Valentine's Day. Nicola Marsh
into her front seat, and slammed the door shut on his parting words.
Drive safely.
The best run of his life turned into the worst night of his life.
Not the evening—the evening touched on one of the most special moments he’d ever had. But the night, after Georgia drove off so quickly down Bowness’s quiet main street... He barely slept that night despite his exhaustion and even Sunday was pretty much a write-off.
He spent the whole time trying to offload the kiss he had stolen from her like a fence trying to move appropriated diamonds. Failing abysmally.
After all these months—even after the stern talking to he’d given himself after getting all touchy feely with her at spy school—why had he let himself slip to quite that degree?
Kissing her. Touching her.
Torturing himself with what he couldn’t have.
There were endless numbers of women back in London that he could kiss. And touch. And sleep with if he wanted. Bold, casual, riskless women. Georgia Stone was not one of them. She wasn’t made of the same stuff as any of them. She wasn’t bold or casual. And Lord knew not without risk.
But then she’d walked into his world, the only woman—the only person—ever to watch him race, to wait with a cold drink and a proud smile at the finish line, and he’d let himself buy into the fantasy. Just for a moment. Then one fantasy had led to another until they were lying in the long, cool grass, tongues and feet tangling.
He’d let himself slip further than any time since Lara.
Worse, to trust. And he didn’t do trust.
Ever.
He’d finally tumbled into an exhausted sleep Sunday night, but his mood was no better today.
As evidenced by the way his staff were tiptoeing around him extra carefully. Even Casey, who usually only gave the most cursory of knocks before walking into his office, actually stood, waiting, until he gave her permission to enter.
‘Zander,’ she started, lips tight. She looked as if she’d rather be calling him Mr Rush.
‘What is it, Casey?’
‘I wanted to...’ She changed tack. ‘Georgia just emailed these instructions, and I thought I’d better run them past you.’
That got his attention. Not just because the sentence had the word Georgia in it, but because his assistant and their resident scientist were thick as thieves, so Casey ratting her out meant something big was going on.
She stood across the desk from him. ‘She’s made some changes to the programme.’
No big news—Georgia changed things around regularly. He was getting used to it. He stared and waited for more from Casey.
‘Big changes.’ She held out a sheaf of papers.
‘How big?’ But as he ran his eyes over them he could see instantly. ‘Ankara? Are you kidding me?’ He eyeballed his assistant. She took half a step back. ‘Ibiza’s already booked isn’t it?’ Their flights to Spain were in a few weeks. Georgia’s big holiday. Now she wanted it to be Turkey?
‘Actually I can still make changes—’
Not what he wanted to hear.
Casey’s mouth clicked shut. She started backing out of the room. ‘I’ll leave you to read the—’
‘Stay!’ he barked, though deep down he regretted commanding her like a trained dog. None of this was her fault.
All of it was his. He’d been stupid to give into his baser instincts and kiss her. As though either of them could go back from that.
He flipped to the next page. Georgia had ditched the cocktail-making class in favour of life drawing. She’d dumped aquasphering on the Thames to go on some underground tour of old London. She’d dropped out of salsa and replaced it with belly dancing, for heaven’s sake.
‘I see spy lessons made the cut,’ he snorted.
‘Yeah, she loves those—’ Again, Casey’s jaw clicked shut. As if she suddenly realised she was siding with the enemy.
‘Get her on the phone for me.’
‘I tried, Zander. She’s not answering.’
Right. ‘I’ll take care of it tonight.’ At salsa.
Assuming she went at all.
* * *
‘I wasn’t convinced you’d be here,’ he said as Georgia slipped through the dance studio door, quietly, and joined him on the benches. She smiled and nodded at some of their fellow dance regulars. Twice as big as the paltry smile she’d offered him.
‘I wasn’t sure if the change got approved, so I didn’t want to leave them with uneven numbers.’
‘What’s with the swap to belly dancing?’
She shrugged and glanced around the room. Zander tried again. ‘I had no idea you were such a fan of all things eastern. First belly dancing, then Ankara...’
She brought her eyes back to his. Surprised at his snark, perhaps. ‘You helped me to see that my list was built out of things I thought I should be doing more than things I actually wanted to do.’
‘Come on, Georgia. You actually want to belly dance?’
She kicked her chin up. He might as well have waved a red flag. ‘It interests me. It’s beautiful.’
Uh-huh. It couldn’t have anything to do with the fact that belly dancing was a solo occupation and she wouldn’t have to touch him again. ‘And what’s in Ankara that’s of so much more interest than Ibiza?’
Other than less alcohol, less noise, less crowds.
‘Cappadocia.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘A region full of amazing remnants of a Bronze-Aged civilisation. You can fly over it in balloons.’
He just stared. ‘And that’s what you want to do?’
Her hands crept up to her hips. ‘Yes.’
‘Why the sudden change of heart on all your activities?’
‘It’s not all that sudden. I don’t want expensive makeovers or hot stone massages or guidance on how to wear clothes I’ll never be able to afford to buy.’
The dance instructor clapped them to attention.
‘Is this about the cost?’ Zander whispered furiously. Hoping it really was.
‘This is about me. Doing things that matter to me.’
It was her money—her year—to spend however she liked. And it was his job to make even the wackiest list sound like something all EROS’ listeners could relate to. But it was becoming increasingly important that it helped Georgia to find her way back to feeling whole. He wanted her whole.
He just didn’t know why.
‘Partners!’ the dance instructor called.
They knew the drill. They’d done weeks of this. He’d gone a little bit crazy getting all the audio he needed, grabs from Georgia, the dance instructor. That should have been heaps. But he’d interviewed just about everyone else, there, too. Every single one of them had an interesting story, their own personal reasons for learning to dance at seventy, or despite being widowed recently or coming alone. And for every single one of them it wasn’t about dance at all.
It was about living.
There were thirty