He tried again. ‘Anyway, didn’t you say it was a charity do?’
‘Yes—for the hospice, but what of it?’
He shrugged again, trying to look nonchalant when he wanted to punch the air. Yes, there was a God. ‘I keep meaning to do something charitable. Here’s my chance. I could escort you, so you won’t have to go on your own, and you won’t have to drive. Simple.’ He smiled encouragingly.
She hesitated, for such a long time that he began to lose hope, but then she started to weaken. ‘I couldn’t possibly let you—’
‘Of course you could. I had an invitation to it anyway. Just say yes.’
She wavered, so he pressed her again. ‘What time do you need to be there, where is it and what’s the dress code?’
She answered mechanically. He could almost hear the cogs in her brain whirring. ‘Seven thirty for eight, the Golf Club behind the hospice, black tie.’
‘Fine. I’ll pick you up at seven.’
‘But you’ll be bored to death—’
‘Rubbish. I might even bid for the odd thing—you couldn’t deny the charity the chance to make money out of me, could you?’
‘Well…’
He grinned, watching her crumble, and knew he’d done it. Brilliant. ‘Do I need to eat first?’ he asked, without giving her any further room to wriggle out of it.
She shook her head, looking a trifle shell-shocked. ‘No. There’s a meal—I’ve already bought the tickets, so you’ll get a free three-course dinner out of it.’
His grin widened. ‘Excellent. It’s sounding better by the minute. Now, if I could just have my phone—?’
Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, gosh, sorry, I’d forgotten again.’
She went into the hall, her back to him, and rummaged in that amazing bag of hers, giving him an unobstructed view of a curvy and very feminine bottom in faded towelling as she bent over.
‘Here it is,’ she said, straightening up and turning round, and he dragged in a lungful of air and tried not to look down the gaping cleavage of her dressing gown.
‘Thanks,’ he said, his voice a little strangled. Their hands touched as they swapped phones, and he was amazed that the sparks weren’t visible. ‘By the way,’ he added with the last remnant of his mind, ‘I don’t know your name.’
‘Georgia,’ she said, her voice husky and soft. ‘Georgia Beckett.’
Beckett. The memory teased at him, just out of reach. ‘Matthew Fraser.’ He held out his hand, wondering if he’d survive the contact, and found her slim, work-roughened little fingers firm against the back of his hand. He dropped it reluctantly, stunned by how good it felt.
‘Right, I’ll see you at seven,’ he said.
‘I still think it’s a dreadful imposition. I could get a taxi, for heaven’s sake—!’
‘And spend the whole evening on your own? How tedious. Anyway, I’m looking forward to it now. Just go and get ready, like a good girl, and I’ll go and harness the chariot.’
She chuckled, a delicious sound that did strange things to him. ‘All right,’ she said, almost graciously. ‘Thank you.’
‘My pleasure.’ He returned her smile, then pocketing his mobile phone, he let himself out, slid behind the wheel of his car and heaved a sigh of relief.
‘Thank you, God,’ he said, and couldn’t stop himself from laughing out loud as he drove back down Church Lane towards home. He was about to spend the evening with the most tantalizing woman he’d met in ages. If only he could remember why he knew her and where he had met her before…
Georgia sat down on the bottom stair and gazed blankly at the front door. How on earth had she talked herself into that? He could be a mass murderer! His name seemed slightly familiar—from the papers? Perhaps he’d got a prison record? He might have swapped the phones on purpose, as part of some deadly plan to find out where she lived and murder her—
‘Oh, Georgia, you’ve really lost the plot,’ she said disgustedly, stomping upstairs. ‘Murderer, indeed!’ Although he did have disturbingly piercing eyes…
‘You’re mad,’ she told herself, snatching open the wardrobe door and frowning at the contents. ‘Now—what is there? Something demure, simple, elegant—what a dazzling choice.’
She took out her black dress—her only dress that answered at least some of her criteria—and hung it on the front of the wardrobe. Excellent. Now, shoes, and did she buy a miracle have a decent pair of tights? Glossy, for preference, barely black—
‘Aha!’ She snatched the new packet victoriously from the drawer, pulled on her underclothes, dried her hair, slapped on a thin layer of light foundation and did something clever with her eyes to widen them a little. Then a streak of lipstick, a quick smack and wriggle of her lips together to spread it evenly, and she was done.
Sucking her lips in so they didn’t mark the dress, she shimmied into it, let it settle around her and stood back.
A slash neck, sleeveless but with shoulders that extended to make tiny capped sleeves, it was cut on the cross and fell beautifully to skitter around her ankles, the heavy crêpe moving sensuously as she turned to check the back.
Hmm. She sucked in her stomach, eyed herself again and shrugged. So she was a mother. And anyway, they were selling her design services, not her body, she reminded herself for the umpteenth time. A tiny worm of truth told her that it wasn’t the punters at the auction that she was worried about, but the manipulative phone-thief with the cock-eyed grin and the most interesting eyes she’d seen in a long time.
A little flurry of panic rippled through her—or was it anticipation? What on earth had she been thinking about, letting him talk her into this? All that hogwash about depriving the charity of the money he was prepared to spend—dear me, I must be wet behind the ears, she thought in disgust, but she was smiling anyway.
She twirled again, sucking in her tummy muscles, and nodded with satisfaction. She slipped her feet into the shoes, winced at the thought of standing for hours on feet that had already done a marathon day, and humming slightly under her breath, she went downstairs.
Jenny said, ‘Wow!’, Lucy hugged her and said she was beautiful, and Joe said, ‘Go, Ma!’
Approval? Heavens!
Now, all she needed was her escort…
CHAPTER TWO
IT WAS a glittery do, sprinkled with rich women in mahogany tans and diamonds and not much else, and paunchy men glistening in the heat, their ample middles girdled up in cummerbunds to hide the fact that their trousers were too tight after dinner.
Still, they were rich, they were going to spend their money in a good cause, and Georgia was just only too glad she was no longer part of that scene. She’d hated it—hated the
