Avoiding Mr Right. Sophie Weston
glinted, Christina saw wryly, on the heavy watch, which was probably gold, and the discreet cuff-links which certainly were. His mouth curved as he looked at her.
‘It is a rare experience to talk to a woman whose greatest weakness is coffee,’ he said smoothly. ‘I think we should keep this encounter of ours out of space and time. Then it can retain its rarity.’
Christina put her head on one side.
‘You mean we won’t meet again so we can afford to be honest with each other?’ she interpreted.
He looked startled. ‘You’re very acute.’
She gave a bubbling laugh. It made his lips twitch responsively.
‘I just like to know where I stand.’ She put her elbows on the table and steepled her hands, propping her chin on them while she considered him. ‘Of course, I could tell you a complete fantasy. You would never know.’
Luc Henri looked entertained. ‘Are you going to?’
Christina looked mischievous. ‘It’s a temptation,’ she admitted. She let her blue eyes go dreamy. ‘I could be—oh, a coffee planter’s daughter.’
He put back his head and laughed aloud at that. It was a deep, warm sound, like a cello. It seemed to set up some deep echo in Christina. She tingled with it. It was not unpleasant but it gave her an unexpected sense of danger, as if she had walked round an ordinary corner and found herself standing on a precipice.
Startled, she sat upright and stopped playing a game she did not understand.
‘On second thoughts, it’s probably better not to get carried away,’ she said wryly. ‘I’m Christina Howard.’
She extended her hand briskly across the table. Luc Henri took it and, to her astonishment, turned it over and inspected its ringless state. His fingers were long and cool. Christina gave a little private shiver at his touch.
Fortunately he did not seem to notice. He shook her hand equally briskly and returned it to her.
‘And what are you doing in Greece, Miss Howard? Apart from waiting for funds, of course.’
She acknowledged the dry comment with a smile. She sipped her coffee.
‘A tourist?’ he prompted.
Christina was affronted. Her Greek was not that bad. ‘Of course not. I work.’
There was a small pause while he surveyed her. An odd little smile played about his mouth. ‘I see I have offended you. Should I apologise?’
He did not look as if he often apologised, Christina thought. She did not say it. She did not have to. Luc Henri laughed softly.
‘There are so many of the young, beautiful and indigent in Athens. All students who think they can live on air and the classics while they see the sights of Ancient Greece. You seemed to qualify.’
Their eyes met. Christina had the sudden sensation that the precipice had begun to fall away under her feet. And he had called her beautiful again!
She said breathlessly, ‘I’m not such a fool.’
He looked sceptical.
She insisted, ‘I’m not. I’m short of money because my bank has messed things up, nothing more. I’m not a student. I’m a practical woman. I’ve never tried to live on air and—and whatever it was in my life.’
‘The classics,’ he murmured.
His eyes were crinkling up at the corners most decidedly now. He looked as if he was enjoying himself. ‘I apologise. What do you—er—work at?’
Christina grinned suddenly. ‘I’m a deckhand.’
That shook him as it was intended to do. He blinked.
‘A—?’ He shook his head and took a mouthful of his coffee. Then he shook his head again. ‘It’s no good. I thought you said a deckhand.’
‘I did.’
His jaw did not quite drop but the blank look on his face was rewarding. Well pleased with this reaction, Christina helped herself to a buttery croissant, pulled the corner off and chewed with enjoyment.
‘But—why?’
‘Now that’s as long a story as your ancestry,’ she said demurely.
The dark face showed brief incredulity, as if he was not used to being denied what he wanted to know. His brows twitched together. ‘Are you suggesting a trade, Christina Howard?’
She looked innocent. He was not deceived.
‘My family tree for your extraordinary career choice?’
‘Well, I don’t tell people normally. And you obviously don’t talk about your family,’ she pointed out.
He seemed amused—suddenly, deeply amused. ‘So it would be a fair trade? Well, I see your point. And certainly I don’t normally talk about my family. You are quite right about that.’
His shoulders shook a little. Christina’s faint suspicions grew.
‘Are you sure I shouldn’t know you?’ she demanded.
He shook his head, his eyes brimming with that private laughter.
‘Then—’
‘Your career,’ he interrupted firmly. ‘Tell.’
Christina set her jaw. ‘You first. You might chicken out.’
‘O ye of little faith,’ he mourned. But his mouth still looked as if he was laughing inside. ‘Very well. My mother was French. My grandfather was a mad explorer and he dragged his family along with him wherever he went. My aunt Monique married a Brazilian tennis player who lived half his life in the jungle with remote Indian tribes. Very dashing and just possibly a touch madder than my grandfather. At least, that’s what my father used to say.’
‘And what is he—your father I mean?’
A brief sadness touched his face. ‘Was, I’m afraid.’
‘I’m sorry,’ murmured Christina.
It was clear that he had liked his father.
‘Was he an explorer too?’
‘No.’ He seemed to bring himself back out of the past. ‘No, he was more of—well, you would call him an administrator, I suppose.’
‘Civil servant,’ interpreted Christina.
Luc Henri looked startled. Then his lips twitched. ‘You could call him that, certainly.’
‘And you? Explorer or civil servant? Or neither?’
‘That wasn’t in the bargain,’ he protested. But he answered readily enough. ‘Civil servant, definitely. Explorers have horribly uncomfortable lives. I like to be comfortable.’
But there was something about the way he said it—to say nothing of the broad set of his muscular shoulders—that made Christina suspect that she was being teased again. She was not sure she liked it.
He turned compelling eyes on her. ‘And you? How did you become a deckhand?’
‘Oh; that’s easy. It was a bid for freedom.’
He looked astonished. ‘I have heard much about sailing but I’ve never heard that anyone but the owner of the boat had much freedom.’
Christina looked at him with new respect. ‘You’re right there,’ she agreed.
‘But it was still freedom for you? Were you escaping from a convent?’
She shook her head, laughing. ‘Very nearly. A polite girls’ school. Have you ever been to one?’
His eyes danced. ‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Don’t