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“Thank you for dinner. I enjoyed it!”
“I enjoyed it, too.” Bryant’s blue eyes looked into hers and it was suddenly hard to breathe. They mesmerized her, drawing her nearer. Zoe felt his arms surround her and then his mouth was on hers-warm and urgent.
A soft moan escaped her as finally, reluctantly, he released her mouth. “I think,” Bryant said slowly, “something is going on between us.”
Ever since KAREN VAN DER ZEE was a child growing up in Holland she wanted to do two things: write books and travel. She’s been very lucky. Her American husband’s work as a development economist has taken them to many exotic locations. They were married in Kenya, had their first daughter in Ghana and their second in the United States. They spent two fascinating years in Indonesia. Since then they’ve added a son to the family, as well. They’ve recently moved from Israel back to Ghana-but not permanently!
Fire and Spice
Karen Van Der Zee
ZOE restlessly straightened the papers on her desk, then glanced at her watch. He would be here soon. She took a deep breath, letting her eyes slide over the information in the open file folder in front of her, information she could recite word for word. Well, almost. She fussed with her hair and moistened her lips. She was not nervous. Of course she was not nervous. This was a routine conference between school counselor and the parent of a student. She did it all the time. She was fully prepared, fully confident. Her hair this morning was cooperating, curling nicely rather than too exuberantly as it sometimes did. Her career suit was feminine yet professional. Looking in the mirror these days she still had a hard time recognizing herself.
According to the file, Mr Bryant Sinclair was a single parent, father of twelve-year-old Paul. No mention was made of a mother. He had a high position in a multinational corporation and had recently relocated from Argentina to Washington D.C. He had relocated straight into the first-floor apartment of the old historic town house where Zoe herself had recently moved in as well, on the second floor. This summer she had returned to Washington from Africa, where she’d lived for the past six years—two in Tanzania, one in Mauritania, three in Cameroon.
Mr Sinclair was a good-looking man, tall with big shoulders and piercing blue eyes in a tanned face. He had thick blond hair and an uncompromisingly square chin and there was an aura of self-confidence and command about him. Not the kind of man who skipped your attention.
They’d met in passing, at the front door. They’d introduced themselves as polite people who shared a building did. He’d looked at her with a smile and she’d felt her heart turn over-not once, but twice at least. Instant combustion. There’d been no reason for it except something like love at first sight, or chemistry, or some lovely fantasy like that. Something very elemental, something outside of reason or logic, had happened.
And this whatever-it-was thing that had transpired between them was, of course, why she was sitting here at her desk in her small office at the Olympia International School with her heart in her throat waiting for him to come through the door.
It was not a positive situation she was going to have to discuss with him, which was very unfortunate. Mr Sinclair’s son was flunking in a big way. Four weeks into the school year and he had collected an impressive string of zeros in every teacher’s grade book. Zeros for not doing his work and not handing in assignments. Zoe sighed. Her unhappy task was to inform Mr Sinclair that there was a problem with his one and only son. Parents didn’t like to hear that sort of thing. She didn’t like much having to tell him.
At eight o’clock sharp he appeared in her open door, tall and imposing. Intense blue eyes settled on her face. ‘Good morning,’ he said, his voice deep and very masculine. It was a wonderful voice, the kind that stroked all your nerve-endings and made your blood sing.
Words stuck in her throat momentarily as she took in the immaculate business suit, the pale blue shirt, the fashionable tie. The man knew how to dress. The man knew how to carry himself. The man knew how to look at a woman.
Having swallowed repeatedly, Zoe was able to return the greeting and ask him to come in. She stood up from her chair and held out her hand. His grasp was hard and warm and sent an electric shiver through her. A faint masculine scent of soap and aftershave reached her nostrils. It was eight in the morning and he was straight out of the shower, no doubt. Am image of the naked man with water pouring all over his tanned, muscled body flitted through her mind. Good lord, what was the matter with her? She didn’t generally picture fully clothed man in front of her standing naked in the shower.
He released her hand and sat down, pulling up his trouser legs a little as he did so. His black shoes gleamed impressively. She’d seen other men in expensive clothes and shiny shoes in her office the last few weeks. Nothing had happened to her heartbeat. Nothing had curled around in her blood. Nothing had shivered up her spine. No disturbing images had come to mind. In short, these men had not disturbed her one bit. This one did. In a big way.
There was something intriguing about this man, something that didn’t quite make sense. Why did a man like Mr Sinclair move into a simple, rented apartment? It was a nice apartment, to be true, located in a nice historic neighborhood, yet a man of his