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‘You sexist pig!’
He shrugged. ‘What’s sexist about admiring your legs? You were admiring mine—’
‘I was not!’ declared Lola heatedly.
‘Is anything the matter, sir?’
Stuart had glided silently up to Geraint’s seat and he shot Lola a questioning look as her heart sank.
Wait for it, she thought. He’s going to say goodness only knows what about me, and I won’t have a leg to stand on! The passenger in front must have heard me calling Geraint a sexist pig, and we are taught never, never, never—no matter what the provocation—to insult the passenger!
She sighed resignedly as she saw Geraint open his mouth to speak and blanked from her mind the inevitable scene as she imagined him relating her rudeness to the purser.
Thank heavens for my inheritance, she thought, with a fleeting flash of humour. At least I’ll be able to sell the house and live off the interest until I decide what I want to do with the rest of my life...
‘How lovely!’ Stuart was beaming at her, his face wreathed with unfamiliar smiles.
‘L-lovely?’ stumbled Lola in confusion. ‘What’s lovely?’
‘That you’re having dinner with Mr Howell-Williams tonight.’
Lola narrowed her eyes and was challenged by a spectacular grey gaze. ‘I am having dinner with Mr Howell-Williams?’ she repeated incredulously. ‘Tonight?’
Stuart looked slightly bewildered. ‘Well, that’s what he said—’
‘Oh, Lola likes to play hard to get,’ came a voice of silky amusement with an underlying hint of steel. ‘Don’t you, sweetheart?’
Stuart nearly dropped his bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon at the easy familiarity conjured up by the word ‘sweetheart’. ‘So you two know each other?’ he quizzed eagerly.
‘We’re neighbours,’ Geraint revealed.
‘Oh.’ Stuart seemed fascinated by this. ‘You live at St Fiacre’s too, do you?’
Geraint smiled. ‘Only for the time being, until I find a place I like enough to want to buy. I’m renting my friend Dominic Dashwood’s house—he’s gone away for the winter.’
Barbados, probably, thought Lola, or somewhere equally exotic. Dominic Dashwood was the neighbour she hardly ever saw, and he made other rich men look like paupers. His wealth was legendary—but not nearly as legendary as his reputation and appetite for beautiful women.
Stuart beamed at Lola,. ‘You should have said that you knew each other! Mind you,’ he confided to Geraint, ‘our Lola always gets on exceptionally well with the passengers! Gets more invitations to dinner than anyone else on the craft—and the occasional surprise present from a passenger!’ He winked at Lola, and moved away down the aisle.
‘Oh, does she?’ asked Geraint tonelessly, scarcely seeming to notice that Stuart had left, and for a moment Lola was aware of an odd look in his narrowed grey eyes. A fierce, intent kind of look. Just for a moment there Geraint Howell-Williams had looked almost... almost... bitter...
‘There’s no rule against accepting gifts from passengers!’ Lola stated, extremely irritated by that critical look on his face, which made her sound much more flippant than she usually did. And which, she realised, had the unfortunate effect of making herself sound like some kind of second-rate gold-digger!
The flippancy made him wince, and Lola was aware of an unsettling feeling of disquiet stealing over her, as if his disapproval of her somehow diminished her in her own eyes.
‘And that’s your main criterion for living, is it?’ he questioned quietly. ‘That if there is no rule against it then it must be OK?’
‘Please don’t put words into my mouth,’ returned Lola softly.
He studied her face for a moment before speaking. ‘I don’t intend to. I intend to put food into your mouth instead. What time shall I pick you up tonight?’
But Lola shook her head, hoping that her reluctance to do what she knew to be the right thing did not show. ‘I don’t think that’s such a good idea, do you?’
His mouth thinned into something resembling a smile. ‘Why else would I suggest it?’
Lola looked up and down the cabin quickly, to check that none of the other staff were in earshot, and then she lowered her voice. ‘Look-perhaps I gave you the wrong idea last night—’
‘That would depend on your definition of “wrong”, surely, Lola?’ he demurred softly. ‘I certainly had no problem with your behaviour last night—’
‘I’ll bet you didn’t!’ Lola snapped, her cheeks growing hot as she remembered her virtual surrender in his arms. ‘And if I hadn’t stopped it who knows where we would have ended up?’
‘I hardly think you need the brains of Einstein to work that one out for yourself,’ he responded drily.
Lola felt her fingers itching frantically and in that moment longed to slap him.
It was extraordinary. She had tried to slap him last night, too—that had been how the kiss had started. She, normally the most peaceable of people, had started exhibiting the most uncharacteristic behaviour!
Just why did she react so violently and so uniquely to this one particular man? Would an analyst say that the violence was a substitute for sex—because subconsciously she desired him, even though there was something about him which made her wonder whether she could trust him?
She took a deep breath and hoped that she was managing to present a calm, neutral face. ‘The aircraft is full, and I’m very busy. So would you please excuse me now, Mr Howell-Williams—unless you’ve decided what you want me to get you?’
‘Tomato juice, please,’ he said, deadpan, and Lola pursed her lips.
‘Are you trying to be funny?’
‘Well, I was, yes,’ he admitted, and gave her a heart-stopping grin.
And it was that grin which proved her absolute undoing. She actually began to dimple back at him—her face soon lit up by a huge, helpless smile. ‘I’d better go and get your drink—’
He stayed her with nothing more than a look—cool and provocative and very, very assured. Lola would have defied anyone to resist a look like that.
‘I don’t want a drink,’ he said quietly. ‘I just want you to agree to have dinner with me tonight.’
Lola felt goose-bumps jump up all over her skin. She had a powerful premonition of just how vulnerable she might be to this man’s exceptional allure. That was, if she let herself... She opened her mouth to refuse, but Geraint pre-empted her.
‘And what if I tell the purser you were being outrageously rude to me just now?’ he mused. ‘And accused me of being a sexist pig. And that now you’re refusing to allow me the opportunity to clear my name?’
‘That’s called blackmail,’ protested Lola, but only half-heartedly.
‘That’s called getting your own way,’ he corrected her.
‘Which I suppose you always do?’
He gave an unrepentant smile. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think it’s about time someone turned you down,’ she told him fiercely.
‘For my own good?’ he mocked.
Lola shrugged. ‘Perhaps.’
‘And you think you could be that person?’
She gave him a level look, her sky-blue eyes dazzling him. ‘Why not?’
‘Because I’m not going to take no for an answer, that’s why. Not from you. So what have you got to say about that, Lola Hennessy?’
It was a pointless question when accompanied by a glittering look of approbation which would have made the most committed man-hater melt into submission! It was like asking a prisoner if they would like to taste freedom again!
Lola found Geraint Howell-Williams outrageously attractive, yes, but highly disturbing too. She sensed that sexually he was light years ahead of her, but the reason for her disquiet went deeper than that.
For there was an almost tangible air of danger about him, a danger which surrounded him like an aura and yet only added to his buccaneer-like appeal. She could almost imagine him in a billowing white shirt, a gleaming sword held aloft as he fought off invaders!
She swallowed the image down; it was inexplicably making her want to kiss him again.
‘Lola?’ he prompted, his voice a throaty caress. ‘Are you going to have dinner with me tonight?’
‘Yes, I am,’ she told him without hesitation, because at that precise moment—rightly or wrongly—it was what she wanted more than anything else in the world.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_53a2cc3f-828e-5278-bc7e-e10078f2bb85)
‘SO WHAT are you going to wear for this date of the century?’ Mamie yelled.
Lola made an ugly face at herself in the mirror. ‘That’s the trouble—I don’t know!’ She pulled the belt of her towelling robe even tighter and walked out of the bathroom into the rather luxurious room which Atalanta Airlines had assigned to her. Situated slap bang in the middle of the city centre, the New Rome Hotel commanded a magnificent view over the ancient capital.
Lola and Mamie had checked in just over an hour ago, and now Marnie was sitting on Lola’s bed, drinking a very large gin and tonic and ploughing through the bowl of courtesy nuts with the dedicated air of an animal preparing for hibernation.
She looked up as Lola strolled into the bedroom, and winced. ‘Haven’t you overdone the scent a bit?’
Lola, who had used enough bath oil to fill the hotel swimming pool, wrinkled her nose. ‘Oh, it’ll fade,’ she said confidently.
Mamie shook her head as Lola began to rub vigorously at her hair with a towel. ‘And I can’t believe you washed your hair. You know how thick it is—you’ll never get it dry in time!’
‘Gee, thanks! You’re supposed to be here to encourage me, not to add to my nerves!’ said Lola. She pulled on a pair of white cotton knickers, turning to look in another mirror and automatically sucking her stomach in as she did so. Still podgy, she thought in despair. ‘Should I wear my scarlet dress, do you think? Or the black? Which makes me look thinner?’
Mamie raised her eyes heavenwards. ‘Do you want to fall into bed with him in the first ten minutes?’
‘Of course I don’t!’
Mamie shrugged. ‘There’s no need to look so outraged.’
‘Oh, isn’t there?’ Lola glared at her friend indignantly. ‘Do you think I always hop into bed with men on the first date?’
Mamie smiled. ‘Of course I don’t! But then you don’t go out on dates with men who look like Geraint Howell-Williams very often.’
‘And what’s so special about Geraint Howell-Williams?’ demanded Lola hotly. ‘He just happens to be richer and better-looking than most men, that’s all.’
‘No!’ Marnie shook her head with all the wisdom of her two years’ seniority over Lola. ‘That’s not all. It’s much more than that—and you’ve got to be careful, Lola!’
‘Careful?’
Marnie nodded. ‘How can I put it? I know! If all men are tadpoles—’
‘I like the comparison!’ quipped Lola immediately.
Marnie silenced her with a look. ‘Then Geraint Howell-Williams is the killer shark!’ she finished dramatically. ‘Dangerous. Experienced. Downright gorgeous. Irresistible. Do you see what I mean, Lola?’
‘I wasn’t aware that sharks were gorgeous and irresistible,’ joked Lola. ‘Perhaps I should take up marine science!’
‘Stop it—I’m serious! I don’t trust him! He’s too hunky for his own good!’
‘I asked for advice on my choice of gown, not a character assassination of my escort,’ answered Lola airily.
‘All right—I’ll give you my advice! Don’t wear the black or the scarlet—’
‘But—’
‘Wear nothing but sackcloth—and if you don’t have sackcloth then reach for the dullest, most uninspiring outfit in your suitcase. Whatever you would choose to wear to tea with your most shockable maiden aunt, add an all-enveloping cardigan to it! Put on thick stockings and flat shoes for good measure. Oh, and don’t wear any make-up! That way Geraint Howell-Williams will not look at you with lust in his eyes, and you will not be tempted into gaining carnal knowledge of him!’
‘Thanks for nothing!’ groaned Lola as she flicked through the contents of her wardrobe. ‘I don’t want to look as though I’m trying too hard—but then again I do want to look my best. A woman has her pride to think about,’ she defended herself staunchly as she saw Marnie’s eyes narrow suspiciously.
In the end, she simply wore her hair loose to give it a chance to dry properly, and chose a trouser suit in butter-cream silk, with wide pyjama-style trousers which fastened tightly at her ankles, and a jacket fashioned like a frock-coat.
Like most of her silk clothes, she had had it made up for her on a trip to Hong Kong, but she had only worn it once before, for the simple reason that it attracted dirt like a seven-year-old schoolboy!
She did a twirl in the centre of the room. ‘What do you think?’
Marnie was uncharacteristically silent for a moment. Then she said, ‘You look stunning, Lola,’ and added in a worried voice, ‘You will be careful, won’t you?’
‘Of course I’ll be careful! Stop sounding as though we’re bit-players in a spy movie!’
‘Where’s he taking you?’
Lola tried and failed to keep the glee out of her voice. ‘The Mimosa.’
Marnie scowled. ‘I don’t want to be impressed—but I am! You lucky, lucky thing—I’ve always wanted to eat there but it costs more than a year’s salary! And Rob says that even if he was loaded he wouldn’t spend that kind of money on a meal, on principle. What time is he collecting you?’
Lola glanced down at the watch which gleamed discreetly on her wrist. ‘Oh, my goodness!’ she squeaked. ‘Right now!’
Marnie held her hand up authoritatively. ‘Then let him wait! It would do a man like that good to be kept waiting!’ she added darkly.
So Lola made herself wait for five minutes which seemed to tick away like five hours before she set off downstairs to find him. He was easily located in the hotel lobby and her eyes were drawn instantly to his dark, elegant body.
He was lounging in one of the squashy leather sofas with his long legs stretched out in front of him, his head resting back on his hands so that those narrowed slate-grey eyes missed nothing.
He saw her immediately and stood up with a kind of unconscious animal grace which had more than one female head swivelling eagerly in his direction.
He was wearing an unstructured suit in a won-derful shade of pale grey, and the loose-fitting cut of the jacket and trousers was somehow the sexiest thing that Lola had ever seen.
