Think.
‘In the meantime, before we go, I’m going to call a friend and tell her I’ll be checking in every hour.’
No need to tell Lynette that she was having dinner with a stranger; instead she’d say she was walking alone and would feel better if she could check in.
‘Works for me.’
‘I’ll be back in a minute.’
To Kaitlin’s relief Lynette didn’t make a big deal of the situation—she seemed to accept that Kaitlin never travelled alone and that the aristocracy were ultra-security-conscious.
And so ten minutes later she and Daniel stepped out of the hotel’s revolving doors into the hustle and bustle of the Barcelona street.
Instinctively Kaitlin halted, almost overwhelmed by the sheer buzz that emanated from the throngs of chattering people. Her gaze darted to the street performers who plied their expertise for the amusement of passers-by. The scents of garlic and chilli and spices wafted from the numerous tapas bars that dotted the early medieval streets and overflowed with evening revellers.
‘You OK?’
Kaitlin pushed her shoulders back and nodded. Panic would not ruin this evening. The old dormant fear that coloured her every move, that made her live her life bound by rules and regulations and routine, would be suspended tonight. No one knew her identity; no one had any interest in snatching her now.
‘I’m fine. It’s just so vibrant it stopped me in my tracks.’
Yet instinct had her walking close to his reassuring warmth—logical or not, she sensed that Daniel would keep her safe. Perhaps it was the confident, swagger-free, don’t-mess-with-me aura he projected, or the sheer lithe muscular strength in each step. Whatever it was, it worked, and as they walked Kaitlin relaxed, absorbed the sights, the awe-inspiring grand patchwork of architectural styles that graced the skyline, where dark Gothic façades neighboured the harlequin buildings of the Modernistas.
But it wasn’t only the Barcelona experience that she absorbed—as they walked her whole body hummed with an awareness of Daniel... Something shimmered and sizzled in the air between them, exacerbated by the occasional brush of their hands or the press of their bodies against each other in the crowds. Each touch sent heat through her, caused her tummy to loop the loop.
Even more head-spinning was the knowledge that he felt the same way; she could sense it—see it in the hunger of his blue gaze when it rested on her.
Some space, time out, seemed a good idea, so she could make an attempt to process the enormity of her reactions. ‘Shall we eat?’ she suggested pointing to a tapas bar. ‘That one looks as good as any.’
‘Sure.’
She followed him into the dimly lit packed interior and watched as he managed to snag one of the few small square tables covered in plastic red and white checked tablecloths.
As they looked around she realised where they were. ‘It’s a pintxo bar. I’ve never been in one—but I think they originate from the Basque region of Spain.’
He nodded. ‘Basically pintxos are mouth-sized tapas—always skewered with toothpicks. We just go up to the bar, help ourselves and tuck in. We keep the toothpicks and at the end we pay by the number of toothpicks.’
Kaitlin eyed the throng of people at the bar, most of them standing and eating, chatting and drinking with abandon. She knew that even with the new-found freedom of being ‘Lynette’ she couldn’t risk it. Not the possibility of another panic attack brought on by the crowd or that of being recognised.
Daniel looked at her with a glint of amusement. ‘I can go and get a selection for us both.’
‘Thank you. That would be kind.’ Perhaps a touch too much aristocratic hauteur in her voice there, and she eased it with a smile. ‘I’ll order the drinks.’
Ten minutes later he returned to the table. ‘Here we go.’
‘Delicious. Ham empanadillas, sobrassada sausage with honey, apple and crispy Idiazabal cheese pintxos made of chicken, tempura with saffron mayonnaise, melted provolone with mango and ham, and a mini-brochette of pork.’
‘That’s an impressive Spanish accent. I take it you speak the language?’
‘A little.’ The Duchess had ensured Kaitlin was fluent in a number of languages.
‘You must be prepared, Kaitlin, should you marry into European aristocracy.’
‘As part of your job?’
‘No. I work in an art gallery.’ No harm in sharing that fact; lots of people worked in art galleries, after all.
He speared a pinxto and surveyed her thoughtfully. ‘So, are you here on business? Barcelona has plenty of art.’
Kaitlin shook her head. ‘This trip is personal.’
‘Are you in trouble?’
The unexpectedness of the question caused her to tense, and a drop of sangria slopped over the edge of her glass and hit the wooden table. Placing her glass down carefully, Kaitlin mopped up the red liquid with a napkin, watching the cloth absorb the ruby stain.
‘We had this conversation earlier and I said no.’
‘I know you did. I’m not sure I believe you.’
‘I’m not in trouble. I came to Barcelona because I needed some space. Tonight I want to forget the past and the future and live in the present.’
An arrested expression flickered across his face in the candlelit alcove. ‘A night of freedom?’ he said, quoting her words from earlier.
‘Yes.’
Daniel raised his glass. ‘To your night of freedom.’
His blue eyes met hers and what she saw shot a funny little thrill through her and she stilled. The sheer unfamiliarity of the sensation made her light-headed, made her dizzy with its intensity, and her body felt energised as every nerve-end tingled in anticipation.
The hours danced by, and the air was tinged with motes of awareness as they talked of everything and nothing. By mutual unspoken consent the conversation veered away from the personal, so they discussed music, films and philosophy. But every word was punctuated by a growing expectancy—a heady underlying responsiveness and a growing realisation of where the evening might end up.
Eventually they shared a dessert, a decadent dark chocolate concoction, and as she spooned up the last sumptuous bite she met his gaze, saw desire ignite in his eyes. Then gently he took the spoon from her suddenly nerveless fingers and placed it on the plate. The chink of metal on china rang loud in her ear.
Oh, so gently he reached out and ran his thumb across her lower lip. She gasped—a small, involuntary sound—at the potency of her own reaction. Sensation uncoiled in her tummy...a need she’d never felt before. Without thought she cupped his jaw, wondered at the feel of his six o’clock shadow. Then his lips descended to hers and the world seemed to stop.
There was the taste of coffee and chocolate, the whirling rush of need, and the intense, sweet pleasure that streamed through her veins and sent a tingling rush to every bit of her body. Never before had she felt like this.
He pulled back, his breathing ragged, and he looked at her with such intensity as he said her name. ‘Lynette...’
It was a reminder that she had this night and this night only. Ideas swirled round her head. A touch of fear as to whether she could do this, however much she wanted to—and, dammit, she wanted to.
For one grim instant the image of her dark, bearded kidnapper splayed through her vision, and then she looked at Daniel and the picture faded, dissipated by the white-hot burn of desire.
‘I