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Ones with plenty of cheap wine, barely edible snacks that left you hungry, and terrible music played at the kind of volume where conversations had to be conducted at shouting pitch. Where there was barely any room to move, because so many people were packed into the place.
Thirty-five years old, and he’d hit middle age, he thought ruefully. Because he was beginning to wish he’d stayed in after all.
Leandro took a swig from the bottle of beer and wandered into the garden, thinking at least he’d find a quiet corner there. Although it was April, it was warm enough for him not to need a coat.
And then he saw her.
Sitting on a bench tucked away in a quiet corner of the garden, with her shoes off and her knees drawn up to her chin, looking as though she wanted to be a hundred miles away, too. A kindred spirit, perhaps?
He walked over to the bench. ‘Do you mind if I join you?’
She looked up at him and frowned. ‘Sorry. I didn’t catch what you said.’
Hardly surprising. She’d probably been deafened by the music blasting from inside the house.
‘I said, do you mind if I join you?’ he repeated, this time a little louder.
She shrugged and uncurled, making room for him to sit beside her. ‘Help yourself.’
Even though the sun had set an hour or so ago, the light shining into the garden from the kitchen was bright enough for him to see her properly. She had short brown hair, the sort that would go into spiral curls if she let it grow, and dark blue eyes that looked haunted. And a perfect rosebud of a mouth that sent a frisson of desire down his spine.
‘Gràcies.’ He sat down. ‘Leandro Herrera.’ He held his free hand out to her. She took it, and the frisson down his spine grew stronger.
‘Rebecca Marston. Everyone calls me Becky,’ she said, shaking his hand. Her grip was cool, firm, precise—and he liked it.
‘Which part of Spain do you come from?’ she asked.
‘Barcelona.’
She looked thoughtful. ‘Catalunya.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m impressed. You know Spain?’
‘Not really. I had a penfriend years ago—our teacher had spent a year in Spain and taught at a school there, and she told us a bit about the country. She set up a penfriend scheme between the two schools.’ She smiled. ‘In the years before email and chat rooms. But those early lessons helped when it came to taking exams.’
‘Parla català?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘Sorry. I assume you’re asking me if I speak Catalan—I don’t, and my Spanish is horribly rusty. But your English is excellent.’
‘Gràcies. I learned from an early age.’ He inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘So, Rebecca—Becky. Do you always escape into the garden at parties?’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘No, though I am at this one. My housemate persuaded me to come with her because she thought it would do me good to…’ And then she gave him the most gorgeously mischievous smile, indicating the ends of her short hair. ‘To let my hair down a bit.’
He smiled back. ‘And you’re regretting letting her persuade you?’
She nodded. ‘This really isn’t my kind of thing.’
‘Not mine either,’ he admitted. ‘And I heard someone say something about karaoke.’
Becky closed her eyes briefly. ‘Help. I’m not sure what’s worse—being bullied into singing something in front of a crowd or having to listen to other people singing out of key or out of rhythm.’
‘Especially when they’ve drunk enough to think they’re in tune and sound as good as their favourite pop star,’ he added dryly. ‘I think I’m going to call it a night.’
‘I don’t blame you.’
Something in her face told him that she felt the same way. And even though he had no intention of seeing her again after tonight, it would be good to have company rather than going back to his flat on his own. Dinner wouldn’t hurt. So he gave into the impulse and asked, ‘Have you eaten tonight?’
‘Just some nibbles here.’
‘How about,’ he suggested, ‘we escape? Go and find some proper food.’ He looked pointedly at her barely touched glass. ‘And wine you can actually drink.’
He had a voice like melted chocolate, and eyes to match. Olive skin betraying his Mediterranean ancestry. Dark hair that was cut short, but Becky would just bet turned curly if he were in a rainstorm; it made her itch to slide her fingers into it.
And he had the sexiest mouth she’d ever, ever seen.
Leandro Herrera was a complete stranger. She knew nothing about him. He could be some kind of maniac. She really ought to refuse. Politely, but refuse.
And then her grandfather’s voice echoed in her head.
I should think so, too. Why you couldn’t just settle down and have children and support your husband, I’ll never know. Going off with a complete stranger, indeed. No moral fibre, your generation…
Oh, shut up, Gramps, Becky thought. She was a grown woman. And in her view strangers were friends you hadn’t yet met. If a gorgeous man invited her out to dinner, and she wanted to go, then it was her choice. And she was going to do it.
‘Yes. I’d love to.’
‘Good.’ He stood up again and held a hand out to her. She slipped her feet back into her shoes, then took his hand and let him draw her to her feet. Even though she was five feet seven in heels, he was a good six inches taller than she was. Broad shouldered. Strong.
He could’ve made her feel intimidated.
Instead, he made her feel safe. And she couldn’t remember when she’d last felt like this.
Certainly not with Michael, who’d taken every safety net away from her.
‘I’d better let my housemate know I’m leaving,’ she said.
‘Of course. And I need to say goodbye and thank you to my host.’
Old-fashioned good manners. She liked that, too.
‘I’ll meet you by the front door, yes?’ he suggested.
She smiled back. ‘Sure.’
The rooms were crowded and the deep bass of the music was enough to give her a headache. She couldn’t see her housemate anywhere in the crush. ‘Have you seen Tanya?’ she asked several of the paediatric nurses who worked with Tanya. At the fifth ‘Sorry’ she gave up. She walked back into the garden, where it was quiet enough to think straight, and texted her friend. Being party pooper. C U back home. Have a good time!
Then she headed back to the kitchen and found Joe. ‘Thanks for letting me come with Tanya.’
‘No worries. We’ve got loads of room.’ The junior doctor frowned. ‘You’re not going already, are you?’
‘I’m not really in a party mood,’ she said ruefully. ‘Had a bad shift this afternoon.’
‘You’re in the emergency department, aren’t you?’ At her nod, he looked sympathetic—clearly he’d guessed the outcome of her day. ‘Well, see you around. Thanks for coming.’
She smiled back. ‘Enjoy yourself.’
Joe grinned. ‘Oh, I plan to!’
Leandro was waiting for her by the front door.
‘Ready?’ he asked.
She still had the chance to say no. She could call a taxi and go home on her own.
But there was something about Leandro’s smile, the warmth in his eyes, that told her this was a man she could trust. ‘Ready,’ she said.
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”.’
