‘I’m surprised you’re not a top model, Fleur,’ he said.
She stopped swimming and turned back to him, treading water. ‘I was,’ she said slowly. ‘Then I discovered that a lot of men are just like you, Bryn. Only interested in my body. Which is why, since it’s obviously bugging you, I gave up men.’
This time she turned and swam round the waterfall.
He didn’t follow immediately but stared after her with a frown in his eyes. And he posed a question to himself—what would he do in the normal course of events? Concentrate on her soul until the rest of it fell into place? A dry smile twisted his lips. But did he want to go down that road with this girl who brought back memories he’d rather forget, a girl who, he had the gut feeling, was just too gorgeous for her own good, and quite possibly his good?
Then he shrugged and reflected that he might not be able to help himself, if his behaviour to date was any example. Which had, not to put too fine a point on it, he thought moodily, alternated between being furiously exasperated with her, and a growing—he couldn’t deny it—interest in that beautiful body. Dear me, Bryn Wallis, he told himself with considerable irony, could you be lumped into that ‘men who only want one thing from women’ category?
It was no consolation to think, at the same time, that Stella Sinclair might agree. Stella, he marvelled, a career woman through to her soul, whose path he had confidently thought would join his for a time then curve away to follow her ambitions.
Only to find that the offer of a promotion and a move to a much larger resort owned by the chain she worked for was not what Stella was seeking suddenly. Throwing her lot in with his, helping him to expand Clam Cove into an exclusive, wildly expensive, wilderness retreat was what Stella had had in mind—and he hadn’t even seen it coming.
But how much of that blindness could be attributed to Fleur Millar’s entrance into his life? he mused grimly. He had certainly been less than sensitive to the turmoil building up in Stella after she had got the offer of promotion, which had just happened to coincide almost to the day with Fleur’s arrival.
More to the point, he thought bitterly, why the hell hadn’t he stuck to his guns and refused Fleur the job in the first place?
The picnic seemed never-ending to Fleur.
Not because it wasn’t a pleasant, convivial one but because she felt restless and uneasy and was not quite sure why.
Yes, Bryn Wallis was part of it, although after their encounter behind the waterfall he’d been quite normal with her. But she might never be easy in his company again, she thought with a little inward shiver. Not after the way he’d mentally stripped her and not bothered to hide it. Not after she’d tingled from her scalp to her toes beneath that scrutiny and had a sudden vision of them both naked in that green-curtained cocoon behind the waterfall. Naked and with his hands on the paler, secret places of her body…
Then there was Lyall, not attempting hide that he would like to get to know her better and dancing attendance on her, although nicely.
But there was more to her sense of unease, she realized as the long hot day wore on and she played with the children, and Tom, when Lucy and Brad had curled up next to their mother, having temporarily exhausted themselves, came to curl up beside her.
‘Tired, young man?’ she said softly.
‘No,’ he denied stoutly then yawned mightily and looked the picture of guilt.
‘Do you know what instinctive means, Tom?’
He screwed up his face. ‘No.’
‘It’s something you do without thinking it out, as if this invisible thing inside you makes you do it. And all kids have this instinct never to admit they’re tired.’
‘Did you, Fleur?’
‘I did! I guess it comes from a fear of being sent to bed when you really want to stay up.’
He considered then grinned at her. ‘I hate being sent to bed! I never understand why I can’t stay up as long the grown-ups do.’
‘There you are, you see. You’re just like all kids.’
‘Have you got any kids, Fleur?’
She looked down at him. ‘No. Why?’
‘You seem to understand them pretty well,’ Tom said sagely, then yawned again. ‘You’re also nice, Fleur, so I’ll tell you a secret. I’ve had enough picnic, I’m tired of playing with Lucy and Brad—I was even starting to want to fight with Brad because he thinks he knows everything, and Lucy can be a real baby sometimes! And I feel funny, tired but not tired,’ he gestured, a quaintly adult motion, ‘and itchy with all this sand around. Beaches can get on your nerves sometimes, can’t they?’
Two things struck Fleur simultaneously. The first was that some of her unease had come from being the only one in the party with no ties to anyone, but the thought grew suddenly—the only one with no family. Julene and Eric had each other. Tom and Bryn had each other, the Hendersons were obviously wrapped up in their children and Lyall was part of the family. She was the only loner, but it was worse…
A growing attachment to this particular child, who was such a character and starting to look so hot and bothered beside her, brought home to her how her expectations of life had been so different once… Having her own family, her own children by now had been her dearest wish once, and without that wish fulfilled she felt as if she were inhabited by a great void, and that was what a picnic at the beach amongst families and children had brought home to her to cause that restless unease.
She let out a long slow breath as if to expel some of the pain, and did the only thing she could—concentrate on the other thing that had struck her. ‘Tom, let’s look under your shirt. Maybe we can get the sand out. Just stand up for a moment.’
He did, she looked, and the evidence was incontrovertible. She glanced across at Bryn, to find him watching her, and gestured for him to come and look, because there was no doubt from the blisters across his tummy that his son had chickenpox.
Three nights later Fleur wandered into the main room of Bryn’s bungalow. Tom was asleep, although for how long was another matter. She glanced at her watch. The restaurant would be in full swing now, and she had been invited to avail herself of her boss’s library.
But she looked around first. Bryn’s bungalow had four rooms—two bedrooms, a lounge, and off it, through a curtain of amber beads, a study. An en suite bathroom linked Tom’s bedroom and Bryn’s. It was all rather spartan, she decided, but not unattractive. Tom’s bedroom had two single beds, hooks on the wall to hang clothes, a table and a chest of drawers. There was also a shelf for Tom’s collection of wooden animals.
Bryn’s room was equally as simply furnished although he had a double bed with a colourful Indian cotton throw.
The lounge opened on to the veranda, had two settees, one beautiful coffee table that Bryn had made himself, and plenty of bookcases. But it was the room through the beaded curtain that fascinated Fleur. During the days of nursing Tom she’d wondered about it but not had the nerve to investigate. Or was it that? she wondered. She certainly had no intention of prying, she just had this urge to look beyond the amber curtain. But it indicated an urge to know more about Bryn Wallis and that was what really worried her.
She shook herself mentally. It couldn’t hurt just to have a look. She parted the beads but the room was in darkness, so she fumbled for a switch and an overhead light came on. It was very simple, small, and all it contained was a table and chair, a laptop computer and a printer on the table, and an old-fashioned roll-top desk. But one entire wall was covered with maps and charts. So what did he do on his computer at the dead of night?
And how come this room was a model of tidiness compared to what she’d first encountered of his paperwork to do with the restaurant?
She was still no further forward and she began to feel uncomfortable, although she was only standing in the doorway. But it was as if his spirit was in this small room, a very private part of Bryn Wallis, and it was with relief that she heard Tom stir and wake up. She dropped the beads and went thankfully back to him.
/>
That same evening, but much later, Bryn came quietly into Tom’s bedroom to find Fleur asleep next to Tom on the bed with a Harry Potter book spread face down across her chest.
They’d had a council of war on discovering Tom’s chickenpox. The community nurse was stretched to the limit—there was a minor epidemic on the island—and, although Julene had been more than happy to nurse Tom, when Fleur had offered her services she had done so with typical Fleur logic.
Julene was indispensable to the running of the restaurant, she’d pointed out. So after two nights closed, unless he wanted to stay closed, it made much more sense for her, Fleur, to look after Tom for the three or so days that he would be feverish and miserable. The books could wait for a few days, she’d added with a lurking smile in his direction, whereas the fresh foodstuffs for the restaurant could not.
It had all mirrored his own thinking but had annoyed him that she should be so logical. He’d followed this line of thought and discovered that the rapport Fleur obviously shared with Tom also annoyed him in some subtle way he couldn’t quite define other than to bring home to him yet again the ambivalence of his feelings towards Fleur Millar.
But as he looked down at her now a rush of tenderness came to him. She’d been wonderful with Tom. She’d bathed him frequently with some stuff that lessened the itchiness and kept him occupied with games and books, and they could frequently be heard laughing together. And just her cool, calm presence seemed to soothe him when he was feeling feverish and especially itchy.
And she looked so young, he thought, with her hair spread out over the pillow, her eyes closed. Younger, in her simple pink blouse and white shorts, even than the twenty-year-old he had originally thought her to be. But still, if he was an enigma to himself on the subject of Fleur Millar, he thought drily, she was as much of an enigma herself…
Then Tom moved and murmured in his sleep, and she sat up groggily. But Tom settled and she looked up, aware of Bryn’s presence suddenly, and stiffened.
‘Come,’ he said very quietly. ‘You deserve a good night’s sleep.’
‘What about you?’ she objected although sleepily. ‘You’ve been working all day.’
He was still in his pirate outfit, although he’d discarded his bandanna, and had come straight from the restaurant. But he shrugged. ‘I’m OK. And I’ll sleep right in here with him.’ He gestured to the other single bed. ‘But I’ll walk you home first.’
She sat up, rubbed her face then looked around for her sandals. But before she had got a chance to locate them he picked her up in his arms. ‘Don’t worry about shoes.’
Surprise, plus that wooziness of mind after waking up too early from a deep sleep, held her silent. Then other things held her silent. The ease with which he carried her down the steps of his house and across the beach. The warmth of his body against hers, the width of his shoulders, the pure man aroma of him with just a dash of something exotic and spicy like cumin or coriander, from his cooking, no doubt. The way her cheek lay against his chest and the way she could feel the beat of his heart beneath his shirt like a steady lifeline…
He didn’t look down at her until he stood her on her feet on her own veranda. Then she noticed that he was breathing a little raggedly. So was she but it was hard to say if it was the exertion for him or a combination of it and all the sensations she had felt. All the same, it produced a strange reaction in her, a suddenly tender feeling towards Bryn Wallis.
And it must have been that that prompted her to say softly, ‘I think Tom will be better tomorrow. Not a hundred per cent, but the spots are starting to fade.’
He took her hand with a faint sigh. ‘I don’t know how to thank you for all you’ve done for him. I’m sorry I was a bit…ungracious about it all.’
She turned her face up to him with a look of surprise in her eyes. ‘Were you?’
‘Didn’t you notice?’
‘I…’ She grimaced ‘To be honest, there didn’t seem to be anything new in your manner.’
‘So I’m ungracious most of the time?’
She smiled but didn’t agree or disagree.
He looked down at her hand in his and suddenly raised his eyebrows. ‘You don’t bite your nails any more.’
Her hand moved in his then she took it away. ‘No. It was something I—well, being up here seems to have made me not want to do it any more. Bryn, if you’re worried about Tom getting too wrapped up in me, don’t. You’re still the most important thing in his life.’
He hesitated, as if about to pursue the nail-biting issue, but to her relief said instead, ‘What about you? You seem to have got really fond of him and you seem to be a natural with kids.’
Fleur flinched inwardly. But she said lightly enough, ‘Always thought I’d like six but that could be a reaction to being an only child. Goodnight, Bryn. Thanks.’ She turned to go in.
‘Fleur,’ he said then stopped frustratedly. ‘Goodnight.’
The next morning Lyall Henderson turned up at Clam Cove and asked Fleur to have lunch with him at the resort.
She was on the point of refusing; she and Tom, who was much better, as she’d predicted, were doing a jigsaw puzzle but Bryn, who was in the house and privy to it all, had other ideas.
‘What an excellent idea, Lyall, old man! She definitely needs a break. Off you go and put some glad rags on, Miss Millar, and I will finish the puzzle with Tom. I’ll shout you a beer in the meantime, Lyall,’ he added.
Annoyance at being treated like this glinted in Fleur’s eyes briefly, then she shrugged and did as she was bid. Twenty minutes later she returned to Bryn’s bungalow wearing a long filmy cyclamen-pink skirt, matching sandals and a silky white halter-neck top.
If Lyall looked slightly stunned at this gorgeous, extremely man-bait outfit and Tom whistled spontaneously, her boss reacted differently. He drawled, ‘That should really set the cat amongst the pigeons.’ And raised his beer glass at her in a mocking salute.
Fleur simmered inwardly, although she knew she’d deliberately provoked this reaction; she just wasn’t sure why she’d set out to do it. It was the one exotic outfit she’d brought to Clam Cove, and perhaps she’d donned it because Bryn had told her to get out her glad rags? Or to show him that she didn’t need him to direct her social life? Or perhaps she’d put it on as a warning to him, she theorized. ‘I am what I am so stay away, you’re right about me’ kind of statement.
Unfortunately, in her annoyance, she’d failed to take into account the effect it would have on Lyall, and she should have. Because it had been clear at the picnic that he would like to get to know her better, although she honestly hadn’t expected him to show up out of the blue.
Damn, she thought, I’ve fallen into a trap of my own making. I allowed myself to be needled by Bryn into this. Oh, well, I’ll just have to cope as best I can…
So she said airily to her boss, ‘See you later.’ And patted Tom on the top of his head. ‘Stay cool, dude,’ she murmured to him.
He grinned impishly up at her—this was a ritual between them—and replied, ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t, Fleur!’
Lyall had hired a ‘moke’, an open-sided vehicle that you could pick up from the jetty, and they drove to the resort with the wind rushing through their hair. She asked him if he was still sleeping a lot of the time and he laughed and said that he’d got over that—and anyway, Lucy and Brad made sleeping in difficult.
He also confided that the reason he’d come on holiday with his brother, his sister-in-law and his niece and nephew was that he and Ken had jointly inherited the holiday cottage they were all staying at; he and Ken were fishing partners from way back to their juvenile days and they’d made this annual pilgrimage for as long as he could remember.
‘So nothing has changed despite Ken acquiring a wife and two children?’ she asked with a glinting little smile.
Lyall looked rueful. ‘Moira has made some changes,’ he conceded. ‘We no longer fish day and night and there are strict rules about shaving
daily. There is also an embargo on “talking fish” at certain times of the day.’
‘Poor Moira,’ Fleur said with some feeling.
Lyall laughed, and they arrived at the resort.
It turned out to be a pleasant meal they shared on a terrace overlooking the sea, shaded by a white canvas umbrella.
And, perhaps inevitably, the conversation turned to Bryn. Lyall brought the subject up by asking Fleur how she’d met him and come to work for him.
She told him.
‘I gather,’ he said slowly, ‘it hasn’t been an easy relationship at times?’
Fleur raised her eyebrows. ‘You gather right. Which came as a bit of a surprise because,’ she paused, ‘well, there’s no denying he can be most charismatic when he wants to be. How,’ she hesitated, ‘well do you know him?’
‘Not that well at all. He and Ken have been friends since their university days, when I was still at school.’ He grimaced. ‘But one knows of him, of course.’
Fleur would have loved to ignore this opening to find out a bit more about Bryn Wallis but found she didn’t have the moral fibre or whatever was required not to say, ‘I don’t know anything about him other than that he was journalist in his previous life.’
‘More accurately a war correspondent,’ Lyall supplied, ‘with more nerve than most. They said he had the reactions, instincts and coordination of jungle cat, which is how he survived at it for so long. But then he…just packed it in and came up here.’
Fleur stared at Lyall wide-eyed for a moment.
‘Of course, running a restaurant is not a complete departure for him. The Wallis family owns and runs a chain of prestige hotels…’ Lyall named a couple ‘…all built up by his father and grandfather from one small inner-city café.’
This time Fleur blinked dazedly because one of the hotels Lyall had named was where she’d had her interview with Bryn. ‘Not that he and his father see eye to eye much, according to Ken,’ Lyall continued. ‘You know, the age-old problem of fathers wanting their sons to follow in their footsteps but when Bryn gets this alternative-lifestyle syndrome out of his system, who knows?’
Wife in the Making Page 5