by Liz Fielding
On her first foray into a ‘destination’ wedding, on the island of St Lucia, she’d shed the neck-to-toe cover-up in favour of black shorts, tank top and a pair of strappy purple sandals.
The misery of sunburn, and ploughing through soft sand in open-toes, had taught her a sharp, painful lesson and she hadn’t made the same mistake again. Instead, she’d invested in a hot weather uniform consisting of a black long-sleeved linen shirt and a short skirt pulled together with a purple leather belt. Despite the heat, she’d stuck with black tights, which she’d also learned from experience, protected her legs from the nasty biting, stinging things that seemed to thrive in hot climates. As did her boots.
She took a folder from her briefcase that contained the overall plan for the wedding as envisaged by her predecessor, the latest guest list Marji had emailed to her—she’d need to check it against the rooms allocated by David—and her own lists of everything that needed to be double and triple-checked on site.
Marji had also sent her the latest edition of Celebrity with Crystal’s sweetheart face and baby-blue eyes smiling out of the cover. The first of half a dozen issues that would be dedicated to the wedding.
She glanced in the direction of Gideon’s tree house. It wasn’t the requested newspaper—far from it—but it did contain a dozen pages of the bride on her hen party weekend at a luxury spa. Impossibly glamorous girls poolside in barely-there swimsuits, partying till all hours in gowns cut to reveal more than they concealed would do a lot more to take his mind off his back than the latest FTSE index.
It was just the thing for a man suffering from stress overload.
Then she felt guilty for mocking him. Okay, so he’d taken shameless advantage of her, but it had to be miserable having your back seize up when you were on holiday in a place that had been designed to wipe out all traces of the twenty-first century. No television or radio to distract you. No way to phone home.
If he was as incapable of moving as he said he was. He looked fit enough—more than fit. Not bulky gym muscle, but the lean, sinewy lifestyle fitness of a walker, a climber even.
That first sight of him had practically taken her breath away.
Not just his buff body and powerful legs, but the thick dark hair and sexy stubble. Eyes from which lines fanned out in a way that suggested he spent a lot of time in the sun.
Eyes that unnerved her. Seemed to rob her of self-will. She’d been on the point of leaving him more than once and yet she’d stayed.
She dismissed the thought. It had been a long trip and she never had been able to sleep on a plane. She was simply tired.
The only thing that bothered her about Gideon McGrath was that he was here. Immovably so, according to him, and she could see how impossible it would be for him to climb aboard the tiny four-seater plane that had brought her here.
But there had to be a way. If it had been a life-threatening illness, a broken leg, they would have to get him out somehow.
She’d ask David about that.
The entire complex would very shortly be full to bursting with the wedding party, photographers, hairdressers and make-up artists for the feature on the build-up to the wedding, the setting, and no one was immune from an accident, falling ill.
She needed to know what the emergency arrangements were.
Meanwhile, whatever he came up with, they were going to need Gideon McGrath’s goodwill and co-operation and she regretted dropping yesterday’s newspaper in the rubbish bag before she’d left the flight from London. Getting him out of Tal and Crystal’s bridal suite was her number one priority and, for that, she needed to keep him sweet. Even if it did mean hand-feeding him from her lunch tray.
She put on her sunglasses and, shouldering her bag, she headed back across the bridge. Trying very hard not to think about slipping morsels of tempting food into his mouth. Giving him a massage. Helping him into the plunge pool.
She jangled the bell to warn him of her arrival, then stepped up onto his deck.
He hadn’t moved, but was lying back, eyes closed and, not eager to disturb him, she tiptoed across to the table.
‘Admit it, Josie, you just can’t keep away,’ he said as she put the magazine down.
She jumped, her heart jolting against her breast as if she’d been caught doing something wrong and that made her mad.
‘I’m on an errand of mercy,’ she said, then jumped again when he opened his eyes. He did a good job of hiding his reaction to her changed appearance. Was doubtless a good poker player.
But, for a woman who knew what to look for, the mental flinch that was usually accompanied by a short scatological four-letter word was unmistakable.
He had enough control to keep that to himself, too—which was impressive; there was simply a pause so brief as to be almost unnoticeable unless you were waiting for it, before he said, ‘So? Have you changed your mind about the massage?’
And it was her turn to catch her breath, catch the word that very nearly slipped loose. Was it that obvious what she’d been thinking? Had he been able to read her mind as easily as she’d read his?
It wasn’t such a stretch, she realised.
He must know how important it was to her that he move and she let it out again, very slowly.
‘Sorry. It was your mental well-being I was concerned about. I didn’t have a newspaper,’ she said, ‘but I did have this in my bag.’
He took one glance at the magazine she was offering him and then looked up at her. ‘You’ve got to be kidding?’
‘It’s the latest issue.’ She angled it so that he could see Crystal on the cover. ‘At least you won’t mistake me for the bride again.’
‘I always did think you were an unlikely candidate,’ he admitted, taking it from her and glancing at the photograph of the bikini-clad Crystal. ‘She is exactly what I expected, whereas you are…’
He paused, whether out of concern for her feelings or because he was lost for words she didn’t know. Unlikely on both counts, she’d have thought.
‘Whereas I am what?’ she enquired.
‘I’m not sure,’ he replied. ‘Give me time and I’ll work it out.’
‘There’s no rush,’ she said, taking a step back. ‘You’ve got until ten o’clock tomorrow morning. And in the meantime you can get to know Crystal.’
‘Why would I want to do that?’
She shrugged. ‘You tell me. You’re the one who wants to share her room.’
Deciding that now might be a good moment to depart, she took another step back.
‘Wait!’
And, even after all these years, her survival instinct was so deeply ingrained to respond instantly to an order and she stopped and turned without thinking.
‘Josie?’
It had taken no more than a heartbeat for her to realise what she’d done, spin on her heel and walk away.
‘I’m busy,’ she said and kept going.
‘I know, but I was hoping, since you’re so concerned about my mental welfare, that you might fetch a notebook and pen from my laptop bag?’
Gideon had framed it as a question, not an order and she put out her hand to grasp the handrail as the black thoughts swirling in her brain began to subside and she realised that his ‘wait!’ had been an urgent appeal rather than the leap-to-it order barked at someone who had no choice but obey.
She took a moment while her heart rate slowed to catch her breath, gather herself, before turning slowly to face him.
‘Do correct me if I’m mistaken,’ she said, ‘but I’d have said they were on the doctor’s forbidden list.’
‘At the top,’ he admitted, the slight frown at her strange reaction softening into a rerun of that car-crash smile.
‘Well, there you are. I’ve done more than enough damage for one day—’
‘No. It’s important. I’ve had a couple of ideas and if I don’t make some notes while they’re fresh in my mind, I’m just going to lie here and…well…stress. You wouldn’t want that on your conscience, would y
ou?’
‘You are a shameless piece of work, Gideon McGrath,’ she told him, the irresistible smile doing nothing good for her pulse rate.
‘In my place, you’d do the same.’
Undoubtedly.
And, since they both knew that right now her prime motivation was keeping him stress-free, he had her. Again.
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior, but at first glance his room appeared to be identical to her own. It certainly wasn’t any larger or fancier, so presumably Serafina had chosen it as the bridal suite purely because of its isolation at the furthest point from the main building.
Tomorrow it would be decked with flowers. There would be fresh fruit, champagne, everything laid on for the stars of the show.
For the moment, however, it was bare of anything that would give a clue to the character of its occupant. There was nothing lying on the bedside table. No book. No photograph. Nothing to offer any clues as to who he was. What he was. He’d said travel was his business, but that could mean anything. He could work for one of the travel companies, checking out hotels. A travel writer, even.
No laptop bag, either.
‘I can’t see it,’ she called.
‘Try the wardrobe.’
She opened a door. A well-worn carry-on leather grip was his only luggage and, apart from a cream linen suit, his clothes were the comfortable basics of a man who had his life pared to the bone and travelled light.
His laptop bag was on a high shelf—put there out of reach of temptation by his doctor?
‘Got it!’
She took it down, unzipped the side pocket, but there were no files, no loose paperwork. Obviously it wasn’t just his wardrobe that was pared to the bone. The man didn’t believe in clutter. Not that she’d been planning to snoop, but a letterhead would have given her a clue about what he did.
‘Forget the notebook, just bring the bag,’ he called impatiently.
All he carried was a small plain black notebook held together by an elastic band, an array of pens and the same state-of-the-art iPhone that she used and a small but seriously expensive digital camera.
She extracted the notebook, selected a pen, then zipped the bag shut and lifted it back into place.
‘I thought I asked you to bring the bag,’ he said when she handed them to him.
‘You did, but I thought I’d give you an incentive to get back on your feet.’
His eyes narrowed and he took them on a slow, thoughtful tour of her body. It was as if he were going through an empty house switching on the lights. Thighs, abdomen, breasts leaping to life as his eyes lighted on each in turn. Lingered.
Switching on the heating.
Then he met her eyes head-on with a gaze that was direct, unambiguous and said, ‘If you’re in the incentive business, Josie, you could do a lot better than that.’
She’d had her share of utterly outrageous propositions from men since she’d been in the events business, most of which had, admittedly, been fuelled by alcohol and, as such, not to be taken seriously, even if the men involved had been capable of carrying them through.
They were all part of the job and she’d never had any problem dealing with them so the heat searing her cheeks now had to be caused by the sun. It was rising by the minute and the temperature was going up with it.
‘Lunch?’ he prompted.
‘What?’
‘As an incentive?’
Another wave of heat swept over her cheeks as he laughed at her confusion. Furious with herself—she did not blush—she replaced her dark glasses and managed a brisk, ‘Enjoy the magazine, Mr McGrath.’
‘I don’t think so,’ he said, holding it out to her. ‘Give it to Alesia.’
‘Alesia?’
‘The receptionist. The girls on the staff will get a lot more enjoyment than I will, catching up with the inside gossip on the wedding.’
‘Are you quite sure?’ Something about him just brought out the worst in her. The reckless… ‘You have no idea what you’re missing.’
‘You can tell me all about it over lunch.’
The man was incorrigible, a shocking tease, but undoubtedly right. And thoughtful, too. Who would have imagined it?
Taking the magazine from him, she said, ‘So, what would you like?’ His slate-grey eyes flickered dangerously, but she didn’t fall for it again.
‘For lunch? Why don’t you surprise me?’ he said after the briefest hesitation.
‘I thought I already had,’ she replied, mentally chalking one up to herself. ‘Don’t overdo it with that heavy pen,’ she warned. ‘I need you fit and on your feet, ready to fly out of here tomorrow.’
‘Don’t hold your breath,’ he advised.
‘So that would be a light chicken soup for lunch…’ she murmured as she walked away. ‘Or a little lightly poached white fish.’
‘Chilli.’
Nothing wrong with his hearing, then.
‘Or a very rare steak.’
‘Maybe just a nourishing posset…’
A posset? Gideon frowned. What the heck was a posset? It sounded like something you’d give a sick kid…
Oh, right.
Very funny.
And she’d also managed to get in the last word again, he realised as the sound of her humming a familiar tune faded into the distance.
Never smile at a crocodile…
He grinned. Any crocodile who came face to face with her would turn tail and run, but plain Josie Fowler didn’t frighten him. She could strut all she wanted in those boots but she’d made the fatal error of letting him see beneath the mask.
He knew that without wax her spiky purple-tipped hair curled softly against her neck, her cheeks. That her eyes needed no enhancement and, beneath the unnatural pallor of her makeup, her complexion had a translucent glow.
But, more important than the surface image, he’d recognised an odd defensiveness, a vulnerability that no one who saw her now, head high, ready with a snappy retort, would begin to suspect.
She’d had the last word, but he had the advantage.
Josie hummed the silly song as she walked along the bridge to the central building, well pleased to have got in the last word. It would serve Gideon McGrath right if she delivered up some bland invalid dish.
Probably not a posset, though.
She didn’t want to risk the cream and eggs giving him a heart attack, although actually, come to think of it…
‘Behave yourself, Josie,’ she muttered as she stepped out of the sun and into the cool reception area and got an odd look from a sensibly dressed middle-aged woman who was wearing a wide-brimmed hat and carrying binoculars.
Although, on consideration, that probably had less to do with the fact that she was talking to herself than the way she looked.
In London she didn’t seem that out of place. Here…
‘Hello, Miss Fowler.’ The receptionist greeted her with a wide smile. ‘Have you settled in?’
‘Yes, thanks. You’re Alesia?’
‘Yes?’
‘Then this is for you,’ she said, handing over the magazine.
The woman’s eyes lit up as she saw the cover. ‘It’s Crystal Blaize,’ she breathed. ‘She is so beautiful. Thank you so much.’
‘Don’t thank me, thank Mr McGrath. He said you would like it.’ ‘Gideon? He thought of me, even when he is in so much pain? He is always so kind.’
Gideon? If she was on first name terms with him, he must be a regular visitor, which went some way towards explaining his almost proprietorial attitude to the place. The fact that he seemed almost… well… at home here, despite the lack of any personal touches in his room.
‘Have you met her?’ Alesia asked.
‘Who? Oh, Crystal. Yes.’ Briefly. She’d insisted on a meeting before she’d left, wanting to be sure that Crystal was happy with the arrangements. Happy with her. ‘She’s very sweet.’
And so desperately grateful to have someone who didn’t terrify the wit
s out of her to hold her hand on her big day that Josie had dismissed the gossips’ version of Serafina’s departure as utter nonsense.
Apparently Marji, with more of a heart than she’d given her credit for, had taken pity on her.
Or maybe she just wanted to be sure that the bride didn’t turn tail and run.
‘Is Mr Kebalakile in his office?’ she asked.
‘Yes, Miss Fowler. He said to go straight through.’
‘Come in, come in, Miss Fowler,’ David said, rising to his feet as she tapped on the open door. ‘Are you settled in? You’ve had breakfast?’
‘It’s Josie,’ she said. ‘And yes, thank you. It was perfect.’ What she’d had of it. But it had gone down well with the monkey. ‘I do, however, have a few problems with the accommodation. Only,’ she hastened to add when his face fell, ‘because I’m here on business rather than attempting to get away from it all.’
‘You mean the lack of communications?’
‘Since you bring it up, yes. How, for instance, am I expected to ring for service without a telephone?’
‘You don’t need a telephone, there’s a bell pull by the bed.’ He mimed the tugging action. ‘It’s all explained in the information folder left in the room.’
That would be the one she hadn’t got around to reading.
‘It’s low-tech, but it’s low maintenance too. It’s just a question of renewing the cords when some creature decides to chew through them. And it works even when it rains.’
‘It doesn’t reach to the Celebrity offices, though.’
He grinned, presumably thinking she was joking.
‘David, I’m serious. I understand you have a satellite link for the telephone and Internet?’
‘Sorry. I was just imagining how much cord…’ He shook his head. ‘You’re quite right. We have excellent communication links which are reliable for almost one hundred per cent of the time.’
Almost? She didn’t ask. She had enough to worry about without going to meet trouble halfway.
‘They are, of course, yours to command.’
Of course they were. She wasn’t a guest. She was a collaborator on a wedding that was going to make this the most talked about place in the world by next week. Gideon must have realised that, even if she was too slow-witted to work it out for herself. She’d have to take it slowly today so that her brain could keep up, or she was going to do something really stupid.