The Light Over London(12)

“Who’s that with your friends?” she asked, watching as the man dropped his long, elegant fingers from his lips and let the cigarette smolder at his side.

“That’s Flight Lieutenant Paul Bolton. He’s a flier. A pilot, but he’s all right. Doesn’t give off too many airs like some of the officers. Lucky lad has all the girls after him.”

“Do you fly together?”

Martin shook his head. “He flies a Supermarine Spitfire. I’m on a Bristol Blenheim, a kind of bomber. I’m a gunner and wireless operator,” he said, pointing to a cloth patch on his arm embroidered with lightning bolts as proof, “and Poole’s our observer. Davidson’s ground crew. I’ll introduce you to Bolton.”

She was about to protest, but Martin surged forward, taking her with him. “Flight Lieutenant Bolton, this is Kate’s cousin, Miss Louise Keene. Dances like a dream.”

Flight Lieutenant Bolton flicked his gaze over to her. He straightened and put out his hand. “How do you do?”

He had a lovely voice, as deep and sophisticated as a film star’s, and when she took his hand, her whole body went warm.

“Do you live in Saint Mawgan, Miss Keene?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Haybourne, just down the road.”

“Then how have I never seen you at one of these before?” he said. “I’m sure I would’ve noticed you.”

She blushed. “Kate brought me because her usual friend couldn’t come.”

He leaned over and put out his half-finished cigarette in a tin ashtray on a high-topped table. “In that case, I’ll have to thank Kate’s absent friend. Would you care to dance?”

This time there was no hesitation as she nodded and took his proffered hand. She glanced back and caught Martin’s eye. Another wink. Another blush.

The small band on a makeshift stage at the far end of the room began to play “All I Remember Is You,” and Flight Lieutenant Bolton wrapped his arms around her.

“I like your dress very much,” he said, pulling her so close that she could’ve rested her head on his chest if she’d dared.

“Thank you,” she said, sending a kind thought Kate’s way.

“You look cheery as a summer’s day.”

“That’s hardly fitting for February,” she said.

“I’ve had enough of grays. A red dress on a pretty girl is just the thing.” Her feet missed a step, but if he noticed, he was polite enough not to mention it. “Tell me about living in Haybourne.”

She licked her dry lips and started hesitantly. “There isn’t much to tell. I live in the same house I was born in. I work at the same shop I’ve worked at since I was sixteen.”

“What do you do there?” he asked.

“Everything. Restock the shelves, help customers, do the accounts.”

“You’ve a head for numbers then,” he said.

“I suppose I do,” she said.

“I’ll have to be careful then.”

“Why?”

He pulled her a fraction of an inch closer. “I lose my head around smart girls.”

“Flight Lieutenant Bolton—”

“Please call me Paul if you’re going to scold me.” His smile warmed his eyes in a way she hadn’t seen when he was around his fellow airmen, as though dancing was somehow thawing a frozen core.

“I was going to tell you that teasing a girl isn’t very nice,” she said.

He smiled. “It isn’t teasing if it’s true.”

“You’re a terrible flirt,” she said.

“I’m not terrible, surely.”

“Terrible,” she said firmly, while struggling to keep a grin from bursting out over her features.

“Then I won’t flirt with you, Miss Keene. Not if you don’t want me to.”

She chewed on her lower lip, hardly trusting herself enough not to blurt out how very much she wanted him to continue flirting with her. It was far and away the most thrilling thing that had happened to her in ages.

“What would you do if you weren’t working in a shop in Haybourne?” he asked, the conversation veering back to respectable small talk.

She sighed. The little spark of something between them that had flared bright for a moment seemed to have died out.

“Haybourne is my life.”

“Doesn’t every girl in every small village have secret dreams of leaving?” he asked.

She looked up sharply. “You can tease me all you like, but there’s no need to be cruel. I’m not a silly girl.”

“No. I expect you’re far too practical to have silly dreams.” She started to pull back, but he dipped his head a little to draw his lips closer to her ear. “I promise I’m not teasing. I’ve never wanted to know the answer to a question more seriously in my life.”

The softness of his words, achingly intimate over the music and the stomping sound of the dancers’ feet, wrapped around her even as she pressed her lips tight to keep back the urge to answer. She was acutely aware of the heat of their hands clasped together. Of the faint growth of dark whiskers coming in on his chin. Of the sensation that swooped through her stomach when he spun her, almost as though she were falling.

And then the music stopped and the shuffle on the dance floor became less ordered. Couples broke apart and streamed around them as the musicians flipped pages on their crooked stands.