Green eyes. Of course this man wasn’t Thomas. He’d had brown eyes. Pamela stared for an instant longer, mesmerized and drowning in those green eyes before she realized how odd her reaction must seem. She swallowed and tore her gaze away. Unbidden, her gaze returned to him and wandered to his mouth—quirking lips that laughed at her. No, he didn’t really look like Thomas, not when she studied him more closely. Of similar height, they both had dark hair and handsome faces, but this man smiled with his eyes and his mouth. He wore charm like a cloak.
Surreptitiously, she rubbed her forearm. The bone always ached when she thought of Thomas, a reminder of his temper and cruelty. It was the mental viciousness that lingered and made her cautious with other men.
Her mouth opened and closed before she blurted, “I’m here with my cousin.”
“I’ll escort you to his side,” he said firmly. “Too many wolves wandering around this pub. A little lamb like you won’t live long to tell the tale.”
“Her.” Pamela chuckled out loud. She wasn’t exactly an innocent. “And it would take a wolf to recognize another.” She’d always had a quick tongue but Thomas’s temper taught her to curb clever quips or face his wrath. Amazing. It seemed she was slowly healing and the thought brought a quick burst of pleasure. Take that, Thomas.
The man slapped his hand across his heart in a dramatic fashion. “She wounds me with her sharp words.”
Shaking her head at his silliness, she attempted to force her way over to the corner of the pub where she’d seen Christine disappear. To halt her escape the man seized her hand, his calloused fingers stroking gently across her thumb before he slid them upward to cup her elbow. His contact sent a frisson of sensation running down her arm. She gasped at the surge of pleasure, stunned by his caress and the sexual awareness running through her body. She met a lot of men at the shop but not one of them pulled this sort of reaction from her. With a cautious glance at his handsome face, she studied his expression. Maybe her aunt and cousin were right and she should stop hiding away. There was no reason she couldn’t have a little fun from life, as her cousin said.
“Michael Stedman.”
“Pamela Allison.”
“Pleased to meet you, Pamela.” He rolled her name around his mouth, pursing the sensual curves of his lips in a manner that made her want to touch.
She shivered again, finally admitting the man fascinated her. It was his sparkling green eyes and the daredevil expression lurking in them, his muscular shoulders and his hands. A man’s hands shouldn’t attract attention, but she didn’t have any trouble imagining them running over her bare breasts. Aghast at her thoughts, she ripped her gaze from his fingers to concentrate on his face.
“Why haven’t I met you before?”
“I don’t go out much.”
“We’ll need to remedy that, I think.”
Good grief. His husky tones brought a distinct prickle to her skin. At the first sexy drawl he’d woken her sleeping libido. Did that mean she was easy? Maybe she should worry about her reputation, but his charismatic smile drew her. If she were a keen fisherman like her uncle, she’d say he was the perfect lure to use for fishing. Maybe too good. Two women at the other end of the bar kept eyeing him like a special pre-wartime treat. His freshly ironed RAF blue uniform, bearing the distinctive pilot’s wings and stripes, garnered everyone’s interest. A big man with short black hair, he stood about six inches taller than her. Dark lashes fringed his green eyes and at the moment, those eyes bore a distinctly predatory look. It should have made her run but instead, the man sent waves of exhilaration skipping through her.
“Do you think so?” A flirtatious smile curved her lips. It brought an answering grin to his, and she wondered what his mouth would feel like brushing against hers. Good, instinct told her, but would she find the courage to let her attraction run its natural course? Only time would tell. Besides, it was early days. He mightn’t think the same way or he might have many girlfriends. The last thing she wanted was to find herself part of a harem.
“There you are,” Christine said once they’d managed to navigate the crowd. “Everyone, this is my cousin, Pamela Allison.”
The men grinned and waved, firing names at her in a casual manner that would’ve made her mother frown since she always followed correct etiquette.
“Come and stand beside me,” a tasty sandy-haired man suggested, waggling his eyebrows. “I’ll look after you.”
“She’s with me,” Michael said in a low growl.
Startled silence fell before the teasing started.
“Are you?” the sandy-haired man asked Pamela. “Are you with our ace pilot?”
“I say, old chap,” another said. “That’s hardly fair. You shoot down most of the enemy planes and get the girl as well.”
Michael met his friend’s jibes and sly innuendo with unconcern. Christine arched one brow at her, a tiny smile playing across her scarlet lips.
It was the moment to protest, to say no man owned her. Thomas had wanted to possess her so badly his need transformed to severe jealousy and violence. The doctors blamed the head injuries he’d suffered while boxing in the local pub, stating they’d caused his irrational behavior. They weren’t the ones who’d dealt with his suspicion and cruelty. Yes, it was the moment to set everyone straight, but the words didn’t come. Michael wrapped his arm around her waist and his touch reduced her to a pile of shivering femininity. His scent, a subtle bay rum and underlying masculine musk, drew her in and enticed her to lean closer. He acted cocky and confident. A little arrogant. All traits borne by the typical fighter pilot, according to her cousin when she’d expounded on the topic one day.
“This is Owen,” Christine said. “Owen Johnston.”
“I’m pleased to meet you.” She smiled at the big, burly blond. His open and boyish face bore a grin, his cheeks ruddy from the heat inside the pub. It was obvious he adored Christine because he hadn’t taken his eyes off her since Pamela joined their group.
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Owen said.
“You’re not from England,” Pamela said in surprise.
He smiled. “I’m from New Zealand. A place called Papakura.”
Pamela nodded, her mouth silently shaping the unfamiliar syllables of the foreign town. “Christine hasn’t told me much about you.”
He blushed and shared a soppy grin with Christine. It was so cute a sheen of tears formed in her eyes. How neat to see her cousin looking happy. Pamela hoped everything worked for her and Owen, even if the angel on her shoulder muttered with cynicism. During her time working in the shop, she heard every scrap of village gossip, whether she showed an interest or not. A reputation took years to build and it took one mistake or lapse of judgment to lose everything.
“What would you like to drink?” Michael asked, his warm breath drifting across the whorls of her ear in a delicate caress. “Can I buy you both a drink?”
“Gin and tonic for me,” Christine said. “Thank you.”
“I’ll have a dry sherry, please,” Pamela said.
Two of the men stood, offering them their seats at the table.
Michael helped with her coat before he moved away, taking his warmth and solid comfort with him when he went to purchase drinks. While she placed her coat over the back of a chair, she puzzled about her extreme reaction to the man. She didn’t understand it. Anyone would think she was one of those women. A tart who went with any man for money. But Lord help her, she wanted to run her hands through his hair, stroke his naked chest. She yearned to experience his hands strumming across her pleasure points. The need to kiss him thrummed through her so strongly she shook with need.
“He looks like Thomas,” she whispered to Christine. Thoughts of her husband and his tendency to violence might help ground her again.
“He does,” Christine agreed, glancing at the pilots at the bar. “A little bit.”
“Am I sick?” A trace of panic made her consider running before retreat became too late. “I mean, wha
t if he acts like Thomas as well as looking like him? Am I flawed and fated to keep picking the wrong man?”
“Of course not,” Christine said with a laugh. “All it means is you fancy the tall, dark, and handsome type. There’s nothing wrong with your preferences.” A dimple flashed. “At least your penchant means you won’t try to steal Owen.”
Aghast, she stared at her cousin. “I’d never do that.”
“Relax. I’m teasing.”
“So where have you been hiding?” one of pilots asked Pamela, halting any notions of more private conversation with her cousin.
“I work in the village store,” Pamela said. “Hardly hiding.”
“I haven’t been with the squadron for long. Tommy,” he said, extending a hand for her to shake. His eyes glowed in admiration. “I’ll make a point of visiting the store now.”
“Where’s Bogle?” Another newly arrived pilot took possession of an empty seat.
Everyone fell silent, the hush an uneasy one.
“He bought it today. His plane crashed into the channel,” someone said.
The pilot stood again. “I need a drink.” He stalked off, leaving a strained silence behind.
One of the men cracked a joke. Everyone laughed and they started talking, firing questions. Flirting. They were fighter pilots from 92 Squadron and flew Spitfires. They were a close-knit group, yet brushed the death of their fellow pilot aside, but not in an uncaring nature. No, their behavior was more a grim acceptance with the knowledge lurking in their expressions that today’s death could have easily been one of them.
Curiosity burned in Pamela. Presumably Michael flew Spitfires too. She finally plucked up the courage to ask. “What does Michael do?”
“I’m a pilot,” he whispered in her ear, an instant before she recognized his enticing scent. He placed a drink on the table in front of her and another for Christine. His warm presence created havoc with her senses and the way he cupped her shoulder in an openly possessive manner didn’t help. Her nipples tightened, achy without warning. Pulling to rigid points, they rubbed with exquisite friction against the cups of her brassiere. When he lifted one finger to caress her cheek, the sensation zapped the length of her body, converging in her core. She shifted uneasily while silently acknowledging her acute arousal. It was all true. Her enjoyment of sex had turned her into one of those women. For the months since her husband’s death, she’d bottled her emotions. The change in routine and meeting Michael had pierced the dam, awareness of the opposite sex now in full flight.
“Let’s drink to Bogle,” Michael said, lifting his glass.
“To Bogle!” they said in unison, raising their glasses in a toast.
Pamela waited for them to say more but, after the toast, the conversation drifted on to discuss the next dance at the hall and talk of Gone with the Wind, Clark Gable, and Vivien Leigh. To her relief no one asked questions about her, apart from what she did. She hated talking about Thomas and her past. No doubt the questions would come, but meantime she would happily stick with superficial stuff like community events.
“Anyone for darts?” one of the men asked.
“Not me,” Owen said. Pamela caught his gaze on Christine’s lips and her cousin’s blush.
Christine leaned closer to her and spoke in an undertone. “Is it okay if I go home with Owen?”
Oh-oh. Her cousin’s departure would leave her alone with Michael. For an intense few seconds she almost panicked until she caught her cousin’s beseeching look. She softened, her grip on her sherry glass loosening. Christine and her family were her lifesavers, picking her up when she’d been at the lowest ebb, rescuing her from the clutches of her overbearing albeit well-meaning mother. “Yes, but take care. Please. Don’t let Mrs. Pearson see him either entering the cottage or departing. You don’t want your mother learning about Owen’s visit.” The need to say more, to tell Christine to stay at the pub instead of leaving with Owen trembled at the tip of her tongue. Shades of her mother. The realization kept her mouth firmly buttoned because the last thing she wanted was to fall out with her cousin.
“Thanks, we’ll be careful,” Christine said, not giving her a chance to rethink the decision. She and Owen finished their drinks and left, with her cousin whispering they intended to go straight back to the cottage. A hint for her to stay out for a few more hours. Pamela took a deep breath. Okay, she could stay for another hour, maybe two at a stretch.
Conversation continued while Owen and Christine left. Once the door closed behind them, a few people murmured in undertones. Too far away, Pamela couldn’t hear their discussion. She gnawed on her bottom lip, worried about talk. The circulation of rumors would devastate her aunt and uncle. She glared at the gossipers, her hand clenching around her glass.
“Don’t worry about Christine.” Michael’s breath whispered against her ear again, and she couldn’t prevent her shiver of awareness.
“I’m not worried.” A lie. Her stomach churned and she forced herself to remain still instead of squirming. Her bad angel shouted at her to lean into Michael, to show her interest. She froze and the naughty compulsion passed.
For the next five minutes, she listened to the idle chatter about life at the mess and speculation about the new picture due to run at the local cinema.
Michael joined in, asking questions and offering a few observations. He made a point to involve her in the conversation and when several other women joined their group, her discomfort at sitting with the pilots alone eased.
She actually started to enjoy herself and watched Michael play a game of darts while chatting with the others in the group. The noise grew progressively louder as everyone drank more beer.
“Would you like to play darts?” Michael bore a jubilant grin after beating one of the other fighter boys.
“Sure.”
“You’ll have a harder time winning now that you’re playing with a woman,” one of the other men teased.
“Nah,” Michael scoffed, tugging his dog tags from beneath his shirt. A tarnished coin swung with the tags, glinting in the light. He placed a smacking kiss on it. “I have my lucky charm.”
He was also playing with a woman who knew how to handle a set of darts, but she didn’t mention that tidbit to him. The game was a rowdy and close-fought one. Pamela acquitted herself well, much to everyone’s surprise except her own. After several glasses of sherry, a pleasant buzz filled her, the normal reticence she experienced disappearing completely. When her final dart hit dead center, Michael cheered and picked her up, swinging her round and round until her head whirled. Finally, he set her down and planted a congratulatory kiss on her lips.
“Looks like I have two lucky charms,” he said when his friends hooted.
“Another game?” The losing team wanted revenge.
“Do you want to play again?” Michael’s face remained serious, and she knew he was asking for more.
“No, I’d better not. I have to work tomorrow.” She wanted to stay. Instead she heeded the voice of reason telling her to say no and hurry home. She needed to put distance between her and the enticing Michael.
“I’ll walk you home. You shouldn’t walk alone in the dark.”
She should have said no. Instead she agreed to his suggestion in a husky voice.
He stared at her for an instant longer before draining his beer. “Good night, chaps. You’ll have to get your revenge on us another night. I’m walking Pamela home.”
Heat crowded into her face but not one of them made a teasing remark. They’d probably wait until later. Michael helped her with her coat, pulling it up and over her shoulders.
“Thanks.” The naughty angel cheered, and Pamela could scarcely hear herself think. “Good night.” She nodded to the men and women they’d been sitting with, trying not to let her mother’s lectures or her husband’s commands govern her thoughts. This was totally innocent—a mere escort home.
Michael clasped her hand and led her from the pub. Once outside they paused to allow their eyes to
adjust to the inky darkness, now typical in every English village and town.
“Where do you live?”
“In a cottage at the other end of the village. It’s okay. You don’t need to walk me home. The airfields are in the other direction.”
“I’ll walk you home.” He paused. “I say, you’re not frightened of me, are you? I’d never do anything to hurt you. I promise.”
The dark shape of his face sent her imagination soaring. Memories slammed into her and unease slithered through her like a grass snake. She took half a step back before she reined in her fear. Thomas always said the same thing. She’d believed him. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.
“Pamela?” He tugged lightly on her hands, bringing her closer to his large frame. “I won’t even kiss you good night, even though I want that more than anything.”
A soft sound of surprise escaped her, making him chuckle. He offered his arm and she took it, telling herself she was being silly. Acting afraid of a man who’d done nothing to earn her fear would be like letting Thomas win. Besides, a kiss didn’t sound so bad.
The man possessed excellent night vision. He led her away from the pub, over the rutted cobblestones of the car park and along the path. They passed the butcher and the baker, gradually reaching her uncle’s store. They sold everything from soap to flour and beauty items for women.
“Is this where you work?”
“Yes, I’ve worked for my uncle and aunt for almost a year now.”
“Where did you live before that?”
Pamela tripped on an uneven section of pavement, Michael helping her to keep upright. “I … ah … thank you. I lived in London. My husband was a policeman.” Maybe her abrupt tone would give him a subtle hint.
“Husband?” Michael’s reply sliced through the air and he withdrew his touch. “I didn’t realize you were married.”
“Thomas died in a motor accident, almost a year ago now.”
“I’m sorry. I thought—”
“I know what you thought,” Pamela said icily. “Perhaps you should let me walk home on my own.”
A Discreet Affair Page 2
