THE man who came striding through the arrival terminal doors was not wearing black but boy he would have looked good in it. He’d opted instead for scuffed steel capped boots, green cargo trousers and a grey t-shirt, but that was where Mr. Average ended and the fantasy began because the body beneath the everyday clothing was superb.

  He was broad shouldered, slim hipped; everything about him lean and powerfully muscled. His hair was black and carelessly cut and his face was as near to perfection as the gods would allow. He also, thought Erin, looked tired. Tired in a way that had nothing to do with a long haul flight and everything to do with a weariness that went soul deep. He was all shut down, which was probably just as well. Because heaven help womankind if he smiled.

  He glanced around and started towards her so she headed for the back of the car and pushed the boot open with her fingertips. He was beside her now, and up close she could see that his eyes were the color of toffee and more than a match for the rest of him. She shot him a smile, reached for his bulky canvas carryall.

  ‘I’ll do it.’ His voice was deep and quiet, like velvet over steel.

  ‘Is this a gender thing?’

  ‘I prefer to think of it as a weight thing.’ The look he sent her may have been swift but what it lacked in longevity it made up for in intensity. She felt the force of it, of him, clear through to her soul. ‘You’re not very big, are you?’ he said finally.

  Erin blew out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and pushed a wayward strand of short brown hair from her eyes. So she was five foot four and a little on the slender side. This wasn’t news. Maybe he hadn’t seen clear through to her soul after all.   Because if he had he’d have known better than to comment on her size.

  By the time he’d shut the boot on his luggage she had the passenger door open and was waiting for him to get in. He looked at her, looked at the door, and the faintest of smiles crossed his lips. Obviously he wasn’t used to having car doors opened for him either. ‘Are you sure you’re after a luxury taxi service?’ she asked him dryly. ‘Because the regular taxis are just over there.’

  He glanced at the long line of regular taxis, glanced back at her. ‘Will a luxury ride get me into the city any faster?’

  ‘Only in your imagination.’

  His smile widened fractionally.

  ‘On the upside, I have three different newspapers you can read on the way and I can order in coffee.’

  ‘Good coffee?’ he asked.

  ‘Exceptional coffee.’

  ‘Espresso, black, two sugars,’ he said, and got in. Men were so easy.

  She shut his door and headed for the driver’s seat. ‘Where to?’

  ‘Albany Street, Double Bay.’

   Nice. She picked up her mobile, called in his coffee order, pulled out into the traffic, and set about making his journey a luxury one.   ‘Newspaper?’ she asked. ‘I have the Sydney Morning Herald, The Australian, or the Financial Review.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Music?’  There was something for everyone.

  ‘No.’

  O-kay. He didn’t look like he wanted conversation either but she gave it a whirl, just in case. ‘So where’d you fly in from?’

  ‘London.’

  ‘Been away long?’ His accent told her he was Australian.

  ‘Six years.’

  ‘Six years in London?  Without a break?  No wonder you look tired.’ 

  ‘Maybe I will have that paper,’ he said, his gaze meeting hers in the rear vision mirror.

  ‘That would be a ‘no’ to conversation, then?’

  ‘Right.’

  She handed him the Sydney Morning Herald in silence. Maybe he was an elite athlete. A soccer player returning home at the end of the European season after his team’s final crushing defeat. Maybe he’d missed the winning penalty goal and was barely able to talk through the weight of his despair. Yeah, that would work. ‘You’re not a soccer player, are you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A poet?’ That would work too. Because he could have taught Byron himself a thing or two about looking sexy, unreachable, and sorely in need of comfort all at the same time.

  ‘No.’ He opened the paper. Rattled it.

  Fine. Maybe she should forget about her taciturn passenger and concentrate on her driving instead. She could do that. No problem.

  Five minutes later she pulled up outside Café Siciliano, lowered the rear window, and a curvaceous young waitress handed her passenger an espresso in a takeaway cup along with two straws of sugar. ‘The sugar’s already in it,’ the girl said. ‘This is extra, just in case.’

  ‘You’re an angel,’ he said in that soft, deep voice and the girl blinked and blushed prettily.

  Harrumph! Erin jabbed at the controls and watched as the tinted window slid smoothly closed.  He hadn’t called her an angel for seeing to it that he got coffee in the first place. Ungrateful sod. Her gaze clashed with his in the rear vision mirror and she could have sworn she saw laughter flicker in their depths.

  ‘Wayward pixies can’t be angels,’ he said solemnly. ‘Different fantasy altogether.’

  ‘Gee,’ she said. ‘Glad we’ve cleared that up.’ He had such glorious eyes. Such a heart stopping face. Pity he lived in fairyland. She pulled out onto the road a little more abruptly than usual. Forget service with a smile. It was time to deliver the man to his destination.

And then the engine coughed. Not good. It coughed some more as she swung the car round the nearest corner and into a side street and then, with a well-bred splutter, the late model luxury Mercedes died altogether.

  ‘We seem to have stopped,’ he said.

  Oh, now he wanted to talk. ‘Drink your coffee,’ she said, and tried to start the car. The ignition turned over but the engine spluttered like an old maid choking on hot tea.

  ‘Could be a fuel problem,’ he offered.

  ‘Could be lots of things.’ Erin drummed her fingers on the steering wheel and considered her options. First things first. ‘I need to get you another ride.’

  ‘No you don’t,’ he said. ‘You need to pop the hood so we can take a look at what’s wrong.’

  ‘You’re a mechanic?’

  ‘No, but I know cars.’

  ‘That’s close enough.’ Erin liked cars. She enjoyed driving them. But she didn’t know a whole lot about fixing them. She released the bonnet, got out of the car, and joined him in staring down at the immaculately clean engine. ‘What can you do without tools?’

  ‘Check fuses and connections,’ he said and set about doing so with a confidence she found reassuring.  He had nice hands, hands that looked like they knew both strength and gentleness. She looked for a ring, a wristwatch, but he wore no jewelry of any kind. Some things simply didn’t need embellishment.

  ‘And I thought chivalry was dead.’ There wasn’t much she could do to help except stay out of his light so she leaned back against the grille and waited. ‘Rescue people often? You’re not a fire fighter, are you? Emergency services?’

  ‘Do you always measure a man by his occupation?’ he asked absently, his attention still on the engine.

  ‘Not always. Sometimes I measure him by his sweet words and pretty face, but that doesn’t always work out.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘Of course, there’s always star signs,’ she said thoughtfully.

  ‘You mean you judge a person by his birthday?’ She had his attention now; his complete and utter incredulous attention.

‘Hey, the measurement of man is a tough one. A girl needs all the help she can get.’

  ‘Yes, but astrology?’

  ‘I’m thinking Scorpio for you. Moody, intense…’ Unbelievable in bed. The mere thought of which was making her fidget.  ‘But I could be wrong.’

  ‘I suspect you often are.’

  He hadn’t, she noted, come right out and told her she was wrong. That was interesting. ‘You are a Scorpio, aren’t you? I knew it.’

  He regarded her with exasperation. ‘It means nothing.’

  ‘Nope, it means that without any more information whatsoever I can start to measure the man. At least, that’s the theory.’ And after a moment, ‘We’re quite compatible.’

  ‘Hard to believe,’ he murmured dryly.

  Erin suppressed a chuckle. ‘Yep, what with that pretty face it’s a good thing you’re low on sweet talk otherwise I might be lost.’ 

  His smile was slow in coming but when it arrived it scrambled her brain. ‘I try to save the sweet talk,’ he said.

  ‘What on earth for?’

  ‘Later.’