Avoiding Mr Right Page 2

  ‘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?’

  ‘I’m perfectly competent,’ she flung at him, annoyed.

  His eyes caught and held hers. He had extraordinary eyelashes, she saw now—thick and dark, defining those brilliant eyes like a painter’s charcoal line.

  ‘And perfectly beautiful,’ he returned softly.

  Christina caught her breath. Again! She stiffened slightly. Her eyes slid away from his.

  ‘You should see me in my working clothes,’ she said, her voice a little strained.

  ‘I am imagining it.’ His voice was dry. ‘I’d be amazed if the rest of the crew do any work at all.’

  Christina sat even straighter. ‘I don’t have affairs with colleagues,’ she said bluntly.

  He looked amused. ‘Then who do you have affairs with?’

  ‘I don’t—’ she began heatedly and stopped herself at once, but it was too late. She had given herself away. He made no attempt to hide his triumph. His eyes gleamed with it.

  ‘Don’t you? I find that very interesting.’

  Christina fought down a blush and regarded him with exasperation. ‘If you say I ought to, a beautiful girl like me, I shall scream,’ she told him.

  His lips twitched. ‘I’m not that unsubtle.’

  ‘You surprise me,’ she said sarcastically.

  Luc Henri’s slim brows lifted. ‘Because I pay you compliments you’re not used to?’

  ‘How do you know—?’ She bit the sentence off—too late again. This time she was furious with herself.

  The look he gave her was almost tender.

  ‘Women who are used to receiving compliments don’t ignore them,’ he explained kindly. ‘You aren’t and you do. At least you try to. How old are you, Christina?’

  ‘Twenty-three,’ she flung at him.

  He smiled. ‘You surprise me,’ he mimicked.

  Christina ground her teeth.

  ‘Now tell me about these boats you work on.’

  Christina tossed her head. ‘Private yachts mostly. Or tourist boats taking people scuba-diving. I’m good. I can get as much work as I want.’

  ‘And you earn enough to keep yourself?’

  She gave her bubbling laugh suddenly. ‘When the bank lets me get at it.’

  He looked at her curiously. ‘But surely it’s seasonal? What do you do in the winter?’

  Christina gave a small, private smile. Here was an opportunity to get some of her own back at last. “That’s my business.’

  She found that he was watching her; a frown between his brows. He did not seem to have noticed that
she had balked him. He looked as if he was in a quandary—and that he was not going to tell her about it.

  ‘You’re an odd girl,’ he said abruptly.

  ‘Woman,’ she corrected him.

  His mouth twisted suddenly. ‘An even odder woman. I wonder—? No.’

  She was not going to ask. She was not even going to think of asking.

  She took a mouthful of croissant. ‘Not that odd,’ she said calmly. ‘I work, I eat, I sleep like everyone else.’

  The steeply lidded eyes lifted. ‘How wrong you are,’ he said quietly. ‘Not like anyone else I’ve ever known.’

  It was not said provocatively but Christina straightened sharply. Her eyes locked with his. Challenge sizzled in the air between them. Luc went very still.

  After a long moment she said, almost at random, ‘You don’t know me.’

  His eyes still held hers. ‘Do I not?’

  She shivered suddenly. ‘No.’ Her voice was sharp. ‘No, you don’t. This is an encounter out of space and time. Remember?’

  He said softly, ‘You’re scared of me, Christina.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I’m not. I can take care of myself. I’m not scared of you or anyone.’

  Luc looked at her for a moment. ‘If you’re not scared of me, what does scare you?’

  She seized another mouthful of croissant and chewed it, avoiding his eyes. ‘I told you, I’m not scared.’

  ‘Then why won’t you look at me?’

  Christina choked. ‘You’re imagining it.’ She met his eyes with a candour which cost her a lot of self-control. ‘Look, I’m not scared of being alone in the city with nowhere to stay tonight. What makes you more scary than that?’

  There was an odd look in his eyes. ‘You tell me.’

  ‘You’re imagining it,’ Christina said again, too loudly.

  Several of the other customers looked up, startled. The man at the next table was so surprised that he knocked over his glass of water. He dropped his Wall Street Journal and the liquid began to soak into it. He looked wretchedly uncomfortable as the waiter ran to mop the table.

  Christina, who had been aware of the man’s gaze on them for some time, was not displeased. ‘Now he’ll have to find something else to pretend to do while he eavesdrops,’ she said.