He listened for a moment longer. The quality of her voice made him wonder, for a fleeting second, if her face would correspond to the soft strands he heard.
He knocked on the open door. […] Swiftly she called out in French that she would be there in a jiffy, washed the quiche dough from her hands, draped the kitchen towel over her shoulder, and walked to meet the stranger on the terrace. She pulled aside the lace curtains as Richard turned.
The surprise was simultaneous and mutual, though for very different reasons.
[…] He was lean, yet muscular, and he was quite handsome, she thought, inspecting him casually with an artist’s eye for beauty. His light brown hair fell carelessly over a wide forehead; a straight, aquiline nose preceded a full mouth, framed by a strong jaw-line; and the man had remarkable eyes of gray-blue. Quite remarkable indeed, she thought. She must remember to use them in her illustrations.
Richard’s surprise, on the other hand, was from the impact the woman made on him. The attraction was quick and hard, like a gut punch. As he faced her, he could only think her looks matched her voice. He blinked. “Mrs. Martinez?” (bits from ch. 2 & 3).
