Painted the Other Woman. Julia James

leaving college she’d hardly used her brain at all—which was a waste.

       And you really don’t want to come across as some kind of country bumpkin to Ian, either. Even if he’s not a raging intellectual, he obviously knows business, and current affairs and so on.

      She clicked off the TV and gathered herself to get to her feet. But even as she did so, she froze. A sound she had never heard had penetrated from the hallway. The doorbell.

      Who on earth …? Puzzled and apprehensive, she made her way to the little entrance hall. The door was on a security chain, and there was a spyhole too. She peered through it, but could only take in a distorted impression of a dark suit. Nothing else. Well, it didn’t look like a burglar paying a call, at any rate.

      Cautiously, she open the door on the chain, which restricted it to a couple of inches, bracing herself ready to flatten herself against it if someone put an intruding foot through.

      Instead a voice spoke. A deep, accented voice that had the timbre of familiarity.

      ‘I’m extremely sorry to disturb you … ‘

      Without volition, she felt her insides give a little flutter.

      ‘Just a moment.’ She slid the security chain off and opened the door wider.

      It was the man who’d asked her to hold the lift for him earlier.

      ‘I do apologise,’ he said, ‘but I wonder if I might ask you a favour.’

      There was a faint smile on his face, a slightly quizzical look. Marisa found it did strange things to her. Things that made her lips part and her eyes rest as if helplessly on his face. She tried to gather her composure.

      ‘Of … of course,’ she answered, trying to sound polite but cool.

      The faint smile deepened. So did the sensation of fluttering inside her. Her hand tightened on the doorframe.

      ‘I’ve just moved into the apartment next to you, and I’ve only just realised that I’ve made no arrangements for any groceries to be delivered. This may sound the most stupid request you’ve heard, but if you could possibly let me have some milk and a couple of teaspoons of instant coffee I would be in your debt.’

      Dark eyes—ludicrously long-lashed, she realised as her brain spun idiotically in her head—rested on her, their quizzical expression at odds with the formidable air of command about him. Whoever he was, he was most definitely not one of life’s minions.

       He’s the guy that gives the orders … others do his bidding. Snap to his command …

       And respond to his faintly smiling requests as if he’s turned a key in their backs.

      Especially if they were female …

      The fluttering inside her, the tightness of her hand on the doorframe, intensified.

      She swallowed, managed to speak. ‘Yes—yes, of course. No problem.’ Her voice sounded husky, as if her throat had constricted.

      The faint smile deepened, indenting lines around his mouth. Marisa’s throat constricted again. Oh, good grief, when they’d been handing it out this guy got a double helping.

      ‘It’s really very good of you,’ the deep, accented voice responded, its timbre doing things to her she could not prevent. Didn’t have the slightest interest in preventing …

      Jerkily, she pulled the door wider and turned away. ‘I’ll just—um—go and fetch them,’ she managed to say.

      She headed for the kitchen. Her feet felt clumsy, and she was sure she bumped into the corner of the sofa as she made her way through the living room to the kitchen beyond. She felt like an idiot, bumping into her own furniture. In the kitchen she fumbled with the fridge door, yanking it open and grabbing a pint of milk. It was semi-skimmed. She hoped he’d be OK with that. She hoped he’d be OK with her brand of instant coffee, as well. Not that he looked like an instant coffee type of man. Her eyes went to the terrifyingly complicated coffee machine that stood completely unused by the microwave. She’d bought coffee beans, hoping to try it out, but one glance at the instruction booklet had quashed her ambition instantly.

       Oh, stop dithering, girl—just give him the milk and the coffee jar.

      She hurried out of the kitchen, carefully avoiding bumping into the furniture. He’d stepped inside the hall, though the front door was still ajar.

      ‘Here you are,’ she said breathlessly, holding out the requested items.

      ‘It’s very good of you,’ he said.

      That faint smile was still doing its work. His height was making the small hallway even smaller. So was his dark suit and black cashmere overcoat. His presence seemed overpowering suddenly.

      A thought struck her. ‘I’ve got coffee beans, if you prefer. The packet’s unopened. I can’t operate my machine.’

      Oh, hell, she was burbling inanely. What did he care whether she could operate the machine or not. Yet it seemed he did—a dark eyebrow had quirked.

      ‘Would you like me to show you how? They can be fiendishly difficult.’

      Immediately she stiffened. ‘Oh, no, thank you. That’s fine. I wouldn’t dream of troubling you.’

      His lashes dipped over his eyes. ‘It would be no trouble, I promise you.’

      His voice had changed. She didn’t know how, but it had. And suddenly, with a piercing light, she knew why it had …

      Knew it from the sudden glint in his eyes—his dark, deep eyes …

      She took a breath—a steadying one that she needed. Needed in order to remind herself that a complete stranger—however much of an impact he was making on her—was standing inside her flat and signalling that he liked what he was seeing. Her brain seemed to split in two. One half—the half that was reducing her to a wittering idiot—reeled with the realisation. The other half was shouting a loud, strident warning to her. Time to pay heed to it.

      She shook her head. A small but decisive gesture.

      ‘Thank you, but no.’ She held the milk and the coffee jar closer to him. Her smile was polite, but nothing more, her voice composed.

      For just a second longer he kept that half-shut gaze on her, then abruptly reached out to relieve her of the proffered items, managing to take them both in a single hand. The other was holding a laptop case.

      ‘Once again, thank you,’ he said.

      His voice had lost whatever it had so briefly held. So had his expression. He turned away, going back out into the corridor, pausing only to half turn his head towards her, standing ready to close the door.

      ‘Goodnight,’ he said.

      She kept her face composed. ‘Goodnight,’ she answered back. Then closed the door.

      Outside, Athan stood a moment, his eyes faintly narrowed. Interesting, he thought. She had responded to him—no doubt about that. Years of experience had taught him exactly when a woman found him attractive. But she had quite definitely drawn the line when he’d made his second gambit, offering to show her how to use the coffee machine.

      And if she hadn’t? If she’d let me into her flat, let me make fresh coffee—shared it with me. Let me move on to my third gambit—suggesting I order dinner to be delivered so we could dine together?

      If she had, what would he have done?

       Would I have stayed the night with her if she’d let me?

      For one vivid instant, an image filled his head.

      Pale golden hair spread loose across a white pillow. A slender, naked body offered to him. A lovely face alight with pleasure … pleasure that he could give her.

      Abruptly,