At precisely seven o’clock Samantha took a final look at herself in the mirror, drew in a deep breath, then walked towards the door, reasonably confident that he was going to be feeling quietly relieved when he saw how she was dressed.
For, despite his derogatory impression that her clothes were tat, she had a dress. A very expensive matt-black crêpe cocktail dress, kindly donated to her, among other items, by the wife of one of her doctors who’d taken pity on her—and who’d also gone up a couple of sizes since she’d bought the clothes.
Most of the other stuff she’d
had replaced with new just as soon as she could afford to. But this dress had been too good to let go so she’d kept it, never really believing she’d ever get a chance to wear it.
But here she was, doing exactly that, and not only did she think the dress looked good on her but it also felt good in the way the beautiful fabric moved against her slender shape. She had washed her hair with the expensive toiletries in the bathroom, and had discovered that you truly did get what you paid for because, as she’d blow-dried her hair, it had been a pleasurable experience to watch the colour become more vibrant the drier it had become.
So she’d left it to fall free around her shoulders—mainly because she suspected he was expecting her to screw it up in defiance of his toffee-nosed prude remark. Also, she had applied some make-up, paying careful attention to the strained bruising around her eyes. The only thing letting her down were the low-heeled black court shoes she was forced to wear.
But otherwise she was ready to be seen out in public with him, she told herself firmly, and lifted her chin and opened the door.
André was already there, standing over by the desk with one hand braced on it as he leaned over some papers. He looked quite painfully gorgeous.
And he was wearing a plain white tee shirt, grey linen trousers—and that was it.
While she had been dressing up he had been dressing down, and the realisation almost shattered her carefully constructed composure.
Then he looked up, saw her standing there, went perfectly still, and her composure shattered anyway. For this man wasn’t just breathtakingly attractive, he was dangerously so. Black silk hair, olive-toned skin, eyes like bitter chocolate which seemed to melt as they moved with an excruciating slowness from the top of her head to the shoes on her feet. His facial bone structure was perfect, his mouth essentially male, and the muscular configuration beneath that tight white tee shirt screamed sex at her—sex.
Slowly he began to straighten his torso, the hand sliding away from the desk the more upright he became. But what really took her breath away was the way his eyes gentled as they made contact with her own eyes.
He knew. He knew she was feeling at a loss to know how to deal with the obvious crossed wires in the communication. Yet all he said was, ‘A punctual woman, and a beautiful one too.’
Then, reaching out to close the manila file, he picked it up and said lightly, ‘Hang on just five seconds while I put this away, then we will go and eat…’
Stepping into his own room, he was only five seconds. But he still came out wearing a grey linen jacket that completely transformed him from a mere casual diner to a stunningly chic one.
Only a man with Italian blood running in his veins could have done it. Only a man with a great deal of sensitivity could have pulled it off with such quiet aplomb.
She was impressed. She was grateful. She was seduced. He won her full attention by hypnotising her with his deep-toned, smooth, sexy, American accent, and with the quick smile that would suddenly flash out, adding a dangerous charm to an already dangerously attractive face.
They shared a table for two in a corner of the restaurant, where they talked quietly about innocuous things, like food and wine and the leisure industry. His concentration on her and whatever she had to say was so intense that she felt it like a constant buzz of awareness from fingertips to head. His eyes never left her. And his well-shaped mouth was firm but edged with a sensuousness that persistently reminded her of that kiss.
A kiss she had known. A kiss she had enjoyed. A kiss she had responded to without having to think. Even now, as she sat here watching that mouth move as he talked, she could feel its pleasurable pressure burning against her lips.
Attraction. She was aware of a physical attraction pulsing softly in her blood. She liked it. She was beginning to like him. Samantha started to relax, lower her guard, and even caught herself laughing once or twice.
Then he ruined it by picking up his glass of blood-red wine, swirling it round in thoughtful silence for a second or two, and saying levelly, ‘I have a confession to make.’
Her eyes leapt to his, the green softened by what had been happening to her sharpening into instant wariness. His mouth went awry, as if in acknowledgement that he was about to spoil what had so far turned out to be a perfect evening.
‘When I said I had to go out on business this afternoon I allowed you to assume it was hotel business, but it wasn’t,’ he explained. ‘What I actually did was spend some time with your doctor.’
Her coffee cup rattled as she put in back on its saucer. ‘Why would you want to go and do something like that without me there?’ she protested.
‘Because I had some very sensitive things to tell him and I felt they would be better said without you there to hear them.’
‘About me,’ she presumed, her soft mouth tightening to hide a deep stab of hurt.
‘About the both of us,’ he said, making it clear.
Her eyes flashed with resentment. ‘He isn’t supposed to discuss me with anyone!’ she said tightly, feeling hunted suddenly, strangely, frighteningly, angrily hunted.
‘He didn’t. He just listened while I talked, then advised me on the best course to take with this problem we have.’
This problem, Samantha repeated to herself. How good of him to let me know what I am. ‘And his advice was what?’ she prompted coldly.