The Marriage Merger

by Liz Fielding

  And Bram discovered that it was Flora who had made him laugh, not the other way around.

  ‘Did I say something funny?’ she asked.

  ‘You really must get a pair of false eyelashes to go with that delicate little flower act,’ he said, as he reversed neatly into the space she’d indicated. ‘Really long ones, that you can flutter.’ He switched off the engine and turned to her. ‘I’m sorry, okay? It’s not personal. It’s not even a “women drivers” thing. I hate being driven by anyone.’ He took the keys from the ignition. ‘I guess I need to be in control.’

  ‘You’re not a bit sorry, Bram. You’re just a dinosaur. You and your cousins are in a class all by yourselves. Farradaysaurus. So far behind the times that you’re practically extinct. You’re just refusing to lie down and die.’

  ‘Stubborn, too, you think?’ He turned to her with a smile. ‘It appears that I need help. Maybe you’d better—’

  ‘No.’ She held up a hand to stop him. ‘Let me guess. This is where you become an instantly reformed character and gracefully offer me the keys so that I can drive back to the hotel, right? And I’m supposed to be grateful for the opportunity to drink nothing but soda all night while you get mellow on the local booze?’

  It wasn’t what he’d had in mind, but he didn’t blame her for thinking it. And she deserved to think she’d won a round. ‘You’ve got me. Come on, let’s find somewhere to eat and you can list all my faults.’

  ‘It may take a while.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it. I’ll listen attentively if you’ll put me out of my misery and tell me why you’ve painted your toenails blue.’

  She glanced down at her toes and wiggled them. ‘Is it the painting or the colour that interests you?’

  ‘You decide.’ He caught her hand as they joined the mill of people, tightening his grip as she made an instinctive movement to pull away. ‘It would be easy to lose you in this crowd.’

  ‘There you go again, you see. I’m not a child, Bram. I’m twenty-six years old and a director of the finest department store in London. What I’m not is helpless.’

  ‘Indulge me,’ he said. ‘I’m a dinosaur, remember?’

  Flora distrusted him even more when he was being nice, when he was trying to make her laugh. But she shrugged and, leaving her hand clasped protectively in his, momentarily closed her eyes and reminded herself that she was in control here. Of herself. Of the situation. Nothing he could do or say would fool her for a minute.

  ‘Flora?’

  She opened her eyes to find that he was looking at her, a slight frown creasing the space between his eyes. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I was just trying to decide which kind.’ She smiled. ‘One of the big, slow ones, the kind with a very small brain a long way from anything important. Or one of those terrible flesh-tearing creatures—’

  ‘I get the picture, but do me a favour and keep the outcome of your deliberations to yourself. Whatever you decide it’s not going to be flattering, and I’d really rather not hear it.’

  ‘Oh, please!’ she said, dismissing this out of hand. ‘If my mother taught me anything it’s that there is nothing the male of the species enjoys more than hearing about himself.’

  ‘She would surely know. Go through that many husbands and you’re bound to pick up some useful information. Along with the seven-figure financial settlements.’

  ‘She doesn’t do that any more.’

  ‘No, of course not. This time she decided to vary the plot and marry for pure lust.’

  He’d checked up on her? Her background? Why was she surprised? She didn’t let the smile slip by so much as micron. ‘At least she knows what she wants. And gets it every time,’ she added, as if he’d proved her case for her. ‘That’s how I know you’re absolutely panting to hear that you’ve been classified a close cousin to the Tyrannosaurus Rex.’

  ‘I think “panting” overstates the case.’ And he smiled right back at her. ‘Breathing a little heavily is all I’m prepared to admit to.’

  ‘Don’t worry, when I make my mind up you’ll be the first person I tell.’ And she turned away from a gaze that was suddenly sharper, more intense. ‘Are you desperately hungry?’ she asked, looking about her at the busy shops, restaurants, market stalls. Anything to divert her mind from the unexpected intimacy, the edgy danger of close contact with a man she had every reason to believe planned to take advantage of the slightest sign of weakness. To divert herself from the warm contact of his palm against hers, the light pressure of his thumb against the back of her fingers. It was a personal challenge. Pulling away would be an admission of defeat. Admitting that it affected her. ‘I’d really like to take a look at these stalls.’

  ‘Lead the way. This is your show,’ he said.

  ‘I’d like to think you believe that, but I’m not convinced.’

  ‘You’ve got me here, haven’t you?’

  So she had. And she wasn’t entirely sure why he’d decided to spend the evening with her rather than pick up the open invitation from the lonely blonde beside the pool. But as she began to walk down the street, stopping to look at anything that caught her eye, she was under no illusion; his presence was for his benefit rather than hers.

  Then she let it go and began to concentrate on the activity around them. There were street vendors selling all kinds of freshly cooked food, the spicy scent of meat and vegetables mingling enticingly with pastries.

  There were stalls piled with weird masks, small stone gods, wood carvings, and her busy brain logged them away against an opportunity to use them.

  Bram went further and bought a terrifying spirit mask for a friend’s child, holding it up for her to get the effect.

  ‘His mother will love you when he has nightmares,’ Flora said, turning to a display of locally produced jewellery to check it out.

  ‘He’ll be the envy of all his friends.’ Bram picked up a pair of long silver earrings from amongst those she was looking at and held them up to her ear. They brushed against her neck. ‘Why don’t you wear jewellery?’ he asked. ‘Shouldn’t you fly the flag for your own designs?’

  ‘India and Romana do a far better job than I can in that department,’ she said, shivering at the cool touch of the metal, the warmth of his hand against her neck. She took them from him to take a closer look. They were handmade, a pictogram—some word from the Saramindan language. And what they lacked in finish they more than made up for in dash.

  She picked out half a dozen pairs, then turned to the stallholder and engaged in some good-humoured haggling, complicated by the fact that he spoke no English. They did pretty well, with fingers and pointing and US dollars by way of universal currency. ‘Have you noticed that there’s no gold?’ she asked, while her purchases were wrapped.

  ‘You wouldn’t expect to find gold jewellery on sale at a street market, would you?’

  ‘Perhaps not.’ She put her purchases in her bag and let it go. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘You’re wondering where the gold came from for your princess? There’s none on the island?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of. There might have been a small deposit, long played out. Or maybe it was brought here. Traded for some other precious resource.’

  ‘Maybe the early Saramindans were pirates,’ Bram volunteered. ‘And they just stole it.’

  ‘That’s a possibility. Or maybe she didn’t live here at all. Maybe she was taken sick on some voyage and her people stopped here and buried her with all the ceremony she was due.’

  ‘To the extent that they’d stay here long enough to build a special tomb?’

  ‘If she was important enough. If she was a precious daughter, or wife or mother. It’s the history that makes it interesting, don’t you think?’

  ‘That’s why it’s important for you to actually see the ruins?’

  ‘Absolutely. Without some atmosphere anything I write is just a glorified inventory. Interesting, but lacking in romance or mystery.’ Then, realising she was getting a bit carried away a
nd because she didn’t want to make too big a thing of it, she said, ‘I don’t suppose it really matters. Oh, just look at that!’

  She moved quickly on to a stall piled with local cloth—some woven with silver thread, some richly patterned with animals and geometric shapes. She draped a piece of cloth over her shoulder, turning to him. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think you’d probably do better adding the weaving centre to tomorrow’s sight seeing tour,’ Bram said. ‘And you’d have proper lighting to see the colours.’

  She’d completely forgotten the sightseeing itinerary for the following day. But then, it had been a mere distraction, to reassure him that she wouldn’t ever think of doing something stupid like going to take a look at the tomb by herself. ‘If this is the quality of cloth available I’ll go to the weaving centre first thing on Sunday morning. Come on, which do you like best?’

  He picked a heavy, ornately worked cloth in blue and silver and bronze, and when the stallholder released a length from the bolt he draped it across her, from one shoulder to the other, so that it fell in soft folds beneath her face. ‘This one,’ he said, looking at her, imagining how she’d look with her hair streaming down her back. ‘I like this one.’ For a moment she seemed to read his mind, see what he was seeing. ‘It’ll go with your toenails.’

  She turned abruptly to the stallholder, made her choices.

  ‘Before going to the museum?’ he asked as she waited for it to be packed. She frowned. ‘You said you’d go to the weaving centre on Sunday. Are you going to delay your first look at the princess’s treasure?’

  He sounded doubtful, and Flora knew he was right to be. On her own, she’d have left the weaving centre until her own business was done. But this was her chance to prove that she put Claibourne & Farraday at least on equal footing with her own work.

  ‘This is business,’ she said, as if she always put business before academic work. ‘I’ll need to set up some contacts, arrange for samples to be sent back to London by courier.’

  ‘Then why have you bought all this?’

  ‘I want to see what these look like made up. How they feel. What I need right now is a tailor.’ And that was something that wouldn’t wait. She looked around as she handed him the parcel. It was heavy, and if he was going to be old-fashioned he might as well be useful. In return she surrendered her hand to his when he reached for it. It meant nothing, after all. Absolutely nothing. ‘Thanks for your patience,’ she said.

  ‘Not at all. Shopping is clearly very hard work. And you’re doing it out of office hours, too. Above and beyond the call of duty.’

  ‘I’ll remind you of that remark next year, when women are storming the shops for jackets made from Saramindan cloth and Claibourne & Farraday are the only place in town to have them.’

  ‘You mean you’ll stay on as design consultant when we take over?’ he asked.

  She looked up at him with a smile. ‘Trust me, Bram. It isn’t going to happen. You should forget about taking over, accept the inevitable. Just let it go.’

  ‘You’re right.’

  ‘Hallelujah!’ she cried. ‘The man has come to his senses—’

  ‘You’re right that this is no place to discuss business. Let’s find somewhere to eat and we can talk terms over something exotically ethnic.’

  Well, she hadn’t for one moment thought he was going to concede that easily. He wasn’t even doing her the courtesy of being serious. He was just teasing. She said, ‘Over there. That’ll do.’

  He looked around, expecting to see a restaurant. ‘Where?’

  ‘That tailor’s shop. It says they do a twenty-four-hour service.’

  ‘But no food?’

  ‘Work first. Eat later.’ She crossed the street and he had no choice but to let go or follow her.

  He let go…and put his hand to her back, moving closer to ease her through the throng. The imprint of his palm, his fingers, sizzled through the black cloth of her tunic.

  ‘How long is this going to take?’

  ‘Who can say? When you’re working, time doesn’t matter. But you don’t have to stay and watch.’ She moved away, putting a few inches of clear space between them. ‘There’s a bar next door. Why don’t you go and get a beer or something?’ Give me some breathing space. ‘I’ll come and find you when I’m done here.’

  ‘Contrary to everything you appear to believe, I’m not desperate for alcohol. When you’re working, I’m working. Isn’t that how it’s supposed to be?’

  ‘In theory,’ she admitted. ‘But you must have been to a tailor, Bram. Why don’t you just use your imagination?’

  ‘And have you tell your sister that I was a nine-to-five shadow? Couldn’t stand the pace? No way.’ He nodded in the direction of an elderly man wearing a traditional sarong, hovering expectantly, waiting for her to notice him. ‘Whenever you’re ready, Flora.’

  She let it go with what she hoped looked like a careless shrug and took her time going through the pattern books with the tailor—matching cloth to styles, linings to cloth, sizing buttons that would be covered with the same cloth. And all the time she was conscious of Bram’s gaze following her every move.

  It was like a game of chicken…each waiting for the other to back down, say ‘enough’.

  It would be a cold day in hell before that happened, she promised herself as she submitted to the tailor’s tape measure—lifting her arms to be measured around the bust and waist and hips, bending her elbow for the sleeves, turning around so that he could measure across her shoulders, neck to waist, waist to hip. All the time Bram’s gaze was almost palpable in the little shop, following every tiny touch of the old tailor’s fingers.

  It was as if he were the one brushing his fingers against her neck as the tape was run across her shoulders. Touching her wrist. Pushing the tape into her waist.

  And her body, famished for a lover’s touch, leapt in shocking response, her breasts tightening, a hungry ache settling low in her abdomen in response to a look that was as physical as a caress.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘I BELIEVE he’s finished, Flora.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I believe the tailor’s finished measuring.’

  She dragged her mind back to reality. The reality that he was simply bored. And that she should know better. The tailor was nodding and saying something that she finally realised was meant to be ‘tomorrow’, and she repeated the word, nodding to indicate that she understood.

  ‘Are you done here? Shall we go?’

  ‘Yes. And yes,’ she said, eager to escape the confines of the tiny shop, breathe in some fresh air. Outside it was cooler, but the air was heavy and noticeably humid with the slight drop in temperature. It clung damply to her, intimate as a second skin.

  Bram paused on the pavement and looked around. ‘We could eat over there,’ he said, his hand at her back as he indicated a restaurant set back from the street.

  ‘Fine,’ she said, moving as if stung. ‘Anywhere.’

  He turned to her. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Of course I’m all right,’ she snapped.

  ‘We could go back to the hotel if you’re tired.’

  ‘Don’t fuss, Bram.’ Then, ‘I’m sorry. I’m just hungry.’

  ‘Oh, right. The low blood sugar. I remember.’ But Bram wasn’t convinced. It might have been the street lighting washing the colour from her face, but he didn’t think so. For a moment he’d thought she was going to faint. Her voice was sharp enough, though, and maybe food, something to drink and a good night’s sleep would fix her up.

  The bar was busy, but he found them a couple of seats, organised a table for dinner and returned to Flora with cold drinks and a menu. ‘You choose,’ she said. ‘I need to wash my hands.’

  He rose as she left her seat and went in search of the washroom, watching her for a moment. Then, when he was sure she knew where she was going, he sat down.

  She wasn’t the only one who was feeling the heat. Feeling something. Wat
ching her while the tailor measured her for jackets, he had let his mind follow the tape circling her body, defining her curves, the smallness of her waist. He’d been conscious of every movement. The way the shapeless tunic she wore moved with her, rose and fell as she lifted her arms, momentarily emphasising her breasts. Shoulder to wrist. Nape to waist. Her head moving a little with each measurement. A single curl descending slowly from a comb.

  It had been hypnotic, curiously sensual, and even thinking about it stirred something deep in him, something different that he didn’t fully comprehend. It was as if a secret was being revealed to him, but in some arcane language. One that he didn’t understand.

  The waiter came to take their order. It was a relief to think of something other than Flora Claibourne.

  Flora washed her hands, splashed her face. She was trembling. For a moment in that hot little room, with the tailor calling out her measurements to his assistant and Bram watching every movement, she had been weak with longing. He’d done that just by looking at her. It was as if she were seventeen all over again. For a moment she clung to the basin. Then slowly and carefully she took all the combs from her hair, brushed it out, and just as slowly, put it up again. Only then did she return to the restaurant and to Bram.

  ‘Are you going to copy those earrings? Is that what you do?’

  Flora, who wasn’t particularly hungry, had taken out the earrings she’d bought for a closer look while Bram indulged in some sticky pudding. It had been a while since he’d said anything to irritate her. He’d seemed preoccupied—and his mouth had been otherwise engaged. It had given her all the time she’d needed to recover from her momentary weakness.

  ‘You haven’t seen any of my designs?’ she asked, with an air of mild surprise. It was the nearest she’d get to dignifying his attack with an answer. ‘I confess I’m disappointed. I thought you would have been much more thorough in your research. But clearly you stopped at the gossip about my mother. I have to admit it’s a lot more entertaining…’ She didn’t look at him, but picked up one of the pieces and let it hang, catching the light as it turned. ‘These are really very attractive. It’s a pity that the finish isn’t better or I’d consider buying some for the store.’