One eyebrow arched. ‘For a witch’s brew?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You were scowling at me. I don’t think I fancy the recipe.’
She felt colour touch her cheeks. ‘I’m sorry. I was miles away,’ she lied.
Contemplating getting to know him better. Much better.
Oh, good grief! She hadn’t done this for years, hadn’t felt this devastating tug of attraction since—well, since Etienne.
Perhaps it was his body that had triggered the response? They were the same physical type—same height, or thereabouts, although Michael was heavier than Etienne. Same build, though—lithe and muscular. Powerful. And something about the eyes—
But it was more than that, something not quite physical, some deep connection that went right to the heart of her and tumbled her senses into chaos—just as Etienne had done, but in a very different way, because Etienne absolutely never brooded and Michael—well, Michael was deep as the ocean, and she could get lost in those eyes—
Then he looked up again, fixing her with those very eyes, and a slow, lazy curve tilted the right side of his mouth.
And the chaos just got worse.
* * *
Lord, she was gorgeous. Beautiful and defensive and responsive as ever, her skin colouring even as he looked at her.
That went with the auburn hair, of course, the rich, warm red that gave her those amazing green eyes and clear, creamy skin. She had freckles after the summer, just like she’d had in France—
He dragged his eyes away, coughed to clear his throat, hauled his libido back under control. He didn’t want to blow it now, when it looked as though he’d got over the first hurdle. His heartbeat was starting to steady, the nerves of steel he’d always had before an op coming back now to help him through, but this was much, much harder, somehow much scarier because it was the real thing.
She’d given him a fright when she’d first looked up at him. He’d been sure she’d recognised him, but then she’d talked herself out of it as he watched. He’d seen the cogs turn, and then he’d just had to deal with her veiled curiosity.
She’d been studying him just now, and it had taken all his self-control not to get up and walk away. He hated looking like this—hated what had been done to him, the fact that he didn’t recognise himself any more. And he hated being studied. Normally he would have walked away or stared the person down, but this was Annie, and she needed to be able to live with it. So he’d let her look, pretending interest in the coffee, just hoping it didn’t make her want to run.
‘So you want the garden?’ he said, forcing himself to stick to the game plan, and for a moment she looked a little startled.
Then she nodded.
‘Yes—but I know it goes with the flat.’
‘Not necessarily,’ he said slowly, watching her. ‘We could certainly divide it. What did you have in mind? You’ve obviously been thinking about it—how long have you been here now, did you say?’
‘Nine years.’
As if he didn’t know that, almost to the minute. He kept his expression steady—not easy, considering. ‘So in that time you must have come up with some ideas.’
‘Oh, all sorts, but one of the problems is that to gain access to the garden at the back I’d have to lose one of the tables, and I can’t really afford to do that. Our summers aren’t reliable enough.’
‘But you could have a conservatory.’
She laughed. ‘I couldn’t possibly justify the expense! It would cost a fortune to have one big enough to do any good, and the place doesn’t do much more than break even really. I make a reasonable living, but I work hard for it and there’s no slack in the system. I wouldn’t contemplate taking on any expansion plans.’
‘But I might.’
Her eyes snapped back to his, widening. ‘Why? Why would you do that?’
He shrugged. Why, indeed? To make her happy? Crazy.
‘I’ve got the money—why not? It would add to the value of the property.’
‘Only if you’re thinking of selling it,’ she said, and he could see the apprehension in her eyes. He shook his head and hastened to reassure her.
‘No. It was just an idea. Don’t worry about it. But the access to the cloakroom through the store—that’s not a very good idea, and it’s a bit cramped. There was a doorway on the other side at the back of the stairs, according to my plans. We could open it up and make a store there. Or create an alcove, as well as a store. Take more off the antique shop. There are lots of options. I don’t see the cost as a factor. Think about it.’
She caught her lip between her teeth, worrying it gently, making it pinker. He had an overwhelming urge to soothe the tiny bruise with his tongue and had to remind himself firmly what he was doing here.
Helping. Not hindering, not chatting her up or flirting with her or putting the moves on her.
He’d done that nine years ago, and look where it had got them. No. This time he was going to do things right. Take it slowly, give them a chance to get to know each other properly. There was far too much at stake to blow it because of his overactive hormones.
He picked up his cup, dragged his eyes off her and drained it in one.
‘Right. Let me pay you for the coffee and I’ll go and get on. Lots to do.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ she said quickly. ‘I wouldn’t dream of taking any money off you—’
He laughed softly. ‘No, I insist—because I’m just about to rip out the kitchen in the flat and I intend to pop down whenever I need a drink or something to eat, and if you won’t let me pay my way I won’t feel I can—’
‘Rubbish. Anyway,’ she said, and her mouth tipped up into a grin that made his heart crash against his ribs, ‘I’ll keep a tally and get my pound of flesh. I’m still after the garden, remember?’
He laughed again, and shook his head. ‘I won’t argue—for now. And think about what I said about the changes you want.’
‘I will. Thanks.’
She met his eyes, and the urge to bend forwards and brush his lips against hers nearly overwhelmed him.
Nearly.
He slotted the chair under the table, grabbed his jacket and fled for the door before he got himself into trouble.
* * *
Wow.
Annie sat down again with a bump, staring after him. The door at the bottom of the stairs closed softly behind him, and she heard his footsteps running up into the flat above. Suddenly she could breathe again, and she sucked in a great lungful of air and shook her head to clear it.
Wow, she thought again. What was it about him? Was it simply that he’d reminded her so forcefully of Etienne? Although he wasn’t really that like him. It had just been the initial shock.
But it was more than the looks. He had the same way of concentrating on what she was saying, really listening to her, watching her attentively. Etienne had done that, and it had made her feel somehow special.
Crazy. Michael was just trying to find out what she wanted from the tearoom. He wasn’t being attentive; he was just listening to her suggestions for improving his investment.
And any fanciful notions to the contrary had better go straight out of her head, together with any foolish ideas about getting to know him better. This minute.
Now.
There was a thump upstairs, and her attention zinged straight back to him.
Great, she thought. Kept your mind off him for less than a second. You’re doing well, Annie. Really well.
There was another thump overhead. With any luck he’d be so busy up there he wouldn’t find time to come down here pestering her and putting her senses into turmoil.
‘You need a life,’ she muttered. ‘One half-decent man wanders in here and yo
u go completely to pieces.’
She put the scones in the oven, straightened up and saw a coach pull into the square. Oh, no! Just what she needed when her brain was out to lunch. She threw a few more scones into the pan, shut the oven door and refilled the coffee machine as the first of the coach party wandered through the door, peered around and headed for the window table.
Plastering on a smile, she picked up her notepad and went out into the fray.
* * *
He’d done it.
Amazing.
OK, theirs had been a brief affair, and nine years would have blurred the memories, but even so he was surprised he’d got away with it.
He shouldn’t have been. It was no surprise, really. The young Frenchman she’d loved was dead. She wouldn’t be looking for him in an Englishman, especially one who looked so different. When he’d caught her studying him, the look on her face had caught him on the raw. There was no way there’d been recognition in her eyes, just curiosity, and maybe a little fascination. He didn’t want her to be fascinated—at least, not like that, but he couldn’t blame her. He was no oil painting.
Apart from the nerve damage that had taken away the spontaneous little movements of his lips, contorting his smile, the structure had been so damaged that, even if she’d known, she would have struggled to recognise him. Hell, he sometimes had a shock even now when he caught sight of himself in a mirror. Not to mention the fact that it had aged him more than he cared to admit. He sure as hell didn’t look like a man of thirty-eight.
Of course his stupid masculine pride had hoped she’d recognise him right away, and there’d been that moment of panic when she’d first seen him. He’d got away with it, though, brazened it out, and the bit of him that still had any common sense knew it was just as well.
What he wanted—no, needed—was time to build a relationship with her as the people they were now.
No strings. No past. Just the present.
And hopefully the future…
And this place would give him all the time he needed. Whistling softly under his breath, he found a screwdriver and set about dismantling the cupboards.
* * *
He hadn’t been exaggerating about using her as a kitchen.
He came down for coffee at eleven-thirty, then reappeared at one looking scruffy and harassed and short of caffeine.
‘I could do with some lunch,’ he said gruffly.
‘Coffee first?’ she said with a smile that wouldn’t quite behave, and he gave her that lopsided grin that creased his eyes and turned her insides out, and nodded.
‘You’d better believe it—a huge one—and something substantial to blot it up following not far behind. I’m starving.’
‘A pasta bake with roasted vegetables and a side salad?’
‘Chuck in a good big lump of bread and you’re on.’
She suppressed the smile, but it wouldn’t quite go. ‘Bad day?’
‘The kitchen’s fighting back,’ he said drily, showing her his hand, and she tutted and cleaned up the scuff on his knuckle with a damp paper napkin and stuck a plaster on it.
‘Thanks,’ he murmured, then added cheekily, ‘I’ll get out of your way now—I’d hate to hold up my lunch,’ and looked around for a table.
She felt her eyebrows shoot up and a smile tugged at her lips. ‘Pushing your luck, aren’t you? We’re a bit busy—sit by the window with the others. It’s my regulars’ table—I think you probably qualify already and it’s all you deserve after that remark, so I’m throwing you to the piranhas!’
‘Are they that bad?’
She laughed. ‘You don’t know the half of it.’
He chuckled and went over, introducing himself to them and settling his lean, rangy body on the only spare chair. By the time she’d poured his coffee and put the pasta bake in the microwave to heat, he was already entrenched in their conversation about parking on the market square, the current hot topic in the village.
She pulled up the little stool she used for reaching the top of the fridge-freezer and joined them for a few moments, content just to sit there and watch them all wrangling over the insoluble problem of conservation versus trade.
Michael wasn’t having that, though. He turned to her and said, ‘So what’s your opinion?’ and dragged her into the conversation.
She laughed and threw up her hands. ‘I don’t have one. Well, to be exact, I have two, so I don’t count. When I’m here, I want people to be able to park. When I’m at home, which is there—’ she pointed out her house to him through the window ‘—I don’t want to look at cars. So I’m keeping out of it, not that it will make the slightest difference, because the council will do what they think fit and ignore us all as usual—’
Grace chipped in with her ferociously held views on conservation, Chris complained that there was never anywhere to park close enough to leave a sleeping baby in the vehicle for a few minutes to grab a sanity-restoring coffee amongst friends, and Michael cradled his coffee in his big battered hands and sat back and smiled at her over the pandemonium.
Good grief. How intimate that smile seemed in the crowded room. And how curious that his smile should have become so important to her in such a ridiculously short space of time! The microwave beeped, rescuing her from mental paralysis and any further dangerous speculation, and she leapt up and went back into her little kitchen area and made his salad and sliced him a couple of big chunks of corn bread, her whole body humming with the awareness of his eyes on her for the entire time.
She set the plate down in front of him, warned him that the pasta bake would be hot, and went back behind her counter to deal with a customer who was leaving and wanted to pay the bill.
Then another couple came in and dithered about and changed their order half a dozen times, sat down, glanced across at Michael’s meal and changed their minds again.
By the time she’d dealt with them, cleared a couple of tables and loaded the dishwasher, her regulars were drifting out and Michael was left at the table on his own. He wandered over, coming into the kitchen area that was strictly off-limits to customers, and when she pointed that out to him he told her calmly that he owned it and anyway, even if he didn’t, she wasn’t clearing up after him.
And he put his plate in the dishwasher, refilled his coffee mug and looked round at her crowded little workspace with a pleated brow. ‘Poky, isn’t it?’
‘It’s efficient.’
‘No, it isn’t. It’s outdated and cramped.’
‘It was the best we could afford,’ she said, beginning to bristle and wondering what had happened to that smile that melted her insides, when he suddenly produced it.
‘And you’ve done wonders with it, and you’re clearly hugely popular, but that’s not a surprise,’ he said softly in the low, gravelly voice that finished what the smile had started. ‘That pasta bake was delicious. Thank you.’
He sighed and raked his fingers through his hair, the smile rueful now. ‘Unfortunately the kitchen’s still waiting for me upstairs, so I suppose I ought to go and tackle it before I start rearranging yours. Come and sit and have a drink with me for a minute first, though,’ he said, and all the reasons why she shouldn’t suddenly went out of the window.
She sat down, pushed the regulars’ wreckage out of the way for a moment, and buried her nose in a much-needed cup of coffee. ‘Oh, bliss,’ she murmured.
‘Hectic morning?’
‘I haven’t stopped,’ she confessed. ‘It’s been bedlam. I was going to have a look through a few recipe books for some new soups, but I haven’t had a chance.’
‘You do soup?’
She nodded. ‘In the winter. I’ll be starting it any day now. It’s really popular, but I like to do a variety and introduce a few new ones every year. I used to test th
em out on Roger, but since he died I have to test them on my customers—dangerous, if it bombs!’
‘You could test them on me,’ he offered, and her heart skittered crazily. Why? They were talking about sampling soups, nothing more. Certainly nothing that should make her heart dance about like a manic puppet!
‘You’re just after more food,’ she said, trying to lighten the suddenly electric atmosphere.
He sat back and chuckled. ‘Of course. If I play my cards right, I won’t ever have to cook at all. What could be better?’
She was saved the necessity of finding a reply by the arrival of customers, and while she was sorting out their order, Michael left, waggling his fingers at her as he went out of the door and headed up the stairs.
There was a thump and a crash, followed by something she was glad she and her customers couldn’t quite hear, and his footsteps came back down the stairs again.
‘Got another plaster?’ he asked, and she threw him the first aid kit.
‘Take it with you—you’re obviously going to need it,’ she said with a smile, and thus cleverly avoided having to touch him. She was still tingling from the last time!
* * *
His finger was sore.
Not that he was any stranger to pain, far from it, but it was just constantly in the way. Everything seemed to require pressure on just that bit of the pad that he’d sliced on the hinge, and finally he packed up his tools, looked around at the carnage and headed back downstairs.
Time for a bucketful of tea, something tasty from her selection of mouthwatering cakes to tide him over until he could be bothered to cook later, and another opportunity to get close to the woman who’d dominated his life and his thoughts for so long.
You’re overdoing it, he told himself, but he didn’t seem to have any control, and when he walked in her eyes flicked up and caught his instantly and she smiled, and his heart slammed against his ribs and hiccuped into a nice steady gallop.
Nine years, he thought, and he still felt just the same. Time to cool off. Fast.
‘I’m going home—I know when I’m beaten. I’ll see you tomorrow,’ he said and, resisting the urge to hang around any longer, he headed for the door, just as a small boy dragging a backpack wandered in.
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