200 Harley Street: American Surgeon in London. Lynne MarshallЧитать онлайн книгу.
a hell of a lot better than what he’d been doing before she’d spoken to him.
She laughed easily when he tried to be charming and he liked that—made him want to keep talking. He also liked it that her fashionable shoes made her only a couple of inches shy of his six feet—all the better to stare into those amazingly vibrant blue eyes.
Suddenly energized, as the pod ended its full circle journey, and not wanting to say goodbye to the lovely lady, he got a crazy idea. Ask her out. Why not?
But he was so out of practice at spending time with women. Didn’t have a clue what she might like to do. Where did the only female that mattered in his life like to go best? “Do you enjoy swinging?”
A shocked and offended expression replaced Grace’s prior childlike enjoyment. She really had a way with giving “looks” that said it all.
Realizing his unintentional allusion to carefree sex—swinging—he raced to make things right. “On swings, I mean. Actual swings. Uh, the kind you sit on. Swinging?”
She blurted out a laugh, relief softening her eyes. “Oh. Well, in that case … I haven’t been on a swing in ages.”
The pod door opened. The other couples exited. He took her by the arm and led her out. “I know a place nearby—that is, if you’re up for it. We could walk over. Maybe have a drink afterwards?” He let go of her arm, not wanting to seem overbearing. “No strings.” He gazed earnestly into her blue—yes, they were definitely blue—eyes. “What do you say?”
He’d laid it on the line, stuck out his neck and set himself up to be humiliated with a firm no, but he couldn’t help it. Something about her had made him ask. Suddenly, his only desire was to spend more time with this woman.
But for all she knew, he could be a London serial killer. He, on the other hand, had known immediately that she definitely wasn’t a serial killer, just a lovely lady biding her time before “donating” to the Hunter Clinic.
“I’m still on Arizona time, everything’s all mixed up, but I’m not ready to turn in yet. Sure. Why not?”
Apparently as good at reading people as he was, she, and their mutual trust of strangers at charity events, overcame all her doubts. And he couldn’t have been happier with her decision.
The man named Mitch—and she was perfectly happy not knowing his full name, because once she began her new job she wouldn’t have a spare moment to get to know anyone outside work anyway—grabbed each of them some champagne in a plastic flute and directed her out of the gate. Facing away from the Thames, they turned left and soon came upon a few straggling street artists, no doubt holding out for the last of the tourists of the day. Or night. She checked her watch, it was almost ten.
One street artist was completely silver and stood on a small box with a large jar for tips at his feet. His head was shaved, he wore a suit and was reading a book. Perfectly still. Another fellow wore a fedora and a raincoat, all bronze from head to toe, arms folded, one foot forward looking like something from out of the forties or fifties.
“What if their nose itches?” she said, taking a long sip of her bubbly, admiring the live art.
Mitch laughed. “I’ll ask.” He stepped forward, dug into his pocket and put a bill into the tip jar. “What do you do if your nose itches?”
The pavement artist slowly and believably came to life. First his eyes moved, then he twitched his nose. He unfolded his arms and robotically took his index finger and ran it up and down the bridge of his nose. Then, just as methodically, as if he were a machine or wind-up toy, he returned to his original stance.
Grace clapped. “Love it.”
Mitch gave her an odd look as he took the crook of her elbow and pulled her down the path. She followed willingly. Halfway down the wide walkway they came upon a huge fenced-off playground on the right.
“This is, bar none, my favorite playground,” he said.
Why would he have a favorite playground? Was he married with children? Could her innocent desire to forget and enjoy the night damage someone else’s relationship? She slowed. He noticed her hesitation, raising an eyebrow over it.
“I’m just a big kid, I guess.”
He said it so matter-of-factly that she didn’t pursue the rest of the story. He’d told her everything she needed to know. He was a big kid who happened to know about children’s playgrounds.
Yeah, he was probably a dad. A single dad? One could only hope.
But tonight wasn’t about making a new friend, learning about family trees, personal baggage, regrets, or joys. Tonight was about letting go and having a little adventure with a complete, and totally handsome, stranger. The less she knew the better. Just to be on the safe side, though, she’d memorized the walk back to the Eye and could get herself there in a flash.
She nodded. He took the cue and they walked to the entrance of the Jubilee Playground, which had a large green sign on the gate.
“‘Young adventurers this way,’” he read, glanced at her and winked. “That would be us.”
Grace saw the shoulder-high fence railings and closed gate and wondered how they’d manage to get inside, just as two hands took her by the waist and hoisted her upward. He lifted her as if she weighed nothing. “You want to go first? Or should I?”
She suppressed her need to squeal, sucking in a breath instead. “Let me take off my shoes at least.”
He put her down and moved a few feet over to an embankment where the fence was much lower. He jumped up on the cement ledge and offered down his hand. She threw her shoes onto the grass and climbed up with his help. To hell with the sexy dress, and thank God she had on the body suit!
His eyes sparkled when he glanced at her just before he jumped the fence. How the hell was she supposed to do that? Realizing his mistake, he jumped back over and helped her up, giving her time to get her footing and gain confidence, and soon, with the help of his cupped hands for her foot, she’d also scaled the fence.
Everything in the playground was made of sturdy logs and wood, encouraging the “young adventurers” to climb and play. Like a man who’d been here a number of times, Mitch led her to the swings and helped her on, then gave her a big push.
He had to be a father. And husband? Oh, no, she hoped not.
She curved into the night, feeling like a kid again. Soon he joined her on another swing and they quietly went about the business of letting down their hair in the cool evening breeze.
“This is great,” she said, having pumped her feet enough to take her to the hilt on the swing. “Haven’t done this since I don’t know when.”
“Then I’d say you’re overdue. Hey, for someone with a fear of heights, you’re awfully high.”
“That’s ’cause I’m in control.”
“Ah, a lady who likes to be in control. How refreshing.”
She’d play along with his teasing jab about pushy women. “Watch it, buddy.” With that she jumped out of her swing in midair, feeling daring, and more like a kid trying to impress an older boy than a thirty-two-year-old reconstructive surgeon.
He applauded then used his feet to stop his swing the old-fashioned way. “Want to go down the slide?” He looked directly at her in the darkness of the playground, daring her to take his challenge.
She sputtered a laugh. “In this dress?”
“You climbed the fence and dove out of the swing, didn’t you?”
“True,” she said, dusting off her hands. “But I really don’t want to ruin my dress on a slide.” She ignored his dare and walked farther on. “You’re probably renting that tuxedo, and don’t care what happens to it,” she said, one last attempt to save face.
“How