Sharon Kendrick Collection. Sharon Kendrick

annoying it was that she wanted to just curl up at his feet and melt with pleasure at that little-boy-lost look he was subjecting her to at the moment.

      ‘What would you like?’ she asked, indicating the drinks list in front of him. ‘Champagne?’

      ‘Not particularly.’ He shrugged. ‘Champagne is essentially a drink of celebration and there isn’t really a lot to celebrate with me sitting down here and you standing there, dressed in that ridiculous uniform—’

      ‘It is not a ridiculous uniform! It’s just...’

      As if controlled by an outside force, their eyes were simultaneously drawn to the saffron-coloured jacket and matching short, short skirt she wore, all piped in a rather hideous shade of cornflower-blue.

      Never in her life had Lola been quite so aware of the amount of thigh on view—and rather chubby thigh, come to that, because she certainly wasn’t built on the same scale as some of the skeletal beauties who worked alongside her.

      ‘A little on the short side?’ he supplied helpfully, and his gaze roved with undisguised interest up the entire length of her legs. “Though I have to say that from where I’m sitting...’

      ‘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