The Youngest Sister. ANNE WEALE
of him, from the upright muscular shoulders, lean hips and hard male backside to the strong but elegant legs which, for a man with black hair, were not as furry as dark men’s legs usually were.
She was jolted out of her trance by being jabbed on the backs of her own legs. Before she turned round she knew what had caused the painful thrust—the front bar of the baggage trolley of someone behind her.
The woman in charge of the trolley was an ash-blonde, forty-something, in a pastel suit with a lot of gold jewellery and a matched set of expensive suitcases. Without a word of apology, she said, ‘This is the business class queue.’
‘I know. I’m in it,’ said Cressy
‘Then why are you hanging back here? The desk’s free,’ the woman said abruptly.
Had Cressy’s mother or either of her sisters been addressed in that tone, they would have made a cutting retort about bad manners. But Cressy had a high threshold of tolerance. If people were rude, she assumed they were under stress. It might be that the woman was secretly terrified of flying. Surprisingly many people were.
As Cressy turned back towards the desk, no longer blocked by the tall man, she glanced in the direction she would be going in after check-in. She was just in time to catch a glimpse of him loping gracefully out of sight, leaving her with an impression of a long, elastic stride and a body in peak physical condition.
But she still didn’t know what his face was like.
Nicolas settled his tall frame in one of the comfortable chairs in the business class departure lounge and downed half a glass of chilled orange juice from the courtesy bar in one long, refreshing swallow.
He had taken a copy of The New York Herald Tribune from a selection of newspapers on a table near the door, but he didn’t start reading it. After months in the back of beyond he had long since broken the habit of following world events and was in no hurry to resume it.
Instead he glanced round the lounge at his fellow passengers, but none held his eye for more than a second. They were the usual mixed bag of pallid-faced businessmen travelling on expense accounts and well-to-do middle-aged to elderly couples returning to their retirement villas in the expatriate colonies that were dotted round most of Majorca’s coastline.
Not that everyone in the lounge was bound for the same destination. Centennial didn’t have its own lounge, but shared it with various other small airlines.
He was about to turn his attention to the front-page headlines when someone unexpected made an uncertain entrance.
At first he thought she must have come in by mistake and would be redirected by the stewardess on duty at the desk. But after a brief conversation the newcomer nodded and smiled, and came towards the non-smoking end of the lounge where he was sitting. Having chosen a seat, she divested herself of her backpack, which was small enough to be stowed in an overhead locker on whichever plane she was catching. Then she went to the self-service bar, where coffee was waiting on a hotplate alongside a comprehensive range of alcoholic drinks, the appropriate mixers being stored in two glass-fronted fridges under the counter.
Although she carried herself well, Nicolas had the impression that the girl was inwardly self-conscious, feeling herself out of place in this quiet and softly lit enclave of cosseted comfort so different from the hurly-burly endured by tight budget travellers.
She looked to be about nineteen and, in an era when teenagers’ role models were either as thin as starved cats or built like greyhounds with implanted breasts, her figure was unfashionably Amazonian.
He watched her dropping ice cubes into a glass before filling it from the jug of orange juice. Barefoot, she would be about five feet nine or ten. A big girl in every sense. But her curves were firm and well-proportioned, and would be a cuddly armful. He had never been attracted by delicate, doll-like women.
She returned to her place, stepping carefully around the outstretched legs of a sleeping transit passenger who was relying on the stewardesses to wake him in time for his next flight. Her hair was light mouse with blonde streaks. But they were like children’s blonde streaks, not the result of expensive sessions at the hairdresser. Her face appeared bare of make-up. She looked an open-air girl, which was also how he liked them. Except she was too young, and probably not going where he was anyway.
At a different time of year Nicolas would have put her down as a chalet girl, bound for a winter of cooking and cleaning for skiing parties. Assuming her interests to be sporting, he wondered what she would look like stripped off except for a minuscule swimsuit, speeding across the water on a windsurfer.
His train of thought was broken when, after looking round the lounge as he had a few minutes earlier, the girl met his eyes and realised he had been watching her.
For a second or two she was visibly disconcerted, and then a delicious blush suffused that clear outdoor skin and she turned her face towards the door. Her shyness amused and intrigued him. Even at nineteen not many girls were flustered by a stranger’s stare. In his experience, the signal he had been sending—albeit not deliberately—was usually returned with tacit permission for him to make the next move.
Cressy set her glass down on the table alongside her chair and, bending forward, pretended to be looking for something in one of the pockets of her backpack.
She hadn’t expected to find the dark man staring at her, but that wasn’t why she felt agitated. She was in a dither because his face had not been the let-down she had anticipated. It was extremely attractive. More than that, it was a face she had often tried to visualise but never quite succeeded in putting together in her mind—the face of her dream man.
Like a police detective composing an Identikit picture, she had often mentally assembled the various facial characteristics she expected him to have. A firm mouth and chin. A nice smile. Eyes both intelligent and kind. But somehow, like an Identikit, the face she had seen in her mind’s eye had never been more than an approximation of her ideal.
To be suddenly confronted by the real thing, the genuine article, took a bit of getting used to. Had it been a trick of the soft light from the silk-shaded table lamps? If she looked again would the illusion vanish?
Certainly, in that brief moment of eye contact, the impression she had registered hadn’t been one of kindness and niceness. She had felt the same sort of frisson she would have expected to feel on finding herself within yards of a magnificent but dangerous wild animal.
Even his impressive back-view hadn’t prepared her for that extraordinary face—the tanned skin stretched tautly over a bone structure that seemed to belong to the chieftain of a remote mountain kingdom somewhere in wildest Asia rather than here in Europe where, in her observation, real men had almost died out.
She wanted to look at him again, but she didn’t dare in case he was still watching her. She calmed herself with the thought that it was most unlikely they would be sitting together.
Half an hour later, when she found that they weren’t, she was perversely disappointed. They were seated in the same row but she had been allocated the window seat on the port side and he had the other window seat, with an elderly couple next to him. On Cressy’s side of the aisle there was only one seat next to hers and its occupant hadn’t shown up yet.
Some passengers were still boarding when those in the business class section were offered a choice of orange juice or champagne. Cressy decided to stay with orange juice. When the aircraft took off the seat next to hers was still empty.
No sooner was the plane airborne and the No SMOKING sign switched off than the dark man rose from his seat with a polite, ‘Excuse me, please,’ to his neighbours.
Cressy assumed he must want to go to the loo. But, after waiting for the others to resume their seats, he looked down at her and said, ‘Would you mind if I joined you? This airline doesn’t have a no smoking policy, and I don’t want to spend the flight behind a chain smoker.’
Following