GHOSTLY ENCOUNTERS

“The Six Nations Championship or The Guinness Six Nations offered rugby fans another great show. Today, Ireland and France left their best on the field. The Irish Lions and Les Bleus (French for The Blues) gave us a lesson about fair play and commitment. With a nail-biting finish like that, I think we can safely say that this tournament is wide-open and set to be one of the most exciting yet. This is Cassandra Applegate, reporting live from Croke Park in Dublin. Back to you in the studio, Stanley.”

          Cassandra kept the smile pasted on her face until she could hear the chatter die away in her earpiece and then handed her microphone to her assistant, Ciara, with relief once she knew she was off-air.

          She avoided looking to where she knew the man was still standing, his shoulder propped nonchalantly against the wall, hands in the pockets of his dark trousers, underneath a black overcoat with the collar turned up.

          He’d been talking to Charles Ollivon, the captain of the French team, but now he was alone again. He was watching her. And he’d been watching her all through the Six Nations Championship match between Ireland and France.

          The man had bothered her and he’d distracted her. And she didn’t know why… No, that was a lie. Cassandra knew exactly why. He was blonde, bound, determined… and so gorgeous that when she’d first locked eyes with him, quite by accident, it had felt as though someone had just punched her in the stomach.

          Cassandra felt disconcerted by his dark eyes, something that no other man had ever made her feel. Not even her husband. The impact the man had on her had been so strong that she’d felt herself smiling and raising a questioning eyebrow, but then she’d seen an unmistakably mocking glint in his dark eyes.

          Of course, she didn’t know him. She’d never seen his long, hard-boned face before, had never seen that mouth, which even to look at from where she sat, had the most amazingly sensuous lips.

          Immediately Cassandra had felt herself flushing with embarrassment at her reaction to him. He had to be French, as he shared the quintessential good looks of so many of the crowd today, quite exotically different from the more pale-skinned home crowd of Irish supporters. This and the fact that he’d been sitting in the seats reserved for VIPs, situated just below the press area.

          He looked like a VIP. She’d only had to look once to know that he effortlessly stood out from the rest of the crowd. But her gaze had been inevitably drawn to him again and again, and to her absolute embarrassment, their eyes had met more than once.

          When he’d stood intermittently with the crowd during a try or a conversion, he’d stood taller and broader than any of the men around him, and in a crowd full of rugby supporters, that was something. Yet was he waiting now because he thought that she’d been giving him some sort of come-on?

          Everything in Cassandra clammed up and rejected that thought. She would never be so blatant.

“Do you need a lift, Cass?”

          Ciara and the others had finished packing up, and Peter, the cameraman, was looking at her. Suddenly she felt very flustered. She never got flustered. She was often teased for appearing cool, calm, and collected at all times.

“No,” she answered quickly, aware that the stranger wasn’t there anymore.

          A sense of panic threatened her… What if he’s right behind her, waiting for her?

“I have to go to a family dinner later, so I have my car here.”

“So, no ostentatious after-party to see the French celebrating for you, then?”

          She mock-grimaced, secretly relieved that she had an excuse.

“I’ll only have time to stop in to show my face on my way, just to keep James happy. That’s all.”

          Peter shrugged and was about to walk away after Ciara and the other assistant, with their small amount of gear, when he stopped and turned again, distracting Cassandra.

“Good reporting today, kid.”

          Pleasure rushed through her body. This was so important to her. When she’d started working as a reporter for the national television, Peter was practically a veteran of TV. She’d been slogging for a long time to get a shred of respect. He taught her the ropes of the business, taking her under his wing.  

“Thanks, Peter. This means the world to me.”

          He winked at her and turned to walk away again. With the fizz of pleasure staying in her chest, Cassandra checked around for anything left behind and made to follow the others, before stopping and cursing as she remembered that her laptop and notebook were back in the press seats.

          Peter’s words were forgotten when that prickling awareness came back. She turned around with her heart beating hard, fully expecting to see the man again. She had a curiously insincere feeling of relief when he wasn’t there. He’d obviously gone, bored with waiting around.

          Taking the elevator back up to the upper level, Cassandra told herself to stop being ridiculous, that she’d merely imagined that they’d had some kind of silent communication.

                                                   ************

          While she was so busy looking for her things, she didn’t notice she was being observed. A few inches away, Sébastien Olivier de Monfort stood back with arms folded and surveyed the enticing sight in front of him. He thought he’d missed her when he’d gone to look at the pitch for a moment, and he didn’t like the momentary sense of panic that thought had generated. But she was still here.

          A very shapely bottom was raised in the air, encased in the tight confines of a pencil skirt. Its owner was currently bending over, hauling a bag out from under a seat. His eyes drifted down. Long, slim legs were momentarily bent and now straightened to their full length… which was long, all the way from slim, neat ankles right up to gently flaring hips that tapered into a neat waist.

          Sébastien wondered if she was wearing stockings, and that thought had a forceful effect on the blood in his veins. He wondered, too, then, what it was about her that had kept him looking, that had kept him here when he should have been long gone.

          What was it that had kept drawing his eye back again and again, unexpectedly taking his attention away from the riveting match? NEAT. That was it. She was neat. Right from her starchy, all buttoned-up shirt complete with tie, down to her sensible court-shoes and shiny, straight hair neatly tucked behind her ears, a side parting to the left. It was tied back in a small ponytail, but Sébastien could well imagine that if let loose, it would fall ever so neatly into a straight shoulder-length bob, framing her gorgeous face.

          Since when had he been into neat? He was famously into seductive, sensual women who poured their beautiful, shapely bodies into clothes and dresses designed to fire the imagination and ignite the senses. Women who weren’t afraid to entice and lure, using all their powerful charms for his pleasure.

          She was shrugging into a long, black overcoat now, hiding herself, and strangely, he felt all at once irritated, inflamed, and bemused. What the hell was he doing, practically slavering over some hollow TV Barbie doll?

          He knew that any second now she’d turn around, and he’d see that up close her face wasn’t half as alluring as he’d imagined it to be from a distance: with a healthy glow, full, glossy lips, and amber eyes under dark brows which contrasted with her light-brown hair.

          No… She’d turn round and Sébastien would see that she was caked in orange make-up. Her eyes would flare with recognition… hadn’t she already recognized him earlier, and given him those enticingly shy looks. And then he’d be caught. Sébastien was already trying to think up something to excuse his very out-of-character behavior when she did turn round. He opened his mouth and suddenly his mind went blank.

                                                              ************

          Cassandra had no warning for what or who faced her. That gorgeous, menacing stranger was right in front of her. Just feet away, staring at her. They were standing alone in an eighty-thousand-seat stadium, but to Cassandra, at that moment it shrank to the four-square feet surrounding them. And it was then that she had to acknowledge that the prickling awareness she’d been dismissing had just exploded into full-on shock.

          The blood seemed to thicken in her veins. Her heart pounded again in recognition of some base appreciation of his very masculinity. He stood with his head tilted back, hands in the pockets of his trousers. His coat emphasized his broad shoulders, the olive tone of his skin. But it was his eyes that she couldn’t take her own shocked gaze from. They were wide, dark, intelligent, and full of something so hot and brazenly sensual that left Cassandra breathless.

          Her hands gripped her notebooks close to her chest, and she was absurdly relieved that she was wearing a long coat, feeling very strange that this man could somehow see underneath as if with just a look, he could make her clothes melt away.

          She shook her head, unaware of what she was doing, and to her intense relief, she found her voice.

“May I help you? Are you looking for someone?”

          Since when had her voice taken on such huskily seductive tones? Even though they were alone, Cassandra felt no sense of fear. Her sense of fear came from an entirely different direction.

“You were looking at me.”

          Sébastien winced inwardly at the accusing tone of his voice and the baldness of his statement, but he was still reeling from coming face to face with her. His recent assumption that she would prove to be entirely unalluring was shred to pieces. She was all at once pale and glowing. Cheeks flushed red from the cold breeze… or something else?

          That thought had blood rushing down under his belt with an unwelcome lack of control. Her eyes were a unique shade of amber mixed with honey and French cognac. Her lips were full and soft, not covered in lip gloss. He’d never seen anyone so naturally captivating.

“Excuse me?”

          Cassandra welcomed the righteous indignation that flowed through her and told herself it wasn’t adrenaline. But since when had righteous indignation made her shake? She’d been right all along. He was obviously just a tourist looking for a little fun. He’d misunderstood her meaning when she’d smiled at him. Well, she wasn’t on the market for that sort of thing.

“From what I recall, you were doing the same thing.”

          She hitched up her chin.

“I thought I recognized you, but I was wrong, so forgive me if I led you to believe that something more was on offer. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to get back to.”

          The man smiled, revealing gleaming, strong white teeth, and Cassandra felt momentarily dizzy.

“I’m well aware that you’re working. After all, didn’t I just see you interviewing Ireland’s head coach? I was making an observation, that’s all. And you were looking at me.”

“No more than you were looking at me.”