Czytaj książkę: «Avoiding Mr Right»

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.

The man’s eyes, however, contemplated the departing Christina with amused appreciation. Both men had witnessed the end of her altercation with the clerk.

‘Monsieur!’ exclaimed the official. He was clearly anxious to defuse the honoured customer’s justified indignation.

But the honoured customer was not paying attention. He was still looking after the slim figure storming through the crowd. His expression was a curious mixture of appreciation and regret. The official, who had known him a long time, felt a twinge of sympathy. He wiped all expression from his face, however, and bowed his customer through the door.

Christina was oblivious as she steamed out into the diamond-hard light of an Athenian morning. She was furious.

The money was hers, not the bank’s. It represented hours of hard work, sometimes backbreaking work. She was proud of that. And now the bank would not let her get at it! She went to the edge of the pavement and stared across the gleaming, steaming, evil-smelling ribbon of metal and fumes that was Athens’s morning traffic jam. The fine temper which had sustained her so far drained away abruptly. If she admitted it, Christina thought wryly, she was as much worried as angry.

The honoured customer, strolling out of the bank, caught sight of Christina hesitating on the pavement. On the point of summoning a car, his hand fell. He looked at her tense figure quizzically.

Christina remained unaware. She pushed the soft, straight hair back from her brow with fingers which shook a little. The man saw that tell-tale tremor. His eyes sharpened.

He hesitated for a moment. Then, with a shrug, he strolled across to her.

‘Are you all right?’

Christina jumped at the voice. The words were pleasant enough but the tone was impatient. She turned, her brown hair swinging.

She found that she was being addressed by a tall man in an immaculate biscuit-coloured suit. She did not know anyone who wore suits of that faultless cut. Or who spoke to her with that abrupt harshness, as if in spite of himself.

‘What?’ she asked blankly.

The man raised an eyebrow, unsmiling. ‘You seem a little agitated.’

He was definitely a stranger. From his quick, impatient tones, he seemed as if he could hardly wait to get away from her. And yet... Christina took off her sunglasses the better to see him in the dense shadow of the building behind them. She scanned him candidly.

It was a powerful face rather than a handsome one. He was taller than Christina, who counted herself a tall woman. He was so dark that his skin was almost swarthy. His hair was equally dark. In the brilliant morning it looked black, springing back from a wide, proud brow. Added to that was a strong, imperious nose, a firm jaw, a sculpted mouth in which discipline warred with sensuality, and steeply lidded, sleepy eyes.

He was a seriously sexy man, Christina thought. The attraction blasted out at her like heat from the open door of a furnace. For a moment it took her breath away.

Christina was startled. She did not normally think in those terms. In fact, though she had been good friends with a number of men in the last six years, she could not remember her first reaction to one ever being that little jump of the pulses that acknowledged his masculinity. It immediately made her feel feminine and, somehow, vulnerable.

Her cornflower-blue eyes widened. The thought was not a welcome one. Vulnerability meant weakness, and Christina was not weak. She had worked very hard to win strength and independence and, as she was of her bank balance, she was proud of it.

‘Agitated?’ she echoed faintly.

He smiled suddenly. It was a dazzling smile.

‘Well, you nearly ruined my Roman profile with the revolving door back there,’ he told her. He indicated the fashionable offices of the bank they had both just left.

Christina jumped. She even blushed faintly. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. I mean, I didn’t see you.’

She was floundering under his gaze. Now she came to look at him, she saw that he did not look impatient at all. He looked sleepy—and appreciative. She pulled herself together.

‘I was a bit preoccupied,’ she admitted, trying to sound cool and unmoved. “They said I couldn’t have my own money. I’m afraid I lost my temper.’

The man gave a soft laugh. ‘I saw. Or, at least, I caught the end of it. You seem to have justification.’

Christina was rueful. ‘Justification possibly, but I am sure I would have done better to keep my temper. After I started banging the counter that man lost any faint interest he might have had in helping me.’

The man’s mouth twitched. ‘Understandable,’ he murmured.

Christina raised her shoulders in an impatient shrug. ‘Yes, I suppose so. Doesn’t help me, though. The bank will make damn sure that the whole beastly, bureaucratic process takes as long as possible now. I could see it in that clerk’s eyes.’

The man smiled again. It packed a charge, that smile, Christina thought, startled. She blinked.

‘Maybe he just wanted to make sure you keep coming back,’ he suggested. ‘You certainly brighten the place up.’

Christina shook her head. She was feeling a little dazed.

She said in some confusion. ‘Oh, I don’t think so. He just thought I was being unreasonable.’

‘You were,’ he told her with brutal frankness. ‘The clerk behind the counter doesn’t make the rules, you know.’

Christina sniffed. ‘He didn’t have to gloat over hitting me with them.’

The stranger looked amused. ‘How do you know he was gloating? Perhaps he was just embarrassed.’

‘He didn’t look embarrassed.’

He raised his brows. ‘No, maybe not. He has his dignity to consider. But, believe me—’ his voice was full of irony ‘—the last thing a man wants to do is to say no to a beautiful woman. It goes against nature.’

Christina blinked. Beautiful? The compliment was faintly challenging. She met his eyes, bewildered, and saw that they were dancing.

Hurriedly she said, ‘I needn’t have shouted, I suppose. Anyway I’ve paid for my bad temper. It means I now have twenty dollars to last me the week.’

This time the man’s brows hit his hairline. ‘Good grief.’

Christina gave a sudden laugh. It was a warm, bubbly laugh and it was infectious. A woman passing with a small child sent her a harassed smile in response. But the stranger did not smile. Instead his eyes narrowed. For a moment the handsome face was completely blank.

‘Can you survive on that?’ he asked, shooting the question at her like an accusation.

Christina shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ she said frankly.

He seemed to take a decision.

‘I want to know more about this. I will buy you a coffee while we discuss it.’

Christina did hesitate at that. She looked at him assessingly. In spite of his invitation, in spite of the blazing charm of his smile, she had the sense that he was behaving out of character, and that he was, at some level, almost angry with himself.

It was oddly reassuring. Not that the stranger looked like a cruising Romeo. If he had, thought Christina, she would not have wasted a minute on him. Even if appearances proved deceptive, she could handle it. She was a modern girl and she could keep the masculine desire for flirtation well under control. Still, desire for coffee warred with her habitual dislike of doing what someone else ordered her to do. Coffee won, but only just.

‘Thank you,’ she said. She could not disguise her faint annoyance.

He had observed her debate.

‘Although you don’t usually take coffee with perfect strangers?’ His lips twitched suddenly. ‘I feel I should thank you,’ he remarked. ‘A salutary experience, believe me. This way, I think.’

He took her by the elbow. It was a light hold, barely more than the touch of his fingertips on her bare arm, but Christina was conscious of it through her whole body. She looked at him sideways, startled. The man seemed unaware of the effect he was having on her. Perhaps it was the effect he had on every woman and he was used to it. That tingle certainly did not seem to be mutual, Christina thought wryly. He looked completely unmoved.

He took her to one of the fashionable cafés that Christina would never normally have gone to on her own. Even when she had plenty of cash in her money belt, she restricted herself to the places where students and young, footloose travellers went. But the man looked as if he had never strayed off the wide boulevards in his life. He had the air of one to whom luxury was commonplace.

Watching him from under her eyelashes, Christina realised how right she had been about his elegance. The light-coloured, lightweight suit was virtually creaseless, in spite of the city battering it must have taken this morning. His shirt looked crisp and fresh and the tie he wore was, from its stained-glass colours, real silk.

Final confirmation, if it were needed, was provided by the waiter. The cafe was full of smartly dressed women with shiny, exclusive carrier bags and besuited men in groups, clattering sugar spoons and worry beads with equal vigour.

Nevertheless, Christina and her unknown companion were led immediately to the best table under the striped awning. It was close to a small orange tree in a pot, whose perfumed flowers almost succeeded in masking the fumes of combustion engines.

At first Christina thought that this was simply the waiter’s professional recognition of a wealthy man. But when he addressed her companion as ‘Monsieur’ she realised that he did, indeed, know him.

Her companion seated her, before sitting himself in the comfortable basketwork chair at right angles to her.

He looked up at the waiter and spoke in quick, idiomatic Greek. He did not speak it like a Frenchman. Christina, whose command of the language was still imperfect even after five years of summer jobs in the country, listened with mixed admiration and dudgeon.

The waiter wrote down the order and left with a small bow. She noted it particularly. Waiters at pavement cafés, even on the fashionable boulevards, seldom bowed to their customers. She would have demanded an explanation but there was another matter to be dealt with first.

‘How did you know I wanted coffee and croissants?’ she demanded as soon as the waiter had gone. ‘You didn’t ask. I am old enough to do my own ordering, you know.’

The man leaned back in his chair, very much at his ease, one arm resting negligently along the curved basketwork arm. Oh, yes, this was a man to whom comfort was an automatic expectation, unworthy of comment. He looked amused at her belligerence.

‘But why should you? It was my pleasure.’ His tone was suave. ‘You had already said yes to coffee. And I assume, if funds are low, that any sustenance will be welcome.’ He flicked a glance at his heavy wrist-watch. ‘At this time you will not get a full English breakfast, I’m afraid, even here. And it is too soon for lunch. I thought croissants and pastries would fill the gap acceptably while we discuss what to do next.’

She had to admit that she could not fault his reasoning, or withstand that look of wicked amusement which invited her to share it. But Christina went down fighting.

‘If they bring me Greek coffee as sweet as barley sugar, I’ll get up and leave,’ she threatened.

He laughed aloud then. ‘It’s a deal.’

But when it came the coffee was filtered Colombian with an aroma that was a sensual experience all on its own. Christina closed her eyes and inhaled a scent of wood smoke, she tasted walnuts and heard the chink of brandy glasses at the end of a cordon bleu meal—and all from the warm fumes that wafted up from the cup between her palms.

She sighed in pure, sensuous appreciation. She opened her eyes and met his glance across the table. The brown eyes were dancing.

‘Leaving?’ he asked softly.

Christina sighed. ‘Coffee is possibly my greatest weakness,’ she said in resignation.

His mouth slanted. ‘I wish I enjoyed my weaknesses with such abandon.’

For no reason she could think of, Christina found her eyes falling away from his. ‘I’ll stay,’ she said hurriedly.

She thanked the waiter in careful Greek. It made him smile as he placed iced water at her elbow and put a basket of freshly baked croissants wrapped in a linen napkin in the middle of the table. It also, she saw out of the corner of her eyes with some satisfaction, raised her companion’s eyebrows.

‘So coffee’s your greatest weakness. That seems a waste.’ He pushed an elegant cream jug and sugar bowl across the table towards her. ‘It doesn’t leave much opportunity for sin,’ he observed softly.

Christina decided that she did not want to explore the implications of that. She pushed the hair back from her brow, running her fingers through the newly washed softness absently.

‘Enough,’ she said, eyeing him warily.

His smile grew, but he did not answer. It left her feeling slightly uneasy.

She helped herself to cream. He took his own coffee black, she saw, with several spoonfuls of sugar. She raised her brows as the third spoonful went in. He chuckled.

‘An old Latin American habit,’ he murmured. ‘My Brazilian uncle used to say coffee should be black as night, hot as hell and sweet as love.’

‘Oh,’ said Christina taken aback.

She pushed the sugar bowl away from her hurriedly. Without knowing why it did, she felt the warm blood rising under her tan. She was not normally given to blushing and it annoyed her. She took a cooling sip of the ice-cold water that the waiter had brought with her coffee and struggled to appear unmoved.

‘Is that where you come from? Latin America? I thought you were French,’ she said, determined to shift him out of dangerous territory into polite conversation.

She suspected that he detected her ploy. His eyes crinkled a little at the corners with what might have been secret laughter, but she could not be sure.

He said gravely, ‘Oh, I’ve got French uncles as well. My ancestry is a complete cocktail. It’s a long story. I won’t bore you with it.’

So it was not a subject open for conversation. That made Christina even more uneasy, for some reason. She allowed her dissatisfaction to appear.

He hesitated briefly she thought, before adding, ‘I suppose I should introduce myself. I am Luc Henri.’

There was an odd, loaded pause. He looked at her expectantly, even challengingly. Christina was surprised. Was she supposed to know his name? It meant nothing to her—except that it was obviously French.

She wondered suddenly if any of the other people in the busy café knew him. She looked round. There had been several covert glances in their direction from the elegantly dressed women shoppers.

They were envious glances, Christina realised now. So she was not the only one to rock back on her heels under the impact of that electric attraction. It was a small comfort.

She considered him anew. With a little shock, it was borne in on her that her companion had to be the most attractive man she had ever seen. Certainly he was the most attractive man in the café by a fair margin.

She said slowly. ‘Luc Henri? Should that mean something to me?’

The sleepy eyes laughed at her. ‘I hope not.’

That startled her. ‘What? Why?’

He leaned back in the chair, the morning light glinting on the blue-black hair, turning it into the sleek pelt of a jaguar. It also glinted, Christina saw wryly, on the heavy watch, which was probably gold, and the discreet cuff-links which certainly were. His mouth curved as he looked at her.

‘It is a rare experience to talk to a woman whose greatest weakness is coffee,’ he said smoothly. ‘I think we should keep this encounter of ours out of space and time. Then it can retain its rarity.’

Christina put her head on one side.

‘You mean we won’t meet again so we can afford to be honest with each other?’ she interpreted.

He looked startled. ‘You’re very acute.’

She gave a bubbling laugh. It made his lips twitch responsively.

‘I just like to know where I stand.’ She put her elbows on the table and steepled her hands, propping her chin on them while she considered him. ‘Of course, I could tell you a complete fantasy. You would never know.’

Luc Henri looked entertained. ‘Are you going to?’

Christina looked mischievous. ‘It’s a temptation,’ she admitted. She let her blue eyes go dreamy. ‘I could be—oh, a coffee planter’s daughter.’

He put back his head and laughed aloud at that. It was a deep, warm sound, like a cello. It seemed to set up some deep echo in Christina. She tingled with it. It was not unpleasant but it gave her an unexpected sense of danger, as if she had walked round an ordinary corner and found herself standing on a precipice.

Startled, she sat upright and stopped playing a game she did not understand.

‘On second thoughts, it’s probably better not to get carried away,’ she said wryly. ‘I’m Christina Howard.’

She extended her hand briskly across the table. Luc Henri took it and, to her astonishment, turned it over and inspected its ringless state. His fingers were long and cool. Christina gave a little private shiver at his touch.

Fortunately he did not seem to notice. He shook her hand equally briskly and returned it to her.

‘And what are you doing in Greece, Miss Howard? Apart from waiting for funds, of course.’

She acknowledged the dry comment with a smile. She sipped her coffee.

‘A tourist?’ he prompted.

Christina was affronted. Her Greek was not that bad. ‘Of course not. I work.’

There was a small pause while he surveyed her. An odd little smile played about his mouth. ‘I see I have offended you. Should I apologise?’

He did not look as if he often apologised, Christina thought. She did not say it. She did not have to. Luc Henri laughed softly.

‘There are so many of the young, beautiful and indigent in Athens. All students who think they can live on air and the classics while they see the sights of Ancient Greece. You seemed to qualify.’

Their eyes met. Christina had the sudden sensation that the precipice had begun to fall away under her feet. And he had called her beautiful again!

She said breathlessly, ‘I’m not such a fool.’

He looked sceptical.

She insisted, ‘I’m not. I’m short of money because my bank has messed things up, nothing more. I’m not a student. I’m a practical woman. I’ve never tried to live on air and—and whatever it was in my life.’

‘The classics,’ he murmured.

His eyes were crinkling up at the corners most decidedly now. He looked as if he was enjoying himself. ‘I apologise. What do you—er—work at?’

Christina grinned suddenly. ‘I’m a deckhand.’

That shook him as it was intended to do. He blinked.

‘A—?’ He shook his head and took a mouthful of his coffee. Then he shook his head again. ‘It’s no good. I thought you said a deckhand.’

‘I did.’

His jaw did not quite drop but the blank look on his face was rewarding. Well pleased with this reaction, Christina helped herself to a buttery croissant, pulled the corner off and chewed with enjoyment.

‘But—why?’

‘Now that’s as long a story as your ancestry,’ she said demurely.

The dark face showed brief incredulity, as if he was not used to being denied what he wanted to know. His brows twitched together. ‘Are you suggesting a trade, Christina Howard?’

She looked innocent. He was not deceived.

‘My family tree for your extraordinary career choice?’

‘Well, I don’t tell people normally. And you obviously don’t talk about your family,’ she pointed out.

He seemed amused—suddenly, deeply amused. ‘So it would be a fair trade? Well, I see your point. And certainly I don’t normally talk about my family. You are quite right about that.’

His shoulders shook a little. Christina’s faint suspicions grew.

‘Are you sure I shouldn’t know you?’ she demanded.

He shook his head, his eyes brimming with that private laughter.

‘Then—’

‘Your career,’ he interrupted firmly. ‘Tell.’

Christina set her jaw. ‘You first. You might chicken out.’

‘O ye of little faith,’ he mourned. But his mouth still looked as if he was laughing inside. ‘Very well. My mother was French. My grandfather was a mad explorer and he dragged his family along with him wherever he went. My aunt Monique married a Brazilian tennis player who lived half his life in the jungle with remote Indian tribes. Very dashing and just possibly a touch madder than my grandfather. At least, that’s what my father used to say.’

‘And what is he—your father I mean?’

A brief sadness touched his face. ‘Was, I’m afraid.’

‘I’m sorry,’ murmured Christina.

It was clear that he had liked his father.

‘Was he an explorer too?’

‘No.’ He seemed to bring himself back out of the past. ‘No, he was more of—well, you would call him an administrator, I suppose.’

‘Civil servant,’ interpreted Christina.

Luc Henri looked startled. Then his lips twitched. ‘You could call him that, certainly.’

‘And you? Explorer or civil servant? Or neither?’

‘That wasn’t in the bargain,’ he protested. But he answered readily enough. ‘Civil servant, definitely. Explorers have horribly uncomfortable lives. I like to be comfortable.’

But there was something about the way he said it—to say nothing of the broad set of his muscular shoulders—that made Christina suspect that she was being teased again. She was not sure she liked it.

He turned compelling eyes on her. ‘And you? How did you become a deckhand?’

‘Oh; that’s easy. It was a bid for freedom.’

He looked astonished. ‘I have heard much about sailing but I’ve never heard that anyone but the owner of the boat had much freedom.’

Christina looked at him with new respect. ‘You’re right there,’ she agreed.

‘But it was still freedom for you? Were you escaping from a convent?’

She shook her head, laughing. ‘Very nearly. A polite girls’ school. Have you ever been to one?’

His eyes danced. ‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Don’t be afraid. It’s not an experience to be envied.’

‘If it was so bad why didn’t your parents take you away?’

‘Parent,’ Christina corrected him swiftly. ‘She thought I was jolly lucky getting a scholarship to a school where the girls passed lots of exams. She could never have afforded to send me there without it. And I didn’t tell her. Anyway it wasn’t bad. Just boring.’

‘More boring than a deckhand’s life?’ he asked, a cynical note in his voice.

Christina gave him a straight look. ‘Deckhands travel. Until I came out here all the travelling I ever did was the journey to and from school.’ She took another mouthful of croissant. ‘But school was a long time ago.’

‘Not that long,’ he said drily.

Christina shook her head. ‘Don’t be deceived,’ she said calmly. ‘I’m older than I look.’

‘That’s just as well. You look about twelve at the moment,’ he said.

He leaned forward and brushed a flake of sweet pastry from her chin. Christina choked. He sat back, his eyes glinting.

‘There. Back with the adults again.’

She was blushing. ‘Thank you. Very kind of you,’ she said furiously, not meaning a word of it.

He did not pretend to misunderstand. He laughed. ‘My pleasure. So you ran away to sea twenty years ago. How have you lived since then?’

Christina sniffed. ‘I earn a decent living.’ She scowled at the sweet roll in her hand. ‘At least, I do when the bank lets me get at my money.’

Luc Henri shook his head. ‘Who on earth is mad enough to employ a girl like you as a deckhand?’