Free Old Lovers Don't Die by Paul G Anderson Page A

her, wondering whether he was doing something incorrectly with the overhead locker; she just smiled at him when he caught her eye. It was a more knowing smile than the welcome aboard type. Perhaps she could sense that he was not a normal business class traveller but a young male upgraded by an attractive woman with all the implications that possibly had for the mile high club.
    “Making new friends already?”
    Petrea gave him a wink as she put her hands on his waist and slid past him to the inside seat.
    Christian laughed and, for the first time despite their age difference, felt a little more at ease with Petrea. He realised he enjoyed the way that she had put her hands on his waist as she brushed past him. The momentary touch felt like an approval of sorts. Given his penchant for over-interpreting, he looked at Petrea again as she sat down.
    That small fraction of doubt which had hovered, was removed by the look that she gave him; holding his gaze for a few seconds, it was an approving look. He relaxed a little. His normal confused state when it came to understanding women was not interfering for once, although Petrea’s look was difficult to misinterpret. The only thing that puzzled him slightly from the little that he had already learnt about Petrea was that an approving glance was not what she would utilise. He imagined that someone with Petrea’s experience and worldliness would tell you they liked you, removing any doubt from looks and glances. But then again, she had been talking about signs and how men should interpret them. Perhaps that was his first test and he had passed.
    “So are you wondering about me or the Hostess? Remember I made friends with you first.”
    Christian laughed again.
    “Yes, I do remember that you made friends with me first. That was fully fifteen minutes ago. And yes, I was thinking about you and the nice feeling that being with you engenders.”
    “So now I’m surprised. It looks like I have someone who is going to be seated next to me who is not afraid to talk about their feelings and emotions. That should make for an even more interesting trip to London.”
    Christian closed the overhead compartment, thinking about Petrea’s comment while adjusting his laptop to sit neatly on top of hers, wondering whether that was a metaphor of any kind.
    “A glass of French champagne for you both?” asked the hostess.
    “Yes,” said Petrea, looking at Christian who nodded his agreement. As the glasses were put on the tray between them, Petrea took her glass and touched Christian’s.
    “Here’s to our friendship.”
    “To our friendship,” Christian replied.
    “So do you want to tell me a little bit more about why you’re going to Rwanda and what motivated you, or do you want to tell me about your last girlfriend and why she isn’t here with you?”
    “Are you always that direct?”
    “Part of being a prosecutor, I’m sorry. Does it make you feel uncomfortable?”
    “No, not uncomfortable. It just takes a little bit of adjusting to. My background is white South African mixed in with lots of Aussie; both are quite direct cultures, but I don’t think I managed to receive that ‘out there’ gene which seems to be so typically Australian.”
    As he finished talking, he briefly thought about which option he would be most comfortable talking to Petrea. To tell her about his father would take him at least half an hour, even for the abridged version. His father, the liver transplant surgeon in apartheid South Africa, who was brutally murdered. He sensed that with her background in the ICC, she would be interested in the corruption and intrigue, in which his father had been involved. However, part of him also sensed that Petrea had a worldly experience and to have her input into his love life, or lack of, would be a potentially valuable discussion. He looked up from his champagne; Petrea was studying him.
    “There looks to be more in there than I suspected,” she said, eyes smiling.