The Duke's Proposal

by Sophie Weston

  ‘You can do it,’ she told herself.

  But it didn’t take cosmetics and styling to make Jemima Dare a stunner. All it took was a rapid shower. Inevitably the grime of the journey washed out of her hair, leaving it a feathery cloud of red and gold and vermilion and bronze. Even skewered ruthlessly on top of her head, it still glowed. Soft with its recent washing, it seemed determined to descend, too.

  ‘Blast, blast, blast,’ muttered Jemima, stabbing another maxi-pin into her head so hard that she winced.

  Looking in the mirror without vanity, she knew that plain and sexless was not really an option.

  Oh, well, she would just have to be seriously nasty to him. That should put him off. She didn’t think that Niall the beach bum was lining up to join her fan club anyway. So it shouldn’t be that hard.

  Although there had been that spark at the airport. And when their eyes had locked in that odd moment of naked desire. But—

  ‘It takes two to spark,’ said Jemima aloud, with great firmness.

  At the airport she had not been expecting it. Nor at the hotel desk. Now that she was warned she would be on her guard. Definitely no sparks!

  But she almost lost that one at first sight.

  She was half an hour late. The beachside bar was filling up. Under a palm tree a man was murmuring dreamy Latin American love songs to an acoustic guitar. There was a low buzz of conversation.

  It was a mixed bunch. There were men in elegant blazers, men in scruffy tee shirts, and everything in between. There was even one man, with his back to her, in the full Oscar Awards tuxedo. As for the women—Jemima’s expert eye told her that none of them was wearing the latest designer gear but several were very well dressed indeed. And one or two of the older women had spectacular jewellery.

  There was a lot of quiet money around here, she thought. It would be interesting to see how Niall the beach bum managed to fit in. She glanced round the bar again.

  Then the man in the tuxedo turned round. And Jemima saw exactly how Niall fitted in.

  The black tailored jacket should have made him look tamed, less powerful. It did the reverse. The raw physicality was in hiding, not extinguished. And Jemima knew—how she knew—there was hard muscle under the civilised suiting. If she closed her eyes she could remember the exact colours of his tanned skin, the contour of bone and sinew.

  And the warmth. If she thought about it she could still feel the tingle where their bare arms had touched. Jemima looked across the busy bar at Niall with his clothes on and her mouth dried.

  No flirting? This was much stronger stuff than mere flirting.

  She was not at all sure she knew what it was. But she was nearly sure she hadn’t done it before. Not when she was a trendy schoolgirl with loads of boyfriends; not as an aspiring model, dating men who couldn’t believe their luck; certainly not in the last year.

  This feeling was new. Could she handle it?

  For a moment she felt paralysed. She did not know what to do. Go—stay—give an excuse and leave. Face it out…Jemima put a distracted hand to her temple. For a moment she nearly turned and fled.

  Niall must have seen something of that in her face. He stood quite still, surveying her. One dark eyebrow rose in a silent question.

  Jemima took hold of herself. This was ridiculous. Of course she could handle it.

  I am never going to be afraid of a man again. Any man.

  Only a small voice in her head was saying, But you’re not afraid of this one. You’re afraid of yourself.

  Afraid? Afraid? Ridiculous!

  Without giving herself time to think about it, Jemima marched straight up to him and said, all in one breath, ‘Hello-I’ll-have-a-white-wine-spritzer-it’s-crowded, isn’t-it?’

  Niall’s eyes crinkled with amusement. He waved away the crowd in the bar as an irrelevance. ‘Didn’t recognise me, huh?’

  Jemima set her teeth. ‘Not just at first, no,’ she said with dignity. ‘These Chinese lanterns cast a very peculiar light.’

  He was not deceived. ‘I told you I cleaned up nice,’ he said complacently.

  Two could play at that game. Jemima took a step back and looked him up and down, the way photographers looked at a model they were not sure about. She took her time about it.

  ‘Not bad,’ she drawled at last.

  She fully expected him to take offence. But instead he gave a great crack of laughter, as if he were really enjoying himself.

  ‘You’re priceless.’ He handed her a glass. ‘Your health.’

  She was instantly suspicious. ‘That doesn’t look like a spritzer.’

  ‘It isn’t. It’s Pirate’s Punch.’

  Instantly she was bristling. ‘I see. And you know better than I do what I want to drink?’

  Niall looked startled. ‘Hey, not me. It’s the hotel speciality. Every guest gets one free as the first drink of the evening. But if you prefer that spritzer—’ He crooked a finger at the barman.

  Jemima subsided, feeling a fool.

  ‘No, it’s okay. I’ll stick with the punch,’ she muttered.

  But Niall was already giving the order and didn’t hear.

  ‘That will be wasted,’ said Jemima, at war between irritation and slightly shamefaced good manners.

  He shrugged. ‘You can switch to that after the punch.’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m not much of a drinker. One drink lasts me for ever.’

  Those dark eyebrows flew up again. ‘How very unusual.’

  Irritation won. ‘Lots of people don’t drink.’

  ‘Not the sort of people who go backpacking alone without so much as a provisional hotel room to lay their head.’

  She laughed angrily. ‘Careful, your prejudices are showing. You should get out more.’

  And that did wipe the smile off his face.

  Pleased, Jemima took a triumphal swig of her punch.

  And gasped. Gagged. Then broke down into mighty spluttering.

  Niall’s expression cleared. He leaned forward solicitously and thumped her hard between the shoulderblades.

  Her eyes watered. But at least she could breathe again.

  ‘Wh-wh-what’s in that?’ she gasped when she could speak.

  ‘Fire water, is it?’

  He sounded mildly intrigued. Took a sip. Pulled a face.

  ‘Wrong barman on duty tonight.’

  He leaned over the bar and hooked up a glass and lots of ice. There was a big crystal jug of water on the bar and he filled the glass and gave it to her. Jemima drank about half straight down in one gulp.

  ‘Thank heavens.’

  ‘Hit the spot, did it? Good. Sorry about the punch. It’s usually full of mango juice. Very refreshing.’

  The busy barman came back with Jemima’s spritzer. Niall took it from him.

  ‘Do you want me to taste this for you first?’

  Jemima laughed weakly, shaking her head. ‘I think I’ll stick with water for the moment,’ she said with feeling.

  He put the drink back on the bar. ‘I don’t blame you.’ He was rueful. ‘Not one of my better openers.’

  In spite of herself, Jemima was charmed. Niall being rueful was very beguiling.

  ‘I’ll have to think of a way to make it up to you.’

  She waved a magnanimous hand. ‘Forget it. I’m breathing again, after all.’

  Niall looked down at her. He was smiling, but she detected puzzlement behind his pleasant expression.

  She cocked her head. ‘What?’

  ‘You know, you’re a real contradiction,’ he said slowly.

  Jemima was taken aback. ‘Me?’

  ‘You.’

  She scanned his expression, suspecting mockery. But there was none. She shook her head, honestly puzzled. ‘Why on earth?’

  He seemed to weigh his words. ‘I don’t want to offend you any more than I have done already.’

  Not so beguiling after all, decided Jemima. Her smile froze. She braced herself. ‘Oh, why not? Go for it,’ she said coldl
y.

  His lips twitched. ‘Okay, then. If you really want it. My point is the following: you fire up at the slightest thing, you bristle every time I look at you, and then the barman makes you a toothpaste and vinegar cocktail which nearly chokes you—and you’re as sweet as cream about it.’

  ‘Oh.’

  To her astonishment, Jemima could feel herself blushing, as if he had paid her a really nice compliment. As if she were shy—and a whole lot more naïve than she could ever remember being, even when she was still a schoolgirl.

  As if this were a real date.

  She caught herself. This was fantasy land.

  She straightened her shoulders. Jemima Dare was cool, cool, cool. This laughing stranger didn’t know who he was dealing with here. But he would. Oh, boy, he certainly would.

  She stared him down. ‘I don’t think that’s much of a contradiction,’ she said crisply.

  His head went back as if she had suddenly jabbed him in the chest. Good!

  She shrugged. ‘So the barman got his proportions wrong. It’s not a hanging offence.’

  Niall raised his eyebrows and leaned an elbow on the bar. After his initial surprise he had suddenly become very, very relaxed. Also a lot closer.

  ‘But it’s a hanging offence when I look at you?’ he drawled.

  And of course it was. The way he was looking at her now, anyway. Those heavy-lidded eyes were bright with mockery. But it was not only mockery. And they both knew it.

  This time she managed not to blush. Though the intent look in his eyes did not make it easy. ‘Don’t be silly. That’s just stupid,’ she said hastily.

  ‘You should try standing where I am.’

  There was enough truth in that to make her uneasy. Jemima looked away. Her head was ringing with possible answers. Don’t look at me like that. Why are you trying to wind me up? What do you want of me?

  The silence drew out until it hummed like elastic stretched to breaking point. She had to say something.

  It was not a good thing. ‘Well, I guess it’s because I don’t know you very well.’

  ‘Ah.’ It was a note of pure satisfaction.

  Jemima winced. Before the words were well out of her mouth she could have kicked herself. It must have sounded like an open invitation to spend the evening together. And he clearly thought the same thing. Or was choosing to take it that way.

  Why don’t I think before I open my mouth?

  Niall smiled at her kindly.

  ‘Okay. Let’s start again. I’m Niall Blackthorne,’ he said with a charming smile, as if they had just met for the first time. He held out his hand.

  Jemima glared. But there was no help for it, not without making exactly the sort of scene she wanted to avoid. Slowly, reluctantly, as if it was being dragged away from her body, she put her own hand into his.

  ‘H-hello,’ she managed. She didn’t know whom she was more furious with—Niall Blackthorne for playing games with her, or herself for not handling it better.

  His palm was cool and strong. Her fingers tingled when they touched his. Jemima swallowed and tried to ignore the slight ringing in her ears.

  Niall shook her hand with brisk formality and let her have her hand back.

  ‘I’m at Pirate’s Point until the weekend. How long are you here for, Ms Cooper? Or may I call you Jay Jay?’

  Jemima shivered and clamped both hands round her glass of water.

  That phony name was going to be a mistake. In that caressing voice it felt horribly intimate. In the business everyone called her Jemima. Only her sister called her Jay Jay. Hearing Niall Blackthorne use the name felt like handing him a key and an open invitation to stroll into her life. And she had a nasty suspicion that he knew it.

  Why don’t I think?

  She bit her lip. ‘Call me whatever you like,’ she said curtly. ‘I’m leaving tomorrow.’

  He gave her a long, slow smile.

  It seemed she could feel it, right through to where the blood beat at the base of her throat. It felt as if it was suffocating her. Jemima put up a hand to quiet it…

  And he saw. His smile widened.

  ‘Then we only have tonight,’ he said blandly. ‘I take that as a challenge.’

  Jemima’s eyes flared. ‘What do you mean, a challenge?’

  ‘Not to waste a moment of it,’ he told her with another of those slow, meaningful smiles that scrambled her brains. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘G-go?’

  But he was holding out a commanding hand. And, to Jemima’s inner fury, she went with him. Meek as a rounded-up sheep, she thought, disgusted at herself. But she still went.

  He took her through the gate and out onto the beach. Before them the sea murmured and lapped.

  ‘Ah. That sort of challenge,’ said Jemima, detaching her hand and sounding brightly self-possessed. ‘Romantic walk along the beach. Original!’

  ‘Cynic.’ His voice was full of laughter. ‘Look at those stars.’

  ‘Think I’ll concentrate on keeping upright just for the moment, thank you.’

  Her espadrilles were divinely comfortable and easy to pack, but they slithered all over the place on the powdery sand.

  ‘Hang on to me,’ said Niall.

  If there had been the slightest hint of triumph in his voice Jemima would have told him what she thought of his teasing and stalked away. But there was not. He sounded neutral, innocent and mildly helpful. Damn him.

  ‘Very kind.’ She did not mean it.

  Niall Blackthorne took her hand and put it firmly into the crook of his arm. ‘Take small steps. You’re trying to stride out too much. That’s when you skid.’

  His touch set her unruly pulses galloping again.

  What is wrong with me? I regularly get wrapped up in the arms of the most beautiful men in the business. They don’t do this to me!

  ‘Thank you,’ she said in a strangled voice.

  The breeze off the sea was cool. She refused to shiver, but they were walking so close that he picked it up.

  ‘Cold?’

  ‘Maybe a little.’

  He stopped at once and took off his jacket. Before Jemima could think of a thing to say he had swung it round her shoulders and taken her hand again, urging them on.

  ‘Better?’

  The jacket was surprisingly heavy. The silky lining slithered along her exposed skin like a live creature. She felt embraced by it. Soothed and somehow protected. And so warm! It was like cuddling up in front of a warm fire on a cold night. Like basking in sunshine.

  Like being loved.

  Oh, boy, am I in trouble here.

  ‘Very toasty,’ Jemima said brightly, and much, much too loudly. She did not look at him.

  She held the jacket clutched round her as carefully as if it were a king’s cloak. And when they went up the steps to the terrace restaurant she surrendered it reluctantly. But there really was no reason to hang onto it once they were out of the faint sea breeze. She let it go as Al seated her.

  ‘Nice quiet table,’ said Al.

  He exchanged another of those complicated masculine looks with Niall. She wasn’t supposed to notice them, thought Jemima. But instantly she was on her guard.

  She shook her head at another rum punch, accepted mango juice and said casually when he left, ‘You must have known each other a long time.’

  Niall was shrugging himself back into his jacket. He looked up at that, surprised.

  ‘Al and me? That’s shrewd of you.’

  She had the impression he did not like her being shrewd. She said excusingly, ‘You seem—comfortable with each other.’

  ‘Well, we’ve bumped into each other in various resorts round the world. Must be fifteen years since we first met. Maybe more.’

  ‘Friends, then?’ she concluded.

  He looked into the little candle that burned in the middle of their table, his expression oddly sober. ‘Maybe. Nearly.’

  Jemima was intrigued. ‘Nearly friends? What does that mean?’

  N
iall shrugged. ‘We go back a long time. We’ve seen a lot together. I guess that makes us friends of a sort, yes.’

  ‘Tell.’

  He looked up suddenly. Jemima was startled. How could she have thought he was not good-looking? In the candlelight he was real heartbreaker material.

  ‘You want the story of my criminal past?’ he mocked. But it was gentle mockery this time. ‘Okay, then. You asked for it.’

  He was very, very funny. There was one tale of a card sharp in Macao when Al had been a greenhorn of nineteen. Niall, scarcely older, had already known how to suss out the villains. But not before the two boys had ended up lurking at the train depot and getting soaked in mud during a sleepless night.

  Jemima laughed until she had a stitch. She put a hand to her side, chuckling.

  Niall was hurt. ‘Women are hard,’ he complained.

  And launched into another story, this time of a woman with a gun and a grievance on another island paradise.

  ‘Nearly ended Al’s career,’ he said with relish.

  ‘What happened?’ said Jemima, weak with laughter.

  ‘Niall talked her out of it,’ said Al, appearing at her elbow with mango juice and Niall’s beer. ‘He’s good at that.’ He produced a handwritten menu card with a flourish. ‘Ellie says have the red snapper.’

  Jemima glanced quickly at the card and was taken aback. ‘I can’t eat all this,’ she said, from the heart.

  There was butternut squash soup, a salad of rocket with grapefruit and passionfruit seed dressing, pan-fried red snapper with local vegetables, cheeses, a vacherin with banana, rum and walnuts.

  Al looked hurt. ‘It’s all good fresh food.’

  ‘But I can’t remember when I last had cheese. Let alone a dessert.’

  Niall laughed. ‘Take it a step at a time. You’ll be surprised how easy it is.’

  Jemima looked up sharply. She was not at all sure that he was talking about the food.

  She shook the menu card. ‘Just to read this makes my mouth water. And my eyes bulge.’ She sighed ruefully. ‘Followed by waistline, if I’m not careful.’