Prosper, Fleur? she asked herself.
It was a question she found she couldn’t answer. What she did know was that it was impossible not to like him more and more. And that it was becoming a concern to her to think that he viewed her as man-bait or a wild child, a girl to stay away from because of a misconception about her. Not only a concern but it also hurt…
And she couldn’t deny it was less and less solely as a friend that she thought about him when she couldn’t monitor her thoughts…
She stared at the oranges she was working with, and wondered helplessly what was happening to her.
Things changed one balmy evening.
They had an unusually difficult dinner guest, a cigar-smoking man in his forties. He objected to not being allowed to smoke in the restaurant, he loudly condemned the wine list as unimaginative, he sent back his first course untasted because he didn’t like the look of it—and his poor wife sat through it all with a frozen smile on her face.
Fleur was the receptionist for the evening and she, Julene and the waitress held their breath as Bryn’s expression grew more and more murderous.
The coup de grâce came when a magnificent dish of Lobster Mornay was set before the guest, he tasted it—and sent it back too because the lobster was not fresh, in his opinion.
Fleur knew it was going to happen but not quite in the way she expected. Bryn descended leisurely from his cooking station with one hand behind his back and addressed the man quite genially…
‘Mate,’ he said, ‘you may not realize this but I have been instructed in the art of giving people their come-uppance by an expert. You start off with a glass of wine.’ He picked up the man’s wine and studied it for a moment. ‘Should be red wine for maximum effect but this will do.’ And he poured it over the guest’s head.
‘Then,’ he continued and revealed what he had in his other hand; a jug, ‘you add some cream,’ he poured the contents of the jug down the man’s shirt front, ‘and you finish off with raspberries—excuse me, ma’am!’ He reached for the plate in front of the woman at the next table, which just happened to be almost full of raspberry mousse, and consigned it where the cream had gone.
‘Now, sir,’ he said to his transfixed guest, ‘you look as foolish as you sound!’ And he turned to Fleur to add, ‘I made a good pupil, didn’t I?’ He then stalked out of the restaurant and disappeared.
An hour later Fleur found him standing on the beach, staring out to sea.
She came up to him quietly, and when he said nothing simply stood beside him, until presently he roused himself to ask, ‘Am I to be charged with assault?’
‘No.’
He turned his head to her. ‘So what did happen?’
Fleur smiled faintly. ‘Quite a bit of chaos until Julene took command. The man’s wife started to laugh hysterically and to tell him that he deserved everything he’d got.’
Bryn groaned.
‘As you say. The man himself did mention, although not very intelligibly, that the police should be called, and the lady whose raspberry mousse you poured all over him started to cry.’
Bryn dropped his head into his hands with another groan.
‘Cheer up,’ Fleur advised. ‘Don’t forget that’s the other part of the lesson—never regret what’s been done when you’re delivering come-uppances.’
He lifted his head to look at her ruefully. ‘You must have more intestinal fortitude than I do. Go on, what happened then?’
‘That’s when Julene descended, and took over. I must say she was magnificent. Eric also appeared on the scene and she handed over the soggy guest to him to be taken away and cleaned up. You don’t argue with Eric,’ she said reminiscently.
‘No,’ Bryn agreed.
‘Then she announced that no one would be charged for their dinner to compensate them for any distress they may have suffered during the incident, and she invited them back tomorrow night for a special evening she intended to plan.’
Bryn started to laugh. ‘She did that? How very generous of Julene on my behalf.’
‘It was good business—they all booked in for a repeat performance. She also vouched for the fact that the lobster had been caught this morning. In fact, everyone responded well and something like a party spirit developed as they were leaving.’
‘What about the man’s poor wife?’
‘Ah. I don’t know how Eric did it but he somehow conveyed to her husband that taking anything out on her would be unacceptable behaviour. He also personally drove them back to the resort.’
‘And all’s well that ends well,’ Bryn murmured. ‘So why do I feel like a bloody fool?’
Fleur started to laugh. ‘It was one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen.’
‘You think so?’
‘I do—after I got over the shock of being your mentor, so to speak.’ She was still smiling.
‘I wasn’t sure how you’d take that,’ he said wryly.
For some reason this made Fleur start to laugh again and then he put his arms around her and they were laughing together.
‘You are a character, you know,’ she said unsteadily. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone quite like you!’
‘The same goes for me,’ he responded gravely. And lowered his head to kiss her.
Fleur could never afterwards claim immunity from a full and open response to this. The truth was, she felt closer to Bryn Wallis than she’d felt to anyone for a long time. The truth was, it was lovely to be held in his arms, to be warmed, to feel such a laughing kinship with a man, and it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to kiss him in return.
But if it started out in laughing kinship, it soon developed into something electrifying. The taste, the feel, the shape of him was so satisfying to Fleur she could only describe herself as revelling in being in his arms. All the sensations he aroused in her body as his hands travelled at will over her curves and slender lines felt unique to her, and as if anything she’d ever felt before were pale imitations of this stunning proximity, this intimate exploration of all her senses, by this man.
He kissed her throat and she shivered with pleasure. He slipped his fingers beneath the fine grey wool pullover she wore with a long black skirt and circled her breasts. She shivered again, this time with anticipation, and made a husky little sound in her throat as his hands moved away to circle her waist. She tossed her hair back and cupped the back of his head, offering him her mouth again. He obliged and she had to suffer the twin delight of being kissed deeply and feeling his hands roam intimately across her hips beneath the thin stuff of her skirt.
And all the time she was pressed against the hard length of him, and loving it as their bodies moved together, and she felt as if she was on fire from her head to her toes with the contact. On fire and gloriously aroused as well as gloriously aware of and pleasured by Bryn Wallis, of all men, whom she had often thought she hated. Then again, she thought as all this went through her mind like a surge of joy wrapped in a gold tissue of delight, she had always known he would be special in this way.
It was there in his lean, strong lines, there in his eyes, his hands, even there in all the contradictions of his quirky personality. It was there because you knew he was dangerously attractive and not necessarily in the conventional way, although he was that too. But he was also a man who’d taken danger in his stride, a man of many parts and talents, a man you could rely on in almost any situation…
Stop! she thought suddenly. Where was this leading? Remember, no more men…
Did he read her mind? she was to wonder later. Because he stopped right on cue. No, that wasn’t right, she thought dazedly. He was letting her down slowly. His hands went from inflicting delight on her body, even celebrating it, to simply holding her gently. His lips left hers, then he kissed the top of head and withdrew his hands from her body altogether, to briefly gather her hair and smooth it. Then she was standing alone and he was about a foot away with his hands shoved into his pockets, looking out to sea again.
‘What…what happened?’ she asked unsteadily. ‘I mean…how did it happen?’ She stopped frustratedly.
He turned to her with one eyebrow raised. ‘Because of a mutual hunger that’s been growing between us from the moment we met?’
Fleur sat down suddenly on the beach with her legs crossed and distractedly began to sift sand through her fingers.
‘You can,’ he said after a time, looking down at her bent head and working fingers, ‘come up with all sorts of reasons for it not to be a good idea to feel this hunger. But I don’t think you can—intelligently—deny its existence.’
‘One of your “all sorts of reasons”, no doubt, being that you don’t want to commit to anyone,’ she said drily.
‘Do you?’
Fleur stopped sifting sand and stared out to sea. ‘No. And least of all to you.’
‘Could you say that in my arms, kissing me?’ he queried with a touch of irony.
‘Bryn,’ she swallowed, ‘you’re doing it again. The last time we had this kind of conversation, you switched your stand on things from—’
‘It’s all right for me to lay down the law but not all right for you to agree?’ he broke in to suggest ruefully. ‘I’m only surprised you haven’t credited me with a dog-in-the-manger stance on this.’
‘Since you mention it,’ she responded swiftly, ‘it does sound rather apt.’
‘So what are we going to do about the times when you just can’t help yourself, Fleur?’ It was said coolly and found its mark unerringly.
She flinched visibly but managed to regroup, or so she thought. ‘It wasn’t me alone! I mean…’ She tapered off.
‘Precisely. We each have our reasons but that’s not going to help us when the going gets…hot again. So what I’m trying to say is not dog-in-the-manger stuff but that, rather than be deadlocked, we need to sort some things out.’
She stood up with a sigh and shook out her skirt. ‘I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t you just get someone else to sort out your impossibly tangled business affairs?’
‘All right,’ he drawled. ‘If you want to fly the white feather, if you want to run away to bury yourself somewhere else, do it.’
‘Why shouldn’t I?’ she flashed at him. ‘Or would you rather see me end up like Stella, all bitter and twisted and—?’ She broke off abruptly and bit her lip.
‘Now that,’ he said softly but lethally, ‘is an admission I guess you’re going to regret, Fleur.’
She closed her eyes and could have killed herself. So she took the next best option. She whirled away from him and fled up the beach to her bungalow.
There seemed to be only one remedy for an extremely restless night when Fleur gave up and got up the next morning before the sun rose—a swim. But because she didn’t require any company—it was the last thing she wanted—she put on a pair of sand shoes, and shorts and a T-shirt over her costume, and set out for a little beach she’d found one day when she’d been exploring, on the other side of the headland from Clam Cove.
There was a path, of sorts, but also some rocks to climb over and some steep, tricky patches to negotiate. But the scenery was beautiful, with soaring hoop pines reaching up to a sky that was shot with streaks of pink and gold as the sun cleared the horizon like a ball of fire.
She paused at the top of the headland and looked out to sea before she began her descent. The water was like bright glass with the fiery splendour of the rising sun reflected on its surface. No suspicion of a breeze ruffled it, no swell contoured the surface, and a white yacht slid through it under power without its sails raised. A perfect day, she mused, unless you were hoping to sail.
Ten minutes later she was on the beach, a much smaller beach than Clam Cove but utterly private. So private, in fact, that when she’d stripped off her shoes, shorts and T-shirt she was suddenly tempted to strip off her costume as well. It was like a primitive urge to be at one with nature, at one with this beautiful morning—or perhaps even an urge to strip away all the mental turmoil and baggage she was struggling with at the moment, and cleanse herself ritually in the sea.
She hesitated then moved her towel and clothes as close to the line of water as possible without getting them wet. And she did remove her costume, laid her towel over it, and ran into the water with her arms wide, then raised them over her head and dived beneath the surface.
It was exquisite, she decided. It was cold but bracing and amazingly different from wearing a swimsuit. It felt marvellously free, perfectly natural and it somehow gave her the feeling she was purged of all her problems and in control of her destiny…
Which proved to be a false feeling, as it happened, because after swimming towards the far headland then turning to swim back she suddenly saw that she wasn’t alone. Not only that but the dark copper hair of her fellow swimmer, even plastered to his head, was quite distinctive—it was Bryn.
She stopped swimming and trod water vigorously but he continued leisurely towards her. She opened her mouth to tell him to stop but got a mouthful of water instead and coughed, croaked and spluttered before she finally called, ‘Go away, Bryn!’
He stopped a fair way off and trod water himself. ‘Why?’
‘Because I want to be alone! I didn’t think anyone ever came here!’
‘Well, I do, quite frequently.’
‘So I gather,’ she retorted bitterly. ‘But how come I didn’t see you when I came in?’
He looked back. ‘I went round the point. There’s a cave you can get into at the right tide and there are often lobster under the rocks. But my clothes are under that tree.’ He raised an arm and pointed to the beach.
Fleur looked and noticed what she hadn’t noticed before, a small pile beneath a flowering cottonwood with its boughs bent almost to the beach. ‘Damn,’ she muttered to herself as she trod water so vigorously as to create small waves around her. ‘Uh…well, may I make a respectful request? I’d very much appreciate it if you’d go on your merry way and leave me to finish my swim in peace.’
He put his head to one side thoughtfully. ‘There is one problem, Fleur.’
‘What?’ Her attempt to adopt a conciliatory manner deserted her.
‘I am, not to put too fine a point on it, as naked as the day I was born. It’s the kind of morning that just begs you to skinny-dip—me, anyway,’ he said ruefully. ‘So, in deference to your finer feelings, here’s what I suggest. That you exit this delightful spot first.’
Fleur sank beneath the surface in sheer frustration. She came up, streaming water like a mermaid to her shoulders, and bit the bullet. ‘I can’t. But I can turn away and close my eyes while you get out.’
‘Fleur!’ His tone exhibited ingenious surprise. ‘Don’t tell me you’re skinny-dipping as well?’
‘I am. But before you attempt to dissect it or attribute all sorts of weird motives for it, may I say—it just seemed like a good idea at the time. I was wrong but I had no idea anyone was around.’
‘I gathered that.’
‘You… What do you mean?’ she asked dangerously.
‘I had just come round the point, and was obviously not visible against the rocks, when this—marvellous vision was afforded to me,’ he explained. ‘A beautiful girl shedding her clothes, after some hesitation and glancing around admittedly, then joyfully plunging into the water.’ He paused. ‘But what really intrigued me, Fleur, was that we were of the same mind.’
Fleur digested this and discovered that it took some of the sting out of her annoyance at being ‘set up’.
‘I…I…’ she said slowly ‘…yes, I guess I felt the morning did just beg it. My state of mind seemed to beg it too,’ she added honestly and a little sadly.
He swam up to her without her permission and looked into her eyes. ‘John Donne wrote a line. “Teach me to hear mermaids singing…” That’s what I thought of when I saw you earlier. Don’t,’ he paused, ‘stop singing because of me.’
Her eyes widened.
‘I also have a flask
of hot coffee on the beach, only one cup but two fresh rolls, some butter and some jam.’
Her lips quivered. ‘If that’s an invitation to share your coffee and rolls, I don’t think I can resist it.’
He smiled, and the little golden flecks in his hazel eyes seemed to dance. ‘You can go first, then. I will confine my attentions out to sea.’
She grimaced. ‘Then I turn my back while you come out? Let’s just do it quickly and together. See you at the beach.’ She struck out strongly.
As soon as she reached the beach, first, she picked up her towel and wound it around her. Then she picked up her shorts and shirt, and, without looking to see where he was, disappeared behind a large boulder. When she emerged, clothed and combing her fingers through her hair, he was dressed and pouring the coffee.
‘There you go, have the first cup,’ he invited, but, as their gazes caught then they both looked away, she thought she detected something noncommittal in his eyes, something that seemed to suggest a withdrawal.
She accepted the cup and thought for a moment. ‘Thank you,’ she said at last, ‘and not only for the coffee. But also for…making me feel like a mermaid who could sing. Again. Perhaps.’
He grimaced. ‘Was it so bad?’
She sank down on a log and cupped the coffee with her hands. Then she inhaled the lovely aroma and slowly drained the cup. She handed it back to him and took the roll he offered her.
‘I guess it started when I took up modelling. I was twenty and—confused. I’d done this computer course but my mother insisted that there was more to life than that. My parents…’ She shrugged suddenly. ‘It doesn’t matter. I—’
‘Yes, it does,’ he broke in. ‘I know it gets to a stage when it’s futile to blame your parents, but it does have a bearing.’
She sent him a considering blue gaze. ‘My mother really wanted me to be an actress. To that end she insisted on putting me through drama classes, deportment classes, singing, dancing and elocution classes, you name it.’ She waved a hand. ‘My father maintained that I’d be far better off using my brains rather than my looks to achieve any goals in life, and accused her of trying to realize her failed ambitions through me. If you think I’m gorgeous,’ she said drily, ‘you should have seen my mother in her prime.’
Wife in the Making Page 7