a plain white cotton shirt, cut like a man’s, and a pair of loose brown cord trousers. She had tied her hair back at the nape of her neck with a green Paisleyprint scarf, and her only concession to ornamentation was a loose, quilted waistcoat and a silver-buckled belt.
It was a deliberately unfeminine outfit—unlike Annette’s swirling Indian-print skirt and pretty embroidered top. But then Annette would look dainty and feminine whatever she wore. And anyway, Joanna didn’t have anyone to impress.
‘It’s just…I thought…’ Poor Annette was embarrassed, and Joanna hugged her, laughing teasingly.
‘You’re the one to shine tonight,’ she reminded her. ‘They’re not coming to see me.’
Annette glanced up at her, frowning slightly. ‘I don’t know,’ she mused. ‘It struck me that Alex was more than a little interested in you.’
‘I doubt it.’ Joanna responded drily. ‘I’m not exactly his type—he goes for raving beauties.’
‘Oh, but…If only you’d make a little bit of effort…’ Annette began to protest. But Joanna cut her off with a forceful shake of her head.
‘No, thank you,’ she insisted. ‘It just leads to complications.’
A shadow of sympathy darkened Annette’s sparkling eyes. ‘Oh, Joanna—I wish…If only you could meet someone you really liked. Not all men are like your exhusband, you know.’
‘Oh?’ Joanna chuckled teasingly. ‘You’re speaking from wide experience here, are you?’
Annette giggled. ‘No, of course not. But you know, I never thought I’d meet anyone like Greg.’
‘I’ve no doubt he’s quite unique.’ Joanna conceded, with a hint of sardonic humour. ‘Unfortunately I’m finding that with every passing year I’m getting even more picky.’
‘Oh, come on.’ Annette protested indignantly. ‘You talking as if you’re about a hundred! You’re not even thirty yet!
‘It’s only another three months.’ Joanna smiled, wryly conscious of how much older she felt. ‘But even so, I can’t see any man matching up to what I want.’
‘What do you want?’ asked Annette.
‘Oh…’ Joanna tipped her head on one side, musing. ‘He’d have to have the sense of humour of Victor Borge, and the brains of Steven Hawking, and be as kind and caring as Bob Geldof…and as good-looking as Kevin Costner!’
Annette chuckled, her eyes dancing. ‘You’re not asking for much!’
‘See what I mean?’ Joanna countered.
‘But there are some men like that,’ Annette insisted, earnestly romantic, and then blushed a becoming shade of pink.
Joanna slanted her a teasing glance. ‘Like Greg, for instance?’ she enquired.
Annette blushed even deeper. ‘Well…’
‘Annie, you’ve only known him for ten minutes, at the outside,’ Joanna reminded her with gentle concern.
‘I know, but…’ Annette’s fine eyes took on a dreamy look. ‘How long does it take?’
Joanna smiled wryly. ‘Oh, about ten minutes,’ she acknowledged, reflecting how easily she could have done the same, if bitter experience hadn’t taught her to be more cautious. ‘But just the same, take it slowly,’ she warned anxiously. ‘You don’t know anything about him—I’d hate to see you get hurt.’
Annette’s soft mouth trembled slightly, betraying how very vulnerable she was. ‘I know,’ she murmured. ‘But…’ The sound of a Land Rover pulling up outside sent all other thoughts spinning from her brain, and she rushed over to the window. ‘It’s him!’ Love had thrown her into a panic. ‘Do I look all right?’ she pleaded, running back to the mirror to smooth her hair and her skirt, and fidget with the neckline of her pretty blouse. ‘Oh…I’d better go and check on the dinner—will you let them in?’
‘Of course I will.’ Joanna smiled her reassurance. ‘And don’t worry—you look gorgeous. If he hasn’t fallen in love with you already, it won’t take him long.’
She had barely finished speaking when there was a rap on the door. Annette squeaked in alarm, and dived into the kitchen; Joanna was outwardly rather more casual as she strolled across the room, though her own instincts were urging her to hide too. But she had to survive this evening—for Annette’s sake. She could still remember what it was like to be young and in love—though it seemed like a long time ago now.
Pausing to steady her nerves with a slow, deep breath, she pulled open the door. Greg was on the doorstep, his eyes alight with an eager expectancy that changed to an almost ludicrous disappointment when he saw Joanna standing there instead of Annette.
‘Oh…Hello…How are you?’ He was far too nice a young man to forget his manners completely, and his open smile won Joanna’s heart; it was so totally obvious that he was every bit as besotted as Annette.
‘I’m fine. Come on in,’ she invited, taking pity on him. ‘Annie’s in the kitchen, checking on the dinner.’
‘Oh…Well, perhaps I should…just go and see if she needs a hand, then, shall I?’ be suggested earnestly.
‘Good idea,’ she agreed, tongue in cheek, noting with satisfaction the signs of the effort he had made to spruce himself up for this evening—a slight redness beneath his chin where he had shaved for the second time, a betraying pleat in his shirt where he had ironed it rather inexpertly.
He shot her a grateful grin, and darted across the room—leaving her alone to face the tall man who had walked in behind him.
‘Good evening,’ she managed, just the slightest trace of stiffness in her voice.
‘Good evening.’ That hard mouth was curved into a wry smile, acknowledging the position they both found themselves in, as gooseberries to the other couple.
He cast a brief glance around, and she followed his eyes, trying to see the tiny flat as he would see it. Close to the centre of town, in the heart of the tourist bazaar, it was above a narrow Aladdin’s cave of a shop that sold everything from T-shirts printed with meaningless hieroglyphics to beautiful hand-engraved glass hubble-bubble pipes and copper tea-trays.
It was far from being a palace, though it was clean and comfortable enough for their needs. There were just two rooms, one of which they used as a bedroom, the other as a study, cluttered with books and papers and dusty finds from the tomb site waiting to be properly catalogued. The kitchen was little bigger than a cupboard, with an ancient gas stove and a huge old stone sink, and an occasional problem with scorpions for which they kept a jam-jar and a piece of cardboard ever ready.
The best feature was the wide balcony at the back, with a spectacular view over the floodlit ruins of Luxor Temple to the wide sweep of the Nile; Annette was trying to grow geraniums out there, not with any great deal of success. Tonight she had spread a red and white-checked tablecloth over the weathered wooden table, and they had pillaged one of the odd chairs from the study to make up enough to sit on.
‘Nice place you’ve got here.’
‘Thank you.’ She returned him a sardonic look, knowing that the remark was mere politeness.
‘Oh, by the way, we brought along a couple of bottles of wine.’ He held it out to her. ‘White—Greg brought red, to be on the safe side.’
‘Fine—thank you.’
She glanced fleetingly at the bottle, recognising the label. It was a very good burgundy—a little extravagant to eat with such a scratch meal, perhaps, but then Alex Marshall looked like the kind of man who would expect a good wine whatever he was eating. Maybe it was just as well he’d brought his own, she reflected with a crisp touch of irony—the anonymous bottle of plonk they