‘I’d like to think you could. Perhaps we could discuss it over dinner? May I take you somewhere this evening?’
Her unwavering gaze still locked on his, she said, ‘I have a better idea; I shall cook for us. Nothing fancy though.’
At the powerfully penetrating look she was giving him, he felt practically cooked himself!
Chapter Sixty-Three
Island House, Melstead St Mary
December 1962
Romily
At Red’s suggestion, or rather his insistence that she didn’t go to any trouble on his account, they ate in the kitchen. Romily often did, preferring it to the dining room, which was a beautiful room, but it felt much too grand to eat in when alone. When she’d told Red she would cook, what she’d actually meant was that she would put the ham and chicken pie Mrs Collings had made into the oven and boil the potatoes and carrots which had also been prepared. The meal eaten, Red further insisted that he would earn his keep by doing the dishes.
‘You’ll do no such thing,’ she remonstrated.
‘I think you’ll find I will.’
He began rolling up his sleeves until she pointed to his thumb and the plaster which she had earlier applied. ‘I’ll wash, you dry,’ she said by way of compromise, opening a drawer for a clean tea towel and giving it to him.
‘You’re used to doing things your way, aren’t you?’ he said.
‘And you’re not?’ she replied, selecting a wooden-handled mop from the pot on the windowsill.
‘I guess we’re just two of a kind,’ he replied with a small laugh.
They worked steadily together with Romily trying to kid herself that there was nothing out of the ordinary in them performing this simple domestic chore together.
‘We’re like a married couple, aren’t we?’ he said when some minutes had passed. ‘And yes, I’m well aware that that comment will strike an uncomfortable chord with you.’
He was right, but she chose to ignore it. ‘Do you make a habit of flying halfway around the world to help with a person’s washing up?’ she asked.
‘I do if the person is worth it.’
Her head down as she concentrated on scrubbing a pan, she smiled to herself. He had an answer for everything, didn’t he? She had to admit, though, she couldn’t help but admire his boldness and the impetuous spirit that had brought him here. It was a long time since anyone had gone to so much trouble to make an impression on her, and she would be lying if she didn’t feel enormously flattered. Moreover, his arrival could not have been better timed; it had provided a welcome diversion from the sadness of reading Matteo’s letters. The instant she had seen Red’s handsome face staring back at her with his large frame filling the doorway, Matteo and the past was swept away.
With everything tidied and put back in its proper place – Mrs Collings would play merry hell tomorrow morning if she found her domain with so much as a teaspoon in the wrong place – they returned to the drawing room. While Red dealt with building up the fire again, Romily poured two glasses of brandy.
‘Only a very small one for me,’ he said, ‘I need to keep my head when I’m around you.’
As do I, she thought with growing awareness that, minute by minute, she was becoming increasingly susceptible to what she could only describe as Red’s potent masculinity. He somehow seemed taller and broader here than he did in Palm Springs. Was it because the little time they had spent together there had been mostly outside, and here his large frame was confined by bricks and mortar? She smiled to herself, thinking that his presence was as incongruous as it would be if one of those enormous cacti she had seen in the desert with him were suddenly to pop up in her garden. It would be wildly out of place, but dramatically attractive all the same.
When he’d coaxed the fire back into life, and she’d given him his glass of brandy, they made themselves comfortable on the sofa, one at each end. Kicking off her shoes, she tucked her legs beneath her.
‘Am I forgiven for storming your castle and intruding on your privacy?’ he asked.
She swirled the brandy around in the large balloon glass and took a long and appreciative sip. ‘What do you think?’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘I think we’ll never have a conversation that doesn’t resemble a ping-pong ball being batted backwards and forwards.’
‘Is that the way it feels to you?’
‘There you go again, answering my question with one of your own.’ He smiled. ‘You’re like a very beautiful butterfly, tantalisingly close, but always hovering beyond reach.’
‘I’ve been described as many things, but never a butterfly. It makes me sound disagreeably flighty and insubstantial.’
His smile widened, deepening the lines around his dark eyes. His profile was brought into sharp relief by the flickering flames of the fire, accentuating his cheekbones and the lines either side of his mouth. How would it feel to kiss that mouth? a covetous voice whispered in her ear.
‘Insubstantial is absolutely not the word that springs to mind when I think of you,’ he said.
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
He drank from his glass, tilting his head back, his neck and Adam’s apple revealed in the soft light. How tempting it was to lean over and touch that patch of exposed smooth skin. To place her lips against his jawline and breathe in the scent of him. She cleared her throat and took a large mouthful of her drink, willing her scheming desire to get back in line.
‘More brandy?’ he asked. She stared at the glass in her hand, realising that it was empty. Before she could say no, he had taken it from her and was on his feet. He went over to the console table where the bottle of Rémy Martin was. It was only then, as he refilled her glass, and not his, that she registered he was barely limping. Until then she had forgotten all about his artificial leg.
When he sat down again, he had contrived to close the gap between them, brushing against her knees with his thigh. The fire popped and crackled, adding to the forcefield of static that was fizzing between them.
‘You’re limping less,’ she said, grasping at something normal to say in a thoroughly abnormal situation.
‘How very observant of you. And if I can be equally observant, you have the most bewitching eyes I have ever had the good fortune to gaze into.’
In danger of losing herself in his at such close proximity, she said, ‘Your eyes aren’t so bad either.’
He tapped his glass against hers. ‘Well then, here’s to our mutually appreciated eyes.’
‘I have a confession to make,’ he then said.