Belatedly, Alexa realised that she had talked across Santos, her voice covering the second part of his statement. But now the truth of what he had actually said hit home.
‘It wasn’t? So why else are you here?’
‘Perhaps if you would let me in, then we could talk?’
The suggestion was an obvious one. Or at least it would have been if her relationship with this man was a normal one. Relationship? She didn’t have a relationship of any sort with him. But politeness cost nothing and she couldn’t keep him standing on the doorstep for ever in this weather. Much as she might want to.
But to invite him in suddenly seemed to have so much more significance than it deserved. Simply because he was Santos and because of the way they had parted after the reception.
‘What do we need to talk about?’
‘It would be easier if you let me in.’
And if she didn’t let him in then he was saying nothing, that much was obvious. With a resigned sigh, Alexa held open the door.
‘Come in, then …’
She had been outmanoeuvred and she knew it—and so did he. She fully expected him to murmur ‘Checkmate’, or whatever the Spanish equivalent was, as he moved past her into the narrow hallway.
She’d regretted her action as soon as she had opened the door. He was the last person she wanted inside her home. And yet her heart gave a strong kick of excitement as he moved past her into the confined space of the tiny hall. How was it possible to wish that he was anywhere but here in the same breath as she acknowledged the fact that now he was here she couldn’t take her eyes off him?
The cottage had low ceilings which made him look impossibly tall, and the width of his shoulders was emphasised by the heavy jacket he wore. He brought in a rush of cold, damp air with him and as he turned to face her, she saw that wide, devastating smile on his face.
‘What?’ she asked sharply, that smile setting her pulse pounding, her legs feeling like cotton wool underneath her as she fought against the temptation to lean back against the wall for support. ‘What’s so funny?’
‘Not funny, but …’
Santos leaned forward and brushed the pad of his thumb across her cheek, his touch warm and soft. And suddenly her heart seemed to stop beating, her breath coiling tight in her throat.
‘You have flour on your face. There …’
He held up his hand to show her the streaks of white but apart from one brief glance Alexa couldn’t look at it and away from his face. Her eyes were drawn to his, her gaze held transfixed, and although that smile had faded there was still some lingering warmth that heated her skin more than the old-fashioned central heating clanking its way through the radiators.
Memories surfaced. Memories of a beautiful Moorish-style house, a pink bedroom, and the softness of that touch that had soon become so much more. Memories she didn’t want to recall and that she had to crush down with an almost vicious effort as heat flooded her face.
‘Thanks …’ It was a growl of embarrassment.
Automatically she raised her own hand to wipe at the spot, but then, seeing the flour on her fingers, shook her head and dropped it down again.
‘Come in.’ She made her tone unnecessarily brisk to hide the confusion that had her in its grip.
Santos’s next move was perfectly natural, perfectly logical, but as she moved to push open the door into her sitting room he pushed the front one closed, so that it slammed into the frame with a worryingly ominous thud that made all the hairs on the back of her neck lift in sudden apprehension.
Had she made a foolish move inviting him in like this? Never before had she been so aware of the fact that the cottage was isolated and with the weather closing in around them she was very much alone. The sooner she got this over with and sent Santos on his way, the better. She was not going to offer him a drink, she resolved as she led the way into the sitting room. That would make it look as if she wanted him here.
‘So what is this about?’
Alexa moved carefully to position the coffee table between herself and the big, dark man standing before her, making the sitting room look almost like something out of a doll’s house with all the furniture out of proportion and far too small in contrast to his size.
‘And don’t expect me to believe that it has anything to do with the shoes that you used as an excuse to worm your way into here.’
‘Not worm my way, querida ‘ Santos had the nerve to make his words sound like a reproach as he shook his dark head in rejection of her accusation. ‘I simply said that we needed to talk.’
‘But to talk about what—just why are you here?’
‘Why? I would have thought that was obvious.’