When the Siren Calls Read Online Free Page B

straw, moulding her lips round it into a soft pink ‘o’.
    He laughed, and pulled a card from his wallet. “Here are my details, and there’s a link on the back to a website; it will show you what we’re up to much better than I can describe.”
    She tucked it away in the pocket of her robe as he stood up to say his goodbyes. As she rose to receive them, the bathrobe fell fully to the floor.Four
    Some eighteen months earlier, in an airport hotel, Lucy Baker basked in the familiar feeling of knowing she was turning every head as she entered the bar. A peek beneath her tight fitting outfit would have revealed a near perfect body, a breathtaking alliance of nature’s gifts and a surgeon’s steady hand. She had almost feline eyes; perfectly shaped, astonishingly green, and as angular and beautifully formed as the rest of her captivating face. They were restless eyes, full of energy and playfulness, but as she and her colleagues walked into the lounge of the airport hotel, her eyes rested on one man, and her thoughts stayed firmly on him for the remainder of the evening. He sat centre stage in the middle of the bar, nonchalantly straddling the back of a chair and holding half a dozen or so young men under his spell, their shoulders shaking with laughter, their faces exuding pure admiration.
    “Let’s sit over here, shall we ladies?” she volunteered, as the group behind her milled about in confusion. She led the way to the middle of the lounge, right behind the gathering and its enigmatic leader, and beckoned the others. Her movements were smooth and supple, exuding the sensuality that defined her appearance. Her skin glowed sunbed-brown and her hair was a carefully manufactured blonde. It had been every shade of this hue over the years — pearl white as an exotic dancer, sunflower yellow as a glamour model. Now she was an airhostess and this was reflected in the darker, and she fancied, more demure, honey tones that hung around her face like an unlikely halo.
    As Lucy perched on her chair, luxuriously extending her long shapely legs to exhibit them to their best potential, she covertly returned her gaze to the man, watching with a hidden smile as he awarded a gangly but handsome man in his early thirties, attired in a ridiculous bow tie and plus fours, an award for his exceptionally bad play on the golf course.
    “On one knee if you please, Eamon,” he said, as the recipient came forward for his prize. He spoke with all the command and presence of a king, and as Lucy looked about her, it seemed the whole bar was watching and enjoying his showmanship. She was surprised that applause did not break out as, with a flourish, he produced a plastic funnel from beneath his chair and proceeded with much ceremony to concoct a punishment.
    “The committee has decided,” he proclaimed, obliging the now beaming Eamon to accept the funnel to his lips, “that your forfeit is a quad-vod, to be washed down with a half-pint of the vilest concoction of sangria and punch ever mixed at this fine hotel.”
    Lucy zoned out as the jovial Irishman took his punishment with pleasure, and willed herself to pay attention to the tortuous conversations of her colleagues, who were discussing at length the policies, practices, and pitfalls of a life in the skies. Her antenna tuned in as the discussion turned to sexual harassment at work, a continuation of one of the afternoon’s topics. Lucy interjected boldly, “That was the problem at my last place - sexual harassment.”
    All heads turned as her colleagues focused on her, their faces expectant and hungry for a titillating personal disclosure. “Go on, Lucy,” said one, “what was the problem?”
    “There simply wasn’t enough of it,” she exclaimed, slapping her thighs with gusto as laughter broke out around her. She lowered her head in mock modesty and stole a sideways glance at the floorshow, but only the grinning Eamon, his eyes fixed on her, seemed to have heard.
    The rounds of