by Liz Fielding
‘No more swimming…’ About to say, Unless you’re with me, he reconsidered. ‘…tonight. I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘Bram—’ He knew what she was going to ask. Why had he kissed her? Why had he stopped?
‘Tomorrow, Flora,’ he said abruptly. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow.’
For a moment she didn’t move. Only her fingers curled up into tight little fists as she slowly, slowly, gathered herself in and withdrew behind the façade. Then she inclined her head in an oddly formal little gesture.
‘Tomorrow,’ she repeated, before turning away to walk back to the bungalow, climbing the steps without looking back, shutting the doors behind her.
After a moment the light went out.
Bram remained where he was until he came back down from the rush of desire, coming to terms with this unexpected Flora Claibourne. Not only were the dreary clothes camouflage for a body that in a figure-hugging dress would have turned heads anywhere. But her unemotional exterior hid the simmering core of a volcano.
And her detached amusement over his ‘problem’ with insects had been just an act to disguise her own feet of clay. None of which helped his campaign to oust her from the board of Claibourne & Farraday. He found himself suddenly laughing at the swift change from a young woman who could coolly dismiss the insect world as of no concern to the shrieking, shaking bundle of femininity who’d thrown herself into his arms. If she’d been acting, she deserved an Academy Award.
Then he lost the grin. It wasn’t, unfortunately, her only weakness. She also had an insatiable curiosity which, coupled with an unwillingness to hear the word ‘no’, could only mean trouble.
She was determined to find that tomb. He sympathised with her curiosity, but some inbuilt sense of caution warned him that they should stay well clear of the place. He didn’t believe for a minute that it was about to fall on them, but Dr Myan had some reason for keeping them away—one he didn’t want to share.
Bram thought frankness would have been wiser—maybe he should have left Flora to push Dr Myan for a reason. Not that he would have told her. The man was a politician to his fingertips. But continued resistance might have given her pause for thought.
As it was…
As it was, he had a sudden blinding premonition about why she wanted the Jeep keys.
Just how devious could Flora Claibourne be when it came to getting what she wanted?
Devious enough, he decided.
After leaving her by the pool that afternoon he’d stopped by the desk to give them the details of his driving licence for the car hire. Then, passing the shop, he’d decided to see if they stocked a more detailed map of the island.
‘We’ve only got the two that Miss Claibourne bought.’
‘Two?’ Two. The girl had held them up for him to see. The little tourist map. And a large-scale map produced by the Saraminda Department of Survey. For a moment he had been too shocked to speak. Then he’d said, ‘It’ll have to be the big one. I’m afraid she spilled a cup of coffee over it. It was completely ruined.’ And then, because he’d started getting a very bad feeling about it, ‘Could you mark the site of the tomb for her again?’
The girl had become agitated. ‘I really shouldn’t have done it. You won’t tell anyone, will you?’ Then, ‘It is just to help her with her article? She knows she mustn’t go there?’
‘She knows that,’ he had assured her. ‘But why? What’s the problem?’
The girl had given an awkward shrug. ‘It isn’t a good place, that’s all. Please, you will make sure she understands?’
He’d certainly tried. She clearly hadn’t been listening.
His gaze fell upon the silver earrings lying on his dressing table and for a moment he touched them, his hand covering them as he remembered the way they’d looked as she’d worn them. Remembered her animation, her enthusiasm. That had been real.
As was her determination.
He’d assumed that once they were at the monkey sanctuary her plan was to talk him into going further into the mountains—just for a look. Quite certain of his ability to stop her, it hadn’t bothered him that much, but suddenly he wasn’t so sure. Opening up the map, he discovered—not entirely to his surprise—that the tomb was nowhere near the monkey sanctuary. It was in the opposite direction.
Forget the cute little monkeys. She hadn’t been planning to waste her time on them. Any more than she was planning to spend the day with him.
Flora had looked out for him. Worried about him. Whatever her motives, he could do no less for her.
Flora muffled the alarm clock she kept beneath her pillow. It was barely light, the sun not yet above the horizon as she eased herself out of bed and with the minimum of noise dressed quickly in the clothes she had lain out ready in her bathroom the night before.
Then, carrying her boots and a light rucksack, she let herself out of the bungalow and headed for the resort lobby.
She brushed her teeth in the luxurious poolside powder room, using the facilities without any risk of disturbing anyone—or alerting Bram to the fact that she was up and about. There was no one about to disturb, only the night duty manager who had a cold bag ready for her, packed with food and cold drinks.
‘You’re not going on your own?’ he asked anxiously.
She’d told him they were going to travel to a beach at the far end of the island—stunningly beautiful, according the guidebook—hence the early start.
‘No, Mr Gifford is checking out the Jeep,’ she said, fingers metaphorically crossed. ‘Oil, water. Man stuff,’ she said, masking her nerves with a little joke. ‘Thanks for this.’
‘Have a nice day,’ he said, his customer care training well to the fore. Then he spoiled it by saying, ‘Don’t wander off the main road, will you? It’s easy to get lost.’ She smiled reassuringly as she took the cold bag. Then she hurried to the Jeep, stowed the cold bag and, taking a deep breath, got in the driver’s seat and grinned.
She would love to be a fly on the wall when Bram discovered she’d gone without him. It was scant repayment for the way he’d hijacked her with that kiss. She was still having problems deciding whether to be grateful that he’d cut it short before it got completely out of hand, or just plain mad that he’d found it so easy.
Clearly grateful was the sensible option, but she’d decide next time she saw him. Her pulse-rate picked a little up at the prospect. He’d be mad enough for both of them.
She changed her mind about being a fly on the wall.
He’d be in a very bad mood when he realised what she’d done, and the way he felt about insects—well, he’d undoubtedly swat a fly.
CHAPTER EIGHT
BRAM was woken by an earthquake.
Not a geological event caused by the slippage of the earth’s crust.
It was the kind of door-banging, foot-stomping earthquake that happened when a woman was seriously thwarted. When she’d had her carefully laid plans turned upside down by a man. And when she wanted to be certain that he was in no doubt about the way she was feeling about that.
‘You bastard!’ His bedroom door was flung open and Flora stormed in without bothering with the formality of a knock or waiting for an invitation. ‘You rat!’
Well, he’d asked himself what it would take to blow the lid off the pressure cooker. One answer had kept him awake most of the night. This completed the set.
He lifted his face out of the pillow and turned to take a closer look at the transformation he’d wrought by removing the rotor arm from the Jeep’s engine. Or, more accurately, by allowing her to think she’d got away with her escape plan and then jerking her back like a toddler in leading strings.
The unremarkable shade of her eyes had heated up to spark fire, her cheeks were flushed, her mouth dark red.
Her hair was different too: drawn back in a neat French plait that emphasised her cheekbones. But then the combs were redundant today—a nuisance rather than a prop. After all, she hadn’t anticipated company.
; He was impressed. Deeply impressed. There was something about an angry woman that was…impressive.
‘Where is it? What have you done with it?’
‘And good morning to you, Miss Claibourne,’ he said. ‘If it is morning, which I take leave to doubt.’ He reached out to check his watch on the night table, giving himself a moment to catch his breath, recover from the arousing blast of her wake-up call. ‘I know you wanted to make an early start, but there’s a difference between eager and precipitate.’
‘Cut the—’
‘What’s the matter, Flora?’ he asked, before she could tell him exactly what he was supposed to cut. He’d got the point. He rolled onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow and wishing it were later—hours later—and that he’d slept through all of them. ‘Couldn’t you sleep?’
She glared at him, as if daring him to suggest any reason why she might have had trouble. To even mention the kiss they’d shared. ‘I slept just fine, thanks very much. Give me the rotor arm and I’ll leave you to continue your lie-in in peace.’
Lie-in? Didn’t it have to be past seven o’clock before it could officially be termed a ‘lie-in’? He didn’t bother to argue the point. ‘Someone took your rotor arm?’ he asked. She was surprisingly well acquainted with the internal combustion engine, it would seem. ‘Now, why would anyone want to do that?’
‘Don’t play games with me. You knew, didn’t you? Last night. All that kissing stuff, all that “see you in the morning”, was just a load of hogwash. You knew.’
‘It’s morning and I’m seeing you,’ he pointed out. ‘As for the kiss…I thought it merited a higher mark than “hogwash”. But maybe you’re more experienced than me.’ If he’d been hell-bent on maximum irritation he couldn’t have done a better job. But a man had to do what a man had to do: she might never get this angry again. He still had a lot to learn about Flora Claibourne. He didn’t want her retreating behind the armour-plating again. Next time she’d be harder to shift. ‘I like your hair that way,’ he added, just to pour fuel on the flames.
‘I don’t give a damn what you like.’ Tiger’s eyes, he thought. Brown and gold and hot. ‘What gives you the right to mess with my plans?’
He eased himself up on the pillow, turning onto his back, grabbing at the sheet as it began to slide to the floor. ‘Your plans? And they would be?’
‘You know damn well what I had in mind.’
‘A little illicit exploring on your own?’ he suggested, linking his hands behind his head. ‘That’s against the rules, Flora. I’m your shadow. Where you go, I go. No secret trips allowed.’ Then, ‘Why didn’t you just ask for another car?’
She was momentarily taken aback, and he knew she hadn’t even thought about it. She’d been too mad to think. ‘How do you know I didn’t?’
‘Because you’re angry about the rotor arm, not about the fact that I put a block on that escape route too.’
‘You did what? How? When? How did you know?’
‘I’m a lawyer. I can spot a lie at twenty paces.’
‘I didn’t—’
‘And I went to see your friendly shopkeeper. She sold me a map exactly like the one she sold you—even marked the site of the tomb for me after I explained how you’d spilled coffee over yours—’
Flora’s mouth dropped open. ‘Excuse me? Who’s the one telling lies here?’
‘I told her I didn’t think you’d remember exactly where it was.’
‘Great.’ She threw up her hands. ‘I’m not only a mendacious female, but I’m one with the memory span of a goldfish.’
‘And last night, right after I removed the rotor arm from the Jeep, I made a point of asking the receptionist to put a note on the computer to confirm any changes in car hire arrangements personally with me.’
‘I might sue, Bram. You—the hotel… I hired that Jeep. It was paid for with my credit card—’
‘I know. It’s appalling,’ he offered, with mock sincerity. ‘But you’re not in London now. Saraminda is a place where men run things.’
‘And women just run to do their bidding?’ She looked at him from under those long lashes, thoughtful rather than flirtatious. ‘I have to hand it to you. You’re smart. And you’re thorough.’
Surely she wasn’t going to switch from berating him to flattery? On the point of suggesting she forget about a pile of old ruins and get back into bed—his bed—common sense came to his rescue. ‘Thorough is my middle name.’
‘No, it’s not, it’s Farraday.’ She shrugged. ‘Same thing, I guess,’ she said, reaching up to fiddle with her hair before realising that she had nothing to fiddle with. ‘In the event the block on the car hire was unnecessary. The guy in Reception was concerned that I might be going off on my own so I said you were in the Jeep. If I’d made a fuss he’d have seen you weren’t there. As you said, this is a man’s world and I’m sure he would have checked with you.’ She pulled a face. ‘Men stick together, don’t they?’
‘Not always. But in this instance I suspect your instincts are right.’ He sat forward. ‘But only in this instance. Hasn’t it occurred to you that when four different people—no matter what their sex—tell you that what you’re doing is a mistake, it might be time to start listening?’
‘Four?’
‘The girl in the shop asked me to remind you that the tomb “isn’t a good place”—that you mustn’t under any circumstances go there. Consider yourself reminded.’
‘All that occurs to me,’ she replied, ignoring the warning, ‘is that something stinks. That Tipi Myan has something to hide.’
‘On that, at least, we can agree.’
‘I’m going to find out what’s going on, Bram. You won’t stop me.’
He’d been afraid of that. But there was an up-side to every situation. ‘Why don’t you organise some coffee while I take a shower? Then we’ll discuss the situation in an open and frank exchange of views.’
She opened her mouth—presumably to tell him to get his own coffee, give or take a few expletives—but before she could say anything, he flung back the sheet, swung his legs over the edge of bed and stood up.
She didn’t hang around to argue.
Bram grinned at her retreating back, but he wasn’t underestimating her determination. He retrieved the rotor arm from beneath his pillow and took it with him into the bathroom.
Flora phoned for coffee. Then returned to Bram’s room under cover of the noise of the shower for a quick look for the rotor arm. Her search was hampered by her imagination, which seemed more interested in what was happening on the far side of the bathroom door. Then the water stopped and she scooted quickly back to the sitting room and called Room Service a second time to ask for croissants and juice.
It was clear that she wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry and she’d been awake long enough for breakfast to sound attractive.
Breakfast and Bram arrived together. Of the two, she thought Bram looked more appetising in a long-sleeved chambray shirt, cuffs turned back to his elbows so that the low slanting sun glinted off the gold hair on his forearms, casual trousers and a pair of soft desert shoes. Not exactly equipped for a jungle trek, but since they weren’t actually going on a jungle trek it was close enough.
Neither of them spoke while the waiter laid out the food on the small veranda table. Bram signed the chit while Flora sat at the table and poured the coffee.
‘So,’ she said, passing a cup to him, ‘I intend to go and take a look at the tomb of the “lost princess” today. Discuss.’
Bram had had plenty of time to think about his answer while he was under the shower. And he knew that if she was determined enough nothing he could do—short of handcuffing her to the bed—would prevent her from doing exactly as she said. He didn’t dwell on that idea for too long for fear that it might become irresistible.
What kept hammering at him was the way he’d felt last night. The certainty that he had everything to gain from becoming her ally, her friend. Until he’d kissed her, t
hat had seemed about as likely as hell freezing over. It still might be.
But as he’d stood beneath the cold needle spray of the shower he’d asked himself just how far he was prepared to go to break down the barrier she had erected between herself and the world.
Not the physical barrier. That had been blown away. Even now as they sat there, pretending not to think about it, the air was thick with sexuality. It was simmering beneath the surface, threatening to boil over.
It wasn’t enough. Not now. That sex would be hot and exciting and new with Flora Claibourne he did not doubt. But she would still be keeping her secrets behind that barrier.
So. How far would he go? How much of himself would he lay open to her scorn, her judgement?
The answer, it seemed, was that if Flora Claibourne could be brought to a point where she would begin to trust him then it was worth any amount of risk.
He didn’t say any of that. Instead he joined her at the table, moving the chair slightly so that he was sitting opposite her, and said, ‘There’s not much to discuss. Apparently nothing will stop you from taking off into the forest, with me or without me. If you’re really intent on taking this trip, I’ll have to come with you.’
‘Excuse me?’ she asked, not exactly overwhelmed with gratitude at his apparent change of heart.
He’d have been wary in her shoes.
‘Did you say you’ll come with me?’
‘Someone has to keep you out of trouble.’
‘You’re such a gentleman, Bram. How could I possibly refuse an offer like that?’
‘Don’t even try. It’s the best you’re going to get. But, since we have no idea what the problem is, we’ll need to take sensible precautions.’
‘I’ve got food,’ she told him. ‘And plenty of water.’
‘Well, that’s a start. But we’ll need more than food. And a compass.’
‘It was a dead give-away, wasn’t it?’
‘That and the “eureka” smile,’ he admitted, reaching for a croissant. Flora was like a greyhound in the slips, almost trembling in her eagerness to be off, but he wasn’t going anywhere until they’d sorted out the ground rules. ‘Have one of these; they’re really good.’