‘My other plans were clearing out cupboards and beginning to spring-clean the flat,’ she admitted weakly. ‘It can wait.’
‘Good. Dinner it is, then. There’s a great little Italian place not far from where I live. Do you like Italian food?’
She didn’t think she would taste a thing tonight anyway. ‘I love it.’
‘I’ll make sure they’ve got a table.’ He extracted his mobile phone, punching in a number before saying, ‘Roberto?’ and then speaking in rapid Italian. She hadn’t known he could speak the language, but it didn’t particularly surprise her. That was Harry all over. ‘That’s settled.’ He smiled at her. ‘Eight o’clock. OK with you if we call at my place first? I’d like to put on a fresh shirt before we go.’
His place. She’d see where he lived. She’d be able to picture him there in the weeks and months to follow. Not a good idea, probably, but irresistibly tempting. ‘Fine,’ she nodded, drawing on the cool aplomb she’d developed over the last twelve months, as the powerful car leapt into life and left the car park far too fast.
She glanced at Harry’s hands on the steering wheel. Large, capable, masculine hands. What would it feel like to have them move over every inch of her body, explore her intimate places, along with his mouth and tongue? To savour and taste…
‘…parents now and again.’
‘Sorry?’ Too late she realised he’d spoken, but she had been deep in a shockingly erotic fantasy. Blushing scarlet—an unfortunate attribute which went with the hair and her pale, freckled skin—she lied, ‘I was thinking how nice everyone’s been today.’
‘Of course they’ve been nice. You’re very popular.’
She didn’t want to be popular. She wanted to be a slender, elegant siren with long blonde hair and come-to-bed eyes, the sort of woman who might capture his heart, given half a chance.
‘I was just saying we must keep in touch, and perhaps meet up for lunch now and again when you visit your parents,’ he continued easily. ‘I count you as a friend, Gina. I hope you know that.’
Great. ‘As I do you.’ She smiled brightly. Once she was in London, he’d forget she’d ever existed within days. Probably by the time he got up tomorrow morning, in fact. Harry wasn’t the sort of man who had women friends. Just women.
The cool spring twilight had almost completely given way to the shadows of night by the time Harry turned the car off the country lane they had been following for some time, and through open wrought-iron gates on to a scrunchy pebble drive. Gina was surprised how far they’d travelled; she hadn’t realised his home was so far away from Breedon & Son. She had supposed he’d settled somewhere near his parents’ home.
The drive wound briefly between mature evergreens and bushes, which effectively hid all sight of the building from the road, and then suddenly became bordered by a wide expanse of green lawn with the house in front of them. Gina hadn’t known what to expect. Probably a no-nonsense modern place or elegant turn-of-the-century manor-type house. In the event the picturesque thatched cottage in front of her was neither of these.
‘This is your home?’
She had asked the obvious, but he didn’t appear to notice. ‘Like it?’ he asked casually as the car drew up on the horseshoe-shaped area in front of the cottage.
Did she like it? How could anyone fail to? The two-storey cottage’s white walls and traditional mullioned windows were topped by a high thatched roof out of which peeped gothick dormers. The roof overhung to form an encircling veranda, supported on ancient, gnarled tree-trunks on which a table and chairs sat ready for summer evenings. There was even evidence of roses round the door on the trellis bordering the quaint arched door, and red and green ivy covered the walls of the veranda. It was so quintessentially the perfect English country-cottage that Gina was speechless. It was the last place, the very last place, she would have expected Harry to buy, and definitely no bachelor pad.
Whether he guessed what she was thinking or her face had given her away Gina wasn’t sure, but the next moment he drawled, ‘I had a modern stainless-steel and space-age place in the States, overlooking the ocean; I fancied a change.’
‘It’s wonderful.’ He opened the car door as he spoke, and now as he appeared at her side and helped her out of the passenger seat she repeated, ‘It’s wonderful. A real fairy-tale cottage. I half expect Goldilocks and the three bears to appear any moment.’ She liked that. It was light, teasing. She’d got the fleeting impression he hadn’t appreciated her amazement at his choice of home, despite his lazy air.
He shrugged. ‘It’s somewhere to lay my hat for the moment. I’m not into putting down roots.’
She’d been right. He hadn’t wanted her to assume there was any danger of him becoming a family man in the future. Not that she would. ‘Hence your travelling in the past?’ she said carefully as they walked to the front door.
‘I guess.’
She stared at him. ‘Your father’s hoping you’ll take over the family business at some point, isn’t he?’
‘That was never on the cards.’ He opened the door, standing aside so she preceded him into the wide square hall. The old floorboards had been lovingly restored and varnished, their mellow tones reflected in the honey-coloured walls adorned with the odd print or two. ‘I agreed to come and help my father over the next couple of years, partly to ease him into letting go of the strings and making it easier to sell when the time comes, but that’s all.’
‘I see.’ She didn’t, but it was none of her business. ‘So, you’ll go back to the States at some point?’
Again he shrugged. ‘The States, Germany, perhaps even Australia. I’m not sure. I invested a good deal of the money I’ve earned over the last years, played the stock exchange and so on. I don’t actually need to work, but I will. I like a challenge.’
It was the most he had ever said about himself, and Gina longed to ask more, but a closed look had come over his face. Changing the subject, she said, ‘Everything looks extremely clean and dust free. Do you have a cleaner come in?’
‘Are you saying men can’t clean for themselves? That’s a trifle sexist, isn’t it?’ He grinned at her, leading the way to what proved to be the sitting room, and he opened the door into a large room dominated by a magnificent open fireplace, the wooden floors scattered with fine rugs, and the sofas and chairs soft and plumpy. ‘You’re right, though,’ he admitted unrepentantly. ‘Mrs Rothman comes in three days a week, and does everything from changing the lightbulbs to washing and ironing. She’s a treasure.’
‘And preparing your meals?’ she asked as he waved her to a seat.
‘Not at all. I’m a great cook, if I do say so myself, and I prefer to eat what I want when I want to eat it. Glass of wine while you wait?’ he added. ‘Red or white?’
‘Red, please.’ She glanced at the fireplace as he disappeared, presumably to the kitchen. There were the remains of a fire in the fireplace, and plenty of logs were stacked in the ample confines of the hearth. She pictured him sitting here in the evenings, sipping a glass of wine maybe, while he stared into the flickering flames. The wrench her heart gave warned her to keep her thoughts in check. And she wasn’t going to dwell on the likelihood of the blonde of the moment stretched out on a rug in front of the fire, either, with Harry pampering and pleasing her.
‘One glass of wine.’
Gina