Falling For Mr. December. Kate HardyЧитать онлайн книгу.

       CHAPTER THREE

      AS HE DROVE back to his flat, Nick wondered if he’d just gone completely crazy. Why on earth had he invited Sammy Thompson back to his flat?

      Then again, she’d had a fair point about not leaving expensive equipment unattended in a car. Horsehair wigs and silk barrister gowns weren’t exactly cheap, either, and he wouldn’t want to leave them in his car—just as she clearly hadn’t wanted to leave her camera equipment in hers.

      Out of the few dates he’d been on since the end of his marriage, he hadn’t invited a single one of his girlfriends back to his flat. And he was far too sensible to invite a complete stranger back to his flat.

      Yet that was exactly what he’d just done. Today was the first time he’d met Sammy. He knew practically nothing about her, other than that she was a photographer and she’d been commissioned to shoot the calendar by the Friends of the London Victoria.

      Then again, he had good instincts—except perhaps where his ex-wife was concerned, he admitted wryly—and he’d liked Sammy immediately. She was business-like and capable, and she had a sense of humour that appealed to him.

      And he was going to have to ignore the fact that she was utterly gorgeous. Slender yet with curves in all the right places, maybe six inches shorter than his own six foot one, and she was strong enough to carry heavy boxes of photographic equipment around without it seeming to bother her. Her bright blonde hair—which he was pretty sure was natural rather than dyed—was cut in a short pixie crop that framed her heart-shaped face, and her sea-green eyes were serious when she was working and teasing when something amused her.

      Then there was her mouth. A perfect cupid’s bow. A mouth that he’d wanted to trace with the tip of his finger before exploring it with his own mouth...

      This was bad. He hadn’t waxed poetic over anyone like this for years—maybe not since he was a teenager. So he’d better get it into his head that Sammy Thompson was simply the photographer who was working on the charity calendar, and he’d probably never see her again after today. Except maybe if the ward held some kind of launch event when the calendar went on sale and they both happened to attend it, and then they could just be polite to each other.

      Be professional, he told himself. Treat her as if she’s a client, or a colleague. Keep it business-like, choose the photographs, and then you can just let her walk out of your life and go back to what you normally do. Work, being there for Mandy and the boys, and more work. A perfectly balanced life.

      * * *

      Sammy was glad that she’d taken Nick’s address and put the postcode into her satellite navigation system before they left the court’s car park, because as she’d half expected she ended up losing him at a junction. Following the satnav’s directions, she ended up driving through one of the prettiest tree-lined streets in Bloomsbury, where the five-storey town houses all had wrought iron railings, tall white-framed sash windows that would let huge amounts of light flood into the rooms, and window boxes full of bright, well-manicured geraniums. She could see Nick’s car towards the end of the street, and thankfully there was a parking space on the road behind it. Nick himself was waiting for her by his car.

      When she climbed out of her car, Nick handed her a parking permit to place inside her windscreen. ‘I’m sorry I lost you at that junction,’ he said. ‘I did slow down, but I couldn’t see you behind me.’

      ‘No worries,’ Sammy said with a smile. ‘That’s precisely why I took your address.’

      ‘Come in,’ he said.

      ‘And you don’t mind if I bring all my stuff in?’

      ‘That’s fine.’ He was still laden with his own cases, but even so he picked up the heaviest of her boxes and took it to the door of the Georgian house on the corner.

      It was exactly the kind of building that made Sammy itch to get her camera out. The front door was painted black, with white columns and narrow bands of stucco either side to turn the entrance from a rectangle to a perfect square. Above the entrance was a filigree fanlight, the pattern within the arched window reminding her of a spider’s web. The door knocker, handle and letterbox were all shiny brass, the front doorstep was scrubbed clean, and on either side of the step there was a bay tree in a black wooden planter, its stem perfectly straight and its leaves clipped into a neat ball.

      Everything was discreet, tidy—and clearly wealthy without being ostentatious about it. It was a house that had been looked after properly.

      Clearly her interest showed on her face, because Nick smiled. ‘You like the architecture?’

      ‘It’s gorgeous,’ she said. ‘I have to admit, architectural detail is one of my biggest weaknesses. Especially windows like that one.’ She indicated the fanlight above the front door.

      ‘Come on up and I’ll give you the guided tour.’ And then he looked slightly shocked, as if he hadn’t meant to say that.

      Tough. He’d said it now, and Sammy wasn’t going to pass up the chance to look round such a gorgeous building.

      ‘My flat’s the ground floor and first storey,’ he said.

      ‘Not the whole house?’

      He smiled. ‘I live on my own, so I don’t really need a whole town house. The flat gives me enough room for work, guests and entertaining.’

      Though even a flat in a building like this—and in an area like this—would cost an eye-watering amount, Sammy thought. Especially a duplex flat. It would be way out of her own price range.

      ‘Let’s base ourselves in the kitchen,’ Nick said. ‘We can order some food, and then I’ll show you round.’

      ‘Sounds good to me.’

      Nick’s kitchen was small, but perfectly equipped. It had clearly been fitted out by a designer and it was the kind of shabby chic that didn’t come cheap, with distressed cream-painted doors and drawer fronts, light wood worktops and pale terracotta splash-backs and floor tiles. There was a terracotta pot of herbs on one of the windowsills, and an expensive Italian coffee-maker and matching kettle, both in cream enamel; apart from that, everything was tucked neatly away.

      Either Nicholas Kennedy was a total neat freak, or he didn’t actually use this room much himself, she thought.

      She set her boxes on the floor next to the light wood table at one end of the kitchen and put her laptop on the table itself. ‘Is it OK to leave these here?’

      ‘Sure.’ Nick opened a drawer and brought out a file. Sammy had to bite her lip to stop herself grinning when she realised that his takeaway menus were all filed neatly in punched plastic pockets. She’d bet they were in alphabetical order, too.

      Clearly he didn’t have a clutter drawer with menus and all sorts of bits and pieces stuffed into it, unlike everyone else she knew. He was a neat freak, then. But that didn’t mean he was totally buttoned-up. After all, he’d agreed to do a naked photo shoot. Someone totally stuffy would’ve refused to do that.

      ‘Would you prefer Indian, Chinese, or Thai?’ he asked.

      ‘I eat practically anything,’ Sammy said, ‘except prawns. Fish, yes; crustaceans, no. Other than that, anything you like, as long