'In a manner of speaking,' the hostess murmured blandly, with a soothing smile at the surrounding passengers. 'If you'll just follow me—don’t forget your jacket!'
Elizabeth turned and picked up the light, knitted-cotton jacket that she had shed on her seat, clutching her shoulder-bag and camera tightly to her chest as she followed the hostess up the aisle, conscious that she had somehow managed, yet again, to draw attention to herself. Was she being taken to see the pilot? Perhaps she was going to be handed a parachute and tossed off the plane! Or perhaps she was going to be clapped in irons for the duration of the flight.
'I didn’t want to say anything in front of the other passengers,' murmured the hostess as she paused by the small galley ahead of the compact business-class section, and Elizabeth's nerves shivered. 'Some people get very annoyed if there's any hint of inequity but...you've been upgraded to first class!'
With something of a dramatic flourish she drew back the curtain which divided the privileged from the plebeian and indicated the rear aisle seat. 'If you'd like to sit down I'll bring you a glass of champagne and the lunch menu.'
'But...I'm sure there must be some mistake,' quavered Elizabeth, aghast at this new development.
'No mistake.' The hostess looked surprised, as well she might. No one in her right mind would turn down the offer of a first-class ride at economy-class rates. Heads were already turning. Elizabeth realised that if she continued to protest she was going to make herself even more conspicuous than she had already. The woman glanced at the note in her hand. 'I believe you must have a friend in our public relations division,' she offered smilingly. 'That's where the suggestion came from to upgrade you if we had any available spare seats.'
Duncan Frazer! Elizabeth was hard put to it not to scream her frustration. Uncle Miles must have told his friend about her travel plans... his way of making up for the unfortunate position he had placed her in. Little did he know the even more unfortunate position he had placed her in now.
For, as Elizabeth reluctantly moved to take her place in unwonted luxury, there—sitting in the window seat studying his newly acquired travelling companion with speculative deliberation—was the very man whom she had been at such extreme pains to detect and avoid.
The man whom she was supposed to be surreptitiously following, spying on and secretly photographing.
The man she was supposed to expose as a lying, cheating adulterer.
Jean-Jules Hawkwood.
The man with pure silver eyes and a heart as black as sin.
CHAPTER TWO
HANDSOME as sin, too. That was a shock. It hadn’t been Elizabeth's first impression on seeing him at the airport, or even her second. He wasn’t particularly tall for a man, probably around five feet ten, and in the coat he had been wearing he had looked rather bulky. The pony-tail and the earring had been the crowning factors in her dismissal of him as vain and effete. But now he was stripped to jeans and a contoured pale blue shirt she could see that his bulk was all muscle and his hairstyle only served to emphasise the uncompromisingly harsh maleness of his body and face. The sleek blue-black hair drawn ruthlessly back into the small pony-tail at the nape of his neck revealed a face of almost sculpted starkness, all slashing bone and tautly stretched skin. His mouth was wide but his lips were narrow, their thinness adding to the impression of harshness, even cruelty. The earring was a thin gold circle in his right ear. If she hadn’t known that he was a wealthy businessman Elizabeth would have pegged him as a man who lived outside the law—lean and mean and definitely dangerous to know. Someone totally outside her limited experience. A pony-tail, for goodness' sake! Admittedly it was only a couple of inches long, which meant that his hair would barely cover his collar, but still, it was so…menacing! It made him look like a drug-dealer or gun-runner, the kind of man who enjoyed living on a perpetual knife-edge of legality... of risk. 'Miss Lamb?'
The dark-eyed air hostess was frowning in puzzlement as Elizabeth's hesitation stretched several seconds too long.
'Er—yes, thank you very much.' Her normally deep voice was even huskier than usual, prompting a flicker of curiosity in that lightning-silver gaze. Elizabeth sat down hastily, ignoring him with rigid deliberation as she fumbled blindly at her left hip for the seatbelt clip, unwilling to turn her head even a fraction of an inch to the side even when she began to doubt that her seat possessed a safety-belt. It was a shock when a warm, masculine hand suddenly tangled her searching fingers.
She gasped, jerking her hand back, resisting the natural compulsion to look at him, looking down instead at the blunt, scarred fingers which proffered the elusive device, her smooth, shoulder-length brown hair sliding forward to hide the flush in her cheeks.
'Thank you,' she muttered gracelessly, grabbing at it, careful not to touch him again.
'You're welcome.' His English was impeccable, as was the subtle sardonic emphasis that mocked her apparent rudeness.
Elizabeth fastened her seatbelt and sat, stiff-backed, her handbag and camera clutched in her lap. Out of the corner of her eye she could see that her quarry already had his glass of champagne. He lifted it out of range of her peripheral eyesight and she thought hopefully that maybe he was a lush and would drink enough on the voyage to forget having sat beside her. She also noted that there was no wedding band on his ring-finger. Typical. As a rich man he probably decked his wife in symbols of his possession but he didn’t want to advertise his own marital status—it would cramp his style!
Feeling uncomfortable with her thoughts, Elizabeth bent to put her handbag and camera case underneath her feet, inadvertently tangling the strap of the camera on the delicate heel of her shoe and somehow looping it around her ankle. Her narrow skirt made it difficult to shake the impediment loose even after she shed her shoe, and she had to struggle to free herself mostly by touch since the dark glasses rendered the dimness below seat level almost totally black. When she finally achieved success she bobbed up again with relief, her shoulder knocking the glass of champagne that the hostess was patiently waiting to serve her out
of her hand. The glass up-ended on to Elizabeth's breasts, the sparkling liquid instantly moulding her cream blouse semi-transparently against her skin.
'Oh, Miss Lamb, I'm awfully sorry,' the hostess cried in genuine dismay.
If Elizabeth had paid for first-class she might not have been so gracious, but in the circumstances she was anxious to smooth things over as quickly as possible.
'That's all right, it was completely my fault; please— don’t worry about it...'
She dabbed feebly at the wet fabric with the cocktail napkin which the hostess had handed her before quickly hurrying away to fetch something more substantial, cursing the love of extravagant underwear that had prompted her to wear a particularly daring lace bra in 'mood indigo' under the demure blouse. The only saving grace was that the material across her collarbone had only been slightly splashed, thereby still concealing the precious cargo encircling her neck.
A white handkerchief, exquisitely pressed and embroidered with the initials 'J.H.', appeared under her nose.
'Oh, no, it's all right, I can manage.' Elizabeth turned her head away from the offer, unwilling to be beholden, even in such a trifle, to one such as he.
'I assure you it is clean. Quite uncontaminated,' came the crisp rejoinder. His English was slightly less impeccable this time, barely containing his irritation.
'I wouldn’t want to dirty it—'