He’d asked her out on a date after she and Leo had finished and she’d been so stunned she’d not spoken for a moment, which led Martin to think she’d say yes and he’d started to waffle on about where they could go. There wasn’t one aspect of the guy that appealed, and she’d blurted she didn’t feel comfortable getting involved with a work colleague. Since she’d had a relationship with Leo before Belinda snagged him, Martin hadn’t taken it well and since then had seized every opportunity to make snide comments about her and her work.
Wren was the first out of the door once Martin finished. She made straight for her class on the next floor and stood just inside the room, ready to welcome each student. This adult group had signed up for a term of intensive English, and part of the course was two hours of conversation practice with her, five days a week. Class numbers were limited to four so she could get to know the students’ individual needs and direct her lessons accordingly.
“Good morn…ing,” died on her lips as the first student strolled in.
“Morning, little bird.” He flashed her a devastating smile and took a seat in the middle of the front row, his long legs stretched out in front of him under the desk.
Wren’s heart bounced up and down in her chest before settling uncomfortably in her stomach. Maybe the no-fraternizing-with-students rule didn’t count if they were tall, dark, handsome and adult, though she’d no idea why she was even thinking along those lines. The chances of her making a move were zero. She’d rather ask out a grizzly bear. At least she wouldn’t get turned down.
Wren checked her list. Was he Benoit or Georg? Two women and two guys bustled past her and she frowned. Five students, not four. Had Mr. Gorgeous come to the wrong room? Did she want to tell him? Or was he an inspector on a surprise visit? She blanched. Her lessons tended to take unusual directions, twisting to suit the moment, often veering so far away from her written plan it might seem she hadn’t made one.
“I extra one,” he said and smiled at her again.
Oh God, don’t smile at me. Parts of her body were already reacting in inappropriate ways. She pulled herself together, ignored the dampness between her thighs, dragged her heart out of her stomach and inflated her lungs. “Good morning, everyone.”
If she didn’t look at him, she’d be fine.
Oh God, how could she not look at him?
Try hard!
“Welcome to my conversation class.” She spoke carefully with pauses between words. “Let’s introduce ourselves. My name is Wren Monroe. I live in Leeds.”
She started with the young guy sitting on her far left, who was frantically scribbling in a notebook. “What’s your name? Where do you live?”
“My name is Benoit Dubarre,” he told his desk. “I live at 43 Richmond Street in Headingley.” He gave Wren a nervous glance revealing beautiful green eyes, but he was trying to hide terrible acne under floppy blond hair.
“Excellent, Benoit.”
Wren moved on to the elegant baguette next to him who had long, sleek, fair hair and perfect skin. A designer purse sat on the table in front of her, right next to a pristine red leather folder and sharpened pencil.
“What’s your name? Where do you live?” Wren asked.
“I am Monique Rotellini. I live in Hardston Hall in Leeds.”
“Near Hardston Hall,” Wren corrected.
“No, in Hardston Hall.”
She clenched her teeth. Sometimes teaching was like walking up an icy hill. One step forward and five slithery steps back. “No, near. Lord and Lady Kitson live in Hardston Hall. So you live near the Hall.”
“I live in the hall. Lady Kitson is a friend of Maman.”
Shit. “Oh. Sorry, Monique. Then you were correct.” Wren didn’t miss the disdainful smirk. “Would you like to ask your neighbor where she’s from?”
Monique cast a disdainful glance toward the pale-faced woman with huge, dark eyes. “What’s your name? Where do you live?”
There was a lot of brow furrowing and heavy sighing before she spoke. “I am Duscha Petrovna Kusmin. I live in Moscow. I live in apartment in Moscow. I live in little apartment in Moscow, in Russia. I live—”
“Great,” Wren interrupted.
She’d had Duscha’s type before. They built up each sentence like a set of Russian dolls and were difficult to stop once they got going. “Don’t forget to use ‘a’ and ‘an’. I live in an apartment, okay?”
“Yes, I live in an apartment in a Moscow.”
“No need for ‘a’ before a named city,” Wren said. “I live in a city but I live in London. I live in Paris. I live in New York.”
“You cosmopolitan lady,” said the dark-haired devil in front of her.
She ignored him. “And it’s a little apartment, not an. Drop the ‘n’ when there is no vowel following.” Blank faces except for Benoit, who was frantically scribbling. Wren turned to the whiteboard and started to write as she spoke. “A before all words that begin with consonants, except use an before an unsounded h. An before all words that begin with vowels, except when u makes the same sound as y in you.” God, even she didn’t understand that. English grammar was a nightmare.
“Can anyone think of an example?” she asked.
Benoit’s hand slid up. “A unicyclist with an ugly nose is carrying a horn and an umbrella.”
Good grief. “Very good.” But very weird.
Benoit raised his head and peeked at her. Wren beamed and he blushed. At least one of them had been listening and it was reassuring to know she hadn’t spouted a pile of crap.
“An English woman’s breasts bounce when she rides an unusual horse with an appendage. A long, hard appendage. Perhaps it’s a unicorn,” said Satan.
Oh God. Aware her jaw had dropped, Wren closed her mouth. How did he know the word appendage? How could he manage that sentence construction?
“Am I good too?” Mr. Temptation asked.
“Yes.” And also strange. There was something unmistakably carnal in the way he stared at her chest, though it wasn’t as if she had much in that department. Unless… She dropped her gaze to check her buttons. All done up. When she glanced at him again, he was smirking.
“You want to know my name?” he asked.
She swallowed hard. Beelzebub? Lucifer? Why had she thought teaching adults would be easier than teenagers? “What’s your name? Whereabouts do you live?”
“My name Tomas Adzovic. I live in Headingley, 43 Richmond Street.”
Hang on a minute. That was where Benoit lived. She opened her mouth but Benoit got there first.
“No, it is not true,” Benoit said. “He don’t live with me.” He appeared horrified at the thought.
“He doesn’t live with me,” Wren corrected.
“Not yet,” Tomas said.
Shit. They all got that and laughed. Had he set her up?
“So Tomas, where do you go at the end of the day?” she asked.
“Pub.” He flashed his all-the-better-to-eat-you-with teeth and she stamped on the flickers of lust. Bloody smart aleck. If he could joke in English, why did he need help with conversation? Oh God, unless he lived in a pub? After the mistake with Monique, Wren needed to be careful.
“Do you sleep at the pub?” she asked.
“No. Too busy.” He stared at her through his dark eyelashes.
“Busy doing what?” She wanted the words back. If she flirted with Tomas he’d burn her alive.
“Busy in bed.”
Monique sniggered.
“Let’s start again,” Wren snapped. “Where do you live, Tomas?” Damn. That had come out sharper than she’d have liked.
“I lives on Dock Street.”
“I live on Dock Street,” Wren corrected.
“What number? Maybe we neighbors?”
She’d walked right into that. She tightened her mouth, counted to three and moved on to the last man, who had to be Georg. The German was the oldest in the group. Maybe in his early forties.
“What’s your name? Whe
re do you live?”
He stood up to speak to her. Wren had to crane her neck to see his face. He was a bear of a man with dark curly hair, tanned skin and a white smile.
“Good morning. I am Georg Schmitt. I live in Gilmore Street in Pudsey but I come from Berlin.”
He put out his hand for her to shake and Wren took it, feeling guilty she hadn’t done that for the others. Normally she would have but she’d been afraid to touch Tomas in case she got stuck.
The rest of the lesson passed in a blur. She ascertained Georg was an engineer, Benoit a photographer, Duscha wanted to work as an au pair, Monique was employed by her father and Tomas worked behind a bar—sometimes—and drove his boss around—sometimes. After the initial burst of impressive though strange English, he hadn’t contributed much to the conversation, but every time she glanced at him he appeared to be smiling at Monique. Wren tried not to look, but he was like a magnet.
When the bell rang, she jumped as if she’d been shot.
“Okay, in the next session we’ll talk about hobbies. Hobbies are pastimes like dancing, reading, playing football or going to the cinema. Things you like to do to pass the time.” Like fucking Monique, she added silently, watching Tomas’ gaze slide to the French woman’s bum as she bent to pick up her pencil from the floor. The witch had probably dropped it on purpose.
Monique was all sleek elegance. Wren had no idea how the French managed to always appear stylish no matter what they wore, but they did. One glance at Monique made her feel like going home and setting fire to her wardrobe. French women could make Primark look like Prada. A scarf round their necks transformed them into Audrey Hepburn. A scarf round Wren’s neck and she turned into her mother.
As the students filed out, Wren gathered the material she’d used, pictures of everyday objects she’d had them talk about, and packed her shoulder bag.
“Hey, little bird. Come for coffee?” Tomas stood at the classroom door.
As Wren watched, Monique pushed her arm through his and snuggled up close. Disappointment clawed at her stomach.
“Sorry, I can’t.” She resisted the impulse to correct grammar now the lesson was over. “I have another English class.”
Monique shrugged in a nonchalant way that Wren read as—I didn’t want you to come anyway because you’re so wet and boring. But just for a tiny fraction of a second, Tomas appeared disappointed.
Chapter Five
As Tomas walked with Monique to the stairs leading to Ezispeke’s rooftop café, he untangled her arm from his.
“I come later,” he said.
Her sulky pout did nothing for him. The brown-eyed teacher with the short messy hair, long legs and sweet blush on her makeup-free face was far more appealing. He’d had a hard time keeping his gaze off her, but in transferring his attention to the French poodle, he’d given her the wrong idea. He’d wanted Wren to come for a coffee purely because Marco had told him to get to know the staff.
Yeah, right.
He headed back to the classroom in time to see Wren disappear around the corner with Benoit. Damn. Tomas had been a smart-arse this morning and if he wasn’t careful, she’d catch on that he spoke English as well as she did. He started after her to ask her to come to the pub for lunch when his mobile vibrated. When he saw who was calling, he groaned and stopped walking.
“What are you doing?” Marco asked.
What you told me, dickhead. “At Academy. Learning English.”
“Good. I want to know how many students are in each class.”
Christ. How was he supposed to find that out? He risked a question. “Why?” When Marco said nothing, he winced. “Sorry.”
“Find a way.”
Tomas shoved the phone back in his pocket. He wasn’t surprised Marco hadn’t answered his question but he didn’t regret asking it. It looked suspicious to be too amenable, except playing dumb was less likely to get him killed. The tightrope he walked was so tenuous, the slightest mistake could be fatal.
Checking to make sure he was unobserved, he took another phone from the inside pocket of his jacket and tapped in a number.
“Orange service. How can I help you?” a familiar voice asked.
Tomas gave the first part of the reply that told his boss all was well. “I’d like to top up my phone.”
“How much would you like to put on it?”
“Twenty-two pounds.”
“What’s up?” Detective Superintendent Julia Markham asked.
“He gave me five hundred in cash and told me to enroll at Ezispeke Language Academy. You know it?”
“I’ve heard of it. I’ll do some checking.”
“He wants the number of students and for me to get to know the staff. I have no idea why. He’s playing his usual game.”
“Okay. Take care.”
* * * * *
After guiding ten bored Italian teenage boys through worksheets on Dickens’ Great Expectations, Wren finished up the class frazzled and exhausted. The book was one of the set texts at their private school in Milan. She wished the examination board was a bit more adventurous. Nothing wrong with Dickens but he didn’t exactly set modern young men alight with enthusiasm.
Refusing requests for dates, drinks and meals, she finally extricated herself from the group, slipped her ID into her purse and clattered down the stairs rather than up to the café. Chances were slim Tomas and the others were still up there. But if they were, she didn’t want to watch Monique slobber over him. Or him slobber over her.
The look Wren had identified as disappointment was probably Tomas burping. She knew better than to lust after wolves, even when armed with an axe and wearing a red-hooded cloak. She was already far too distracted by his big black eyes and rakish grin. One bite and he’d gobble her up.
Wren headed toward the staffroom and uttered a silent prayer for Belinda not to plonk her fat butt next to her and deconstruct her wedding in minute detail. It had been bad enough listening to her plan it for the last few months. Every time she and Leo had been in the staffroom, that was all Wren heard. Leo had squirmed in discomfort when Belinda was in full flow and he caught sight of Wren pretending not to listen but he never shut Belinda up. Wren wondered where the sweet guy she’d fallen for had gone, the one who’d bought her flowers, tickled her into hysterics and stroked her forehead when she had a headache.
She’d thought hard about resigning when Belinda announced she and Leo were going to marry, but then steeled herself and decided it would be the worst thing to do. It hadn’t been easy accepting he preferred her airheaded cousin but eventually Wren decided they were welcome to each other. She really didn’t care anymore, but it had still been difficult to watch the bastard touch Belinda and whisper sweet nothings in her ear when Wren remembered him doing the same to her.
As she reached to open the door on the ground floor, someone pushed hard from the other side and for the second time that day, Wren found herself flat on her back, bruising her bruises. She looked up past pale chinos and a blue sweater under an open gray coat into concerned navy-blue eyes. Her high-pitched yip of shocked recognition sounded much too like a dog in pain.
“Oh my God,” he blurted and his eyes widened. After a long moment of stunned silence, he dropped to her side. “Are you okay?”
He doesn’t remember me. Relief wrestled with disappointment.
“I can’t believe it’s you,” he said.
He does remember me. Worry and pleasure joined the fight. Oh God, I’m unconscious or dead and this isn’t happening. It can’t be him. Panic surged as her heart thundered.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
“I’m fine.”
When he stood and reached to help her up, Wren ignored his hand. She grabbed her bag and purse, scrambled to her feet and brushed herself down.
He ran his fingers through his short black hair. “I really can’t believe this.” His smile slipped and his shoulders slumped. “Ah. You don’t remember me.”
Options zipped through her bra
in.
Pretend not to remember him.
Admit I do and run away.
Admit I do and not run away—not yet anyway.
“We met in—” he began.
“Venice,” she said and he smiled.
And what she’d remembered as The Big Mistake started to seem much less of a mistake now that he was in front of her again. She could have sunbathed in the warmth of his smile. For the second time that day, sexual interest exploded low in her belly like a white-hot firework. Or a distress flare.
Then she recalled what happened last time they met and the heat shot to her cheeks. He might be in sheep’s clothing, but he was another wolf. He looked like Tomas, of a similar height and build, though his hair was shorter and neater. Her gaze locked on his hands and her mind side-slipped to memories of his fingers stroking her skin, and how he’d— Oh damn.
“Are you a student?” he asked.
“No, I work here.” She leaned back against the wall before she fell over.
He let out a choked laugh. “I can’t believe this. Sorry I keep saying that, but I really can’t believe it. Christ.” He shook his head. “I searched for you for hours, but in those crowds it was impossible. I never thought I’d see you again.”
Her heart surged into her throat and she swallowed. “You searched for me?”
“Of course I did, but I didn’t know anything about you, or where to reach you. When you were in my arms I’d thought how bloody erotic not to know each other’s name and then after, I just wished I’d at least known that. Maybe I could have found you. As it was, all I could do was roam the streets searching for a woman in a pretty dress. Tell me your name quickly before a herd of buffalo rush through and part us.”
She grinned. “Wren Monroe.”
“Wren.” He smiled. “I like it. I’m Adam Kesey.” He winced. “Sounds rather formal after what—” A choked groan escaped his lips. “Look, are you free? Can I buy you lunch?”
GirlMostLikelyTo Page 5
