A shiver ran down her spine when the passenger door suddenly swung open, propelled by a black leather-clad arm that disappeared as swiftly as it had appeared.

‘You are a most unusual woman,’ he said as she climbed in and shut the door behind her.

‘In what way?’

‘You don’t keep a man waiting.’

‘Is that a good thing or a bad thing?’

He looked her up and down again. ‘That depends.’

‘On what?’

‘On what we’re doing and where we’re going.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘This is your turf, Natalie. Where do you suggest we go to get a quick meal?’

‘There’s a small Italian café a couple of blocks down this street. Bertollini’s. They give quick service and serve great pasta and pizza.’

‘Sounds just the thing. I’m starving,’ he said, and gunned the engine.

‘So am I,’ she said truthfully.

He shot her a sharp, sidewards glance. ‘Don’t tell me you’re not on a diet. Every female I’ve ever dated is always on a diet.’

‘I never diet.’ And she’d never been overweight. She had a high metabolism and a tendency to lose her appetite totally when she was stressed. She’d fallen to a shockingly thin forty-five kilos after Brandon, which had taken her some years to recoup. But she was fine now, weighing a pleasing fifty-three kilos.

‘Stranger and stranger,’ he muttered, then said no more till he pulled up outside Bertollini’s.

The Italian mamma who owned and ran the café fussed over Natalie in a way she never had before, possibly because she had a man by her side. They were given complimentary glasses of wine and even better service than usual, Natalie feeling embarrassed by the knowing looks all the staff gave her. She had been coming there regularly for three years by herself, so she supposed they thought she’d finally landed herself a boyfriend.

‘So how come you’re not married yourself?’ he asked over their plates of spaghetti Marinara. ‘And don’t tell me no one has ever asked you,’ he added drily. ‘You might be a shocking dresser, but you’re a good-looking woman.’

Natalie opened her mouth to make some smart crack, then closed it again. If she was going to marry this man—and pretend to adore every hair on his head—then perhaps he should know the truth about her. He claimed to be big on the truth.

‘Actually, no one has asked me,’ she admitted. ‘I spent the best years of my life on a man whom I hoped would ask me one day. But he never did. I found out why after four years of loving him, and making endless excuses for him.’

‘Don’t tell me,’ Mike said drily. ‘Let me guess. He was already married.’

‘How did you know?’

‘Sweetheart, it’s written all over you. Oops, sorry. That just slipped out.’