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‘Oh, right! Miss Exotic Dancer was subtlety personified ... in a dress that was cut to her navel!’ she said sarcastically. ‘What did she call you?’
‘Darling.’
Rosalind snorted, conveniently forgetting how often the word was abused by her profession. ‘How hack neyed. She obviously has no imagination. No wonder you gave her-the brush-off.’
‘It was vice versa, remember?’
‘Only because you didn’t give her a chance to glimpse the debonair man of the world beneath the accountant,’ she said, already busily working out scenarios in her head.
He looked down into his glass, obviously struggling with some strong emotion. Gratitude, probably, thought Rosalind. ‘It’s very kind of you to take pity on me, but I don’t like to encroach too much on your own holiday...’
‘Oh, it won’t take me more than a few days to whip you into shape,’ said Rosalind confidently, wishing he would be less self-effacing.
‘It sounds painful.’
‘Stop being so negative. It’ll be fun! You get a chance to explore your hidden potential and I get to play Pygmalion.’
‘As long as you don’t start giving me elocution lessons,’ he said, so drily that for once she missed the joke.
‘Oh, no, your speaking voice is one of your strong points...smooth and mellow, with just a hint of gravel in the undertone. And you have a sexy little hitch to some of your words. No, we definitely want to keep the voice.’
One eyebrow rose in an ironic slant, independent of the other. ‘Thank you.’
Rosalind was impressed afresh by the whimsical charm of those wayward brows. ‘Stick with me, kid, and this time next week women like Erina will be begging you to debit their balance sheets!’ She gave him a lascivious wink and was amused to see him flush as he uttered another abrupt, almost unwilling laugh. It gave her a surge of odd, almost possessive satisfaction to watch his tightly compressed personality visibly unfold, although he obviously had a long way to go yet!
‘I’m scarcely a kid,’ he said stiltedly.
‘Why, how old are you?’
‘Twenty-eight’
‘Wow! That old, huh?’ Dancing green eyes mocked his claim to maturity. ‘How old do you think I am?’
His eyes flicked over her with unflattering speed. ‘Thirty-five?’
‘Ouch!’ She laughed. With her supple, energetic body and elfin features she knew very well that she looked younger than her years. She licked her finger to place an imaginary s
troke beside him in the air. ‘Score one to me, Grandpa. I’m twenty-seven.’
‘So I should be the one calling you kid,’ he shot back with commendable speed.
‘I may be younger in years but I suspect I’m decades older in worldly experience.’ She chuckled, slyly swiping his glass in lieu of the Mai Tai he had failed to replenish. He made a half-hearted attempt at retrieval which she avoided by leaning back, giggling when the tube-top stretched alarmingly low over the smooth swell of her breasts, threatening to let them pop free. He froze and she directed a teasing look at him over the brim of the stolen glass before throwing back her head and dispatching the contents in a single swallow.
Mineral water it was not!
Rosalind choked on the ball of fire that exploded when the thick, oily fluid came in violent contact with the back of her throat, and grabbed gratefully at the cocktail napkin that appeared under her streaming eyes.
‘My God, what in the hell was that?’ she spluttered when she had recovered sufficiently to discover she still had a voice, albeit one that was cracked and croaky.
‘Russian vodka, straight.’
Rosalind shuddered. ‘You drink it raw? What are you, some kind of masochist?’
‘It’s an acquired taste, I agree.’
‘Acquired taste! It’s amazing you have any tastebuds left after drinking that stuff. It’s like liquid fire. And it has a kick like a kangaroo!’
‘I have a high tolerance for alcohol...something to do with my biochemistry, I believe.’
