She frowned. ‘You said—the English; aren’t you English?’
Alex could have bitten out his tongue. ‘Half,’ he said, hoping she wouldn’t ask what the other half was. The door opened, and he followed her inside. ‘Hmm, this is—nice.’
‘It’s awful,’ she assured him fervently, closing the door and securing the lock. ‘But—it’s rented. The furniture, too. It’s practically impossible to rent a decent apartment in London without its being furnished.’
‘Hmm.’ Alex pushed his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and looked about him, as he followed her into a lamplit living-room. Happily, she seemed to have been diverted from asking about his nationality, and he was more than willing to keep her talking about the apartment if that would do the trick. ‘Do you live here alone?’
She looked at him quickly and then away. ‘I—yes,’ she replied, shedding her raincoat on to a chintz-covered sofa, and stepping into the tiny kitchen, which opened off the living-room. She switched on a track of spotlights. ‘So—what would you like to eat? I’ve got steak, chicken, frozen pizza? Or I could scramble us some eggs.’
Alex propped his hip against the fixture. ‘Frozen pizza sounds good to me,’ he declared, choosing the one that required the least preparation. He had noticed the microwave oven standing at one end of the Formica-topped counter, and he had prepared himself enough frozen meals to know it was a simple matter to defrost and cook the pizza. ‘How about you?’
‘Mmm. That sounds good to me, too,’ she agreed, bending to take the box from the freezer. ‘Er—it’s cheese and tomato. Is that all right?’
‘Whatever.’ Alex turned away from the sight of her neatly rounded buttocks, and the way her skirt rode halfway up her thighs as she bent over. It exposed the fact that she wasn’t wearing tights at all, but black stockings, and the unexpected glimpse of her inner thigh, soft, and smooth, and creamy white, was more disturbing than he wanted it to be. ‘So—–’ he endeavoured to school his racing pulse ‘—what do you do for a living?’
She put the pizza into the microwave before replying, and then came to the end of the counter, and propped her elbows on it. ‘What do you think I do?’
‘I don’t know.’ Alex turned, raking back his dark hair with a slightly impatient hand. He shrugged. ‘Something glamorous, I suppose. Modelling, perhaps.’
She laughed. ‘As in artist’s?’
‘As in fashion,’ amended Alex shortly, not appreciating her humour. ‘I assumed you had a job where looks played a part.’
‘Is that a compliment?’
Alex’s mouth compressed. ‘If you want it to be.’
She hesitated. ‘All right. So I’m—involved in fashion. But not as a model. I—buy clothes.’
‘A fashion buyer?’
‘Mmm.’ She seemed content with that description. ‘Now can I offer you a drink?’
Alex thought about saying no, because he was driving, and then thought better of it. He had only had one glass of that appalling punch at the party, and right now he could use something stronger. Preferably whisky, he thought grimly. At this moment, he was feeling at a decided disadvantage.
‘What have you got?’ he asked, and she turned away to take a bottle of Scotch out of one of the cupboards.
‘Only this, I’m afraid,’ she said, not realising how relieved Alex was feeling. It was much later when he conceived the thought that Chivas Regal was hardly the expected thing to find in a single woman’s apartment.
He took it straight, with ice, and after she had settled him on the sofa she returned to the kitchen. She hardly touched her own drink, he noticed. But that was hardly surprising, considering she had practically drowned the Scotch with water.
‘Do you work in London?’
Her question caught him unawares, and Alex took refuge in his drink before replying. ‘Partly,’ he admitted, at last, realising he didn’t have to lie about his whereabouts. London was pretty big, after all.
‘Partly?’ She left the salad she had been mixing, and came to the end of the counter again. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Oh …’ Alex floundered, realising that instead of concentrating on an answer he was looking at her breasts. She had unusually full breasts, and they had been thrown into prominence by the position of the spotlights. They were probably the reason she wasn’t a model, he reflected. Although she was slim, her breasts and hips were much too generously rounded. ‘I mean—I travel, too. Quite a lot,’ he appended, deciding the whisky was responsible for the thickness of his tongue. ‘You know what travelling salesmen are like—here today and there tomorrow.’
Much to his dismay, she picked up the bottle of Scotch, and came to refill his glass. ‘Really,’ she said, bending over him, and he was intensely aware that she wasn’t wearing a bra. Not that she really needed one, he conceded, imagining how she would look without the confining fabric of her dress. Which begged the thought of whether she was wearing any underwear at all, and he cradled his glass between his hands in case he was tempted to find out.
The trouble was, he had the distinct suspicion that she wouldn’t object if he did so. God, what kind of woman was she? She looked so innocent, but she was acting like a—a—–
The actual word he wanted to use escaped him. Besides, if he was completely honest with himself he would admit that apart from bringing him here she’d done nothing to incite his sexuality. Except inflame his senses, he thought impatiently. Good God, every move she made set his nerves on edge.
‘So what do you sell?’ she asked, and he breathed a little easier, as she moved back into the kitchen.
But the question still needed answering, and, taking another mouthful of Scotch, he conceived the perfect answer. ‘Oil,’ he replied, feeling pleased with himself. ‘Um—olive oil.’ That was better. ‘We import it from Greece.’ He grinned suddenly, enjoying his own joke. ‘Barrels and barrels of it.’
‘Gosh.’
She sounded really interested, and just for a moment he felt a heel. But, dammit, he didn’t know her from Adam—or Eve; he grimaced. And after this evening there was every chance that he’d never see her again.
The apartment was getting warm now, and looking round he decided it wasn’t as ugly as he had at first thought. The lamps cast a mellow shadow over the worn patches in the carpet, and even the picture of the oriental lady over the fireplace had taken on a hazy luminescence.
Taking off his jacket, he laid it over the back of the sofa, and lounged a little lower on the cushions. It was really rather pleasant, he thought, sitting here, talking to a beautiful woman, smelling the scent of the pizza sizzling in the oven. He relaxed, savouring the flavour of the whisky. He didn’t know why he had been apprehensive.
And, almost inevitably, it seemed, his eyes were drawn back to Elizabeth. He liked watching her. He liked the way she moved. And he liked the way the light reflected off her hair. She looked both innocent and knowing, and he was growing less and less immune to her undoubted sensuality.
He swallowed more of the Chivas, and lifted his foot to rest his ankle across his knee. Think of something else, he ordered himself, resisting the urge to look at her again, but the awareness of her nearness was causing his blood to thicken. It throbbed in his head, with an urgency that brought an actual physical ache, but the core of that ache was centred somewhere else entirely.
‘Have some more whisky,’ she murmured, and he realised