Surely she couldn't be Julie Somerville? No fashion editor would be so unfashionable! However, it would be as well to check. He sighed.
Leaving his single case beside Tom's two bulging ones he picked up his briefcase and strolled over. He was half amused, half irritated to see her stiffen as she became aware of his presence and a slightly malicious impulse prompted him to make his first words ambiguous.
CHAPTER TWO
'Are you waiting for someone?'
The voice was rich and brown, flavoured with harshness, like bitter chocolate. It made the back of Sarah's neck prickle oddly and, disliking the sensation, she turned defensively.
It was him of course. The man with the insulting stare.
She had noticed him even before she entered the terminal, framed by the glass rectangle of the door. He was isolated from the rest of seething humanity as much by his expression as by the fact that he was sitting alone. No happy traveller there, but a world-weary cynic. The thin, dark face wore a look of intense boredom almost amounting to sullenness. His body was long and slim, disposing itself with an easy elegance, but the indolent attitude didn't entirely conceal the latent strength. He was dressed with a studied casualness—off-white linen shirt, open at the neck, and dark trousers. And he was attractive, sinfully so, in a dark, gypsyish kind of way.
He had watched her walk across the arrival lounge. She knew because she could feel it, just as she had felt his approach now. It had been a critical gaze too, and, irrationally, she had resented it. She was used to being superficially judged and found wanting by male eyes, usually it didn't bother her. But he did. And when she had seen that smile, that narcissistic expectation that she would smile back, overwhelmed with gratitude that he had condescended to notice her, she was seized by the desire to prick that peacock pride. And she had. His reaction to her non-reaction had been typical. Handsome men often thought themselves irresistible.
She lifted her chin and looked past him. 'Yes. If you'll excuse me.' She made her voice as clear and cold as her slate-coloured eyes.
He moved at the same time she did, blocking her path, the smile tightening on his lips. At> close quarters he was even more attractive. Sarah felt the impact of his masculinity as an almost physical threat and instinctively she shrank from it. A gypsy, but an aristocratic one, the slight signs of dissipation giving him an additional, dangerous, edge. The blue-black of his hair was reflected in the blue shadow on his chin and upper lip and there were shadows too under his eyes; those curious eyes that were not dark as one would expect, but light hazel, disturbingly brilliant.
'Do you mind? I said excuse me!'
'And I asked you a question.'
Sarah licked her lips. His persistence was vaguely menacing. 'I told you—'
'Excuse?' A pretty blonde British Airways stewardess materialised beside them and thrust a folded piece of paper at the man. 'Sorry I missed you when you left. Here's my number. If I'm not there my flatmate knows my schedule.' She flashed a brief, insincere smile at Sarah and dashed away again.
The man tucked away the piece of paper in his shirt pocket and raised a bland black eyebrow at Sarah.
'Now, where were we?'
'Nowhere!' snapped Sarah. She should have moved while she had the chance. Smug, egotistical devil! 'If you're so desperate for company why don't you catch another flight and collect a few more numbers!' The words sounded ridiculously priggish even to her own ears, but what with being late and not being able to spot her executives, and trying to cope with God's gift to women, she was rapidly losing what was left of her cool.
'I was going to suggest a good one for you to call,' he said evenly. 'A psychiatrist. You have quite an aggression problem there.'
'The one you go to no doubt,' responded Sarah sweetly. 'But doesn't he specialise? Egocentric males?'
There was a taut little pause.
'Are you always this rude to strangers?'
It was a farcical situation, exchanging insults in public with a perfect stranger. Already appalled by her uncharacteristic behaviour, Sarah searched for some way to defuse the conversation. Why hadn't she just ignored him, or frozen him off?
'Ah, there you are! You must be Sarah Carter. I've just been on the telephone to your editor.'
Sarah gratefully took the outstretched hand, smiling tentatively at her rescuer. Broad shoulders and a rather kindly middle-aged face.
'Mr. Wilde?' she asked, questioningly.
His handshake was firm and dry and the polite smile widened appreciatively.
'I'm flattered, but no. I'm Tom Forest. Hasn't Max introduced himself yet?' He propelled her gently towards the other man. 'This is Max Wilde.'
In place of Sarah's brain sat a large chunk of marsh-mallow, pink and mushy and incapable of coherent thought. Luckily none of her body's other systems appeared to be working either-—she didn't flush or stammer or burst into tears of humiliation. She just stood there and stared blankly at him.
'Pleased to meet you, Sarah Carter; at last.' The very lack of expression in the low, harsh voice was a mockery in itself. He extended a hand, like a challenge, and Sarah took it, avoiding his eyes by looking down at her hand almost engulfed by his. His knuckles whitened and she winced at the fierceness of his grip and looked up involuntarily to catch the gleam of amusement in his eyes.
He had known. All along he had known—or at least suspected—who she was. He had let her make a complete fool of herself and now he was enjoying her discomfiture. She fought in vain to stop the wave of heat from climbing into her face. She hadn't blushed in years and it was infuriating that this awful man should be able to make her do it twice within a few minutes.