Sophie Weston - The Independent Bride

She gave him a smile like sudden sunshine. ‘That’s what I’ve always been told.’

‘Well, then—?’

She laughed. ‘They may not want to see me,’ she pointed out. ‘People have been brooding on this feud for a long time.’

He found his mouth widening into his wickedest grin. ‘Montagues and Capulets,’ he said. ‘They’ll be fascinated. Trust me.’

She was doubtful. ‘Do you think so?’

‘Positive. What’s more, it makes you much more than a tourist. So you must definitely come to Oxford.’ He felt in his pocket for a business card. ‘It’s your heritage. You’re coming home.’

‘Home!’ She flinched as if he had kicked her. The wonderful smile died as abruptly as if someone had flung a switch. ‘I don’t think so.’

A man, thought Steven at once. It had to be. In his experience, a woman only flinched like that at the word ‘home’ if there was a man involved. Was she fleeing an unhappy relationship? Or was there a man she wanted who wouldn’t make a home with her? For some reason Steven hated the idea of that.

He stuffed his business card back and took his hand out of his pocket.

Or maybe the man wanted her to move in with him. Anyway, her reaction to the word ‘home’ had nothing to do with a load of long-lost relatives. Oh, yes, it was a man all right.

He stopped his thoughts right there. Either way, it made no difference to him, did it? He was not the sort of man to pick up women in mid-air. And his shy golden goddess did not look like the sort of woman to let herself be picked up anywhere.

Nice idea, Steven. Not practical. You’re not Captain Blood and you haven’t got a pirate ship to carry her off to. Get yourself a shave and a tie and get back to normal!

He stepped back and gave her one of his public smiles—courteous, regretful, remote as the moon. He was invulnerable Steven Konig again.

‘Well, have a good one, whatever you decide to do. Safe landing!’

‘Th-thank you.’

Or he thought that was what she said. He did not wait to hear her reply.

See that fantasy; let it go. He said it to himself savagely as he made his way back to his seat. He was thirty-nine years old and far too many people depended on him to keep his head. Fantasising about goddesses was for teenagers.

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