There was an unsettling, questioning look in his eyes and then they narrowed with the determined glitter of passion. Their mouths were near enough for Lola to be able to feel the warmth of his quickened breath, when, with all the welcomeness of an early morning alarm call, the doorbell pealed loudly in their ears.
IT WAS Lola’s house and it was Lola who theoretically found herself in the most compromising position. She should have been glad of the clanging intrusion of the doorbell.
And yet it was Lola who uttered an anguished little moan at the interruption. For two pins she would have ignored the insistent ringing and just carried on with what they had been about to do.
Kiss.
But Geraint clearly had other ideas.
With admirable composure he let go of her and gently pushed her in the direction of the door.
‘You’d better see who it is,’ he instructed, his voice a sultry whisper.
Still dazed by cruel longing and frustration, Lola stared up at him unseeingly.
‘Or shall I answer it?’ he prompted, frowning as he took in her wide-eyed inability to do anything other than gaze at him longingly.
Lola shook her head, feeling the silken corkscrews of her hair tickle the back of her long neck. ‘I’ll go,’ she told him, and even though her eyes were focused now she found that she couldn’t, just couldn’t look at him.
Not yet, anyway.
‘After all, it is my house,’ she emphasised fiercely as she pulled the heavy front door open.
On the doorstep stood a woman, a stranger, and yet Lola had the oddest sensation that she knew her. Her forehead creased in a frown as she tried to remember. ‘Hello?’ she said questioningly.
‘Hello,’ said the woman in a soft, deep voice, and smiled.
She was tall. Very tall. Close on six feet, Lola guessed, with a scrubbed white face and close-cropped brown hair which had hints of autumnal red in it. But because she was almost painfully thin her height seemed diminished. She looked fragile, almost tiny, and was wearing faded jeans and an old camel-coloured duffle-coat.
There was something compelling about her face. It drew one’s attention to it like a magnet, and yet Lola could not for the life of her work out why, because it was not conventionally beautiful. The mouth was too wide, the jaw too square.
But her eyes were remarkable. In her pale, pinched face they shone out and dominated like two giant beacons.
Amazing eyes, thought Lola. Chameleon eyes. Now green. Now gold. Now brown.
The woman was looking at a spot somewhere behind Lola—almost beseechingly, Lola thought—and then a dark voice poured its way into her thoughts like honey, and she realised that for all of thirty seconds she had completely forgotten about Geraint standing behind her.
You see, she told herself firmly. It can be done! You can forget him!
Geraint stepped forward to stand beside Lola, almost as though he were the host, and Lola found herself wondering what kind of image they presented to an outsider, especially to an outsider with such a nervous, tentative look on her face.
‘Hi,’ Geraint greeted her, in a far kinder voice than he had ever used with her, Lola thought indignantly, and her heart gave a sudden, frightened lurch. ‘You’re Triss Alexander,’ he said slowly, and some distant bell of recognition rang in Lola’s mind.
The amazing chameleon eyes softened. The woman looked up at Geraint gratefully. ‘Yes, I am,’ she admitted.
‘The model,’ he elaborated.
No wonder she had looked so familiar! Lola stared at the woman in amazement as she realised that this was Triss Alexander—who had been way up at the very top with all the other supermodels, and then disappeared out of the public eye completely. . .
Lola frowned. She looked so different. So. . . Just what was it that made her look so different?
Triss Alexander glanced from Geraint to Lola, taking in her heightened colour and her dishevelled hair. ‘I’ve called at a very inconvenient time, I think,’ she said, her white face going faintly pink with embarrassment.
‘No!’ Geraint shook his head decisively. ‘Nothing that can’t wait.’ He looked at Lola, and his eyes glittered with a silent promise. ‘Stay. Do. Have some tea.’
‘Yes, stay,’ urged Lola, cheered by the unspoken message in Geraint’s grey eyes.
‘I won’t—thanks all the same.’ Triss Alexander shook her head and her hand moved up as if to smooth a lock of hair away from her pale, high forehead.
And that was when Lola realised why she had not recognised her. ‘You’ve had all your hair cut off!’ she blurted out.
Triss smiled serenely, but Lola could detect the sadness behind the smile, and wondered what had put it there.
‘Yes, it’s all been chopped off,’ she affirmed briskly, but she winced a little as she said it.
Lola bit her bottom lip. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to come out with it like that. It’s just that you look so different.’
‘That was the whole point of getting it cut,’ said Triss in a new and oddly hard kind of voice. ‘Out with the old and in with the new—’
‘Are you sure you won’t stay and have some tea?’ Geraint broke in with a steady smile, and Lola observed Triss weakening very slightly.
But then she seemed to pull herself up short and shook her head again. ‘No. I won’t. I’ll take a rain check. But thanks—maybe some other time. No, I. . .’ She drew in a deep, determined breath, like a runner sucking in air after a hard-won race. ‘I came to introduce myself, really. I’ve just moved in next door—’
‘Snap!’ laughed Geraint, and Lola found herself observing the way his grey eyes creased up at the corners. ‘So have I!’
Blast him! Lola thought furiously. He never smiles in that crinkly-eyed way at me!
‘Geraint Howell-Williams,’ he said, holding his hand out. ‘And this is Lola Hennessy—whose house this is.’
Triss shook both their hands then looked from one to the other. ‘You mean you don’t live here?’ she queried. ‘Together?’
Lola found herself pathetically wanting him to say something territorial like ‘No, but I’m working on it!’—but of course he didn’t. He merely shook his dark, tangled head and explained, ‘No. I live on the other side.’
‘Not in Dominic Dashwood’s house?’ queried Triss, with a look of surprise. ‘Has he sold up?’
Geraint shook his head again. ‘No. He’s still abroad. He asked me to keep an eye on it until he gets back.’
‘Why?’ asked Triss, with a nervous start. ‘Is security poor? I hope not—I only moved in here because I was told that I couldn’t be better protected if I lived in a nunnery!’
Her innocent remark caused Lola to go extremely pink around the ears and to stare fixedly down at her shoes as she tried not to imagine what she and Geraint might now have been doing if it had not been for the fortuitous—yes, fortuitous she told herself firmly—knock on the door.
‘Security on the estate is fine,’ said Geraint soothingly. ‘Or so Lola was just telling me. Weren’t you, sweetheart?’
Lola looked up and met his mocking glance with embarrassed eyes.
‘That’s right,’ she answered