A Stranger's Kiss

line that showed his distaste and he flicked a finger at the back of the book he had bought in the airport, where to her horror she saw Jim Matthews’ photograph. ‘So this is just the boyfriend. I wonder if there is a word for the male equivalent of a harem?’ he wondered, almost idly.
    ‘I’ve no idea.’ Tara was angry. He had no right to judge her. ‘But considering I wear my skirts too long,’ she went on, ‘I don’t do so badly, do I?’
    ‘You—’ He checked himself and almost smiled. ‘Not badly at all. Perhaps I should be grateful for the body armour you wear. If you were really trying I have no doubt that you could cut swathes through the male population.’ He captured the curl that never would stay confined by her ruthless pins and wound it around his finger. ‘In clinging pink silk and with this black cloud of hair loose about your face, who could possibly resist you?’ He tugged his finger free and thrust the book in front of her at the dedication page. The words leapt out at her. “To Tara — my inspiration”. ‘I wonder what you did to earn that, Mrs Lambert? Perhaps the text will help me to find out.’
    Tara blanched. There would be all too many clues of the kind he was looking for. That was reason she had refused to work for the wretched man ever again despite his pleas. ‘The only inspiration he had from me,’ she said, through clenched teeth, ‘was that I didn’t slow him down when he was in full flow. I took down every horrible word in shorthand.’
    For a moment his eyes held hers and for a moment she thought he believed her. Then he shrugged. ‘I think I’ll read it anyway.’
    The stewardess offered drinks but Tara followed Adam’s example and took only a mineral water. And she refused lunch. Adam picked at his, then pushed it away and picked up the book again, apparently fascinated by the sheer awfulness of it. Tara gave up trying to read and stared down at the clouds.
    The plane droned on. They were now flying over the desert which offered only a rare glimpse of an isolated green patch to conjure up pictures of a romantic oasis with black tents and blacker stallions and fierce, handsome men. Far from the truth Tara suspected, but still, exciting.
    She glanced at her watch. An hour to go. She wanted to freshen up before landing, but Adam’s face was so forbidding that she hardly dared interrupt his concentration to ease by him. But as if he could read her mind, he drew back his long legs.
    ‘Thank you.’
    He glanced up then, from his book. ‘You only had to ask, Mrs Lambert.’
    She took a little time tidying her hair and make-up to give herself a breathing space. Once they arrived on the island she knew work would take up all her time. Meetings every morning and a variety of social events had been arranged for the evenings. She would prepare the notes in the afternoon and that would be that. But somehow the next hour had to be got through.
    She gathered her things and began to walk slowly back to her seat.
    ‘Please hurry back to your seat and fasten your seat belt,’ the stewardess warned her. ‘There’s some turbulence ahead.’ At that moment the seat belt signs came on and the captain spoke over the intercom briefly, to warn them. She waited for Adam to move his legs and let her by, but he just looked at her.
    ‘Please may I get to my seat,’ she asked, forced to play his game.
    He smiled then, but before he could move the plane lurched and threw her off balance. She would have fallen, but he reached for her and caught her as she fell, gathering her in and holding her in his lap.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, trying and signally failing in her attempt to ignore the warmth of his chest beneath her hands, the closeness of his face to hers.
    His eyes were brilliant in the clear bright light at thirty thousand feet. Clear and green and bottomless. ‘Don’t be sorry, Mrs Lambert. It was my fault you weren’t safely in your seat.’ She watched, fascinated as the corners of his mouth creased in a smile. ‘And if you had fallen and hurt yourself you would have been no use to me.’ She stiffened and he laughed. ‘It’s going to be a desperate trip if we keep this up, Mrs Lambert. What do you say to a ceasefire?’ His brows rose in query. She wanted to free herself. And it wasn’t as if he was holding her tight. But a languor seemed to have invaded her limbs, making it impossible to move. It wasn’t fair, she thought, desperately, that one man, the