the car into a narrow street of tall Victorian houses. ‘Nearly there,’ she said, turning and giving him a winsome smile, and he had the uneasy suspicion that she knew exactly what he was thinking.
‘Nearly where?’ he responded, his tone much less cordial than hers, and she tucked her lower lip between her teeth.
‘My apartment,’ she replied, braking again, as she swung the Peugeot over to the kerb. There was just room for her to squeeze the little saloon between a dust-smeared Renault and an ancient convertible. ‘I thought I’d cook you supper. Do you mind?’
Alex stared at her. ‘You!’
‘Hmm, me,’ she agreed, putting the car into neutral, and turning off the engine. ‘Believe it or not, but I can cook. Nothing fancy, you understand, but good wholesome food.’
Alex didn’t know whether to laugh or give her a piece of his mind. It was his own fault, of course. If he hadn’t been so ambivalent about revealing that he owned a Ferrari, he’d have been in control. As it was, she had taken events into her own hands, and he could either like it or do the other thing.
He shook his head. He could always call a cab, he supposed. But that would definitely seem ungracious. And, after all, it didn’t really matter where they ate. If she was prepared to invite a stranger into her home, why should he grumble?
‘Are you serious?’ he asked, putting his hand on the door-handle, and she nodded.
‘Of course.’ She licked lips that suddenly looked a little uncertain. ‘You’re not a rapist or anything, are you?’
Alex grimaced. ‘Would I tell you, if I were?’
Elizabeth bit her lip. ‘I suppose not.’
‘Well, I’m not,’ said Alex shortly, thrusting open his door. ‘Come on. It’s too cold to sit here discussing my sexual habits.’ He grinned. ‘We can do that much more comfortably inside, hmm?’
Elizabeth got out, but she still looked uncertain. ‘I have neighbours,’ she informed him. ‘If I screamed—–’
‘Oh, please.’ Alex spread his hands. ‘I’m not a rapist. Nor do I prey on lonely women. Now, can we go inside?’
Her apartment was on the third floor, and Alex groaned as they reached the landing. ‘Someone ought to teach the English to install elevators in their apartment buildings!’ he exclaimed, leaning against the wall, as she searched for her keys. ‘This is the seventh flight of stairs I’ve climbed tonight!’
She frowned. ‘You said—the English; aren’t you English?’
Alex could have bitten out his tongue. ‘Half,’ he said, hoping she wouldn’t ask what the other half was. The door opened, and he followed her inside. ‘Hmm, this is—nice.’
‘It’s awful,’ she assured him fervently, closing the door and securing the lock. ‘But—it’s rented. The furniture, too. It’s practically impossible to rent a decent apartment in London without its being furnished.’
‘Hmm.’ Alex pushed his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and looked about him, as he followed her into a lamplit living-room. Happily, she seemed to have been diverted from asking about his nationality, and he was more than willing to keep her talking about the apartment if that would do the trick. ‘Do you live here alone?’
She looked at him quickly and then away. ‘I—yes,’ she replied, shedding her raincoat on to a chintz-covered sofa, and stepping into the tiny kitchen, which opened off the living-room. She switched on a track of spotlights. ‘So—what would you like to eat? I’ve got steak, chicken, frozen pizza? Or I could scramble us some eggs.’
Alex propped his hip against the fixture. ‘Frozen pizza sounds good to me,’ he declared, choosing the one that required the least preparation. He had noticed the microwave oven standing at one end of the Formica-topped counter, and he had prepared himself enough frozen meals to know it was a simple matter to defrost and cook the pizza. ‘How about you?’
‘Mmm. That sounds good to me, too,’ she agreed, bending to take the box from the freezer. ‘Er—it’s cheese and tomato. Is that all right?’
‘Whatever.’ Alex turned away from the sight of her neatly rounded buttocks, and the way her skirt rode halfway up her thighs as she bent over. It exposed the fact that she wasn’t wearing tights at all, but black stockings, and the unexpected glimpse of her inner thigh, soft, and smooth, and creamy white, was more disturbing than he wanted it to be. ‘So—–’ he endeavoured to school his racing pulse ‘—what do you do for a living?’
She put the pizza into the microwave before replying, and then came to the end of the counter, and propped her elbows on it. ‘What do you think I do?’
‘I don’t know.’ Alex turned, raking back his dark hair with a slightly impatient hand. He shrugged. ‘Something glamorous, I suppose. Modelling, perhaps.’
She laughed. ‘As in artist’s?’
‘As in fashion,’ amended Alex shortly, not appreciating her humour. ‘I assumed you had a job where looks played a part.’
‘Is that a compliment?’
Alex’s mouth compressed. ‘If you want it to be.’
She hesitated. ‘All right. So I’m—involved in fashion. But not as a model. I—buy clothes.’
‘A fashion buyer?’
‘Mmm.’ She seemed content with that description. ‘Now can I offer you a drink?’
Alex thought about saying no, because he was driving, and then thought better of it. He had only had one glass of that appalling punch at the party, and right now he could use something stronger. Preferably whisky, he thought grimly. At this moment, he was feeling at a decided disadvantage.
‘What have you got?’ he asked, and she turned away to take a bottle of Scotch out of one of the cupboards.
‘Only this, I’m afraid,’ she said, not realising how relieved Alex was feeling. It was much later when he conceived the thought that Chivas Regal was hardly the expected thing to find in a single woman’s apartment.
He took it straight, with ice, and after she had settled him on the sofa she returned to the kitchen. She hardly touched her own drink, he noticed. But that was hardly surprising, considering she had practically drowned the Scotch with water.
‘Do you work in London?’
Her question caught him unawares, and Alex took refuge in his drink before replying. ‘Partly,’ he admitted, at last, realising he didn’t have to lie about his whereabouts. London was pretty big, after all.
‘Partly?’ She left the salad she had been mixing, and came to the end of the counter again. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Oh …’ Alex floundered, realising that instead of concentrating on an answer he was looking at her breasts. She had unusually full breasts, and they had been thrown into prominence by the position of the spotlights. They were probably the reason she wasn’t a model, he reflected. Although she was slim, her breasts and hips were much too generously rounded.
