on sight—a real sleaze bag!
As he turned his head he caught Flora’s violet-blue eyes and winked. Dazed by the blast of charm aimed in her direction, she helplessly grinned back at him.
Josh froze and didn’t catch what his son said in his urgent infant treble. He was mega unprepared for the transformation from cold goddess to warm, vibrant woman. The faint wrinkles around her suddenly warm blue eyes and the conspiratorial crooked little smile were bad enough, but it was the slight indentation in her porcelain-smooth left cheek that was the real clincher. A dimple! He found he really objected deeply to the fact Flora Graham had a dimple; neither the glimpses he’d had of her outside the courtroom or the image of her impassively enduring television interviews had even suggested such a thing.
Flora was accustomed, even before her face had been plastered across the front page of several tabloids, to men looking at her—this definitely wasn’t that sort of look! Which was a relief because the pleasure of being admired for something as superficial as the neat arrangement of her regular, and to her mind somewhat insipidly pretty, features, or the tautness of her slim, athletic figure had palled years ago. She knew to her cost that none of these would-be admirers gave a damn about what sort of woman lay beneath the attractive window-dressing.
Whilst she didn’t mind this hunk not being bowled over by her beauty—a small ironic grimace flickered across her features at the notion—something about that stare did trouble her. A small frown puckered her smooth forehead, and distant warning bells sounded in her head. She closed her mouth and surreptitiously explored with her tongue the possibility she had some unsightly remnant of her lunch stuck in her teeth.
‘My phone’s not working, mate. Have you…?’ The journalist tentatively approached the silent couple.
‘No reception up here…probably the mountains,’ Josh elaborated, gesturing with a strong, shapely hand towards the breathtaking but forbidding scenery. ‘I seem to recall there was a garage about half a mile back…’
Flora had followed the direction of his hand, registering automatically the strong, shapely part, and she found herself comparing this stranger with the landscape—more rugged and dangerous than pastoral. She dismissed the instinct of moments before that had suggested something wasn’t quite right; after all, if her instinct was so reliable what had she been doing engaged to Paul, the ratbag?
‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a lift…?’ The sardonic quirk of one dark brow brought a rush of colour; it was clearly visible even through Tom Channing’s carefully nurtured designer stubble, which was meant to underline, along with the single gold ring in one ear and the scuffed shoes, his hard-man street credibility. It narked him no end that this big guy had buckets of the stuff and he didn’t even try. ‘That’s a no, I take it,’ he concluded bitterly.
Flora had to bite her lip to prevent herself from grinning as she watched the burly figure flounce off to his car muttering—carefully not loud enough for her companion to hear—under his breath.
‘I think you hurt his feelings.’ It was hard not to gloat so she gave up trying; she was due a bit of gloating. ‘You’re not meant to drive with a flat tyre, are you?’ she added innocently as the red car bumpily drew away.
‘No.’
‘I thought not.’ Flora gave a contented sigh.
‘Daddy!’
This time the urgent tugging at his trouser leg got Josh’s attention.
‘What is it, champ?’
‘I think I’m going to be sick!’
Stunned at the speed with which this prediction came true, Flora stared in fascinated horror down at the unpleasant mess congealing over her pale biscuit trousers and favourite soft, handmade loafers.
‘I feel better now.’ Liam sighed and looked up happily at his father.
Josh smiled back, silently congratulating his son on his unerring aim. He produced a tissue to wipe the toddler’s mouth and glanced surreptitiously towards the tall, willowy blonde, fully expecting her to be close to a state of complete collapse by now.
In his experience women like her, the sort who never ventured out into public without the full works—make-up, smooth, impossibly shiny hair and the season’s latest in designer gear—had a problem with the less picturesque aspects of life. And a kid throwing up fell safely into that category! He had to concede that a kid throwing up so comprehensively over you would have been enough to throw even those women of his acquaintance not totally preoccupied with their own appearance.
‘I’m glad you feel better. I must say I feel rather yucky!’
Josh gave a disgruntled frown. There was a rueful twinkle in Flora’s eyes as she smiled sweetly at his son. Damn woman, he didn’t much like having to throw his script out of the window.
‘You smell,’ Liam told her frankly.
Flora’s nose wrinkled. ‘I’d noticed that too,’ she admitted drily.
‘You need a bath. Doesn’t she, Daddy?’
Josh gave a noncommittal grunt. He suddenly had a very clear picture in his head of water sliding over satiny skin, gliding slowly down the slim, supple line of a naked female back. Her buttocks would be high and tight, you could tell by the way—his head snapped up so sharply a jarring pain shot all the way down his stiff spine. Hell! What a time for his libido to come out of hibernation.
But it wasn’t the content of his lustful thoughts that made his guts tighten with a guilty repugnance, it was the person responsible for inciting those lustful thoughts. The whole situation suggested to him that someone up there had one twisted sense of humour!
A warm bubble of humour escaped from Flora’s throat. ‘Or, failing that, a change of clothes,’ she agreed solemnly. She shifted her weight and her shoes squelched rather disgustingly. ‘Also I have a pack of Wet Wipes—a large pack.’
Josh scooped his talkative son up into his arms. ‘I’m sorry about this, Miss…?’
He fixed on his best guileless-stroke-helpless smile. It was the one that had females of all ages stampeding to help him with his son and he wasn’t above using it if the occasion warranted it. He’d gone past the period when he’d needed to prove he could cope alone; now he wasn’t so averse to making life easier.
She sighed—blessed anonymity! ‘Flora,’ she supplied, meeting the tall stranger’s eyes and feeling inexplicably shy.
‘I’m Josh, Josh Prentice, and this is Liam who, as you have probably gathered, isn’t the world’s best traveller.’ He held out his hand towards her. ‘You must bill me for the clothes.’
Flora grimaced and wriggled her less-than-clean fingers a safe distance away. ‘For your safety I think we should pass on that one. As for the clothes, I’d say we’re even.’ She gave a sigh as she contemplated the sticky situation he’d rescued her from. ‘When I’m around creeps like that I really wish I were a man. Don’t get me wrong,’ she added swiftly, just in case he imagined she was a bit of a wimp, ‘I can handle men like that. You just have to be more subtle,’ she explained to her rather startled-looking audience.
She’d learnt early on that men could be intimidated by the combination of cut-glass beauty and brains, and sometimes that combination allied with a cutting tongue was the only weapon she had or needed—usually.
Friends who knew she was a bit of a softy thought it a hoot when they saw her turn on the ‘deep freeze’ but this ability had come in really handy recently when, traumatised deeply by the unkind public scrutiny, not to mention the fact the father she’d worshipped all her life had been exposed as a drug addict—life really was stranger than fiction—she’d retreated behind a mask of aloof disdain.
Firmly repressing the troublesome urge to continue to stare up at him, she transferred her gaze to a far less complex pair of grey eyes fringed by lashes just as preposterously long as in the older