Sharon Kendrick Collection. Sharon Kendrick

blinked, still too shaken by the mesmerizing effect of the stormy grey fire which blazed from his eyes to be able to think straight. ‘Am I what?’ she queried stupidly.

      He gave an impatient little snort. ‘Aren’t you at all concerned for your own safety?’ And then, when he saw her look of bemusement, his face darkened even more as he continued his tirade. ‘I could have been anyone!’ he declared. ‘Anyone! Imagine living in a place like this and being stupid enough to answer the door without even using the safety catch!’

      Lola’s heart rate had slowed down enough for her to feel able to speak. ‘But it was you!’ she pointed out. ‘Wasn’t it?’

      ‘You didn’t know it was me!’ he shot back immediately. ‘You didn’t bother using the spyhole, did you?’

      Lola raised a belligerent chin. ‘So?’

      ‘So I could have hit you over the head by now,’ he ground out. ‘And while you were lying unconscious I could have been in the process of ransacking your house—’

      ‘But the security at St Fiacre’s is reputed to be the best in the country!’ she informed him with a triumphant sweetness. ‘Besides which I haven’t anything of value to steal!’

      ‘You don’t think so?’ He stepped over the threshold uninvited, his cold grey eyes taking in a large Chinese vase which stood in the corner of the hall, and which Lola had been using to house her small collection of umbrellas.

      ‘That vase on its own would net you a small fortune,’ he informed her, with a curt nod in its direction. ‘The sketch above the fireplace is an early Waterman and those two candlesticks on the man-telpiece are made of solid silver—late Victorian, and rather rare.’

      Lola blinked, far too interested in what he was saying to register the fact that he had entered her home uninvited. And he certainly seemed to know what he was talking about where antiques were concerned—which was more than she did.

      Peter had left her the entire contents of the house, in addition to the building itself, but so far she just hadn’t got around to having anything valued.

      Oh, her solicitor had suggested it, but Lola had automatically shied away from the idea. She had already been overwhelmed by Peter’s generosity, and to then arrange to have the house contents assessed. . . well, that had seemed like an almost greedy, grasping thing to do.

      ‘But far worse than theft is what else could befall you, if you continue to be so cavalier about your security arrangements!’ Geraint continued relentlessly.

      He met her questioning gaze with a bleak, candid look and Lola sucked in a shocked breath as she realised just what he was getting at.

      ‘No!’ she breathed.

      ‘Oh, yes!’ he contradicted her cruelly. ‘Intruders have been known to show no conscience if they are disturbed by a spectacular-looking woman. If someone is stealing from your house, you can bet your life they don’t possess much in the way of morals. If I were a burglar, I could be raping you, Lola—right now,’ he ground out brutally.

      There was a short, shocked silence as Lola absorbed what he had said, and it was a horrified and white face which she eventually turned in Geraint’s direction. ‘How c-could you?’ came her squeaky protest. ‘How could you say something so crude—?’

      ‘But couldn’t I?’ he intoned remorselessly, and the sombre expression in the slate-grey eyes made it impossible for Lola to look away. ‘Couldn’t I?’

      ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

      ‘Especially if you happened to be in the kind of provocative state of undress you seem to be in at the moment,’ he continued, a feral gleam lighting his eyes, and Lola stared at him in genuine confusion.

      ‘In my uniform?’ she clarified rather shakily. ‘Hardly provocative!’

      ‘We’ve already discussed the indecent length of your skirt,’ he retorted, and his mouth hardened. ‘And don’t you know that a lot of men are turned on by women in uniform?’

      Lola wondered briefly if he was among them, but that was something she did not trust herself to ask him. ‘I’ve never seen any statistics to that effect,’ she responded drily. ‘And I really can’t do anything about men’s bizarre little fantasies—’

      ‘You think male fantasies are bizarre?’ he interrupted harshly.

      ‘Some of them—and particularly the ones about air stewardesses! I find them insulting to women in general!’ Lola snapped back. ‘Uniforms serve a useful purpose in making everyone look the same—and I fail to see how a blouse and skirt could in any way be described as provocative!’

      His eyes began a slow, cool appraisal of what she was wearing. ‘You don’t think so?’ he murmured huskily.

      ‘No, I jolly well don’t!’ Deciding that she would not be intimidated by such a blatantly sexual look, Lola resisted the urge to pull the skirt down over her bottom.

      ‘Not even when the shirt is undone—only by two buttons, but nonetheless exposing most men’s fantasies come to life?’

      Her gaze followed the direction of his eyes and she saw, to her horror, exactly what he meant. The two buttons she had released earlier in an effort to counteract the sweltering heat had made her whole blouse seem to gape open, revealing the lush and creamy swell of her cleavage.

      Perhaps it was the excessive heat in the house, or just a reaction to being in such close proximity to Geraint, but her breasts seemed to have swollen to twice their normal size and were spilling out over the tiny lace bra which now felt uncomfortably tight.

      Colour flooded hotly into Lola’s cheeks and she saw the grey glint of devilment in his eyes as he noted the blush.

      ‘See what I mean?’ he mocked.

      ‘Oh!’ she fumed furiously, and did the buttons back up with difficulty over her straining breasts. ‘You’re impossible!’

      ‘Put on weight recently, have you?’ he quizzed sardonically.

      Lola met his mocking gaze and wondered just why she was being forced into feeling that she had to defend herself. She didn’t want him here! He was just too big and too vital and too sexy for his own good!

      Logic told her to ask him to leave; curiosity prevented her from doing so. ‘Just what are you doing here?’ she demanded. ‘Come to apologise, have you?’

      ‘For what?’

      ‘For your rudeness in the restaurant last night!’ she told him tartly.

      ‘Or for my refreshing honesty? Depends how you look at it, surely? As for why I’m here—well, I wanted to see you, of course, Lola.’ His grey eyes glittered. ‘To talk to you.’

      Lola shook her head. Her hair was still in its ‘flying’ style, with all the curls scraped back into a constricting bun, but by now most of them were threatening to escape. ‘I thought that we had said all there was to say last night!’

      Now, why had she brought up last night? she asked herself crossly. For she had caused the enigmatic grey eyes to light up with that stormy potency which made her heart thunder. . .

      ‘Did you? I thought that talking had very little to do with what happened last night,’ he murmured.

      ‘As opposed to fighting, you mean?’ she retaliated unsteadily.

      ‘I was thinking more of the kiss which followed that fight,’ he said with a slow smile which, when combined with the memory of that kiss, had precisely the wrong effect on Lola.

      The druggingly sweet, aching awareness of him returned, and with it her brain went to mush. And perhaps he was perceptive enough to realise it, for he moved closer. . .close enough for Lola to be able to see the faint, dark shadow around his chin which made him look so unashamedly masculine. . . and she found herself wondering whether or not he had shaved