Waiting For Mr. Wonderful!. Stephanie Howard

      There was no arguing with that, but, as Georgia told her now, ‘I’m still not as convinced as you are that he’s actually on the level.’ For, though she intended keeping the appointment at his hotel this afternoon, she still had a few lingering doubts about Jean-Claude Lasalle.

      ‘I don’t even know who he is, for heaven’s sake. In spite of what he was saying, he could still be one of Duval’s men. I mean, why on earth would someone suddenly show up like that, completely out of the blue, offering to help me? Maybe it’s all just an elaborate scheme to try and trick me. Today could turn out to be a total waste of time.’

      ‘Never.’ Kay was incorrigible. ‘How could a meeting with a man like that ever turn out to be a total waste of time?’ She fixed Georgia with a narrow look, half joking, half serious. ‘Who knows? This could finally be the Mr Wonderful you’ve been waiting for.’

      ‘Yes, and pigs might fly.’ At least Georgia was sure about one thing. Jean-Claude Lasalle was a pretty tasty packet of goods, but there was no way in the world he was going to turn out to be Mr Wonderful!

      The Mr Wonderful thing was a joke that had grown up between her and Kay—who was her good friend as well as her valued assistant. Kay kept telling her it was time she found herself a man.

      ‘Work’s not everything,’ she would chide her. ‘You need a love life as well.’

      ‘You happily married people are all the same,’ Georgia would counter, for Kay had been blissfully married to Eddie for seven and a half years. ‘But I’m not looking for a man. Right now, work suits me fine.’

      In a way, it was true. For the past three and a half years, since throwing open the bright blue doors of Georgia D—with only a scarily hefty bank loan and a bucketful of ambition to prop her up—the huge amount of work involved in making the business a success had absorbed a vast chunk of both her time and her emotions. Of course, there’d been men on the scene. But never anyone serious. None of them had ever amounted to more than the occasional pleasant dinner date.

      Sometimes, she felt the lack, as she occasionally confessed to Kay, but the plain truth was she simply hadn’t met a man who’d even half tempted her to start getting serious.

      ‘Your problem is,’ Kay had once observed wisely, ‘that you’re not looking for Mr Right, you’re looking for Mr Wonderful.’ And maybe, Georgia had to confess, she was right.

      A man who’ll sweep me off my feet and turn my whole head inside out and fill my life with love and magic and excitement. Passion. Fire. Enchantment. Wonder. I’m crazy, she often told herself, but that really is what I dream of.

      And Jean-Claude Lasalle? Well, he would know all about passion. And there was a fire in him, even a little magic, and he was undeniably exciting. But, in spite of all that, he was no Mr Wonderful. Mr Wonderful, above all, would be a one-woman man, and it was as plain as the exceedingly handsome nose on his face that Jean-Claude Lasalle was definitely not that!

      So she ignored Kay’s wink as she set off from the shop at four forty-five to keep her appointment. All she wanted from Lasalle was to find out what he knew about Duval and—if she decided he really was genuine—how he proposed to help her fight him.

      Less than fifteen minutes later, she was walking up to the hotel reception desk to find herself looking into the beady-eyed face of the same woman who’d been on duty last night. Having witnessed Georgia’s departure from the hotel just after midnight, she must really be wondering what the devil was going on!

      So, let her wonder!

      ‘Georgia Dee for Mr Lasalle,’ Georgia told her, adding with a confident smile, ‘He’s expecting me.’

      But her smile instantly died. The woman shook her head. ‘I’m afraid Mr Lasalle isn’t here. He’s gone to London.’

      ‘London?’ Georgia was aware of her mouth dropping open. ‘London?’ she said again. ‘But we have an appointment!’

      ‘There’s a message for you, however.’ The woman was turning away to extract a slip of paper from Lasalle’s cubby-hole. ‘He phoned a little while ago to say he’d been held up, but that he’d be here to keep your appointment just as soon as he could.’

      ‘And how soon will that be? Has he left London? Did he say?’ It was about a three hour drive from London to Bath, though possibly a little less in a Porsche! Just how long was she expected to hang about?

      But the receptionist couldn’t help her. ‘He didn’t say how long he’d be.’ She shrugged sympathetically. ‘Men!’ she observed.

      Georgia smiled back at that. Maybe she’d misjudged her, after all. ‘It looks like I have no choice but to wait.’

      But as she turned away and went to seat herself on one of the chairs Georgia was biting back her anger. Hanging around waiting for Jean-Claude Lasalle was getting to be a habit she could well do without!

      An hour passed.

      The receptionist glanced across at her and said, ‘Why don’t you go out and stretch your legs for a bit? If he arrives while you’re gone, I’ll tell him you’re here.’

      That sounded like a good idea. Georgia thanked her and went for a walk. Twenty minutes later, full of hope, she returned. But the best news the receptionist could give her was that he’d just phoned again.

      ‘He was calling from his car phone and I could hardly make out a thing. But he seemed to be saying that he wouldn’t be long.’

      Wouldn’t be long. What was that supposed to mean? ‘I’m going out for another walk,’ Georgia informed the woman between clenched teeth. If she was forced to sit about here for another single moment she’d end up eating the carpet in frustration!

      With difficulty, she wasted another twenty minutes, but this time as she approached the hotel she knew he’d arrived. A familiar sleek black Porsche was parked arrogantly outside.

      Seething, she hurried up the steps to the main door. Then she was sweeping into the lobby, where she spotted him instantly, sitting in an armchair reading a newspaper. As he rose to his feet, tossing the newspaper aside, she advanced on him furiously, anger smouldering from every pore, her glossy dark hair bouncing against her shoulders.

      ‘So, you’ve finally arrived!’ Her hazel eyes blazed at him. ‘Are you aware that you’re two hours late for our meeting? You asked me to meet you here at five. It’s now nearly seven o’clock!’

      If he dared to make a joke of it and say she ought to be used to waiting, she would throttle him right there on the spot with her bare hands!

      Perhaps he read that in her face, for he answered in a sober tone, almost managing to sound genuinely apologetic, ‘I’m sorry. I got held up. It really couldn’t be helped. I got here as soon as I could. I can’t apologise enough.’

      That took the wind out of her sails a bit, but she hadn’t finished with him yet.

      ‘You’re absolutely right—you can’t apologise enough! Do you think I have nothing better to do than sit around for hours waiting for you?’

      ‘No, I don’t think that.’ He frowned into her angry eyes. ‘Look, I suggest we go up to my room and talk. Come.’ As he spoke, he took her lightly by the arm.

      Georgia snatched her arm away as though he’d bitten her, partly out of anger—how dared he lay a hand on her?—and partly from shock at the jolt that went through her. The sheer erotic power of it almost took her breath away.

      Almost. She managed to snap, ‘I don’t need your help! I’m perfectly capable of walking on my own!’ Then she swung away furiously and marched ahead of him to the lifts.

      They made their way up to the top floor in total silence. And not once did Georgia glance at him. She kept her eyes fixed straight ahead. She’d never been so furious with anyone in her life.

      It wasn’t just that