Painted the Other Woman

Two hours later there was less of it left to stretch, but she was still feeling bored and restless. She couldn’t decide what to do next—go to bed or watch a movie on TV. It was one she was only marginally interested in, and it did not particularly appeal. On the other hand neither did going to bed at nine o’clock, either. All around her the hushed silence of the flat enveloped her, as if she were the only person for miles.

She reached for the remote. It was stupid, wasting time watching something she didn’t want to. She would head for bed and read something useful—like the newly published hardback history of London she’d splashed out on last week. Buying new hardbacks was such a previously unknown luxury she should make the most of it. Besides, since leaving college she’d hardly used her brain at all—which was a waste.

And you really don’t want to come across as some kind of country bumpkin to Ian, either. Even if he’s not a raging intellectual, he obviously knows business, and current affairs and so on.

She clicked off the TV and gathered herself to get to her feet. But even as she did so, she froze. A sound she had never heard had penetrated from the hallway. The doorbell.

Who on earth …? Puzzled and apprehensive, she made her way to the little entrance hall. The door was on a security chain, and there was a spyhole too. She peered through it, but could only take in a distorted impression of a dark suit. Nothing else. Well, it didn’t look like a burglar paying a call, at any rate.

Cautiously, she open the door on the chain, which restricted it to a couple of inches, bracing herself ready to flatten herself against it if someone put an intruding foot through.

Instead a voice spoke. A deep, accented voice that had the timbre of familiarity.

‘I’m extremely sorry to disturb you … ‘

Without volition, she felt her insides give a little flutter.

‘Just a moment.’ She slid the security chain off and opened the door wider.

It was the man who’d asked her to hold the lift for him earlier.

‘I do apologise,’ he said, ‘but I wonder if I might ask you a favour.’

There was a faint smile on his face, a slightly quizzical look. Marisa found it did strange things to her. Things that made her lips part and her eyes rest as if helplessly on his face. She tried to gather her composure.

‘Of … of course,’ she answered, trying to sound polite but cool.

The faint smile deepened. So did the sensation of fluttering inside her. Her hand tightened on the doorframe.

‘I’ve just moved into the apartment next to you, and I’ve only just realised that I’ve made no arrangements for any groceries to be delivered. This may sound the most stupid request you’ve heard, but if you could possibly let me have some milk and a couple of teaspoons of instant coffee I would be in your debt.’

Dark eyes—ludicrously long-lashed, she realised as her brain spun idiotically in her head—rested on her, their quizzical expression at odds with the formidable air of command about him. Whoever he was, he was most definitely not one of life’s minions.

He’s the guy that gives the orders … others do his bidding. Snap to his command …

And respond to his faintly smiling requests as if he’s turned a key in their backs.

Especially if they were female …

The fluttering inside her, the tightness of her hand on the doorframe, intensified.

She swallowed, managed to speak. ‘Yes—yes, of course. No problem.’ Her voice sounded husky, as if her throat had constricted.

The faint smile deepened, indenting lines around his mouth. Marisa’s throat constricted again. Oh, good grief, when they’d been handing it out this guy got a double helping.

‘It’s really very good of you,’ the deep, accented voice responded, its timbre doing things to her she could not prevent. Didn’t have the slightest interest in preventing …

Jerkily, she pulled the door wider and turned away. ‘I’ll just—um—go and fetch them,’ she managed to say.

She headed for the kitchen. Her feet felt clumsy, and she was sure she bumped into the corner of the sofa as she made her way through the living room to the kitchen beyond. She felt like an idiot, bumping into her own furniture. In the kitchen she fumbled with the fridge door, yanking it open and grabbing a pint of milk. It was semi-skimmed. She hoped he’d be OK with that. She hoped he’d be OK with her brand of instant coffee, as well. Not that he looked like an instant coffee type of man. Her eyes went to the terrifyingly complicated coffee machine that stood completely unused by the microwave. She’d bought coffee beans, hoping to try it out, but one glance at the instruction booklet had quashed her ambition instantly.

Oh, stop dithering, girl—just give him the milk and the coffee jar.

She hurried out of the kitchen, carefully avoiding bumping into the furniture. He’d stepped inside the hall, though the front door was still ajar.

‘Here you are,’ she said breathlessly, holding out the requested items.

‘It’s very good of you,’ he said.

That faint smile was still doing its work. His height was making the small hallway even smaller. So was his dark suit and black cashmere overcoat. His presence seemed overpowering suddenly.

A thought struck her. ‘I’ve got coffee beans, if you prefer. The packet’s unopened. I can’t operate my machine.’

Oh, hell, she was burbling inanely. What did he care whether she could operate the machine or not. Yet it seemed he did—a dark eyebrow had quirked.

‘Would you like me to show you how? They can be fiendishly difficult.’

Immediately she stiffened. ‘Oh, no, thank you. That’s fine. I wouldn’t dream of troubling you.’

His lashes dipped over his eyes. ‘It would be no trouble, I promise you.’

His voice had changed. She didn’t know how, but it had. And suddenly, with a piercing light, she knew why it had …

Knew it from the sudden glint in his eyes—his dark, deep eyes …

She took a breath—a steadying one that she needed. Needed in order to remind herself that a complete stranger—however much of an impact he was making on her—was standing inside her flat and signalling that he liked what he was seeing. Her brain seemed to split in two. One half—the half that was reducing her to a wittering idiot—reeled with the realisation. The other half was shouting a loud, strident warning to her. Time to pay heed to it.

She shook her head. A small but decisive gesture.

‘Thank you, but no.’ She held the milk and the coffee jar closer to him. Her smile was polite, but nothing more, her voice composed.

For just a second longer he kept that half-shut gaze on her, then abruptly reached out to relieve her of the proffered items, managing to take them both in a single hand. The other was holding a laptop case.

‘Once again, thank you,’ he said.

His voice had lost whatever it had so briefly held. So had his expression. He turned away, going back out into the corridor, pausing only to half turn his head towards her, standing ready to close the door.

‘Goodnight,’ he said.

She kept her face composed. ‘Goodnight,’ she answered back. Then closed the door.

Outside, Athan stood a moment, his eyes faintly narrowed. Interesting, he thought. She had responded to him—no doubt about that. Years of experience had taught him exactly when a woman found him attractive. But she had quite definitely drawn the line when he’d made his second gambit, offering to show her how to use the coffee machine.

And if she hadn’t? If she’d let me into her flat, let me make fresh coffee—shared it with me. Let me move on to my third gambit—suggesting I order dinner to be delivered so we could dine together?

If she had, what would he have done?

Would I have stayed the night with her if she’d let me?

For one vivid instant, an image filled his head.

Pale golden hair spread loose across a white pillow. A slender, naked body offered to him. A lovely face alight with pleasure … pleasure that he could give her.

Abruptly, he started to walk to his apartment door, juggling with the damn milk and coffee that threatened to tumble to the ground in order to extract his keys. As he stepped inside he felt another stab of hunger. But this time for the more mundane fare of food. Well, he’d make coffee—even if only instant—and consult the internet to get some food delivered. There must be a catering company around that would oblige.

It was a nuisance, he mused, that the apartment block had no concierge who could take care of that sort of thing for him. But on the other hand a concierge was the last thing he needed—they were the kind of individuals who swiftly discovered too much about their tenants. And if there was one overriding necessity right now it was that his beautiful blonde fellow tenant should not have any source of information about him that he did not care to impart to her.

Least of all that he knew about her relationship with Ian Randall.

And why he was going to end it.

Marisa didn’t sleep well. She tossed and turned restlessly. She might wish it was because she was disappointed not to have met up with Ian last night but she knew it wasn’t because of that.

It was because of that man—that tall, dark, ludicrously handsome man—who had appeared at her door that evening.

With the corniest chat-up line in the book! That’s what I’ve got to remember!

Good grief, couldn’t he have come up with something more original than borrowing a pint of milk? And coffee, she reminded herself waspishly. The problem was, try as she might to be derisive about it and label it nothing more than a transparent ploy, another thought kept intruding.

That any man with those devastating looks wouldn’t even have to crook his little finger to have every female for miles around come running.

Pick up lines, let alone corny ones, wouldn’t even be in his ball park. He’d never be reduced to resorting to something so clichéd. Besides, she reasoned, he’d seen her come out of the lift and might well have assumed she had a flat on this floor, but for all he’d have known she might have had the flat the elderly couple occupied. As a new tenant he wouldn’t know, would he? Which meant that his ring on her doorbell and his request had been genuine, and not a pick-up routine.

Anyway, what did it matter?

But he did do that bit offering to show me how the coffee machine worked.

No, that didn’t prove anything except that he was a man and men thought it inexplicable that women found machinery complicated. He’d probably thought he was being polite in offering—that the reason she’d mentioned she couldn’t get it to work was a ploy in order to get him to offer help.

Oh, help, maybe he thought I was trying to pick him up! Trying to inveigle him to come in …

She squirmed with embarrassment at the thought. Still, at least she’d immediately said no, which was something to be grateful for. He couldn’t possibly think she was giving him the come on, could he?

You behaved like a gormless idiot, though, don’t forget—stammering and staring bug-eyed at him.

Yes, well, he was doubtless used to that kind of reaction from women. A man with looks like his would be.

And it wasn’t just his looks, was it? Nor that to-die-for foreign accent of his. If she were brutally honest—and she had better be at this time of night—it was the whole package that made such an impact. The looks, the cashmere overcoat, the bespoke suit, the whole Mr Rich thing definitely contributed.

And more than that there had been a kind of aura around him. That was the only word she could come up with. A kind of self-assurance, an air of being someone who gave orders, moved in the corridors of power, made things happen that he wanted to happen.

It was curious, she found herself musing. Ian was wealthy, and he sported the trappings of wealth from flash pad to gold watch. But he didn’t possess that aura of power, that sense of being someone not to mess with.

A little shiver went down her spine. Disturbing. Disquieting. For a moment longer she gazed into the darkness of her bedroom. She shouldn’t think about the incident tonight. Should put it out of her mind.

Should go to sleep.

But her dreams, when they came, were filled with the same disquiet.

And a strange, disturbing sense of anticipation …

Athan left for his office early. He always did, finding the first couple of hours of the morning the most productive before his heavy schedule of meetings started. This morning, however, he found his usual high level of productivity diminished. It annoyed him. Annoyed him to realise that he was finding himself replaying the little scene he’d created last night. Letting his memory toy with recalled images—images of the way her long hair had framed her face, tumbling down over her shoulders, the way she’d gazed at him, wide-eyed, the way her voice had been breathy and husky. The way she’d walked away from him towards the kitchen on long, slender legs, the fall of her hair waving down her back.

She really was very, very lovely.

Yes, well, he knew that—had already acknowledged that—and other than her beauty making it easier for him to carry out his plan there wasn’t any point in dwelling on it. He had a mountain of work to get through, and it wasn’t going to go away of its accord.

He also had to decide on a pretext for getting Ian Randall out of the country. The upcoming West Coast contract would fit the bill well. He could say it required input from the UK. He could even—his eyes narrowed in speculation—mention the trip to Eva. Suggest it would be an ideal opportunity to go with Ian, and then to take a holiday afterwards—fly on to Hawaii, for instance. Eva would snap at it, he was sure.

That would ensure he kept Ian well away from London for a couple of weeks, if not longer.

That’s all the time I need with Marisa Milburne.

He had no doubts about his ability to achieve his goal. It was experience, not vanity, that told him women didn’t say no to him, and there was no reason to suppose this one would be different.

Especially after last night. Any speculation that her attachment to Ian was based on love had been set aside. No woman devotedly in love with another man would have reacted the way she had to him when he’d paid her attention. No woman would have started the way she had, gazed at him the way she had, displaying that telltale dilating of the pupils.

Yet she was not giving him the come-on, either. That was clear too.

His brows drew together. How would she react to his next move? he wondered. He clicked on to the internet and made a rapid search, made a purchase online, clicking on ‘deliver before noon’. Then, job done, he cleared the screen and put his mind into work mode. There was a lot to get done if he wanted to be free by the evening.

Marisa was hand-washing one of her beautiful new sweaters when the intercom rang. Frowning, she picked up the phone.

‘Delivery for Ms Milburne,’ said a disembodied voice.

Puzzled, she went downstairs. As she walked out into the lobby and saw a man standing on the pavement with a bouquet of white lilies she smiled. Oh, Ian, she thought fondly, how sweet. Just because you couldn’t meet me last night.

But when she took the beautiful bouquet into her kitchen to find a suitable receptacle for it, and opened the small gilt-edged envelope attached to the wrapping, the card inside held an unexpected message.

Thank you for the milk and coffee—it was much appreciated.

It was simply signed ‘Your grateful neighbour.’

For a moment she stared. As a token of gratitude a bouquet of lilies that must have cost at least thirty pounds, if not more, was a bit overdone. On the other hand … well, since being with Ian she had come to realise that the rich really were different. Anyone who could afford the rents on these apartments could definitely afford to drop thirty pounds on a bunch of flowers without even noticing.

Yet for all her rationalising, as she arranged the glorious blooms with their intense, heady fragrance in a huge glass vase she’d found in a cupboard, she could not help wishing they had been from Ian.

Not some stranger who meant absolutely nothing to her.

However much of an impact he’d made on her.

She’d been doing her best to put the incident last night out of her head. Dwelling on it was stupid. So was moping. She’d definitely started to mope yesterday, and it was time to nip that in the bud. Of course Ian found it hard to meet her—she knew why and accepted it, even if she wished it otherwise. Well, it wasn’t otherwise, and that was that. And if she were feeling lonely without him—well, considering the luxury of her life now, it was ungrateful and spoilt to be anything other than blissful.

Doing the hand-washing helped improve her mood, and so did a resolve to go for a brisk walk in Holland Park. The weather wasn’t attractive—mizzling with rain today—but that wasn’t the point. She should get out, breathe fresh air—even if London air could never really be fresh—and get some exercise.

I ought to find a gym, or take some dance classes of some kind.

That would definitely be a good idea. She would ask in some of the shops on Holland Park Road when she went to buy groceries. If she did start exercise classes it might be a way of meeting people—other women she could chat to, have coffee with. Make friends with, maybe.

She wasn’t very good at making friends, she knew. It was because she’d always felt different, felt out of things. Though she and her mother had lived in their small village off Dartmoor they hadn’t really belonged—they’d always been incomers. Outsiders. And her mother’s introverted temperament, and circumstance of being a single mother, had added to their social isolation. Even as school Marisa had always felt remote from her peer group, finding it difficult to make friends, get on with others. She felt a little glow start up inside her. That was why it was so lovely being with Ian. They got on so well. His charm, his sense of humour, his liveliness—all drew her out of herself, made her feel relaxed and confident for the first time in her life.

It made it all the more frustrating that she had to be a secret part of his life.

If only he could acknowledge me openly—not keep me tucked away here …

Yes, well, that was impossible. No point going over it again. No point starting to mope.

Grabbing her jacket, and slipping a waterproof around her, she picked up her keys and set off for a walk. She’d find a café and have some lunch, then pick up some shopping. That would pass the time.

Guilt plucked at her. Pass the time. Was that what she was doing with her life now? Finding things to do to while away the hours?

As she walked along the park’s pathways, heading vaguely towards the remains of Holland House and the beautiful glass Orangery, she started to think critically. Wonderful as it was to live in so beautiful a flat, with no money worries and a life of luxury that she’d never dreamt of, she could not live her life like that.

She should find another job, she knew—but doing what? Ian had insisted she give up the low-paid cleaning jobs she’d been doing when she’d met him. A thought struck her, and she stopped and stared at a leafless bush dripping water droplets along its branches. Why not take up some kind of charity work? Since Ian was insisting on paying her bills, why not take advantage of not having to earn a living by doing something to help others? What, precisely, she had no idea, but she could make a start, surely, by finding one of the many charity shops and volunteering her time—sorting out donated goods or working at the till. The charity shop could probably show her other pieces that needed volunteers, and she could take it from there.

Resolution filled her, and she could feel her spirits lift. Her mind ran on, wondering where the nearest charity shops were likely to be. Somewhere up at Notting Hill, probably, or down on Kensington High Street. And there would definitely be some around Shepherds Bush Green, surely?

She would start checking after lunch. She’d use her new laptop and the apartment’s built-in broadband to search, and then start phoning round to see what was available. With a reviving sense of enthusiasm she headed back to her flat. As she walked in she was hit by an exotic fragrance—it was the bouquet of lilies, giving off their wonderful scent, filling the living room with it. As it caught her nostrils she had a vivid recollection of the man who’d sent them.

He really was extraordinarily good-looking …

When the doorbell sounded just after six she jumped. She’d been doing a web search of charities, had got immersed in reading about the work done by them, and the time had flown by. Reading about just how terrible some people’s lives were had been a timely, sobering reminder. Yes, her life had had its challenges, no doubt about that, and every day she missed her mother, but what they’d been through had been nothing compared with the sufferings of so many in the world. It had certainly served to squash any resumption of her moping and self-pity because she could see so little of Ian.

The doorbell sounded again. With a mix of slight apprehension, slight irritation at being disturbed, and slight curiosity as to who it might be, she went to open the door.

‘Did the flowers arrive?’

The deep, accented voice did exactly to her insides what it had done the night before. So did the six-foot frame and the incredible looks and the way his dark eyes were resting on her …

She took a breath. It seemed very slightly strangulated, much to her annoyance.

‘Yes. Thank you. Though they were completely unnecessary.’ Her voice sounded staccato. Even brusque. She didn’t want to appear rude, but on the other hand there was no way she was going to be all over him for his over-the-top gesture of thanks for her very slight gesture of neighbourliness.

He seemed unrebuffed by her response.

‘Not at all,’ he contradicted her.

That faint smile was quirking at his mouth and doing, just as his voice and his looks had, what it had done to her yesterday.

‘The kindness of strangers should never go unappreciated.’ His eyes glinted with a hint of humour in their dark, gold-flecked depths. ‘You’ve no idea how badly I needed some coffee. It just never dawned on me that although these apartments come furnished there wouldn’t actually be any provisions in stock unless they’d been ordered beforehand.’ He paused. ‘Tell me,’ he went on, and now there was a quizzical enquiry in his voice, ‘have you succeeded in getting your coffee machine to obey you yet?’

Marisa swallowed. She knew exactly what she should do. She should say, No, and it doesn’t matter, thank you very much. Thank you for the flowers, but they really were quite unnecessary, I promise you. And then, politely but firmly, she should wish him good evening and close the door.

That was definitely what she should do. Anything else was madness. Asking for trouble. For complications. For something that she could do without and what was more to the point should do without.

I don’t need a tall, dark, handsome stranger in my life! And certainly not this one!

A little chill went through her. Besides, he could be anyone. Just because he wore a cashmere overcoat and a bespoke suit and Italian shoes, and lived in a luxury apartment, it didn’t mean that he wasn’t a serial killer …

Yet even as she entertained the possibility she knew it must surely be impossible. Whatever serial killers looked like, it was not someone who quite obviously spent most of his day ordering minions around and doubtless cutting deals with a string of zeroes in them.