A Summer Of Secrets. Alice Ross

– by far his best feature – were a startling shade of cobalt-blue, framed by exceptionally long, dark lashes. They were eyes that, with one meaningful glance, had a profound weakening effect on the knees of any red-blooded female, or so his wife Alison maintained. And were, apparently, what had first attracted her to him fifteen years ago. An occurrence for which Rich would be eternally grateful.

      Rich had met Alison at a trade fair. He’d been in the decidedly unsexy business of guttering supplies at the time. Alison had been manning the stand opposite, flogging mobile air-conditioning units. Her curvy, petite form squeezed into a short, black skirt and matching jacket, a mass of platinum-blonde curls clipped up on her head, she’d put Rich in mind of a wicked combination of Charlize Theron with a splash of Marilyn Monroe. And every time she bent over to retrieve an information pack from the low table behind her, Rich’s temperature climbed a couple of degrees higher. He’d been mesmerised by her. As, apparently, had the other males in attendance. From the way they flocked around her, it was obvious their interests lay in more than her additional dehumidifying function. Neither Rich’s product nor his cleavage having quite the same effect, he’d observed the proceedings with interest. Not only was this girl sex-on-legs, he concluded over the course of the day, but she also appeared to be bloody good at her job. As he made a great pretence, at overly regular intervals, of reorganising the leaflets at the front of his stand, he could hear her impressively spouting forth about wattage capacity and thermostats. And all in a sexy, throaty voice that made his skin tingle.

      It wasn’t until they were packing up that he had an opportunity to speak to her.

      ‘Busy day?’ he asked, kicking himself at how lame that sounded when he’d had hours to concoct something more original.

      Fortunately, she appeared unfazed by his lack of ingenuity.

      ‘Manic,’ she exclaimed, flopping down into a chair. The manoeuvre caused her skirt to ride up. Rich tried not to gawp at the smooth expanse of thigh now on show. ‘There were supposed to be two of us on today,’ she explained. ‘But my colleague, Sheila, called in sick at the last minute. Just got back from holiday in Egypt. Dicky tummy.’

      ‘Shame,’ muttered Rich, contorting his features into what he hoped was a sympathetic expression, while wondering – not for the first time that day – if the black nylon covering her legs came in the form of tights or stockings.

      ‘It is,’ the girl continued, tucking a wayward blonde curl behind her ear in a way that made Rich’s heart stutter. ‘We normally make a proper break of it when we’re away at these things. Use the hotel spa, have a nice meal, that kind of thing. Now I’ll be ordering room service and crashing out in front of Coronation Street.’

      Rich didn’t reply. He couldn’t. A battle raged in his head: one side desperately trying not to think about stockings, the other attempting to digest the information she’d just hurled at him. Because, if his digesting was correct, it meant she would be staying over tonight. In a hotel. All by herself. And as he would be staying over, too … in a hotel … all by himself … wouldn’t this be the perfect opportunity to ask her to dinner? He opened his mouth to do just that, but no words came out. Completely pathetic. He’d never had a problem asking women out before. In fact, although never usually one to blow his own trumpet, his success rate in that area would probably be classed as impressive. Particularly at trade fairs, where a large proportion of the contingent were happy to exchange more than business cards with their counterparts. Something about this girl, though, put her way above all that. And it wasn’t just her killer bod.

      ‘Anyway …’ She hauled herself to her feet and rubbed a hand across the back of her neck. Rich suddenly felt slightly giddy. ‘I’m so shattered, I think all I’m good for is crashing in front of the telly tonight.’

      Rich cleared his throat. ‘Right,’ he muttered, feeling like a medicine ball had landed in the centre of his chest, knocking the wind, and his ability to form a sentence, completely out of him. What a plonker. He’d just passed up the perfect opportunity to spend some quality time with this goddess, to find out more about her – assuming, of course, she’d accepted his dinner invitation. Still, he deftly reasoned, there was always tomorrow. He’d be more prepared then; have his thoughts ordered; his usual sparkling, witty repartee polished.

      ‘See you tomorrow, then,’ she said, gazing at him with the greenest eyes Rich had ever seen.

      ‘Wh … what?’ he stammered.

      ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ she repeated, a slight smile touching – what he considered – her very kissable lips.

      ‘Oh. Right. Yes. Tomorrow,’ he managed to mumble. Before turning around and colliding with a pile of air-con units: the self-evaporating type with three fan speeds, he absurdly noticed.

      Rich didn’t sleep a wink that night. He couldn’t settle. Images of that pert bum and what lay beneath that tight black jacket skipping through his mind like an Irish dancer on acid. And the thought of her curled up in bed wearing God knows what, possibly in the same hotel, possibly in the next room, drove him to distraction.

      By the time morning came around, he felt like he’d completed three marathons – in a spaceman’s suit. Despite the dark smudges under his eyes he made every effort to appear the consummate professional, spending an age arranging his hair so it looked naturally dishevelled, and using half a bottle of mouthwash, just in case there’d been any trace of garlic in the bangers and mash he’d consumed the previous evening. Today, he resolved, he would not act like a gawky, adolescent school kid. Today he would be perfectly in control. Play it cool, but not so cool she didn’t get the message.

      He sucked in a deep, reassuring breath before entering the exhibition hall. Then, affecting his best nonchalant swagger, made his way over to his stand. Spotting the figure at the opposite stand, though – a podgy male figure in a cheap, pinstripe suit, with a jowly, sweaty face – Rich’s swagger dissolved into more of a stumble

      ‘Morning,’ the chap called over. ‘I’m Eric. I’m manning the stall today.’

      Rich’s head began to spin. ‘Um, where’s the, er, girl who was here yesterday?’

      ‘Had to dash home,’ Eric informed him, tipping a box of branded pens into a wicker basket. ‘Something about a burst pipe. I’ve only been with the company three weeks but there was no one else available at such short notice. Hope I do okay.’

      ‘I’m sure you’ll be fine,’ Rich mumbled, an urgent need to sit down suddenly overtaking him. God, what a prat he’d been, passing up that platinum-plated, diamond-encrusted opportunity to ask her out yesterday. What on earth had he been thinking about – other than stockings? He hadn’t been himself, obviously. A few minutes in her dazzling presence and he’d completely lost his head. Still, there was no point crying over spilled milk, he reasoned, as a willowy redhead sashayed past. It wasn’t, after all, as if Ms Theron/Monroe was the only good-looking female on the planet. But as much as he tried to steer his thoughts down that route, or indeed any route which did not include gorgeous, petite blondes, Rich couldn’t shift the image of that delectable form, those startling green eyes, and that tumble of blonde hair from his mind. Three weeks on, the fantasising continued. So much so that, after hours staring at her company’s website, he plucked up the courage to call, under the guise of a prospective customer enquiring about their next sales event.

      ‘Glasgow,’ a nasally male voice informed him. ‘Then I’m afraid that’s it for the year. The next event isn’t until spring.’

      Rich’s heart sank. Glasgow was at least a six-hour drive away. But there was no way he could wait until spring. He’d be a physical wreck by then if he carried on at this rate. So, with all the resolve of a starving lion out to catch his prey, he booked three days’ holiday from work, packed a bag, filled the car with diesel and headed up the road. It had been the middle of November, the slate-grey sky sending forth intermittent flurries of snow. The radio informed him that several roads north of the border had been closed. But Rich ploughed on regardless. Even persistent negative thoughts – that she might not be manning the stand; that he didn’t even know her