And he’d kissed her.
Just once.
Before remembering that Isobel was eighteen to his twenty-three, much less worldly-wise, and he really shouldn’t be kissing her like that.
Now he wondered what would’ve happened if he’d kissed her a second time. Would they have ended up making love in the summer house? Would he have been the one to introduce her to the pleasures of love-making?
And what shocked him even more was that his body was reacting even now at the thought of it.
Making love with Isobel.
He became aware that she was speaking.
‘And besides, I’m not your type.’
‘I don’t have a type,’ Alex protested.
‘Yes, you do. You always go for tall, skinny brunettes with legs up to their armpits.’
‘You have dark hair.’ The colour of a chestnut that had just slipped out of its prickly case, it was soft and silky when he ran his fingers through it. ‘And you’re not short.’ She was curvy rather than skinny, though with three younger sisters he knew much better than to discuss a woman’s weight or body shape.
‘I’m five feet four. That makes me slightly shorter than the average woman.’
He smiled at her. ‘It also makes you two inches taller than the average Roman woman in the fourth century.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Trust you to know that.’
He laughed. ‘Actually, you were the one who told me. When you were researching your first talk about Roman women.’
She stared at him in obvious surprise. ‘You remember that?’
‘Course I do. We must have sat up half the night talking about it. Well, after I’d bored the pants off you with all those photographs of the dig I’d just come back from.’
‘I wasn’t bored.’
‘See? We have things in common. Lots of things. And we like each other. Getting married would work, Bel.’
The colour was back in her cheeks, even deeper this time. ‘Supposing we’re not, um, compatible?’
‘Compatible?’
‘In bed,’ she muttered. ‘What if I’m rubbish at sex?’
‘If that’s what Gary said, he clearly wasn’t doing it right— and his ego made him blame you.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Look at me, Bel,’ he said softly. She had huge brown eyes that had topaz glints when she laughed, and a perfect rosebud mouth. Why had he never really noticed that before? ‘I think we’d be…’ he paused as his heart gave an unexpected kick ‘…compatible.’
‘I can’t believe we’re even discussing this!’ She pulled back from him. ‘So why didn’t you ever get married, Alex?’
He let her go. ‘Because my job meant a lot of travelling— and that meant either living apart from my wife most of the time, or dragging her around the world with me. Neither option’s a fair one.’
‘And you never met anyone who made you want to stay in one place?’
Once, but that had been a long time ago. In the days when he’d still worn rose-coloured glasses. Before he’d discovered that Dorinda was a liar and a cheat and had played everyone for a fool, including him. Since then, he’d never quite been able to trust anyone. He’d held back in his relationships, unwilling to risk his heart again and have it ground beneath a stiletto heel. Keeping things light and fun had worked for him, until now. ‘I told you, I don’t believe in love. But I do believe in friendship. In honesty. And if you marry me, Bel, I’ll be a good husband to you.’ A much better one than Gary had been.
‘I can’t get married. Ask someone else.’
There wasn’t anyone else he’d trust enough to marry. He shrugged. ‘Look, forget I asked. Come on, I’m taking you out to dinner.’
‘Why?’
He rolled his eyes. ‘It’s not an ulterior motive. You’ve said no and I’m not going to bully you into saying yes. Bel, you’re putting me up for a few days, so taking you out for dinner to say thank you is the least I can do.’
‘Alex, you don’t need to do that. You know I never mind you staying here.’
He smiled. ‘I know. But I like having dinner out with you. I like talking history and arguing over interpretations and laughing too much and eating half your pudding—because I’m greedy and you’re always nice to me.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘You’re impossible.’
‘Uh-huh.’ But to his relief she was smiling and relaxed with him again. ‘Is that Moroccan place we went to last time still open?’
‘I think so.’
‘Good. Let’s go.’
* * *
It always surprised Isobel slightly that Alex liked taking the tube rather than a taxi. Then again, on the tube people were careful not to catch anyone’s eye, so although he’d probably be recognised it was unlikely that someone would ask for an autograph or a photograph with him taken with the camera on their mobile phone. Besides, without the hat, people were more likely to think he was a guy who just happened to look like the archaeologist from the show, rather than being the man himself.
It was practically impossible to talk on the tube; there were just too many people squashed onto the train. During late spring and summer, rush hour seemed to last a lot longer; the office workers crushing onto the train were quickly replaced by tourists.
Isobel wasn’t sure whether it made her more relieved or uptight—or both at the same time. Relieved, because she didn’t have to make eye contact or conversation with Alex. And uptight, because it gave her time to think about what he’d said.
Getting married—to Alex.
Having sex—with Alex.
Oh, Lord.
She’d enjoyed her friendship with Alex. She always had.
And she’d married Gary because she’d loved him.
But a little bit of her had always wondered: what if Alex hadn’t had his string of glamorous girlfriends? What if he’d repeated that kiss when she was twenty-one? What if she’d ended up with Alex instead of Gary?
Panic skittered through her. She had to be insane even to be considering this. Marriage wouldn’t work. She’d had one serious relationship before Gary, so she was hardly experienced— whereas Alex had practically had a girlfriend at every dig, not to mention the ones in between. She’d never be able to live up to his expectations.
His words echoed in her head. I enjoy your company and I trust you. And that’s a much, much stronger basis for a marriage than being ‘in love’ with someone.
Was he right? Were friendship and trust a better basis for a marriage than love and desire? Should she have said yes?
A note appeared in front of her eyes. In Alex’s spiky, confident handwriting.
‘Stop brooding. “Dinner” means dinner.’
The last word was in capitals and underlined three times.
She faced him. Sorry, she mouthed.
He smiled, and it gave her a weird sensation—as if her heart had just done a somersault.