Getting Even

‘I thought so.’

A suspicion leapt to the forefront of her mind.

Geraint Howell-Williams had now travelled with Atalanta Airlines twice in the past few weeks and before that she had never noticed him. And she would definitely have noticed him. ‘Are you following me?’ she quizzed.

There was an infinitesimal pause. A briefly guarded look hardened the devastating face before the grey eyes cleared and looked up at her with studied amusement. ‘Is that an occupational hazard, then, being followed? Perhaps it happens to you a lot, Lola?’ he suggested sardonically.

‘Oh, ha, ha, ha!’ she retorted crossly.

‘And I have to say that much as I admire your riotous curls and bright blue eyes and luscious curves—’ his eyes glinted—do you really think I’d go to all the trouble of taking flights around all the major capital cities in Europe just so that I could catch a glimpse of them?’

When he put it like that, her question sounded absolutely ludicrous. ‘I suppose not,’ she answered, and forced herself to wait for his order without squirming.

It was strange, really, that in all her years of flying she had never had a problem about being in a servile position with passengers. Until now.

For the first time ever she found herself resenting having to stand with a polite smile glued to her mouth, when, if the truth be known, she would have liked to stomp off down the aircraft and as far away from Geraint Howell-Williams as possible!

He stretched his legs out lazily in front of him, and Lola’s eyes were reluctantly drawn to the muscular shafts of his thighs.

Reclining, he seemed even taller, if that were possible. The seats in First Class were specifically designed to give the passengers more leg-room—but, even so, Geraint’s legs only just fitted comfortably.

An incomprehensible light lit the stormy grey eyes as he glanced up to find her gaze riveted to the lower half of his body. ‘Does looking at my legs give you pleasure, Lola?’

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?’