She’d caught up with the conversation, but it hadn’t mattered for Gaz was now conferring with a waiter, apparently discussing the menu. He turned to her to ask if she’d like to try some local dishes, and if so, would she prefer meat, fish or vegetarian.
‘Meat, please, and yes to local dishes. I’ve tried some samples of the local cooking in the souks. There’s a delicious dish that seems to be meat, with dates and apricots.’
‘And to drink? You would like a glass of wine?’
And have it go straight to my head and confuse me even further?
‘No, thank you, just a fruit juice.’
Her voice was strained with the effort of making polite conversation. Her nerves were strung more tightly than the strings of a violin, while questions she couldn’t answer tumbled in her head.
Was the attraction she felt mutual?
Could this be the man—not for a lifetime, it was far too early to be considering that—for a fling, an affair?
Worse, could she go through with it if by some remote chance he was interested?
The waiter disappeared and Marni took a deep breath, knowing she somehow had to keep pretending a composure she was far from feeling. But how to start a conversation in a place where personal conversations just didn’t seem to happen?
Gaz saved her.
‘You mentioned the souks. You have had time to see something of my country?’
She rushed into speech, describing her delight in all she’d seen and done, the beauty she’d discovered all around her, the smiling, helpful people she’d encountered.
Gaz watched her face light up as she spoke, and her hands move through the air as she described a decorated earthen urn she’d seen, or the tiny, multicoloured fish swimming through the coral forests. He saw the sparkle in her pale, grey-blue eyes and the gleam where the lights caught her silvery-blonde hair, and knew this woman could ensnare him.
Actually, he’d known it from the moment he’d seen her—well, seen her pale eyes framed by the white mask and lavender cap on her first day in Theatre.
There’d been something in those eyes—something that had caught at, not his attention but his inner self—a subliminal connection he couldn’t put into words.
At the time he’d dismissed the idea as fanciful—the product of a mind overburdened by the changes in his life, but now?
Impossible, of course! He had so much on his plate at the moment he sometimes doubted he’d ever get his head above water.
He groaned inwardly at the mess of clichés and mixed metaphors, but that’s how his life seemed right now. He’d stolen tonight from the schedule from hell, and by the time he had his new life sorted, this woman would be gone.
There’ll be other women, he reminded himself, then groaned again.
‘Are you all right?’
The pale eyes showed genuine concern, and a tiny line of worry creased the creamy skin between her dark eyebrows.
‘I will be,’ he answered. ‘There are some massive changes happening in my life right now, which, as far as I’m concerned, is really bad timing.’
He reached across the table and touched her hand, which was wrapped around the glass of pomegranate and apple juice the waiter had set in front of her.
‘Bad timing?’ she repeated.
‘Very bad timing,’ he confirmed, and said no more, because he knew that although an attraction as strong as the one he was feeling couldn’t possibly be one-sided, there was nothing to be gained from bringing it out into the open. He simply had no time! No time for them to get to know each other properly.
No time to woo her.
Instead, he asked how much diving she’d done, and listened as her quiet, slightly husky voice talked about the Great Barrier Reef, a holiday she’d had in the Seychelles, and compared other dives she’d done with the Ablezian Sea.
Was he listening? Marni had no idea, but she was happy to have something to talk about and as she spoke she relived some of her underwater adventures, and remembering the joy and fun she’d experienced eased the tension in her body so talking now was easy, her companion prompting her to keep going if she lagged.
The meal arrived—a covered earthenware dish set in the middle of the table, another dish of rice set beside it. The waiter added small plates of cut-up salad vegetables and a platter of the flat bread that she was beginning to realise was part of every meal in this country.
‘Traditionally, I would serve you, but perhaps you would prefer to help yourself,’ Gaz said, lifting the lid of the earthenware pot and releasing the mouthwatering aroma of the dish. ‘I would not like to give you too much or too little.’
Ordinary words—common-sense words—so why was she all atingle again?