A Bride Worth Waiting For

‘Any chance of getting a few quiet minutes with you this morning so we can talk?’ he was asking, his soft and yet rough voice doing something weird to her insides. She forced herself to concentrate on his words, and found herself suddenly nervous. Was this it? Was he going to give her notice? Planning to sell up or hike her rent out of reach?

She schooled her voice and her expression, trying to quell the panic. ‘It’s quiet now that the breakfast crowd have gone. Will this do?’

‘Sure. I’d just like to chat, really—have a look round, see it with my own eyes. I haven’t been here for years, but Ruth tells me you’ve done a good job. I gather it’s very successful. I just wanted to make sure you’re happy with everything.’

She felt the tension ease a fraction and wondered if she was being too trusting. Probably. It was her greatest fault.

‘Help yourself, it won’t take you long to see it all—the cloakroom’s through that door at the back, and the store’s out there too, and the kitchen you can see.’

He looked at it over the counter and nodded. ‘Nice, having it in the middle like this. Friendly.’

‘That was one of the things Liz and I insisted on, having the preparation area right in the middle of this long wall. It makes it relaxed and approachable, a bit like sitting in someone’s kitchen while they cook for you. And you can see everything—there are no nasty surprises, no dirty corners. You know exactly what conditions your food’s being prepared under, and people like that. We thought it was a good idea.’

He nodded. ‘It’s good. Low key, easy. Relaxed. I like it. Who’s Liz?’

‘Oh—the founder, really. She was my late husband’s first wife. She was lovely.’

‘Was?’

‘She died nine years ago, just after she set it up.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and for some reason it didn’t seem like a platitude. He didn’t dwell, though, but moved on, his eyes taking everything in, and she followed him, answering questions, smiling as necessary and wondering what he’d think of her housekeeping.

He went into the store, looked round, checked out the loo, then turned, almost on top of her, and her heart hitched.

‘It is small, isn’t it?’ he said, far too close for comfort and trampling all over her common sense.

Ruth was right. He was broodingly sexy. Very. She backed away, reversing into a table. ‘Intimate.’

‘It’s tiny,’ he said, with a lopsided grin that made her heart lurch again.

‘Small but perfectly formed,’ she quipped, and his eyes flicked over her and returned to her face.

‘Absolutely,’ he murmured, and she stared into those gorgeous blue eyes and felt herself colour. Heavens. How could he not have been Ruth’s type? He’d be any woman’s type if she had a pulse—

She turned away abruptly. ‘Coffee?’ she said, her voice scratchy and a little high, and behind her she heard him clear his throat softly, more of a grunt than a cough, as if he was reining back, distancing himself from the suddenly intimate moment.

‘That would be lovely.’

So she poured two mugs of coffee and set them down on opposite sides of the round table by the window at the front, where she could see her regulars coming and get their orders under-way.

She took the chair closest to the kitchen area. ‘I gather from Ruth that you want to refurbish the place,’ she said, meeting those dazzling eyes head-on with a challenge, and he nodded.

‘I do. It’s looking a bit sad. I hadn’t really registered—Ruth’s been too uncomplaining, and so have you. The flat needs a new kitchen and bathroom, and with the antique shop empty I was thinking maybe we could do something more with this place—give you a little more room as well as freshening it up a little. If you want?’

‘How much room?’ she asked, trying to concentrate on the overheads and not his face. ‘I can’t really afford to pay much more.’

He shrugged, his lips pursing, one side reluctant. ‘As much as you need. You could take all of it.’

She shook her head. ‘The stairs would be in the way. I wouldn’t like it divided into two—it wouldn’t feel the same. And anyway, the kitchen’s not big enough for all those tables. If you’re offering bits of the place, I’d rather have the garden.’

He chuckled. ‘How did I know that was coming?’

He peeled back the lid on the coffee creamer and tipped it in, stirring it with deliberation, and it gave her a moment to study him openly.

His hair was short and dark, the temples threaded with grey. She wondered how old he was. Forty? Forty-five? More, maybe, or less, but it seemed irrelevant. Whatever, he was very attractive in a very masculine and hard-edged way.

It was odd that he was so attractive, really, because his face wasn’t classically handsome, by any means. There was something peculiar about it, she decided. Irregular. The jaw wasn’t quite symmetrical, the left side of it etched with fine scars that carved white lines in the shadow of his stubble. His chin was a little crooked, his teeth not quite straight.

And yet it was an attractive face for all that. Interesting. She’d love to know the story behind it, but it wasn’t the sort of thing you could ask.

Not yet, anyway. Maybe later, when she knew him better—and now she really had lost it! He was her landlord. This was their first meeting in seven years. Once the refurb was finished it would probably be another seven before she saw him again, and at that rate they’d both be dead before she knew him well enough to ask—

‘Penny for them.’

She shook her head. No way! ‘Nothing,’ she denied. ‘I was compiling a shopping list.’

One eyebrow arched. ‘For a witch’s brew?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You were scowling at me. I don’t think I fancy the recipe.’

She felt colour touch her cheeks. ‘I’m sorry. I was miles away,’ she lied.

Contemplating getting to know him better. Much better.

Oh, good grief! She hadn’t done this for years, hadn’t felt this devastating tug of attraction since—well, since Etienne.

Perhaps it was his body that had triggered the response? They were the same physical type—same height, or thereabouts, although Michael was heavier than Etienne. Same build, though—lithe and muscular. Powerful. And something about the eyes—

But it was more than that, something not quite physical, some deep connection that went right to the heart of her and tumbled her senses into chaos—just as Etienne had done, but in a very different way, because Etienne absolutely never brooded and Michael—well, Michael was deep as the ocean, and she could get lost in those eyes—

Then he looked up again, fixing her with those very eyes, and a slow, lazy curve tilted the right side of his mouth.

And the chaos just got worse.

Lord, she was gorgeous. Beautiful and defensive and responsive as ever, her skin colouring even as he looked at her.

That went with the auburn hair, of course, the rich, warm red that gave her those amazing green eyes and clear, creamy skin. She had freckles after the summer, just like she’d had in France—

He dragged his eyes away, coughed to clear his throat, hauled his libido back under control. He didn’t want to blow it now, when it looked as though he’d got over the first hurdle. His heartbeat was starting to steady, the nerves of steel he’d always had before an op coming back now to help him through, but this was much, much harder, somehow much scarier because it was the real thing.

She’d given him a fright when she’d first looked up at him. He’d been sure she’d recognised him, but then she’d talked herself out of it as he watched. He’d seen the cogs turn, and then he’d just had to deal with her veiled curiosity.

She’d been studying him just now, and it had taken all his self-control not to get up and walk away. He hated looking like this—hated what had been done to him, the fact that he didn’t recognise himself any more. And he hated being studied. Normally he would have walked away or stared the person down, but this was Annie, and she needed to be able to live with it. So he’d let her look, pretending interest in the coffee, just hoping it didn’t make her want to run.

‘So you want the garden?’ he said, forcing himself to stick to the game plan, and for a moment she looked a little startled.