That Special Touch

by Anne Beaumont

  THAT SPECIAL TOUCH

  Anne Beaumont

  He was sure of himself, she was full of doubts

  Elisa had made the most of her summer rest on Corfu--sketching tourists on the beach. Then, just as she was ready to move on, she met Penny Sinclair, and her life turned upside down.

  Left unexpectedly without a nanny for his daughter, Penny, Rafe Sinclair had no qualms about ruthlessly organizing Elisa for the job--emotionally blackmailing her into becoming part of Rafe's uneasy household--whether she liked it or not.

  But all three of them got rather more than they bargained for...

  CHAPTER ONE

  'I'm in danger,' Rich said, his handsome dark head leaning over hers, throwing her face into shadow, 'of becoming interested in you as a woman—as well as a case history. A little bit of encouragement on your part and...' His voice trailed away suggestively.

  He was stretched out on the sand beside her, his long, muscled frame clad in black trousers and white shirt. Without opening her eyes Elisa put one hand against his chest and pushed him gently away. The sun kissed her face again. She stretched lazily on the raffia beach mat and tried to sink into slumber.

  'That's not encouragement,' Rich complained, taking her hand from his chest and kissing each finger in turn. 'There's no need to play hard to get. I don't need the old hunter's instinct awakened. In case you haven't noticed, I'm in full cry already. Besides, I prefer a receptive woman. Saves time.' There was no response. His voice deepened. 'What about saving some time, Elisa?'

  'Rich, stop being such a pain,' she begged.

  He grinned, turned over her hand and kissed the palm. 'I knew you loved me.'

  In spite of herself, Elisa opened her eyes and smiled. Rich's sense of the ridiculous was one of the nicest things about him. 'Go and pursue your sociology studies somewhere else,' she scolded him, but without rancour. 'Soon --'

  'I'm not pursuing my studies. I'm pursuing you. You can't lie there like some ancient Greek goddess washed up by the waves without expecting a man to lay his heart, hand and all other relevant parts at your feet.'

  'Soon,' she continued, as though he hadn't interrupted, 'the holidaymakers will be back in force. The shower's over, the sun's scorching, there'll be customers for you and maybe some for me. In the meantime, let's just laze. We were both up till all hours teaching Greek dancing. You might be used to it, but I'm not. I was only doing a favour. It's not my regular way of earning a living, remember.'

  'Greek goddesses don't nag,' Rich told her soulfully. 'They accept adoration as their due.'

  'I'm English, weary, and I'll swear at you in a minute,' she warned him pleasantly.

  'Elisa! Goddesses don't swear.' He saw her close her eyes in exasperation and changed tack. 'Eleesa,' he repeated, stressing the name, savouring it. 'A lovely name. Unusual. Exclusive. Just like you. Er—you wouldn't like to be a little less exclusive, would you?'

  Elisa swore. He gave a shout of laughter and she laughed with him. When they'd simmered down, he said, 'I take it you're only interested in being one of my case histories?'

  She groaned. 'No, I'm not. I'm only interested in being asleep.'

  Undaunted, he began tracing a line down her face, his finger moving lightly from her forehead to her nose, as he said softly, 'You must be interested in being a woman, looking the way you do, and in case you haven't noticed, I'm a man.'

  When his finger reached her lips, she bit it.

  'Ouch!' Rich's pained expression swiftly turned to a grin. 'That's it, Elisa, my love, you owe me a bite.'

  Then they were roiling over and over in the shower-dampened sand, laughing, wrestling, and with Elisa doing a lot of uncharacteristic squealing. Richard, for all his Bachelor of Science degree and the weighty thesis he had come to Corfu to research, was still very much a boy at heart; and Elisa wasn't above forgetting her cares and being a girl.

  Rich was on top of Elisa and she was giggling and fending his mouth away from her neck when a voice, masculine, cold and contemptuous, said, 'Are either of you responsible for service in this cafe?'

  Rich was, as his uniform black trousers and white shirt attested. They both stopped struggling and turned their heads, as though they had been caught out in something naughty. It was the way the voice made them feel.

  The cafe behind them was large, but no more than a patio enclosed by a low whitewashed wall with rough-hewn wooden poles supporting a thatched roof. On the far side was a garden bright with the reds, whites and pinks of geraniums and roses, through which a path meandered to the hotel proper.

  Standing a few feet away at the beach entrance to the cafe, leaning arrogantly against one of the roof supports, was a tall, fair-haired man. Even if he hadn't spoken, Elisa would have known he was English. What was more, he was no run-of-the-mill tripper.

  For one thing, he was wearing a lightweight business suit, beautifully and expensively cut, a shirt that fitted so well it had to be handmade, and a discreetly striped tie; for another, he looked as if the Ritz would be more his natural habitat than this free-and-easy package-holiday resort.

  What's he doing here? she wondered, while her trained artist's eyes automatically noted his features. His fair hair was cropped close in what looked like a ruthless attempt to reduce curls to crisp natural waves. Golly, he must have looked like Bubbles when he was young, she thought erratically, blinking away a swift mental picture of Sir John Millais' famous painting of the bubble-blowing little boy.

  Her gaze moved on, studying the strong, straight nose and the firm, strong chin, separated by a finely moulded mouth that looked as though it didn't know much about smiling. Why did he look so angry? And why was his anger directed at her? It was Rich who was wearing the waiter's uniform!

  She met his eyes and blinked again. He had Paul Newman eyes. A lighter, colder blue than her own, with an almost unnerving clarity. Killer's eyes, she had always flippantly called them. But she didn't feel flippant now. She was tingling with a vicarious thrill as she found herself contemplating what an achievement it would be to turn them into lover's eyes.

  Then she wondered if the sun was boiling her brain, throwing out fantasies that had nothing to do with the reality of his dispassionate gaze, and it was dispassionate now. Whatever anger, for whatever reason, had flared, had since been dismissed. His eyes were looking at, into and through her, as though she had nothing to offer that merited further attention.

  She was indignant, justifiably so, but that didn't stop her becoming embarrassingly conscious of Rich astride her scantily clad body. No, not so scantily clad! Her navy blue swimsuit was more of a two-piece than a bikini, chosen more for comfort under shorts and shirt than for maximum exposure to the sun. '

  A swift downward glance assured her top and bottom were still snugly in place. Nothing had come adrift during the wrestling match. So why did she feel guilty? More to the point, why didn't Rich do something so the man would go away and dissect somebody else with his disapproving blue gaze?

  Rich did do something eventually, in his own good time. He eased himself away from Elisa, slapped her thigh affectionately as he stood up, and said, 'You still owe me a bite somewhere.'

  Elisa wished he hadn't done that, said that, made it seem—— She checked herself abruptly, angrily. The man could think what he liked and to blazes with him. He had no right to disapprove of her. She wasn't the one who'd kept him waiting for service.

  She watched Rich brush the sand from his clothes, saying with his engaging white smile, 'Service, sir? I'll be right with you.'

  Only then did Elisa notice the man had a small child with him. She had the same fair hair, long enough to curl wildly about the ribbons that divided it into two neat bunches. Before they both turned back into the cafe she had a s
wift impression of wistfulness, perhaps even sadness.

  Not surprising, Elisa thought resentfully, if the poor little lamb had that cold fish for a father. She reached for her raffia mat, shook the sand from it and lay down again. After a few minutes she turned over on her stomach. It was no good. Now that she had every opportunity to sleep, she was wide awake.

  She knew why. The fair-haired man had disturbed her in more ways than one. She raised her head suspiciously, but he hadn't chosen one of the tables overlooking the beach. She wasn't being observed, although she was becoming crowded. As she'd predicted, the beach was filling up. Soon there would be an endless line of oiled bodies sun-worshipping along the narrow stretch of sand that edged the wide sweep of the bay.

  Elisa sat up, restoring her equilibrium by drinking in the beauty of the different blues of the bay, the different greens of the trees burgeoning in densely packed splendour on the surrounding hills. An artist's paradise. Anybody's paradise.

  So why had the fair-haired man been so—so miserable?

  The question intruded unbidden, unwelcome, but it had its intriguing aspects. He had made something stir within her, something she had believed dead. Was it possible... was it really possible... that she had finally run far enough, and for long enough, to get over Austyn? She'd allowed herself a year to work the miracle, disrupting her life, career—everything—and there were still more than three months to go.

  Yet up until now it had seemed so much harder to get over a love that had never fully flowered than one that had been indulged. There'd been so many ifs and buts and might-have-beens to torment her. No sure knowledge, no certainty about anything, except of course that she'd done the right thing. For everybody else, that was.

  For herself, she still wasn't convinced. She'd tried to wrench Austyn out of her heart because it was the only way, hoping for a quick if traumatic cure, but she'd only left herself with a wound which, for all her running away, wouldn't heal.

  Perhaps she'd been wrong. Perhaps the love would have died naturally if she'd allowed it to bloom. Perhaps. If. But. Maybe. That was the trouble, she would never know now, and that was what was bedevilling her so much. She only knew she wasn't ready to go back. In her present state of uncertainty it might all start up again, and she'd have wasted a year for nothing.

  No, not nothing, Elisa corrected herself. She'd seen a lot of the world, made a lot of friends, filled up lots of sketchbooks which she'd mailed back home. Nothing was ever wasted. Except, a. treacherous inner voice contradicted her, a love that was wilfully denied.

  Damn the fair-haired man! In some peculiar way he'd set her off on these reflections that were doing her no good at all. She picked up her frayed and battered straw hat and slapped it on her head, as if this decisive movement could bring down a curtain on the past.

  OK, so deep down inside she was still bleeding. But it was deep down, hidden, and capable of being forgotten if only she kept herself amused. The rest of her was too healthy, too much alive, to brood and droop for long. 'Laugh and the world laughs with you,' she said aloud. 'Cry and you cry alone.'

  'If you say so.' Rich was back beside her, grinning. 'Stop muttering about your lost sleep and look lively. A honeymoon couple who've just seen your ad want to commission you.'

  There was something so soothing, so friendly, so uncomplicated about Rich, that Elisa found herself bouncing back to her usual sunny good humour. 'Tell them I'm on my way.'

  'Right. Must dash. I've got a few late breakfasters and a smattering of early drinkers.' Rich was off, covering the short distance to the cafe in a few easy strides.

  Elisa took a small mirror from her bag and checked her face. She'd only been on Corfu for a couple of weeks, but her past few months as a seasonal worker in Israel, Crete and Greece had given her an even golden tan that made cosmetics unnecessary. Her indigo eyes and soft pink lips were colour enough.

  Apart from brushing particles of the peculiarly gritty sand from her face and re-tying the ribbon on one of her two thick plaits, there was little for her to do. The colour of her hair, pure platinum, was arresting, but it was dead straight, and plaiting it was the easiest way to keep it neat.

  All in all, she looked closer to eighteen than twenty-five, not that that was anything to scowl about. It wasn't so long ago when she'd have been considered over the top at her age, on the shelf. Now people thought she chose to stay single. It was funny, the things some people thought...

  Smiling to herself, Elisa stood, up and slipped on faded denim shorts whose frayed bottoms showed they had once been jeans. Then she buttoned herself into a similarly faded denim shirt with military pockets and epaulettes, rolling up the sleeves in a neat, workmanlike manner.

  She left her mat and sandals on the beach and, looking a sexy mixture of competence, self-sufficiency and leggy grace, she was ready to start the day's work. She walked into the cafe with lengthy, rhythmic strides, not needing to thrust out her bosom or wiggle her hips to catch attention. All the same, there was a certain almost school-girlish exuberance in her walk, coupled with a natural authority that her teaching experience had given her, that would have turned heads even if she'd been as plain as a pikestaff.

  Rafe Sinclair's was one of the heads that turned to watch her, his blue eyes chilling without his being aware of it. The old anger stirred, the resentment that had identified her right away for what she was. A spoiler. The type of girl who drifted into other people's lives with charm and grace and laughter, then drifted out again when she'd got what she wanted, knowing what havoc she'd left behind but not caring.

  He felt the pull of her attraction, as everyone did, and despised her for it. He'd wanted such a girl once and she'd wanted him, but he couldn't hold her. No man could. When he'd realised that, he hadn't even tried. Love and disgust didn't go together, not with him, anyway.

  Instinctively he looked down at his daughter. She smiled at him uncertainly, as though she sensed his anger and feared she was the cause. He smiled back warmly, reassuringly, but when he looked back at the girl his smile faded.

  Elisa went behind the long service counter to get her art materials, and when Rich came past her with a tray of dirty cups and glasses she said, 'Have you heard from Sue? She was still sleeping when I got up this morning, which wasn't surprising because she'd been up most of the night, poor darling.'

  'She sent a message saying she's feeling a lot better, but I shouldn't think she'll be up to teaching dancing tonight. It takes a while to get over a bug.'

  'I asked why she ate the beefburger in the first place if it was half raw, and she said it was because the sauce was delicious. Crazy novice,' Elisa said, picking up her artboard with beige sugar paper already cut to size and neatly clipped to it, then balancing her box of Conte sticks on top.

  'She'll learn. In the meantime——' Rich put down the tray, took one of her plaits and playfully swung it to and fro '—could you cover for her again tonight? She needs the job. She doesn't earn much on the excursion tickets she sells during the day.'

  'Sure. I'll be down about ten, all right?'

  Rich brushed the end of her plait teasingly over her cheek and nose. 'Elisa, you're as nice as you look. I could so easily fall for you. Just that little bit of encouragement, remember?'

  She wrinkled her nose at him, teasing, 'Working with us Brits abroad while you research a thesis on us, huh! That's just a line to learn all our deepest secrets. You're nothing but a beach Casanova.'

  'I'd even be a gigolo to please you, love, and why not? You're earning more than the rest of us put together.'

  Elisa balanced her art materials on one arm, pulled her plait free and reached up to give his dark hair a playful tug. 'Sorry, Rich, I just can't afford you. I might be doing very nicely at the moment, thank you, but I have to meet my partner in Athens next month and we have a trip to the tiny islands to finance. There won't be any work for us there.'

  'Excuses, excuses,' he grumbled. 'Tell you what, I'll do it for nothing.'

  'You're su
pposed to be sacrificing yourself on the altar of sociology, not love,' she pointed out.

  'I'm a big fellow. I can spread myself around a bit.'

  Elisa smiled. 'Then spread yourself around your customers. Where do I find mine?'

  'The far table overlooking the beach. The couple trying very hard to merge two chairs into one.'

  Elisa saw them, and as she went back round the counter she saw somebody else. The fair-haired man. He must have been watching the interplay between herself and Rich and disapproving as strongly as when they'd been on the beach, because he was still looking at her as if she'd crawled out from under a stone. Well, it was his hang-up, not hers.

  Beside him was the wistful little girl, and next to her was an attractive woman in her thirties, rather formally dressed in a suit of navy blue grosgrain with a yellow blouse. A family group, and not a happy one. What on earth was wrong with them all?

  The little girl was sitting closest to the aisle and, as she passed, Elisa impulsively ruffled her fair curls, smiled and said a cheerful 'Hello,' before she walked on. It seemed the friendly thing to do. When she took' the spare seat opposite her clients, her back was to the family. Just as well, she thought. The man wouldn't have appreciated her gesture, but her object had been to please his daughter, not him. Five minutes later she was so engrossed in her sketching that she'd forgotten the man and his family. She chatted away, keeping her subjects at their ease to achieve the most natural effect.

  Not that this two-shot was hard. They were a good-looking couple, and there was a glow, a unity between them that was easy to capture. She could draw honestly, without the subtle alterations necessary when she sensed her subjects wanted flattery rather than truth.

  She unclipped the sketch from the board when she'd finished, saying as she passed it across the table, 'You can buy a frame in Corfu Town or pack it at the bottom of your suitcase with a piece of tissue over it. I hope it's a happy reminder of your honeymoon.'