Well, she’d be wrong. Whether he’s a Lothario or a Lancelot, I want to find out more. I want to go on standing here with my camera, propped up by this Narnian lamp post, staring at this possibly dangerous, probably harmless, smiling stranger.
‘Sorry,’ I say, looking down, my boot stirring some little stones sparkling with frost. ‘That did sound surly. What I meant was, do you often play spot the difference between men and women?’
‘Any entrepreneur worth his gold-plated pension watches people for a living so he can separate the wheat from the chaff.’ Those eyes again. Nonchalant stance, maybe, all casual against the railings, but those eyes are boring into me so sharply I’m feeling punctured. ‘You know. The sheep from the goats.’
‘Same for photographers,’ I mumble. ‘Those biblical sayings have a point.’
He grins. ‘And in the business world, what that means is, anyone with any nous can spot a success story from fifty paces. Likewise we can sniff out the losers.’
‘All sounds a bit Lord Sugar!’
‘You better believe it. We’re cut from the same cloth. I happen to be an admirer of his, and yes, I do make it my business to hire and fire apprentices.’ He rubs his nose scornfully. ‘If politicians had half the common sense of people like me and him, we’d all be out of this mess by now.’
‘What about personally?’ I’m feeling bold now. Brassy. ‘Do you observe, do you watch people closely who might come into your private life?’
‘Do you mean women?’ he asks quietly. ‘Am I discerning about the women I want? I could answer that if I wasn’t so out of practice. But yes. Perhaps I should identify and stalk my prey like I do in business.’
I realise we’ve moved closer together again, both leaning on the sharp railings. I’m not interested in coming over all Germaine Greer, though. This man can say whatever he likes, and if it wasn’t so cold I’d just stand here all night lapping it up. It’s that damn mouth of his, that soft lower lip, that hard upper clamping down. His mouth has a story to tell, I’m certain of it. How can it be amused and sardonic, hard and inviting, all at the same time? It’s daring me, or asking me something. It’s wide, and confident, but it also desperately needs to know a lot more. About me. About his prey.
Well, I like what I see, too. This man. That mouth. And God help me, if he wasn’t so goddamn superior the devil in me would just go ahead, decide to really shock him, and kiss it.
‘Well, you got it spectacularly wrong in my case, didn’t you?’
‘You got me.’ He holds his gloves up in surrender. ‘Not a peeping Tom at all. A Thomasina.’
‘Not peeping at anything. I told you, I’m working.’ I shake my head. ‘And it’s Serena. That’s my name.’
There’s another pause. My heart thumps in my ears. Why did I tell him that, for God’s sake?
The city surrounding us, this garden square, this lamp post, this man, and me, it all shrinks, closing in on us, pushing us together. The steam of our breath curls delicately in the freezing air between us. His deep black eyes pull me in. I can see the tiny flare of his nostrils as he breathes, the twitch of his kissable mouth as he ponders.
He takes my hand, the one not holding the camera, pulls it away from where I’m still instinctively, defensively, using it to shield my body, enfolds it in the creaking leather of his glove, holds it tight for a moment, then gives it a formal shake.
‘And my name’s Gustav. Gustav Levi.’
My hand rests so easily in his, like a small pet. ‘That would explain the cheekbones. Are you from Transylvania?’
‘Smart, as well as stunning,’ he chuckles. He must know how cold my fingers are, because he squeezes them. I curl my fingers round his palm, and he puts the other hand on top of it. ‘Sort of, as it happens. My family originally came from that area. But they’re all gone now. Except me. I’m here, as you can see.’
‘My turn to be ridiculously observant.’ I give a triumphant punch. ‘Because I already have you labelled for my collection as Count Dracula.’
‘We can be a little brooding at times, granted.’ He laughs again. A little lighter, but still that deep, pebbly chest-stirring sound. ‘But if you knew Transylvania, the landscape, the music, you’d know it can be magical. But then the name comes from the Latin word sylva, meaning forest.’
‘Ah, yes. Forests, mountains, and castles. Like a fairy tale. Not a horror movie at all.’
‘That depends on who is in the movie. Who is the wicked witch in the fairy tale.’ His fingers are like a vice now. I don’t think he realises how tightly he’s holding me because he’s not looking at me but over my shoulder, his eyes as black as the dark shadows behind me in the square. ‘But I’m still drawn to forests and mountains. I don’t have a castle, but I do have a chalet in Switzerland. Right on Lake Lugano.’
‘Lugano also comes from the word “forest”. Did you know? You must have been a wolf in another life, Gustav.’
He closes his eyes for a moment. The lines down his cheeks are etching out some awful thought. I reach up and stroke his cheek, try to iron them out. I expect him to leap away from me but he squeezes my hand more gently now and a rush of heat powers up my arm, fanning under my ribs. I try to breathe. I look up at him again, my eyes resting on his mouth.
‘You said my name,’ he murmurs, opening his eyes.
‘It’s a cool name. But you’re hurting me.’
He releases my hand and it’s my turn. Very slowly I start to pull off his glove. It’s a kind of leather ski glove, tighter fitting than I thought, with a small annoying zip, and it takes a couple of seconds, but the rip of the zip, that sound effect of getting naked, sounds so sexy-good it sullies the silence. I peel the glove down from under his sleeve, reveal first his lean forearm streaked with hair, the slim ropes of muscle under the skin, then the flash of pale wrist. His long, strong fingers slide out one by one and while I now own his glove, he claims my bare hand.
The muscle is playing in his jaw again but I’m pretty sure it’s not suppressed laughter this time. Is it quicksilver that changes like this, or mercury? If I ever see him again, I’ll have to learn to keep up.
I already know these eyes, how black they are, how deep, I’ve noticed the crackle of yellow streaking round one iris like sunrise edging a cloud. Does he know mine? Some people call them green. Others emerald. After what feels like hours of talking, he’s travelling right inside me now.
I imagined his hand would be cold, like the statue, but his skin on mine is dry and warm. There’s his pulse again, this time beating in his wrist, beating into my hand. I can feel the heat crackling through the network of veins and arteries like a tidal wave.
‘I’d like to see your lake, and your castle. Sorry. Chalet.’ My voice is a frog’s croak. What am I saying? ‘I’d like to go there one day.’
‘Who knows? One day perhaps we will.’
He lifts my hand, so small in his, and turns it over. He has one glove on, one glove off. He separates my fingers. I hold my breath.
Did he just say ‘we’?
He kisses each finger on the tip, watching me all the while. It’s all I can do not to collapse against him. My legs feel weak. My head is heavy and lazy on my neck. The gorgeous, scary mouth I will try to kiss in a minute if I’m not careful is blowing over the palm of my hand now, and just as I lean towards him he presses my hand against his mouth, kisses it with a delicious dampness, then