Painted the Other Woman. Julia James

to the ground in order to extract his keys. As he stepped inside he felt another stab of hunger. But this time for the more mundane fare of food. Well, he’d make coffee—even if only instant—and consult the internet to get some food delivered. There must be a catering company around that would oblige.

      It was a nuisance, he mused, that the apartment block had no concierge who could take care of that sort of thing for him. But on the other hand a concierge was the last thing he needed—they were the kind of individuals who swiftly discovered too much about their tenants. And if there was one overriding necessity right now it was that his beautiful blonde fellow tenant should not have any source of information about him that he did not care to impart to her.

      Least of all that he knew about her relationship with Ian Randall.

      And why he was going to end it.

      Marisa didn’t sleep well. She tossed and turned restlessly. She might wish it was because she was disappointed not to have met up with Ian last night but she knew it wasn’t because of that.

      It was because of that man—that tall, dark, ludicrously handsome man—who had appeared at her door that evening.

       With the corniest chat-up line in the book! That’s what I’ve got to remember!

      Good grief, couldn’t he have come up with something more original than borrowing a pint of milk? And coffee, she reminded herself waspishly. The problem was, try as she might to be derisive about it and label it nothing more than a transparent ploy, another thought kept intruding.

      That any man with those devastating looks wouldn’t even have to crook his little finger to have every female for miles around come running.

      Pick up lines, let alone corny ones, wouldn’t even be in his ball park. He’d never be reduced to resorting to something so clichéd. Besides, she reasoned, he’d seen her come out of the lift and might well have assumed she had a flat on this floor, but for all he’d have known she might have had the flat the elderly couple occupied. As a new tenant he wouldn’t know, would he? Which meant that his ring on her doorbell and his request had been genuine, and not a pick-up routine.

      Anyway, what did it matter?

       But he did do that bit offering to show me how the coffee machine worked.

      No, that didn’t prove anything except that he was a man and men thought it inexplicable that women found machinery complicated. He’d probably thought he was being polite in offering—that the reason she’d mentioned she couldn’t get it to work was a ploy in order to get him to offer help.

      Oh, help, maybe he thought I was trying to pick him up! Trying to inveigle him to come in …

      She squirmed with embarrassment at the thought. Still, at least she’d immediately said no, which was something to be grateful for. He couldn’t possibly think she was giving him the come on, could he?

       You behaved like a gormless idiot, though, don’t forget—stammering and staring bug-eyed at him.

      Yes, well, he was doubtless used to that kind of reaction from women. A man with looks like his would be.

      And it wasn’t just his looks, was it? Nor that to-die-for foreign accent of his. If she were brutally honest—and she had better be at this time of night—it was the whole package that made such an impact. The looks, the cashmere overcoat, the bespoke suit, the whole Mr Rich thing definitely contributed.

      And more than that there had been a kind of aura around him. That was the only word she could come up with. A kind of self-assurance, an air of being someone who gave orders, moved in the corridors of power, made things happen that he wanted to happen.

      It was curious, she found herself musing. Ian was wealthy, and he sported the trappings of wealth from flash pad to gold watch. But he didn’t possess that aura of power, that sense of being someone not to mess with.

      A little shiver went down her spine. Disturbing. Disquieting. For a moment longer she gazed into the darkness of her bedroom. She shouldn’t think about the incident tonight. Should put it out of her mind.

      Should go to sleep.

      But her dreams, when they came, were filled with the same disquiet.

      And a strange, disturbing sense of anticipation …

      Athan left for his office early. He always did, finding the first couple of hours of the morning the most productive before his heavy schedule of meetings started. This morning, however, he found his usual high level of productivity diminished. It annoyed him. Annoyed him to realise that he was finding himself replaying the little scene he’d created last night. Letting his memory toy with recalled images—images of the way her long hair had framed her face, tumbling down over her shoulders, the way she’d gazed at him, wide-eyed, the way her voice had been breathy and husky. The way she’d walked away from him towards the kitchen on long, slender legs, the fall of her hair waving down her back.

      She really was very, very lovely.

      Yes, well, he knew that—had already acknowledged that—and other than her beauty making it easier for him to carry out his plan there wasn’t any point in dwelling on it. He had a mountain of work to get through, and it wasn’t going to go away of its accord.

      He also had to decide on a pretext for getting Ian Randall out of the country. The upcoming West Coast contract would fit the bill well. He could say it required input from the UK. He could even—his eyes narrowed in speculation—mention the trip to Eva. Suggest it would be an ideal opportunity to go with Ian, and then to take a holiday afterwards—fly on to Hawaii, for instance. Eva would snap at it, he was sure.

      That would ensure he kept Ian well away from London for a couple of weeks, if not longer.

       That’s all the time I need with Marisa Milburne.

      He had no doubts about his ability to achieve his goal. It was experience, not vanity, that told him women didn’t say no to him, and there was no reason to suppose this one would be different.

      Especially after last night. Any speculation that her attachment to Ian was based on love had been set aside. No woman devotedly in love with another man would have reacted the way she had to him when he’d paid her attention. No woman would have started the way she had, gazed at him the way she had, displaying that telltale dilating of the pupils.

      Yet she was not giving him the come-on, either. That was clear too.

      His brows drew together. How would she react to his next move? he wondered. He clicked on to the internet and made a rapid search, made a purchase online, clicking on ‘deliver before noon’. Then, job done, he cleared the screen and put his mind into work mode. There was a lot to get done if he wanted to be free by the evening.

      Marisa was hand-washing one of her beautiful new sweaters when the intercom rang. Frowning, she picked up the phone.

      ‘Delivery for Ms Milburne,’ said a disembodied voice.

      Puzzled, she went downstairs. As she walked out into the lobby and saw a man standing on the pavement with a bouquet of white lilies she smiled. Oh, Ian, she thought fondly, how sweet. Just because you couldn’t meet me last night.

      But when she took the beautiful bouquet into her kitchen to find a suitable receptacle for it, and opened the small gilt-edged envelope attached to the wrapping, the card inside held an unexpected message.

      Thank you for the milk and coffee—it was much appreciated.

      It was simply signed ‘Your grateful neighbour.’

      For a moment she stared. As a token of gratitude a bouquet of lilies that must have cost at least thirty pounds, if not more, was a bit overdone. On the other hand … well, since being with Ian she had come to realise that the rich really were different. Anyone who could afford the rents on these apartments could definitely afford to drop thirty pounds on a bunch of flowers without even noticing.

      Yet