Is Mill Island even the place’s name? she wondered, practically jogging to the loop made by the canal coming around a bend to flow alongside the river for a bit then bulge around this lump of land and rejoin the river at its tip. It was what the area was known as anyway.
She took the narrow road that linked the canal to the island, then across to the riverbank, resting her hand on the bonnets of the couple of cars on the island as she made her way. Still warm. The vehicles didn’t seem to have anything to do with those old factories or storehouses, still in use, on the canal bank now behind her. The old buildings on the island must have been a flour mill and supporting structures and those yonder connected to the mill in some way. Alessa jumped as her phone rang, her movement shaking her fur-lined hood from her head.
“Keren?” she queried, approaching the old mill through the overgrown grass and bushes.
“God, my brain hurts,” moaned her flatmate. “I’ll need a glass of vino for lunch. Still wanna meet?”
“For…?” Alessa circled one end of the old stone building. It must have been pretty, in its day. Could be, again, the way the river tumbled past. She could imagine the mill wheel turning, and a few benches and tables among the trees.
“You to get something nice, for the awards dinner? So you’re not wearing the same dress time after time?”
“I like that dress!” Alessa protested. Keren liked shopping. Alessa…not so much. “I do need something new, but…” She caught sight of movement through one of the ground floor windows and moved nearer. “I can’t, sorry. I’m working. Can I borrow your blue one with the zip?”
“Aren’t you in town anyway? I’m too hungover to remember, but don’t you have a thing in the centre?”
“I did,” Alessa replied, leaning back to see if anything was visible through the upper windows. “I’m at an old mill and…”
“And what? There’s an old bag of flour? An old bread roll? Don’t leave me hanging here!”
“There’s a man inside!” Alessa whispered. “Inside the mill floor bit, I mean. He’s got his back to the window, but…” But what she couldn’t say, except she couldn’t take her eyes off the tall figure. Something about him drew her, until she was creeping nearer as stealthily as a child playing Grandmother’s Footsteps. She’d almost reached the wall when he half-turned and stilled, staring out at her.
“Well? Details! Alessa, carry on!” Keren squawked.
“Oh, holy God, he’s stunning!” Alessa could hardly breathe. The stranger turned fully, revealing a strong-boned, tanned face with well-defined dark eyebrows. He looked at her looking at him.
“Stunning how? Handsome?”
“Duh.” Alessa gripped the phone tighter in her sweating palm. “Charming and debonair, you know? Yet roguish. A bit wicked.”
“Which bit?” Keren quipped. “Is he tall, short, old, young…?”
“He’s tall and broad-shouldered. Older than me—his hair’s going grey. Silvering, you know? Silver foxy? At the temples and on the sides. Still dark, though.”
It must have been very dark brown at one time, and was still thick and full, brushed back and over from a side parting. The man was so still that Alessa felt a little spooked, as if there were something uncanny about it, but then he moved, giving her a comprehensive up and down once-over that lingered. She almost wished she were wearing Keren’s evening dress, despite the cold, rather than her thick, hooded coat.
“He looks strong and confident,” she continued. “His eyes, oh, Keren, they’re gorgeous! Midnight blue. And a sort of twinkle in them.”
“Who is he?”
“I don’t know! He’s not exactly wearing a name tag.” She looked anyway, glancing at the lapels and front of his thick overcoat. It was a very dark blue, complementing his eyes, she realised. Alessa was so close to the building and its window now. She must look like an idiot standing there stock-still, staring and talking into her phone. “You’d love his coat,” she continued. Keren stole her boyfriends’ shirts and sweaters whenever she could. She’d slap that overcoat on.
Keren snorted. “He can’t hear you, can he?”
“Obviously not. These walls are really thick, so the glass in the window he’s behind must be too.”
Then the man smiled, the realignment of his muscles bringing the most perfect crinkles to his eyes and mouth, robbing his face of any sternness. “Oh, what a glorious smile!” Alessa blurted. “And you know, he even smells nice! Must be cologne. It’s woody and floral. Sort of powerful but gentle. Sexy and romantic.”
“Er, Alessa—”
“Like leaves, almost. Yeah, leaves and ambergris and a touch of lemon.” She closed her eyes and took a deep inhalation.
“Alessa, you moron! If you can smell his aftershave, there can’t be any—”
Her shocked eyes pinged open and her numb fingers dropped her phone to the ground as she figured it out for herself, understood that the window was empty, just a square of wood, the perfect frame for the tall man standing there. And as if to prove it, the man reached through the space where a pane of glass as thick as the walls, thick enough to have protected her, should have been, and cupped her face.
Chapter Two
It never works when animals do that freezing thing! We can still see them! So why the bloody hell am I doing it? Her eyes were the first thing to move, opening wide as the strong hand with long, elegant fingers ending in well-kept, well-shaped nails cupped her cheek, warming it, and the man leant forward. He stroked his thumb along her lip.
“Chocolate.”
His name can’t be Chocolate? His voice certainly wasn’t chocolate. It was smooth yet seasoned. Peaty, perhaps? Oaky? I spend too much time in pubs. He pulled his hand away and sucked his thumb into his mouth.
“Chocolate and marshmallow. I don’t have much of a sweet tooth, but you taste delicious.”
Oh. Catching on, she scrabbled in her pocket for the paper napkin that had come with the hot cocoa she’d not long finished. But before she could find it, or a tissue of any kind, he was holding out a handkerchief. A proper one, starched linen. He went to dab at her mouth, but she plucked the white square from his fingers and wiped her lips herself. The pristine white soon bore a chocolate smear and most of her lipstick. Damn. She stared at the hanky she held.
“Keep it,” the man said. “And you don’t need lipstick anyway. You’re very beautiful as you are. And you know, you smell wonderful too. Sort of sugar and spice.”
“I feel extremely foolish,” Alessa stated, trying not to crumple the linen square in her hand.
“You look extremely beautiful,” the man countered, roaming his gaze from her dark blonde hair down to her pointed chin.
“Thank you, but I still feel a complete idiot.”
“And I feel completely flattered.” The man smiled again. “I’m not sure of the etiquette in situations like this. Do I come out or invite you in?”
“Situations… Oh. Right.” Alessa was suddenly recalled to her duty, her job. Her reason for being there. “Are you planning to turn this building into trendy city-living-on-the-riverbank housing?”
“No.” The man’s sexy lips thinned.
“Or an oversized halls of residence to accommodate expanding student numbers at the universities, despite no extra teaching staff being hired, and the subsequent strain on resources this will impose?”
“No. I’m against the city council’s practice of selling up every damn building it can get its greedy hands on for housing, homes that locals can’t afford. And I’m also against the equally greedy pile-’em-in policy of Montford’s higher education institutes, seeking to capitalise on the university’s rankings and varsity sports success. My plans for this space are something else entirely.”
Alessa blinked. Oh. “Could you tell me them? Your plans?”
“What’s it worth?”
“Excuse me?” Alessa wanted to step back. The man’s eyes had darkened and looked half-hooded. Sexy. Sexier.
“What do I get
in return for divulging that privileged information?” His voice had deepened.
“What…would you like?” she asked.
“This.”
Before she knew what was happening, he’d vaulted to sit on the wooden frame of the window, facing out, and Alessa squeaked when he pulled her hard between his long legs. The window was high, and even with him seated, she wasn’t much taller than him, so the hand at her nape didn’t have to bend her head down very far for his kiss.
No, not a kiss. That didn’t do justice to this overdose of sensations. The feel of the thick wool of his coat and his body heat engulfing her. The scent of his cologne, stronger now, but not at all overpowering. More…addictive, as though she wanted to walk through it. That woodsy feel. His skin, cool on hers, the slight prickle of his chin and cheeks. And his mouth. God. Firm, commanding, and firing every nerve she possessed, making every pulse pound with need. The sensation was truly shocking. She jumped at the touch of his tongue along the seam of her lips, opening for him in an instant, and the way he took her mouth in one strong, powerful sweep sent shock waves zinging through her.
More chocolate and marshmallows came her dazed thought as the stranger tasted the inside of her mouth as if learning her, before coaxing her tongue to partner with his in a dance in which she followed his lead and initiated her own steps, tasting and exploring in her turn. His fingers were firm on her face and his body was hard where she pressed against it. He slipped from his impromptu seat to stand, pulling her full-length against him, and Alessa cursed the layers of clothes they both wore. She reached up to cradle his face, and as if to go one better, he speared his fingers through her hair.
“You? You go?” called a man’s voice from above, and it broke the spell enough for Alessa to take it as a cue.
She disentangled herself and pulled away, as hard as that was. Like ripping Velcro apart, she thought, frowning. Huh. Then she grinned. “And there goes the rest of my lipstick.”
She still held the hanky, so dabbed his lip with it for him. “I’d say it looks better on you, but it doesn’t.” He was no metrosexual. Although his lashes were thick and dark, profuse and set close enough together to make his dark blue eyes pop, Alessa would bet anything he wasn’t wearing guyliner and would never.
“Wait!” The man shot out a hand when she moved off. Alessa dodged it and instead pushed his handkerchief into it.
“Keren?” She backed away and picked up her phone, still looking at the stranger. “Are you still there? Guess what? He’s a brilliant kisser too! All in all, this is proving a fantastic Friday so far!” And with a wink, she turned and left. It was never going to get any better than that—nicer to leave now with her illusions intact and her fantasies of a tall, dark and handsome stranger with the twinkling eyes of a rogue and who kissed like an angel—or demon—still firmly in place.
“Hu? Hugo?” Piers called again, but Hugo Winters didn’t respond. He stared after the blonde woman. He’d have thought her an apparition, appearing and vanishing like that, but his senses told him otherwise. He was still half-hard, for God’s sake! He’d heard her, seen her and felt her, could still taste her, and her scent, whether perfume or her, was still impregnated on his skin, just as his fingers still felt the softness of her skin on their tips. Very like some sort of ghost, then, haunting me. A ghost who left footprints in the frosty wet grass. He could track her. Be a lot easier if she’d left her phone, of course, but it wasn’t impossible, if he was so inclined. Should he? Or let things be? That would be the easier—and less painful in the long run—thing to do.
“Hugo, there you are!” Piers came up behind him. “What the hell are you doing out there? What… Is that lipstick?”
“Piers, are you performing in a gender-swapped farce this season?” Hugo enquired. “Because that sounded exactly like you arrived home early to catch your husband in flagrante and there’s a woman hiding in the wardrobe.”
“No, and don’t deflect.” Piers pointed at the white linen square in Hugo’s hand. “Have you just applied lipstick to test it and wiped it off cuz it’s wrong for your skin tone?” He could hardly speak for laughing, and his hand shook as he indicated Hugo’s lips. He ran his hands through his deep waves of red-gold hair, leaving it springing back from his forehead in the intense way his growing body of fans liked. “You’ve even missed a bit!” He tapped his own upper lip, under the moustache of his neat goatee beard, in illustration. “What’s going on here?”
“It’s not mine, you clown.” Hugo made no attempt to wipe his mouth. He’d keep Mystery Woman’s taste and impression as long as he could, if that was all he was to have of her. He vaulted back into the room.
“What, some woman just popped up outside the window, you jumped out for a smooch, and she pissed off?”
“Quite.” Hugo looked around the space. “Wish I’d got her name and number, but…”
“Name, rank and number, what?”
“Sod off, you thesp.” Hugo had to grin. It was impossible not to with Piers, or indeed any of the Ubermensch gentlemen. Taking the piss was an art form amongst them. Fine, Hugo being a former Household Cavalry officer, in one of the smarter regiments, as Piers liked to put in, made him fair game for quips, but if he’d ever been the snooty, drawling-voiced idiot Piers loved to imitate, it had quickly been knocked out of him by the group of friends he’d acquired since coming to live in Montfordshire. Much the same way they all kept Piers’ luvvie tendencies in check.
“So. You going to tell me why you brought me here?” Piers flicked a hazel-eyed glance around the mill floor.
Hugo cocked his head, listening to cars pull up. Mystery Woman hadn’t driven off. He didn’t think she was still lingering, though. She’d looked as though she’d walked here, and she’d rushed off. “As soon as they get here.”
Piers busied himself examining the watermill until two men and a woman poked their heads around the door. Hugo knew them all and greeted Councillor Sarah Harding, vice-chair of Planning and Development Control, and Councillor Aminur Govind, from Licensing, particularly warmly. Killian O’Malley, the young interior designer, was soon leaping about the place. Phrases such as “eighteenth-century mill!” and “one of the last flour mills on the river driven by wheels!” floated down and across to them from various parts of the building.
“Hugo!” Piers was an impatient sod. “What are we looking at?”
“A dinner theatre,” he replied, watching their faces. “A one-hundred-and-fifty-seat theatre with a restaurant for pre-theatre meals, and also a bar. Here, I thought, with the watermill a part of it. But what do I know?” He gestured to Killian, whose green eyes were lit up, electrified, as he paced about.
“A dinner theatre?” Piers felt Hugo’s forehead. “Doesn’t seem feverish, but seems to think we’re in the early 1970s,” he commented to the group.
“A dinner what?” Aminur asked.
Hugo explained the concept of dinner and a show, the former ranging from buffet-style meals to a full menu, the latter any kind of live entertainment from established musicals to new plays by young up-and-coming writers, perhaps local. The full bar could be hired for events. There was parking, both on the island and across on the riverbank. It would be a collaboration between local businessmen investors, a restaurateur or restaurant group and a bar, all coordinated and overseen by a director. Oh, with the artistic director in sole charge of the theatre, of course.
“Of course.” Piers blinked, shoving his curls back from his eyes.
“And you’ll what, connect financiers with the project? Back it yourself? Then manage it?” Sarah asked, her head on one side. “Don’t you have your hands full with Whyte’s?”
“The art gallery’s doing well and Xander Whyte’s managing fine, needing less and less input from me. I’m really only there a day or two per week for bookkeeping now,” Hugo explained.
“And…the other business you currently oversee?” Piers asked, his voice even.
Hugo was glad for the discretion with wh
ich Piers mentioned the sideline, Ubermensch, that Xander had set up and persuaded Hugo into helping build and run, despite his misgivings. The dating app, enabling ladies to hire cultured, charming, gentlemanly assets, not escorts, was proving a success, though. He shrugged. “Same thing there.”
“Well, you do have a head for business.” Sarah nodded. “Oh, all that was nothing to do with planning permission, by the way. I’m just being nosey!”
“I’d rather have something other than housing being built here. I’d like to see something that will really rejuvenate the area, stimulate the local economy and be good for the city,” Hugo told them.
“My friend, you should run for City Mayor!” Aminur clapped Hugo on the back. “Join the Council, get experience of local government, then run!”
Piers groaned. “Don’t give him any more ideas.” Sarah and Aminur were talking together, fielding questions from Killian, saying they didn’t see any difficulties about permits or licences, once health and safety norms were met and… Piers pulled Hugo aside.
“Hu, please take this in the spirit in which it’s meant, but when did you last get laid?”
“Darling.” Hugo couldn’t resist, his voice pitch-perfect Piers. “I do like you, of course I do, and a helluva lot, but strictly as a friend.” He fluttered his eyelashes and did a Piers-pout. “Oh, what the hell. Let’s go for it! Buy me a huge drink and—”
“Idiot!” Piers shook with laughter. “Look, this dinner theatre is a fantastic idea—crazy and unfeasible and one to which I’ll say yes, obviously—but it’s the latest in a line of venture capital projects for you, you realise?”
Winter Sparks Page 2