Imperfect Stranger
Appearances can be deceptive…As a stranger, Flynn had just one imperfection: an overriding obsession with secrecy. Danielle was intrigued - dangerously sexy, Flynn had awakened more than her journalistic curiosity. She sensed a story; she also sensed trouble.The problem was, the more involved she got, the less convinced Danielle was that she was chasing the story and not Flynn! Was she falling for a man who didn't even trust her with his last name?
Читать Imperfect Stranger онлайн беплатно
Table of Contents
“It’s seduction time?” Flynn inquired.
Perplexed, Danielle frowned. “Excuse me?”
“Nice try,” he said, stretching out a hand.
“I wouldn’t…”
“You wouldn’t try and seduce me into letting you write an article?” Flynn drawled.
“No!”
“You lust after me…”
“No,” Danielle vowed.
“Yes, you do. I lust after you, too.”
Danielle looked up at him with large uncertain eyes. “You do?”
ELIZABETH OLDFIELD’s writing career started as a teenage hobby, when she had articles published. However, on her marriage the creative instinct was diverted into the production of a daughter and son. A decade later, when her husband’s job took them to Singapore, she resumed writing and had her first romance novel accepted in 1982. Now hooked on the genre, she produces an average of three books a year. She and her family live in London, England and Elizabeth travels widely to authenticate the backgrounds in her books.
‘THERE are two seasons in the rainforest, the wet season and the wetter season,’ the tour guide said, as the cable ferry started off on its unhurried journey across the brown sun-gilded waters of the Daintree River. He chuckled at his own joke, then continued, ‘And, this being November, the wetter season’s about to start. Or, at least, it should be.’ Squinting up from beneath the brim of his bushranger hat, the young Australian surveyed the cloudless azure sky. ‘But it’s two years since the last prolonged spell of heavy rain and…’
As he launched into a soliloquy on the dangers which a continued drought would pose, Danielle’s concentration began to flicker and her eyes went beyond him, wandering idly over the small ferry and the people who had left the other ten or so vehicles to stand in the sunshine. Abruptly her gaze stopped. Focused. At the front of the boat, a tall, thirty-something man in sunglasses was leaning against a battered, dust-caked jeep. His arms were folded across his chest and he was looking pensively out along the river. With blue-black stubble which said he could not have shaved for the past two days, glossy dark hair curling over his collar, and clad in a navy polo shirt, well-worn jeans and scuffed desert boots, the man looked hard-bodied, strong, tough. Danielle’s pulse-rate broke into an involuntary canter. He oozed testosterone.
Riveted by his presence and by the command he had of his own quiet space, she assessed him intently and thoroughly. With high cheekbones, broad brow and a full sculpted mouth, he promised to be, not Greek-god handsome—a beaky shark’s fin of a nose excluded that—but an arresting-looking man. If only he would remove those dark glasses and allow her to see his eyes. A minute or two later, when he lifted a long-fingered hand, Danielle gazed at him in surprise. Her wish was about to be granted? Well, thank you, kind sir. But instead he swiped back the untidy swath of jet-black hair which fell over his brow and then, as if sensing himself under inspection, turned his head to look along the length of the ferry and fix his gaze pointedly on her.
Danielle swallowed. She felt the heat seep into her cheeks. His eyes might be masked, but the almost insolent shifting of the man’s stance—muscled arms leisurely refolded, long legs spread a little wider apartmade it clear that the look which emanated from behind the dark glasses was cool and direct and challenging. He knew she had been staring. Her brow puckered. After just one day in the balmy heat of Northern Queensland, she appeared to be going troppo! She was not in the habit of ogling strange men. On the contrary, strange men usually ogled her. In any case, rough diamonds were not her type; she preferred cultured, civilised, wellgroomed males.
Deciding that the best way to rescue herself from her embarrassment—and to make amends—would be to shine a quick smile, receive one in return, then turn away, Danielle wiggled the corners of her mouth. A moment of time ticked by, and another, but the man remained straight-faced. Her smile collapsed. Danielle felt flustered. When she smiled at members of the opposite sex she invariably elicited an identical—and a delighted—response, but the continued coolness of his stare made it plain that on this occasion she had misjudged and the recipient was not in the market for seduction. Her charm offensive had received the big chill.
Standing taller, Danielle gazed defiantly back. She was an independent, sophisticated and poised young woman, she told herself, and she refused to be flustered by some graceless hick. She refused to turn away. She refused to draw down her own sunglasses, which had been pushed on to the top of her blonde head, no matter how tempting it might be. She had been looking at him, but so what? As the saying went, a cat could look at a king or, more aptly in this case, a lady could look at a tramp, Danielle thought caustically. She was breaking no rules, committing no crime. Besides, for all he knew, he could have simply reminded her of someone.
