Tugging her dress into place, she regarded her reflection dubiously. The bright red made her feel a bit like a post box, and it was much shorter than she usually wore, but there was no doubt that the heels drew attention to her legs, which were her best feature, and away from the tightness around her hips, which definitely weren’t.
‘You look pretty damn hot.’ She tried to psyche herself up. ‘Now, go get him!’
The noise hit her as she went back into the big living room that stretched the entire width of the apartment. An extraordinary number of people had turned up. Freya had worried about how they were all going to get on, but the most bizarre combination of people seemed to be getting on like a house on fire.
She didn’t know what Pel and Marco were putting in the cocktails, but it was lethal, whatever it was. She had lost count of how many she had had herself to bolster her confidence and it was getting quite tricky to balance on her heels.
Freya’s vision of an elegant gathering that would disperse come eight o’clock as she had said on the invitations had never been realised. It was almost eleven already, and there was clearly no chance of impressing Dan with her sophistication now. She had put on a Glenn Miller CD to set the mood when everyone arrived, but long before Dan turned up someone had replaced it with something a bit more upbeat, and several people who obviously didn’t know that cocktail parties were about standing around and making polite chit-chat were actually dancing at the other end of the room.
Wondering how much longer the drink would hold out, Freya looked around for Pel, only to start guiltily as she encountered Lucy’s disapproving gaze. Scowling awfully, her friend jerked her head in Dan’s direction and mouthed, ‘Get over there!’
There seemed nothing for it but to do as she was told. Helping herself to another martini, Freya tossed it back in one, straightened her spine and set off, woman on a mission.
God, he was gorgeous, she thought involuntarily, as she headed towards the group by the sofa. Those brown bedroom eyes, the warm curving mouth, that hunky body, the sharp intelligence and the devastating charm…Freya faltered, realising all at once how absurd she had been to even think about attracting the notice of a man like Dan.
She was about to turn away when Dan spotted her and beckoned, reeling her in effortlessly with his smile. ‘Hey, great party!’ he greeted her, moving back with flattering alacrity to let Freya into the group.
‘Yes, great,’ the girls echoed, their welcome considerably less enthusiastic.
‘Thanks. I’m glad you could make it,’ she said stiffly, miserably conscious of how polite she sounded. Her mother would be proud of her.
‘Not as glad as I am.’ The warm brown eyes roved in lazy appreciation up Freya’s legs. ‘I hardly recognised you when I saw you tonight.’
‘Oh?’ She smiled a little nervously.
Way to go, Freya. Not much chance of dazzling him with your wit and personality at this rate!
‘When I said I was looking forward to seeing you, I didn’t realise quite how much of you I’d be seeing!’ Dan had one of those slow, American drawls that always made Freya think he was about to tip his hat and start calling her ma’am. ‘Great legs,’ he said admiringly.
‘Oh, these old things? I’ve had them for ages.’
Dan laughed. ‘You shouldn’t keep them hidden away. You always look so demure sitting at the newsdesk,’ he went on, lowering his voice and gazing deep into her eyes. The effect was rather like sinking into a vat of melted chocolate. ‘I had you down as a good girl, but you sure don’t look like a good girl tonight. You look…naughty.’
Crikey, thought Freya, as his smile broadened suggestively. How was one supposed to respond to a comment like that? Clearly bursting into laughter would be out of order. Should she smirk? Try to simper? Or smoulder?
Unsure how to do any of them, she compromised by attempting all three at once, although judging by the looks on her guests’ faces, it came out as a leer instead.
As if in response to some unspoken dismissal from Dan, the simpering girls were turning disconsolately away. Not wanting to look as if she were monopolising him, Freya made to back away too, but Dan caught hold of her hand.
‘Don’t go,’ he said. ‘I haven’t had a chance to talk to you all evening.’
Freya swallowed hard and tried to look as if holding hands with the likes of Dan Freer was all in a day’s work for her. Another evening, another gorgeous guy unable to keep his hands off her, that was the attitude.
Did the Julia Robertses of this world get bored by this kind of thing? Freya wondered wildly. Did they ever wish they were the girl making laborious small-talk with an accountant instead of having every woman’s fantasy draped possessively around her?
Dan’s fingers were warm around hers. What was she supposed to do now? Squeezing his hand might seem a bit too forward, but if she just left hers sitting there like a wet fish, he might think that she wasn’t interested. God, there was so much to think about. Wouldn’t it be easier in the long run just to stick to the sofa and fantasies about George Clooney?
‘Let’s dance,’ he murmured.
‘Er…all right.’
Freya didn’t know whether to be relieved or alarmed when Dan ignored the lively beat and pulled her against him in readiness for a good old-fashioned smooch. ‘This is my lucky day,’ he told her, smiling.
‘Really?’ Freya managed to croak, distracted by the feel of his hand playing up and down her spine. It was bad enough concentrating on staying upright on her heels as it was, without having to make conversation as well.
‘I think so,’ said Dan smugly. ‘A new job and a new you all in one day. It feels pretty lucky to me.’
Freya wasn’t sure how to respond to that. ‘New job?’ she echoed, opting to ignore his comment about the ‘new you’.
‘You, Freya, are snuggling up to News Live Network’s new Africa correspondent!’
‘Africa?’
‘A whole continent all to myself!’ he said complacently, unable to keep the grin from his voice.
‘Won’t you have to share it with one or two Africans as well?’ she said without thinking.
There was a tiny pause, while, too late, Freya heard the tartness in her voice.
Bad, Freya, very bad, she thought gloomily. According to Lucy, who was an expert on relationships, men didn’t like criticism or snippy comments or the faintest suggestion that you thought they were anything less than a hundred per cent perfect.
‘I thought you were going for a job here in London,’ she added hastily.
Dan, who had stiffened imperceptibly, relaxed. ‘I thought so, too, but then this job came up unexpectedly. I’ve always wanted to be a foreign correspondent, and I’ll be able to cover stories all over Africa.’
‘It sounds great,’ said Freya dutifully. ‘Where are you going to live?’
‘Usutu. The capital of Mbanazere,’ he added when she didn’t answer immediately.
Memory stirred queerly inside her. Usutu was where Max had been based before Lucy’s wedding. He had told her about the Arab forts and the markets and the smell of cloves and coconuts.
‘I know,’ she said.
‘Of course you do. I keep forgetting you’re the foreign newsdesk secretary.’ Dan obviously felt that he had erred in