Sharon Kendrick Collection

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—’

‘Don’t you?’ he mocked softly. ‘Then what a shockingly boring life you must have led.’ His grey eyes locked with hers in an irresistible and yet somehow disquieting challenge.

‘I agree!’ she returned, with a sweet smile. ‘And standing here talking to you is just about as boring as it can get!’

Lola watched as for one swift, disconcerting moment his eyes darkened with an intensity of emotion which puzzled her hugely. She had made him angry, yes. Had she managed to wound his pride too? And, if so, might he at least now have the grace to look a little apologetic?

No way, she quickly realised. The anger had vanished, and so had the dark, intense look. And surprisingly all that was left was laughter—a reluctant kind of laughter which lurked in the depths of his grey eyes.

‘I don’t believe I bore you, Lola,’ he told her softly. ‘I believe that boredom is the very last thing on your mind right now!’

Oh, the arrogance of the man! Lola might have laughed if she hadn’t been so outraged by his inflated opinion of himself! ‘You find that such an improbable concept, do you?’ she queried coolly. ‘That a woman should find you boring?’

‘I do when she is demonstrating all the obvious signs of sexual attraction,’ he mused.

‘That’s probably just wishful thinking on your part!’ retorted Lola instantly, then wished she hadn’t.

He smiled, but it was the kind of smile that all the bad guys in films possessed—it didn’t make the corners of his eyes go all crinkly, and it didn’t have any degree of warmth in it either. Again, Lola felt that uncomfortable chill creep across the surface of her skin.

‘Is it? Does wishful thinking manage to manufacture eyes which keep darkening with passion, or lips that automatically soften and part in anticipation of being kissed?’ he drawled silkily. ‘As yours are doing right now?’

To her horror, Lola suddenly felt absolutely weak with longing as the deep, sensual words seemed to orchestrate her response. The fairly sensible, middle-of-the-road woman she considered herself to be had suddenly been replaced by a pathetic, swooning wimp! ‘St-stop it,’ she implored, despising herself for sounding so feeble but unable to do anything about it.

He shook his dark head. ‘But you don’t want me to stop it, do you? That’s just the trouble. You like it, Lola. And you like me. Your body is telling me just how much, isn’t it?’

And his eyes lazily flicked over her, lingering with undisguised interest on her breasts in a way that Lola would have found intolerable if any other man had done it. But she did not find it intolerable when Geraint Howell-Williams did it.

Beneath the dress of lapis lazuli velvet which made her blue eyes even bluer, Lola could feel her body betraying her, flowering beneath the approbation and the hunger in his eyes. She felt her breasts grow heavy and full, the tips begin to prickle with a kind of delicious ache which was actually more uncomfortable than enjoyable.

Because Lola recognised that there was only one way of taking that terrible aching away and that, astonishingly and shockingly, she wanted Geraint to touch her...

‘Do you normally behave like this towards women you have only just met?’ she demanded, her knees now weak with wanting.

‘Never,’ he responded softly, clearly mesmerised by the jutting thrust of her breasts against the rich material of her dress. ‘Do you normally react in this way to men you have only just met?’

Lola dragged a deep, determined breath into her lungs. ‘I think I’d better get out of here,’ she told him breathlessly. ‘Before one of us says something really offensive—’

‘You’re in no state to go anywhere,’ he responded wryly as he looked down at her searchingly, the stormy eyes narrowing in surprise at her wide eyes and flushed face. ‘Here, give me that.’

‘That’ was the glass she was clutching as if it were a lifeline, and smoothly—masterfully—he managed to remove the forgotten tonic from her hand and deposit it on a nearby table, then slowly pull her into his arms before she had time to make a protest.

‘Geraint, please...’ she whispered, aware of a tiny pull of pleasure as she said his name for the first time, and she found herself wanting to say it over and over again, as though it were some life-sustaining mantra.

‘Please what?’ he responded softly, his mouth pressed against her hair.

‘Please let go of me.’

‘If I do you’ll fall.’ His voice deepened. ‘Won’t you?’

’N-no, I won’t,’ she answered uncertainly, realising that she was actually enjoying the rather scary feeling of being this much out of control.

‘Try it,’ he suggested, and loosened his hands from where they had been holding her by the waist, and Lola actually felt herself sway, like a flu victim just out of bed for the first time. She wondered if she might have slithered to the floor, had he not renewed his hold on her with a steely strength that made Lola feel weaker than she had ever felt in her life.

‘See?’ he challenged softly.

Oh, yes, Lola saw all right. She saw that she had been sending out entirely the wrong messages to Geraint Howell-Williams since she had first clapped eyes on him tonight.

Or maybe—just maybe—she had been sending out the right messages, and he was just clever enough to pick up on them, realise that she was hopelessly infatuated, and then capitalise on that by having her almost swooning in his arms.

‘Relax,’ he urged softly. ‘Just enjoy the music.’

For a moment she did as he suggested. She gave in to temptation and to feeling, loving the exciting warm circle of his arms, the way his head rested so easily against hers.

She forgot all about the band playing and listened to the infinitely more spellbinding music of his body.

The beat of his heart. The rhythm of his breathing. The almost unconscious little thrust of his pelvis as he allowed himself to respond to the saxophonist who was the band’s only saving grace.

She knew that she ought to move, that a dance with a stranger should not be this intimate, and yet, to all intents and purposes, the dance was not intimate. They were just a man and a woman swaying loosely in each other’s arms, as others were all around them.

So this sensation of almost drowning in sweet, drenching pleasure—was this unique to her? Did this dance feel like any other to Geraint Howell-Williams? Lola wondered. Because it sure as hell didn’t to her! At that moment, drifting in his arms, she felt as though she was starring in every love story ever written.

Love story?

Her adolescent little fantasies brought Lola back to her senses with a start, and as the number trailed off with one final, lingering throb of the saxophone she took a deep breath and looked up at him.

‘Th-thank you for the dance,’ she said falteringly.

The grey eyes were enigmatic as he dropped his hands from where they had been lightly holding her hips. ‘My pleasure.’

‘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.’