Читать книгу Perfume Of Provence - Kate Fitzroy - Страница 8

CHAPTER ONE

Rosie sighed as she flicked impatiently through the pages of a magazine. A half-hour delay to the departure of her flight to Nice had just been announced. The two precious days that she had snatched from the jaws of her over-demanding work were already shrinking into a bad idea. After fighting her way through Friday-afternoon traffic to get to the airport on time, she now had to sit and wait. Why hadn’t she just gone home and tried to relax?

Rosie blinked away tears as she imagined being back at her flat alone. Alone and miserable after her break-up with Luke. How could he? The words swam around in her head unanswered. She knew she had been working too hard lately to give enough time to their relationship. But, how could he? They had been together a year and last night had been the anniversary of their meeting. She had been looking forward to their planned dinner date. In her lunch hour she had decided to rush out and buy a new dress to surprise him. That was when she saw him with another woman. Rosie closed her eyes now, as she sat waiting in the departure lounge. In her mind’s eye, Technicolored in every detail, she saw Luke and the tall, beautiful blonde girl in a café. Not just sitting close, but wrapped in each other’s arms, Luke nuzzling the girl’s long neck and stroking her hair. Rosie shuddered and her eyes flashed open. Once again she was back in the airport. Waiting, hurting, but determined not to cry.

She shifted angrily in her seat, her foot tapping nervously. This is not happening, she thought to herself as a wave of stress welled up inside her.

“Probably only a short delay,” a quiet male voice said into her right ear.

“This is definitely not happening!” Rosie muttered to herself. The last thing she needed was some departure lounge lizard trying to pick her up when all she longed for was some quality time alone. If she wasn’t totally dismissive she knew she would find him sitting next to her on the plane…if and when they ever took off. She buried her head in the magazine but the lizard continued, his voice soft and low.

“Just waiting for the next slot, I should think.”

This was intolerable. She sighed again. It was the resigned sigh of a beautiful woman accustomed to rebuffing unwanted advances. She half turned towards the voice, shooting a disdainful glare as sharp as a dagger through the silky curtain of her hair.

“Doubtless!” She snapped the word out as rudely as one word could possibly sound and hastily returned to her magazine. The pages now blurred in front of her. He was divine, completely divine, perfect manhood in the flesh — well, in a dark grey T-shirt and black jeans — and, oh, the flesh…lightly tanned, olive and glistening smooth. He could have been a celeb that had walked straight out of her magazine. Rosie gulped; her heart pounded in her chest sending the blood rushing to her cheeks. Should she, could she try to reopen the conversation? Could she, should she resist the huge temptation of his smouldering dark eyes? Absolutely not! She closed the magazine smartly and threw it on the empty seat at her left. Slowly, very slowly, she turned to her right, bracing herself for a second look at the departure-lounge lizard who had suddenly become a frog-prince. And she hadn’t even kissed him — not yet!

“Do you fly to Nice often?” It was bad enough that her voice sounded like an adolescent boy’s but surely her melting brain could have come up with something…anything…a little less banal? The silly opening phrase echoed inside her head. It was worse than corny.

“Yes, quite often…and you?” He replied courteously, but she detected a spark of humour in the shine of his brown eyes — dark, dark brown with flecks of hazel and, oh, wow, how they crinkled in the corners…and such soot-dark lashes. Irresistible!

“Actually I’ve never been to Nice in my life. I just picked a last-minute flight for a weekend break.” Her voice had recovered its usual mid-scale timbre and she resisted the nervous desire to run her fingers through her long auburn hair…or his short jet-black hair.

“I’m sure you’ll love it — it’s a great seaside city and the weather is forecast to be perfect for June.” He smiled a toothpaste advertisement. “There’s no better month on the Côte d’Azur.”

The way he rolled that final ‘r’ gave him away. Although he spoke perfect English he must surely be French. Rosie smiled too and was just about to attempt an intelligent reply when the flight departure was announced. He stood up quickly.

“There, I thought it wouldn’t take them long to get us out of here. Well, it was a pleasure to meet you. I must make a quick phone call before we board. Excuse me. Enjoy your weekend!”

He strode away from the queue that was beginning to form at the desk and across to the large window overlooking the bleak stretches of tarmac. Rosie watched his dark silhouette as he pulled a phone from his pocket and began to talk animatedly, his free hand waving in the air. Yes, definitely French, decidedly desirable and bound to be married with two point four impeccable enfants and a silky spaniel. Doubtless he was telling the paragon wife about the delay and she would deftly turn down the coq au vin to simmer to perfection for his late arrival home. Their home? Certain to be a chic Niçois apartment…high-moulded ceilings, polished parquet floors, cut flowers in tall vases…

Rosie shook herself angrily. This just wouldn’t do. Her emotions were jangled and she was bouncing out of control. She took a deep breath and relaxed her shoulders. She was suffering typical rebound emotion and she was clever enough to know it. She stood up, smoothing her hair, and shrugging her jacket into place. She walked calmly to join the tail-end of the queue that was now moving slowly towards the glass doors. Finally she handed in her boarding card and, against all her baser but better instincts, walked towards the plane without a backward glance.