‘He’s tall and dark with deep blue eyes. Probably late thirties, black hair, waves a bit. I like the way he moves—sort of easy and graceful—and he knows how to wear an expensive suit.’
‘You’ve priced his suit?’ Celia’d demanded, amused.
‘I’ve seen it on sale and it costs a fortune. In fact, from the way it fits, I’ll bet he had it specially made for him. He’s got that sort of something about him. An “air”—like the world is his, he’ll take it when it suits him, and in the meantime it can wait until he is ready.’
‘You’re really studying the subject, aren’t you?’ Celia’d said, chuckling.
‘Naturally I want to give you an accurate description. Oh, yes, and he’s got a brooding look that you only see in film stars—Oh, gosh, I forgot you haven’t seen any film stars. I’m really sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise,’ Celia’d said warmly. ‘I work hard to make people forget that I can’t see. You just told me I’ve succeeded. But I’ve always been blind, so I can’t imagine anything. I don’t know what colours look like, or shapes and sizes. I have to discover them by touch.’
‘Well, his shape and size would really be worth discovering by touch,’ Sally’d said frankly, and Celia’d burst into a peal of laughter.
‘He’s looking this way,’ Sally’d hissed. ‘Now he’s coming over.’
Next thing Celia heard a quiet, deep voice with the hint of an Italian accent. ‘Good morning. My name is Francesco Rinucci. I’m looking for Celia Ryland.’
The moment she heard his voice she could ‘see’ him—not in the kind of detail Sally had explained, but in her own way. Easy and graceful, an air as though the world was his; those she had understood at once.
Now, making her way through the water and remembering, she thought that the world really had been his. And when she was in his arms, the world had been hers.
But that had been five months ago. In five short months she’d loved him passionately, fought with him furiously, and learned that she must escape him at all costs.
Five months, and so much had happened in between. So much joy, so much bitterness, so much regret that they had ever met, so much thankfulness that she had known him even for a brief time.
She remembered everything of their meeting. Details reached her differently from other people, but more intensely. As was her way, she had been the first to offer her hand, and had felt him clasp it in return. His hand felt strong and good, with long fingers and a feeling of suppressed power. It had made her wonder about the rest of him.
‘Worth discovering by touch,’ Sally had said.
Celia had tried to put the thought out of her mind but without success. She’d been vividly aware of him moving carefully in the confined space near her desk, where much of the room had been taken up by Wicksy, her golden Labrador guide dog.
Wicksy’s manners were beautiful but reticent. He had accepted Francesco’s admiration as his due, returned it to the extent of briefly resting his snout in Francesco’s hand, then returned to curling up beneath Celia’s desk, apparently relaxed but actually on guard.
The newcomer had sat down close to her, and she’d been able to sense his height, the breadth of him, and something else, a pleasing aroma that shifted between spice and wood-smoke, borne by the breeze. It had spoken of warmth and life, and it had told her that she was living in a shell and should try to reach outside, where he might be waiting.
Only might?
It would be a chance worth taking.
‘Why were you looking for me?’ she asked.
He explained that he was part of Tallis Inc., a firm famous for the manufacture of luxury furniture. Its wares were excellent and it was expanding all over Europe.
‘We need a good PR firm,’ he said. ‘The one we’re using has gone downhill. I was advised to come here, and to ask for you personally. They say you’re the best.’
Being a gentleman, he made a valiant effort to keep the surprise out of his voice, without quite managing it.
‘And now you’re wondering why someone didn’t warn you that I was blind?’ she said impishly.
That threw him; she could tell. She burst out laughing.
‘No—I wasn’t—’ he said hastily.
‘Oh, yes, you were. Don’t deny it to me. I’ve been here too often. I know what people think when they meet me unawares.’
‘Am I that easy to read?’ His tone suggested a hesitant smile.
‘Right this minute you’re thinking, How the hell did I get into this, and how am I going to get out without being rude?’
It was a favourite joke of hers—to read their minds, trip them up, make them feel a little uneasy.
But he wasn’t uneasy. He took her hand and held it tightly, speaking seriously.
‘No, I’m not thinking that. I don’t think you could guess what I’m thinking.’
He was wrong. She could guess exactly. Because she was thinking the same thing.
It was unnerving to find such thoughts possessing her about a man she’d only just met, but she couldn’t help herself. And a part of her, the part that rushed to meet adventure, wasn’t sorry at all. True, another part of her counselled caution, but she was used to ignoring it.
But for the moment she must act with propriety, so she showed him the array of equipment that helped her to function.
‘I talk to the computer and it talks back to me,’ Celia said. ‘Plus I have a special phone, and various other things.’
He took her to lunch at a small restaurant next door, and he talked about his firm while she tapped information into a small terminal. Afterwards he began to walk her back to the office, but she stopped, saying, ‘I have to take Wicksy to the park.’
He went with her, watching, fascinated, as she plunged into her bag and brought out a ball.
‘If I throw it now, I won’t hit anyone, will I?’ she asked anxiously.
He assured her she wouldn’t, then wished he’d been more cautious. Instead of the ladylike gesture he’d expected, she put all her force into hurling the ball a great distance, so that a man contentedly munching sandwiches had to jump out of the way with an angry yell.
‘You told me it was safe,’ she said in mock complaint.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you could throw that far.’
With a bark of joy, Wicksy bounded after the ball, retrieved it and charged back to drop it at her feet. After another couple of throws he came to sit before her, his head cocked to one side, gazing up at her with a significant expression.
‘All right, let’s go,’ she said, taking the ball from his mouth and putting it away. ‘This next bit is rather indelicate, so you may want to go away.’
‘I’ll be brave,’ he said, grinning.
She found a spot under the trees, said, ‘OK, go on,’ and Wicksy obeyed while she reached into her bag for the scoop and plastic bag.
‘Would you like me to do that for you?’ he asked through gritted teeth.
‘That’s being gallant above and beyond the call of duty,’ she said, liking him for it. ‘But he’s my responsibility and I’ll wield the pooper-scooper.’
‘Well, I offered,’ he said, and something in the sound of the words told her he was grinning with relief.
When the