more speed than grace, evading her every attempt to harness it. She thought she ought to stand, but the longer she stared at him the more the world tilted to one side and, as she had no desire to fall flat on her face at his feet, she decided she’d better stay right where she was. Very carefully, she lowered her knees to the ground so she knelt rather than crouched. More stability—that was what she needed. And breakfast. She absolutely, positively shouldn’t have skipped breakfast. Low blood sugar and all that.
She tried to hold back a sigh, but her mystery man had such a beautiful face to go with the beautiful British accent—not to mention a superb body—and it had been a long time since she’d beheld such a perfect example of masculine beauty that she had no hope of containing it. It came out on one long low breath. His too-short hair, as far as she could tell, was his single flaw. But it gleamed rich and dark in the half-light of her office and she could imagine its crispness against her palms with more clarity than sense.
She shook herself. ‘Hello.’ Her voice came out normal. She had no idea how. She even managed a smile.
‘Hello,’ he said again in that to-die-for accent, but he said it slowly, as if making a discovery. Then he smiled. Firm, sensual lips. Cheek creases.
The world abruptly stopped tilting and something slammed into her stomach with the impact of a missile. It felt wrong and right—both at the same time. It didn’t make sense.
The man’s eyes widened, his lips pursed for a brief moment, and she wondered if he’d felt the impact too.
Another sigh welled up inside her. And yearning. She expelled the sigh on one hard breath, but could do nothing with the yearning. She forced herself to her feet. ‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.’
She glanced at the clock on the wall behind him—eleven a.m. The day was yet young. She had plenty of time to find receipts for boat repairs and visit her accountant. She had all the time in the world.
‘Is everything all right?’
Just in time she stopped herself from saying, It is now, because that was crazy talk. Fanciful.
She was a single mother with a child. She didn’t do fanciful.
Not any more.
Her tourist had dark eyes that crinkled at the corners. They were nice eyes and they looked at her with concern. ‘I’m sorry. Yes, I’m fine. Just a bit distracted.’ By him. But she didn’t want him to know that.
She blew a strand of hair out of her face and ordered herself to stop ogling the poor man, decided she’d buried herself in her work for far too long and that she’d better start getting out a bit more. ‘I’m just having one of those mornings, you know?’
‘Yep.’ He gave one hard nod. ‘Know exactly what you mean. Today, I can absolutely relate to that.’
Their gazes met and a surge of fellow feeling passed between them. In the dim light of her office she couldn’t work out if his eyes were brown or dark grey. She’d need to be closer to tell for sure, but they were clear and direct and she found herself liking them.
Her day suddenly started to look up. ‘How can I help you?’ She pulled the reservation book towards her.
He smiled again and her knees gave a funny little wobble. She’d bet she looked a wreck. She resisted the urge to pat down her hair and straighten her shirt.
He didn’t look a wreck. He looked impeccable in a charcoal-grey suit. Italian, she’d bet. Actually, she wouldn’t know an Italian suit if it leapt up and bit her on the nose. It could be Bond Street for all she knew.
She knew shoes though, and those shoes were definitely Italian leather.
‘I actually want to speak to your employer, Kate Petherbridge.’
Kate blinked.
‘I was here at nine o’clock this morning.’ He pointed to the glass door, which had the office hours printed across it. The previous owner’s office hours. Kate hadn’t got around to having them changed yet. ‘Nobody showed up, which at the time I thought pretty unprofessional.’
She’d moved into this office two days ago. She’d figured they’d need the extra room at home now. But there was still so much to do. Her shoulders started to sag. He smiled again. Her knees gave another funny wobble. Outside, a magpie started to warble.
‘But if you’re having one of those kinds of days then—’ he shrugged ‘—it can’t be helped.’
He glanced down at the items spread across her desk—the contents of her bag drying out after their dunking in the bay. Without warning, the strap had given way when she’d raced the passenger list down to Archie. It was her best shoulder bag too. Only quick reflexes had saved the bag, contents and all, from sinking to the bottom to lie cradled against the oyster-encrusted rocks metres below. They seemed a paltry treasure—two bank cards, her driver’s licence and medical card, a diary-cum-address book, the little paper money she’d had on her, a tab of aspirin that for some reason she hadn’t thrown away, and a couple of soggy photographs. The one of Danny and Felice before they’d set off on their honeymoon was completely ruined.
‘My bag fell in the bay.’
It was a completely ludicrous statement—self-evident—but the man opposite didn’t laugh. He nodded as if he understood.
‘That was right after I’d buried Moby—the goldfish.’ That had not been a good start to the day. It was why she’d taken her favourite shoulder bag—to try and cheer herself up.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Thank you.’
He lifted one hand. ‘For what it’s worth, I hit a kangaroo in my hire car this morning.’
Even as she winced at the picture his words created, Kate decided then and there that their joint dispiriting tales of woe made this man a good omen. ‘How fast were you travelling?’
‘Eighty kilometres an hour.’
She winced again. Kangaroos didn’t survive eighty-kilometre-per-hour collisions.
He suddenly shook himself. He leaned forward and offered his hand. ‘I’m Simon Morton-Blake.’
Kate placed her hand inside his immediately. His long fingers curled around hers and he squeezed briefly. She squeezed back. They both smiled. His hair gleamed richer, darker. Reluctantly, or so it seemed to Kate, their hands parted company again. ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m—’
The smile slid off her face. ‘What did you say your name was?’
‘Morton-Blake. Simon.’
What?
His eyes narrowed. ‘Why? Do you recognise it?’
Of course she recognised it, but Felice hadn’t mentioned anything about family.
‘The full title is Simon Morton-Blake, the seventh Lord of Holm—’ his lips twisted in self-derision ‘—but I don’t expect you’ve heard of that.’
Her jaw dropped.
