Painted the Other Woman

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 l

ike 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.

For just a second longer he kept that half-shut gaze on her, then abruptly reached out to relieve her of the proffered items, managing to take them both in a single hand. The other was holding a laptop case.

‘Once again, thank you,’ he said.

His voice had lost whatever it had so briefly held. So had his expression. He turned away, going back out into the corridor, pausing only to half turn his head towards her, standing ready to close the door.

‘Goodnight,’ he said.