London's Eligible Bachelors. Sharon Kendrick
‘She’s a little upset,’ he said. ‘Although I suppose that’s understandable, under the circumstances.’
Mrs Cooper nodded. ‘So she’s told you about Michael?’
Again Guy felt the sharp spear of unreasonable jealousy. ‘Yes, she has.’
Sabrina wondered why they were talking about her as if she wasn’t there. Or why her mother was staring up at Guy with trust rather than suspicion.
‘My name is Guy Masters,’ he said. ‘Sabrina and I met in Venice.’ He took a business card from his coat pocket and gave it to her. ‘Will you give this to your daughter in the morning?’ he said, moving to the staircase and bending his head down so that it was almost touching Sabrina’s.
‘Ring me if you need to talk,’ he said grimly.
And then he was gone and the hall seemed suddenly so empty—so lacking in the strength and vitality generated by that dark, mocking face and that beautiful, strong body.
Mrs Cooper shut the door behind him, and turned to her daughter. ‘Are you going to tell me what happened, darling?’
Sabrina shook her head wearily. ‘It’s too complicated to explain. I’m OK now.’
‘Are you sure?’
Sabrina nodded, and slowly rose to her feet. ‘Positive.’
Mrs Cooper cocked her head in the direction of the front door. ‘He seems very considerate, dear,’ she commented curiously, ‘your Mr Guy Masters. Are you going to ring him?’
‘No.’ But Sabrina actually managed a wan smile. Considerate? She could think of about a hundred adjectives which would describe Guy Masters.
And considerate wouldn’t even make the list.
RINGme if you need to talk. Those had been Guy’s last words to her a week or so ago.
Sabrina opened her eyes and stared at the blank white space of the ceiling. What woman would want to admit to being needy? And what could she possibly say if she picked the phone up to ring him? Hello, Guy, it’s me, Sabrina. Remember me? I’m the woman you had the one-night stand with in Venice?
And then what?
No. There was no point in ringing him. No point in anything really, other than trying to get through each day the best way she could.
‘Sabrina?’
Sabrina turned over and yawned as she focussed her eyes on the clock on the locker. Nearly ten o’clock. She loved her Sunday morning lie-ins. ‘Yes, Mum?’
‘You’ve got—’ there was a rather odd note in her mother’s voice as she called up the stairs, Sabrina thought ‘—a visitor, dear!’
Some sixth sense warned her. Sabrina sat bolt upright in bed, her baggy Minnie Mouse nightshirt almost swamping her.
‘Who is it?’ she demanded hoarsely.
‘It’s Guy,’ called her mother.
Her heart did a somersault. ‘Guy M-Masters?’
‘Why, how many others do you know?’ came a shockingly familiar voice.
‘I’m still in bed!’ she shouted down, feeling the shiver of nerves beginning to trace chaotic pathways over her skin. There was a split-second pause, and then a sardonic reply.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll wait.’
She told herself that there was no way of getting out of seeing him, even if she’d wanted to. And that was the most disturbing thing of all.
She didn’t want to.
Sabrina felt the powerful acceleration of her heart as she quickly showered and dressed.
Instinct told her not to go over the top with her choice of clothes, while pride nagged at her to make some sort of effort. If he was simply calling by to check on her welfare—then she refused to have him wondering what he had ever seen in her.
But she was actually shaking as she dressed—in a warm woollen dress which she’d bought at the market, its ice-blue colour matching her eyes exactly. And her knee-high leather boots—absolutely ancient now, but lovingly polished and cared for, so that they had entirely justified their original high price-tag.
Sabrina went downstairs, expecting—no, hoping—to feel nothing for him. But she wondered who she had been trying to fool, because the moment she walked into the sitting room and saw him she was incapacitated by his sheer physical beauty.
He looked, she thought with a sharp edge of despair, absolutely wonderful—as wonderful as the first time she had seen him. He was wearing a pair of faded jeans which clung to every millimetre of the longest, most muscular legs she had ever seen. The denim emphasised the jut of his hips and the flat planes of his stomach. And he was wearing a beautiful cashmere sweater in a shade of grey just darker than his eyes. A dark jacket lay heaped over a chair.
There was nothing she could do to stop the primitive leap of pleasure in her heart. But at least she could keep it from showing. ‘Hello, Guy,’ she said calmly.
He thought how fine and how translucent her skin was—so fine that you could quite clearly see the shadowed definition of her amazing cheekbones. He had not meant to come here today—he had been waiting for a phone call which had never materialised. He had expected her to ring, the way women always did. And he had been unable to get her out of his mind. Out of a determination to forget her had grown a need to know that she was OK. Well, she certainly looked OK. More than OK.
‘Hello, Sabrina,’ he said slowly. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Better,’ she told him truthfully. ‘Much better.’
They stared at one another, like two people meeting for the first time. Well, maybe not quite like that, thought Sabrina. She knew too much about him to ever be like that. The top button of his shirt was open to reveal the tiniest jagged scar which ran alongside his Adam’s apple. A scar she distinctly remembered running the tip of her tongue along, so that his big body had writhed with a kind of reluctant pleasure.
‘Would you like coffee, or something?’
He looked at the luscious tremble of her lips and the ice-blue dazzle of her eyes. ‘No, I’ll tell you what I’d really like,’ he said slowly.
It was so like something he had murmured at the most intimate point of their lovemaking that Sabrina felt her cheeks begin to burn.
‘I’ve got the car outside,’ he said evenly. I thought maybe you could show me something of the city. I’ll park close to the centre, and we can walk.’
Sabrina looked around her, at her sweet mother who could never be accused of being uptight. But the house was small, no, tiny, and it would be impossible to do anything other than stumble out pleasantries that neither of them meant.
‘I’ll go and get my coat,’ she said.
‘Wrap up warmly, Sabrina,’ said her mother. ‘It may be sunny outside, but it’s bitterly cold in that wind.’
Guy helped her on with the coat, which had a collar of fake fur. Her hair was loose and spilled into the fur, giving her a faintly glamorous appearance, he thought.
His fingers brushed lightly over her shoulders and he felt the dark lickings of temptation scramble at his senses. He remembered how translucent her skin had been, and that his tongue had followed the fine blue tracery of the veins which laced her tiny breasts.
She looked at him, a question darkening the blue of her eyes. ‘Where’s the car?’
‘It’s a little way along the street.’ He omitted to say that the street