at his obtuseness but didn’t dare. Wasn’t it obvious? ‘An endearment here and there might add to the authenticity of our...uh...relationship.’
‘Agápi mou,’ he said finally.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘It means darling, or my love—agápi mou,’ he said with an edge of impatience.
Ashleigh repeated the words. ‘How did I do?’ she asked.
‘Not bad at all,’ he said with an expressive lifting of his dark eyebrows.
‘Thank you.’ In her head she went over and over the phrase so it would seem natural should she get the chance to drop it into the conversation.
They walked further, past the fashionable restaurant that had in some earlier incarnation been a garage. She’d enjoyed a very expensive cup of coffee there with Sophie the first day she’d come to Chelsea to meet Clio and be interviewed for the position with the agency.
‘How far is the restaurant?’ she asked.
‘A few blocks further down,’ he said.
‘Towards Land’s End?’
He smiled. ‘World’s End is in Chelsea. Land’s End is in Cornwall, right down at the southernmost part of England. They say if you walk from John O’Groats at the top of Scotland to Land’s End you’ve walked the length of Britain.’
Ashleigh gave herself a mental slam to the forehead. ‘Of course, what a stupid mistake. I’ve heard my English grandparents say that. You know more about this country than I do and I’ve got English blood.’
‘I like London. That’s why I bought the house here. Chelsea is so English but also cosmopolitan. I can enjoy a certain anonymity here.’
‘I love it too,’ Ashleigh said. She was about to tell him how she’d felt immediately at home in London when she’d got here but didn’t want to remind him of how completely she’d made herself at home in his house.
The ristorante was large and noisy with clatter and chatter; delicious aromas wafted to meet her. Ashleigh wondered how she would be able to talk privately with Lukas. But he was greeted by name by the beaming maître d’ who took their coats—she hoped hers wouldn’t get lost because no way in a million years would she ever be able to afford to replace it—and ushered them to a quiet table in an alcove. Reluctantly, she handed over her borrowed scarf—already she missed its warm caress with the heady hint of his scent.
The waiter pulled out her chair for her. But before she sat down she rose up on tiptoe and deliberately planted a lingering kiss on Lukas’s cheek, then trailed her fingers from his cheek, down his neck to stop at his collar. ‘This is delightful, agápi mou,’ she murmured in the throatiest, sexiest murmur she could muster. Then looked up into his eyes and pouted, as if inviting a kiss in return.
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