And a strange, disturbing sense of anticipation …
Athan left for his office early. He always did, finding the first couple of hours of the morning the most productive before his heavy schedule of meetings started. This morning, however, he found his usual high level of productivity diminished. It annoyed him. Annoyed him to realise that he was finding himself replaying the little scene he’d created last night. Letting his memory toy with recalled images—images of the way her long hair had framed her face, tumbling down over her shoulders, the way she’d gazed at him, wide-eyed, the way her voice had been breathy and husky. The way she’d walked away from him towards the kitchen on long, slender legs, the fall of her hair waving down her back.
She really was very, very lovely.
Yes, well, he knew that—had already acknowledged that—and other than her beauty making it easier for him to carry out his plan there wasn’t any point in dwelling on it. He had a mountain of work to get through, and it wasn’t going to go away of its accord.
He also had to decide on a pretext for getting Ian Randall out of the country. The upcoming West Coast contract would fit the bill well. He could say it required input from the UK. He could even—his eyes narrowed in speculation—mention the trip to Eva. Suggest it would be an ideal opportunity to go with Ian, and then to take a holiday afterwards—fly on to Hawaii, for instance. Eva would snap at it, he was sure.
That would ensure he kept Ian well away from London for a couple of weeks, if not longer.
That’s all the time I need with Marisa Milburne.
He had no doubts about his ability to achieve his goal. It was experience, not vanity, that told him women didn’t say no to him, and there was no reason to suppose this one would be different.
Especially after last night. Any speculation that her attachment to Ian was based on love had been set aside. No woman devotedly in love with another man would have reacted the way she had to him when he’d paid her attention. No woman would have started the way she had, gazed at him the way she had, displaying that telltale dilating of the pupils.
Yet she was not giving him the come-on, either. That was clear too.
His brows drew together. How would she react to his next move? he wondered. He clicked on to the internet and made a rapid search, made a purchase online, clicking on ‘deliver before noon’. Then, job done, he cleared the screen and put his mind into work mode. There was a lot to get done if he wanted to be free by the evening.
Marisa was hand-washing one of her beautiful new sweaters when the intercom rang. Frowning, she picked up the phone.
‘Delivery for Ms Milburne,’ said a disembodied voice.
Puzzled, she went downstairs. As she walked out into the lobby and saw a man standing on the pavement with a bouquet of white lilies she smiled. Oh, Ian, she thought fondly, how sweet. Just because you couldn’t meet me last night.
But when she took the beautiful bouquet into her kitchen to find a suitable receptacle for it, and opened the small gilt-edged envelope attached to the wrapping, the card inside held an unexpected message.
Thank you for the milk and coffee—it was much appreciated.
It was simply signed ‘Your grateful neighbour.’
For a moment she stared. As a token of gratitude a bouquet
of lilies that must have cost at least thirty pounds, if not more, was a bit overdone. On the other hand … well, since being with Ian she had come to realise that the rich really were different. Anyone who could afford the rents on these apartments could definitely afford to drop thirty pounds on a bunch of flowers without even noticing.
Yet for all her rationalising, as she arranged the glorious blooms with their intense, heady fragrance in a huge glass vase she’d found in a cupboard, she could not help wishing they had been from Ian.
Not some stranger who meant absolutely nothing to her.
However much of an impact he’d made on her.
She’d been doing her best to put the incident last night out of her head. Dwelling on it was stupid. So was moping. She’d definitely started to mope yesterday, and it was time to nip that in the bud. Of course Ian found it hard to meet her—she knew why and accepted it, even if she wished it otherwise. Well, it wasn’t otherwise, and that was that. And if she were feeling lonely without him—well, considering the luxury of her life now, it was ungrateful and spoilt to be anything other than blissful.
Doing the hand-washing helped improve her mood, and so did a resolve to go for a brisk walk in Holland Park. The weather wasn’t attractive—mizzling with rain today—but that wasn’t the point. She should get out, breathe fresh air—even if London air could never really be fresh—and get some exercise.
I ought to find a gym, or take some dance classes of some kind.
That would definitely be a good idea. She would ask in some of the shops on Holland Park Road when she went to buy groceries. If she did start exercise classes it might be a way of meeting people—other women she could chat to, have coffee with. Make friends with, maybe.
She wasn’t very good at making friends, she knew. It was because she’d always felt different, felt out of things. Though she and her mother had lived in their small village off Dartmoor they hadn’t really belonged—they’d always been incomers. Outsiders. And her mother’s introverted temperament, and circumstance of being a single mother, had added to their social isolation. Even as school Marisa had always felt remote from her peer group, finding it difficult to make friends, get on with others. She felt a little glow start up inside her. That was why it was so lovely being with Ian. They got on so well. His charm, his sense of humour, his liveliness—all drew her out of herself, made her feel relaxed and confident for the first time in her life.
It made it all the more frustrating that she had to be a secret part of his life.
If only he could acknowledge me openly—not keep me tucked away here …
Yes, well, that was impossible. No point going over it again. No point starting to mope.