SUNRISE was blazoning a banner of red-gold radiance across the lagoon as they sped home towards Point Cupid. At the summit, where the hotel lay hidden behind its shelter of luxuriant greenery, Alain drew off the road and stopped the car.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Claire in surprise.
‘Getting out to watch the sunrise properly,’ he replied. ‘I always do when I have the chance.’
This statement surprised her. She was so used to thinking of Alain as a soulless businessman obsessed with blueprints and building permits and making money. Slamming his door, he came around to her side of the car.
‘Come on,’ he urged, holding out one lean, brown hand. ‘It will do you good to realise that the world hasn’t come to an end just yet.’
She let him lead her across to the small viewing platform where the panorama of land and sea was spread out below them. Birds warbled noisily in the orange canopies of the tulip trees, the air was fresh with the scent of flowers and down below the sea was changing colour from wild rose to palest blue. Alain’s warm, strong arm draped itself around her shoulders and a strange pang went through her. He was so full of vitality and purpose, just like this luxuriant, tropical paradise that vibrated so insistently with life. She shuddered, unable to feel in harmony with either the man or the place.
‘What is it?’ he asked, looking down at her with searching blue eyes.
She shrugged, tried to smile and failed, bit her lip.
‘It all seems too normal,’ she complained. ‘Too cheerful. Life going on as usual, just as if nothing had happened. When all the time my father might have died.’
‘Oh, Claire,’ he said impatiently. ‘That’s what life does. It goes on, no matter how miserable we may feel. Sickness, death, betrayal, none of those are enough to stop it, so we simply have to cope the best way we can. Just as well really. Keeping going and refusing to give in is the best remedy I know for unhappiness.’
There was a harsh undertone in his voice, as if he were speaking from bitter experience. Claire shot him a keen glance, taking in every detail of his brooding blue eyes, his twisted mouth, the way his lean fingers gripped the railing. He’s been hurt badly at some time, she thought with piercing insight. And he’s never really recovered, whatever he may say, so his fine advice didn’t do him much good. Anyway it’s all very well to talk about keeping going, but sometimes it seems an emotional impossibility. Like now, for instance. She caught her breath on a swift, uneven sob, not even certain of what was upsetting her most. Was it her father’s illness or Alain’s barely controlled antagonism?
‘Stop that!’ ordered Alain sharply. ‘You can’t help your father by worrying yourself sick. Look, Claire, you need something to take your mind off all this. I’ll tell you what. Why don’t we park the car at my house and go down the cliff track to your place? The walk will help you to unwind.’
‘The cliff track?’ echoed Claire with a flicker of unwilling interest. ‘Is it still there? I thought you would have closed it when you built the hotel. I haven’t been on it since I was a teenager.’
‘Yes, it’s still there,’ agreed Alain. ‘I had some handrails put in at the dangerous spots, but otherwise it should be just as you remember it.’
It was just as Claire remembered it. A dizzying downward track, fringed by orange lantana bushes and overhung by ropes of greenery, which nevertheless gave magnificent views of the ocean beneath. When they finally scrambled out among the coconut palms at the base of the cliff, she pushed her hair out of her eyes and smiled unsteadily.
‘You’re right,’ she panted. ‘I do feel better.’
A glimmer of an answering smile crossed Alain’s face and then vanished, leaving his features as stormy as ever. Too wild, too fierce for mere conventional good looks, he exuded an aura of raw, masculine power and authority that made Claire feel suddenly breathless. He looked at her intently and for one heart-stopping moment, she thought he was going to drag her into his arms and kiss her. A strange, pulsating yearning swept through her at the thought. She felt acutely conscious not only of his powerful physical presence, but also of the emotional currents that surged between them. Some kind of struggle was clearly going on in Alain’s innermost heart and she sensed the fierce urgency of his need for her in the way his gaze devoured her. But then he turned abruptly away and began striding along the dark volcanic sand near the water’s edge.
‘Come on,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Let’s get back to your house and make some breakfast. I’m hungry.’
He strode briskly along the beach and with a faint sigh Claire loped after him. But however much Alain might have wanted to shut her out, the atmosphere of the place worked insidiously to bring them together. Now and then they had to jump nimbly back to avoid a sudden rushing assault by a larger wave than usual. And once, when they mistimed it, they found themselves caught in a surge of cool, refreshing foam. Inevitably they shared a rueful smile and some of Claire’s tension drained away. She let her thoughts drift, enjoying the caress of the salt-laden breeze on her face, the hiss and rush of the waves, the gleaming brilliance of the jade-green lagoon. Her breathing slowed and steadied and she felt a new sense of peace descend upon her.
That’s better,’ said Alain brusquely. ‘You’ve got some colour in your face again. Now once you’ve had something to eat you’ll feel fine.’
She found his bossy, protective manner oddly reassuring. It was comforting to let someone else shoulder the burden while she let a healing vagueness wash over. When he pushed open the garden gate of her home, she was quite content to follow him to the back door and let him organise her.
‘You feed the hens and the dog and I’ll put the coffee on,’ he instructed. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll find my way around.’
Five minutes later she came back to find the kitchen filled with the fragrant aroma of percolating coffee. Alain was laying plates on the red-checked tablecloth, where Marie Rose’s bouquet sat in splendour in a jug of water. Claire gave a low gasp and clapped her hand over her mouth.
‘Marie Rose!’ she exclaimed. ‘I forgot all about her. I’ll have to phone and tell her what’s happened. But I don’t even know where she is.’
Alain took her by the shoulders and pushed her ruthlessly into a chair.
‘It’s all under control,’ he said. ‘They left New York at one-fifty p.m. Eastern Time on Flight 684 headed for Paris. We’ll phone them at their hotel when they arrive.’
Claire looked stunned.
‘How on earth do you know all that?’ she demanded. ‘Are you clairvoyant?’
Alain shrugged impatiently.
‘No, but you seem to forget that I was the best man,’ he replied. ‘I had to book all the tickets and see that they left on time, remember.’
So. Not clairvoyant, but merely efficient, practical, invaluable in an emergency. Claire gazed at Alain with a lump in her throat.
‘I don’t know how I can ever thank you—’ she began, but he cut her off.
‘Eat your waffles,’ he said.
The waffles were crisp, hot, smothered in maple syrup. Claire ate two helpings of them, drank a glass of orange juice and a cup of strong, sweet coffee and looked across at Alain. And in that moment she found that the universe had changed. He still looked stern when his face was in repose. There were hollows in his cheeks and a tough, unyielding look about the sardonic mouth. And yet she knew now that he wasn’t, and never could have been, the ogre she had once believed him. Brusque, unforgiving, capable of blazing anger, yes. But not heartless, not cruel. Beneath that grim exterior, Alain Charpentier was a warm and caring person, capable of infinite kindness. He caught her gaze upon him and smiled faintly. It was that smile, wary and fleeting, that completed the destruction of her heart. Staring at him with her lips parted and her heart thudding violently, Claire realised with piercing certainty that she loved him.
‘Is something wrong?’ he asked.
His voice with its sultry, smoky undertones unnerved her still further. Blushing
fierily, she looked away and searched desperately for some harmless topic of conversation.
‘I’m just wondering if there’s anyone else I should phone about Papa,’ she babbled. ‘I know my aunts and uncles will need to hear the news, although I suppose that can wait. But—’
‘Did your father have any tours to do today?’ asked Alain.
Claire started. She had forgotten all about her father’s tours.
‘Yes, he probably did,’ she agreed, running her fingers through her hair with a harassed gesture. ‘But I’ve no idea where he would keep the passenger list. He’s so disorganised.’
A lengthy hunt through the chaotic sitting-room and kitchen finally revealed a scrawled passenger list on the wrong side of a video loan slip held on the fridge door by a magnet. Claire groaned affectionately.
‘Isn’t that just like him?’ she demanded, wrinkling her forehead. ‘But he hasn’t got any of the hotels written down, unless these weird initials mean something.’
‘Give it to me,’ instructed Alain, holding out his hand. ‘May I use your phone?’
Within ten minutes he had it all sorted out.
‘I’ve told one of my men from the hotel to take over for Roland until he’s fit to work again,’ he said. ‘That way he won’t lose income while he’s sick, and Robert knows the routes well. He’s filled in for him once before.’
Claire stared at him, appalled.
‘But I can’t possibly let you do that!’ she protested. ‘I’m sure this man must have work of his own to do at the hotel, hasn’t he?’
‘Well, yes, but—’
‘But nothing!’ insisted Claire. ‘Oh, Alain, it’s good of you. It’s terribly, terribly generous, but I can’t let some stranger take over my father’s job, when it might be weeks before he’s fit to work again himself. And what if there aren’t enough bookings to pay Robert’s wages?’
‘Will you stop worrying about the damned wages?’ thundered Alain. ‘Let that be my concern!’
‘No!’ cried Claire, jumping to her feet. ‘Alain, it’s not fair that you should take on a burden like that. Look, I’d be grateful enough just for today, if Robert could do it. But after that, I’ll have to make some arrangements of my own to deal with the problem. I’m not taking on outside help unless I know for sure that we can afford to pay for it. And before I can even guess at that, I’ll have to find Papa’s account books and figure out what’s going on here.’
‘You’ll do nothing of the kind,’ said Alain arrogantly.
Claire clamped her tongue between her teeth and counted to ten. At least she began counting to ten, but only reached three before she exploded.
‘And why not?’ she demanded, her eyes glinting dangerously.
‘Because, hospitable and generous as he is, your father is also the most chaotic businessman this side of the Equator,’ retorted Alain. ‘I’ve done my best to help him, but he’s got no more idea of accounting than a fish in the sea. Account books, indeed! Torn-up cardboard and the backs of old envelopes is more like it and even if you find those you won’t be able to make head nor tail out of them. If you’ve got any worries about running your father’s business while he’s sick, you’d much better turn the whole thing over to me. At least I know what I’m doing.’
‘You patronising—!’ Claire broke off and took a rein on her temper. ‘All right, Alain. I accept that you’re trying to be helpful and it’s kind of you, but it just won’t do. It’s my responsibility to sort out Papa’s affairs, not yours.’
Alain’s jaw set in a stubborn line.
‘That’s ridiculous,’ he said. ‘Just tell your mother that I’ll deal with the business for as long as necessary. I’m sure she’ll be only too happy to let me deal with it.’
I’m sure she will too, thought Claire with a sinking sensation. But I’m certainly not going to let an outsider see the kind of confusion my father can create. It would be far too humiliating. I’ll just have to get it all sorted out myself.
‘Well?’ prompted Alain. ‘Will you pass on the message?’
‘I suppose so,’ agreed Claire in exasperation. ‘But why should you be troubled with our difficulties?’
‘Sometimes I could shake you!’ said Alain impatiently. ‘Don’t you realise that I’m only too glad to help? Nobody’s ever really depended on me before and, to be honest, I rather like the sensation. Besides, your parents have made me feel far more welcome and valued than my own family ever did.’
Claire sank slowly back into her chair.
‘Whatever do you mean?’ she asked.
Alain paced moodily round the room, running his fingers through his hair.
‘You don’t want to hear my entire life story, do you?’ he retorted with wry humour.
Claire frowned thoughtfully at him.
‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I do,’ she replied. ‘Do you realise that I know nothing about you before you moved to Tahiti six years ago? Well, nothing but a few snippets of information that your aunt told me.’
Alain scowled.
‘Denise?’ he said. ‘What did she tell you?’
Claire coloured as she remembered the juiciest item of gossip that Denise had passed on—the story of Alain’s relationship to Nadine. Yet she didn’t want to mention that—not only because it seemed too intimate and prying to have discussed such a matter, but also for the very simple reason that she felt like bursting into tears when she thought about it.
‘N-nothing really. Just that your family owned a chain of hotels right across France. She made me feel that Marie Rose and I had a cheek to be breathing the same air as you.’
Alain gave a savage growl of laughter.
‘That sounds about right,’ he admitted. ‘Denise suffers from the cruel delusion that money makes people more important and valuable than anything else on earth. She simply doesn’t realise how worthless it really is.’
‘Worthless?’ echoed Claire with a comic grimace, looking down at the chipped coffee-mug in her hands and then out at the rusty bath still marooned on the lawn. ‘I don’t know about that. I’d say it has its uses!’
Alain sighed.
‘Yes, it does,’ he acknowledged. ‘But it shouldn’t rule people’s lives as it does in Denise’s case. Although I suppose I shouldn’t be too hard on her. She did take Louise and me in as children when we had nowhere else to go.’
Claire stared at him in horror.
‘Oh, no, you poor little things!’ she said with ready sympathy. ‘What happened? Did your parents die?’
Alain stretched his muscular brown arms and then gripped the back of a chair. The movement somehow reminded Claire of a panther, lurking in hiding and tensing itself for a spring.
‘No,’ he said, hunching one shoulder in a shrug. ‘You can save your pity. Our parents didn’t die, they simply got divorced. You’ve heard of custody battles over children, haven’t you? Well, this was a custody battle with a difference. Neither of them wanted us, so they fought over who wouldn’t keep us. In the end I suppose you could say they both won.’
‘What happened?’ asked Claire.
‘Uncle Charles offered to take us,’ said Alain. ‘He was my mother’s brother, but you couldn’t possibly find two people less alike. Denise wasn’t keen, but he insisted, so that’s why I grew up feeling that Paul was more like my brother than my cousin.’
‘How old were you when it happened?’ she asked.
‘I was six. Louise was only four and completely bewildered by it all. She cried for my mother every night for the first three months. I always felt I had to protect her after that.’
Claire flinched. It explained a lot. Like Alain’s violent rage when he believed she was deliberately wrecking Louise’s marriage. And the way he usually seemed so stern and unapproachable.
‘Didn’t you ever see your parents after that?’ she asked.
‘Once or twice a year,’ he said indifferently. ‘But they weren’t parents any more, just strangers. A glamorous woman who wouldn’t let us
sit on her furniture when we visited and a cold, self-contained man, who was too busy to speak to us when we phoned him. My mother’s still alive, you know. She lives in Marseilles and she’s on her fifth husband and her third facelift. My father died of a cerebral haemorrhage from overwork two years ago.’
Claire’s tender heart was touched. Reaching out, she squeezed his hand hesitantly.
‘Oh, Alain, I’m so sorry,’ she murmured.
His blue eyes looked cold and hard and unforgiving.
‘Don’t be,’ he said grimly. ‘None of it matters to me any more.’
‘But that’s the worst thing of all!’ burst out Claire indignantly. ‘Don’t you see that you’ll wind up just like your father if you’re not careful? Cold and self-contained and too caught up in your work to bother with people?’
Alain glared at her.
‘Is that how you see me?’ he grated, seizing her by the wrist and hauling her out of her chair.
She found herself dragged up hard against him. So close that she could hear the angry thudding of his heart through his thin shirt and feel the heat radiating from his body in waves. A jolt of emotion that was halfway between rage and desire surged through her.
‘Yes!’ she cried defiantly. ‘It is!’
And then fairness made her pause.
‘Well, it used to be,’ she muttered.
Alain scowled.
‘And why the sudden change of opinion?’ he demanded sarcastically.
Claire looked him straight in the eye.
‘Because you were so kind about my father,’ she said with a catch in her voice.
A momentary spark of warmth kindled in his features, then his face was suddenly bleak again.
‘Don’t make too much out of that,’ he warned. ‘I only did what any decent neighbour would do, but it doesn’t change anything fundamental about my character, Claire. Or yours.’
‘It does,’ she insisted, clutching at his arms. ‘I always thought you were really harsh and unfeeling and far too ready to judge other people, but I was wrong, Alain. I know I was. And I’m sorry I ever thought that about you. I’m sure you’re a really warm person underneath, except that—’
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