As for the way he reacted when he got a taste of his own medicine back—well, he went up in flames like a rocket! When she emerged again, the entire staff were engaged in wrapping the rest of the purchases. Never had Stella been more grateful to leave a shop.
'I suppose you want to go in there,' Dior condemned with unconcealed exasperation as he surveyed a busy outlet which sold cosmetics and toiletries. 'No...no, I'll manage fine!' Stella swore in haste. 'Prehistoric man cleaned his teeth with a twig. Maybe I'll pick one up somewhere on the way.'
Dior dealt her an arrested glance. And then he shocked her. He flung back his imperious dark head and laughed with spontaneous amusement. Stella simply gaped, heart-rate speeding up, pulses jumping.
His even white teeth flashed against bronzed skin, dark, deep-set eyes gleaming with appreciation. Humour drove all brooding darkness from his lean, powerful face, leaving her bemusedly conscious of just how stunning he was in the looks department.
'I'm not into shopping,' he confided huskily as if she might not already be aware of that reality. 'Other people usually do it for me.'
Her complexion uncomfortably warm, Stella dragged her attention from him and studied the floor, but that Mediterranean dark and devastating face were still imprinted in her mind's eye. He was spectacular. That stark acknowledgment, that very thought, seriously unsettled Stella.
Dior Harlequin wasn't making the tiniest effort to impress or please her. Yet somehow he still made her effortlessly aware of his high-voltage male sexuality. She didn't like that sen‐ station, didn't like the unease and tension he provoked inside her. She might be only twenty-one, but it was over a year since Stella had gone out on a date.
Men, she had decided, were a waste of precious time and effort, and she hadn't once regretted that decision. She didn't consider herself a man-hater, but she did get a secret kick out of jokes that suggested the male sex was useless and increasingly surplus to female requirements. After all, by and large, that had been Stella's experience from childhood.
As Dior urged Stella at speed through the crowded terminal, he rested a lean hand lightly on her taut spine to keep her moving. She stiffened defensively. 'Excuse me,' she heard herself say stiltedly, stepping back, suddenly determined to escape him, even if it could only be for a little while. 'Where do you think you're going?' he demanded.
"The ladies' cloakroom,' Stella framed with frigid emphasis. 'Are you planning to come with me?' His aggressive jawline squared. 'I'll give you two minutes.' Pointedly dumping the carrier bags she was loaded down with at his feet, she began to walk away.
'Stella...' He extended a comb to her with a sardonic look... 'Maybe you should do something with your hair while you're in there.' Gritting her teeth at the realization that she hadn't taken the time to check her appearance in the shop, and strongly resisting an unusually feminine urge to start smoothing her hair down, Stella vanished into the cloakroom.
It was the work of a moment to tame her bright hair back into a straight heavy fall just below her shoulders. She frowned at her reflection, noticing the animated pink in her cheeks, the surprising sparkle in her eyes. The dress had a cool simplicity she liked, but it wasn't her style.
Her full pink mouth tightening, Stella studied the expensive silver comb he had given her and recalled the ease with which he had accurately assessed her dress size.
But then that had not been a surprise to her. At twenty-nine years of age, Dior Harlequin was an unrepentant, totally unreconstructed womanizer.
Naturally, he was, Stella reflected cynically. Men with money and power lived hi a buyers' market of all too willing women.
Dior was a real babe magnet, and he knew it. He had undoubtedly never had to worry too much about honing the rough edges from his less than presentable manners.
But, even so, she was to get a free trip to Greece. Private jet, five-star luxury all the way.
The drawback? Dior Harlequin breathing down her neck. An adventure, she told herself staunchly.
Even with him around it ought to be more fun than polishing endless floors. Heavens, she realized abruptly, she'd have to ring Watson.
Tomorrow morning her boss would be expecting her to open up as usual. He never turned in until noon, and when he found the shop still locked up he'd go straight upstairs to her bedsit and hammer on the door, thinking she had fallen ill.
Regardless of Die's embargo, she had to phone Watson, and as she could hardly tell the older man the truth, she would have to lie to excuse her absence.
Carefully concealing herself behind a pair of large, gossiping women, Stella slipped out of the cloakroom and lunged breathlessly at the public phone only a few yards away.
Dior Harlequin was now standing in the center of the busy concourse, talking on his mobile phone, his attention conveniently distracted. Stella dialed the operator. Since she had no cash on her at all, she would have to request a reverse-charge call.
But just as the operator answered, Dior, turned his dark, arrogant head. She crashed the receiver back on the hook, but she wasn't quick enough. Dior saw her before she could put some space between herself and the phone.
Stella froze like a criminal as glittering green eyes locked to her in instantaneous judgment, his lean, strong face darkening as he strode towards her.
And Stella, who knew all too well what it felt like to be irritated or bored by a member of the male sex, discovered for the first time hi her life what it felt like to be scared...