smile came again, and yet again Fran felt her heart give a kick. Tomorrow’s plenary session, the poster session she was giving—both vanished.
She gave a laugh. She couldn’t help it. The guy was so sure of himself. Usually that put her right off, but somehow, in this man, it was simply one more part of his appeal. As to why he had that appeal to her—she just could not analyse that. It was beyond rational thought.
‘Well, we had the conference dinner tonight, so we’re all togged up in our best bib and tucker,’ she answered him. ‘None of us are looking like nerdy scientists right now!’
Blue, blue eyes swept over her. Open in their admiration for her.
‘Sicuramente no.’ Definitely not.
The murmured syllables were audible, and Fran’s expression changed automatically. He wasn’t Hispanic after all...
‘Sei Italiano?’
The question came from her before she could stop himself. The man’s expression changed as she asked it. Slight surprise and then clear satisfaction.
Fran realised she’d just given him a whole new avenue to chat her up with. And she found she didn’t mind at all.
She didn’t notice the slight flicker in his expression as he answered her, nor the very slight air of evasion in his voice.
‘Many Americans are,’ he said, speaking English now. ‘E sei?’ And you?
‘Italian on my father’s side. English on my mother’s,’ answered Fran.
With every passing exchange she could feel herself simply giving in to this—whatever it was—and still not really knowing why it was happening. Why she should be giving the time of day—make that the time of nearly midnight!—to a muscled hunk who was blazingly sure of himself, blatantly chatting her up, when she really ought to be heading back to her room to go through her presentation for tomorrow.
She only knew a sense of heady breathlessness that had come from nowhere the moment he’d spoken to her. Knew that he was suddenly making her feel so, so different from the sober-minded research academic she knew herself to be—so, so different from the stately Donna Francesca she had been born to be.
He was speaking again. ‘English, huh? I thought you were from the East Coast.’
‘I lived there for a while,’ she allowed. ‘Studying for my doctorate.’
A sudden whoop coming from the direction of the post-grads gathered at one of the blackjack tables distracted her and she glanced towards them.
She frowned suddenly. ‘I hope they’re not trying to beat the dealer by counting in cahoots!’ she exclaimed. ‘They’re all maths hotshots, so they probably could if they tried, but I know casinos don’t like that...’
‘Don’t worry—the croupiers know not to let that happen.’
The words were reassuring, the tone laconic, but Fran glanced at him all the same.
‘You sound like you know that,’ she said.
He nodded, the blue eyes on her. ‘I do,’ he answered.
She looked at him. So that sounded as if he was definitely part of hotel security, didn’t it? But she still wasn’t sure.
Then she realised she didn’t care either way. He was speaking again, in that deep, laconic and oh-so-attractive voice of his.
‘So, has it been a good conference for you?’ he was asking.
She nodded. He was keeping her in conversation. She knew he was, he knew she knew he was, and she was OK with it. She didn’t know why she was OK with it, but she was. And right now she would give him an answer to his question.
‘Yes—it’s been mentally stimulating. Full-on, but good. And this hotel...’ she gestured with her hand ‘...is fantastic. I don’t really know the Falcone chain, but they’ve pulled out the stops here. My only regret is that I haven’t made enough use of the facilities—I haven’t even had a chance to try out the pool. I definitely will tomorrow, though, before we leave. It’s just a shame I won’t have time to take any of the tours on offer—not even the one to the Grand Canyon!’
The minute she’d said that she regretted it. Oh, Lord, did he think she was angling for an invitation? She hoped not.
To her relief he let it pass and simply said, ‘I’m glad you like the hotel—a lot of work went into it.’
There was professional pride in his voice—she could hear it. It confirmed to her that he must, indeed, be part of the security team that any hotel—let alone one that included a casino—would surely need.
‘I’d prefer it without the casino, but there you go. When in Nevada...’ she finished insouciantly.
‘Casinos make a lot of money,’ came the laconic reply, and there was another sweep of those long dark lashes over those blue, blue eyes.
Another whoop of triumph came from the post-grads at the blackjack table.
Fran laughed. ‘Maybe a little less tonight,’ she observed dryly.
‘Maybe,’ he allowed, with a glint of amusement in his face, his eyes, around his mouth.
The amusement didn’t leave his face, but suddenly there was something else there in his expression—a question. A question that told her, with a quiver of reassurance, that maybe he was not so absolutely sure of himself as he was giving out. And she liked him the more for it.
‘And maybe...’ he went on, and there was a speculative look in his eyes now that went with the question, that went with the sense that he was in no way taking her answer for granted. ‘Maybe,’ he continued, the change in his tone of voice matching the change in his expression, ‘if I asked if I might buy you a drink to celebrate your fellow astrophysicists’ obvious win over there, you might say yes?’
Fran looked at him, glanced back over towards the blackjack table, then looked back at the man who had been chatting her up and was now clearly intent on getting to second base.
Should she co-operate? Did she want to? Or should she say no politely and head to her room to mug up on her presentation?
Even as she cogitated, in the milliseconds it took for her brain’s synapses to flash their signals to each other, she felt another emotion stab through her. A sense of restlessness, of wanting something more than to give a fluent presentation the next day. Something more than the hard year of non-stop slog she’d put in since breaking up with Cesare, taking up her research post with the world-famous Nobel Laureate, producing a clutch of published papers with him and his team.
Whoever this blue-eyed, tough-faced, muscled hunk was, and why it was that, for reasons she could not yet figure out, he was capable of drawing her into conversation the way he so effortlessly had, only one thought was dominating her consciousness right now.
No, she didn’t want to retire meekly to her room. She wanted, instead, to keep this conversation going, keep this encounter going—keep the rush of fizzing blood in her veins from falling flat.
