Irresistible Greeks Collection. Кэрол Мортимер
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her again.
‘Does that convince you I am totally harmless?’ he asked.
There was a touch of light humour in his voice, and she let her eyes glance up at him from the white card in her fingers.
Harmless? The word reverberated in her head. Harmless? As she looked straight at him, at his breathtaking dark good-looks, the word seemed to mock her.
‘So,’ he was saying, ‘will you come? I hate going to the theatre on my own.’
‘Surely there must be someone you already know that you could invite?’ she countered. There was just a trace of acidity in her voice, because a man like this, who was the very last man any female would ever describe as ‘harmless’, must have a very long list of women who would drop everything for a date with him.
‘No one who likes Chekov,’ he responded promptly. ‘He’s not to everyone’s taste.’
Hmm, thought Marisa, for not ‘everyone’ read ‘the kind of high-maintenance glossy woman whose idea of a hot date with a man like him would not be a play by a nineteenth century Russian dramatist about a bunch of gloomy, indecisive provincials who drifted about aimlessly and got depressed’.
‘And you think I would?’ she challenged, suddenly and illogically stung that he clearly did not consider her the kind of female he usually asked out. ‘Is that your reason for asking me?’ she said pointedly.
Long lashes dipped down over gold-flecked eyes. ‘Part of it,’ he agreed.
The dark eyes rested on her, conveying their message. A message that told her that whatever she might have thought about not being the kind of woman he usually asked out, she had, in fact, been mistaken …
There was something new in his voice—something that told Marisa this was a very experienced operator indeed. For a second panic beat in her throat. She was out of her depth—way, way out! Oh, he might be seeing a woman living in a luxury apartment, dressed in designer clothes and looking svelte and groomed, but she knew that beneath that glossy surface she was only a raw country girl. Even her short time with Ian couldn’t eradicate that.
She suddenly realised he was speaking again.
‘Well—have I persuaded you?’ There was nothing more than the familiar quizzical enquiry in his voice, his expression.
Marisa swallowed. ‘Um … I—I … ‘
He smiled. The full on smile that changed his face, turned her insides out, parted her lips and made her stare gormlessly at him.
‘Great. OK—so, can you be ready by seven?’
‘Um—’
‘Good girl,’ he said approvingly, as if she’d agreed to his invitation. He made as if to step away, then suddenly paused, as if something had just struck him. ‘I’ve just realised,’ he said, and there was self-reproof in his voice, ‘I’ve absolutely no idea what your name is.’
He made the omission sound like a cause for humour, not an indication that she was a complete stranger to him. He looked at her expectantly.
There was a strange sensation in Marisa’s head. As if everything that was going on was completely, totally unreal. Then, as if in a haze, she said slowly, ‘It’s Marisa—Marisa Milburne.’
The long lashes swept down again. Then, before she had the faintest inkling of what he was about to do, she felt, of all things, her hand being taken, and lifted.
‘I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Milburne,’ he murmured, holding her wide-eyed gaze.
Instantly she held her breath, and he inclined his head and kissed her hand.
It was fleeting, it was momentary, it was over in a second, but it left her bereft of rationality.
‘To compensate for the informality of our acquaintance,’ he murmured.
Then, with a final stomach-dissolving smile, he turned and headed down to the lift. Marisa stared, incapable of movement, until the doors had opened, then closed again, shutting him off from her view. Then, very slowly, in a total daze, she went back into her apartment.
Inside, she stood, staring at her hand for several seconds, bereft of both speech and all rational thought.
Least of all any sense of danger …
‘WELL, what do you think? Should she stick to Hollywood?’
The curtain had fallen, and Marisa was making her slow way out of the stalls. Athan Teodarkis’s tall presence behind her was almost tangible as he followed her. But then it had been tangible the entire evening. Tangible even when he’d been on the far side of a taxi seat from her on the way to the theatre, let alone when he’d been sitting right next to her in the plush stalls seat, his sleeve almost brushing hers, even though she’d tried to make sure she kept her hands in her lap, not resting on the chair arm like he had.
A hundred times she’d told herself that she should never have accepted his invitation. That it was completely unacceptable to have done so, and a big, big mistake.
She didn’t know the man. Didn’t know him from Adam. However prestigious a business card he possessed, he was a stranger—a stranger who had quite blatantly picked her up. Not quite off the street, but even so—being some random guy in the flat next to hers was not exactly a formal introduction, was it? But the moment she thought about the total absence of any kind of formal introduction the memory of that hand-kiss was there, and the fleeting sensation of his lips scarcely brushing her knuckles …
No wonder Victorian maidens swooned when men kissed their hands!
How, she wondered for the millionth time, could such a formal gesture be so incredibly … intimate? For intimate was the only word for it. And swooning the only word for the sensation it had created … ?.
The sensation that permeated her still. Not quite as intense, but there all the same, like a very low-level fever that had been running in her veins constantly, all evening. She’d sought to ignore it, sought to make herself behave with this man as if he weren’t having that effect on her, as if it were perfectly normal to make polite, anodyne conversation about the play, the theatre, the state of London traffic, sounding composed and unaffected and sensible.
She’d deliberately dressed in a style that was demure—there was no better word for it. No way was she going to give him the slightest reason to think she was coming on to him! Either by her manner or her appearance. So the grey light wool dress she’d chosen was smart, no doubt about that, and had a mid-range designer tag, but the neckline was not low and the cut was quite loose, its hemline touching her knee. Matching grey tights and grey low-heeled shoes went with it, and the only jewellery she wore was a metallic haematite necklace. Her hair was dressed in a plaited coil at the back of her head, and her make up was as discreet as the rest of her.
Had he looked very slightly surprised at the overall demureness of her appearance? She wasn’t sure, but if he had the look had disappeared immediately, and his manner towards her had mirrored her own. He was courteous and conversational, but he was not coming on to her—to her relief.
It was to her relief, wasn’t it? She was glad he was simply talking to her as if she were, say, the wife of a friend or a colleague, or even a middle-aged woman. Because of course she wouldn’t want him to talk to her as if she were a female he found attractive or wanted to make up to, would she?
Of course not, she told herself firmly. So, keeping that clear in her mind, she answered now, as they made their way into the foyer, ‘I thought she was pretty good all round. At first I kept only seeing her as a “star,” but after a while I just saw her as her character, and I thought she did it better than one might have expected.’