The Duke's Proposal

by Sophie Weston

  That brought her up sharp.

  ‘Um—probably,’ said Jemima in a hollow voice.

  ‘We must compare notes.’

  ‘Er—yes.’

  ‘Tonight, say? We’re going to be eating in the same place, after all. Why don’t I see you in the bar and we can eat together?’

  ‘Great.’ Jemima’s enthusiasm was so forced that it was amazing he did not notice it, she thought.

  But he didn’t. ‘It’s a date,’ he said cheerfully.

  Jemima could have screamed. So much for lying low and being her own woman! She had not been on this Toy Town island for more than a couple of hours and already she’d got a date she didn’t want with a man she didn’t like. A man, moreover, who had the hard, dissecting look of a Renaissance ruler who wouldn’t brook being lied to. Tonight, she thought furiously, was going to be hard work.

  She stared straight ahead at the road shimmering in the heat and told herself she had to do better than this tomorrow. But for tonight she would just have to busk it. She could do that, surely? Just for one night.

  ‘Seven okay for you?’

  She drew a deep breath. Go on, perform, she told herself. That’s what models do, for heaven’s sake. And you do a great performance. Francis Hale-Smith was saying so only yesterday.

  He sent her another of those deep, disturbing looks. Jemima felt her skin prickle with awareness. She could feel him willing her to look at him. It was like a physical tug of war to resist it.

  Smile for the camera.

  She swallowed and forced herself to say, ‘I look forward to it.’ She had to brace herself physically to get it out.

  He smiled. Even not looking at him, Jemima knew that it was an ambiguous smile. It made her feel hot all over, not just her face this time.

  ‘Not as much as I do,’ he said softly.

  CHAPTER THREE

  PIRATE’S POINT was a surprise. She had been braced for concrete monstrosities dwarfing the beach and Nevada-style neon.

  ‘But it’s beautiful,’ said Jemima, sitting up sharply in surprise.

  ‘Al will be overwhelmed,’ murmured Niall.

  The bay was a great semicircle, fringed by a beach of ivory sand. The hotel was everything that the poster had promised: three-storey blocks set among gardens that had been planted to jungle density. But as the drive curved down the hill towards the sea Jemima found she could never see more than one block of apartments at any one time. Even the casino, visible from the road, right out on the promontory that formed the most westerly point of the beach, looked like a Spanish hacienda, set among palm trees and hibiscus. Not a neon sign in sight.

  ‘Phew,’ she said. ‘No flashing lights.’

  He chuckled. ‘Gambling is not all burgers and slot machines. You put a casino in a place like this, you’re selling a lifestyle.’

  Niall did not look at her. But even the set of his shoulders was mocking. Jemima’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Are you an expert on gambling?’ There was a distinct edge to her voice.

  His mouth tilted in a private smile. ‘You could put it like that.’

  Jemima knew she was being laughed at. But as she did not know why she didn’t have a clue how to deal with it. She ground her teeth.

  ‘I don’t gamble,’ she announced.

  He gave a great shout of laughter.

  Jemima could have screamed with fury. But she was honest enough to admit—well, to herself—that she deserved his mockery. Her remark had been meant as a put-down. But as soon as she’d said it she had realised how impossibly smug it sounded. Smug and prim and all the things she was pretending not to be. All the things she wasn’t.

  And it was all Haughty Cheekbones’s fault.

  ‘Do you enjoy winding people up?’ she said frostily.

  He glanced sideways, still chuckling. ‘Can’t get enough of it.’

  Jemima made a noise which, even to herself, sounded like ‘Grrrr,’ and turned her shoulder, looking pointedly out at the landscape.

  He was taking the Range Rover along a swirling drive between dense bushes and vine-covered hotel buildings. The sea appeared and disappeared with the turns in the road. In the afternoon sun it gleamed like the coat of a sleepy tiger.

  Jemima forgot that she had made a prune of herself and Niall Whoever-He-Was had laughed at her. This was just too beautiful.

  She swung round to watch the sea slip away behind a wall that was covered with bougainvillaea so purple it hurt the eyes. ‘This is amazing,’ she said, awed. ‘Once you’re down off the road you can’t see one block from any of the others.’

  ‘Try not to sound so surprised when you meet Al and Ellie,’ advised Niall dryly. ‘They’ve worked hard at this place. They’re proud of it.’

  But when they arrived at the porticoed entrance Jemima had no time to congratulate the manager on the sympathetic landscaping of his hotel complex. Or anything else. A small, fierce woman was waiting for them, tapping her foot. She ignored Jemima completely and launched into a tirade.

  ‘There you are, Niall. What on earth kept you? The kitchen has run out of everything. Everything. We’re nearly an hour late starting dinner. Do you realise that?’

  He grinned. ‘Sorry, Ellie. Picked up some excess baggage.’

  The small woman nodded to Jemima without interest and shot past them. She dived into the back of the Range Rover and began to scrabble like an oversized hamster.

  Niall gestured to the jeans-clad bottom which was all they could see of her.

  ‘Ellie, your hostess,’ he said, grinning. ‘I’ll do the other half of the introduction later. And here is Al, who will find you a room.’

  Al was a lot less fierce.

  ‘A room, sure,’ he said easily. ‘Are you a diver or a gambler?’

  ‘Neither,’ said Jemima, taken aback. ‘Is it part of the entry requirement?’

  ‘Our guests are usually one or the other.’

  And when she still looked puzzled Niall said blandly, ‘It makes a difference to which rooms Al gives them.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Divers get up early. Gamblers go to bed late. Al separates them so they don’t disturb each other.’

  ‘How—er—efficient,’ said Jemima.

  Al was not as attractive as Niall, but his smile was a great deal kinder. ‘We’ve found it works.’

  Leaving Ellie to excavate the provisions she wanted, Al took Jemima’s squashy bag and led the way to the cool stone lobby. Old-fashioned ceiling fans whirred and small palms stood about in great brass tubs. There was Cole Porter on the sound system. But the place was empty. Al went to a big desk in the corner and sat down at a computer.

  His fingers flickered and Jemima saw a screen come up. ‘So, who do you want to sleep with?’ he asked cheerfully.

  Niall gave a sound that was suspiciously like a choke.

  Al looked up at him grinning. ‘Niall’s a gambler,’ he said, as if the information would be helpful.

  Jemima had a nasty feeling of male solidarity ranged against her. She refused to give them the satisfaction of acknowledging it. Instead she smiled sweetly back into Al’s teasing grin, and completely ignored Niall’s artificial stone face.

  ‘So he said,’ she agreed without expression.

  ‘And she’s not,’ offered Niall, suspiciously bland.

  Al’s eyebrows rose.

  Jemima said hastily, ‘I’m a lark, not an owl. Better put me with the diving party.’

  Al pushed a registration card across the desk. Jemima picked up the pen and bent over it. And as she did so she caught the look that passed between him and Niall. No doubt at all. Pure masculine amusement.

  Jemima’s head reared up with indignation. Men did not laugh at her. They looked at her with longing—or lust—or utter hopeless yearning. She whipped round, glaring.

  And found that Niall had stepped forward and they were unexpectedly close. Too close. Almost touching.

  At once Niall had his face under control.

  Jemima tho
ught suddenly, He’s done this before. He’s used to hiding his thoughts at a moment’s notice.

  He was good at it too. All desire to shout left her abruptly. She took a slow step backwards.

  His eyes darkened, and just for a moment she thought she could detect what he was thinking. She saw puzzlement. Then surprise. Then his head went back as if he knew she could see through the mask. And then she saw the naked flare of desire, urgent and unmistakable.

  They stared at each other, speechless.

  A delicious shiver rippled up her spine. Careful, Jemima. That would not be a good idea.

  She put the pen down and moved out of touching range.

  ‘And your credit card?’ said Al, busy with her registration, not noticing.

  Niall and Jemima looked at each other like conspirators.

  As if in a dream, Jemima handed her card across. Then realised, too late, that it had her real name on it. She tensed.

  But Al did not comment. ‘Sign here.’

  He checked her signature and gave the credit card back to her.

  Jemima relaxed. Of course, hoteliers must be used to women turning up with papers in other names—divorced women, remarried women. Hoteliers would have to be discreet.

  Al passed a strip of plastic through a machine and handed it across the desk. ‘Room 409. It will have to be a quick tour now,’ he said apologetically. ‘We’ve got a cruise party in for dinner.’

  Niall said easily, ‘I’ll show Jay Jay to her room, if you like.’

  All signs of that flaring desire had gone and he was laughing again. Jemima told herself that she was relieved.

  Al pulled a face, then gave a rueful smile. ‘Sorry about this,’ he said to Jemima. ‘We don’t usually co-opt guests. But it’s just gone mad today.’

  Jemima glanced at Niall, frowning. ‘A guest?’

  She could not believe it. This too competent pirate in his barely decent shorts? A guest? Here?

  ‘Yes, Al lets me stay here,’ he told her solemnly. ‘I clean up okay.’

  Jemima felt herself redden. His face was bland but she knew that he was laughing at her. Again!

  ‘I’m sure you do,’ she said with restraint. ‘I could do with a clean-up myself. If you’re going to be a boy scout, I’d be really glad to see my room now.’

  ‘Sure. Come with me.’

  He went to take her bag from Al, but Jemima got there first. She felt she had something to prove, though she was not quite sure what. She seized the bag and looped it over her shoulder, clamping it protectively to her side.

  ‘See you at dinner,’ Al called after them. This time he did not bother to suppress his grin.

  Jemima pretended not to notice.

  Niall took her to her room via a briskly effective orientation walk.

  ‘Bar.’ He waved a hand at the wicker-roofed area on the beach. ‘See you there later. Garden dining area.’ He waved inland. ‘We can eat inside if the wind gets up. Pool. There’s another one further up the hill, near my cottage. Colder, but not chlorinated. Your block.’

  He stood back to let her precede him onto the steps that led up to an open walkway among the trees.

  ‘Your cottage?’ said Jemima puzzled. ‘You mean you don’t stay with the gamblers after all?’

  ‘They have three or four cottages in the grounds. I prefer one of those,’ said Niall. ‘More private.’

  Again Jemima felt that little shiver of unacknowledged awareness. She was not going to ask about why he wanted extra privacy. She was not even going to think about it. She was not.

  ‘But the apartments are fine,’ he said reassuringly. ‘You’ll see. Your terrace comes with damn great potted banana plants. And the electricity is a lot more reliable.’ He ran lightly up the exposed stairs onto an open-air landing that was brushed by huge leaves. ‘The light switch is here.’ He showed her.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Jemima, panting slowly after him up the stairs. She was cursing her pride. The swag bag weighed a ton after one flight.

  He looked down at her and laughed. Then, relenting, he reached out a negligent hand and just lifted it off her shoulder as if it were a toddler’s lunch box.

  Jemima straightened, glaring.

  He ignored her, running lightly up the remaining flight to the top gangway, and made his way to the door at the end. He inserted the card and Jemima heard the click as it unlocked.

  ‘I hate these things,’ Niall said conversationally. ‘All you need is a good power cut and you can’t get in.’ He flung the door open with a flourish.

  ‘Or out,’ said Jemima, refusing to pant any more.

  ‘That wouldn’t necessarily be so bad,’ murmured Niall. ‘In some circumstances, anyway.’

  His admiring look was pantomime. Nothing to do with that flare of pure flame at the desk.

  She gave him a withering look. ‘Forget it. I don’t rise to schoolboy innuendo.’

  He laughed aloud. ‘Shame.’

  ‘And if I get locked in by a power cut I shall climb down a drainpipe.’

  ‘I just bet you would too,’ he agreed, his eyes dancing.

  She mistrusted the dancing eyes even more than she resented his horribly superior fitness. ‘Believe it,’ she said grimly.

  He flung up his hands. ‘Okay. I won’t give you a guided tour of the bedroom or the romantic terrace. Just the basics—’ He went swiftly round the apartment, pointing things out. ‘Air-conditioning unit. Umbrella—the rain here doesn’t last long, but it’s hard. Candles in case the light goes out. Torch. Al has just put in ankle-lights along the paths, but people like to wander off on their own to look at the stars.’ He unearthed a black rubber torch that looked like an offensive weapon and patted it kindly. ‘Don’t go without this. And don’t forget—night falls fast here.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Jemima, with restraint.

  He was not deceived. ‘Oh, but I don’t have to tell you that, do I? You’re a seasoned traveller.’

  She gave him a sweet, angry smile. ‘But it’s so nice to be told what to do in case I forget. I just love a man to be protective.’

  He pursed his lips in a silent whistle. ‘Ouch. Were those toes I just trod on?’

  Jemima was angry with herself. Sure, the man was annoying, with his assumption of superiority. But he was not Basil, telling her what to do with her every moment and threatening to hurt her if she didn’t follow his instructions to the letter.

  She turned away, biting her lip. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ It was a lie.

  ‘What I mean,’ said Niall calmly, ‘is that you have an attitude problem.’

  Jemima gasped and whipped round in outrage. It was one thing to know you had over-reacted. It was another to be crunched by a half-naked beach bum. Guest or no guest!

  She drew herself up to her considerable height. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Fascinating.’

  He was, she found, actually having the gall to stare at her as if she were some new species he hadn’t come across before.

  ‘Goodbye,’ she said.

  ‘You don’t mean that.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘But I haven’t shown you—’

  ‘Whatever it is, I’ll find it for myself, thank you.’

  She walked towards him purposefully. To her relief, he backed off. She hadn’t been sure he would go like a gentleman.

  ‘You make it very difficult for a chap to be neighbourly.’

  ‘Thank you. I appreciate it,’ said Jemima, still walking. ‘Goodbye.’

  He retreated to the doorway. ‘Not goodbye. Au revoir.’

  She stopped, disconcerted.

  ‘What?’

  The wide, sensual mouth curved into a grin of pure satisfaction.

  ‘We have a date,’ he reminded her gently. ‘Don’t forget. Or I’ll have to come and get you.’

  He sauntered out before she could answer.

  The moment the door closed behind him Niall stopped sauntering. He made it back to the reception desk in record time. Al
looked up, surprised.

  ‘Dinner, Al. I need a private table tonight,’ Niall said crisply.

  A grin dawned. ‘Romancing the feisty Ms Cooper?’

  Niall narrowed his eyes at him. ‘I’d be very surprised if her name is really Cooper. Or if there is a word of truth in anything else she said. Show me the register card.’

  ‘Wow,’ said Al, grin unabated. ‘She’s made a real impact, hasn’t she?’

  Niall was irritated. ‘She’s a manipulator. I had several stepmothers. I recognise the signs.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Card, please.’

  ‘You want to have dinner with her because she reminds you of your stepmothers?’ Al was frankly incredulous.

  Niall shrugged and leaned over the desk to whisk the card off Al’s pile of filing. He scanned it, frowning.

  ‘Of course not,’ he said absently.

  ‘So you do fancy her?’

  Niall looked mulish. ‘Jemima Jane Dare,’ he mused, committing it to memory. ‘Jemima Jane, I’m going to find out what your game is.’

  Al shook his head, puzzled. ‘Why bother?’

  Niall hesitated at that. At last he showed his teeth. ‘I don’t like being manipulated.’

  Al gave a sigh and abandoned any attempt to understand his old friend. ‘It’s your life,’ he said. ‘Table for two on the terrace, then. I’ll tell Ellie.’

  Jemima did not even unpack. She just collapsed on a bed big enough for a family of six and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  When she awoke it was dark. For a moment she was disorientated. The window was in the wrong place, the light switch wasn’t where she expected, the place smelled wrong…And then she came fully awake and, as she always did, remembered the next problem she had to wrestle with.

  She had dealt with Basil. She had escaped.

  Only to fall into the arms of Niall the beach bum.

  Jemima sat bolt upright at the thought. The last vestiges of sleep fled. She groped for light and the time.

  Nearly seven. Well, she would have to be late.

  ‘Woman’s privilege,’ she said, scrambling across the bed and reaching for her sponge bag.

  Only—she didn’t want to feel like a woman with Niall the beach bum. Not in the smallest, most superficial particular. She didn’t want any acknowledgement of her femininity at all. No special concession to a pretty girl. No doors opened or chairs held. Above all, no flirting. When she walked away from Niall the beach bum she wanted to leave him with the memory of a plain, sexless traveller whom he would never think of again.