Revenge is Sweet: Getting Even

‘I’m not hungry,’ she said.

‘Oh, Lo-la, you disappoint me,’ he drawled softly. ‘One of the things that makes you stand out from all the other women in this room is that you look as though you really take pleasure in eating.’

Lola glowered. ‘There’s no need to make me sound like a strapping great beast of the fields!’

He laughed. ‘That wasn’t my intention at all.’ His grey eyes flicked briefly over her body. ‘I’m sure that enough men have commented favourably on those lus-cious curves before me.’

There it was again. That lilting and unsettling way he had of addressing her—Lola couldn’t quite make out whether that last remark had been an insult or not. Or what the way he looked at her actually meant. It was as though he couldn’t quite make up his mind whether to dislike her or to...to...

Lola shook her head to rid herself of the horrifyingly erotic vision which had crept into her mind, which involved a lot of very old-fashioned macho behaviour, such as Geraint Howell-Williams throwing her over his shoulder, and then, then...

Besides, he should not make comments like that to someone he had never met before. Well, they had met, when she had served him with drinks en route to Paris a couple of weeks ago, but clearly he did not, as she had anticipated, remember her.

Being an air hostess was a bit like being a nurse—you all looked pretty much the same in uniform! And the passenger who had chatted away to you quite happily during a flight would usually stare at you blankly if you encountered him or her outside the confines of the craft or airport.

The surprising thing was that it usually worked the other way round, too, and Lola rarely recognised her passengers once they were off the aircraft.

But Geraint Howell-Williams was different. You would not need to be a genius to acknowledge that he was the type of man who, once seen, would never be forgotten...

Lola’s eyes glittered. ‘Actually, no,’ she contradicted him now icily. ‘Men do not usually comment on my figure, curves or otherwise. For a start, I don’t encourage personal remarks—’

‘Don’t you?’ he mocked softly. ‘Then what a shockingly boring life you must have led.’ His grey eyes locked with hers in an irresistible and yet somehow disquieting challenge.

‘I agree!’ she returned, with a sweet smile. ‘And standing here talking to you is just about as boring as it can get!’

Lola watched as for one swift, disconcerting moment his eyes darkened with an intensity of emotion which puzzled her hugely. She had made him angry, yes. Had she managed to wound his pride too? And, if so, might he at least now have the grace to look a little apologetic?

No way, she quickly realised. The anger had vanished, and so had the dark, intense look. And surprisingly all that was left was laughter—a reluctant kind of laughter which lurked in the depths of his grey eyes.

‘I don’t believe I bore you, Lola,’ he told her softly. ‘I believe that boredom is the very last thing on your mind right now!’

Oh, the arrogance of the man! Lola might have laughed if she hadn’t been so outraged by his inflated opinion of himself! ‘You find that such an improbable concept, do you?’ she queried coolly. ‘That a woman should find you boring?’

‘I do when she is demonstrating all the obvious signs of sexual attraction,’ he mused.

‘That’s probably just wishful thinking on your part!’ retorted Lola instantly, then wished she hadn’t.

He smiled, but it was the kind of smile that all the bad guys in films possessed—it didn’t make the corners of his eyes go all crinkly, and it didn’t have any degree of warmth in it either. Again, Lola felt that uncomfortable chill creep across the surface of her skin.

‘Is it? Does wishful thinking manage to manufacture eyes which keep darkening with passion, or lips that automatically soften and part in anticipation of being kissed?’ he drawled silkily. ‘As yours are doing right now?’

To her horror, Lola suddenly felt absolutely weak with longing as the deep, sensual words seemed to orchestrate her response. The fairly sensible, middle-of-the-road woman she considered herself to be had suddenly been replaced by a pathetic, swooning wimp! ‘St-stop it,’ she implored, despising herself for sounding so feeble but unable to do anything about it.

He shook his dark head. ‘But you don’t want me to stop it, do you? That’s just the trouble. You like it, Lola. And you like me. Your body is telling me just how much, isn’t it?’

And his eyes lazily flicked over her, lingering with undisguised interest on her breasts in a way that Lola would have found intolerable if any other man had done it. But she did not find it intolerable when Geraint Howell-Williams did it.

Beneath the dress of lapis lazuli velvet which made her blue eyes even bluer, Lola could feel her body betraying her, flowering beneath the approbation and the hunger in his eyes. She felt her breasts grow heavy and full, the tips begin to prickle with a kind of delicious ache which was actually more uncomfortable than enjoyable.

Because Lola recognised that there was only one way of taking that terrible aching away and that, astonishingly and shockingly, she wanted Geraint to touch her...

‘Do you normally behave like this towards women you have only just met?’ she demanded, her knees now weak with wanting.

‘Never,’ he responded softly, clearly mesmerised by the jutting thrust of her breasts against the rich material of her dress. ‘Do you normally react in this way to men you have only just met?’

Lola dragged a deep, determined breath into her lungs. ‘I think I’d better get out of here,’ she told him breathlessly. ‘Before one of us says something really offensive—’

‘You’re in no state to go anywhere,’ he responded wryly as he looked down at her searchingly, the stormy eyes narrowing in surprise at her wide eyes and flushed face. ‘Here, give me that.’

‘That’ was the glass she was clutching as if it were a lifeline, and smoothly—masterfully—he managed to remove the forgotten tonic from her hand and deposit it on a nearby table, then slowly pull her into his arms before she had time to make a protest.

‘Geraint, please...’ she whispered, aware of a tiny pull of pleasure as she said his name for the first time, and she found herself wanting to say it over and over again, as though it were some life-sustaining mantra.

‘Please what?’ he responded softly, his mouth pressed against her hair.

‘Please let go of me.’

‘If I do you’ll fall.’ His voice deepened. ‘Won’t you?’

’N-no, I won’t,’ she answered uncertainly, realising that she was actually enjoying the rather scary feeling of being this much out of control.

‘Try it,’ he suggested, and loosened his hands from where they had been holding her by the waist, and Lola actually felt herself sway, like a flu victim just out of bed for the first time. She wondered if she might have slithered to the floor, had he not renewed his hold on her with a steely strength that made Lola feel weaker than she had ever felt in her life.

‘See?’ he challenged softly.

Oh, yes, Lola saw all right. She saw that she had been sending out entirely the wrong messages to Geraint Howell-Williams since she had first clapped eyes on him tonight.

Or maybe—just maybe—she had been sending out the right messages, and he was just clever enough to pick up on them, realise that she was hopelessly infatuated, and then capitalise on that by having her almost swooning in his arms.

‘Relax,’ he urged softly. ‘Just enjoy the music.’

For a moment she did as he suggested. She gave in to temptation and to feeling, loving the exciting warm circle of his arms, the way his head rested so easily against hers.

She forgot all about the band playing and listened to the infinitely more spellbinding music of his body.

The beat of his heart. The rhythm of his breathing. The almost unconscious little thrust of his pelvis as he allowed himself to respond to the saxophonist who was the band’s only saving grace.

She knew that she ought to move, that a dance with a stranger should not be this intimate, and yet, to all intents and purposes, the dance was not intimate. They were just a man and a woman swaying loosely in each other’s arms, as others were all around them.

So this sensation of almost drowning in sweet, drenching pleasure—was this unique to her? Did this dance feel like any other to Geraint Howell-Williams? Lola wondered. Because it sure as hell didn’t to her! At that moment, drifting in his arms, she felt as though she was starring in every love story ever written.

Love story?

Her adolescent little fantasies brought Lola back to her senses with a start, and as the number trailed off with one final, lingering throb of the saxophone she took a deep breath and looked up at him.

‘Th-thank you for the dance,’ she said falteringly.

The grey eyes were enigmatic as he dropped his hands from where they had been lightly holding her hips. ‘My pleasure.’