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Sport 14: Autumn 1995

[section]

page 18

Lights. Gay laughter. Fragrances of fruit and flowers. The soaring notes of the ship’s orchestra. And then, a masculine presence next to her, a low voice in her ear.

‘I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you before. I’m Luke, Luke Tarrant.’

‘Luke Tarrant?’ Her astonishment must show on her face, for the man who has just spilled his drink on her dress says, ‘We’ve met before then? But I’m sure I could never have forgotten such an attractive young lady.’ Already his eyes are appraising her in a frankly approving manner that seems to leave no part of her body unperused! It sends a blush to the roots of her hair. To hide her confusion she finds herself answering him more boldly than she intended.

‘We haven’t exactly met before. But don’t you think that the least you could do after making a wet patch on my dress is ask me to dance with you!’

For a moment his eyebrows shoot up in surprise, before he utters a deep, amused chuckle. The next moment she is in his arms, swept onto the dance floor to the soaring sound of the violins, his strong arms holding her dangerously, dizzyingly close.

‘Met you?’ thinks Amanda. ‘No, more than that; I invented you. Every bit of you. And you were just like this! Perfect in every way; handsome, broad-shouldered, deeply tanned, slightly arrogant …

‘Luke Tarrant,’ she thinks, as he whirls her unprotesting body with practised skill. ‘There must be some mistake, an absurd coincidence! Characters from novels don’t just turn up at shipboard dances, spilling drinks on women’s dresses!’ And yet, and yet. Can it really be no more than coincidence? He is so very much as she wrote him!

‘You dance well.’ The voice in which he compliments her is low, husky, unmistakably masculine.

‘Thank you.’ She responds mechanically, too lost in the whirlwind of her own thoughts to attend properly to his words.

Admit it. Too lost in the rapturous sensation of lying, lightly, in his arms.

Too desirous that this glorious moment should never end.