Valentine's Day. Nicola MarshЧитать онлайн книгу.
just stared. Because, no, she couldn’t.
‘So maybe my target market isn’t as clear-cut as you think?’ His chin rested on his steepled fingers and he lifted it enough to tilt his head.
Maybe not.
‘It’s a moot point, anyway,’ she breezed. ‘If you’re not actually in the market.’
He started to answer that but then changed his mind. His mouth gently closed again without making a sound.
‘So three weeks before the underground cities?’ he hedged, after a moment.
‘And two dance classes before then.’
‘What about my garden?’
She studied him. This man was more baffling than any of the complex scientific mysteries she’d studied at university. His garden had sat there, untouched, for years. Now suddenly he wanted it to progress immediately? ‘What about it?’
‘Don’t you want to see how it’s progressing?’
Did she want to see what some other lucky sod got to create with? ‘When it’s done.’
It was never too late to implement some self-restraint.
That triggered a couple of lines between his brows. ‘Guess I should trade in my dancing shoes and get onto a visa for Turkey, then.’
‘Ten minutes and ten pounds at Heathrow.’ She nodded. ‘I checked.’
He considered her. Then smiled. ‘You’re really excited.’
There was something looming on her horizon and every cell in her body told her it had something to do with Turkey. It had been swaying her away from Ibiza almost the moment she agreed to Spain. Making her look east. Agitating subconsciously for her to change her mind. And then, the moment she’d made her decision, this odd kind of emotional hum had commenced and it had been slowly building ever since.
Ankara. Cappadocia.
Something was going to happen there. Something life-changing. Something that felt almost fated. Briefly she wondered how she ever would have found her way there if not for the disaster that was her botched proposal, if she hadn’t met Dan before that. And suddenly everything started to feel very...
Meant.
Excited? About standing on the edge of something so huge and new?
‘You have no idea,’ she breathed.
* * *
Georgia stood at the door to the curtained-off change area in the dance studio and hovered awkwardly in the doorway. Possibly she hadn’t thought this through as thoroughly as she might have.
Imagine that.
‘Off you go...’ the woman behind her nudged. Emma. A friendly, motherly sort. A total born-again about belly dancing, given she’d only been coming a few weeks herself.
Georgia took a deep breath to quell her nerves. Maybe belly dancing wasn’t the best choice to get away from the close body contact with Zander, the brushing and heated touching. Salsa was, at least, a partnered thing. It wasn’t Zander sitting on a seat in the corner watching her wiggle and jiggle and cavort around semi-naked.
Even if it was very prettily semi-naked.
Turned out one of the things this class loved the best was a newcomer. A newcomer who turned up in the middle of a semester and in a tracksuit. The lesson of the day went on hold and all the women helped rifle through the dress-up box of spare belly-dancing bits to put a full costume together—educating her the whole time about each piece’s name, purpose, and heritage—then they thrust them at Georgia and thrust her into the change room.
Zander sent his digital recorder in with one of the ladies to capture the sounds of the excited chaos and was cooling his heels out in the dance area, getting the necessary permission forms all ready for their return.
Georgia glanced in the mirror. Her full, beaded skirt fell from her hips down to brush the floor and the matching top-piece they’d selected for her was equally modest—no worse than the vest tops she often wore at home in summer—cupping her small breasts and cascading stringed coins down in a V to point at her exposed belly button. She’d never before mourned her slim build—in fact her curvier friends had envied her for it—but standing here amongst the luscious curves and generous breasts and gorgeous outfits of the other women in the class she’d never wished more to be curvier. Rounded instead of flat.
And Zander was about to get an eyeful of all that flatness.
Emma pinned Georgia’s face veil up behind her ear and gave her a shove.
‘Out you go, love. Get it over with.’
Then they all rushed out, ankle bells ringing, dragging her along in their bright, jangly wake.
Zander’s eyes locked on her the moment she stepped out. How he spotted her amongst so many disguised, Technicolor women was a mystery. Unless he was just looking for the only boyish figure in the room.
She shrivelled up inside, instantly. This had to be her most foolish of fool-moments...
The woman he’d given his digital recorder to returned it to him with a flirty smile, and he flirted right back. In fact, from that moment on he seemed to become entranced by every other woman in the room and—God love them—they enjoyed his presence just as much. Far from being shy about the presence of a strange man in this heavily female environment, the room full of housewives, teachers, and bank clerks dressed in little more than sexy pyjamas lapped it up, escaping into their dance personas and focusing their attention on the only man in the room.
They weren’t gratuitous—they seemed respectful of the awkwardness of Zander’s position—but they were thorough. They zeroed their efforts on him and unleashed the full force of the moves for his benefit.
He grinned his way through the whole thing.
But avoided looking at her at all.
Small mercy, perhaps, given how hot she flamed and how stumbling her movements were. But she’d signed up here for a reason—actually two reasons—and she wasn’t in a hurry to go back to the close, breathy, partnered clinch of salsa nor to be doomed for ever to being not cut out for seduction.
She lifted her chin, willing to bet that every woman in this room turned up in a tracksuit the first time and had to ease their way into the rhythmic gyrations they were currently exorcising on an indulgent Zander. And every one of them must have felt exactly as out of place and outclassed as she now did.
But had they ever felt as invisible? Despite the raunchy outfit?
Or was she deluded in thinking the draped fabrics and accenting jewels were attractive? Maybe where she saw rich, sensual colour, he saw tacky, flashy glitz.
She turned back for the change rooms.
‘Not yet, love,’ the instructor called, leaving Zander to fend for himself against the barrage of oestrogen and turning Georgia away from the gaggle that shielded her from his non-gaze towards the large mirrors lining the wall.
She forced her focus on the instructor, keeping one eye on the professional moves and the other on her own reflection, mimicking the basic choreography, taking correction, and trying to repeat the positions and sequences of the more experienced dancers.
Keeping her eyes steadfastly off the man in the background the whole time.
Belly dancing wasn’t about sex, the instructor told her, correcting Georgia’s too-jerky hips. It was about empowerment. But right now she felt pretty darned sexy. And that wasn’t something she could remember feeling in the past.
Pleasure, sure. But not sexy. Not...sensual.
The fluidity of the moves started to come more naturally, and the way the soft fabric brushing against her bare skin accentuated and teased her senses. It made her feel so...alive.
Between