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‘It’s time I was going.’
‘Sure?’
That was, thought Lola wryly, what they called a leading question. To be honest, she wasn’t sure—she would have liked to hang around and dance like that with him all night.
But a girl had her pride to think of. He was the kind of over-gorgeous man who had probably had things much, much too easy in the past. And Lola’s turning him down was almost certainly going to help his emotional development enormously! ‘Quite sure,’ she answered firmly.
He nodded his dark head. ‘Where do you live?’
Lola had only been a resident for the past six months, and she still had not worked out how to answer this particular question without giving in to the toe-curling embarrassment of having to explain how she’d actually come to own a house worth almost a million pounds.
People always jumped to such awful conclusions when they found out that a pensioner she hardly knew had left it to her!
‘I live here,’ she told him. ‘On the St Fiacre’s estate.’
‘I see,’ he murmured softly.
Lola searched his face for the tell-tale looks of surprise—but there were none.
She was still extremely sensitive about living in a house on the estate once termed ‘the Beverly Hills of England’ by some enterprising journalist—one where all the residents were not just rich, they were seriously rich.
Except for Lola, of course.
The rich had a look and a lifestyle all of their own, and Lola did not possess either! She looked exactly what she was—a working woman who needed a bit of clever juggling to pay her bills. Although, admittedly, a working woman who lived in an enormous house. A house which she was fast coming to the conclusion she was going to have to sell.
‘I’ll walk you back,’ he said.
‘No!’ It came out more vehemently than she had intended, but really! A walk home in the moonlight with a man like Geraint Howell-Williams? Agreeing to a dream scenario like that would simply be asking for trouble!
‘And why not?’ he asked coolly.
He was very persistent, she would say that for him, although she doubted that he had ever had to use persistence with a woman before! ‘Does there have to be a reason?’ she parried. ‘Or are you implying that no woman in her right mind would refuse an invitation to have you walk her home?’
He fixed her with a steady grey gaze. ‘Did you come here with another man tonight?’
‘Do you think that I would have been dancing like that with you if I had come with another man?’ Lola demanded, instantly growing flustered. Now why had she mentioned the way they had been dancing—especially when it made his eyes gleam with such a hot, exciting look?
‘I have no idea.’ He shrugged shoulders whose breadth was emphasised by the exquisite cut of his dinner jacket. ‘Who knows what hidden agenda a woman might have when she agrees to dance with a man?’
Or vice versa, thought Lola with amusement. ‘Such as?’
He plucked two glasses of champagne from the tray of a passing waitress and handed one to Lola who took it without thinking. ‘Such as wanting to show off her figure in a clinging gown. That could easily apply to you...’
Lola, who had not intended to drink alcohol at all that evening, now took a huge, emboldening slug of the fizzy wine and was grateful for the warmth and the bravado it gave her. ‘This dress is not clinging!’ she declared, glancing down at the deep blue velvet.
There was smoky amusement in the grey eyes. ‘Oh, come on, Lola,’ he chided softly. ‘It probably wasn’t meant to be—but when you combine a sensual material like velvet with a Botticelli body clinging is what you get.’
‘You mean I look fat?’
‘I mean you look sensational,’ he murmured, sounding as though he meant it. ‘If you really want to know.’
Lola felt a rush of pleasure kick-starting at the pit of her stomach. This man whom she was trying so hard to dislike was flirting like mad with her, and right now she didn’t care!
Flustered, she swept a great handful of hair unnecessarily over her shoulder. ‘And what other reasons do women have for dancing with men?’ she queried, in an effort to stop him giving her that hungry look which was making her long to be kissed by him.
‘To make a boyfriend jealous, perhaps?’
‘But I haven’t got a boyfriend,’ said Lola instantly, and then could have kicked herself. There was no need to make herself sound as though she was desperate! Or on the shelf. Or both! ‘Not at the moment, anyway,’ she finished defiantly.
‘No,’ he said thoughtfully.
Lola found herself wishing that she could check her appearance somewhere. Was her nose shiny? Had her mascara smudged beneath her eyes? Was that why he was subjecting her to that highly disturbing, narrow-eyed scrutiny?
‘And there is, of course,’ he drawled, ‘the rather obvious reason why a woman agrees to dance with a man.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘Oh, I think you know the answer to that one.’ He gave her a long, steady look.
Lola took the look as a challenge. ‘No, I don’t.’
The grey eyes glittered. ‘That she can’t resist him, of course. That she wants to be in bed with him... and dancing is a socially acceptable substitute for sex. Sublimation,’ he finished on a mocking note, and then, as if sensing her objection, added softly, ‘You did ask, Lola.’
He was right. Perhaps it had been naive of her. But then again, there were civilised ways of answering naive questions, weren’t there? The glass froze halfway to Lola’s lips. ‘Are you trying to shock me?’
‘Why?’ he mocked, and their gazes locked for a fraught and sexually charged moment. ‘Am I succeeding?’
Not in shocking her, no—he was exciting her by saying things he had no right to be saying. It was crazy, thought Lola, how a deep voice and a sexy body could turn a normally sensible girl’s brain to jelly! ‘No comment!’ she declared firmly. ‘And I’m definitely going now!’
‘Did you drive?’
‘No, I walked.’
‘Then I am going to walk you home,’ he said, and shook his dark head firmly as he saw her open her mouth to refuse. ‘Please, Lola,’ he urged, almost huskily. ‘It’s a dark night for a woman to be out on her own.’
It was years since a man had said something so delightfully chivalrous to her, although Lola usually associated chivalry with a certain kind of innocence—and innocence was not a word which suited Geraint Howell-Williams at all!
She tipped her chin up to look him in the eye, so that her hair spilled down in mahogany spirals all over her shoulders. ‘And which, out of interest, offers me more in the way of danger?’ she challenged. ‘The dark night? Or you?’
‘You’re talking different types of danger, honey,’ he asserted, giving her a brief, hard smile—but it was an oddly disconcerting smile. ‘Though I can assure you that I will deliver you home in one piece. Does that satisfy you?’
It occurred to Lola that ‘satisfy’ was a particularly poor word to have chosen in the circumstances, but she nodded as he put their glasses down on one of the tables and guided her towards the door like a man used to being in command.
She felt her heart racing out of control. Calm down, Lola, she told herself firmly—he’s only offering to walk you home, not to trap you into a life of decadence!
She watched his hard, lean body covertly from beneath the dark sweep of her lashes and thought, most uncharacteristically, that perhaps in this case decadence might have something to commend it!
‘Did you have a coat?’ he asked as he pushed open one of the glass doors to receive the cold night air.
’N-no.’ Her teeth had begun to chatter. When she had left the house earlier it had been a deceptively warm and starry evening, but now a breeze was fluttering its cool fingers through the air.
‘Here, then—you’re cold,’ he said, frowning, and immediately removed his jacket to hang it loosely over her shoulders.
He turned left out of the tennis club towards East Road, as though he instinctively knew the way, and Lola wrinkled her nose. ‘But this is the way to my house,’ she said.
‘Don’t sound so surprised. Wasn’t the general idea to head in the direction of your house—as that’s where I’m supposed to be taking you?’
‘But I don’t remember telling you where I lived.’
‘You must have done,’ he answered quickly. ‘Or how could I have known?’
How indeed? Lola hugged his jacket closer, obsessively observing her surroundings in an effort not to concentrate on the tantalisingly subtle scents of musk and lemon which clung to his coat, but it wasn’t easy.
Huge banks of dark, glossy laurels lined the road, looming high on either side, protecting the vast houses behind them from the curious eyes of onlookers. Occasionally, there were high, impenetrable gates, bearing a stark picture of a barking guard dog that was meant to deter burglars—or curious sightseers, desperate to catch a glimpse of some of the houses and their often famous occupants.
In fact, Lola had long since decided that the word ‘house’ was a bit of a misnomer where St Fiacre’s was concerned. The smallest residence on the estate had six bedrooms, and the largest was rumoured to have twenty-two!
It was the world of the hidden camera and the stony-faced guard which so often went hand in hand with money—although the lush green acres surrounding the houses did much to compensate for the downside of extreme wealth.
She and Geraint walked side by side. Twice, cars slowed down—large, opulent and expensive cars, whose drivers were interested to know why a couple were actually walking around St Fiacre’s instead of driving!
Lola often thought that most of her neighbours wouldn’t know what to do with their hands if they weren’t holding a steering wheel!
They had almost reached the dip in the road where a branch of East Road ran up to join North Road when Lola said, pointing into a curving driveway, ‘I live here.’
He glanced up the drive to where the elegant white three-storey building sat amidst carefully manicured lawns. But instead of commenting on the house Geraint paused to look at Lola instead, his hard-boned face a series of shifting shadows cast by the pale moon and the even paler light from the stars.
‘You do realise that we’ve met before?’ he said suddenly.
Lola found that she couldn’t stop herself from smiling, ridiculously pleased that he had remembered. Of course, bearing in mind his no doubt colossal ego, she really ought to feign ignorance of him, but she dismissed the idea immediately. She wasn’t a good liar at the best of times and for some reason she baulked at the thought of Geraint finding her out in a lie!
She nodded, her glossy hair full of moonlight. ‘Yes, I do. It was on a flight out of London to Paris, wasn’t it?’
‘Ah! So you do remember.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Lola calmly.
‘But you didn’t mention it.’
Lola fixed him with a direct look. ‘Neither did you’
‘Maybe I thought that you wouldn’t remember a mere passenger—you must see thousands of men every working week.’
‘Not remember you?’ Lola gave a pale imitation of a smile. ‘Oh, come on, Mr Howell-Williams—please don’t indulge in false modesty on my account! You happen to be a very memorable man, as I’m sure countless women have told you. I remember you very well, as it happens. You kept requesting tomato juice.’
‘Heavens!’ he mocked. ‘You really do have a good memory, don’t you?’ He lifted his dark brows questioningly. ‘So why did you keep glaring at me whenever I asked you for another drink?’
Lola shifted in embarrassment. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Oh, but it does.’ In the darkness his grey eyes were as cold and as glittering as the finest marble and Lola recognised that he was the kind of man who would chip away until he’d obtained all the answers he wanted.
She decided to give in without a struggle. ‘If you must know, I suspected your motives.’
He stilled. ‘My motives?’ he asked, in an odd, quiet sort of voice. ‘Just what do you mean by that?’
Lola shook her head. ‘Really—it isn’t important.’
‘Oh, but it is,’ he contradicted her, in a voice suddenly soft with menace. ‘Tell me.’
Lola gave him a steady look, realising that the atmosphere between them had suddenly changed to a big freeze, and wondering why.
She shrugged. ‘OK. I’ll tell you if you insist. We keep the tomato juice on the bottom shelf of the trolley because it is one of our least popular drinks. Some of the male passengers seem to have cottoned on to this, and they keep asking for it so that...that...’ Her voice trailed off in embarrassment as she saw the contempt hardening his lips. Oh, why hadn’t she kept her big mouth shut?
‘So that you have to bend right down to get it?’ he finished for her acidly.
Lola blushed again. Hateful, perceptive man! ‘Well, yes,’ she admitted, the look on his face making her wish that a hole could open up in front of her and swallow her up.
‘Do you really think,’ he said witheringly, ‘that I would be reduced to resorting to such juvenile ploys? And if I did want to see your knickers I would hardly need to make myself sick through drinking excessive amounts of tomato juice. After all, those abbreviated outfits that you wear for work leave very little to the imagination!’
‘Why, you—’ Maddened beyond thinking, Lola swung her hand out to slap his face, but his reactions were much too speedy for her, and he caught her wrist easily, pulling her right up against his chest and looking down at her, his wolfish smile making his shadowed face look both intimidating and delectably kissable.
‘You what?’ he mocked. ‘Beast? Brute? Bastard? Some or all of those? Want to think badly of me, do you, Lola Hennessy? Well, why not have some thing to really focus your anger on?’
And he did what she had been wanting him to do all evening. He gathered her into his arms and crushed his mouth down on hers in a kiss which sent all her senses into overdrive.
She was aware of the sweetness, of the intimacy as their tongues locked, of the desperate need to hold onto him as tightly as possible and never let him go.
She heard the low moan he made in the back of his throat as he sought to pull her even closer against him and Lola clung onto those wide, strong shoulders, massaging them like a woman possessed, the rocky bulge of his muscles steel-hard against her fingertips.
She could feel the leanness of his abdomen against her rounded belly, and she could sense the tension in him as he shifted his weight, moving his hips in a distracted circle, which made her acutely aware of just how easily he could be turned on too.
The realisation that things were spiralling out of control was what cleared Lola’s mind from the constricting mists of desire, and the facts began to seep coldly into her brain as she forced herself to remember how he had insulted her.
And yet here she was allowing herself to be meekly compromised by necking in a bush with him!
Angrily, she pushed him away. I don’t know what you think you‘re—’
‘Oh, spare me the hysterics, do,’ he interrupted calmly, and then he actually yawned—although Lola was convinced that it was deliberate! ‘When will you women realise that it really doesn’t count if you declare your unwillingness after the event? Particularly,’ he drawled insultingly, ‘when your willingness to participate was overwhelming at the time.’
His grey eyes glinted with remembered pleasure. ‘That was some kiss,’ he murmured softly, his eyes narrowing as he looked down at her, seeming taken aback by the dazed look on her face. And some of the abrasiveness had left his voice when he said, ‘Come on—I’ll walk you to the door.’
For about ten seconds Lola was completely speechless and then she made up for it. ‘Do you really think that I would let you anywhere near my house after that?’ she spluttered indignantly.
‘Why ever not?’ He looked perplexed.
‘Because I’m not used to being man-handled by jumped-up Lotharios who think that caveman tactics will have a woman swooning in their arms every time!’
‘And you are claiming not to have enjoyed my so-called caveman tactics?’ he drawled, his eyes glittering as he recalled that Lola had done exactly that. ‘I rest my case,’ he added insultingly as her hot, guilty cheeks added fuel to his argument.
