, waiting as she slid into the back seat before joining her. ‘I thought...’ she turned to him and breathed in the clean, woody smell of him, which made her want to pass out ‘...that this was just your way of thanking me for putting you up. Not—’ she laughed ‘—that it’s been any bother at all!’
‘That as well...’
‘You needn’t have.’
‘Again. Those annoying words. It’s not a declaration of intent,’ he interjected, then his voice lowered. ‘It’s a... I haven’t told you, but you look...remarkable...’
‘I know it’s not a declaration of intent! You’re just passing through and, besides, you’re the guy who doesn’t do domesticity, home cooking or women asking personal questions. And thank you for the compliment, by the way. I...I haven’t worn this old outfit in a long time.’
Her breathing was jerky and she took refuge in gazing through the window at the familiar countryside. She had no idea where they were going, but it wasn’t long before she found out because she recognised the impressive drive that led to one of the top hotels in the county, where a famous Michelin-starred chef produced food she could never have afforded in a million years.
She turned to him, her face a picture of bemusement and shock.
‘I recently came into some money,’ Arturo said smoothly, ‘and I can’t think of a better way of spending some of it than on bringing you here.’
‘I’m not dressed for this place.’
‘Do you care what other people think?’ He swung out of the car and walked around to open her door.
‘Who doesn’t?’
‘I don’t.’
‘Maybe it’s a legacy from when my mum went away.’ Rose was agog as they were shown into the splendid hotel and then escorted like royalty to the most impressive dining room she had ever been in. She was hardly aware of what she was saying. She was way too focused on trying to take in everything around her.
‘You were saying...?’ he said as soon as they were seated, a corner table with a bird’s eye view of the richly ornate interior.
‘I was saying that my eyes are popping out.’ She swivelled to look at him and her breathing became shallow. What money, she wondered, had he come into? But then, hot on the heels of that thought, came another—her mother had been the recipient of an equally surprising inheritance. Stranger things happened in life. It certainly explained how he was footloose and fancy free...and able to indulge his interest in saving the countryside.
And if he was generous by nature, as he clearly was, then he would probably travel around until the cash ran out before returning to whatever job he had had before. That was a small detail he had never filled her in on.
He’d warned her off reading anything into this dinner invitation but he was crazy if he thought that she wasn’t going to be impressed to death by his generosity and by the time and effort he’d put into sourcing this place for them. God only knew how he’d managed to wangle a table but she had seen, in his interactions with the people on the site, that he could charm the birds from the trees.
‘And you were telling me why it is that you care about what people think...’
Rose looked at him. He’d shaved but still managed to look darkly dangerous. There was a stillness about him that made her nerves race and brought a fine prickle of perspiration to her skin. Something about the lazy intensity of his eyes when they focused on her.
‘And how long did your mother go away for?’
‘Two years,’ Rose admitted, flattered at his interest.
‘Two years?’
‘I know in the big scheme of things it doesn’t seem like a lifetime but, believe me, when you’re a kid and you’re waiting by the window it feels never-ending.’
‘In the big scheme of things it bloody is never-ending, Rose, and to a kid... How old were you?’
‘Eight.’
