‘True, but have you ever seen the baggage handlers loading and unloading? Some of them drop pianos on anything marked “fragile.”’
‘Another reason I don’t fly that often.’
Alistair gave her a searching look. ‘Are you nervous about flying?’
A spark of defensiveness shone in her gaze. ‘What on earth gives you that idea?’
‘You keep picking at the stitching on your tote-bag strap.’
Her fingers stopped fidgeting as if they had been snapped frozen. ‘Anything else you’d like to criticise?’
‘I’m not criticising, I’m observing.’
She looked him squarely in the eye. ‘I know what you’re thinking.’
Alistair hoped to hell not, otherwise she would never get on that plane with him. ‘What am I thinking?’ Apart from how much I want to kiss that pert little mouth.
Bitterness was hard and bright in her gaze. ‘You think I’m a nut job.’
‘Because you brought a mug with you?’
She chin came up. ‘Go on. Say it. Say I’m an obsessive freak.’
‘We all have our quirks. No doubt you’ll find out some of mine over the next few days.’
Her eyes went wide in mock surprise. ‘What? Mr Perfect has a quirk or two? That I would like to see.’
What he would like to see was what she looked like in some of that lacy underwear he’d seen in her bag. And what she looked like out of it. Which was damned inconvenient because, of all the women in the world, this one was the last one he wanted to complicate his life with. Clementine Scott was trouble in big flashing neon letters.
And he’d better not forget it.
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