She kept her face composed. ‘Goodnight,’ she answered back. Then closed the door.
Outside, Athan stood a moment, his eyes faintly narrowed. Interesting, he thought. She had responded to him—no doubt about that. Years of experience had taught him exactly when a woman found him attractive. But she had quite definitely drawn the line when he’d made his second gambit, offering to show her how to use the coffee machine.
And if she hadn’t? If she’d let me into her flat, let me make fresh coffee—shared it with me. Let me move on to my third gambit—suggesting I order dinner to be delivered so we could dine together?
If she had, what would he have done?
Would I have stayed the night with her if she’d let me?
For one vivid instant, an image filled his head.
Pale golden hair spread loose across a white pillow. A slender, naked body offered to him. A lovely face alight with pleasure … pleasure that he could give her.
Abruptly, he started to walk to his apartment door, juggling with the damn milk and coffee that threatened to tumble to the ground in order to extract his keys. As he stepped inside he felt another stab of hunger. But this time for the more mundane fare of food. Well, he’d make coffee—even if only instant—and consult the internet to get some food delivered. There must be a catering company around that would oblige.
It was a nuisance, he mused, that the apartment block had no concierge who could take care of that sort of thing for him. But on the other hand a concierge was the last thing he needed—they were the kind of individuals who swiftly discovered too much about their tenants. And if there was one overriding necessity right now it was that his beautiful blonde fellow tenant should not have any source of information about him that he did not care to impart to her.
Least of all that he knew about her relationship with Ian Randall.
And why he was going to end it.
Marisa didn’t sleep well. She tossed and turned restlessly. She might wish it was because she was disappointed not to have met up with Ian last night but she knew it wasn’t because of that.
It was because of that man—that tall, dark, ludicrously handsome man—who had appeared at her door that evening.
With the corniest chat-up line in the book! That’s what I’ve got to remember!
Good grief, couldn’t he have come up with something more original than borrowing a pint of milk? And coffee, she reminded herself waspishly. The problem was, try as she might to be derisive about it and label it nothing more than a transparent ploy, another thought kept intruding.
That any man with those devastating looks wouldn’t even have to crook his little finger to have every female for miles around come running.
Pick up lines, let alone corny ones, wouldn’t even be in his ball park. He’d never be reduced to resorting to something so clichéd. Besides, she reasoned, he’d seen her come out of the lift and might well have assumed she had a flat on this floor, but for all he’d have known she might have had the flat the elderly couple occupied. As a new tenant he wouldn’t know, would he? Which meant that his ring on her doorbell and his request had been genuine, and not a pick-up routine.
Anyway, what did it matter?
But he did do that bit offering to show me how the coffee machine worked.
No, that didn’t prove anything except that he was a man and men thought it inexplicable that women found machinery complicated. He’d probably thought he was being polite in offering—that the reason she’d mentioned she couldn’t get it to work was a ploy in order to get him to offer help.
Oh, help, maybe he thought I was trying to pick him up! Trying to inveigle him to come in …
She squirmed with embarrassment at the thought. Still, at least she’d immediately said no, which was something to be grateful for. He couldn’t possibly think she was giving him the come on, could he?
You behaved like a gormless idiot, though, don’t forget—stammering and staring bug-eyed at him.
Yes, well, he was doubtless used to that kind of reaction from women. A man with looks like his would be.
And it wasn’t just his looks, was it? Nor that to-die-for foreign accent of his. If she were brutally honest—and she had better be at this time of night—it was the whole package that made such an impact. The looks, the cashmere overcoat, the bespoke suit, the whole Mr Rich thing definitely contributed.
And more than that there had been a kind of aura around him. That was the only word she could come up with. A kind of self-assurance, an air of being someone who gave orders, moved in the corridors of power, made things happen that he wanted to happen.
It was curious, she found herself musing. Ian was wealthy, and he sported the trappings of wealth from flash pad to gold watch. But he didn’t possess that aura of power, that sense of being someone not to mess with.
A little shiver went down her spine. Disturbing. Disquieting. For a moment longer she gazed into the darkness of her bedroom. She shouldn’t think about the incident tonight. Should put it out of her mind.
Should go to sleep.
But her dreams, when they came, were filled with the same disquiet.