Irresistible Greeks Collection. Кэрол Мортимер
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And the flat he’d come out of had previously been let to a non-Brit. Maybe it was some kind of international corporate let, with one businessman after another passing through.
I wonder who he is? He’s just so jaw-droppingly good-looking.
With a rasp of irritation she pushed the question out of her head. What did it matter who he was, why he was there, or what nationality he was? She’d seen him for less than two minutes, if that, and he’d done nothing but nod and say a passing ‘thanks’ at her before disappearing. She’d stared at him gormlessly for the duration, unable to control her reaction to his startling dark good looks. Given the way everyone kept to themselves in the apartment block, she would probably never set eyes on him again.
And if she did it would be utterly irrelevant to her anyway.
Clicking on the remote again, she changed channels and finished off the pastry. The evening stretched ahead of her …
Two hours later there was less of it left to stretch, but she was still feeling bored and restless. She couldn’t decide what to do next—go to bed or watch a movie on TV. It was one she was only marginally interested in, and it did not particularly appeal. On the other hand neither did going to bed at nine o’clock, either. All around her the hushed silence of the flat enveloped her, as if she were the only person for miles.
She reached for the remote. It was stupid, wasting time watching something she didn’t want to. She would head for bed and read something useful—like the newly published hardback history of London she’d splashed out on last week. Buying new hardbacks was such a previously unknown luxury she should make the most of it. Besides, since leaving college she’d hardly used her brain at all—which was a waste.
And you really don’t want to come across as some kind of country bumpkin to Ian, either. Even if he’s not a raging intellectual, he obviously knows business, and current affairs and so on.
She clicked off the TV and gathered herself to get to her feet. But even as she did so, she froze. A sound she had never heard had penetrated from the hallway. The doorbell.
Who on earth …? Puzzled and apprehensive, she made her way to the little entrance hall. The door was on a security chain, and there was a spyhole too. She peered through it, but could only take in a distorted impression of a dark suit. Nothing else. Well, it didn’t look like a burglar paying a call, at any rate.
Cautiously, she open the door on the chain, which restricted it to a couple of inches, bracing herself ready to flatten herself against it if someone put an intruding foot through.
Instead a voice spoke. A deep, accented voice that had the timbre of familiarity.
‘I’m extremely sorry to disturb you … ‘
Without volition, she felt her insides give a little flutter.
‘Just a moment.’ She slid the security chain off and opened the door wider.
It was the man who’d asked her to hold the lift for him earlier.
‘I do apologise,’ he said, ‘but I wonder if I might ask you a favour.’
There was a faint smile on his face, a slightly quizzical look. Marisa found it did strange things to her. Things that made her lips part and her eyes rest as if helplessly on his face. She tried to gather her composure.
‘Of … of course,’ she answered, trying to sound polite but cool.
The faint smile deepened. So did the sensation of fluttering inside her. Her hand tightened on the doorframe.
‘I’ve just moved into the apartment next to you, and I’ve only just realised that I’ve made no arrangements for any groceries to be delivered. This may sound the most stupid request you’ve heard, but if you could possibly let me have some milk and a couple of teaspoons of instant coffee I would be in your debt.’
Dark eyes—ludicrously long-lashed, she realised as her brain spun idiotically in her head—rested on her, their quizzical expression at odds with the formidable air of command about him. Whoever he was, he was most definitely not one of life’s minions.
He’s the guy that gives the orders … others do his bidding. Snap to his command …
And respond to his faintly smiling requests as if he’s turned a key in their backs.
Especially if they were female …
The fluttering inside her, the tightness of her hand on the doorframe, intensified.
She swallowed, managed to speak. ‘Yes—yes, of course. No problem.’ Her voice sounded husky, as if her throat had constricted.
The faint smile deepened, indenting lines around his mouth. Marisa’s throat constricted again. Oh, good grief, when they’d been handing it out this guy got a double helping.
‘It’s really very good of you,’ the deep, accented voice responded, its timbre doing things to her she could not prevent. Didn’t have the slightest interest in preventing …
Jerkily, she pulled the door wider and turned away. ‘I’ll just—um—go and fetch them,’ she managed to say.
She headed for the kitchen. Her feet felt clumsy, and she was sure she bumped into the corner of the sofa as she made her way through the living room to the kitchen beyond. She felt like an idiot, bumping into her own furniture. In the kitchen she fumbled with the fridge door, yanking it open and grabbing a pint of milk. It was semi-skimmed. She hoped he’d be OK with that. She hoped he’d be OK with her brand of instant coffee, as well. Not that he looked like an instant coffee type of man. Her eyes went to the terrifyingly complicated coffee machine that stood completely unused by the microwave. She’d bought coffee beans, hoping to try it out, but one glance at the instruction booklet had quashed her ambition instantly.
Oh, stop dithering, girl—just give him the milk and the coffee jar.
She hurried out of the kitchen, carefully avoiding bumping into the furniture. He’d stepped inside the hall, though the front door was still ajar.
‘Here you are,’ she said breathlessly, holding out the requested items.
‘It’s very good of you,’ he said.
That faint smile was still doing its work. His height was making the small hallway even smaller. So was his dark suit and black cashmere overcoat. His presence seemed overpowering suddenly.
A thought struck her. ‘I’ve got coffee beans, if you prefer. The packet’s unopened. I can’t operate my machine.’
Oh, hell, she was burbling inanely. What did he care whether she could operate the machine or not. Yet it seemed he did—a dark eyebrow had quirked.
‘Would you like me to show you how? They can be fiendishly difficult.’
Immediately she stiffened. ‘Oh, no, thank you. That’s fine. I wouldn’t dream of troubling you.’
His lashes dipped over his eyes. ‘It would be no trouble, I promise you.’
His voice had changed. She didn’t know how, but it had. And suddenly, with a piercing light, she knew why it had …
Knew it from the sudden glint in his eyes—his dark, deep eyes …
She took a breath—a steadying one that she needed. Needed in order to remind herself that a complete stranger—however much of an impact he was making on her—was standing inside her flat and signalling that he liked what he was seeing. Her brain seemed to split in two. One half—the half that was reducing her to a wittering idiot—reeled with the realisation. The other half was shouting a loud, strident warning to her. Time to pay heed to it.
She shook her head. A small but decisive gesture.
‘Thank you, but no.’ She held the milk and the coffee jar closer to him. Her smile was polite, but nothing more, her voice composed.
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