she said, unable to prevent the automatic shift her body made to the music. ‘Is it your CD?’
‘It is, actually,’ he said, coming towards her and holding out his arms. ‘Do you want to dance?’
‘Dance?’ Helen’s breath caught in her throat.
‘Why not?’ he asked, catching both her hands in his and drawing her forward into the hypnotic beat. ‘Your body obviously wants to.’
Helen licked her lips. ‘I’ve just—never done anything like this before,’ she confessed.
‘I know,’ he said, making no attempt to pull her closer. ‘But it’s fun, isn’t it?’
‘Fun?’ Helen’s response was breathless. ‘Yes. Yes, it is.’
‘Good.’
The knock at the door interrupted them, and Helen couldn’t exactly say she was sorry. Her legs had become increasingly shaky, and looking into Milos’s dark eyes was making her weak.
The waiter wheeled a trolley into the apartment and started setting the table. Pristine white place mats gleamed against the dark wood, silver tableware glinted in the light from candles set in the middle of the table, and tall wineglasses of the finest crystal prepared the way for wines of both white and red.
Their first course—a mousse of crab and lobster—was served and the waiter stood back, waiting for Milos’s instructions.
‘We’ll serve the rest ourselves,’ Milos told him as the crisp crackle of notes changed hands, and moments later the doors closed again and they were alone.
Later, Helen could hardly remember how the food tasted. It could have been arsenic or ambrosia, she doubted she’d have noticed. With Milos sitting beside her, his knee brushing hers, serving her tiny morsels of what he was eating from his plate, she was too bemused to pay attention to her own food. She only knew she was floating several inches above the table for most of the meal, the sensuous rhythm of the music and the disturbing directness of Milos’s gaze causing a sensation of elevation in the pit of her stomach.
After the meal was over, Helen needed to use the rest-room, and she discovered that one of the doors that opened off the living room led into a luxuriously appointed vanity-cum-bathroom. Lamp lit mirrors lined the walls, inviting inspection of her appearance, while the marble bathroom adjoining was as big as the largest bedroom back home.
She availed herself of the facilities and then paused for a moment beside the row of mirrors, intrigued by her appearance. She almost looked beautiful, she thought, touching the hectic colour in her cheeks, noticing how soft her lips looked in the flattering light. She also noticed that, despite the fact that she was wearing a bra, her nipples were clearly outlined against the thin fabric of her shirt.
She crossed her arms over her chest and then let them fall again. Who was she kidding? she thought impatiently. If Milos was being unusually attentive to her it was because he’d promised her father he’d look after her. She shouldn’t run away with the idea that he was attracted to her. He was just being friendly, that was all.
The trolley had disappeared when she emerged from the bathroom. Either the waiter had been summoned to remove it, or Milos had pushed it out into the corridor himself. The table was now empty of everything except the wine and their glasses, but Helen, who had tried to drink sparingly during the meal, determined not to have any more.
Milos was standing by the white marble fireplace when she re-entered the room, but Helen moved to the windows, to stand looking down at the lights of Knightsbridge sparkling thirty floors below. It was quite a view, even though a light rain had come to slick the pavements. It blurred the image, making her feel as if she were watching it through a mirror.
She was so absorbed that she got quite a shock when Milos put his hand on her shoulder. She’d been unaware of him coming to stand beside her, and the warm strength of his fingers caused a ripple of excitement in her stomach.
She turned towards him a little breathlessly, her agitation showing in the eyes she turned up to his lean face. Her lips parted in an unknowing invitation and she saw the way his eyes darkened as they identified her expression.
‘Signomi. I’m sorry,’ he said, his low voice with its distinctive accent like velvet on her skin. ‘Did I frighten you?’
‘You—startled me,’ she amended, aware of the quickening beat of her heart. She nervously cleared her throat. ‘I—er—I was admiring the view.’
‘So was I,’ he said softly, and her stomach wobbled at the realisation that he wasn’t talking about the scene outside.
‘Um—I suppose I should be going,’ she said, half afraid of her own reaction to his words. He was only being polite, she told herself, trying to remember how she’d felt when he’d turned up on her doorstep. This man was not her friend, she reminded herself. Her mother would be horrified if she ever discovered that Helen had had dinner with him in his suite.
‘Oh—you must stay and have coffee,’ he protested now, nodding towards the sofa, and she saw the tray she hadn’t noticed before residing on the low table close by. ‘Come,’ he added. ‘Let us sit down. And don’t worry about getting home. I’ve arranged for a car and driver to be available when we need them.’
Helen hesitated only a moment before doing as he suggested. But as she sank into the soft cushions she couldn’t help wondering when he’d ordered a car. Had he intended her to have dinner with him all along?
It was a disturbing consideration and her teeth dug into her bottom lip as Milos seated himself beside her. What did she really know about this man? she asked herself uneasily. How did she know she could trust him?
Milos’s weight depressed the cushions deeper than hers did, and she felt herself slipping closer. It took all her ingenuity to sustain a little space between them without his being aware of it. Or perhaps he was. She couldn’t be sure.
‘Will you …?’
He indicated the cups and Helen drew a deep breath and moved forward. There was a tall jug of coffee and another smaller one of cream, and two white porcelain cups that seemed almost transparent.
The delicacy of the operation was not lost on her, and Helen couldn’t help her hand shaking as she lifted the pot and attempted to pour. Dear God, she was going to spill it all over the white linen cloth. Either that, or drop the pot on the fragile china.
She was aware of Milos watching her and her gaze was drawn irresistibly in his direction. Which was definitely a mistake. As she’d feared, the coffee cascaded over the side of the cup, filling the saucer and splashing hotly onto her jean-clad legs.
‘Oh, shit!’ she exclaimed, as much in pain as frustration, and without hesitation Milos took the pot from her trembling fingers and replaced it on the tray.
‘You’re hurt,’ he said roughly, snatching up a napkin and dabbing at the damp spots on her trousers. ‘Theos, this was all my fault. I shouldn’t have been watching you.’
Helen would agree with that, but she couldn’t let him take the blame for something that was really all her own doing. ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ she insisted, pushing her hands over her knees in an effort to deflect his efforts. ‘Really. I knew I was going to make a mess of it.’
Milos
