Sharon Kendrik - Getting Even

She somehow managed to keep her blush at bay and gave him a calm, empty sort of look. ‘I haven’t really given them a lot of thought, to be honest, sir.’

‘No?’ he queried softly.

‘No,’ she answered repressively.

‘Liar!’ he taunted.

‘Mr Howell-Williams—’

‘Oh, Geraint, please; we’re a little too—um—familiar to stand on ceremony, wouldn’t you say?’

She carried on speaking as if he had not interrupted her with that timely little reminder of how she had swooned in his arms last night. ‘I am not paid to be insulted by passengers, no matter what section of the aircraft they are sitting in. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, miss,’ he answered meekly.

Lola glared, but it took an effort. A huge effort. How extraordinarily annoying it was that she wanted to just curl up at his feet and melt with pleasure at that little-boy-lost look he was subjecting her to at the moment.

‘What would you like?’ she asked, indicating the drinks list in front of him. ‘Champagne?’

‘Not particularly.’ He shrugged. ‘Champagne is essentially a drink of celebration and there isn’t really a lot to celebrate with me sitting down here and you standing there, dressed in that ridiculous uniform—’

‘It is not a ridiculous uniform! It’s just...’

As if controlled by an outside force, their eyes were simultaneously drawn to the saffron-coloured jacket and matching short, short skirt she wore, all piped in a rather hideous shade of cornflower-blue.

Never in her life had Lola been quite so aware of the amount of thigh on view—and rather chubby thigh, come to that, because she certainly wasn’t built on the same scale as some of the skeletal beauties who worked alongside her.

‘A little on the short side?’ he supplied helpfully, and his gaze roved with undisguised interest up the entire length of her legs. “Though I have to say that from where I’m sitting...’

‘You sexist pig!’

He shrugged. ‘What’s sexist about admiring your legs? You were admiring mine—’

‘I was not!’ declared Lola heatedly.

‘Is anything the matter, sir?’

Stuart had glided silently up to Geraint’s seat and he shot Lola a questioning look as her heart sank.

Wait for it, she thought. He’s going to say goodness only knows what about me, and I won’t have a leg to stand on! The passenger in front must have heard me calling Geraint a sexist pig, and we are taught never, never, never—no matter what the provocation—to insult the passenger!

She sighed resignedly as she saw Geraint open his mouth to speak and blanked from her mind the inevitable scene as she imagined him relating her rudeness to the purser.

Thank heavens for my inheritance, she thought, with a fleeting flash of humour. At least I’ll be able to sell the house and live off the interest until I decide what I want to do with the rest of my life...

‘How lovely!’ Stuart was beaming at her, his face wreathed with unfamiliar smiles.

‘L-lovely?’ stumbled Lola in confusion. ‘What’s lovely?’

‘That you’re having dinner with Mr Howell-Williams tonight.’

Lola narrowed her eyes and was challenged by a spectacular grey gaze. ‘I am having dinner with Mr Howell-Williams?’ she repeated incredulously. ‘Tonight?’

Stuart looked slightly bewildered. ‘Well, that’s what he said—’

‘Oh, Lola likes to play hard to get,’ came a voice of silky amusement with an underlying hint of steel. ‘Don’t you, sweetheart?’

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