He laughed. ‘No. I just enjoy cooking. It relaxes me—that, and good music.’
He didn’t venture any information about what he did for a living, and Becky wasn’t in the mood for being pushy. She’d been pushed too hard herself over the last few days, and right now she just wanted to relax and unwind and not have to think about anything at all. She sipped her coffee and enjoyed listening to the music and watching him sizzle chicken in a pan.
‘That smells gorgeous,’ she said.
‘Twenty minutes, and it’ll be done.’ He rummaged in the fridge, arranged a few things on a plate, and brought it over to the little kitchen table.
‘Tapas?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘Though strictly speaking it’s tapes in Catalan. I’m sorry, this is a bit scrappy because I wasn’t planning to entertain—just some Manzanilla olives, chorizo and cheese. But it’ll keep us going until the chicken is done.’ He took two wineglasses from the cupboard. ‘Red or white?’
‘Either.’
‘Red, then.’ He opened the bottle of rioja. ‘Nice choice,’ he said, pouring them both a glass, and sat down opposite her. ‘Well. Salut.’ He raised his glass.
She did likewise. ‘Cheers.’
It was easy to relax with Leandro—he kept the conversation light and didn’t push past her personal boundaries. By the time he brought over their main course, Becky was thoroughly relaxed.
‘This looks gorgeous.’
‘Pollastre romesco—chicken with romesco sauce. It’s a mixture of almonds, tomato, garlic and vinegar. And this is espinacas a la Catalana—spinach with raisins and pine nuts,’ he added, gesturing to the green vegetable. ‘Sorry, I don’t have any potatoes. But would you like some bread with your meal?’
‘No, this is fine, thanks.’ She tasted a mouthful. ‘Wow. You’re a fantastic cook.’
‘Thank you.’ He smiled. ‘Spanish food and drink isn’t just paella and sherry, you know.’
‘It sounds as if you’re sick of being stereotyped.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘So many people think that Spain is all about bullfights and guitars and waiters called Manuel. And there’s much more to it than that.’
‘Tell me,’ she invited. And when he described the buildings and the festivals and the fireworks and the human ‘towers’ of acrobats reaching up nine storeys, his eyes glittering with enthusiasm for his native city, she could just imagine herself there.
For dessert, Leandro offered her nectarines, and then he made more coffee and brought out a box of chocolates. Really, really good chocolates. Ones she adored but almost never bought for herself because she couldn’t justify the indulgence except on her birthday or at Christmas.
‘This,’ she said, ‘is perfect. A million times better than what was on offer at Joe’s.’
‘So how come you ended up at the party?’
‘Joe works with my housemate. Tanya thought the party might cheer me up—it’s been the day from hell, and I’ve also been away for a couple of days.’
‘And you wish you were still away?’ he asked.
Becky thought of the rows and the silences. The expectations that she never fulfilled. The constant disappointment on her parents’ faces because she hadn’t settled down and produced grandchildren. Not that they would’ve been sympathetic if she’d told them what had really happened with Michael—or if she’d told them about the baby she’d lost. They would’ve blamed her, and she already blamed herself enough. She didn’t need the extra guilt. Which was why she’d never told anyone the full story. ‘No. I’m glad to be back in Manchester. I only went back to London because I was expected to,’ she admitted. ‘It was a family birthday, so I had to be there.’
‘But you couldn’t wait to get away?’ He took another chocolate. ‘I know exactly what you mean.’
Clearly his family was as difficult as her own, though he’d sounded affectionate before when he’d mentioned his mother teaching him to cook.
‘So what about you?’ she asked. ‘How do you know Joe?’
‘I don’t, really. It was a loose invitation—an acquaintance of an acquaintance, and I thought it was a better option than being on my own my first Saturday night in Manchester.’ He shrugged. ‘Though I found something better. An evening with good food, good wine, good conversation and good company.’
‘Here’s to that,’ she said, raising her wineglass. ‘And definitely better music.’
‘Though this isn’t quite what you’d dance to,’ he said. ‘And you need dancing at a party.’ His gaze held hers for a moment. ‘Would you like to dance with me?’
‘I’m no good at dancing,’ she said. ‘I have two left feet.’
‘Then let me teach you.’ He stood up and took her hand. The touch of his skin against hers sent a frisson of desire down her spine, and she let him lead her through to the living room.
‘Something to dance to. Now, let me see.’ He glanced along the rack of CDs.
The sound system in his living room was seriously expensive, Becky noticed. Given those chocolates, Leandro was a man who clearly liked the best. And expected the best.
So this idea of dancing was a really bad one. Especially as he hadn’t listened to her warning that it wasn’t her forte.
But then she didn’t have the chance to think any more as the music flooded the room: a soft intro, and then a really sexy, haunting voice singing in Spanish. She had no idea what the man was singing about, but she loved his voice. ‘Who’s this?’ she asked.
Leandro named a Spanish singer she’d never heard of. ‘He’s popular in my country,’ he added with a smile. ‘Now, the dance.’ He took her hands and placed one on his shoulder and the other on his waist. ‘This is for balance. Just follow my lead, and you’ll be fine.’ He smiled at her. ‘The rhythm is slow, slow, quick, quick, slow.’
Oh-h-h. She remembered a chick-flick she’d gone to see with a crowd of her female friends. ‘Is this the tango?’
He inclined his head. ‘It doesn’t have to be as showy as the ones you see in films. I’m not going to bend you over backwards or place your cheek next to mine so we’re facing the same way and stalk down the room. Just relax, feel the beat of the music and trust me to guide you.’
Before she knew it, they were dancing. It felt as if she were floating. Not stumbling, as she had before.
‘Two left feet? I don’t think so,’ he whispered, holding her close.
Probably because he was an incredible dancer and she was simply following his movements.
She could feel the warmth of his skin through his thin cotton shirt, and she was so aware of the way he was holding her, one hand resting on her shoulder and the other on her waist. Holding her close. Moving as one with her.
‘You have beautiful eyes,’ he said softly. ‘Like the colour of a sky on a late spring evening, just as the stars are starting to come out.’
Flattery, she knew. But it sent a little flutter through her. ‘Thank you.’
They danced in silence a while longer, then she felt his lips brush lightly against her cheek. Just once. And then he paused, clearly waiting for her signal.
She could drop her hands and take a step back. Thank him for the evening, and call a taxi.
Or for once she could live dangerously.
How long had it been since she’d found