by Liz Fielding
What mattered was that she had access to coffee, the little pleasures that made the wheels of life turn without squeaking, and she would have that vital contact with the outside world.
The fact that she was capable of stringing an intelligent sentence together and making him laugh—well, smile, anyway; laughing, as he’d discovered, was a very bad idea—was pure bonus.
‘My father was into amateur dramatics,’ he told her. ‘He put on a show for the local kids every Christmas.’
‘Oh, right.’ For just a moment she seemed to freeze, then she pasted on a smile that even on so short an acquaintance he knew wasn’t the real thing. ‘Well, that must have been fun. Were you Peter?’ She paused. ‘Or were you Captain Hook?’
Something about the way she said that suggested she thought Hook was more his thing.
‘My father played Hook. I didn’t get involved.’ One fantasist in the family was more than enough.
She lifted her eyebrows a fraction, but kept whatever she was thinking to herself and said, ‘So? Despite the paternal advice, did you smile at one?’
‘Nothing that exciting. Damn thing just seized up on me. I was planning to leave yesterday, but apparently I’m stuck here until it unseizes itself,’ he said, firing a shot across her assumption that he would be leaving any time soon.
‘That must hurt,’ she said, her forehead puckering in a little frown. ‘Have you seen a doctor?’
Good question.
She was going to be responsible for the health and safety of a hundred plus people. If anyone hurt themselves—and weddings were notoriously rowdy affairs—she needed to know there was help at hand.
Or maybe she was finally getting it. What his immovability meant in terms of her ‘block booking’.
‘There’s a doctor in Maun. He flew up yesterday, spoke to my doctor in London and then ordered complete rest. According to him, this little episode is my body telling me to be still.’ He made little quote marks with his fingers around the ‘be still’. He wouldn’t want her, or anyone else, thinking he said things like that.
‘It’s psychological?’
Something about the way she said that, no particular shock or surprise, suggested that it wasn’t the first time she’d encountered the condition.
‘That’s what they’re implying.’
‘My stepfather suffered from the same thing,’ she said. ‘His back seized up every time someone suggested he get a job.’
She said it with a brisk, throwaway carelessness that declared to the world that having a layabout for a stepfather mattered not one jot. But her words betrayed a world of hurt. And went a long way to explaining that very firm assertion—strange for a woman whose life revolved around it—that marriage wasn’t for her.
‘I didn’t mean to imply that that’s your problem,’ she added with a sudden rush that—however unlikely that seemed—might have been embarrassment.
‘I promise you that it’s not,’ he assured her. ‘On the contrary. It’s made worse by the fact that I’m out of touch with my office. That I’m stuck here when I should be several thousand miles away negotiating a vital contract.’
Discovering that the marketing team he’d entrusted with selling his hard won dream appeared to have lost the plot and being unable to do a damn thing about it.
‘I’m beginning to understand how that feels.’ She was still leaning forward, an elbow on her knee, chin propped on her hand, regarding him with that steady violet gaze. ‘The being out of touch thing. I usually spend the twenty-four hours before a big event with my phone glued to my ear, although who I’d call if I had a last minute emergency here heaven alone knows.’
‘Necessity does tend to be the mother of invention when you’re this far from civilisation,’ he agreed.
‘Even in the middle of civilisation when you’re in the events business. Clearly, this is going to be an interesting few days.’ Then, looking at him as if he was number one on her list of problems, ‘Would a massage help?’
‘Are you offering?’ he asked.
Josie had thought it was quiet here, but she was wrong.
There was no traffic, no shouting or sirens—the constant background to daily life in London—but it wasn’t silent. The air was positively vibrating with energy; the high-pitched hum of insects, bird calls, odd sounds she couldn’t identify, and she was suddenly overwhelmed with a longing to lie back, soak it all up, let the sun heat her to the bone.
The shriek of a bird, or maybe a monkey, snapped her out of her reverie and she realised, somewhat belatedly, that Gideon McGrath’s dark eyes were focused not on her face, but lower down.
Typical man…
‘All I’m offering is coffee,’ she said crisply, rising to her feet, tightening her belt.
‘Pity,’ he replied with a slow, mesmerising smile. It was like watching a car roll towards you in slow motion; one minute you were safe, the next…
‘Shall I leave the pot?’ she asked.
‘Better take it with you, or the room service staff will get their knickers in a twist hunting for it.’
‘It’s not a problem,’ she said abruptly. Calling herself all kinds of a fool for allowing herself to be drawn in by a smile, a pair of dark eyes. He might be confined to a deck lounger, but he was still capable of inflicting terminal damage and she wished she’d stuck with her initial response which had been to ignore him. ‘I’ll let them know where it is.’
‘Don’t bother about it. Really. You’ve got more than enough on your plate.’
‘It’s no trouble,’ she assured him, backing towards the exit. ‘I’ll be visiting the kitchen anyway.’ She had to talk through the catering arrangements for the pre-wedding dinner with the chef. ‘I can mention the mistake with the herbal tea while I’m there if you like.’
‘No. Don’t do that, Josie.’
Something about his persistence warned her that she was missing something and she stopped.
‘It wasn’t a mistake,’ he said. ‘The tea.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand…’ Then, quite suddenly, she did. ‘Oh, right. I get it.’ She stepped forward and snatched up the coffee pot, brandishing it at him accusingly. ‘This is a banned substance, isn’t it?’
‘You’ve got me,’ he admitted, his smile turning to a wince as he shrugged without thinking and she had to fight the urge to go to him yet again, do something to ease the pain.
‘I believe I’m the one who’s been had.’ And, before he could deny it, she said, ‘You’ve made me an accessory to caffeine abuse in direct contravention of doctor’s orders and—’ as he opened his mouth to protest ‘—don’t even think about apologising. I can tell that you’re not in the least bit sorry.’
‘Actually, I wasn’t going to apologise. I was going to thank you. Everyone keeps telling me that I should listen to my body. Its demands for caffeine were getting so loud that I’m surprised the entire camp couldn’t hear it.’
‘Not the entire camp,’ she replied. ‘Just me.’
‘You were very kind and I took shameless advantage of you,’ he said with every appearance of sincerity. She wasn’t taken in.
‘I was an idiot,’ she said, holding up her hand, palm towards him as if holding him off, despite the fact that moving was clearly the last thing on his mind.
‘Not an idiot.’
‘No? So tell me about the sugar?’
‘You didn’t give me sugar,’ he pointed out.
‘I would have done if you’d…’ She stopped, furious with herself.
‘The honey was inspired,’ he assured her. ‘Tell your partner that I’m converted.’
‘So what else is banned?’ she demanded, refusing to be placated.
‘White bread, red meat, salt, animal fats.’
Gideon knew the list by heart. His doctor had been trotting it out for years at the annual check-ups provided for all staff. Annual check-ups which the firm’s insurance company insisted should include him, despite his protestations that it was totall
y unnecessary. Now she’d got him captive, she was taking full advantage of the situation.
‘All the usual suspects, in other words.’
‘Along with the advice to walk to work…’ as if he had time ‘…and take regular holidays.’
He spent half his life at holiday resorts, for heaven’s sake; why would he want to go to one for fun?
And of course there was the big one. Get married.
According to actuarial statistics, married men lived longer. But then that doctor was a woman, so she would say that. He wasn’t going to.
‘The holiday part doesn’t appear to be working,’ Josie pointed out.
‘Nor does the diet. My life has been reduced to steamed fish, nut cutlets and oatmeal,’ he complained. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. Unless, of course, he could convince Josie to take pity on him.
She’d been quick with a tender hand and he was sure that if he’d asked she’d have gone and fetched sugar for him from her own tray. If he’d done that she’d be really mad at him.
She might even have indulged his massage fantasy if she hadn’t caught him with his eyes rather lower than they should have been.
‘I take it that I can cross ants off the list of things I have to worry about,’ she said without the least sign of sympathy.
Okay, so she was too mad to indulge him now, but it wouldn’t last. She laughed too easily to hold a grudge.
‘If I say yes, will you have lunch with me?’ he asked.
‘So that you can help yourself to forbidden treats from my tray?’
‘Me? I’m helpless. Of course, if you forced them on me there isn’t a thing I could do to stop you.’
‘You can relax,’ she replied, but her lusciously wide mouth tightened at the corners as she fought to stop it responding to his outrageous cheek with a grin. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’
‘I’d make it worth your while,’ he promised.
‘Give it up, Gideon. I can’t be bribed.’
Of course she could. Everyone could be bribed. You just had to find out what they wanted most in the world. Preferably before they knew they wanted it.
‘You’re going to need a friendly ear in which to pour your frustrations before this wedding is over.’ That he would be the major cause of those frustrations didn’t preclude him from offering comfort. ‘A shoulder to cry on when everything falls apart.’
‘All I need from you is your room,’ she replied. ‘Besides, you’re supposed to be on a low stress regime.’
‘It would be your stress, not mine,’ he pointed out.
‘Yes, well, thanks for the offer,’ she said, losing the battle with the smile and trying very hard not to laugh. ‘I appreciate your concern, but SDS Events do not plan weddings that fall apart—’
‘You didn’t plan this one.’
‘—and you won’t be here long enough to provide the necessary shoulder for tears or any other purpose.’
‘I’ll be here until my back says otherwise.’ And, quite unexpectedly, he didn’t find that nearly as infuriating as he had just half an hour earlier.
‘Your back doesn’t have a say in the matter. I hate to add to your stress, but unless you intend playing gooseberry to the bride and groom you would be well advised to make other arrangements.’
‘Are you telling me that this is going to be the bridal suite?’
‘Twenty-four hours from now, you won’t be able to move in here for flowers,’ she assured him, so seriously that he laughed.
It hurt like hell but he didn’t care. He was throwing a spanner in the wedding works and he didn’t have to lift a finger—let alone a telephone—to do it.
‘I’m glad that amuses you, Mr McGrath. They do say that laughter is very healing, which, since you have to be out of here by first thing tomorrow, is just as well. Maybe you should try the plunge pool,’ she suggested. ‘It will take the weight off your muscles. Ease the pain.’
‘I’m willing to give it go,’ he assured her. ‘But I’ll need a hand.’
‘No problem. I’d be happy to give you a push.’
‘But will you stick around to help me out?’
‘Sorry, I have a full day ahead of me. Enjoy the herbal tea and nut cutlets.’
‘You’re full of excellent ideas, Josie. You just don’t follow through.’
‘Don’t test me,’ she warned.
She turned with a splendid swish of her robe, giving him an unintentional glimpse of thigh.
‘I’ll give you one thing,’ he called after her.
‘Your bed?’
‘Communication.’
She stopped and, when she turned back to face him, he said, ‘If you’ll make a call for me.’
‘You want me to call your wife and tell her you’re catching the next plane home?’
‘There’s no one waiting for that call, Josie.’ No one to rush back to. ‘I want you to ring my office. Give me your notebook and I’ll write down the number.’
She came closer, drawn by the temptation, took the notebook from her pocket and handed it to him with her pen. It was the kind of notebook he favoured himself, with a pocket at the back for receipts and an elastic band to hold it together. He slipped the band and it fell open at the bookmarked page where she’d started writing a list.
Hairdryers?
Ring???
Phone?
Florist
Caterer
Confectioner
He smiled and beside ‘Ring’ he jotted down a number.
‘Call Cara,’ he said, handing it back to her. ‘She’s my PA.’
‘And say what?’
‘Just ask her what the hell is going on in Marketing.’
‘What the hell is going on in Marketing,’ she repeated, then shook her head. ‘I can see why you’re stressed. You’re on holiday. Let it go, Gideon.’
‘Holidays are my work, which is why I know that David has a satellite telephone and Internet access. He keeps it a dark secret from the guests, but I’m sure he’ll make an exception in your case.’
‘You—’ She let slip a word that was surely banned from the wedding planners’ handbook. ‘Had again.’
‘You’re going to need me on your side, Josie.’
‘I need you gone!’
He left her with the last word and his reward was a view of an unexpectedly sexy rear as she walked away. A pair of slender ankles. He was already looking forward to making his acquaintance with the legs that connected them.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a London newspaper to spare for a man dying of boredom?’ he called after her.
‘Never touch them,’ her disembodied voice replied from the bridge. ‘Far too stressful.’
‘Liar,’ he called back as he tugged on the bell pull that Francis had extended from its place by the bed so that it was within reach of the lounger.
He really should have explained what David had meant when he’d told her to ‘ring’. Actually, David should have told her himself, but maybe he’d been distracted.
She was a seriously distracting woman.
‘Don’t forget lunch.’
CHAPTER FOUR
A stylish wedding often owes more to natural elements than the designer’s art…
—The Perfect Wedding by Serafina March
JOSIE was trying very hard not to grin as she walked back through the trees to her own deck and, once safely out of reach of those dangerous eyes, a mouth that teased without conscience, she swiftly recovered her senses.
Gideon McGrath might be in pain but it hadn’t stopped him flirting outrageously with her. Not that she was fooled into thinking it was personal, despite the way he’d peered down her robe until she’d realised what he was doing and moved.
All he was interested in was her coffee. In having her run his errands.
‘One o’clock…’ His voice reached her through the branches.
And her lunch, damn it!
She was sorely tempted to stand by the rail and eat that
luscious blueberry muffin, very slowly, just to torment him.
Perhaps it was just as well that the monkeys had taken advantage of her absence to clear her tray. Upsetting the milk, scattering the little packets of sugar, leaving nothing but crumbs that were being cleaned up by a bird with dark, glossy green plumage who gave her a look with its beady eyes as if daring her to do anything about it.
She wouldn’t want the man to get the impression that she gave that much of a damn and, quite deliberately turning her back towards him, she looked up at a monkey chittering at her from a nearby branch. He turned on the charm with a smile, an outstretched hand, the moment he’d snagged her attention, hoping for more little treats.
It had to be a male.
‘You’ve cleaned me out,’ she said. ‘Try next door.’
She was treated to a bare-toothed grin before the little monkey swung effortlessly away into the trees, putting on a dazzling acrobatic show just for her.
‘Show off,’ she called after him. But the fact that she was smiling served as a reminder, should she need it, of just how dangerous that kind of self-serving charm could be. How easy it was to be fooled, sucked in.
She took a slow breath, then turned her face up to the sun, absorbing for a moment the heat, the scent of warm earth, the exotic high-pitched hum of the cicadas.
Five years ago she had been peeling vegetables and washing up in a hotel kitchen; the only job she could get.
Today, Celebrity magazine was paying for her to stay in one of the most exclusive safari lodges in Africa. Paying her to ensure that the year’s most expensive wedding went without a hitch. And, with her name attached to this event, she would be one of the ‘chosen’, accepted in her own right; finally able to justify Sylvie’s faith in her.
Gideon McGrath could flirt all he wanted. It would take more than his devastating smile to distract her from her purpose.
She swiftly unpacked, hung up her clothes, then waxed up her hair before dressing for work. At home she would have worn layers of black net, Lycra and jersey; the black tights, T-shirt, a sleeveless belted slipover that came to her thighs, the purple DMs that had become her trademark uniform.