THE party was very obviously in full swing when Genista pushed open the door to Greg Hardimanâs flat. She had knocked on it several times, but the noise generated by the party had prevented anyone from hearing her. The living area of the flat seemed to be full of couples smooching around to the sensual strains of the music coming from the hi-fi system, and it was several seconds before Genista could find her host. When she did, he slid an arm round her slender waist, pressing her against him, smiling down into the perfect oval of her face. Her eyebrows rose mockingly and she moved slightly away. Greg had been drinking and retained his grasp of her waist.
âWell, well, look what the wind blew in,â he commented, eyeing her assessingly. âI didnât think you were going to be able to make it, sweet. A little bird told me you were planning to work late tonight. Keeps you busy that boss of yours, doesnât he?â
âSomeone has to earn the profits,â Genista reminded him dryly.
It was true; she had been going to work late, but Bobâs wife Elaine had rung and asked him if he could go home earlier than planned, and finding herself at a loose end Genista had come to the party. Already she was regretting her decision. She had been away from the office on her annual holiday and had returned to find the place in an uproar.
âCâmon, Iâll introduce you around,â Greg told her, interrupting her chain of thought. âIt isnât often you grace our humble efforts at entertaining with your presence. Pity Iâm leaving for the States at the end of the week. Iâve always fancied you, Gen; wondered what goes on behind those cool âkeep your distanceâ barricades. I donât suppose you feel like staying on when the others have gone?â
Genista had heard the same question too often before to feel shocked or angry. What was it about men that made them calmly assume that any woman who wasnât attached and over twenty-one must automatically want to jump in and out of their beds? She had been putting men like Greg down for nearly four years, but still they had the arrogance to think all they had to do was smile and pay a few meaningless compliments for a girl to be ready to sleep with them.
She moved away, refusing Gregâs offer to introduce her around. She knew most of the people present. Like her, they worked for Computerstore, a small firm pioneering and selling advanced computer softwear to industry and commerce. Genista had been with them for four yearsâever since she had come to London, in fact, and she thoroughly enjoyed her job as personal assistant to the firmâs Liaison Manager, or at least she had done up until now. A small frown furrowed her brow as she remembered the the news which had awaited her return from Greece. Computerstore had been taken over by a large organisation, and there were fears within the firm that jobs would be lost; parent company men brought in over the heads of existing staff; people made redundant. Bob Norman, her own boss had worn a perpetual frown all week. Genista bit her lip. She was very fond of Bob. She liked working for him very much. They made a good team, and although she had taught herself not to be emotional about other people she knew it would be hard for her to work as well with someone else.
Collecting a drink from the makeshift bar, she leaned against the wall, watching the antics of her fellow-guests with a certain sardonic appreciation. If she was any judge, a couple of promising affairs would result from the forced hothouse atmosphere of tonightâs party; her lip curled faintly, although she was unaware of it. She was by far the most attractive woman in the room. Tall, slenderly elegant, her dark red hair curling on to her shoulders, her features almost classically sculptured. It was several seconds before her antennae warned her that she was being watched. She didnât make the mistake of looking straight away to see who was watching her, but instead let her eyes drift casually across the room.
He was leaning against the opposite wall, and lifted his glass to her, in a salute which was partially appreciative and wholly arrogant. With a sense of mingled distaste and anger Genista realised that he expected her to make her way across to him. He was, she recognised, a man to whom women would always run. Well, not this one. He was easily the most striking man in the room. Even slouched against the wall his body held an element of leashed power more suggestive of the jungle than a small London flat. He was dressed quite casually in black cord jeans and a black cotton shirt, his thick dark hair brushing the collar of his shirt at the back.
He must be in his thirties, Genista mused; far too much aware of his sensual impact on susceptible females. He moved, easing his weight from one leg to the other, the action tautening the powerful thigh muscles beneath the cord. He was watching her with hooded eyes. A pretty, dizzy young blonde from the typing pool walked past him, eyeing him provocatively. Silly little fool, Genista thought pityingly. Couldnât she see he was way, way out of her league, and if she played with him, she would be badly hurt?