That was just the trouble—it did! She had been having all kinds of impure thoughts about them, and the most disturbing thing was that she was discovering that with Mr Geraint Howell-Williams she could very definitely respond to him on two levels.
On a social level she would have liked to march him down the aircraft and boot him into the hold with all the suitcases—as a kind of punishment for his outrageous cheek and determination to embarrass her. Whereas on a physical level...
She somehow managed to keep her blush at bay and gave him a calm, empty sort of look. ‘I haven’t really given them a lot of thought, to be honest, sir.’
‘No?’ he queried softly.
‘No,’ she answered repressively.
‘Liar!’ he taunted.
‘Mr Howell-Williams—’
‘Oh, Geraint, please; we’re a little too—um—familiar to stand on ceremony, wouldn’t you say?’
She carried on speaking as if he had not interrupted her with that timely little reminder of how she had swooned in his arms last night. ‘I am not paid to be insulted by passengers, no matter what section of the aircraft they are sitting in. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, miss,’ he answered meekly.
Lola glared, but it took an effort. A huge effort. How extraordinarily 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