She peeked out from behind the lace curtain. She hadn’t expected an Aston Martin. Or the open-necked black shirt. He was standing at the door. Looking around. Waiting for her to answer, and she was watching him with nerves flapping like pelicans in her belly.
Marco breathed in. Was unexpectedly aware of the late afternoon light, as if he should remember this moment. The slosh of waves and chug of boats on the harbour a few houses away. The tang of salt and seaweed.
The drift of voices from homes close to Emily’s. People who saw this woman every day. Probably had for years. How could she still be alone? How had some man not scooped her up and carried her and her daughter off?
When would she answer this door? He checked the number again just as the door opened.
His breath was expelled in a sigh. A woman with such style. ‘Bellísima.’ Every time he saw her she captured more of his attention. Appeared more exquisite.
‘Thank you. Come through.’ She gestured to the quaint sitting area with the carved wooden archway between the rooms.
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