rammed both hands into her jeans pockets. Her waist was so tiny he knew he could span it with his two hands.
“You didn’t know about it?” The way she tossed her head reminded him of a high stepping filly.
“My mind went blank after the first few minutes of hearing the will read.”
“Pays to listen,” he commented briefly. “Ah, the baggage is starting to come through. Let’s go.” He grabbed hold of her soft leather hold-all and slung it over his shoulder. “You can point out which suitcase is yours when it arrives. Or is it a backpack?”
“It’s a designer case,” she said flatly.
“Sweet Lord!” Try as he might he couldn’t prevent a laugh.
“Envious?”
“Not at all.”
“You’ll be happy to know it’s not mine,” she said waspishly. “A friend of mine lent it to me.”
“That surely means your friend likes you?” he asked, amused by their disproportionate heights. She was a tiny little thing. He could fit her into his back pocket.
“He loves me.” She stared straight ahead, almost trotting to keep up with him and his long, long legs.
“Loves you?” he repeated, as though amazed she was ready for romantic love. “Would this friend be your fiancé?”
“He’s gay,” she said quite patiently, considering how she felt. Outside, all mock toughness and tart banter. Inside, a throbbing bundle of nerves.
Daniel took up a position beside the carousel as the throng miraculously parted for him like the Red Sea for Moses.
“He’s nearly eighty,” she continued, trying to keep her attention on the circling luggage when she felt like flopping in a heap. It had been a long, long trip from Brisbane. Another one faced her. She was terrified of light aircraft and helicopters. With good reason. “He has his Abyssinian cat, Sheba, and he has me. We’re neighbours and good friends.”
“So where do you live?” he asked mock politely, lifting a hand to acknowledge yet another enthusiastic wave from the far side of the luggage carousel.
All these women trying to communicate with her overseer, instead of getting on with their business. Sandra fumed. She didn’t feel in the least good humoured about it. An attractive redhead this time, who seemed to have peeled off most of her clothes in favour of coolness. It was irritating all this outrageous flirtation.
“You don’t need to know,” she told him severely. “But I’m desperately missing my flat already.”
“Like the older man do you?” he asked, rather amused by her huffiness. It was fair to say she didn’t look like a considerable heiress. She didn’t dress like one, either. She was definitely not friendly when he was long used to easy smiles from women.
“The older the better,” she said with emphasis. “You seem awfully young to be overseer of a big station?” She eyed him critically. He radiated such energy it needed to be channelled.
“I grew up fast,” he answered bluntly. “I had a very rough childhood.”
“That’s hard to believe.” He really was absurdly good-looking. Hunk was the word. Stunning if you liked the cocky macho male always ready for the next conquest. “You look like you were born to the sound of hundreds of champagne corks popping…already astride your own pony by the time you were two.”
He smiled grimly. “You’re way off.” He watched the expensive suitcase tumble out onto the conveyor belt, getting exactly the same treatment as the most humble label.
“So there’s a story?” Why wouldn’t there be? He looked anything but dull.
“Isn’t there always? You’ve got one.” He pinned her with a glance and a rather elegantly raised eyebrow.
“Haven’t I just.” There was a forlornness in her eyes before the covers came down.
He hefted her heavy suitcase like it was a bundle of goose down. “Listen, how are you feeling?” he asked, noticing she had suddenly lost colour.
“Quite awful since you ask!”
Such a tart response but he didn’t hold it against her. “Did you have anything to eat on the plane?”
Dammit if he didn’t have a dimple in one cheek. “A big steak,” she answered in the same sarcastic vein. “Actually I had an orange juice. Plane food lacks subtlety don’t you think? Besides, I hate planes. I thought I might throw up. I didn’t really want to precipitate a crisis.”
He pondered for half a second. “Why don’t we grab something to eat now?” he suggested. “There are a couple of places to grab coffee and a sandwich. Come to think of it I’m hungry, too.”
She didn’t bother to argue. He was used to taking charge as well. He didn’t even consult her about what she wanted but saw her seated then walked over to the counter to order.
Two waitresses, one with a terrible hair day, sped towards him so quickly, the younger one, scowling darkly, was forced to fall back to avoid being muscled aside. No matter where you were good-looking guys managed to get served first, Sandra thought disgustedly.
Macho Man returned a few minutes later with a laden tray. “This might help you feel better,” he said, obviously trying to jolly her up.
“Thank you.” She tried to fix a smile on her face, but she was feeling too grim.
He placed a frothy cappuccino with a good crema in front of her, a plate of sandwiches and a couple of tempting little pastries. “We can share. There’s ham and whole grain mustard or chicken and avocado.”
“I don’t really care.”
He rolled his eyes. “Eat up,” he scolded, exactly like a big brother. “You’re not anorexic are you?” He surveyed her with glinting eyes. “Not as I understand it, anorexics admit to it.”
“I eat plenty,” she said coolly, beginning to tuck away.
“Pleased to hear it.” He pushed the plate of sandwiches closer to her. “What did you do to your hair, if it’s not a rude question? Obviously it’s by your own hand, not a day at the hairdressers?”
To his consternation her huge beautiful eyes turned into overflowing blue lagoons.
It made him feel really bad. “Look, I’m sorry,” he apologised hastily, remorse written all across his strongly hewn features. “You have a right to wear your hair any way you choose. It actually looks kinda cute and it must be cool?”
She dashed the back of her hand across her eyes and took a gulp of air. This big macho guy looked so contrite she had an urge to tell him. A spur of the moment thing when she’d barely been able to speak of it. “A little friend of mine died recently of leukaemia,” she said, her expression a mix of grief and tenderness. “She was only seven. When she lost all her beautiful curly hair, I cut mine off to be supportive. Afterwards the two of us laughed and cried ourselves silly at how we looked.”
