Sophie Weston - Avoiding Mr Right

“What are you doing here?” “What are you doing here?” Luc’s eyes found hers. He smiled suddenly, brilliantly. “Reconsidering my strategy,” he said. His voice was full of that infuriating secret amusement again. To Christina’s complete astonishment, he leaned down and slid the sunglasses down her nose so that he could speak straight into her suspicious eyes. “Don’t look so alarmed, Christina Howard.” He bent his head before she knew what he was about and gave her a light, searing kiss full on her startled mouth. Then he was gone, slipping like a shadow among the shadows of the waterfront buildings. Christina stared after him. The kiss had been so brief that she was not sure whether she had conjured it up from her fevered imagination. But then she touched her throbbing lips. It was not her imagination. God knew who he was or what he wanted but, whatever it was, he was there. Irrationally, recklessly, her heart began to sing. About the Author Born in London, Sophie Weston is a traveler by nature who started writing when she was five. She wrote her first romance recovering from illness, thinking her traveling was over. She was wrong, but she enjoyed it so much that she has carried on. These days she lives in the heart of the city with two demanding cats and a cherry tree—and travels the world looking for settings for her stories. Title Page Avoiding Mr Right Sophie Weston www.millsandboon.co.uk CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN Copyright

“What are you doing here?”

Luc’s eyes found hers. He smiled suddenly, brilliantly. “Reconsidering my strategy,” he said. His voice was full of that infuriating secret amusement again.

To Christina’s complete astonishment, he leaned down and slid the sunglasses down her nose so that he could speak straight into her suspicious eyes.

“Don’t look so alarmed, Christina Howard.”

He bent his head before she knew what he was about and gave her a light, searing kiss full on her startled mouth.

Then he was gone, slipping like a shadow among the shadows of the waterfront buildings. Christina stared after him. The kiss had been so brief that she was not sure whether she had conjured it up from her fevered imagination. But then she touched her throbbing lips. It was not her imagination. God knew who he was or what he wanted but, whatever it was, he was there.

Irrationally, recklessly, her heart began to sing.

Born in London, Sophie Weston is a traveler by nature who started writing when she was five. She wrote her first romance recovering from illness, thinking her traveling was over. She was wrong, but she enjoyed it so much that she has carried on. These days she lives in the heart of the city with two demanding cats and a cherry tree—and travels the world looking for settings for her stories.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

‘I DON’T believe it.’

Christina glared impotently at the man on the other side of the bank’s glass barrier. Behind her, she was conscious that the queue was getting impatient. Her opponent looked bored. He even shrugged.

‘It’s crazy,’ she protested.

He was adamant. ‘You should have made an arrangement. It is the rules.’ He permitted himself a complacent smirk. ‘The rules are for your own protection, Miss—er—Howard.’

There was no need for him to squint down at her cash withdrawal form like that. He and Christina had been arguing about it for fifteen minutes. He must know her name as well as she knew it herself by now.

But he was a petty official with a point to make and he was enjoying himself. He was having fun pointing out that she was thoughtless and inefficient. Still, what else could you expect from a girl? his manner said. More important, his manner also said that he was the one in control here. And that he wasn’t going to bend the rules even a little. Christina had strong views about men who liked to be in control and this man was reinforcing all of them.

‘You certainly don’t get your kicks out of helping your customers, do you?’ Christina said sweetly.

She was beaten and she knew it. But she was not going to slink away without telling him exactly what she thought of him. Her self-respect demanded it.

He looked wary. This was where, in a perfect world, the bank manager would come out of his office and say, ‘Christina, my dear girl, why didn’t you tell me?’ and sweep her off triumphant, leaving the petty clerk quaking. She sighed, shaking out her soft brown mane of hair. This was not a perfect world. She had never known any bank managers.

‘Do you want me to put in a request for the money or not, Miss Howard?’ he said sharply. No groping for her name this time, she noticed. Her indignation had rattled him that much at least. It was not much of a victory but it was something.

The shuffling feet behind her were beginning to sound like the percussion section of an orchestra.

‘Oh, very well,’ she said.

‘Then fill out this form. And this.’

‘More forms? But I’ve already...’

He was back in control. He smirked. ‘We have to check. It is in your own interest. It—’ He stopped under her withering stare.

‘Don’t tell me,’ Christina said drily. ‘It’s the rules. OK, then. Give me the beastly form.’

He gave her two. She bent to fill them out, scribbling with swift efficiency. The woman behind her sighed in resignation, but the clerk looked briefly impressed at the speed with which Christina completed the task.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

He took them back, applied stamps of various sorts to every conceivable space and handed her back a small sliver of paper with two—or was it three?—stamps on it.

‘Come back tomorrow.’

Christina surveyed him cynically.

‘You must think I’m a fool. If you’re going through this rigmarole, the money won’t be here inside a week.’

He had the grace to blush. But he shrugged again. ‘You never know.’

‘Oh, I know,’ Christina said bitterly. ‘I’ve met bureaucrats before.’

Hurriedly he pushed some more paper at her. These looked like brochures of some sort. She picked them up absently, still glaring at him.

He tried a winning smile. ‘You could always transfer your account to this branch.’

Christina gave him an incredulous look. His smile faltered. He shuffled papers importantly and tried to sound efficient. ‘Yes, well, we’ll contact you when your money comes through, Miss Howard.’

‘You won’t,’ she said positively.

He looked affronted. ‘I assure you—’

‘You won’t be able to. If you’d read one of those eighteen forms you’ve just made me fill out in triplicate, you’d see I haven’t got an address in Athens yet,’ she pointed out. ‘So I’ll contact you.’

‘I look forward to it,’ he said with patent untruth.

Christina did not deign to reply. She turned away from the counter. The queue came to life again. The woman behind her went up to the glass barrier but the clerk was still looking after the long-legged English girl with the fly-away, sun-streaked hair and the Mediterranean tan.

‘Oh, Miss Howard,’ he called.

Christina turned. Another form? But no. He had remembered his courtesy code, at last.

‘Have a nice day.’

‘Grr,’ said Christina.

She stormed out of the bank.

In fact she stormed so comprehensively that she let the revolving door swing hard, almost into the face of the man following her. The polite official accompanying him leaped to field the door. He looked shocked.