a character assassination of my escort,’ answered Lola airily.
‘All right—I’ll give you my advice! Don’t wear the black or the scarlet—’
‘But—’
‘Wear nothing but sackcloth—and if you don’t have sackcloth then reach for the dullest, most uninspiring outfit in your suitcase. Whatever you would choose to wear to tea with your most shockable maiden aunt, add an all-enveloping cardigan to it! Put on thick stockings and flat shoes for good measure. Oh, and don’t wear any make-up! That way Geraint Howell-Williams will not look at you with lust in his eyes, and you will not be tempted into gaining carnal knowledge of him!’
‘Thanks for nothing!’ groaned Lola as she flicked through the contents of her wardrobe. ‘I don’t want to look as though I’m trying too hard—but then again I do want to look my best. A woman has her pride to think about,’ she defended herself staunchly as she saw Marnie’s eyes narrow suspiciously.
In the end, she simply wore her hair loose to give it a chance to dry properly, and chose a trouser suit in butter-cream silk, with wide pyjama-style trousers which fastened tightly at her ankles, and a jacket fashioned like a frock-coat.
Like most of her silk clothes, she had had it made up for her on a trip to Hong Kong, but she had only worn it once before, for the simple reason that it attracted dirt like a seven-year-old schoolboy!
She did a twirl in the centre of the room. ‘What do you think?’
Marnie was uncharacteristically silent for a moment. Then she said, ‘You look stunning, Lola,’ and added in a worried voice, ‘You will be careful, won’t you?’
‘Of course I’ll be careful! Stop sounding as though we’re bit-players in a spy movie!’
‘Where’s he taking you?’
Lola tried and failed to keep the glee out of her voice. ‘The Mimosa.’
Marnie scowled. ‘I don’t want to be impressed—but I am! You lucky, lucky thing—I’ve always wanted to eat there but it costs more than a year’s salary! And Rob says that even if he was loaded he wouldn’t spend that kind of money on a meal, on principle. What time is he collecting you?’
Lola glanced down at the watch which gleamed discreetly on her wrist. ‘Oh, my goodness!’ she squeaked. ‘Right now!’
Marnie held her hand up authoritatively. ‘Then let him wait! It would do a man like that good to be kept waiting!’ she added darkly.
So Lola made herself wait for five minutes which seemed to tick away like five hours before she set off downstairs to find him. He was easily located in the hotel lobby and her eyes were drawn instantly to his dark, elegant body.
He was lounging in one of the squashy leather sofas with his long legs stretched out in front of him, his head resting back on his hands so that those narrowed slate-grey eyes missed nothing.
He saw her immediately and stood up with a kind of unconscious animal grace which had more than one female head swivelling eagerly in his direction.
He was wearing an unstructured suit in a won-derful shade of pale grey, and the loose-fitting cut of the jacket and trousers was somehow the sexiest thing that Lola had ever seen.
Geraint’s appeal was all subtlety and understatement, she realised, as opposed to the glaringly obvious. She could certainly never imagine him in skin-tight jeans. Well, on second thoughts perhaps she could! Only too well. . .
His expression was difficult to define as he followed her movements through the foyer, but he was frowning slightly, as though something about her puzzled him. But when Lola gave him a questioning look the watchfulness was replaced by a bland, social smile of greeting.
‘You look quite—exotic,’ he commented slowly.
‘D-do I?’ Even as she was speaking the words, Lola was shuddering inwardly at how absolutely wet she sounded. And hadn’t he sounded rather doubtful about her outfit? Had exotic been the effect she had been searching for?
He ran a finger slowly over one silken butter-cream cuff and just that one innocuous little touch made Lola shiver like a cat that had been left out in the rain all night.
‘I had it made in Hong Kong,’ she added rather breathlessly, more to fill in the rather awkward silence which had fallen than because she seriously thought he might be interested in her dressmaking tips!
He gave a lazy smile. ‘Really?’
Lola swallowed. Was he going to persist in making her feel uncomfortable all evening with his sardonic comments? More importantly, was she going to let him?
‘Why did you ask me to have dinner with you tonight, Geraint?’ she demanded.
‘Let’s discuss it in the taxi, shall we?’ he said, putting his hand firmly underneath her elbow and guiding her out of the door—with Lola acutely and embarrassingly aware of all the incredulous looks she was getting from the other women.
He must have felt her stiffen as the plate-glass doors closed behind them, for he looked down at her. ‘What is it?’ he demanded quietly. ‘What’s the matter?’
Lola tried to make a joke of it—for he must have noticed the reactions of the people in the foyer, too—but she knew that her voice only ended up sounding wistful. ‘All those beautiful women in there—they’re wondering what on earth you’re doing with someone who looks like me!’
He gave her a thoughtful glance as he opened the door of the taxi which had materialised as if by magic, and helped her inside.
‘Beautiful?’ he echoed wryly, then shook his dark head. ‘I don’t find stick-like bodies coupled with all-revealing clothes in the least bit beautiful. Whereas that silk suit you’re wearing. . .’
His eyes roved almost reluctantly over her, observing how the butter-cream silk clung faintly to every undulation of her body. ‘It hints rather than broadcasts, tantalises rather than emblazons,’ he murmured. ‘I find that infinitely more attractive than the kind of dress which threatens the wearer with being hauled up on an indecency charge.’
‘Oh,’ said Lola rather indistinctly, feeling ridiculously cheered by his obvious approval.
She was then rather nonplussed to see him lean forward and start speaking to the driver in rapid Italian. ‘You’re fluent!’ she observed in surprise.
He gave a half-smile. ‘You find that so remarkable?’
‘Yes, I do. Most Englishmen—’
‘Ah! But I’m not English, Lola—I’m Welsh.’
‘Oh, I see.’ So that explained the faint, almost musical lilt which made the deep voice so distinctive. And the tar-black tousled hair—its wildness only contained by the superb way he had had it cut.
She shot a covert glance at his impressive frame, at the broad shoulders and the rock-hard muscle of his thighs, visualising him on a ploughed-up field, blocking the other players’ every attempt to pass him. ‘And d-did you play rugby?’ she managed as she made a feeble attempt to squash the lustful vision of Geraint in a pair
