and glanced around at the crowd. She had been in the front, her bag of flour concealed in the black suede fringed bag she had carried with her.
His eyes had fastened upon her with open appreciation as he took in every detail of her appearance in a slow and deliberate appraisal that made her blush to the roots of her beautifully coiffured hair. It was that look, the speculative lift of an eyebrow, that had made him her special target for the night. If he hadn’t been so attractive she could have coped. But she found her eyes continually drawn to the magnificent black-clad shoulders, fascinated by the way his hair curled into his neck. Hoping and yet dreading that he would look at her again. And he had looked.
They had had to sit through the early rounds. As the girls had paraded in their national costumes and evening dresses Lukas had given her rather more attention than the contestants. She would have thought he was trying to pick her up if he had so much as smiled, but he hadn’t. He had just stared. Well, she had shown him. That long moment when they were waiting for the result, when the television cameras had nothing special to look at, that was when they had struck with their bags of flour and soot.
But Lukas hadn’t been a passive victim. He had grabbed a handful of her blouse and hung on despite her struggles until the buttons had given way. Instead of leaving it behind, and beating a retreat in her bra, she had tried to wrest it from him. Her efforts to cover herself had given him a second chance, and he had not wasted it. With one swift movement he had his arm around her waist, turned her over his knee and lifted that skirt. She shuddered at the recollection of his hand slapping her backside with considerable enthusiasm. Then, in the general pandemonium as the others had been arrested, Lukas had dodged the law and carried her backstage under his arm.
His black hair had been full of the flour she had dumped on him and as he shook his head a cloud of it rose around him and then descended over them both, coating his beautifully cut dinner-jacket. Her satisfaction had been short-lived.
‘Are you going to scram, or do you want some more?’ he demanded, as he finally handed her the treacherous blouse.
Scarlet, she struggled into it, clutching it around her. ‘Why didn’t you just leave me to be arrested with my friends?’
His eyes were like slate. ‘Because, Miss Feminist, I prefer not to be the butt of the tabloids. I didn’t duck out here to save you. If it was personal publicity you wanted, you should have thrown your flour at someone else. I’m going to clean up. That’s the way out.’ He pointed down the corridor. Trembling with rage and frustration, she raised her hand to slap him.
‘Mr Lukas, sir, is that one of the trouble-makers?’ A security guard had appeared behind her and she whirled round, but Lukas anticipated her intention of giving herself up and was too quick for her. His arm slipped around her waist and before she could protest he had pulled her close, holding her effortlessly.
‘No. A friend, she’s just leaving. Perhaps you would escort her safely to the rear exit? Just in case there are any more hooligans about.’ She struggled angrily to free herself, but Lukas had no intention of letting her go so easily. Instead he bent swiftly over her and, realising his intent, she closed her eyes, desperately hoping that what she couldn’t see wasn’t happening. The first touch of his lips destroyed that illusion. This was reality with a vengeance. She had never been kissed to such effect before, or by anyone with the ability to turn her bones to putty. When at last Lukas had finished with her, she was too shaken to protest at his cavalier treatment. She merely sighed. He stared at her for a moment, his cool grey eyes shaded by unbelievably long lashes. ‘There’s hope for you yet,’ he murmured finally, releasing her. ‘Here, you’d better have this.’ He slipped his jacket around her shoulders. Then louder, for the security guard, ‘I’ll see you later,’ he drawled before disappearing in the direction of the dressing-rooms. ‘Keep the bed warm, sweetheart.’ And she had had to endure the sly smirk of the security man all the way to the exit.
George touched her lips in an involuntary gesture as she remembered that kiss. There was no reason to believe that among the hundreds of women who passed before his camera lens he would remember her, but it might be a good idea to disguise herself a little. Nothing obvious, just enough to avoid jogging his memory. One thing was certain—she wouldn’t be taking that suede skirt with her.
Henry’s eyebrows rose slightly as she opened the door to his ring and George had the grace to laugh. ‘Don’t look like that, Henry,’ she begged.
‘You took me back a bit, miss. I thought for a moment I’d come to the wrong house. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wearing a suit before.’
‘And very uncomfortable it is too. If this is what is meant by turning over a new leaf, I shall be glad when it’s spring.’
Henry took her bags and led the way down to the car. ‘I’ll keep an eye on the place while you’re away, shall I?’
‘Some of my friends are stopping there at the moment.’ She saw the doubt in his face. ‘They’re not as bad as they look, really. But I’ve left some things for Miss Bishop in the hall; I’d be glad if you’d pick them up tomorrow. Did Bishop ask you about a camera?’ she asked, changing the subject.
‘It’s in the boot. The receipts are in an envelope, for Customs.’
‘Jambo, memsahib. Anything to declare?’ George looked at the cheerful face, and gave herself a mental shake. She had slept the night away as the 747 had crossed Europe and half the length of Africa. She had missed a breathtaking sunrise over Sudan and left unopened the paperbacks she had bought at the airport. She had woken to steaming coffee and croissants, wishing heartily she had worn jeans and a sweatshirt instead of her now sadly crumpled suit.
The formalities of Customs took no time at all and soon George was being whisked towards Nairobi in a rackety Peugeot taxi decorated with red plush and gold fringes. She hardly had time for more than a glimpse of scrubby bush and distant hills before they were in the city, speeding along a dual carriageway lined with trees and parks, and punctuated by roundabouts dense with sculptured and exotic plant life.
On arrival at the Norfolk she was greeted by a vast Masai porter, six and a half feet if he was an inch.
‘ Jambo, memsahib. ’
‘Jambo,’ George replied, quickly getting her tongue around the universal greeting and received a brilliant smile in return.
The receptionist too was welcoming. ‘I’ve put you in one of the cottages, Miss Bainbridge, just through Reception, facing the garden. If you can fill in the registration form, please.’
‘Of course. Am I in time for some breakfast?’
The receptionist checked her watch. ‘Oh, yes. Another hour.’
‘Great. I’m starving.’ She signed the form and handed it to the girl.
‘Your bags have been taken to your cottage. It’s number three. Here’s the key.’
George picked up the bag from the desk and turned to go. Then, with a sudden tremor, she stopped.
The tall figure seemed to fill the doorway. Cool grey eyes swept the small reception area, impatiently dismissing the airline staff and American tourists eager to be off on safari. Lukas headed for the desk, totally oblivious of the head-turning ripple that marked his progress across the room.
George watched his progress with apprehension. She remembered only too well that arrogant, hackle-raising assurance that was
