The Final Seduction. Sharon Kendrick

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СКАЧАТЬ ‘kitten’ bit was habit, but it still hurt. The first time he’d ever said it to her she’d felt as if she’d hit the jackpot. ‘No fairy—bad or otherwise. Just a car,’ she smiled, as though she confronted men like dark, avenging angels every day of her life!

      ‘And what are you doing here?’

      ‘You mean right now? I’m sitting on these damp pebbles getting my bottom wet!’

      His face stayed stony, but he automatically put his hand out to help her up. ‘Here!’

      ‘Thanks!’ She caught it. Her cold fingers seemed bloodless in his warm, calloused grasp and her breath was lost on the wind.

      He bent and, with his other hand, cupped her elbow, so that he was able to swing her easily to her feet, but he didn’t let go. Not straight away. As if he could tell that her knees were still too shaky to support her. He didn’t speak again, either, just subjected her to a hard, silent scrutiny while she dragged the salty air back into her lungs.

      She hadn’t seen him since her mother’s funeral—where he had stood in the shadows at the back of the church. He had been wearing a brand-new suit—the first time anyone in Milmouth could remember seeing him in a suit. He must have bought it specially. She had been moved by that. More than moved.

      But they had hardly spoken—other than Shelley thanking him for coming, and him stiltedly saying that she knew how much he’d loved her mother. Which was true. And he had looked ill at ease. Not surprisingly. As if he had been dying to say something not very nice to her, but hadn’t been able to as a mark of respect.

      Ever unconventional, he had sent a big bunch of tiny pale mauve Michaelmas daisies, with their yellow centres glowing like miniature suns. Her mother’s favourite flower. And when Shelley had seen those she hadn’t been able to stop crying…

      Now her heart drummed with the vibrant reality of seeing him again. It had been a long time—in fact it gave her a real jerk when she realised just how long it had been.

      She stared at him.

      A couple of the lines on his face weren’t quite as faint as before. And the eyes had lines at the corners which had not been there before, either. Crinkly little laughter lines, which made Shelley wonder who had put them there. The hair was still thick, still ruffled—all dark and windswept with the ends lightened to honey by the sun.

      He was taller than Marco—taller than nearly all the men she had ever met, and most of that seemed to be leg. His faded denims matched the sky, while the navy sweater matched his eyes.

      Her first, instinctive thought was that she must have been mad to ever leave him. But that wasn’t a very smart thing to think. You shouldn’t wish for the impossible, and you couldn’t rewrite history. And the unfriendly look in his eyes told her that he certainly wouldn’t want to—even if you could.

      ‘Hello, Drew,’ she said at last, and with that he let her go. She half stumbled and she saw him tense as if to save her if she fell again. But she didn’t. Just tottered for a moment on the too high heels of her leather boots. She smiled up at him, as anyone would in the face of such courtesy. ‘Thank you for coming to my rescue.’

      He didn’t bother with any niceties. And he didn’t smile back. ‘Don’t make me out to be Sir Galahad,’ he drawled. ‘He shouldn’t have knocked you over. He knows he’s not to jump up at people like that.’

      ‘It was my fault.’ She looked over at the dog and realised her mistake. The animal was paler and thinner and much younger than the dog she remembered. ‘It isn’t Fletcher?’

      ‘How could it be?’ he asked impatiently. ‘Fletcher was almost crippled when you left—not jumping around like a puppy. I know they say that the Milmouth air is rejuvenating but that would be a little short of miraculous!’

      ‘Still, I shouldn’t have called him like that.’

      ‘No, you shouldn’t,’ he agreed shortly.

      ‘He’s lovely, Drew,’ she said, meaning it. ‘When did you get him?’

      ‘He isn’t mine.’ His eyes were wintry. ‘I’m just walking him for somebody else.’

      ‘Anybody I know?’ The question came out before she realised that she had no right to ask him things like that.

      He clearly thought so, too. ‘What would you say if I told you I was out walking him for a sweet, little old lady?’

      The trouble was that she would believe him. ‘I’d say that you were a model citizen. An upstanding member of the community.’

      ‘Would you?’ he queried softly, and let his gaze drift unhurriedly over her face. ‘Would you really?’

      Shelley shifted. She was used to men staring. That was what men did in Italy. It was acknowledged and recognised as perfectly normal to gaze at a woman in open appreciation, as you would a fine painting, or a delicious meal. But the way Drew was looking at her was making her feel uncomfortable. As if she were some bit of flotsam he had found washed up on the beach.

      And he was shaking his head, as though he didn’t like what he saw. ‘What on earth have you done to yourself?’ he demanded in a low, incredulous voice.

      He made her feel like Cinderella before the transformation scene. ‘Done to myself?’ Her indignation was genuine. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

      He shrugged. ‘Well, the dog wouldn’t have knocked you over if you hadn’t been so damned skinny.’

      ‘Skinny?’ she gritted. The word was insulting—as he had obviously meant it to be. ‘Don’t you know anything, Drew? That a woman can never be too thin—’

      ‘What a load of rubbish,’ he interrupted with quiet, curling distaste. ‘Haven’t you heard that the waif look is out? You look like you haven’t eaten a square meal in years.’

      Should she bother telling him that women in Milan watched their figures like hawks? Which was why they looked beautiful and elegant in the wonderful fashions which the city was so famous for. ‘Clothes look much better if you aren’t carrying any excess flesh,’ she told him smugly. ‘Everyone knows that.’

      ‘Well, I prefer to see a woman out of clothes,’ he drawled, noticing with pleasure that she flinched when he said that. Good! He smiled as his gaze lingered in a way which was now very Italianate. ‘And when a woman is naked a few curves are infinitely preferable to looking like a bag of bones.’

      ‘Bag of bones?’ she repeated in horrified disbelief, feeling quite sick at the thought of him with naked women. ‘Are you saying that I look like a bag of bones?’

      He shrugged. ‘Pretty much. You sure as hell don’t look great. Mind you—’ and his gaze narrowed ‘—the clothes don’t help—and what on earth have you done to your hair?’

      Shelley could hardly believe what she was hearing! She had learnt a lot about looking good while she had been living with Marco. From a rather wild and windswept girl, she had become high-maintenance woman. She had transformed herself from small-town hick to city slicker. People admired the way she looked these days—her hips were as narrow as a boy’s and she only ever wore neutrals.

      But СКАЧАТЬ