A Bride Worth Waiting For

Then she nodded.

‘Yes—but I know it goes with the flat.’

‘Not necessarily,’ he said slowly, watching her. ‘We could certainly divide it. What did you have in mind? You’ve obviously been thinking about it—how long have you been here now, did you say?’

‘Nine years.’

As if he didn’t know that, almost to the minute. He kept his expression steady—not easy, considering. ‘So in that time you must have come up with some ideas.’

‘Oh, all sorts, but one of the problems is that to gain access to the garden at the back I’d have to lose one of the tables, and I can’t really afford to do that. Our summers aren’t reliable enough.’

‘But you could have a conservatory.’

She laughed. ‘I couldn’t possibly justify the expense! It would cost a fortune to have one big enough to do any good, and the place doesn’t do much more than break even really. I make a reasonable living, but I work hard for it and there’s no slack in the system. I wouldn’t contemplate taking on any expansion plans.’

‘But I might.’

Her eyes snapped back to his, widening. ‘Why? Why would you do that?’

He shrugged. Why, indeed? To make her happy? Crazy.

‘I’ve got the money—why not? It would add to the value of the property.’

‘Only if you’re thinking of selling it,’ she said, and he could see the apprehension in her eyes. He shook his head and hastened to reassure her.

‘No. It was just an idea. Don’t worry about it. But the access to the cloakroom through the store—that’s not a very good idea, and it’s a bit cramped. There was a doorway on the other side at the back of the stairs, according to my plans. We could open it up and make a store there. Or create an alcove, as well as a store. Take more off the antique shop. There are lots of options. I don’t see the cost as a factor. Think about it.’

She caught her lip between her teeth, worrying it gently, making it pinker. He had an overwhelming urge to soothe the tiny bruise with his tongue and had to remind himself firmly what he was doing here.

Helping. Not hindering, not chatting her up or flirting with her or putting the moves on her.

He’d done that nine years ago, and look where it had got them. No. This time he was going to do things right. Take it slowly, give them a chance to get to know each other properly. There was far too much at stake to blow it because of his over-active hormones.

He picked up his cup, dragged his eyes off her and drained it in one.

‘Right. Let me pay you for the coffee and I’ll go and get on. Lots to do.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ she said quickly. ‘I wouldn’t dream of taking any money off you—’

He laughed softly. ‘No, I insist—because I’m just about to rip out the kitchen in the flat and I intend to pop down whenever I need a drink or something to eat, and if you won’t let me pay my way I won’t feel I can—’

‘Rubbish. Anyway,’ she said, and her mouth tipped up into a grin that made his heart crash against his ribs, ‘I’ll keep a tally and get my pound of flesh. I’m still after the garden, remember?’

He laughed again, and shook his head. ‘I won’t argue—for now. And think about what I said about the changes you want.’

‘I will. Thanks.’

She met his eyes, and the urge to bend forwards and brush his lips against hers nearly overwhelmed him.

Nearly.

He slotted the chair under the table, grabbed his jacket and fled for the door before he got himself into trouble.

Wow.

Annie sat down again with a bump, staring after him. The door at the bottom of the stairs closed softly behind him, and she heard his footsteps running up into the flat above. Suddenly she could breathe again, and she sucked in a great lungful of air and shook her head to clear it.

Wow, she thought again. What was it about him? Was it simply that he’d reminded her so forcefully of Etienne? Although he wasn’t really that like him. It had just been the initial shock.

But it was more than the looks. He had the same way of concentrating on what she was saying, really listening to her, watching her attentively. Etienne had done that, and it had made her feel somehow special.

Crazy. Michael was just trying to find out what she wanted from the tearoom. He wasn’t being attentive; he was just listening to her suggestions for improving his investment.

And any fanciful notions to the contrary had better go straight out of her head, together with any foolish ideas about getting to know him better. This minute.

Now.

There was a thump upstairs, and her attention zinged straight back to him.

Great, she thought. Kept your mind off him for less than a second. You’re doing well, Annie. Really well.

There was another thump overhead. With any luck he’d be so busy up there he wouldn’t find time to come down here pestering her and putting her senses into turmoil.

‘You need a life,’ she muttered. ‘One half-decent man wanders in here and you go completely to pieces.’

She put the scones in the oven, straightened up and saw a coach pull into the square. Oh, no! Just what she needed when her brain was out to lunch. She threw a few more scones into the pan, shut the oven door and refilled the coffee machine as the first of the coach party wandered through the door, peered around and headed for the window table.

Plastering on a smile, she picked up her notepad and went out into the fray.

He’d done it.

Amazing.

OK, theirs had been a brief affair, and nine years would have blurred the memories, but even so he was surprised he’d got away with it.

He shouldn’t have been. It was no surprise, really. The young Frenchman she’d loved was dead. She wouldn’t be looking for him in an Englishman, especially one who looked so different. When he’d caught her studying him, the look on her face had caught him on the raw. There was no way there’d been recognition in her eyes, just curiosity, and maybe a little fascination. He didn’t want her to be fascinated—at least, not like that, but he couldn’t blame her. He was no oil painting.

Apart from the nerve damage that had taken away the spontaneous little movements of his lips, contorting his smile, the structure had been so damaged that, even if she’d known, she would have struggled to recognise him. Hell, he sometimes had a shock even now when he caught sight of himself in a mirror. Not to mention the fact that it had aged him more than he cared to admit. He sure as hell didn’t look like a man of thirty-eight.

Of course his stupid masculine pride had hoped she’d recognise him right away, and there’d been that moment of panic when she’d first seen him. He’d got away with it, though, brazened it out, and the bit of him that still had any common sense knew it was just as well.

What he wanted—no, needed—was time to build a relationship with her as the people they were now.

No strings. No past. Just the present.

And hopefully the future…

And this place would give him all the time he needed. Whistling softly under his breath, he found a screwdriver and set about dismantling the cupboards.