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‘Lord, no. Well, only the hacks on the press table, I suppose. They’ll pounce on anything they can turn into a headline.’
She reached for her water again, and took another, longer drink.
‘Are you up for a liqueur now?’ her escort asked attentively.
She shook her head. The last thing she wanted was any more alcohol. She’d drunk champagne at the reception, then both white and red wine over dinner.
‘Coffee would be lovely. Is there any left in that pot there?’
Simon immediately reached across to where the silver coffee pot hid behind the flower arrangement in the centre of the table. Portia slid her cup towards him. The back of her neck was stiff. It must be the effort of holding still for so long during that speech. Gracefully she twisted her head to the left, and then to the right, to ease the stiffness.
And froze.
A man was looking at her.
Correction. A man was looking her over. His hooded eyes were resting on her with lazy assessment.
Something like a hot thread of wire drew through her stomach.
As if in total slow motion she felt her pupils dilate.
She stared, unable to move her gaze away.
He was sitting a few tables away, right in her eyeline through the mesh of heads and bodies at the other tables in between. He was tall; she could tell that even with him sitting back, lounged in his seat. His skin was dark for a European, but with a deep, natural tan. Mediterranean? Not quite. Too big to be Italian or Greek, anyway. High cheekbones. Strong nose. Deep lines running to the edges of his mouth. Eyes dark. Very dark.
And still looking her over.
As her eyes met his, she felt the hot wire draw out through her spine.
Liquefying it.
For one endless moment she could not move, and then, with an effort of will that made her weak, she averted her face.
‘Cream?’
She jumped minutely, forcing her eyes to focus on the cream jug held in Simon’s hand over the cup of coffee he’d just poured her.
‘No, thanks.’
Did her voice sound different? Shaky?
She reache
d for the cup and lifted it to her lips. The caffeine jolted her, and she was grateful. As she sipped, she recovered her composure.
Oh, for heaven’s sake, she snapped to herself—he just took you by surprise, that’s all.
Usually she was careful never to make eye contact when a man looked at her in that way. She’d just been caught off guard this time. That was all. A mistake, and one she must ensure she would not repeat. She schooled a look of blankness to her face, the one she usually fielded to members of the male population unless she knew she could trust them.
She drank more coffee, trying to listen to whatever Simon was saying to her.
But she felt uncomfortable still. Her nape was prickling now—and she knew why.
Unbidden, his face leapt in her mental vision again—those strong features, that expression of cynicism mixed with an open sexual appraisal.
The wire began to pull slowly through her again.
Stop this!
