32
The redhead’s eyes widened. Of all the people in a city this size, she had to run into him. Even though she didn’t know Ben Foster well, she clocked his unmistakable profile immediately: his sharp jawline, short cropped hair flecked with grey, those thick dark eyelashes.
Sensing her presence, he turned.
She looked away. Had her scent alerted him? Did the smart arse possess ESP? Her own insights were telling her to avoid him like the plague. She’d had her fun but didn’t intend, or want, to see him ever again. She had to shake him off.
The tube lights flashed off, then back on.
Oh fuck! He was making his way towards her, squeezing his body through tightly packed passengers. Closer. Closer. Ever closer. The last thing she needed was complications now. She felt the tube slowing as it neared Goodge Street station. But not quick enough. Ben was already by her side.
‘Hello again . . .’ His eyes slid over her. ‘You must think I’m a waste of space. I’m sorry I missed you last night. Got held up at the conference and couldn’t get away. By the time I reached the restaurant you’d gone. Am I forgiven?’
The redhead was profoundly hacked off. Not only had the bastard stood her up – and that didn’t happen often! – but he’d told a train-load of fuckwits all about it. Just who the hell did he think he was? Did he really think she’d been waiting there, hoping he’d come, like some drooling schoolgirl with a crush on an older man? That would require feelings. And feelings were in short supply in her particular box of tricks.
‘I’m sorry?’ She smiled at him, a mixture of puzzlement and embarrassment. It was time to show the pathetic loser who was boss. ‘You have me at a disadvantage. Do I know you?’
He just looked at her, incredulous, a deep furrow on his brow. ‘You are joking, right?’
‘I don’t think so!’ She scanned his face, pretending to search her memory in an effort to remember where – if – they might have met before. Then she shook her head, bemused. ‘I really think you must’ve mistaken me for someone else.’
‘This another one of your games, Liv?’
‘Now I know you have me mixed up,’ she said. ‘My name isn’t Liv.’
The jerk was still smiling. ‘You like playing games, don’t you? Well, so do I.’
The redhead looked around her. People crammed into the carriage were earwigging their conversation. One in particular was glaring at Ben. A young guy: mid-thirties or thereabouts, body-building type, fair-haired, six-two, square shoulders, military crew cut, a man who looked like he could handle himself. Her eyes pleaded with him to intervene. He didn’t need asking twice . . .
‘Pardon me, ma’am.’ He sounded like a New Yorker. ‘Is this guy bothering you?’
‘No, well . . .’ She flashed him an innocent smile. ‘I’m sure he made a genuine mistake.’
‘Oh, please!’ Ben Foster looked at the Yank. ‘She’s winding me up! She’s pissed with me for not turning up last night.’
The redhead was wide-eyed. ‘I’ve never seen this man before!’
‘Back off, buddy!’ The Yank leaned into Ben, his dark eyes sending him a message: Don’t-mess-with-me-if-you-know-what’s-good-for-you. ‘The lady isn’t interested.’
Ben stood his ground, furious now. ‘Will you mind your own business?’
Thanking the American, the redhead excused herself politely and moved towards the door, easing herself through a muddle of bodies as fast as her long legs would carry her. The tube screeched to a stop. Once she was off the train, she looked over her shoulder. The doors were still open, allowing passengers on. Ben was about to follow her when the American guy put a hand against his chest, preventing him from getting off. As the train doors closed, the redhead smiled, relieved to be free of him.