‘Gràcies.’ He sat down. ‘Leandro Herrera.’ He held his free hand out to her. She took it, and the frisson down his spine grew stronger.
‘Rebecca Marston. Everyone calls me Becky,’ she said, shaking his hand. Her grip was cool, firm, precise—and he liked it.
‘Which part of Spain do you come from?’ she asked.
‘Barcelona.’
She looked thoughtful. ‘Catalunya.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m impressed. You know Spain?’
‘Not really. I had a penfriend years ago—our teacher had spent a year in Spain and taught at a school there, and she told us a bit about the country. She set up a penfriend scheme between the two schools.’ She smiled. ‘In the years before email and chat rooms. But those early lessons helped when it came to taking exams.’
‘Parla català?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘Sorry. I assume you’re asking me if I speak Catalan—I don’t, and my Spanish is horribly rusty. But your English is excellent.’
‘Gràcies. I learned from an early age.’ He inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘So, Rebecca—Becky. Do you always escape into the garden at parties?’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘No, though I am at this one. My housemate persuaded me to come with her because she thought it would do me good to…’ And then she gave him the most gorgeously mischievous smile, indicating the ends of her short hair. ‘To let my hair down a bit.’
He smiled back. ‘And you’re regretting letting her persuade you?’
She nodded. ‘This really isn’t my kind of thing.’
‘Not mine either,’ he admitted. ‘And I heard someone say something about karaoke.’
Becky closed her eyes briefly. ‘Help. I’m not sure what’s worse—being bullied into singing something in front of a crowd or having to listen to other people singing out of key or out of rhythm.’
‘Especially when they’ve drunk enough to think they’re in tune and sound as good as their favourite pop star,’ he added dryly. ‘I think I’m going to call it a night.’
‘I don’t blame you.’
Something in her face told him that she felt the same way. And even though he had no intention of seeing her again after tonight, it would be good to have company rather than going back to his flat on his own. Dinner wouldn’t hurt. So he gave into the impulse and asked, ‘Have you eaten tonight?’
‘Just some nibbles here.’
‘How about,’ he suggested, ‘we escape? Go and find some proper food.’ He looked pointedly at her barely touched glass. ‘And wine you can actually drink.’
He had a voice like melted chocolate, and eyes to match. Olive skin betraying his Mediterranean ancestry. Dark hair that was cut short, but Becky would just bet turned curly if he were in a rainstorm; it made her itch to slide her fingers into it.
And he had the sexiest mouth she’d ever, ever seen.
Leandro Herrera was a complete stranger. She knew nothing about him. He could be some kind of maniac. She really ought to refuse. Politely, but refuse.
And then her grandfather’s voice echoed in her head.
I should think so, too. Why you couldn’t just settle down and have children and support your husband, I’ll never know. Going off with a complete stranger, indeed. No moral fibre, your generation…
Oh, shut up, Gramps, Becky thought. She was a grown woman. And in her view strangers were friends you hadn’t yet met. If a gorgeous man invited her out to dinner, and she wanted to go, then it was her choice. And she was going to do it.
‘Yes. I’d love to.’
‘Good.’ He stood up again and held a hand out to her. She slipped her feet back into her shoes, then took his hand and let him draw her to her feet. Even though she was five feet seven in heels, he was a good six inches taller than she was. Broad shouldered. Strong.
He could’ve made her feel intimidated.
Instead, he made her feel safe. And she couldn’t remember when she’d last felt like this.
Certainly not with Michael, who’d taken every safety net away from her.
‘I’d better let my housemate know I’m leaving,’ she said.
‘Of course. And I need to say goodbye and thank you to my host.’
Old-fashioned good manners. She liked that, too.
‘I’ll meet you by the front door, yes?’ he suggested.
She smiled back. ‘Sure.’
The rooms were crowded and the deep bass of the music was enough to give her a headache. She couldn’t see her housemate anywhere in the crush. ‘Have you seen Tanya?’ she asked several of the paediatric nurses who worked with Tanya. At the fifth ‘Sorry’ she gave up. She walked back into the garden, where it was quiet enough to think straight, and texted her friend. Being party pooper. C U back home. Have a good time!
Then she headed back to the kitchen and found Joe. ‘Thanks for letting me come with Tanya.’
‘No worries. We’ve got loads of room.’ The junior doctor frowned. ‘You’re not going already, are you?’
‘I’m not really in a party mood,’ she said ruefully. ‘Had a bad shift this afternoon.’
‘You’re in the emergency department, aren’t you?’ At her nod, he looked sympathetic—clearly he’d guessed the outcome of her day. ‘Well, see you around. Thanks for coming.’
She smiled back. ‘Enjoy yourself.’
Joe grinned. ‘Oh, I plan to!’
Leandro was waiting for her by the front door.
‘Ready?’ he asked.
She still had the chance to say no. She could call a taxi and go home on her own.
But there was something about Leandro’s smile, the warmth in his eyes, that told her this was a man she could trust. ‘Ready,’ she said.
CHAPTER TWO
‘SO DO you know anywhere nearby that serves reasonable food?’ Leandro asked.
Becky glanced at her watch. ‘At this time on a Saturday night, to be honest, most of the places I know are going to be full.’
‘Then I have a suggestion—seeing as I’m used to eating late in Spain, and if you don’t mind waiting a few minutes more, maybe I can cook us dinner.’
‘You’re offering to cook for me?’ She looked at him in surprise.
He spread his hands. ‘What’s so strange about that?’
She didn’t really know him, and he’d just offered to cook her a meal. Part of her thought that this was a seriously bad idea. Going for dinner with a stranger in a public place where she could call a taxi and escape if she needed to would be one thing; going to his home was just asking for trouble. But, on the other hand, her instincts were rarely wrong—and she didn’t have any mental warning bells about Leandro Herrera.
Quite the opposite.
‘I… Well. I’m just not used to men who can cook,’ she