and the noise of the heavy machinery drowned everything else out, nobody saw or heard the dark-green Bentley purr to a halt behind the police van.
Liza was still torn between not wanting to look a wimp and not wanting to look a prat. Most of all she wished she hadn’t been feeble enough to give in to Alistair’s emotional blackmail. She could be playing squash now, she thought with longing, or at home working on ideas for the new food book she had just been commissioned to write.
Damn, thought Liza, even waiting hand, foot and finger on dipstick Dulcie would be fun compared with this.
‘Liza, will you stop faffing around and JOIN THE BLOODY SIT-IN,’ roared Alistair, kicking out at one of the contractors who was trying to grab his ankles, and pointing imperiously down at Liza.
I could just turn round and leave, she thought, willing herself to do it.
The next moment she jumped out of her skin as a weirdly familiar voice inches from her ear drawled, ‘Is he your boyfriend? I’m amazed, I didn’t take you for the kind of girl who’d let men boss you about like that.’
Chapter 22
Liza’s heart began hammering wildly in her chest. Kit Berenger was standing next to her, arms crossed, feet apart, sunglasses in place as he calmly surveyed the scene of chaos spread out before them. He was wearing black jeans, a black and white striped shirt and that familiar aftershave.
Had it occurred to her that he might turn up today, the final day of the protest?
Of course it had.
So far, Kit Berenger had seen her sweating and out of breath after an hour on the squash court, and in her eating-out frump of-the-year disguise. Now for the first time he was seeing how she really looked.
Liza couldn’t quite bring herself to admit that this was why she had taken such care with her appearance today.
‘He’s not my boyfriend,’ she said as calmly as she could manage, ‘I don’t let him boss me about, and since I’ll be thirty-two next week, I’m hardly a girl.’
‘Well, you’re hardly an ancient old trout.’
Was there actually a flicker of a smile playing around his mouth? Sideways on, and never having seen Kit Berenger smile before, it was hard to tell.
‘Anyway,’ he went on, his tone conversational, ‘what are you doing here, dressed up like a Christmas tree?’
Liza ignored the jibe. ‘Same as everyone else. Protesting.’
‘You don’t look much like a protester. You’ve washed your hair for a start.’
Before she could move, one hand came up and touched her blonde hair, idly following the line of the curve between her left temple and shoulder.
Liza shivered and looked up at him, but the narrow mouth gave nothing away. The eyes were still hidden behind black glasses.
‘My cousin heard from your editor, by the way,’ said Kit. ‘Loads of people wrote to the magazine defending the Songbird. Nearly a hundred letters altogether, saying you were out of order.’
‘Really,’ said Liza, who had written most of them. ‘They’re printing a selection in next month’s issue.’
‘Well, there you go,’ said Liza steadily. ‘Looks like I was wrong and you were right.’
He took off his sunglasses. Liza waited for another smart remark. But he didn’t say anything, just gazed down at her.
Alistair, meanwhile, was being dragged down from his digger by a pair of sweating policemen, one thin, one burly, like Laurel and Hardy. Mid-tussle, he spotted Liza and a tall dark-haired boy making no effort to join in the protest.
‘Hey, you two! Get yourselves in front of that bulldozer, fast.’
Kit called back, ‘Actually, we’d rather not.’
The next moment, as Alistair disappeared beneath a heaving mound of navy-blue serge, Kit Berenger reached out and took hold of Liza’s hand. His strong fingers gripped her wrist.
‘What are you d-doing?’ Liza gasped, trying to snatch it away.
‘Taking your pulse.’ He raised a dark eyebrow. ‘Hmm, fast. Very fast.’
This was even more humiliating than being hauled into a police van in struggling-beetle position, as was now happening to Alistair. Liza stared hard at the goings-on at the back of the van and pretended she hadn’t heard Kit Berenger speak.
‘Mine too,’ he went on, releasing his grip on her wrist and offering her his own. ‘Have a feel if you want.’
‘No thanks,’ Liza replied faintly.
‘The thing is, there’s something I’ve been wanting to do rather badly for quite a while now,’ said Kit. ‘Is it okay with you if I give it a go?’
Liza could barely breathe.
‘Not if you’re going to slap my face.’
‘I don’t want to slap your face.’ He turned her slowly towards him, so there was no escaping the look in those extraordinary black-lashed, yellow-gold eyes. ‘I want to kiss your mouth.’
This, thought Liza, is ridiculous .. .
Then she stopped thinking because it was too late now to do anything, let alone think. Kit Berenger’s mouth came down on hers and Liza gave herself up to it, utterly helpless to protest.
Every nerve in
