skimmed over the glossy pages of celebrity clones before tossing it aside.
She looked at him through her lashes and received another small shock. Instead of politely averting his gaze, he had allowed it to linger on the deepened V created in her lap by her crossed legs, almost as if he could see the transparent emerald lace bikini briefs she wore beneath the sturdy denim. The muscles along her inner thighs tightened with a feathery ripple and she instinctively sought to shatter her unexpected self-consciousness with flippancy.
‘Those aren’t X-ray glasses by any chance, are they?’ she joked, and his eyes jerked back to hers. ‘Or are you going to confess they’re just plain glass and you’re simply a mild-mannered reporter?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ His eyes looked like polished jet—or perhaps it was just a coating on his spectacle lenses that made them look so hard.
‘You know—like Superman?’ He looked at her steadily and she let out a huff of disbelief. ‘For goodness’ sake, you don’t have much of a grasp on popular culture, do you? What do you do for a crust?’
‘Crust?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘A living? What sort of job do you do?’ She leaned sideways to peer at his laptop, to see if it would give her a clue. She glimpsed a busy clutter of characters before, with the swift tap of a single finger, he closed the file he had been working on, leaving the cursor blinking on a blank screen.
. ‘Top secret, huh?’ she teased, tilting her head back, the light flaring to fierce brilliance in her short cap of red hair.
‘Something like that.’
She shrugged good-naturedly at the rebuff. ‘Oh, well, we all have our secrets.’
‘Some more dangerous than others.’
The idea that his vague and distracted manner was a cover for a life riddled with dangerous secrets tickled her funny bone. ‘Ah, don’t tell me...’ Her voice dropped to a bare whisper as she rasped behind the back of her hand, ‘You’re really a spy travelling to the mysterious East on a secret mission of national importance!’
She ruined the blood-curdling effect with a husky chuckle. ‘A spy’s who’s afraid to fly!’
His colour rose. ‘I’m not afraid of flying.’
‘Of course you aren’t,’ she said, deadpan. ‘The stewardess only held your hand for take-off because she thought you looked cute.’
‘You told her to do that,‘ he accused through his teeth. ’Oh, for goodness’ sake, that was only because I knew you were probably too shy to ask for help. She came up with the “cute” all by herself—’
‘Too shy?’ He looked as if she had hit him over the head. Did he think it didn’t show?
‘Well, you must admit you don’t have a very...um...assertive personality, do you?’ she said tactfully, patting his arm. It felt surprisingly solid under the dark fabric. Unlike the other men in the cabin he had not removed his suit jacket but merely loosened his tie and a couple of shirt buttons. Through the sagging gap in the crisp white shirt she could see the smooth, surprisingly tanned skin of his chest. No hairy he-man he, she thought with an inner giggle.
‘Not that there’s anything wrong with being shy,’ she continued as he glowered at her. ‘A lot of women find that endearing in a man...you know, a nice change from the swaggering macho come-ons. You shouldn’t feel embarrassed about asking for help when you need it, though. People respect you more for admitting your weaknesses than for trying to hide them behind a mask of false bravado. It takes courage to let people know that you’re vulnerable—’
‘I don’t need anyone’s help.’ He interrupted her homily with an exasperated snap. ‘I don’t know where you get your ideas but I can assure you Miss—’ He stopped abruptly and sucked in a sharp breath. ‘Miss...?’
‘Marlow,’ Rosalind offered quickly, anxious that his sudden burst of self-assurance should not be undermined by a minor point of etiquette.
‘Miss Marlow,’ he accepted grittily, without a flicker of reaction to the name. ‘I can assure you that if I am ever in need of assistance I am perfectly capable of arranging for it by myself!’
‘Excuse me!’ It was one of the stewardesses, speaking to Rosalind in a sternly admonitory tone. ‘That’s not a portable telephone you’ve got, is it?’
Rosalind sensed the man beside her stiffen, as if he expected her to leap at the chance to rat on him. He was probably honest to a fault. Left to himself he would doubtless pour out a full, frank and totally unnecessary confession.
‘Yes, but don’t worry, I’m not using it,’ she said swiftly, with a winsome smile. ‘Mr James here has been showing me his state-of-the-art travelling office. I was just holding this while he demonstrated some dazzling technical wizardry on his computer.’ She cast him a look of patent awe before switching her attention back to the object of her persuasion. ‘Naturally the phone is switched off,’ she said, hoping it was. ‘We’re both well aware of the airline regulations.’
‘Hmm, well, just to be on the safe side, perhaps we should remove the batteries to prevent it becoming arccidentally operational.’ The stewardess smiled, whisking it from her and deftly opening the panel. ‘Oh, someone’s done it already...’
A masculine arm brushed against Rosalind’s breasts as the telephone was firmly retrieved by its owner. ‘Yes, I did—prior to take-off. As Miss Marlow pointed out, I’m fully aware of the current regulations.’
‘You might have told me,’ Rosalind protested in chagrin as the stewardess glided away. She scrambled to her feet, acutely conscious that her breasts were humming from his unexpected touch.
‘You didn’t give me a chance to get a word in edgewise. You were having too much fun jumping to conclusions and patronising my ignorance,’ he said sardonically.
Rosalind. was tempted to flounce off, except that what he said was perfectly true. Her green eyes sparkled as her mouth curved self-mockingly. ‘I was, wasn’t I?’
A twitch of his extraordinary brows showed that her ready confession was unexpected, and evidently unwelcome. ‘You also lie extremely well,’ he accused unsmilingly.
His chilly disapproval earned him a taunting little bow. “‘If I chance to talk a little wild, forgive me; I had it from my father,”’ she said sweetly. The obscure Shakespearian quotation was certainly apt—she had learned much of what she knew about acting at Michael Marlow’s knee...including how to make blank verse sound like modern, everyday speech!
He gave her a darkling look, as if he suspected that the lyrical apology was not her own and was frustrated by his inability to challenge her sincerity by quoting its source. She had already guessed that Mr James liked to be safely armoured head to toe in facts before he proceeded into verbal engagements.
Unable to resist rubbing his nose in it, she placed a hand over her heart and flaunted a more recognisable quotation. ‘Ah, “parting is such sweet sorrow”, isn’t it, Mr James?’ She batted her eyelashes shamelessly at him. ‘But now I know that you’re such a boringly well-organised individual I suppose I’ll have to find someone else to patronise. Enjoy the rest of your trip. Ciao, baby.’
She turned
