Last of the Great Romantics by Claudia Carroll

Author:Claudia Carroll [Carroll, Claudia]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: cookie429, Kat, Extratorrents
ISBN: 9780553816655
Google: 7pD891e6X5gC
Amazon: B000K7E2DE
Goodreads: 1540501
Publisher: Random House
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fifteen

Bright, late-morning sunshine was streaming through the window by the time Portia finally woke from a sleep deeper than the seabed around the Titanic. For a split second, she had that awful where-am-I feeling you get when you're still not fully used to the time difference and wake up in an unfamiliar bed, but then memories of last night came flooding back to her in one big, blissful deluge. She was here. In New York. In Andrew's fabulous apartment with him beside her. Except that he wasn't exactly beside her.

No matter, she thought, woozily remembering him muttering something about an early morning meeting. They had weeks and weeks ahead, just the two of them, in New York together.

Lazily, she dragged herself out of bed, pulled on one of the T-shirts that Andrew had dumped across the back of a chair, and sauntered over to the high sash window. It was a perfect Manhattan morning, bright and cloudless, and for a second she struggled with the heavy clasp on the window before throwing it open and impulsively sticking her head out. 'Oh Jesus!' she gasped, still not used to quite how high up the apartment actually was.

Way, way down below her were swarms of people, like tiny weenie free samples, all full of hustle and bustle as they went about the business that's demanded of a professional Manhattanite. Park Avenue was jammed with mid-morning traffic, yellow cabs noisily honked horns and everywhere she looked, people seemed to be in a mad, tearing hurry.

She almost hugged herself, high on life, feeling that this was probably the closest she'd ever come to being in an episode of Sex and the City, and also loving that guilty pleasure you only get when you're on holiday while everyone around you is working their ass off.

She sighed with pure pleasure, pulled the window shut behind her and sashayed around the apartment, which she was slowly coming to love as much as Andrew seemed to. He'd lived there for years before he'd met Portia and had simply plonked his bags down and gone back to his old office, as if he'd never been away. Old-fashioned in design, it had high, coved ceilings, a walkthrough closet, a wonderful cream-tiled en-suite bathroom with a Victorian pedestal bath, and a tiny galley kitchen, with only a microwave in it, she noted, smilingly. Andrew was a wonderful husband, a supremely talented whiz-kid lawyer and an Olympian lover to boot, but when it came to cooking skills, he was useless bordering on dangerous. Unless you counted tea and toast or ripping open the top of a cereal box, Gordon Ramsay could sleep easy. The one and only time he tried to make her dinner, she ended up with vicious food poisoning for a full week.

'And I wouldn't mind,' he'd moaned at her, 'but I defrosted that chicken at least three times before I microwaved it, just to be on the safe side.'

Macmillan Burke had obviously spent a fortune on the place;

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