LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

with unshed tears, her thoughts full of poor Mr Rodgers. She’d been with her ill, elderly client to the end—which had come that morning. His death had brought back all the memories of her own mother’s passing, less than two years ago, when her failing hold on life had finally been severed.

      Now, though, as she trudged along, lugging her ancient unwieldy suitcase, she knew she had to get to her agency before it closed for the day. She needed to be despatched to her next assignment, for as a live-in carer she had no home of her own.

      She would need to cross the street to reach the agency, which was down another side street across the main road, and with the traffic so jammed from the roadworks further ahead she realised she might as well cross here. Other people were darting through the stationary traffic, which was only moving in fits and starts.

      Hefting her heavy suitcase with a sudden impulse, she stepped off the pavement...

      With a reaction speed he had not known he possessed, Anatole slammed down on the brake, urgently sounding his horn.

      But for all his prompt action he heard the sickening thud of his car bumper impacting on something solid. Saw the woman crumple in front of his eyes.

      With an oath, he hit the hazard lights then leapt from the car, stomach churning. There on the road was the woman, sunk to her knees, one hand gripping a suitcase that was all but under his bumper. The suitcase had split open, its locks crushed, and Anatole could see clothes spilling out.

      The woman lifted her head, stared blankly at Anatole, apparently unaware of the danger she’d been in.

      Furious words burst from him. ‘What the hell did you think you were doing? Are you a complete idiot, stepping out like that?’

      Relief that the only casualty seemed to be the suitcase had flooded through Anatole, making him yell. But the woman who clearly had some kind of death wish was perfectly all right—except that as he finished yelling the blank look vanished into a storm of weeping.

      Instantly his anger deflated, and he hunkered down beside the sobbing woman.

      ‘Are you OK?’ he asked.

      His voice wasn’t angry now, but his only answer was a renewed burst of sobbing.

      Obviously not, he answered his own question.

      With a heavy sigh he took the disgorged clothes, stuffed them randomly back into the suitcase, and made a futile attempt to close the lid. Then he took her arm.

      ‘Let’s get you back on the pavement safely,’ he said.

      He started to draw her upright. Her face lifted. Tears were pouring in an avalanche down her cheeks, and broken, breathless sobs came from her throat. But Anatole was not paying attention to her emotional outburst. As he stood her up on her feet, his brain, as if after a slow motion delay, registered two things.

      The woman was younger than he’d first thought. And even weeping she was breathtakingly, jaw-droppingly lovely.

      Blonde, heart-shaped face, blue-eyes, rosebud mouth...

      He felt something plummet inside him, then ascend, taking shape, rearranging everything. His expression changed.

      ‘You’re all right,’ he heard himself say. His voice was much gentler, with no more anger in it. ‘It was a narrow escape, but you made it.’

      ‘I’m so sorry!’ The words stuttered from her as she heaved in breath chokily.

      Anatole shook his head, negating her apology. ‘It’s all right. No harm done. Except to your suitcase.’

      As she took in its broken state her face crumpled in distress. With sudden decision Anatole hefted the suitcase into the boot of his car, opened the passenger door.

      ‘I’ll drive you to wherever you’re going. In you get,’ he instructed, all too conscious of the traffic building up behind him, horns tooting noisily.

      He propelled her into the car, despite her stammering protest. Throwing himself into his driver’s seat, he turned off the hazard lights and gunned the engine.

      Absently, he found himself wondering if he would have gone to so much personal inconvenience as he was now had the person who’d stepped right out in front of his car not been the breathtakingly lovely blonde that she was...

      ‘It’s no problem,’ he said. ‘Now, where to?’

      She stared blankly. ‘Um...’ She cast her eyes frantically through the windscreen. ‘That side street down there.’

      Anatole moved off. The traffic was still crawling, and he threw his glance at his unexpected passenger. She was sniffing, wiping at her cheeks with her fingers. As the traffic halted at a red light Anatole reached for the neatly folded clean handkerchief in his jacket pocket and turned to mop at her face himself. Then he drew back, job done.

      Her eyes were like saucers, widening to plates as she looked back at him. And the expression in them suddenly stilled him completely.

      Slowly, very slowly, he smiled...

      Tia was staring. Gawping. Her heart was thudding like a hammer, and her throat was tight from the storm of weeping triggered by the man whose car she had so blindly, stupidly, stepped in front of when he had laid into her for her carelessness. But it had been building since the grim, sad ordeal of watching an elderly, mortally ill man take his leave of life, reminding her so much of the tearing grief she’d felt at her mother’s death.

      Now something else was overpowering her. Her eyes were distended, and she was unable to stop staring. Staring at the man who had just mopped her face and was now sitting back in his seat, watching her staring at him with wide eyes filled with wonder...

      She gulped silently, still staring disbelievingly, and words tumbled silently, chaotically in her head.

      Black hair, like sable, and a face as if...as if it was carved... Eyes like dark chocolate and smoky long, long lashes. Cheekbones a mile high... And his mouth...quirking at the corner like that. I can feel my stomach hollowing out, and I don’t know where to look, but I just want to go on gazing at him, because he looks exactly as if he’s stepped right out of one of my daydreams... The most incredible man I’ve ever seen in my life...

      Because how could it be otherwise? How could she possibly, in her restricted, constricted life, during which she had done nothing and seen nothing, ever have encountered a man like this?

      Of course she hadn’t! She’d spent her teenage years looking after her mother, and her days now were spent in caring for the sick and the elderly. There had never been opportunity or time for romantic adventures, for boyfriends, fashion, excitement. Her only romances had been in her head—woven out of time spent staring out of windows, sitting by bedsides, attending to all the chores and tasks that live-in carers had to undertake.

      Except that here—right now, right here—was a man who could have sprung right out of her romantic fantasies...everything she had ever daydreamed about.

      Tall, dark and impossibly handsome.

      And he was here—right here—beside her. A daydream made real.

      She gulped again. His smile deepened, indenting around his sculpted mouth, making a wash of weakness go through her again, deeper still.

      ‘Better?’ he murmured.

      Silently, she nodded, still unable to tear her gaze away. Just wanting to go on gazing and gazing at him.

      Then, abruptly, she became hideously aware that although he looked exactly as if he’d stepped out of one of her torrid daydreams—a fantasy made wondrously, amazingly real—she was looking no such thing. In fact the complete, mortifying opposite.

      Burningly, she was brutally aware of how she must look to him—the very last image a man like him should see in any daydream, made real or not. Red eyes, snuffling nose, tear runnels down her cheeks, hair all mussed and not a scrap of make-up. Oh, yes—and she was wearing ancient jeans and a bobbled, battered jumper that hung

Скачать книгу