Imperfect Stranger. Elizabeth Oldfield
she went off with hers; but he believed she had been inviting him to join her. Was that why his agreement had been less than enthusiastic? she wondered. Did he find the prospect of her company so repellent? Danielle bridled. Most men would be delighted to spend time with a bright, personable young woman like her, so what made him so darned choosy?
‘We’ll be out of harm’s way should any other kamikaze driver decide to hurtle down here,’ the man said sardonically, and strode off.
For a moment Danielle glared at the golden width of his back but then, as His Majesty had already made the decision, she stomped after him.
‘I’m Danielle Tremayne,’ she announced, as he placed the box down on one of the stones.
In truth, Danielle felt scant inclination to be friendly, but if they were to share a meal some approach at social graces seemed to be required.
Straightening up, the man held out his hand. ‘I’m Flynn,’ he said, and promptly frowned.
Why should he frown? Danielle wondered as his strong olive-skinned fingers curved around her tapered, paler ones. Was it because the giving of his name had been automatic and for some reason he regretted it…or might he be having doubts about shaking her hand? His formal introduction had surprised her. She had not imagined them touching, even in such a matter-of-fact manner, and now the pressure of his palm against hers seemed strangely intimate and unnerving.
She withdrew her hand. ‘Is that Flynn something or something Flynn?’ she enquired, being brightly conversational.
‘Just Flynn,’ he said, and looked down at the box. ‘Going to play hostess, Danny? I’m starving.’
Danny? She winced. ‘I prefer Danielle,’ she informed him.
A black brow twitched. ‘I thought you might,’ he remarked, his tone condemning her as a la-di-da English girl.
Danielle glowered. She was tempted to defend herself and make it plain that, far from being some sniffy character, she was down-to-earth with a remarkably easy disposition, but a defence would take time and she was hungry too. Sitting on one of the stones, she took out packets of crab, ham and avocado, and roast chicken sandwiches, a tray of jumbo prawns with a spicy seafood sauce, a large waxed tub of tropical fruit salad, and a couple of chocolate eclairs. Last came two cans of cola, drinking straws and an assortment of plastic cutlery.
‘Help yourself,’ she said.
Flynn sat down on a flat-topped rock. ‘Thanks,’ he said, and for the first time he smiled.
His smile lit him up. It softened the hard angles of his face, warmed his silver-grey eyes, made appealing vertical creases appear in his cheeks. Beguiled, Danielle grinned back—he had the sweetest smile and the world had suddenly become a wonderful place—but a moment later she chided herself for her stupidity. Reaching for a sandwich, she began to eat. She had allowed a brute who had earlier dismissed her and then accepted her lunch invitation with demeaning reluctance to beguile her? Smarten up, girl.
Having resolved that he would not be allowed to beguile her again, as time passed Danielle found herself becoming increasingly aware of Flynn. She wished he had kept his shirt on. She wished he were not sitting directly opposite her. She wanted to ignore him and yet, try as she might, she seemed unable to keep her eyes from drifting to the width of his shoulders, to the bronze of his skin, to the curling dark hair on his chest. And must he sit with his legs spread wide? It was a position which students of body language would doubtless say conveyed openness, confidence and control, but to her it seemed incredibly sexy.
All of a sudden, and to her alarm, Danielle realised that he was watching her watching him. Heavens, if she was not careful he would be accusing her of measuring him up again!
‘The food’s delicious, isn’t it?’ she gabbled.
‘It’s great,’ Flynn agreed, ‘though I’m sorry to have missed out on my smoked salmon.’
Her brows lifted. ‘You had smoked salmon?’
‘You seem astonished I’d aspire to something so refined,’ he drawled.
‘No, no, I’m not,’ Danielle denied hastily.
Dipping a pink prawn into the sauce, Flynn raised it to his lips. ‘Liar,’ he said, and with a crunch of strong white teeth he bit the prawn in half.
As they progressed from the savouries to dessert, Danielle eyed the Jeep which was parked further along the bank of the stream, watched the stream itself, studied his shirt which had been spread over a low-hanging branch, but, in time and as if drawn by a magnet, her gaze returned to the man opposite. Her nerve-ends screamed. If only his shirt would dry. If only he would cover himself up. If only she had allotted him his share of lunch and gone.
Flynn ate a portion of fruit salad, but refused an eclair. ‘Am I making you uncomfortable?’ he enquired, as he rested casually back against a boulder.
Danielle stiffened. ‘I beg your pardon?’
Raising a hand to his chest, he started to slowly rub. ‘You seem kind of edgy.’
‘Edgy? Me?’ She gave a burst of somewhat shrill laughter. ‘Why should I be edgy?’
Flynn’s fingertips trailed across the coils of coarse dark hair in an idle circle. ‘Perhaps coming from the UK where it’s colder and you’re not so used to it, you have a hang-up about male nudity?’
To her fury, Danielle felt herself blush; yet must she blush, again? While she had done so frequently in her teens, as she had grown older the tendency had declined, ended, and now she resented the ease with which he seemed able to turn her into one of nature’s bright red traffic-lights. But she had never met a man who was so discomfitingly aware or who shot so straight from the shoulder. If anyone else had noticed her unease they would have observed the proprieties and ignored it, but not him!
‘I don’t have any hang-up,’ she said glacially.
A smile played around Flynn’s mouth. ‘You’re sure?’ ‘I’m certain,’ she replied, a little more shortly than she had intended.
His hand moved to the brass buckle on his black leather belt. ‘So you wouldn’t mind if I removed my wet jeans?’
Remove his jeans? Danielle thought, in alarm. But was he wearing anything beneath them? An unholy tension gripped her. Flynn seemed the kind of casually erotic adventurer who might not bother.
‘Carry on,’ she said, and, having no interest in her éclair either, put both of them into the empty fruit salad container and snapped the lid. Far too tardily, his smile, allied with the glint in his grey eyes, had made her recognise that he was baiting her, mocking her, having fun at her expense. Damn him. And by becoming rattled she had played right into his hands. Lifting her shoulders, Danielle gave a supremely indifferent shrug. ‘For me, anything goes.’
A brow quirked. ‘Anything?’
‘Anything,’ she declared stalwartly, then, realising she was in danger of digging a pit to hurl herself into, she made a sudden swerve. ‘Do you live in the rainforest?’
To Danielle’s enormous relief, his fingers fell from the buckle and Flynn reached for his can of cola. His mood had changed, for at her query he had picked up a tension. It was slight, yet in her career she had conducted sufficient interviews with sufficient people under pressure to detect when somebody was wary.
‘At present,’ he replied, and took a swig.
‘You’re here temporarily?’
Flynn nodded. ‘I’m taking time out to think about things and re-evaluate my life.’ Swallowing another mouthful, he frowned down at the can he held in his fist. ‘But there’s one big problem I need to solve.’
Whereas his first sentence had sounded practised, as though he had said it several times before, the second seemed to have been a private reflection slipping out. Her journalist’s antennae started to