GirlMostLikelyTo (5 page)

“I live
in
the hall. Lady Kitson is a friend of
Maman.”

Shit.
“Oh. Sorry, Monique. Then you were correct.”
Wren didn’t miss the disdainful smirk. “Would you like to ask your neighbor
where she’s from?”

Monique cast a disdainful glance toward the pale-faced woman
with huge, dark eyes. “What’s your name? Where do you live?”

There was a lot of brow furrowing and heavy sighing before
she spoke. “I am Duscha Petrovna Kusmin. I live in Moscow.
I live in apartment in Moscow. I live in little apartment in Moscow, in Russia.
I live—”

“Great,” Wren interrupted.

She’d had Duscha’s type before. They built up each sentence
like a set of Russian dolls and were difficult to stop once they got going.
“Don’t forget to use ‘a’ and ‘an’. I live in
an
apartment, okay?”

“Yes, I live in an apartment in a Moscow.”

“No need for ‘a’ before a named city,” Wren said. “I live in
a
city but I live
in
London. I live in Paris. I live in New
York.”

“You cosmopolitan lady,” said the dark-haired devil in front
of her.

She ignored him. “And it’s
a
little apartment, not
an. Drop the ‘n’ when there is no vowel following.” Blank faces except for
Benoit, who was frantically scribbling. Wren turned to the whiteboard and
started to write as she spoke. “
A
before all words that begin with
consonants, except use
an
before an unsounded h.
An
before all
words that begin with vowels, except when u makes the same sound as y in you.”
God, even she didn’t understand that. English grammar was a nightmare.

“Can anyone think of an example?” she asked.

Benoit’s hand slid up. “A unicyclist with an ugly nose is
carrying a horn and an umbrella.”

Good grief.
“Very good.” But very weird.

Benoit raised his head and peeked at her. Wren beamed and he
blushed. At least one of them had been listening and it was reassuring to know
she hadn’t spouted a pile of crap.

“An English woman’s breasts bounce when she rides an unusual
horse with an appendage. A long, hard appendage. Perhaps it’s a unicorn,” said
Satan.

Oh God.
Aware her jaw had dropped, Wren closed her
mouth. How did he know the word appendage? How could he manage that sentence
construction?

“Am I good too?” Mr. Temptation asked.

“Yes.” And also strange. There was something unmistakably
carnal in the way he stared at her chest, though it wasn’t as if she had much
in that department. Unless… She dropped her gaze to check her buttons. All done
up. When she glanced at him again, he was smirking.

“You want to know my name?” he asked.

She swallowed hard. Beelzebub? Lucifer? Why had she thought
teaching adults would be easier than teenagers? “What’s your name? Whereabouts
do you live?”

“My name Tomas Adzovic. I live in Headingley, 43 Richmond
Street.”

Hang on a minute.
That was where Benoit lived. She
opened her mouth but Benoit got there first.

“No, it is not true,” Benoit said. “He don’t live with me.”
He appeared horrified at the thought.

“He
doesn’t
live with me,” Wren corrected.

“Not yet,” Tomas said.

Shit.
They all got that and laughed. Had he set her
up?

“So Tomas, where do you go at the end of the day?” she
asked.

“Pub.” He flashed his all-the-better-to-eat-you-with teeth
and she stamped on the flickers of lust.
Bloody smart aleck.
If he could
joke in English, why did he need help with conversation? Oh God, unless he
lived in a pub? After the mistake with Monique, Wren needed to be careful.

“Do you sleep at the pub?” she asked.

“No. Too busy.” He stared at her through his dark eyelashes.

“Busy doing what?” She wanted the words back. If she flirted
with Tomas he’d burn her alive.

“Busy in bed.”

Monique sniggered.

“Let’s start again,” Wren snapped. “Where do you live,
Tomas?”
Damn.
That had come out sharper than she’d have liked.

“I lives on Dock Street.”

“I
live
on Dock Street,” Wren corrected.

“What number? Maybe we neighbors?”

She’d walked right into that. She tightened her mouth,
counted to three and moved on to the last man, who had to be Georg. The German
was the oldest in the group. Maybe in his early forties.

“What’s your name? Where do you live?”

He stood up to speak to her. Wren had to crane her neck to
see his face. He was a bear of a man with dark curly hair, tanned skin and a
white smile.

“Good morning. I am Georg Schmitt. I live in Gilmore Street
in Pudsey but I come from Berlin.”

He put out his hand for her to shake and Wren took it,
feeling guilty she hadn’t done that for the others. Normally she would have but
she’d been afraid to touch Tomas in case she got stuck.

The rest of the lesson passed in a blur. She ascertained
Georg was an engineer, Benoit a photographer, Duscha wanted to work as an au
pair, Monique was employed by her father and Tomas worked behind a
bar—sometimes—and drove his boss around—sometimes. After the initial burst of
impressive though strange English, he hadn’t contributed much to the
conversation, but every time she glanced at him he appeared to be smiling at
Monique. Wren tried not to look, but he was like a magnet.

When the bell rang, she jumped as if she’d been shot.

“Okay, in the next session we’ll talk about hobbies. Hobbies
are pastimes like dancing, reading, playing football or going to the cinema.
Things you like to do to pass the time.”
Like fucking Monique
, she added
silently, watching Tomas’ gaze slide to the French woman’s bum as she bent to
pick up her pencil from the floor. The witch had probably dropped it on
purpose.

Monique was all sleek elegance. Wren had no idea how the
French managed to always appear stylish no matter what they wore, but they did.
One glance at Monique made her feel like going home and setting fire to her
wardrobe. French women could make Primark look like Prada. A scarf round their
necks transformed them into Audrey Hepburn. A scarf round Wren’s neck and she
turned into her mother.

As the students filed out, Wren gathered the material she’d
used, pictures of everyday objects she’d had them talk about, and packed her
shoulder bag.

“Hey, little bird. Come for coffee?” Tomas stood at the
classroom door.

As Wren watched, Monique pushed her arm through his and
snuggled up close. Disappointment clawed at her stomach.

“Sorry, I can’t.” She resisted the impulse to correct
grammar now the lesson was over. “I have another English class.”

Monique shrugged in a nonchalant way that Wren read as—
I
didn’t want you to come anyway because you’re so wet and boring
. But just
for a tiny fraction of a second, Tomas appeared disappointed.

Chapter Five

As Tomas walked with Monique to the stairs leading to
Ezispeke’s rooftop café, he untangled her arm from his.

“I come later,” he said.

Her sulky pout did nothing for him. The brown-eyed teacher
with the short messy hair, long legs and sweet blush on her makeup-free face
was far more appealing. He’d had a hard time keeping his gaze off her, but in
transferring his attention to the French poodle, he’d given her the wrong idea.
He’d wanted Wren to come for a coffee purely because Marco had told him to get
to know the staff.

Yeah, right.

He headed back to the classroom in time to see Wren
disappear around the corner with Benoit.
Damn.
Tomas had been a
smart-arse this morning and if he wasn’t careful, she’d catch on that he spoke
English as well as she did. He started after her to ask her to come to the pub
for lunch when his mobile vibrated. When he saw who was calling, he groaned and
stopped walking.

“What are you doing?” Marco asked.

What you told me, dickhead.
“At Academy. Learning
English.”

“Good. I want to know how many students are in each class.”

Christ.
How was he supposed to find
that
out?
He risked a question. “Why?” When Marco said nothing, he winced. “Sorry.”

“Find a way.”

Tomas shoved the phone back in his pocket. He wasn’t
surprised Marco hadn’t answered his question but he didn’t regret asking it. It
looked suspicious to be too amenable, except playing dumb was less likely to
get him killed. The tightrope he walked was so tenuous, the slightest mistake
could be fatal.

Checking to make sure he was unobserved, he took another
phone from the inside pocket of his jacket and tapped in a number.

“Orange service. How can I help you?” a familiar voice
asked.

Tomas gave the first part of the reply that told his boss
all was well. “I’d like to top up my phone.”

“How much would you like to put on it?”

“Twenty-two pounds.”

“What’s up?” Detective Superintendent Julia Markham asked.

“He gave me five hundred in cash and told me to enroll at
Ezispeke Language Academy. You know it?”

“I’ve heard of it. I’ll do some checking.”

“He wants the number of students and for me to get to know
the staff. I have no idea why. He’s playing his usual game.”

“Okay. Take care.”

* * * * *

After guiding ten bored Italian teenage boys through
worksheets on Dickens’
Great Expectations
, Wren finished up the class
frazzled and exhausted. The book was one of the set texts at their private
school in Milan. She wished the examination board was a bit more adventurous.
Nothing wrong with Dickens but he didn’t exactly set modern young men alight
with enthusiasm.

Refusing requests for dates, drinks and meals, she finally
extricated herself from the group, slipped her ID into her purse and clattered
down the stairs rather than up to the café. Chances were slim Tomas and the
others were still up there. But if they were, she didn’t want to watch Monique
slobber over him. Or him slobber over her.

The look Wren had identified as disappointment was probably
Tomas burping. She knew better than to lust after wolves, even when armed with
an axe and wearing a red-hooded cloak. She was already far too distracted by
his big black eyes and rakish grin. One bite and he’d gobble her up.

Wren headed toward the staffroom and uttered a silent prayer
for Belinda not to plonk her fat butt next to her and deconstruct her wedding
in minute detail. It had been bad enough listening to her plan it for the last
few months. Every time she and Leo had been in the staffroom, that was all Wren
heard. Leo had squirmed in discomfort when Belinda was in full flow and he
caught sight of Wren pretending not to listen but he never shut Belinda up.
Wren wondered where the sweet guy she’d fallen for had gone, the one who’d
bought her flowers, tickled her into hysterics and stroked her forehead when
she had a headache.

She’d thought hard about resigning when Belinda announced
she and Leo were going to marry, but then steeled herself and decided it would
be the worst thing to do. It hadn’t been easy accepting he preferred her
airheaded cousin but eventually Wren decided they were welcome to each other.
She really didn’t care anymore, but it had still been difficult to watch the
bastard touch Belinda and whisper sweet nothings in her ear when Wren
remembered him doing the same to her.

As she reached to open the door on the ground floor, someone
pushed hard from the other side and for the second time that day, Wren found
herself flat on her back, bruising her bruises. She looked up past pale chinos
and a blue sweater under an open gray coat into concerned navy-blue eyes. Her
high-pitched yip of shocked recognition sounded much too like a dog in pain.

“Oh my God,” he blurted and his eyes widened. After a long
moment of stunned silence, he dropped to her side. “Are you okay?”

He doesn’t remember me.
Relief wrestled with
disappointment.

“I can’t believe it’s you,” he said.

He
does
remember me.
Worry and pleasure joined
the fight.
Oh God, I’m unconscious or dead and this isn’t happening. It
can’t be him.
Panic surged as her heart thundered.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“I’m fine.”

When he stood and reached to help her up, Wren ignored his
hand. She grabbed her bag and purse, scrambled to her feet and brushed herself
down.

He ran his fingers through his short black hair. “I really
can’t believe this.” His smile slipped and his shoulders slumped. “Ah. You
don’t remember me.”

Options zipped through her brain.

Pretend not to remember him.

Admit I do and run away.

Admit I do and not run away—not yet anyway.

“We met in—” he began.

“Venice,” she said and he smiled.

And what she’d remembered as The Big Mistake started to seem
much less of a mistake now that he was in front of her again. She could have
sunbathed in the warmth of his smile. For the second time that day, sexual
interest exploded low in her belly like a white-hot firework. Or a distress
flare.

Then she recalled what happened last time they met and the
heat shot to her cheeks. He might be in sheep’s clothing, but he was another
wolf. He looked like Tomas, of a similar height and build, though his hair was
shorter and neater. Her gaze locked on his hands and her mind side-slipped to
memories of his fingers stroking her skin, and how he’d—
Oh damn
.

“Are you a student?” he asked.

“No, I work here.” She leaned back against the wall before
she fell over.

He let out a choked laugh. “I can’t believe this. Sorry I
keep saying that, but I really can’t believe it. Christ.” He shook his head. “I
searched for you for hours, but in those crowds it was impossible. I never
thought I’d see you again.”

Her heart surged into her throat and she swallowed. “You
searched for me?”

“Of course I did, but I didn’t know anything about you, or
where to reach you. When you were in my arms I’d thought how bloody erotic not
to know each other’s name and then after, I just wished I’d at least known
that. Maybe I could have found you. As it was, all I could do was roam the
streets searching for a woman in a pretty dress. Tell me your name quickly
before a herd of buffalo rush through and part us.”

She grinned. “Wren Monroe.”

“Wren.” He smiled. “I like it. I’m Adam Kesey.” He winced.
“Sounds rather formal after what—” A choked groan escaped his lips. “Look, are
you free? Can I buy you lunch?”

“Lunch? Okay.” She was amazed she could speak.

“Want to go to the café? Or is there a pub or restaurant
around here?”

“There’s a pub round the corner.”

“Perfect. Lead the way.”

Oh. My. God.
She never thought she’d see him again.
After she’d stopped wanting to, she changed to wishing she’d never met him in
the first place. He was The Big Mistake. Now he was here.
Incredible.

“I didn’t hurt you did I?” he asked.

Her heart floundered. A bit late to ask that. She
had
been hurt, but not physically. Just months of—

“I must have pushed, just as you pulled,” he said.

Ah, the door.
“No, I’m okay.”

“What do you teach?” he asked as they walked outside.

“English and Italian.”

“I remember you said you were learning Italian. I think that
was the only thing you told me. We—er—didn’t talk much.”

They’d done all their communicating with their hands and
mouths.

Adam seemed different to the impassioned guy of five years
ago. But then they’d been caught up in the charged atmosphere of that night,
drunk on the sights, sounds, scents and emotions of the masked players swirling
around them, and even more intoxicated with each other. Depending how far
revelers were prepared to go,
Carnivale
in Venice was a decadent affair,
two weeks of nonstop partying. One night in Wren’s case. Less than one night. A
couple of hours. Unforgettable hours.

“You haven’t changed,” he said quietly. “You’re just as I
remember. Same haircut. Same smile. As beautiful today as you were then.”

Jaw. Floor. Smash.
“I seem to recall we both looked
like drowned rats.” She was
not
going to fall for flattery. Probably.

“The most gorgeous drowned rat I’ve ever seen.”

Oh wow.
“This is the pub.” She pushed open the door
and he followed.

“What can I get you?” he asked.

“Half a bitter shandy and a cheese sandwich, please.”

“Grab a table.” He took a few steps and then came back.
“Don’t disappear again, not now I’ve found you.”

She needed to sit before she fell. She found an empty table
tucked away behind a pillar and then winced when her backside hit the chair.
Gorgeous? Beautiful? Compliments always made her uneasy. No one had ever told
her she was beautiful, apart from her mum and dad and they didn’t count. Of
course, she
wasn’t
beautiful, he didn’t mean it, but it had given her a
warm feeling when she’d heard the words.

Adam, on the other hand, was breathtakingly handsome. He had
been then and he still was. She’d taken shelter from the rain in a dark doorway
in a Venetian
campiello
and found it already occupied. After the wet
stranger moved over to make room, they’d started to chat about the carnival and
the costumes while they waited for the rain to ease. Wren admitted that being
surrounded by people wearing masks had started to freak her out, she had a
phobia about having her face covered, and he’d offered to walk her back to
where she was staying. Why hadn’t she told him where that was? A fear maybe
that she was asking for trouble? Because she wanted to prolong the encounter?

When the rain showed no sign of stopping, they’d run hand in
hand, gone in circles, and she hadn’t cared. Her fingers were secure in his and
he made her heart thump. After she finally admitted she was lost, he’d looked
into her eyes, lowered his head and kissed her.

It remained the best kiss she’d ever had. He’d started slow
and tasted every part of her mouth as if she were an epicurean feast. His hands
snaked around her back and he pulled her against him, his cock growing hard
between them, and they’d kissed and kissed and kissed—long and slow, fast and
furious—until they were soaked to the skin and welded to each other along their
lengths.

Everything her mother had said to her before she left for
her year in Italy evaporated in a flash. All her father’s warnings about being
careful of strangers sank out of sight, her brothers’ advice about what guys
really wanted forgotten in an instant. Wren’s common sense had been ground to
dust in those moments of irresistible, irreversible lust. She’d never felt more
excited, more wanted, more alive.

And later, never more crushingly disappointed.

But gradually, she regained her equilibrium and saw the
incident for what it was. The Big Mistake. One she would never repeat.

But then she hadn’t thought she’d see him again.

Adam stood at the far end of the bar with his back to Wren,
taking deep breaths, trying to get his body under control. His heart hammered
against his ribs, thoughts swirled like mini tornadoes in his head and his cock
swelled uncomfortably against his zipper. He still couldn’t believe it was her.
Fuck it, how many times did I say that?
She’d think he was an idiot.

Five years ago, after they’d become separated by the crowds,
he’d wandered for hours, wet and shivering, but with no idea where she was
staying it was hopeless. Even so, he only gave up the search when dawn broke
because he had a flight to catch. As he sat on the plane, he’d tortured himself
with visions of her being attacked, murdered and dumped in a canal even when
logic told him she’d gone back to her place, showered and fallen into bed
thinking he was an asshole.

But he’d always wondered. He’d even checked the internet for
a few weeks just in case, knowing he’d never forgive himself if she turned up
dead.

Now, here she was. Very much alive.

Adam caught the barmaid’s attention and ordered the drinks
and sandwiches, his mind quickly slipping back to that night.

One kiss in the pouring rain and every cell in his body had
vibrated with need. They’d been soaked, her nipples standing out against the
thin material of a dress that clung to every curve and dip of her body. She
might as well have been naked. By chance, they’d stumbled into a little garden,
and in the shadows he’d pressed her up against a rough brick wall and dropped
his mouth to her breast. As the noise of the revelers faded, his head fogged
with her breathy cries and he’d slid trembling fingers up her leg, under her
dress and inside her panties. She’d been so hot and wet, he’d almost come from
touching her.