EIGHT
‘PINCH me, quick! Who the hell is he?’
‘No idea—but just watch me find out!’
Lola, who had been shamelessly listening in to this conversation, watched as the two women tottered across the clubhouse towards the object of their desire.
And then her heart missed a beat. Or rather it missed several.
Lola blinked as the man glanced up and looked at her. And just carried on looking.
It was the classic, corny situation—the kind that Lola had read about in books and had never really believed could happen.
Well, it was happening now, and to her! Eyes meeting across a crowded room and all the things that went with it whether you liked it or not—the heightened awareness and the not so subtle body language which shrieked out mutual attraction.
Lola recognised him immediately. But he wouldn’t recognise her; of that she was certain. People never did! Lola was an air stewardess, and once she changed out of her uniform she was anonymous—it went hand in hand with the job!
She swallowed, unable to tear her eyes away from him.
As well as being the most outrageously attractive man in the room, he was making no effort to disguise his rather bored indifference. With eyes like storm clouds he was moodily surveying the proceedings as if he would rather be somewhere else.
Well, you and me both, buddy, thought Lola, with a touch of defiance!
She usually adored parties—the fact that she was invited to so many was one of the perks of her job with the airline—but this party was slightly different.
For a start she knew no one.
Everyone seemed to be standing around in large, impenetrable groups which didn’t look particularly welcoming. And she didn’t really feel like going up to one of them and saying in her best stewardess voice, ‘Hi, I’m Lola—who are you?’
The man with the stormy eyes was in the middle of just such a clique, and a scrumptious-looking blonde who had clearly poured herself into her black, sequinned dress without much thought of how she was going to get out of it was gazing into his eyes as if all her Christmases had come at once. And she wasn’t the only one. He seemed to have that hypnotic effect on just about every female in the room.
Lola could see exactly why.
He wasn’t precisely what you’d call good-looking, she decided, not in a boring, even-featured sort of way. His nose looked as though it had been broken—probably on the rugby field, thought Lola as she took in the broad, strong shoulders. But the imperfection only seemed to add to the rather devastating overall attractiveness of his face.
His mouth was sublime—he had the most sensual lips that Lola had ever seen—but there was an unmistakably hard, almost cruel curve to its corners which hinted at a powerful, sexual mastery which Lola loathed herself for finding attractive.
His shoulders were broad, as she had already noted, and his legs were long, and you could sense, rather than see, that every muscle in his hard-packed, spectacular body had been honed to perfection.
This was no rich, pretty boy, thought Lola, with the sense of being in the presence of someone remarkable; this was a real man—tough and strong and uncompromising. Unwillingly, she felt the first faint stirrings of desire.
The man glanced up from listening to the blonde bombshell who was now whispering excitedly into his ear, and, much to Lola’s fury, caught her watching him again.
He raised one quizzical black brow in a look which somehow managed to be both insulting and yet captivating, and Lola angrily stared down into her glass, which contained nothing more exciting than tonic water with a piece of lemon bobbing around in it.
Arrogant so-and-so! she thought disparagingly. And you are not to look at him again. He’s the kind of man who will misinterpret even one look—and have you down under his favourite category: easily seduced!
The buzz of party conversation, fuelled by ever increasing amounts of alcohol, was gradually getting louder and louder. More for something to do than because she was interested in the music, Lola moved towards the front of the stage, where the band who had been hired for the evening were now tuning up, and wondered how soon she could politely make her escape.
She had been awake since five a.m. this morning, and had only arrived back from Vienna an hour ago. Common sense made her wonder why she had bothered to come at all.
Simple. She had come because she had been invited by the Residents’ Association of the plush St Fiacre’s Hill estate.
St Fiacre’s Hill was the most amazing place to live, and she herself, unbelievably, was now a resident there—thanks to the totally unexpected generosity of one of Lola’s airline passengers who had taken a great big shine to her—and left her a house on one of the most exclusive developments in England!
She had come tonight because even after six months of living there she still did not really feel part of the luxury estate, and because sometimes she suspected that she never would.
But one thing was certain—she never would fit in if she shunned the events which studded the busy St Fiacre’s social calendar.
Which was why she was standing awkwardly and alone in the ultra-plush clubhouse, wishing that she were safely tucked up at home in bed. Alone!
A pretty boring ambition for a twenty-five-year-old, she thought wryly as she took another sip of tonic, then winced because it tasted flat and stale.
‘That looks as if it could do with a new lease of life,’ came a deep-voiced, confident observation from just behind Lola’s left shoulder, and she knew without looking that it was the man with the stormy grey eyes.
She forced herself to turn slowly, to meet what turned out to be a predictably mocking gaze, and gave him a steady and deliberate ‘You-don’t-impress -me’ kind of look, though in this case it was difficult because the man exuded a kind of earthy sensuality which made Lola’s breath catch in the back of her throat.
In her job as a flight attendant, she met gorgeous men every single day of her life—although, admittedly, they weren’t usually this gorgeous. Men who had women eating out of their hands like pussycats. Men whom Lola avoided like the plague. Men like this equalled heartbreak!
‘What does?’ she answered rather coolly, just as the lead guitarist chose that moment to break one of his strings. ‘The guitar?’
He shot her a deadpan look. ‘Actually, I’m clean out of guitar strings,’ he murmured, in the most amazing
