Modern Romance Collection: March 2018 Books 5 - 8. Robyn DonaldЧитать онлайн книгу.
it was some way yet. Then he crushed the thought. Picking up stray females off the street—literally, in this case!—was not a smart idea. Even though...
His glance went to her again. She really is something to look at! Even with those red eyes and rubbish clothes.
A thought flashed across his mind. One he didn’t want but that was there all the same.
How good could she look?
Immediately he cut the thought.
No—don’t ask that. Don’t think that. Drive her to her destination, then drive on—back to your own life.
Yes, that was what he should do—he knew that perfectly well. But in the meantime he could hardly drive in silence. Besides, he didn’t want her bursting into those terrifyingly heavy sobs again.
‘I’m sorry you were so upset,’ he heard himself saying. ‘But I hope it’s taught you never, ever to step out into traffic.’
‘I’m so, so sorry,’ she said again. Her voice was husky now. ‘And I’m so, so sorry for...for crying like that. It wasn’t you! Well, I mean...not really. Only when you yelled at me—’
‘It was shock,’ Anatole said. ‘I was terrified I’d killed you.’ He threw a rueful look at her. ‘I didn’t mean to make you cry.’
She shook her head. ‘It wasn’t because of that—not really,’ she said again. ‘It was because—’
She stopped. All thoughts of daydream heroes vanished as the memory of how she’d spent the night at the bedside of a dying man assailed her again.
‘Because...?’ Anatole prompted, throwing her another brief glance. He found he liked throwing her glances. But that he would have preferred them not to be brief...
Perhaps they need not be—
She was answering him, cutting across the thought he should not have. Most definitely should not have.
‘It was because of poor Mr Rodgers!’ she said in a rush. ‘He died this morning. I was there. I was his care worker. It was so sad. He was very old, but all the same—’ She broke off, a catch in her voice. ‘It reminded me of when my mother died—’
She broke off again, and Anatole could hear the half-sob in her voice. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, because it seemed the only thing to say. ‘Was your mother’s death recent?’
She shook her head. ‘No, it was nearly two years ago, but it brought it all back. She had MS—all the time I was growing up, really—and after my father was killed I looked after her. That’s why I became a care worker. I had the experience, and anyway there wasn’t much else I could do, and a live-in post was essential because I don’t have a place of my own yet—’
She broke off, suddenly horribly aware that she was saying all these personal things to a complete stranger.
She swallowed. ‘I’m just going to my agency’s offices now—to get a new assignment, somewhere to go tonight.’ Her voice changed. ‘That’s it—just there!’
She pointed to an unprepossessing office block and Anatole drew up alongside it. She got out, tried the front door. It did not open. He stepped out beside her, seeing the notice that said ‘Closed’.
‘What now?’ he heard himself saying in a tight voice.
Tia turned to stare at him, trying to mask the dismay in her face. ‘Oh, I’ll find a cheap hotel for tonight. There’s probably one close by I can walk to.’
Anatole doubted that—especially with her broken suitcase.
His eyes rested on her. She looked lost and helpless. And very, very lovely.
As before, sudden decision took him. There was a voice in his head telling him he was mad, behaving like an idiot, but he ignored it. Instead, he smiled suddenly.
‘I’ve got a much better idea,’ he said. ‘Look, you can’t move that broken suitcase a metre, let alone trail around looking for a mythical cheap hotel in London! So here’s what I propose. Why not stay the night at my flat? I won’t be there,’ he added immediately, because instantly panic had filled her blue eyes, ‘so you’ll have the run of it. Then you can buy yourself a new suitcase in the morning and head to your agency.’ He smiled. ‘How would that be?’
She was staring at him as though she dared not believe what he was saying. ‘Are you sure?’ That disbelief was in her voice, but her panic was ebbing away.
‘I wouldn’t offer otherwise,’ Anatole replied.
‘It’s incredibly kind of you,’ she answered, her voice sounding husky, her eyes dropping away from his. ‘I’m being a total pain to you—’
‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘So, do you accept?’
He smiled again—the deliberate smile that he used when he wanted people to do what he wanted. It worked this time too. Tremulously she nodded.
Refusing to pay any attention to the voice in his head telling him he was an insane idiot to make such an offer to a complete stranger, however lovely, Anatole helped her back into the car and set off again, heading into Mayfair, where his flat was.
He glanced at her. She was sitting very still, hands in her lap, looking out through the windscreen, not at him. She still looked as if she could not believe this was really happening.
He took the next step in making it real for her. For him as well.
‘Maybe we should introduce ourselves properly? I’m Anatole Kyrgiakis.’
It was odd to say his own name, because he usually didn’t have to, and certainly when he did he expected his surname, at least, to be recognised instantly. Possibly followed by a quick glance to ascertain that he meant the Kyrgiakis family. This time, however, his name drew no reaction other than her turning her head to look at him as he spoke.
‘Tia Saunders,’ she responded shyly.
‘Hello, Tia,’ Anatole said in a low voice, with a flickering smile.
He saw a flush of colour in her cheeks, then had to pay attention to the traffic again. He let her be as he drove on, needing to concentrate now and wanting her to feel a little more relaxed about what was happening. But she was still clearly tense as he pulled up outside his elegant Georgian town house and guided her indoors, carrying her broken suitcase.
The greeting from the concierge at the desk in the wide hallway seemed to make her shrink against him, and as they entered his top-floor apartment she gave a gasp.
‘I can’t stay here!’ she exclaimed, dismay in her voice. ‘I might mess something up!’
Her eyes raced around, taking in a long white sofa, covered in silk cushions, a thick dove-grey carpet that matched the lavish drapes at the wide windows. It was like something out of a movie—absolutely immaculate and obviously incredibly expensive.
Anatole gave a laugh. ‘Just don’t spill coffee on anything,’ he said.
She shook her head violently. ‘Please, don’t even say that!’ she cried, aghast at the very thought.
His expression changed. She seemed genuinely worried. He walked up to her. Found himself taking her hand with his free one even without realising it. Patting it reassuringly.
‘Speaking of coffee... I could murder a cup! What about you?’
She nodded, swallowing. ‘Th...thank you,’ she stammered.
‘Good. I’ll get the machine going. But let me show you to your room first—and, look, why not take a shower, freshen up? You must have had a gruelling night, from what you’ve said.’
He relinquished her hand, hefted up the broken suitcase again, mentally deciding he’d get a new one delivered by the concierge within the hour, and carried it through to one of the guest bedrooms.