Chosen As The Frenchman's Bride. ABBY GREENЧитать онлайн книгу.
in her gut. She couldn’t explain or fathom the completely irrational fear she felt; she just knew that nothing could move her from the spot until that plane was back on the ground and he walked out, safe.
He flew as though he had a death wish. Dizzying turns and ever increasingly daring stunts had the crowd gasping in unison and clapping. He was the last to land, watched by the other pilots, their respect obvious.
When he stepped out of the plane to thunderous applause, Jane unclenched her fists, noticing that her nails had carved half moons into her palms. Unbelievably she felt anger towards him—this complete stranger!
The sun must be getting to her, she thought, unable to tear her eyes away. As the crowd surged towards the planes, his head turned, and even though at least fifty metres separated them, his gaze caught hers. She had a freefall feeling, couldn’t move. She felt as if he had reached out and touched her with those amazing eyes. With a supremely difficult struggle she turned away, and almost fell to the ground beside the American couple, who were chattering happily, oblivious to her inner turmoil. Maybe she had actually become delusional…conjured him up out of her rampant imagination.
When Brad and Sherry got up to check out the small museum she followed gratefully, feeling inexplicably as if she was escaping something…
She cast a quick glance back towards the planes, unable to help herself. She could just see the top of his dark head, surrounded by people—mainly adoring women from the looks of it.
She turned away resolutely and ducked inside, reassuring herself that by the time they came out all the pilots would be gone. After a few minutes she was feeling somewhat calmer, and walked around taking in the information with genuine interest. From a small plaque that was tucked into a corner she learned about a devastating earthquake at the turn of the century, which had reduced the population of nearly a thousand to a few hundred. It was only in recent decades that the island had begun to thrive again.
Apparently it had been in the hands of one family since the time of the crusades. They were called Salgado-Lézille, and had come originally from Spain. That would explain the hacienda-like houses Jane thought, remembering seeing them dotted around the harbour and elsewhere. And in retrospect there was something vaguely Moorish about the shape of the majestic castle.
She had turned to follow the crush out the door when the light was blocked momentarily and someone came in.
It was him. Even before she saw his face she knew. He scanned the room as people passed by him, and Jane held her breath. Slowly his gaze came to rest on her and stopped. Immediately her heart started to thump and her legs turned to jelly.
He stared at her.
Jane shook herself mentally. This was crazy. How could she be reacting like this again? She turned away and looked back at a document behind the glass, but she could see his shape reflected. He wasn’t moving. She forced herself to walk around the exhibit again and admonished herself. She was going to have to leave sooner or later, and there was no way he would have come in just to stare at her.
But he was. She could feel it.
All she had to do was walk past him. Easy.
She followed the chattering line of other tourists heading out, drawing ever closer to the door, looking anywhere but at the disturbing man and his large, broad-shouldered body leaning insouciantly against the wall. She sensed his dark gaze, hot and heavy upon her, like a physical caress, and trembled.
Now there were only two people in front of her. Why had they stopped? She dampened down her irritation. Her reaction was completely over the top. She just needed to get back out into the fresh air. That must be it, she comforted herself—the heat. As if to prove her point, she felt a trickle of sweat between her breasts.
She could see his long legs crossed at the ankles. She focused on the back of the heavy loud man in front of her. Maybe she could pretend she was with him, ensuring a smooth passage past. She had no idea why it was so important; she just felt it deep in the core of her being.
She was almost beside him now, the breath hitching in her throat. He took up her peripheral vision. She didn’t have to be looking at him to know what he was like. Despite only the brief moment the day before, and her distant view earlier today, she knew she would be able to describe him in detail.
Thick dark hair, swept high off a strong broad forehead. Harsh, vitally masculine face, lines broken only by an aquiline nose, sensually sculpted lips. And those mesmerising eyes, the eyelashes visible even from a distance. His flight suit enhanced his commanding physique.
‘Oh, my God, he is gorgeous.’
You don’t say, Jane thought wryly at Sherry’s indiscreetly loud whisper behind her. Without looking she could feel his sardonic smile. He had heard and understood; he must speak English.
She was almost at the door, almost home free, when her wrist was captured in an electrifying grip by a familiarly strong lean hand. The people behind her jostled, and to avoid a crush she had to move closer, go with the pull of the hand. Her blue eyes huge, she looked up at him.
He drew her in, close to his body, the people pushing past her inadvertently moving her in even closer. She could feel the heat of his thigh, hard against her own through the thin material of her dress.
What was happening?
She looked up, the question on her face, captivated by his gaze, which looked back down at her, lazily assessing. This man who had dominated nearly her every thought since yesterday.
‘What are you looking at?’ she croaked.
‘You,’he answered with deceptive simplicity, and the word rocked through Jane’s body.
‘Who…who are you?’
He didn’t answer, just kept a loose, yet immovable grip on her wrist. She could feel her pulse thumping against the warm skin of his hand like a captured bird. Something in her blood leapt, and excited anticipation built in her belly. The part of her that he had reached yesterday, unknown and alien, was coming to life again…just under his look. He smiled indolently, before his eyes left hers to look her up and down so thoroughly that she felt naked, exposed. A flush spread from her belly all the way up to her neck. She tried to yank her wrist away to no avail; his grip only tightened. He couldn’t possibly remember her, could he?
Nerves made her blurt out, ‘Who do you think you are? How dare you look at me like that…?’
His eyes bored into hers, the green becoming darker, making him look dangerous, ‘You pretend to not recognise me?’
He remembered.
‘No…well, that is, yes. I saw you yesterday in the street…when you bumped into me.’
‘As I recall it was the other way around, n’est ce pas?’
His voice sounded as though it had been dipped in honey treacle, deep and dark, with only the barest hint of an accent, his English flawless. She was finding it hard to concentrate.
‘I was just reading a map. Surely you saw me…’ She cursed the breathless tone in her voice.
He ran a quick glance up and down again. ‘Oh, I saw you all right.’
She saw the amusement lurking in his eyes and she tried to pull away again. This time he let her go, and she felt inexplicably bereft.
‘You should have been looking where you were going. You could have collided with a more…immovable object.’
From what she could remember, all too well, he had been like a wall…a wall of hard-packed muscle. She felt her legs weaken. More than disturbed by the effect he was having on her, she looked at him incensed,
‘The street was empty…it’s hardly a crime to divert one’s attention for a moment.’
He inclined his head in a surprisingly old-fashioned gesture. ‘Maybe we can agree that we were equally to blame.’
She huffed slightly. ‘It’s no big deal.’