suppose, under the circumstances, I’d better know your name,’ she said, handing him the flower and pinning on her own corsage of delicate Singapore orchids.
‘It’s Callum.’ Struggling with her corsage, she didn’t see the sudden decisive narrowing of his alert eyes. ‘Callum... Smith,’ he finished smoothly, moving forward as she pricked her finger with the pin. The minor manipulation of the truth didn’t cause him any qualms.
Despite the jet lag and the will-reading he’d had to attend Callum suddenly felt less tired. He had already decided that Miss Georgina Campion must be an unusually astute young woman. The size of the personal bequest which his uncle had left instructions for him to deliver personally made that much obvious, but she wasn’t what he’d expected at all.
It might be worth his while finding out what it was about her that the old fox, Oliver, had found so appealing—beyond the obvious, he thought with a cynical twist to his lips. He didn’t actually begrudge her the money, just the way she’d got it.
So far the trip hadn’t gone as smoothly as he’d anticipated. He had hoped to find an heir apparent already installed on his uncle’s throne. It had become immediately obvious to him that this wasn’t so. He was irritated that he would have to spend more time in London than he had originally intended. He wasn’t anxious to become embroiled in business which didn’t interest him.
Since he’d got here he’d found the same name cropping up, first of all at the solicitor’s and then once again when he’d reached Mallory’s. It was highly suspect that she seemed to be the only person privy to essential information. Coming face to face with his uncle’s lady-friend had been something of a shock, but he wasn’t about to be misled by a pair of wide eyes and an air of innocence.
‘Let me,’ he offered smoothly, taking the flowers from her fingers. Her youth and innocent appearance must have appealed to an elderly though still robust man. No doubt she knew exactly how to manipulate all her advantages, he thought, distaste filling him as he smiled brilliantly. His interest was piqued—more than piqued, if he was honest.
How his family and friends would stare if they knew he was ready to act on impulse and embark on this bizarre blind date—Callum Stewart, whose behaviour was always governed by cool, clear logic. He justified his actions by telling himself he’d find out more about her if she didn’t view him as a danger.
Georgina stuck her bleeding thumb in her mouth and remained stationary whilst he fixed her corsage against the bodice of her jacket. It was the sort of top that was meant to be worn with nothing underneath, and whilst the neckline was respectable the deep V did hint at the cleavage it only just concealed. Georgina wished she knew just what those blue eyes could see with the advantage of height.
‘There, all done.’ He took a step back, not lingering over his task. The waft of his breath on her cheek was warm and fragrant and the tip of his forefinger as it grazed her neck felt slightly calloused, although his long, shapely fingers were neatly manicured. Georgina was annoyed to find she’d been holding her breath whilst the task was accomplished.
Hiring an escort for the day suddenly seemed a less sensible decision than it had before she’d actually met him. Callum Smith wasn’t the sort of man she had wanted at all. Beneath the well-cut suit was a body that looked lethally powerful. He looked quite out of place in the suburban setting—impressive, but not at all domesticated. The strong-boned face was in no way pretty but it was fiercely commanding, with all the confidence and hauteur of a hawk.
She gave herself a mental shake. Hawk indeed! She was being fanciful; the tan was probably nothing more than overexposure to a sunbed, and the impressive build the result of many narcissistic hours in a gym, pumping iron.
He was what she’d got, and he’d have to do for the day. All that stark, unrelenting masculinity was going to be tough to take for an entire day; she preferred a slightly more subdued appeal in her men.
Not that I actually have any, she reminded herself stoically, ignoring the emotional tightening in her throat as she acknowledged her solitary state.
‘I don’t suppose you have a car. We’ll use mine,’ she added as he didn’t contradict her. ‘We should start now; I have to nurse her on the motorway,’ she explained, gathering her handbag.
‘Where are we going?’
She shot him an exasperated look. ‘To my cousin’s wedding in Somerset. Doesn’t that agency tell you anything?’ she grumbled. She was being freshly assailed by doubts about this scheme. Bea had been so convincing and she had scoffed at Georgina’s rather prim enquiries as to how respectable these escorts were. Georgina had wanted to make it quite clear at the outset that all she wanted was a piece of window-dressing for one day.
‘Maybe you should go over the details just in case they’ve forgotten anything else,’ he suggested as he followed her down the steps she shared with the four other tenants of the old Edwardian semi.
‘I probably should,’ Georgina agreed. The battered Beetle was where she had left it in the shared parking space. About to duck in through the door, she thought better of the operation and took off her hat, laying it carefully on the rear seat. ‘It’s open,’ she told her companion, who was staring, quite rudely, at her hair. It was thick and glossy, a deep shade of russet, her best asset—her only asset, she sometimes thought. It fell, river-straight and glossy, to her waist.
With ill-concealed amusement she watched him attempt to fold his long, lean frame into the passenger seat.
‘Doesn’t this blasted thing adjust?’ he asked as he finally managed to squash himself in. ‘No wonder you leave it open; no one in their right mind would steal this death trap.’
‘It did adjust once, but it’s stuck. You’d better put your seat belt on; I wouldn’t want your neck on my conscience. If it’s any comfort I have a legitimate MOT.’ What was he used to—chauffeur-driven limousines?
‘You’ll have more than my neck on your conscience if I have to travel far in this thing. Couldn’t you get a cab?’
She laughed as she started the engine. ‘All the way to Somerset? I’m not made of money. Don’t worry,’ she added, in case he got the wrong idea. ‘I can pay your fee.’
‘I’m relieved,’ he observed drily. ‘I could drive,’ he added tensely as she negotiated a bend.
‘I wouldn’t have thought you could afford to be chauvinistic in your line of work,’ she shot back, ruffled at the implied criticism of her driving. Then, in case she’d wounded his feelings, she added, ‘Not that there’s anything wrong with your line of work.’
Work of any sort was hard enough to come by these days. Perhaps the man had family responsibilities, or he was out of work. Casting a sidelong glance at his profile, she had to admit he didn’t look like someone harassed by domestic detail. She was anxious in case she’d sounded prudish and judgemental.
‘Have you used the agency often?’ he enquired casually.
‘Never before, but my friend Bea has several times. Lots of women are too busy to have a relationship and certain social occasions can be uncomfortable without a male escort.’ She darted a glare at her companion, daring him to contradict her, uncomfortably aware that she was trying to convince herself as much as him.
The blue eyes were fixed on her profile and she swiftly averted her gaze to the road, finding the intensity of the startling blue glare disorientating.
