George touched her lips in an involuntary gesture as she remembered that kiss. There was no reason to believe that among the hundreds of women who passed before his camera lens he would remember her, but it might be a good idea to disguise herself a little. Nothing obvious, just enough to avoid jogging his memory. One thing was certain—she wouldn’t be taking that suede skirt with her.
Henry’s eyebrows rose slightly as she opened the door to his ring and George had the grace to laugh. ‘Don’t look like that, Henry,’ she begged.
‘You took me back a bit, miss. I thought for a moment I’d come to the wrong house. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wearing a suit before.’
‘And very uncomfortable it is too. If this is what is meant by turning over a new leaf, I shall be glad when it’s spring.’
Henry took her bags and led the way down to the car. ‘I’ll keep an eye on the place while you’re away, shall I?’
‘Some of my friends are stopping there at the moment.’ She saw the doubt in his face. ‘They’re not as bad as they look, really. But I’ve left some things for Miss Bishop in the hall; I’d be glad if you’d pick them up tomorrow. Did Bishop ask you about a camera?’ she asked, changing the subject.
‘It’s in the boot. The receipts are in an envelope, for Customs.’
‘Jambo, memsahib. Anything to declare?’ George looked at the cheerful face, and gave herself a mental shake. She had slept the night away as the 747 had crossed Europe and half the length of Africa. She had missed a breathtaking sunrise over Sudan and left unopened the paperbacks she had bought at the airport. She had woken to steaming coffee and croissants, wishing heartily she had worn jeans and a sweatshirt instead of her now sadly crumpled suit.
The formalities of Customs took no time at all and soon George was being whisked towards Nairobi in a rackety Peugeot taxi decorated with red plush and gold fringes. She hardly had time for more than a glimpse of scrubby bush and distant hills before they were in the city, speeding along a dual carriageway lined with trees and parks, and punctuated by roundabouts dense with sculptured and exotic plant life.
On arrival at the Norfolk she was greeted by a vast Masai porter, six and a half feet if he was an inch.
‘ Jambo, memsahib. ’
‘Jambo,’ George replied, quickly getting her tongue around the universal greeting and received a brilliant smile in return.
The receptionist too was welcoming. ‘I’ve put you in one of the cottages, Miss Bainbridge, just through Reception, facing the garden. If you can fill in the registration form, please.’
‘Of course. Am I in time for some breakfast?’
The receptionist checked her watch. ‘Oh, yes. Another hour.’
‘Great. I’m starving.’ She signed the form and handed it to the girl.
‘Your bags have been taken to your cottage. It’s number three. Here’s the key.’
George picked up the bag from the desk and turned to go. Then, with a sudden tremor, she stopped.
The tall figure seemed to fill the doorway. Cool grey eyes swept the small reception area, impatiently dismissing the airline staff and American tourists eager to be off on safari. Lukas headed for the desk, totally oblivious of the head-turning ripple that marked his progress across the room.
George watched his progress with apprehension. She remembered only too well that arrogant, hackle-raising assurance that was making the prickles stir on the nape of her neck.
Ridiculously she wished she’d had time to make herself look a bit more presentable. Her hair was everywhere, and she cursed her stupid suit to perdition. At least he would never connect the seductively dressed girl he had placed over his knee with this crumpled mess. But she grabbed the plain tinted spectacles from her bag and placed them on her nose as an extra precaution.
‘I’m looking for George Bainbridge. He should have arrived this morning. Could you page him for me, please?’ The receptionist stared, then giggled.
Lukas had been polite enough, but now he drew straight brows into a frown. Speaking slowly and carefully, as if she were slow-witted, or could not speak English, he tried again.
‘I am Lukas. He is expecting me.’ The girl looked at George and collapsed into speechless giggles, hiding the broad whiteness of her smile behind long brown fingers. He turned to follow her gaze and George could no longer postpone the moment. She firmly squashed the butterflies that were beating a tattoo in her abdomen and stepped forward.
‘I think you must be looking for me, Mr Lukas. I am Georgette Bainbridge,’ she said coolly. She extended her hand with a confidence she was far from feeling and trusted that he would not notice the slight tremor that seemed, quite suddenly, to have invaded her entire body.
For a long moment he stared at her. She shifted uncomfortably under his hard, unbelieving gaze. ‘Everyone calls me George …’ Her voice trailed off uncertainly and she dropped her hand. He was obviously in no mood to take it.
His eyes travelled slowly from the toes of the plain black calf shoes, taking in the crumpled grey tailored suit and the white silk scarf that she had knotted so flippantly about her throat the night before, but which she was now aware looked merely rather sad. She had completed her transformation with a severe bun, from which wisps of hair were untidily escaping, and large tinted spectacles that were left over from the time she had suffered from an unsightly eye infection. The effect she had strived for was efficient and businesslike. But after sleeping in her clothes she looked anything but.
George was not unused to men weighing her up, assessing the possibilities, had seen Lukas do it himself. But he showed no such interest on this occasion. The curve of his mouth showed nothing but distaste and under his breath he murmured, just loud enough for her to hear, ‘Oh, my dear God. What on earth have I done to deserve this?’
Stung, George was about to tell him. She opened her mouth, then remembered her father’s words: ‘Keep Mr Lukas happy and you’re forgiven.’ She wouldn’t allow this wretched man to ruin her plans. She swallowed and instead forced a smile to her lips and said a little breathlessly,
‘I’m afraid I’ve only just arrived. I was going to have breakfast. Will you join me, Mr Lukas?’
‘Not Mr. Just Lukas.’ His eyes, dark and intense under thick black brows, snapped with irritation. ‘If you must eat, we’d better get on with it.’
The receptionist, having recovered from her giggles, was watching them with open fascination. Lukas glared at her and she rapidly found something of great interest on the desk in front of her.
George, infuriated by this unpleasant greeting, forced herself to stay calm. ‘Well, I’m starving. Why don’t you go in and order for us both to save time, while I wash my hands.’
He glanced at his watch. ‘Please don’t take too long, Georgette.’
George was quite firm. ‘Not Georgette. George.’ She picked up her bag and then couldn’t resist a coy little wave. ‘I won’t be long.’
Her reward for this performance was to hear his barely contained explosive,