her long, sleek skirt. Still, here she was and she might as well make the best of it—after all, it wasn’t Conrad’s fault that Drew Michaels had somehow managed to intrude into her life again after all these years of carefully blotting him from her memory.
Making an entrance came naturally. It wasn’t contrived or planned, it just seemed to happen. Being almost six feet tall helped, of course. Possessing a cascade of waist-length golden hair helped a little too, and add to that a face and a figure that automatically made heads turn, and a flair and style that was second to none, and Christy just couldn’t help but be noticed.
She glided through the restaurant’s hustle and bustle, making her way purposefully to her favourite table at the back of the room—perfectly placed so as to see and yet not be seen. It was her table—that was how she always thought of it. And why not? she thought now. She had patronised this place for years, right back to the early days of her career.
She glanced at her watch and predicted that Conrad would by now have her usual Martini waiting for her on the table, would be scanning the wine list with his usual care.
The place was certainly busy tonight. There was a buzz of lively conversation that almost drowned out the jazz pianist in the far corner. Christy spotted a few faces she knew and smiled her acknowledgement, before heading over to the far corner of the room where her table nestled behind a Japanese-style screen.
‘Hi, Conrad. Sorry I’m a little late. Have you order——’ She was almost sitting down in her usual
seat before Christy realised that she wasn’t talking to Conrad, but to a young stylish redhead with a cleavage like a mountain pass. ‘Oh!’ Christy’s mouth formed the exclamation for a brief moment as she digested the fact that someone else was sitting at her table. She recovered in a fraction of a second and gave an apologetic smile. ‘I’m afraid there must be some mistake——’
‘It’s OK, Christy, we’re in a forgiving mood.’
It was a magnetically deep voice, a curious mixture of the accents from both sides of the Atlantic. Several years ago it had given countless numbers of film-goers reason to laugh and weep in their cinema seats, had attracted an adoring female following.
It was practically unmistakable.
With a fierce jerk of her head, and an almost painful jolt of her heart, Christy’s eyes swivelled sharply to the other side of the table, narrowing with incredulity as she focused on the compelling features of Drew Michaels. She took a sharp intake of breath, pursing her lips angrily as his generous mouth widened into a heart-stopping, but altogether infuriating, attractive smile.
‘Care to join us, Miss King?’ The stunning sapphire eyes mirrored his amusement. He raised one enquiring brow and stared at Christy through dark, spiky lashes. ‘Well, well!’ he drawled after three or four slow seconds of silence in which Christy could do nothing except stare. ‘A celebrated chat-show host lost for words? I find that very hard to believe.’
His gaze travelled the length of her, surveying the halter-style top and matching long plum skirt, with its fashionable sexy thigh-length split, as if he had all the time in the world. As if, Christy thought angrily, she were a possible acquisition that needed one last look before purchase.
‘This is my table,’ Christy ground out through clenched teeth, aware that Drew Michaels had become, if that were possible, even more devastatingly attractive since she had last laid eyes on him.
Dark thick hair, left a little long. Piercing eyes that seemed somehow to delve right into her very soul… Christy took a breath and shifted her gaze from his face. He was dressed in his usual, understated mode: dark jacket, white shirt that was undone casually at the neck, revealing just a hint of strong dark hair, just a hint that the body beneath was tanned and bronzed, full of power and potent male strength. He was so…so blatantly masculine, she thought, forcing herself to think impersonally about him. He exuded an unexplainable aura of self-confidence, of personal relaxation. Nothing seemed to faze him at all. Nothing. But then that was because he didn’t give a damn.
‘This is your table? Indeed?’ His lips twitched with sarcastic amusement. ‘And there was I with the impression that the restaurant owned everything.’ He raised an enquiring brow. ‘Or are you a shareholder? Does the Christy King empire extend to this most exclusive of eating houses now?’
‘You know what I mean!’ Christy replied with crisp acidity, struggling to appear calm, despite everything, despite the fact that she was suddenly seething like a raving-mad woman underneath her glossy exterior. ‘I booked this table two days ago.’ Assuming this aloof, almost haughty expression was practically killing her. She took another deep breath when it was clear he wasn’t going to answer and raised herself up to her full height. ‘I always sit here,’ she added tightly. There was pomposity in her tone and she regretted it immediately. For some reason only this man could do this to her, she thought angrily—bring out the worst part of her nature at a moment’s notice.
‘But not, it seems, tonight.’ Drew Michaels threw her a bored smile and leant back against his chair, picking up the menu as he did so, scanning it casually as if the subject were closed, dismissing Christy as if she were no more than a waitress come to the table with the wrong order.
‘Just who the hell do you think you are?’ Christy grated, losing a little of her hard-fought-for composure. ‘I suppose you just waltzed in here and sat down in the first place that took your eye!’
Drew raised his head and cast Christy another distinctly bored glance. ‘No. As a matter of fact we were shown here by Roland, the owner himself. He told us this was the best table in the house, didn’t he, Annette?’ Drew smiled fondly across at his companion, who, Christy noticed, was looking slightly bemused and embarrassed, ‘and wished us a pleasant evening. Of course at that stage,’ he added with deliberate, cutting sarcasm, ‘he wasn’t to know we were going to be verbally accosted by a deranged chat-show hostess.’
‘How dare you?’ Christy’s tone was as sharp as the look in her eyes. ‘I could sue you for slander, or for defamation of character, or…or whatever the proper term is.’
‘And I could call Roland to settle the argument and take great pleasure in making you look very small!’ Drew informed her with quiet menace. ‘Do yourself a favour, Miss King: retreat now, while you still have some shred of credibility left.’
‘Christy!’
She turned, breathless with annoyance, to find Conrad at her elbow, to find practically the whole restaurant listening with avid attention, their eyes swivelled as one in the direction of her, Drew, and the desirable table she was laying claim to.
A long, slow, very, very hot flush rose steadily from the base of her neck up to her face, covering every inch of visible flesh in a vivid puce. So long since she had blushed, so long since she had found herself at the wrong end of a foolish situation. The last time had been three years ago, hadn’t it? With this same, impossible man.
What on earth was she doing? She flinched inwardly and wished the ground would open up and swallow her.
Christy swivelled her head sharply back around and found herself looking at a highly amused Drew Michaels.
‘Christy, we’re sitting somewhere else,’ Conrad whispered, putting himself between her and the other interested diners. ‘Roland apologised but hoped we’d understand as it’s just for this evening. You don’t mind, do you?’ Conrad’s voice was low, embarrassed. He always hated any kind of a scene, Christy thought bitterly, always
