Читать книгу The Spanish Doctor's Love-Child - Kate Hardy - Страница 7

CHAPTER TWO

‘SO DO you know anywhere nearby that serves reasonable food?’ Leandro asked.

Becky glanced at her watch. ‘At this time on a Saturday night, to be honest, most of the places I know are going to be full.’

‘Then I have a suggestion—seeing as I’m used to eating late in Spain, and if you don’t mind waiting a few minutes more, maybe I can cook us dinner.’

‘You’re offering to cook for me?’ She looked at him in surprise.

He spread his hands. ‘What’s so strange about that?’

She didn’t really know him, and he’d just offered to cook her a meal. Part of her thought that this was a seriously bad idea. Going for dinner with a stranger in a public place where she could call a taxi and escape if she needed to would be one thing; going to his home was just asking for trouble. But, on the other hand, her instincts were rarely wrong—and she didn’t have any mental warning bells about Leandro Herrera.

Quite the opposite.

‘I… Well. I’m just not used to men who can cook,’ she hedged. Her father was incredibly old-fashioned in his outlook and had always maintained the kitchen was her mother’s domain—he wouldn’t so much as heat up a pizza in the oven. Her grandfather was even worse—he actually expected women to withdraw from the table after dinner and leave the men to port and cigars. Most of the male doctors she knew ate in the hospital canteen and lived on cereals or take-away food at home. And as for Michael…

The less she thought about her ex-husband, the better.

‘The first cookbook published in Spain was from Catalonia,’ Leandro said with a smile. ‘Libre del Coc. It was nearly five hundred years ago, and my people are very proud of that. My mother taught me to cook.’

He didn’t mention his father, she noticed. Or maybe his father had been more like the men she’d grown up with.

‘You need to tell your friend where you’re going,’ Leandro added. ‘So she knows where you are and who you’re with and won’t have to worry about you.’

He rose a couple more notches in her estimation. That kind of thoughtfulness was rare, in her experience. Or maybe the men in Catalonia had a more developed protective instinct than the men she was used to. ‘Thank you.’ She pulled her mobile phone out of her bag and tried calling Tanya. ‘Ah. No answer.’

‘She probably can’t hear you above the music,’ he said with a wry smile.

‘I’ll text her,’ Becky said, and swiftly tapped in a message. Having dinner with Leandro Herrera. He gave her his address, and she felt her eyes widen. He lived in West Didsbury, one of the more upmarket districts of Manchester. She added his address to her text message and sent it to Tanya.

‘If we go to the end of the street we’ll be on the main road and we’ll be able to flag down a taxi, yes?’ he asked.

She nodded. ‘Have you lived here long?’

‘I moved here this week. How about you?’

‘Six years.’

‘I’m looking forward to exploring the city,’ he said. ‘So where do you recommend I start?’

‘It depends what you like. The theatres are good; there are music venues and clubs to suit all tastes; and the museum’s got an amazing collection of pre-Raphaelite art.’

‘Not something I know,’ he admitted. ‘I know more about the Modernistes. Gaudí’s from my home city. And obviously we have the Picasso museum in Barcelona.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘So you like art.’

She nodded. ‘Not that I get much time to visit the galleries in Manchester.’ She didn’t want him thinking that was a hint, so she changed the subject swiftly. ‘There’s an off-licence not far from here. Can we go there before we get a taxi?’

‘Why?’

‘Because if you’re cooking dinner, the least I can do is provide the wine.’ She smiled. ‘I promise it’ll be better than that stuff in the box at the party.’

He laughed. ‘That wouldn’t be difficult. But there’s really no need.’

Oh, yes, there was. She didn’t want to be beholden to him. She’d had too many years of feeling beholden. ‘If I don’t contribute, then I don’t feel able to accept your offer,’ she said quietly.

He sighed. ‘In my world, when you ask someone to dinner, you don’t expect them to pay the bill.’

‘In my world,’ she retorted, ‘friends share. Which includes the bill. Or, in this case, make a contribution in the form of wine.’

He inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘Then I had better accept your offer. Gràcies, Becky.’

They walked in relaxed silence to the parade of shops round the corner. ‘Red or white?’ Becky asked.

‘Either.’

She opted for both: a fruity New Zealand sauvignon blanc and a rioja.

He hailed a taxi, gave the driver his address, and insisted on paying the fare at the other end. ‘No arguments, this time,’ he told Becky.

His house was a Victorian terrace, set in a leafy, tree-lined road. The kind of house she would’ve loved—the kind she and Michael had planned to move to. Except his price had been too high, one she just hadn’t been prepared to pay. Especially after all the dreams had come crashing down round her. And there was no way she could afford a house on her own, so after the divorce she’d gone back to renting.

‘Nice house,’ she said as he ushered her inside. The décor didn’t give much away—the colour scheme was neutral and there weren’t any prints on the wall—but if he’d only just moved in he probably hadn’t had time to change it to suit his tastes.

‘That’s what I thought when I looked around. I need to check with the agency if I can put anything on the walls, but in the meantime I can live with it.’

So it was rented rather than his own. Not that it was so surprising. Even if he planned to buy a house, it would take time to sort out.

‘Let me get you a drink. Would you like a glass of wine, or would you prefer coffee for now?’

‘I’d love a coffee, actually. Thank you.’

‘De res.’ Her confusion must have been obvious, because he smiled. ‘That’s “You’re welcome”.’

She smiled back. ‘So you’re going to teach me some Catalan?’

‘Sure. But let’s eat first, yes?’

She followed him into the kitchen.

‘Would you rather eat here or in the dining room?’ he asked.

‘I don’t mind.’

‘Here, then.’ He gestured to the chair and switched the kettle on. ‘How do you take your coffee?’

‘A little milk, no sugar, please.’ And most of the time, at work, it was cold.

‘Are you OK with chicken?’ he asked.

‘Lovely. Anything I can do to help?’

‘No, it’s fine. Do you mind if I put some music on? I prefer cooking to music.’

‘Sure.’ Though Becky really, really hoped he didn’t like the kind of dance music they’d been playing at the party. She liked the kind of music you could sing along to, something with a tune.

It seemed that Leandro preferred classical—she didn’t recognise the soft, gentle guitar piece, but liked what she heard. ‘That’s pretty. What is it?’

‘One of Mozart’s divertimenti. One of my favourites for chilling out.’

‘So the music at the party really wasn’t your sort of thing.’

He smiled ruefully. ‘I must be getting old.’

Hardly. She felt the same. ‘You don’t look older than your early thirties.’

‘I’m thirty-five. And I do like contemporary music…just not the stuff they were playing.’ He handed her a mug of coffee: just as she liked it, strong with just a splash of milk. So he’d been listening to what she’d said. That, in her experience, made a very pleasant change.

‘Gràcies,’ she said.

He looked pleased that she’d tried to use his own language. ‘De res,’ he said, and started preparing their meal. He worked swiftly and accurately, she noticed, slicing and chopping. ‘Are you a chef?’ she asked.

He laughed. ‘No. I just enjoy cooking. It relaxes me—that, and good music.’

He didn’t venture any information about what he did for a living, and Becky wasn’t in the mood for being pushy. She’d been pushed too hard herself over the last few days, and right now she just wanted to relax and unwind and not have to think about anything at all. She sipped her coffee and enjoyed listening to the music and watching him sizzle chicken in a pan.

‘That smells gorgeous,’ she said.

‘Twenty minutes, and it’ll be done.’ He rummaged in the fridge, arranged a few things on a plate, and brought it over to the little kitchen table.

‘Tapas?’ she asked.

He nodded. ‘Though strictly speaking it’s tapes in Catalan. I’m sorry, this is a bit scrappy because I wasn’t planning to entertain—just some Manzanilla olives, chorizo and cheese. But it’ll keep us going until the chicken is done.’ He took two wineglasses from the cupboard. ‘Red or white?’

‘Either.’

‘Red, then.’ He opened the bottle of rioja. ‘Nice choice,’ he said, pouring them both a glass, and sat down opposite her. ‘Well. Salut.’ He raised his glass.

She did likewise. ‘Cheers.’

It was easy to relax with Leandro—he kept the conversation light and didn’t push past her personal boundaries. By the time he brought over their main course, Becky was thoroughly relaxed.

‘This looks gorgeous.’

‘Pollastre romesco—chicken with romesco sauce. It’s a mixture of almonds, tomato, garlic and vinegar. And this is espinacas a la Catalana—spinach with raisins and pine nuts,’ he added, gesturing to the green vegetable. ‘Sorry, I don’t have any potatoes. But would you like some bread with your meal?’

‘No, this is fine, thanks.’ She tasted a mouthful. ‘Wow. You’re a fantastic cook.’

‘Thank you.’ He smiled. ‘Spanish food and drink isn’t just paella and sherry, you know.’

‘It sounds as if you’re sick of being stereotyped.’

He rolled his eyes. ‘So many people think that Spain is all about bullfights and guitars and waiters called Manuel. And there’s much more to it than that.’

‘Tell me,’ she invited. And when he described the buildings and the festivals and the fireworks and the human ‘towers’ of acrobats reaching up nine storeys, his eyes glittering with enthusiasm for his native city, she could just imagine herself there.

For dessert, Leandro offered her nectarines, and then he made more coffee and brought out a box of chocolates. Really, really good chocolates. Ones she adored but almost never bought for herself because she couldn’t justify the indulgence except on her birthday or at Christmas.

‘This,’ she said, ‘is perfect. A million times better than what was on offer at Joe’s.’

‘So how come you ended up at the party?’

‘Joe works with my housemate. Tanya thought the party might cheer me up—it’s been the day from hell, and I’ve also been away for a couple of days.’

‘And you wish you were still away?’ he asked.

Becky thought of the rows and the silences. The expectations that she never fulfilled. The constant disappointment on her parents’ faces because she hadn’t settled down and produced grandchildren. Not that they would’ve been sympathetic if she’d told them what had really happened with Michael—or if she’d told them about the baby she’d lost. They would’ve blamed her, and she already blamed herself enough. She didn’t need the extra guilt. Which was why she’d never told anyone the full story. ‘No. I’m glad to be back in Manchester. I only went back to London because I was expected to,’ she admitted. ‘It was a family birthday, so I had to be there.’

‘But you couldn’t wait to get away?’ He took another chocolate. ‘I know exactly what you mean.’

Clearly his family was as difficult as her own, though he’d sounded affectionate before when he’d mentioned his mother teaching him to cook.

‘So what about you?’ she asked. ‘How do you know Joe?’

‘I don’t, really. It was a loose invitation—an acquaintance of an acquaintance, and I thought it was a better option than being on my own my first Saturday night in Manchester.’ He shrugged. ‘Though I found something better. An evening with good food, good wine, good conversation and good company.’

‘Here’s to that,’ she said, raising her wineglass. ‘And definitely better music.’

‘Though this isn’t quite what you’d dance to,’ he said. ‘And you need dancing at a party.’ His gaze held hers for a moment. ‘Would you like to dance with me?’

‘I’m no good at dancing,’ she said. ‘I have two left feet.’

‘Then let me teach you.’ He stood up and took her hand. The touch of his skin against hers sent a frisson of desire down her spine, and she let him lead her through to the living room.

‘Something to dance to. Now, let me see.’ He glanced along the rack of CDs.

The sound system in his living room was seriously expensive, Becky noticed. Given those chocolates, Leandro was a man who clearly liked the best. And expected the best.

So this idea of dancing was a really bad one. Especially as he hadn’t listened to her warning that it wasn’t her forte.

But then she didn’t have the chance to think any more as the music flooded the room: a soft intro, and then a really sexy, haunting voice singing in Spanish. She had no idea what the man was singing about, but she loved his voice. ‘Who’s this?’ she asked.

Leandro named a Spanish singer she’d never heard of. ‘He’s popular in my country,’ he added with a smile. ‘Now, the dance.’ He took her hands and placed one on his shoulder and the other on his waist. ‘This is for balance. Just follow my lead, and you’ll be fine.’ He smiled at her. ‘The rhythm is slow, slow, quick, quick, slow.’

Oh-h-h. She remembered a chick-flick she’d gone to see with a crowd of her female friends. ‘Is this the tango?’

He inclined his head. ‘It doesn’t have to be as showy as the ones you see in films. I’m not going to bend you over backwards or place your cheek next to mine so we’re facing the same way and stalk down the room. Just relax, feel the beat of the music and trust me to guide you.’

Before she knew it, they were dancing. It felt as if she were floating. Not stumbling, as she had before.

‘Two left feet? I don’t think so,’ he whispered, holding her close.

Probably because he was an incredible dancer and she was simply following his movements.

She could feel the warmth of his skin through his thin cotton shirt, and she was so aware of the way he was holding her, one hand resting on her shoulder and the other on her waist. Holding her close. Moving as one with her.

‘You have beautiful eyes,’ he said softly. ‘Like the colour of a sky on a late spring evening, just as the stars are starting to come out.’

Flattery, she knew. But it sent a little flutter through her. ‘Thank you.’

They danced in silence a while longer, then she felt his lips brush lightly against her cheek. Just once. And then he paused, clearly waiting for her signal.

She could drop her hands and take a step back. Thank him for the evening, and call a taxi.

Or for once she could live dangerously.

How long had it been since she’d found a man as attractive as she found Leandro Herrera? How long since she’d felt that spark?

She turned her head, just slightly, so she faced him. Saw understanding dawn in those gorgeous dark eyes. And then his mouth touched hers. The lightest, sweetest contact. It made her mouth tingle, made her want more.

She moved a little closer, and felt his breathing change.

And then he was kissing her again. Tiny, nibbling kisses, persuading her to open her mouth and let him deepen the kiss.

She completely forgot the music. Forgot to dance. Forgot to move. The only things she was aware of were the feel of his mouth against hers and the desire scorching through her. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt like this—maybe since the early days with Michael. Although she’d dated a couple of times since her divorce, she’d never wanted it to go further than a goodnight kiss, and a chaste one at that.

With Leandro, she wanted more. A lot more.

And she wanted it now.

From the feel of his hard body against hers, she knew it was completely mutual. That he wanted her just as much.

At last he broke the kiss. ‘Em sap greu. Sorry. That wasn’t supposed to happen.’

She felt her face heat. And the way she’d reacted, kissing him back… He must think she was a complete tart. They were almost strangers, and she’d practically thrown herself at him. ‘I’m sorry.’ She swallowed hard. ‘I’ll go.’

‘I don’t want you to go. I didn’t mean that.’ He stroked her cheek. ‘Just that when I invited you to dinner, I didn’t expect you to sleep with me in return.’

Her face heated even more.

‘Which isn’t a polite way of saying that I’m not attracted to you. I want you, Becky. Very much. But I don’t want you to feel that I’m pressuring you. So I’ll call you a taxi.’ He moistened his lower lip with the tip of his tongue. ‘Because if you stay here for much longer I’m not going to be able to be an honourable man. My self-control will splinter and I’ll end up carrying you to my bed.’

The idea made her whole body quiver; she could feel her nipples hardening at the thought. Being carried to Leandro’s bed. And he’d be as good a lover as he was a dancer. Looking out for her, making sure her pleasure was as great as his.

But there was a problem. A huge one. Because she didn’t want her heart broken again. She’d been there when her marriage had broken up—and then, just when she’d thought she’d reached the lowest point, she’d discovered she could hurt even more.

And she was never, ever going to take that kind of risk again.

Work, at least, was safe. Something she was good at. Something where she could make the world a better place.

She dragged in a breath. ‘There’s something I should tell you. I’m not looking for a relationship.’

‘I’m not looking for a relationship either. I’m about to start a new job.’ He spread his hands. ‘I don’t have time for anything except my work.’

So if they did this, it would be for one night only.

One perfect night with a stranger.

Tempting. So tempting. But even if this was going to be just for one night, she didn’t want him thinking badly of her. She didn’t want him thinking that she made a habit of going off with complete strangers. ‘I don’t do one-night stands, as a rule.’

He inclined his head. ‘Then I’ll respect your wishes and call you a taxi.’

It would be the sensible thing to do.

But after the days she’d spent in London and the miserable day at work, Becky needed warmth. Needed to feel.

She shook her head. ‘I don’t want you to call a taxi.’

Her words came out in a whisper, and Leandro’s pulse quickened. ‘You want to stay here with me?’

She nodded.

‘Just for tonight.’ He needed this to be clear. He’d already seen what relationships did to people—he’d grown up knowing that his mother’s heart was cracked in two. And he wasn’t going to let that happen to him. So he’d concentrated on work: keeping his relationships for fun and his heart intact. Despite the physical pull he felt towards Becky Marston, that wasn’t going to change. His focus was on his career, and it was going to stay that way.

‘Just for tonight,’ she confirmed.

Heat flared at the base of his spine. ‘You’re sure about this?’

She lifted her chin. ‘I’m sure. Very sure.’

He bent his head and kissed her. Hot and hard. And when he lifted his head he could see desire reflected in her eyes. ‘Ets molto atractiva.’

‘Sorry?’

Idiot. He needed to remember she didn’t speak Catalan. ‘I said,’ he translated softly, ‘you’re beautiful.’ He stole another kiss. ‘You should know, I don’t make a habit of this.’

‘Neither do I.’

‘I didn’t think you did.’

She swallowed hard. ‘And there’s something else you should know. I’m a bit out of practice.’

She didn’t say so aloud, but he could read it in her eyes—she was worried that she’d disappoint him.

He smiled and rubbed the pad of his thumb along her lower lip. ‘That isn’t a problem. I have a feeling that this is going to be good—for both of us.’