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Had he read the disquiet in her eyes? Interpreted her momentary hesitation as understandable reluctance to engage in conversation on her doorstep with a man she didn’t know? He must have, because before she could answer him he started speaking again.
‘I apologise,’ he said. ‘I’m being intrusive, and presuming on far too slight an acquaintance.’
If he hadn’t apologised she might well have made the answer to him that as she’d intended—she really might, she thought distractedly. But there was something about the open apology, the air of quizzical ruefulness, the slight backing off and withdrawal she sensed in his body language, that stopped her. Or was it, she thought with a kind of hollowing inside her stomach, the way those gold-flecked eyes were resting on her? As if they could reach deep inside her, hold her mesmerised until she gazed back at him.
‘No, not at all,’ she said awkwardly. She sounded very English, very stilted, she knew. ‘It was kind of you to offer to help with the coffee machine. But instant coffee is absolutely fine, and anyway I drink tea mostly.’
Oh, Lord, she thought, why on earth had she said that? Why had she spoken at all? Why hadn’t she just smiled and shut the door. Why—?
‘Quite right. Just what an English rose should drink,’ he replied.
And now, completely openly, there was amusement in his voice. It did even more to her than his accent did.
‘We Greeks, however,’ he went on, ‘drink our coffee like mud. A legacy from our Turkish overlords.’
‘So you are Greek!’
The words fell from her lips before she could stop them.
The glint came again. ‘Is that good or bad?’ he said, humour clear in his voice.
‘I don’t know,’ she said candidly. ‘I don’t know anyone who is Greek, and I’ve never been to Greece.’
His eyes glinted again. ‘Well, I hope I will put you off neither my compatriots, nor my country,’ he responded, with humour still in his voice, that smile in his eyes.
Marisa swallowed. No, whoever this guy was, he definitely did not put her off either Greeks or Greece …
He was speaking again, she realised with a start, and made herself pay attention.
‘Having asked one favour of you already,’ he was saying, and his eyes were washing over her again, to the same devastating effect, ‘I am going to push my luck and ask another.’ He paused and looked down at her, a look of speculative questioning in his expression. ‘Are you at all interested in the theatre? I’ve come into possession of two tickets for a preview performance tonight of the Chekov that’s opening next week. Can I persuade you to keep me company?’
He was taking a gamble here. Athan knew that. Chekov might be the last thing to persuade her. But his surveillance records indicated that she had spent numerous evenings at the theatre, and that included any number of high brow plays. Tickets for the upcoming Chekov were like gold dust, and might be sufficient temptation for her.
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