The Marriage Merger

by Liz Fielding

  ‘Oh, right. Cancel the eagerness. In my experience sand and food aren’t a great combination.’

  ‘All right, forget the beach. We’ll lunch al fresco amongst the wild orchids at the botanical gardens,’ she suggested, ‘and consider its viability as a wedding venue.’ She leaned over and, careful not to touch him, turned the pages of the guidebook until she found it. ‘It says here that there are butterflies the size of teaplates—’

  ‘I’ll bet it doesn’t say anything about ants the size of rats. The kind that bite.’

  ‘You’ve got a real problem with insects, haven’t you, Bram?’ She turned to him, her forehead creased in a slightly puzzled expression that didn’t fool him for a minute. ‘Have you considered therapy?’

  The only problem he had was with a woman—and it wasn’t the kind that therapy could fix. ‘Thanks for your concern, but I’ll stick with the repellent.’ He wondered, briefly, if he used enough, whether it might repel her.

  ‘Lucky you. I’m allergic to it.’

  That would do it, too. Except that he’d made up his mind to stick close and make sure she didn’t get into trouble. Which was not only a nuisance, but was also something of a surprise. She didn’t look like a woman who went looking for trouble. Quite the reverse, in fact. She looked like a woman determined to avoid it at all costs. Or maybe she just avoided the kind that came packaged with testosterone.

  Remembering Jordan’s suggestion that he might ‘even the score’, he thought she was right to be cautious. The trick would be not to alert her…to make a friend of her first…

  He made a conscious effort to stop right there, before his mind started getting inventive.

  And yet, and yet… There was something hidden, undiscovered about this woman, and that was his brief. To find out what made Flora Claibourne tick. Discover any little weakness. Uncover secrets.

  He decided to start with the simple things. ‘Is there anything else I should know about you?’ he asked. ‘In the event of a medical emergency?’

  ‘Like what?’

  Like a pile of ruins falling on her. ‘I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking,’ he said, with a touch of exasperation. This woman could turn the simplest question into an interrogation. ‘Do you have a rare blood group? Are you allergic to penicillin? Nuts?’ Why was he even asking?

  ‘No. Just insect repellent. I use essential oils instead. Did you know that we have a qualified aromatherapist in the store now? She made up a special blend for me when I went to Africa last year.’

  ‘Does it work?’

  ‘I have no way of comparing results,’ she replied. ‘But it smells a lot nicer than the chemical stuff.’ She offered her wrist for his opinion.

  If any other woman had made that gesture he’d have known exactly what she wanted and he’d have cradled the wrist in his hand, lifted it closer, kissed the pale skin…after which just about anything would have been possible. Flora Claibourne was a complete mystery to him, however, and he did none of those things, but instead got to his feet.

  ‘Good grief,’ she said, ‘it’s supposed to repel insects, not men.’

  ‘Relax.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘If we’re going out this evening I’d better catch a couple of hours’ sleep if I don’t want to end up face-down in the soup. If I haven’t emerged by seven-thirty, will you give me a knock?’

  ‘Sleep?’

  She made irony into an art form, he thought. But compared with yesterday’s silence it was an advance. Of sorts.

  ‘Isn’t that a little feeble? I thought you were a man of iron, determined to keep local hours.’

  ‘In a hot climate, local hours usually involve a siesta. Especially when you’re on holiday.’

  She put her hand up to hold onto her wide-brimmed hat as she tipped her head back to look up at him. ‘But you’re not on holiday,’ she reminded him. ‘At least that’s what you keep telling me.’

  And he meant it. If he were on holiday he wouldn’t be with this tiresome female. Suddenly irritable, he said, ‘Your nose is going pink. I’d advise using zinc sunblock. Do you have some?’

  By way of reply, she opened her shoulder bag and took out a small pot of cream. She opened it and dipped her finger in before stroking a thick white band of it down the centre of her nose.

  ‘Happy?’ she asked.

  ‘Ecstatic,’ he replied.

  Flora’s eyes lingered on the long, powerful legs carrying Bram away towards the lobby of the resort complex. Purposeful, powerful and leading the gaze inevitably upward to a backside built to undermine the will of even the strongest-minded woman.

  It didn’t seem right that one man should have so much. Fortunately he didn’t have everything. Girls had no doubt been falling over themselves to make his day since he was old enough to notice them. It wasn’t reasonable to expect that he should also be gracious, warm-hearted and agreeable. Why would he be, when he didn’t have to bother? Human nature just wasn’t like that.

  Bram Gifford didn’t want to be with her because she didn’t live up to his elevated standards of superficial attractiveness. She’d read the file India had compiled on the man. He was a man of two halves. The daytime part was a successful, hardworking corporate lawyer. After dark he turned into a playboy with a penchant for lovely women. In the plural. He didn’t believe in long-term relationships.

  Her reason for not wanting to be with him was more complicated. He was, if anything, too close to her own particular fantasy package. If he’d been nice, she’d have had to work a lot harder to dislike him.

  As it was, she told herself, she should be grateful that it took so little effort.

  She sat for a while, taking her time about drinking her coffee, wanting to be sure that he wasn’t going to come back, watching the lonesome blonde. She was exactly the kind of woman Bram Gifford was usually seen with. A little older, perhaps, but he was on holiday. He could afford to let his standards slip a little and she’d make the perfect distraction.

  But he seemed oblivious to her charms, and Flora hated the little give-away lift to her spirits at the thought. Angry with herself for giving a damn, she reached into the depths of her shoulder bag and retrieved the other, more detailed map she’d bought and pushed carefully to the bottom of her bag.

  The one that hadn’t fallen out.

  The one which the assistant in the shop had so helpfully marked with the site of the tomb.

  And, while Bram Gifford took his belated siesta, she stayed by the pool and worked out exactly what she was going to do the next day. Once she’d lost her shadow.

  She should feel bad about deceiving him, she knew. But demonstrating the resourcefulness of the Claibourne women was all part of her brief.

  The sun was setting fast when she finally made a move to return to the cottage, take a shower and change for her dinner date with Bram.

  The lovely blonde still hadn’t moved and Flora felt a sudden qualm of unease, a feeling that she should speak to her, ask her if everything was all right. But as she made a move towards her the receptionist crossed the terrace with a message for the woman and Flora, after a moment’s hesitation, let it go.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  FLORA preferred to travel light, and she’d seen no reason to change the habit of a lifetime for her trip to Saraminda just because Bram Gifford was along for the trip.

  Back in London, where her head ruled, it had seemed a very good reason to stick to her routine.

  She had a black go-anywhere two-piece consisting of a long tunic top and a pair of loose trousers that covered most occasions. It could be packed without fuss, washed without requiring the services of an iron and, since it had never been at the cutting edge of fashion, it never dated.

  She shook it out, hung it over a door and regarded it with new eyes, wondering how he’d see it. Wondering if it was time to retire it, trade it in for something new. Wishing that she’d got something lively and exciting to wear for their evening in Minda. Something that would wipe that look off his face.

/>   The kind of wishing, in other words, that could only end in tears. Her tears. She’d done that, made a total fool of herself, and made that ‘never again’ promise to herself that all girls made in those circumstances. In her case she’d meant it, and stuck to it. It hadn’t been particularly difficult. Once you’d seen through the act, really seen through it for the selfish sham it was, it would be an act of wilful stupidity to be taken in again.

  She’d thought she was clever. No makeup. No sexy hairstyle or clothes. Definitely no glamorous earrings.

  Maybe the truth of the matter was that she just hadn’t had sufficient temptation.

  She twisted her hair a little tighter than usual, adding a few extra pins to make up for the missing comb. She wasn’t going to ask Bram Gifford if he’d seen it. He’d seen altogether too much when he’d relieved her of them.

  Why on earth had he gone to so much trouble when all he’d had to do was drop her on the bed and walk away? Okay, so taking off her shoes made good sense, but as for the rest—had he been kind or merely curious?

  As she pushed her feet into a pair of low-heeled sandals she noticed the blue polish on her toenails and got her answer. Curious. She wiggled her toes and grinned. He must have been disappointed after that promising start. What, she wondered, had he made of them when he removed her shoes?

  She’d bet he had an opinion.

  And she’d just bet it wasn’t complimentary, she thought, picking up her bag and the keys to the car and walking out onto the veranda to wait for her date. She hadn’t had to give Bram a wake-up call. The sound of his shower had been ample evidence that he was awake.

  He was already waiting for her, leaning against the low rail, staring out at the starlit ocean. He’d gone for casual, too. A coloured collarless shirt, open at the neck, the cuffs folded back to reveal strong wrists. Cream cotton trousers. Hair slithering attractively over his forehead. The difference was, he looked good enough to eat.

  He half turned, without straightening, and looked at her for a moment, his eyes expressionless. It was a look she was getting to know very well. It said, wow—all lower case. No capital letters or exclamation marks. And, What have I done to deserve an evening in the company of this woman? A groan, rather than exclamation of joy at his good fortune.

  Totally underwhelmed, in fact. Exactly the effect she’d aimed for. She should have been happier at hitting the mark so perfectly. She reached up to tuck in a comb that was already beginning to work its way free.

  ‘I haven’t kept you waiting?’ she asked. ‘You did say eight o’clock?’

  ‘I’m in no hurry,’ he said. That was probably the understatement of the year. He couldn’t have been in less of a hurry if he’d been asleep. But he straightened and held out his hand for the keys to the off-roader.

  She ignored it, stepped down onto the path and, despite the heat, headed briskly in the direction of the car park, leaving him to follow or not, as he wished. Okay, she’d dressed for underwhelming and she’d got the response she’d aimed for, but politeness cost nothing.

  Or had he already worked out that, playing by her rules, there was no way he could win? If he’d offered some formal, meaningless compliment, she would have been mentally berating him for insincerity right now.

  She found herself smiling a little. She’d never doubted that he was clever, but maybe she’d had a little trouble seeing past the playboy image. Bram caught up with her and put himself between her and the Jeep door.

  ‘I’ll drive, Flora,’ he said.

  Not that clever, then. He was just an average old-fashioned chauvinist male who couldn’t handle being driven by a woman. It was scarcely any wonder that he didn’t think her capable of sitting on the board of a multimillion-pound business.

  Okay, so she didn’t particularly want that honour, but it should be her choice, not his. Never had she felt more determined to assert her right to that choice. Or to the driver’s seat.

  ‘You want to drive, Bram, you hire your own transport,’ she said, her smile deepening.

  ‘I’ve been to the desk and cleared the insurance, if you’re concerned,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not in the slightest bit concerned, and when you’re on your own you can drive with my blessing,’ she said, and, keys in hand, waited for him to move aside. He didn’t.

  ‘No offence, Flora, but you can’t control your hair. I’m not prepared to find out the hard way if that applies to everything else in your life. When you’re on your own you can do what you like, but when I’m on board I’m driving.’

  Without breaking eye contact, he reached for her wrist, lifted her hand and helped himself to the keys. It was over before the urgent flash from her brain to tighten her grip reached her fingers.

  ‘Thank you.’ He opened the driver’s door, then, when she didn’t move, said, ‘I’d open the door for you, but you modern women are so touchy about things like that.’

  ‘You…’ She caught at her breath, stopping the angry words before they left her mouth. She doubted that he was deliberately going out of his way to make her angry. He really wasn’t that interested. Losing control would hurt no one but herself.

  ‘Yes?’ he prompted.

  ‘You may be right about my hair,’ she admitted, tucking a comb a little more firmly in place. ‘As for my driving—well, I have nothing to prove. But if being driven by a woman threatens your masculinity, then, please, be my guest.’

  She walked away, round the front of the vehicle, and climbed into the passenger seat. She didn’t need a man to help her into a vehicle of any kind. In fact she could handle anything that came her way without the assistance of a Y chromosome.

  And sometimes walking away was all it took to make you a winner.

  She glanced across at Bram. He was standing just where she’d left him, a puzzled frown creasing the space between his honey-coloured eyes, as if trying to work out how, by letting him get away with it, she’d effectively turned the tables on him.

  Which suggested that it had been deliberate after all—Bram Gifford had been going out of his way to make her lose her temper, her self-control.

  Well, tough. She didn’t do that. Not any more. Which didn’t mean she wouldn’t exact retribution. Tomorrow, she promised herself. You’ll pay for that tomorrow when you discover that you’ll be taking the sightseeing tour on your own.

  For now, though, she just smiled and said, ‘I don’t suppose you’ve found one of my combs anywhere? I seem to have lost one.’

  He tossed the keys up a few inches, snatched them from the air and then climbed aboard. ‘Maybe you should do yourself a favour and get a haircut,’ he said, as he fitted them into the ignition.

  ‘I nearly did that once.’ Personal remarks were off-limits in a business relationship, but she was happy to play along. There was nothing he could say on that subject that could hurt her. She had scar tissue inches thick.

  He started the engine and headed for the road. ‘What stopped you?’ he asked, looking both ways before pulling out in the traffic. Not at her. ‘Cutting your hair?’

  ‘Not a what. A who. His name was Sam. Or maybe it was Seb…’ She pretended to think about it, then shook her head. ‘Something beginning with S.’

  ‘A man?’

  Of course it was a man. A man who’d run his fingers through her hair, brushed it until it shone and told her that it was pure silk, that it was her most beautiful feature. That she should never have it cut.

  Of course she’d never let him see it tangled, or wet. Only sleek, glossy perfection.

  Every day, as she brushed it out, she remembered his words.

  Every day as she pinned it up she reminded herself never to believe such lies ever again.

  ‘Close your mouth, Bram. That much surprise isn’t polite.’

  Bram’s mouth hadn’t been open, but it might as well have been, and he knew he deserved the metaphorical slap. He was being unutterably boorish. ‘My surprise was a perfectly natural reaction to the suggestion that one of the Cl
aibourne women would ever consider doing something a man suggested,’ he said. He just couldn’t seem to stop himself.

  ‘My only defence is that I was very young at the time.’

  How young? Sixteen, seventeen? What had she looked like then? Innocent? Her dreams still intact? He pushed the thought away. ‘That would explain it,’ he said.

  It didn’t explain his behaviour, though, beyond the fact that he’d assumed she’d make an effort with her appearance since they were going out for dinner. Just as he’d been planning to make an effort to be nice—see if he could make her laugh sufficiently to relax a little and forget her damned hair for an hour. Maybe his motives weren’t entirely altruistic, but it didn’t matter a damn anyway. She wasn’t prepared to meet him halfway.

  She’d appeared wearing a dreary black two-piece and low-heeled sandals. She hadn’t even bothered with a touch of lipstick. How much trouble would that have been?

  Nowhere near as much trouble as painting her toenails blue.

  Who had merited that much effort? The boyfriend whose name she pretended not to remember?

  Why did he care?

  Maybe, he admitted as he drove in silence towards town, it was because he wasn’t used to coming in second. A very long way second.

  He’d assumed that all he’d have to do was smile and Miss Flora Claibourne would open up and tell him all her little secrets. Maybe he’d had it too easy for too long. He’d become complacent, needed a challenge to sharpen him up.

  He glanced across at her. She returned his look with a textbook smile. The kind an actress might practise in the mirror. He frowned as he gave his full attention to the road, avoiding milling pedestrians who seemed to have no traffic sense, tense and irritable.

  ‘Why don’t we park somewhere and join the crowds?’ Flora suggested when they’d reached the centre of Minda and been reduced to crawling along at snail’s pace by the crowds flocking through the streets in a holiday mood. ‘Could you squeeze into that space over there, do you think?’ Then, ‘It’s a bit tight. I’d never attempt it myself, of course, but men are so much better at parallel parking.’