Painted the Other Woman

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.’

‘Interesting,’ he commented, ‘that she took the role of the oldest and dowdiest sister—when her Hollywood parts are always so glamorous.’

‘I expect she thought it was the most challenging part,’ she answered lightly. ‘Playing against type.’

His response was ‘Yes, very probably,’ and then he made a comment about another of the cast. As they walked out onto the pavement, the chilly air hitting her, he guided her towards the left.

‘I do hope,’ she heard him say, ‘that you will agree to having a post-theatre dinner with me? I find that an evening performance is never best timed to eat either before or after.’

She felt her arm being taken. Not in a possessive way, let alone in any kind of intimate way, but simply lightly, cupping her elbow to guide her along the pavement. Guiding her where he wanted her to go.

For a moment she felt she ought to refuse, then she gave a mental shrug. She was hungry, and since she’d already gone to the theatre with him what harm would there be in going on to a restaurant? Besides, she wanted to talk about the play, and if she just went home there would be no one to talk to.

There never was, apart from Ian.

A pang went through her but she thrust it aside. She was lucky—beyond lucky!—to have Ian in her life now, and as for making friends in London—well, that was entirely up to her. She would volunteer for a charity, start up exercise classes, possibly evening classes as well—why not? And she’d soon have friends here—of course she could. She had a brand-new life, courtesy of Ian, and she would make the very most of it.

The restaurant Athan Teodarkis took her to was only a short walk from the theatre. It wasn’t, she was glad to see, either a very crowded, popular one, or a quiet, intimate one. There were a fair number of other diners there, but the lighting was not conducive to romantic dining à deux, and she felt reassured. Post-theatre seduction was evidently not, thank goodness, on her escort’s mind.

All that was on his mind, it seemed, was ordering from the menu, choosing wine, and then being perfectly prepared to discuss the production they’d just seen.

‘I have to admit,’ he opined, having nodded to the sommelier to fill their glasses and taken an appreciative mouthful of the wine, ‘that the play did irritate me in respect of the sisters’ endless preoccupation with wanting to go to Moscow but never going. I kept finding myself wanting to shout Just buy a train ticket!’

Marisa gave the requisite smile in response, but then said ruminatively, ‘But if you’re not used to travel, and you’ve always lived in one place, then going to a big city can be very daunting.’

Athan’s eyes rested on her a moment. ‘You sound like you speak from experience?’

‘Well, yes, I do. Up until recently I’d never left Devon. It sounds odd, in this day and age, but I’d never been to London.’ It was an admission she suddenly felt unsure about making, as if revealing it might put him off her. But it didn’t seem to.

‘What made you come here?’ His voice was neutral.

She gave a little shrug. ‘Oh, wanting to see the bright lights and so on. Usual reasons, really.’

The nonchalance in her voice did not deceive him. Yet he found himself unable to decide what was the cause of it. On the most cynical interpretation it could be, a blithe glossing over of an ambition to come up to London and catch the attention of a wealthy man … just as she had with his brother-in-law. But he had to acknowledge it might also be, simply because she felt that being seen as a country girl didn’t go with her sophisticated image.

Not that she was presenting a sophisticated image tonight, he also had to acknowledge. He’d been unable to suppress a flicker of slight surprise when he’d first set eyes on her and taken in her outfit for the evening. Demure had been the word that came to his mind, and it was an odd one for a female who was happy for a married man to lavish his money on her.

Once again he felt a flicker of emotion go through him. He was glad she hadn’t taken the opportunity to dress to kill this evening, to attempt openly to wow him. Instead, the fact that she was playing down her natural beauty was, he realised, really quite appealing …

He made another comment about the performance, drawing another response in kind from her, and by the time their first course arrive

d he was aware that he was, against his expectations, enjoying talking to her. Her views were intelligent and informed, and she revealed a sensitivity to the play’s characters’ various dilemmas that showed she understood the complexities of their situations—even that of the sisters’ feckless brother.

‘I suppose the brother is the least sympathetic character,’ she was saying, ‘though I suppose one has to allow that he made a disastrous marriage and make some excuses for him.’