by Kate Hardy
They did. And a jacket—he managed to borrow one. But even though Mitch was clearly being charming, the maître d’ wasn’t able to help. ‘There’s no room for us to have a proper tea—you’re right, you have to book up,’ he told Jane when he returned. ‘But we can sit on one of the sofas over there and have a cup of tea, if you like.’ He shrugged. ‘Up to you—if you want the full works with cucumber sandwiches and scones with jam and cream, we can go somewhere else.’
‘A cup of tea at the Ritz would be just fine, thanks,’ she said with a smile.
It was just how she’d imagined it: a waiter with white gloves, bearing a proper silver teapot and a silver strainer, poured tea into delicate china cups. There was a man playing Schumann on a grand piano. And it was the best cup of tea she’d ever tasted. All the sweeter, because she paid the bill on her way back from the powder room—which meant Mitch couldn’t protest without drawing attention to himself.
When they left, once Mitch had returned the jacket, the doorman offered to call them a taxi.
‘Thanks,’ Mitch said, ‘but there’s no need. We’re walking.’
And this was it. The end of her day. Jane summoned a smile as they stepped outside. ‘I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed myself so much. Thanks for making my birthday special.’
‘My pleasure. I enjoyed it, too,’ he said. ‘But your birthday’s not over yet. How about having dinner with me?’ He tipped his head slightly to one side. ‘But where I have in mind, you’ll need a dress and proper shoes.’
She frowned. ‘What?’
‘You look fine as you are,’ he added hastily, ‘but the place I’m thinking of prefers you to, um, dress up a bit.’
She grinned. ‘Not in stormchaser gear, then.’
He grinned back. ‘Don’t believe everything you see in the movies. Though I admit, I’ll have to change as well—wear a jacket. Not a borrowed one, this time.’
‘I’ll go home and change and meet you later, then?’
‘I’ve got a better idea,’ he said. ‘Let’s go shopping.’
‘What? Why?’
‘To get you a dress and some shoes.’
She shook her head. ‘There’s really no need.’
‘Humour me,’ he said softly. The sexy, stormy look was back in his eyes. ‘If you’re worried about money, don’t be—I’m not exactly poor and there are more important things than money anyway.’
She’d agree with that. Definitely.
‘Today’s your birthday. You bought me tea at the Ritz, so I’d like to buy you dinner. And because I don’t live in London, I’ll be at a loose end tonight if you turn me down. All on my lonesome,’ he added, giving her a little-boy-lost look that she just knew was manufactured.
‘That,’ she said, ‘is emotional blackmail.’
‘No. I’ve enjoyed your company. I’d like to have dinner with you,’ he said simply. ‘And we said today was just for one day. There’s still quite a while left until tomorrow.’
Put that way, what could she say except yes?
Half an hour later, they were in Oxford Street—she’d refused his suggestion of a boutique in South Kensington, because she really didn’t go to the kind of place where you had to wear haute couture. She preferred to go to the kind of shop that sold stylish, well-made and comfortable clothes that didn’t require a second mortgage—and where she could pick up just about anything and know that it’d fit her without having to try it on. And the same was true for underwear.
‘You hate shopping, don’t you?’ Mitch asked.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Because every other female I know would jump at the chance to go clothes-shopping, and browse in a dozen shops before even trying anything on. My sister is a nightmare. She tries everything on—and then drags you round the complete set of shops again because she can’t make up her mind what she wants.’
‘Some women enjoy doing that.’ Jane shrugged. ‘I can think of better ways of spending my time.’
‘Mmm-hmm.’
She met his gaze and saw the sensual flare in those beautiful grey-green eyes. The promise.
Oh, no. That hadn’t been what she’d meant. She’d rather be pottering about in the archives or reading a good book on the riverbank or sitting in the kitchen eating cake and chatting to her housemates than shopping for clothes. She really hadn’t been thinking about sex.
But it was written in his eyes.
And now he’d put the thought into her head, her mouth went dry. ‘I…’
‘Later,’ he said softly. He hailed a taxi, which took them to a very swish block of flats in the West End. Mitch swiped a card-key through the slot next to the front door, and when a green light flashed on the panel he pushed the door open and ushered her through.
‘I thought you said you didn’t live in London?’ she asked as he opened his front door.
‘I don’t live anywhere. Except maybe out of my suitcase,’ he conceded.
She frowned as she stepped inside the small studio flat. ‘Then what’s this place?’
‘A short let. Harry arranged it.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s marginally better than staying in a hotel. I see enough hotels and the like in storm season.’
It was a single living room with a sofa bed, a table, some cupboards and a tiny kitchen. She supposed this would give him more flexibility, so he could make himself a snack whenever he chose and didn’t have to worry about disturbing other guests, but it still didn’t feel like home. The room looked bare. There was no clutter on the surfaces apart from a single bowl of fruit, no personal touches. And she’d just bet that nearly all of the cupboards and drawers were empty. There was nothing here at all to give any clue to who Mitch was, at heart.
Her thoughts must have shown on her face because he rolled his eyes. ‘Look, doing what I do, I’m used to living out of a suitcase. I travel with the weather system. So it really doesn’t bother me. I don’t need roots.’
Didn’t he? Everyone needed roots.
What had been so bad in Mitch’s life that nowadays he preferred not to stay in one place too long?
Not that she was going to ask him. She knew he’d change the subject. Whatever it was, she had a feeling it was linked to the shadows in his eyes. The shadows she’d seen when his fingers had encircled her wrist and he’d demanded to know what that kiss was all about.
‘Do you want me to make you a coffee while you have a shower and change?’ he asked.
‘Thanks.’ She was glad of his suddenly brisk, businesslike manner. Because she couldn’t stop thinking about that look in his eyes. The way he’d kissed her. And the fact that there was a sofa bed very, very close to them.
‘There’s a hairdryer around somewhere if you need it—I’ll dig it out for you—and a bathrobe behind the door. Help yourself to shampoo and what have you.’
She wasn’t sure whether she was more relieved or disappointed that he hadn’t suggested sharing the shower with her. Though, since that kiss on the hill in Greenwich, he’d kept his hands and his mouth to himself. Again, she felt that odd mixture of disappointment and relief.
‘You must be temporarily deranged,’ she told herself. Mitch Holland was a complete stranger. Yes, she’d enjoyed his company on her impromptu day, but she knew next to nothing about him. Just that he was a stormchaser who was soon going to have an exhibition of his photographs somewhere in London.
It was nowhere near enough information.
She’d been stupid enough to let him pay for her dress.
And now she was in his flat.
Next to naked.
Would he expect payment in kind?
She pulled the belt a little bit tighter, wrapped her wet hair in a towel and walked out of the bathroom.
Mitch was sitting on the sofa with a mug of coffee in his left hand and a laptop balanced on his knee; he was tapping keys and frowning at the screen. He looked up when she entered the room. ‘That was quick.’
She tried for lightness. ‘Want to check I was
hed behind my ears?’
He laughed. ‘You’re about twenty years too old for that.’ He placed the mug and the laptop on the table, then walked over to the little galley kitchen and switched the kettle on again.
The way he walked made her think of a pirate. That, the white shirt—again with no tie, because he’d taken it off the minute they’d left the Ritz—and the fact he had the beginnings of stubble made her want to unbelt the robe and let it fall to the floor.
What the hell was wrong with her? She’d been acting out of character all day. She was a quiet, sensible archivist. Not the kind of woman who went to a strange man’s flat at the drop of a hat. Not the kind of woman who threw herself at an attractive man she barely knew.
When Mitch handed her the mug of coffee, his fingers brushed against hers. To her horror, her hand actually shook and she spilled the coffee.
‘Sorry,’ she muttered.
‘No problem.’ He hunted in the cupboard under the sink, retrieved some paper towelling and mopped up the spill. ‘So why are you suddenly nervous?’
‘I…’
‘Jane. Dinner means dinner, not that I expect you to pay me with sex.’ The corner of his mouth quirked. ‘Unless you want to, of course.’
She stopped breathing.
‘The hairdryer’s on the table. Now, I’m going to have a shower. I’ll dress in the bathroom.’ He took a suit and shirt on a hanger from the front of a cupboard. ‘Knock on the door when it’s OK for me to come back in.’
Not a pirate after all, then. A gentleman. One who’d wait for her to dry her hair and get dressed. No pressure.
‘Thank you,’ she said quietly.
He paused in the bathroom doorway. ‘Did you really think I was going to offer to show you my etchings?’
The teasing glint in his eyes made her realise he was trying to make her feel at ease. ‘Hey. I thought you were a photographer, not an engraver.’
He laughed. ‘Of course, you’re an archivist—you’d know about that sort of thing. See you in a bit.’ Just before he closed the door, he added, ‘I’ve ordered a taxi for half an hour’s time. Does that give you long enough?’
‘Not all women spend hours getting ready, you know.’
He winked. ‘Bet you I’m ready before you are.’
She winked back. ‘Bet you you’re not.’
‘I’ll be thinking of your loser’s forfeit,’ he said, and closed the door.
Traditionally, the loser of a bet between a man and a woman would pay in kisses.
But Mitch had said he wasn’t expecting sex.
Unless you want to.
The words echoed in her head. He’d been teasing—at least, she thought he had—but she’d seen that hot, smoky look in his eyes. A look that meant it was a serious offer. And he was leaving the choice to her.
Every nerve-end tingled. What would it be like to make love with Mitch Holland? If just a kiss could send her weak at the knees, she’d probably pass out when his body slid into hers.
She dragged in a breath, realising she’d just thought ‘when’, not ‘if’.
Trying not to think about having sex with Mitch occupied her all the way through drying her hair—using the little compact mirror from her handbag, as there didn’t seem to be another one in the flat—then putting on her dress, adding lipstick and mascara and putting her discarded clothes and shoes neatly in the carrier bag that had held her dress.
Then she remembered the bet.
No way was she ready to lose this.
She rapped on the bathroom door. ‘Ready when you are.’
‘I’m ready now,’ Mitch said, and opened the door.
She scoffed. ‘No way. You’re still knotting your tie.’ She was about to tell him that she’d won—but her mouth felt as if it were full of sand as he shrugged on his suit jacket. He’d looked good enough to eat when he’d borrowed that jacket at the Ritz. But this one was made to measure: a very dark grey, teamed with another of the handmade white shirts and an understated silk tie. And he looked truly gorgeous. A pirate with a veneer of civilisation, admittedly—but still a pirate.
She couldn’t help lifting one hand and touching his face. Freshly shaven: soft, smooth and so very sexy. Her fingertips tingled at the contact; she could tell it affected him the same way, because his eyes went sultry. He took her hand and kissed the pads of her fingertips, just where her skin had been against his.
Her breath hitched. ‘Mitch.’
‘So what’s my loser’s forfeit?’ he asked, his voice low and husky and daring her to tell him to take her to bed.
She swallowed hard. ‘I…’ Right at that moment, she couldn’t think straight enough to answer. ‘Later.’
‘You look fantastic in that dress, by the way.’ He nibbled his way down to her palm. Dropped a kiss in the middle. Touched the tip of his tongue to the pulse beating crazily in her wrist.
If he reached behind her now and undid the zip of her dress, she wouldn’t stop him. She’d just step out of the puddle of material. And she’d start undressing him, too. Unbutton his shirt. Slide her hands against his washboard-flat stomach. Unbutton—
A horn beeped, and he took a step backwards. ‘Our taxi.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Leave your things here,’ he said. ‘We’ll collect them after dinner.’
Dinner? He could think about food, when his mouth had just been gliding against her skin and sending her mind way out of control?
But she followed him out of the flat and into the taxi.
The restaurant was in a little back street. To reach it, they had to go through a tiny little courtyard into a potager garden, then through the kitchen itself, where the maître d’ met them: a man dressed in mid-eighteenth-century clothing, including a braided frock coat, breeches, and a curled and powdered wig. Jane had to try very hard not to stare.
‘I had no idea this place even existed,’ she whispered when the maître d’ had greeted them and was leading them through to their table.
‘A select few know about it,’ Mitch said. ‘My father brought me here the day after I graduated.’
So this place was special to him? The fact he was bringing her here said a lot.
Her eyes widened as they walked into the restaurant. She should’ve expected it, given the maître d’s costume, but it still surprised her. It was like stepping back into the eighteenth century: all gilt and florid decoration around the picture frames and mirrors that crammed the walls, a deep red silk ceiling that billowed like the inside of a sultan’s harem, and starched white damask tablecloths that she’d guess covered highly polished wood underneath. All the cutlery was solid silver, as was the very ornate candelabrum, and the knives had bone handles.
And there was no menu.
The question must have shown in her face, because he smiled. ‘Trust me, the food is incredible.’
‘You don’t get a choice?’ she whispered when the maître d’ left them.
‘Wait and see.’
The maître d’ returned with two glasses of champagne—very thin smoked glass, where the stem was actually part of the champagne flute and the bubbles rose gently from the very base of the glass.
‘Happy birthday,’ he said softly, raising his glass.
‘Thank you.’ And it was turning out to be way more special than she’d imagined.
The maître d’ brought them some canapés. ‘Now, tonight the chef has decided to offer…’ He reeled off three choices of hors d’oeuvres and three main courses. ‘Served with a mélange of vegetables, of course.’
The food was as incredible as Mitch had told her. And when it came to puddings…‘I can’t choose between the lemon polenta cake and the chocolate cheesecake,’ she said.
‘Simple. Let’s order them both and share them.’
‘Is that allowed?’ she whispered.
He smiled. ‘I should think so.’
When their puddings arrived, she realised he hadn’t meant just eating half and swapping plates. Because he
held out a spoonful of lemon polenta cake and encouraged her to lean forward to taste it.
Oh, God.
‘My turn,’ he said softly.
Her gaze was focused on his mouth as she held out a spoonful of the incredibly rich and chocolaty pudding. Had the same thoughts been running through his head when he’d fed her the lemon pudding? Had he wanted to lean forward and brush his mouth against hers, the way she wanted to kiss him?
‘Delectable,’ he said.
And she didn’t think he was talking about the pudding; when she’d leaned forward, she’d given him a prime view of her cleavage. And she’d seen his eyes darken. Seen the same desire there that was flooding through her right now.
Pudding was followed by incredibly strong but good coffee and petits fours. And then Mitch called another taxi. ‘We need to collect your stuff from mine,’ he told her as he held the passenger door open for her.
‘Of course.’ So this was it. Goodbye in the making. ‘Thank you for today. It’s been fabulous,’ she said, meaning it. She leaned forward, intending to kiss his cheek—but he moved and she ended up with her mouth against his. A touch that made her lips tingle. Particularly when he slid his arm round her and pulled her onto his lap, leaning back against the seat so that she had to hold onto him for balance.
She kissed him all the way back to his flat. Long and deep and hard, not caring that the taxi driver could see in the rear-view mirror. The desire running through her was much, much headier than the bubbles from the bottle of champagne they’d shared.
Finally, the taxi pulled up outside the flat. She followed Mitch inside.
This was it.
Goodbye.
She picked up the carrier bag with the clothes she’d worn earlier.
‘Thanks for everything,’ she said.
What did she say now? Have a nice life? Goodbye, stranger?
A stranger whose lips were reddened and slightly swollen with kisses. Her kisses. And her mouth probably looked equally well kissed.
‘Jane,’ he said softly. ‘There weren’t any strings to today. I’m not looking for a relationship. Neither are you.’
Which was when she realised she’d thought things had changed. That what had happened between them on the hill at Greenwich had changed everything.