the glasses. ‘What did you think I meant?’
‘You wouldn’t believe some of the suggestions I’ve had over the last three months!’ she told him disgustedly.
Jordan settled himself down in one of the comfortable armchairs, finding it as soft and bolstered as it looked; the bean-bags looked relaxing to sprawl in, but the last thing he wanted was to get down on one of those things and then struggle to get back up onto his feet when the time came! He had to be a good twelve, or maybe fourteen years older than the age he guessed Stazy to be, but he didn’t have to end up on a bean-bag looking decrepit!
‘Try me,’ he invited, his curiosity piqued.
She shrugged. ‘Maybe it has something to do with the language—we do speak a different language, no matter what anyone tries to say to the contrary. When I first moved here I got a job as a window-dresser in one of the large stores in town—I’d rather not say which one!’ She grimaced. ‘The manager’s idea of working after the store was closed was to try and drag me off to the bed department, to see if there were any improvements I could make there!’
Jordan was having trouble holding back a smile at the graphic picture she portrayed—and he certainly didn’t think it had anything to do with a language problem; Stazy was beautiful, whatever language she spoke!
‘What happened?’ he asked.
‘I kneed him in the place I felt needed improving,’ she told him directly. ‘I also got fired,’ she sighed. ‘For being unsuitable for the job! Actually, I’ve always preferred working in people’s homes, so after that I put a few cards in shop windows, hoping to get some business that way. I was offered a job decorating a little boy’s bedroom.’
‘Sounds safe enough,’ Jordan drawled—because he had a feeling it hadn’t been safe at all.
Stazy grimaced again. That “little boy” turned out to be about sixty-five—and he wanted me to do the decorating wearing a gym-slip!’
This was just too much for Jordan, unable to hold back his chuckles any longer. In fact, he more than chuckled; he couldn’t help it. ‘What sort of shop windows did you put your cards in?’ he finally sobered enough to query.
‘You’re much quicker than me!’ Stazy gave him a shy grin. ‘I realised that had been my mistake when the next “client” who rang asked me my age, and told me to bring along a set of red underwear!’
‘I prefer cream myself,’ Jordan observed.
‘I took all my cards back before I got any more calls like that!’ She shook her head disgustedly. ‘Do you suppose people actually enjoy that sort of thing? Telephoning a complete stranger for sex?’ She grimaced her distaste at the idea.
Jordan looked at her. She couldn’t be that innocent. Could she...? ‘How old are you, Stazy?’ he mused.
‘Twenty-one, almost twenty-two,’ she supplied promptly, her tone implying she didn’t see what that had to do with anything.
She was young. Younger than any of the women he had been involved with in recent years—though he wasn’t going to get involved with Stazy Walker; he was just curious, that was all.
‘Don’t you read the newspapers?’ There was an edge of scorn to his voice, created by that residual anger towards himself.
She stood up in one gracefully fluid movement, her glass steady in her hand. ‘Of course I read the newspapers,’ she returned impatiently. ‘But to find a bed-partner in such a way seems—What work do you want done on your apartment?’ She abruptly changed the subject. ‘Which room?’
‘All of them,’ he decided, relaxing back in his chair. ‘Are you up to it, do you think?’ he derided.
She looked ready to tell him what he could do with his offer of work. But something held her back, and she turned away, breathing deeply.
Jordan accepted she hadn’t had a very good time of it since moving to London. And he wasn’t helping to make it any better. Besides, this apartment, as he knew only too well, was expensive to rent. And with no visible means of income—He wasn’t a charity, damn it!
‘Are you?’ he pressed harshly at her continued silence.
She whipped quickly round to face him, two bright spots of angry colour in her cheeks. ‘My work speaks for itself,’ she bit out tautly.
Jordan had the distinct impression she wanted to tell him—and his offer of work—to go to hell. But she wasn’t going to do so. Again, something held her back...
‘It does.’ He nodded in agreement. ‘You’ll need to see the apartment, of course—’
‘Isn’t it exactly the same as this one?’ She sipped her champagne now, looking at him over the glass’s rim.
Those eyes. So clear a blue. Like a Canadian mountain lake he had once seen. And this girl/woman was as fresh as that mountain lake...
Jordan shook his head to rid it of those thoughts. He was offering her work, for goodness’ sake! ‘Exactly like this one,’ he confirmed tersely. ‘When can you start?’
She raised her palms in a gesture of resistance. ‘I’ll need ideas from you before I start to put anything together—’
‘I thought interior designers were the ones with the ideas,’ he cut in. ‘Isn’t that the reason they’re the interior designers? Don’t you present me with ideas, we discuss them—and then you get on and do exactly what you want to do?’
Those blue eyes narrowed at what had been his deliberately derisive tone. ‘Jordan, I have a feeling you’re playing games with me—’
‘I never play when it comes to business, Stazy,’ he assured her softly. ‘You—’ He broke off as the security intercom buzzed; downstairs someone needed admittance. And then it sounded again. ‘Hadn’t you better answer that?’ he prompted Stazy as she made no effort to do so.
She still did not move. ‘Obviously someone has made a mistake; I don’t know anyone in London.’
Then it was strange that she had come to live here, Jordan could have said. But didn’t. It was part of the enigma that was Stazy Walker, he decided. Best not to get too involved.
‘Perhaps it’s the little boy with your gym-slip?’ he suggested sardonically. ‘I think you should answer it, Stazy,’ he said as the intercom buzzed once more, putting down his empty champagne glass. This evening hadn’t turned out quite as he would initially have liked it to, but maybe it was better this way. ‘If only to tell the person to go away,’ he said as the intercom buzzed again—and this time went on buzzing; the person was obviously keeping their finger on the button. ‘They’re very persistent for someone who has made a mistake,’ he murmured interestedly.
Stazy claimed she knew no one in England, and so it followed that no one should know her either, but the names of the people occupying the apartments were clearly marked beside the entryphone buttons downstairs; it was very unlikely someone had got the wrong apartment. Yet Stazy still seemed reluctant to acknowledge that intercom...
‘Would you like me to—?’
‘No!’
