Читать книгу: «Sharon Kendrick Collection»

CHAPTER ONE

‘PINCH me, quick! Who the hell is he?’

‘No idea—but just watch me find out!’

Lola, who had been shamelessly listening in to this conversation, watched as the two women tottered across the clubhouse towards the object of their desire.

And then her heart missed a beat. Or rather it missed several.

Lola blinked as the man glanced up and looked at her. And just carried on looking.

It was the classic, corny situation—the kind that Lola had read about in books and had never really believed could happen.

Well, it was happening now, and to her! Eyes meeting across a crowded room and all the things that went with it whether you liked it or not—the heightened awareness and the not so subtle body language which shrieked out mutual attraction.

Lola recognised him immediately. But he wouldn’t recognise her; of that she was certain. People never did! Lola was an air stewardess, and once she changed out of her uniform she was anonymous—it went hand in hand with the job!

She swallowed, unable to tear her eyes away from him.

As well as being the most outrageously attractive man in the room, he was making no effort to disguise his rather bored indifference. With eyes like storm clouds he was moodily surveying the proceedings as if he would rather be somewhere else.

Well, you and me both, buddy, thought Lola, with a touch of defiance!

She usually adored parties—the fact that she was invited to so many was one of the perks of her job with the airline—but this party was slightly different.

For a start she knew no one.

Everyone seemed to be standing around in large, impenetrable groups which didn’t look particularly welcoming. And she didn’t really feel like going up to one of them and saying in her best stewardess voice, ‘Hi, I’m Lola—who are you?’

The man with the stormy eyes was in the middle of just such a clique, and a scrumptious-looking blonde who had clearly poured herself into her black, sequinned dress without much thought of how she was going to get out of it was gazing into his eyes as if all her Christmases had come at once. And she wasn’t the only one. He seemed to have that hypnotic effect on just about every female in the room.

Lola could see exactly why.

He wasn’t precisely what you’d call good-looking, she decided, not in a boring, even-featured sort of way. His nose looked as though it had been broken—probably on the rugby field, thought Lola as she took in the broad, strong shoulders. But the imperfection only seemed to add to the rather devastating overall attractiveness of his face.

His mouth was sublime—he had the most sensual lips that Lola had ever seen—but there was an unmistakably hard, almost cruel curve to its corners which hinted at a powerful, sexual mastery which Lola loathed herself for finding attractive.

His shoulders were broad, as she had already noted, and his legs were long, and you could sense, rather than see, that every muscle in his hard-packed, spectacular body had been honed to perfection.

This was no rich, pretty boy, thought Lola, with the sense of being in the presence of someone remarkable; this was a real man—tough and strong and uncompromising. Unwillingly, she felt the first faint stirrings of desire.

The man glanced up from listening to the blonde bombshell who was now whispering excitedly into his ear, and, much to Lola’s fury, caught her watching him again.

He raised one quizzical black brow in a look which somehow managed to be both insulting and yet captivating, and Lola angrily stared down into her glass, which contained nothing more exciting than tonic water with a piece of lemon bobbing around in it.

Arrogant so-and-so! she thought disparagingly. And you are not to look at him again. He’s the kind of man who will misinterpret even one look—and have you down under his favourite category: easily seduced!

The buzz of party conversation, fuelled by ever increasing amounts of alcohol, was gradually getting louder and louder. More for something to do than because she was interested in the music, Lola moved towards the front of the stage, where the band who had been hired for the evening were now tuning up, and wondered how soon she could politely make her escape.

She had been awake since five a.m. this morning, and had only arrived back from Vienna an hour ago. Common sense made her wonder why she had bothered to come at all.

Simple. She had come because she had been invited by the Residents’ Association of the plush St Fiacre’s Hill estate.

St Fiacre’s Hill was the most amazing place to live, and she herself, unbelievably, was now a resident there—thanks to the totally unexpected generosity of one of Lola’s airline passengers who had taken a great big shine to her—and left her a house on one of the most exclusive developments in England!

She had come tonight because even after six months of living there she still did not really feel part of the luxury estate, and because sometimes she suspected that she never would.

But one thing was certain—she never would fit in if she shunned the events which studded the busy St Fiacre’s social calendar.

Which was why she was standing awkwardly and alone in the ultra-plush clubhouse, wishing that she were safely tucked up at home in bed. Alone!

A pretty boring ambition for a twenty-five-year-old, she thought wryly as she took another sip of tonic, then winced because it tasted flat and stale.

‘That looks as if it could do with a new lease of life,’ came a deep-voiced, confident observation from just behind Lola’s left shoulder, and she knew without looking that it was the man with the stormy grey eyes.

She forced herself to turn slowly, to meet what turned out to be a predictably mocking gaze, and gave him a steady and deliberate ‘You-don’t-impress -me’ kind of look, though in this case it was difficult because the man exuded a kind of earthy sensuality which made Lola’s breath catch in the back of her throat.

In her job as a flight attendant, she met gorgeous men every single day of her life—although, admittedly, they weren’t usually this gorgeous. Men who had women eating out of their hands like pussycats. Men whom Lola avoided like the plague. Men like this equalled heartbreak!

‘What does?’ she answered rather coolly, just as the lead guitarist chose that moment to break one of his strings. ‘The guitar?’

He shot her a deadpan look. ‘Actually, I’m clean out of guitar strings,’ he murmured, in the most amazing voice that Lola had ever heard—it was soft and deep and dark, with an attractive, almost musical lilt underlying it. ‘But no, that wasn’t what I had in mind.’

Something about the clean-cut sensuality of his mouth affected Lola in a very frightening and fundamental way. She felt tiny shivers of awareness skate tingling little pathways across her skin, and such a primitive, physical response to a man she did not know brought all her self-protective instincts to the fore.

In her job she observed human nature at close quarters most days and she knew that predatory men were intimidated by women who gave as good as they got. Even so, it still took an effort to make her voice stay calm as she said, ‘And just what did you have in mind?’ Which was, of course, the very worst thing she could have said!

‘Oughtn’t we at least be introduced before I start propositioning you?’ he mocked, the mouth hardening into a sexy line.

So he didn’t recognize her! He had no recollection of her bending forward, with her brightest smile, to put his drink down in front of him on the aircraft table.

For some reason, Lola felt slightly let down by this. There was nothing so insulting as not being noticed!

Ignoring the proposition bit, she held her hand out towards him. ‘Lola Hennessy,’ she said as evenly as she could, which was a bit difficult when confronted by that thoughtful stare.

‘Lola,’ he said slowly, and took the proffered hand in a firm grasp that felt quite wonderful. ‘Is that your real name?’

Lola shook her dark head. It was, at least, an improvement on the usual comment—most people assumed she had been named after the pop song! ‘I was christened Dolores.’

He nodded. ‘Yes,’ he murmured. ‘Lola is the pet form, isn’t it? So is Lolita.’ His grey gaze was ironic as his deep voice caressed the word. ‘Do they never call you Lolita?’

She gave him a steady look. ‘Lolita was a fictional nymphet,’ she answered acidly. ‘Are you trying to make a point?’

‘No, I’m not,’ he drawled, mocking amusement lighting the depths of the stormy eyes. ‘And besides, you’re a little too old to be classified as nymphet, aren’t you?’

It was hardly surprising, in the circumstances, that she should blush, and blushing only added to the feeling of intense vulnerability which had been present since he had first started talking to her. However, at least Lola had a pale olive tint to her skin, which masked the colour far more than a classic English rose complexion would have done.

‘Yes,’ she answered shortly, and tried to freeze him with an angry look which would have had a lesser man scuttling off in the opposite direction. ‘Much too old.’

But he seemed unmoved by her embarrassment, and uncaring of her anger—and instead allowed a grey gaze that was now cool rather than stormy to rove speculatively over her.

‘And you look like a Dolores,’ he remarked suddenly. ‘With that mane of curly brown-black hair and skin which looks as creamy as the best cappuccino. But your eyes should be dark, shouldn’t they? Mysterious and black. Yet yours are blue. Bright blue. The blue of a Mediterranean sky.’

Lola met many men in her job, but she had never met anyone who was quite so self-assured as this man—and she found herself stung into defence. ‘I’m an odd mixture,’ she found herself telling him. ‘Mum says she doesn’t know where I get it from.’ And then she looked down to discover that he was still holding onto her fingertips, in a parody of a handshake!

His grey eyes followed the direction of her gaze, to where her hand lay so acquiescently against his. ‘And what else are you going to tell me about yourself, Lola Hennessy—other than the fact that the touch of my hand makes yours tremble with awareness—?’

Furiously, she snatched her hand away. ‘Or revulsion, perhaps?’

He laughed. ‘I don’t think so. Unless your eyes are lying, of course.’

She pretended to consider this, both invigorated and unsettled by the game she was allowing herself to play. ‘And do you think that is possible?’ she queried. ‘For the eyes to be able to lie?’

‘I don’t just think so, I know so. Deception is an art which can be learned through practice just like any other.’

Lola felt like a child who had tentatively dipped her toe into a puddle and become submerged right up to her neck. ‘There speaks a true cynic,’ she observed caustically.

He shrugged his wide shoulders, and a look of faint surprise crossed the dark, handsome face. ‘I’m thirty-four,’ he stated, with an air of finality. ‘Therefore I am a cynic.’

Lola laughed nervously as she mentally worked out that he was nine years older than she was. ‘And why should that follow?’

His eyes were smoky with a kind of regret. ‘Because I have seen enough of life, and of women, to know that there are few surprises left. But even cynics are interested in young women who send out such mixed messages. Or should I say especially cynics...?’

His voice held a slumberous quality now, and to her horror Lola found herself imagining what that voice would sound like first thing in the morning, all husky and heavy with sleep.

‘And do I?’ she ventured boldly. ‘Send out mixed messages?’

‘Most certainly you do.’

‘How?’ she asked, even though something inside her urged her to walk away from him. Before he snared her completely in the silken bonds of his charm.

He lowered his voice, as if he recognised that the question had been unwise. ‘You recognise the danger in me, and you want to dislike me—even, perhaps, hate me,’ he stated huskily. ‘But you can’t quite bring yourself to, can you, Lola?’

And he was absolutely right, damn him! Lola adopted the unstressed, unflappable smile she usually reserved for passengers who had been hitting the duty-free in a big way. ‘Why on earth should I want to dislike you?’

The laughter which had lurked at the depths of the grey eyes disappeared and Lola was taken aback by how hard his face suddenly looked. And how cold. ‘I have absolutely no idea,’ he answered slowly, and his eyes narrowed into cool, granite chips.

Lola registered that her heart was racing, that the blood was thundering in her head in a most uncomfortable and unwelcome way. What would he do, she wondered, if she told him that the reason why she was reacting so bizarrely and so uniquely was because at the ripe old age of twenty-five she was experiencing an overwhelming desire to be in his arms and to have him crush his mouth down on hers?

Lola shivered, acknowledging her relative inexperience with men, despite working in the seemingly glamorous air travel industry.

Oh, she had been attracted to men in the past—of course she had. She had even come very close to having a proper love-affair. But she had never experienced feelings like this before. These dark, powerful, grown-up stirrings were a whole new and rather frightening ball game.

And she could not have chosen a worse candidate to be wildly attracted to—a rich, arrogant, gorgeous cynic! Lola was not an idiot, and she knew without someone having to tell her that this man was way, way out of her reach!

His voice had now dropped to a velvet caress. ‘So tell me, Lola Hennessy, just why you dislike me so.’

Sure! And boost his already massive ego still further? She was full of tricks like that! Lola gave him a bemused stare before delivering a gentle put-down. ‘How could I possibly dislike you, for heaven’s sake? I don’t even know you.’

Had he guessed that her indifference was feigned? Was that why his stormy eyes were now sending out shadowy messages which made another shiver of foreboding tiptoe its way up Lola’s spine?

‘Well, that’s one thing that is easily remedied,’ he replied silkily. ‘I’m Geraint Howell-Williams,’ he said, and his slate-grey eyes narrowed by a fraction as he waited for her reaction.

He was obviously someone, thought Lola—that much was evident just from his appearance—but did that infinitesimal pause after he had introduced himself mean she should have heard of him?

Arrogant so-and-so! Even if she had heard of him she would have pretended not to have! ‘How do you do, Mr Howell-Williams?’ she responded, her reply coming out all wooden and formal, and she saw his mouth harden very briefly before dazzling her with the most transfixing smile that Lola had ever encountered.

There was a hint of wicked amusement lurking in the depths of those eyes now. ‘Oh, call me Geraint, please,’ he murmured.

‘If you insist,’ she answered stiffly.

‘I wouldn’t dream of insisting,’ he mocked softly. ‘I’ve always found persuasion to be a much more effective tool.’

Now that she could believe! One more dazzling smile like the one he had displayed earlier and Lola could easily imagine being persuaded into doing almost anything he wanted...

‘I’m sure you have,’ she said softly, a wry note to her voice, and their eyes met for a moment of complete understanding, which left Lola feeling slightly shaken...

He threw her a thoughtful look. ‘This is some building,’ he commented slowly, as if determined to put the conversation back on a more conventional footing.

‘Yes, it is.’ Lola dutifully looked around the clubhouse, taking in the high white moulded ceiling and the pale marble pillars which gleamed so discreetly. On each pillar was mounted the distinctive navy blue St Fiacre’s crest, lavishly embossed with golden dragons and unicorns and vine leaves.

‘It looks less like a tennis club and more like a Greek temple—and an exceptionally sumptuous temple, to boot!’ Lola observed rather drily. ‘It must have cost an absolute fortune to build!’

‘I’m sure it did. But this is, after all, St Fiacre’s,’ he observed rather drily. ‘Where fortunes are ten-a-penny.’

‘You sound as if you don’t approve,’ she commented curiously.

‘Do I?’ He gave a brief shake of his dark head before fixing her with a steady look. ‘I was simply making an observation,’ he demurred softly. ‘Not a value judgement. If I disapproved of wealth and its occasional excesses, then I wouldn’t be here tonight, now would I?’

‘I suppose not,’ answered Lola, wondering what it was about him that made her skin alternately hot and cold as she veered between finding him distinctly dangerous and finding him almost irresistible—which was far more worrying!

‘So, Lola...’ he smiled ‘...now that we have the formalities out of the way, what would you like to do next? Eat?’

Before he had breezed over, Lola’s stomach had been rumbling loud enough to rival the London Philharmonic Orchestra, but now, astonishingly, it was silent. And her appetite had completely deserted her.

A first indeed! Perhaps if she stayed in this man’s company for long enough she might be able to zip up her black skirt before next Christmas!

‘I’m not hungry,’ she said.

‘Oh, Lo-la, you disappoint me,’ he drawled softly. ‘One of the things that makes you stand out from all the other women in this room is that you look as though you really take pleasure in eating.’

Lola glowered. ‘There’s no need to make me sound like a strapping great beast of the fields!’

He laughed. ‘That wasn’t my intention at all.’ His grey eyes flicked briefly over her body. ‘I’m sure that enough men have commented favourably on those lus-cious curves before me.’

There it was again. That lilting and unsettling way he had of addressing her—Lola couldn’t quite make out whether that last remark had been an insult or not. Or what the way he looked at her actually meant. It was as though he couldn’t quite make up his mind whether to dislike her or to...to...

Lola shook her head to rid herself of the horrifyingly erotic vision which had crept into her mind, which involved a lot of very old-fashioned macho behaviour, such as Geraint Howell-Williams throwing her over his shoulder, and then, then...

Besides, he should not make comments like that to someone he had never met before. Well, they had met, when she had served him with drinks en route to Paris a couple of weeks ago, but clearly he did not, as she had anticipated, remember her.

Being an air hostess was a bit like being a nurse—you all looked pretty much the same in uniform! And the passenger who had chatted away to you quite happily during a flight would usually stare at you blankly if you encountered him or her outside the confines of the craft or airport.

The surprising thing was that it usually worked the other way round, too, and Lola rarely recognised her passengers once they were off the aircraft.

But Geraint Howell-Williams was different. You would not need to be a genius to acknowledge that he was the type of man who, once seen, would never be forgotten...

Lola’s eyes glittered. ‘Actually, no,’ she contradicted him now icily. ‘Men do not usually comment on my figure, curves or otherwise. For a start, I don’t encourage personal remarks—’