Avoiding Mr Right

  “What are you doing here?”

  About the Author

  Books by Sophie Weston

  Title Page

  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.

  Books by Sophie Weston

  HARLEQUIN ROMANCE

  3262—NO PROVOCATION

  3274—HABIT OF COMMAND

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  Avoiding Mr Right

  Sophie Weston

  TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

  AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

  STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN

  MADRID • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

  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 o
f 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 eye
lashes, 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.