Reluctant Hostage. Margaret MayoЧитать онлайн книгу.

       CHAPTER ONE

      THE man’s smoky eyes were still on her, not wavering to left or right, making Libby feel that she was the centre of his universe, that no one and nothing else mattered. It was a whole new experience. The unaccustomed warmth that had started in the pit of her stomach had spread to every corner of her body. It was a feeling that surpassed all other feelings, creating exciting, alien sensations. And the fact that it was happening to her, plain Libby Eaton, whom boys rarely looked at twice, made it all the more amazing.

      ‘I think we should introduce ourselves. My name’s Warwick.’ His smile was easy and all-consuming, and Libby felt as though she were drowning in the depths of his eyes, which was madness, insanity, but she hadn’t the will-power to shake him off, to snap out of this plethora of feelings and emotions that had surprisingly crept over her.

      He held out his hand as he spoke, and hesitantly she took it. It was the first physical contact they had made since the plane had left Heathrow more than three hours earlier, and tiny shock waves of electricity stabbed through her, heightening the feelings that already existed. His hand was warm and strong and held hers in a grip so firm that it told her this chance meeting meant something to him too.

      ‘Libby,’ she announced shyly, her response coming a mere second after his question, yet it felt like an aeon.

      ‘Libby?’ He gave her name a whole new meaning, making it sound special and somehow sexy. She had never heard it said in quite the same way. He had a deep voice with an unusual timbre that sent shivers of pleasure down her spine. ‘Is that short for anything?’

      ‘Elizabeth, but I’m never called that.’

      ‘I prefer Libby too. It suits you. You’re not an Elizabeth. Libby suggests a softer, more feminine person. Mmm, yes, Libby; I like it.’ Still he held her hand, and Libby’s whole body felt as if it were on fire.

      ‘And how old are you, little girl with the beautiful name?’

      ‘Little girl’? She was five feet seven! And as for feminine, well, Rebecca was the glamour girl, the pretty one, the one who was never short of boyfriends. Libby had always considered herself unattractive and gauche. ‘I’m twenty-three,’ she announced, almost defiantly.

      A thick dark brow rose. ‘So old!’ he mocked.

      ‘And you, what are you? Twenty-eight, twenty-nine?’

      ‘Thirty-four.’

      ‘So old!’ she returned, laughing, but it was old to her. The only boys she had felt any interest in had been nearer her own age.

      Finally he let go of her hand, and Libby was left with the sensation of a million electric impulses shooting through her skin. She clasped her two hands together and savoured the feeling. This was a moment in life to be remembered. It was doubtful she would see this man again once they touched down in Tenerife. He was a ship that passed in the night, a magical stranger who made her feel like a different girl.

      Libby’s experience of men was limited. She was too conscious of the fact that she was a mere pale shadow of her beautiful sister, too uninteresting to hold the attention of any man for long. Besides, there had been little time for boyfriends since their mother died. When she wasn’t working there was always so much to do in the house.

      ‘Are you married?’ The question was out before she could stop it and her cheeks coloured with faint embarrassment. But it troubled her to think he could be expertly playing with her emotions. She wanted to savour the memory with no regrets.

      ‘Would it bother you if I were?’

      Libby did not know how to answer that. To say yes would reveal too much, but to say no would be a lie. She lifted her narrow shoulders in what she hoped was a careless shrug. ‘It was idle curiosity.’

      He grinned, not believing her for one second. ‘No, I’m not married, Libby.’

      ‘Do you live in Tenerife?’ Although they had talked non-stop for most of the journey, it had been nonsense talk: anecdotes, observations, ambitions. He had told her that he wanted to fly to the moon, she had said she wanted to own an island. It was obvious from his accent that he was English, but that was all she knew.

      He nodded. ‘I have done for the last twelve years.’

      ‘Do you intend spending the rest of your life there?’

      It was his turn to shrug. ‘I might do. I’ve really no long-term plans at the moment.’

      ‘What do you do for a living?’

      He laughed. ‘All these questions. It is of no consequence at this moment what I do. Today you are the most important person in my life. You have transformed a mundane flight into something magical. I have made this trip dozens of times, but never met a girl who has made me forget the tedium of repetition.’

      Could