The Duke's Proposal

by Sophie Weston

  ‘Oh, yes, I can,’ she flashed, before she could stop herself. At once she drew a deep steadying breath. Dignity, she reminded herself. Dignity, Jemima! This man needs putting in his place. You won’t do it by playground spitting. ‘I mean, it’s not convenient.’

  His eyebrows rose. ‘How come?’

  That threw her. ‘What?’

  ‘How can it suddenly be not convenient? You’re not doing anything else. Yesterday you were talking of flying out today. That’s an empty diary.’

  Jemima’s hand clenched so hard that the corners of the little key card dug into her palm. Inspired, she said, ‘I need to talk to people. Send a few e-mails. I don’t know how long it will take.’

  His eyebrows rose. But he didn’t say anything.

  ‘Sorry,’ she added unconvincingly.

  He was not buying it. And he was not playing nice either. ‘Lost your bottle?’ he said softly.

  Flustered, Jemima looked at Al. The man was agog, not even trying to hide his avid interest. And Niall didn’t seem to care—or even notice. She could have screamed.

  Dignity, she reminded herself feverishly.

  She gave a laugh which didn’t sound too bad in the circumstances and said lightly, ‘That’s silly.’

  ‘Is it?’

  This was a provocation too far. Jemima’s eyes narrowed to slits. ‘Look, sunshine, when I agreed to see you today I thought we were both staying at Pirate’s Point,’ she said crisply. ‘I wasn’t expecting a Magical Mystery Tour.’

  ‘So adjust your expectations,’ Niall advised.

  Behind the desk, Al gave a choke of laughter. Jemima glared at him and he converted it rapidly into a cough. She decided that a little revenge was in order.

  ‘You mean, let you get away with murder?’ she cooed.

  Niall frowned. ‘I’m sorry?’

  Al suddenly looked alarmed. Jemima beamed at him.

  ‘That’s what Al was telling me is your usual expectation,’ she explained, at her sweetest. ‘Maybe you’re the one who needs to adjust?’

  Both men were utterly silenced.

  Definitely a round to me, she thought with satisfaction. She floated off without a backward look. But behind her she heard Niall say, ‘Gee, thanks, buddy.’ Unseen, she grinned from ear to ear.

  The door behind the palm tree proved to lead into a small but efficient business centre. There was a computer, a fax machine, a printer, a shelf of international directories and four clocks on the wall, showing the time round the world.

  She consulted the computer handbook, enabled it rapidly, and then sat down to access her e-mail messages.

  The agency was panicking. Where was she? Why hadn’t she called? She hadn’t forgotten her meeting at the Dorchester next Wednesday, had she? That was easy. ‘No,’ she typed, and sent it at once. Then conscience struck and she sent them a second e-mail with the hotel’s contact details. ‘But only if you absolutely have to get in touch,’ she added warningly. ‘I’m chilling out big time here.’

  Pepper wanted to know if Jemima would mind wearing a bridesmaid’s dress in rose-pink. That was easy too. ‘Yes!!!’ she sent. ‘Put me in pink and I resign now.’

  And Izzy—well, Izzy was wildly happy, more in love than she had ever imagined possible. In fact, Izzy didn’t think she could wait to get married until the autumn. She never wanted to leave Dom’s side again. If she managed to get a date, how did Jay Jay feel about being a bridesmaid twice in one month?

  That was more difficult.

  Jemima took herself to task. She was glad her sister was happy. Of course she was. Okay, she couldn’t help the cold breath of loneliness that brushed her when she read Izzy’s bubbling message. But she could keep that from Izzy. And what did it matter if Izzy married this month or in August? One day—and soon—she was going to leave the shared apartment and go and live with her Dom and raise little Arctic explorers.

  She nibbled a fingernail, trying out replies that wouldn’t commit her and at the same time wouldn’t spoil Izzy’s happiness. It was hopeless. In the end she gave up and wrote, ‘As long as you don’t want me to wear rose-pink, I’m up for anything.’

  And then there were the messages from Basil. She knew the various aliases he used by now. She zapped them all, unread.

  All the other stuff could have waited, really. But she wanted to give Niall Blackthorne time to move on out of the lobby. So she sent chatty replies to a photographer, a charity organiser, a couple of journalists. All of them would be very surprised, she thought wryly.

  She copied them to Abby at the PR company—‘Look at me being nice to people. Hope it knocks the spoilt brat thing on the head. See you when I get back. Love, J.’

  And after that she couldn’t think of any more reasons to stay in the office. So she logged off, tidied the desk and the shelves to pristine standard and went cautiously out into the lobby again.

  Niall was still there, propped up against the desk and chatting to Al as if he was ready to stay there all day.

  Jemima lurked behind the palm tree. She felt faintly ridiculous. But she had won the last bout, she thought wryly. She did not want to push her luck. After all, she had it on good authority that women let Niall Blackthorne get away with murder! And there was nothing to say that she was immune to that charm that Al envied. In fact, there was quite a lot to prove that she wasn’t.

  So she hovered behind the plants, hoping against hope that he would finish his conversation and go. And then she began to notice the conversation that drifted across the lobby towards her

  ‘Plunging deep at the casino, Niall?’

  ‘Nothing I haven’t planned for.’

  Al looked at his friend searchingly. ‘Sure?’

  Niall was serene. ‘I’m not worried.’

  ‘Well, if you say so.’ Al was relieved, but still curious. ‘So what were you doing last night, brooding out there in the dark?’

  Jemima tensed. Had someone seen them walking in the moonlight?

  Niall sounded faintly puzzled. ‘Brooding?’

  ‘You got rid of the dinner jacket and sat on the dock until three. According to Sherlock Holmes in the kitchen, anyway.’

  ‘Ah. The eyes of the world were upon me. What did Primrose think I was doing? Telling over my sins?’ Niall’s voice was full of laughter.

  Al was caustic. ‘Plenty to tell, I hear.’

  ‘Gossip,’ said Niall reprovingly. But there was that note of laughter in his voice which Jemima was beginning to recognise.

  She recognised it because it sent tingles up and down her spine that had absolutely nothing to do with scented breezes or moonlight. Damn it.

  ‘No, not just Primrose’s highly coloured gossip. For once.’ Al didn’t sound as if he took it very seriously, though. ‘I’ve spent too much time this week mopping up a teenager with a crushed crush,’ Al added severely. ‘Do you have to break the heart of every woman you meet here?’

  Niall sent his friend an incredulous look. ‘You’re complaining? As a responsible hotelier, you’d have been in a lot more trouble if I’d taken that one up on her offer.’

  ‘Maybe, but—’

  ‘No maybe about it. They can be very determined at seventeen. I had to get one of the maids to frogmarch her out of my cottage on Monday afternoon. Did Primrose tell you that?’

  ‘I heard.’ Al’s disapproval slipped a bit. ‘Why don’t nubile blondes come looking for me with champagne and trouble in mind?’ he said wistfully.

  Niall chuckled. ‘Because you’re the head honcho and a responsible citizen. Also married.’

  ‘And you’re a born lust object, I suppose?’ Al was disgusted.

  ‘They think I’m a man of mystery,’ said Niall coolly.

  Al hooted.

  ‘They think you’re James Bond. You turn up at the casino in a white mess jacket and play blackjack until four in the morning,’ said Al with irony. ‘Or you do usually.’ He broke off, as if a thought had just occurred to him. ‘I’ve never heard of you wasting good g
ambling time sitting on the dock in the moonlight before. Or not alone, anyway. Did she turn you down?’

  Niall straightened and looked at the big watch on his muscular wrist. ‘Time I was off. Do you want anything in town?’

  Al ignored that. ‘She did, didn’t she?’

  Niall said wearily, ‘You should try minding your own business some time, Al.’

  Al ignored that too. ‘Oh wow. You took the backpack brat on the razz and she wasn’t dazzled. That has to be a first.’

  Jemima winced. The backpack brat! Was that what they called her? A slow anger started to burn.

  Al thought Niall Blackthorne was a charmer? Well, she’d been charmed by the best. He would have to work hard to come up to her standards. In fact, he’d have to work very hard. She owed it to her own self-respect. And to half the women in the Caribbean, by the sound of it.

  She burst out from behind her palm tree, eyes glittering and vulpine smile firmly in place.

  ‘Oh, good. You’re still here,’ she told Niall. ‘I’ve changed my mind. You can take me to town after all.’

  He was not a fool. His eyebrows flew up and he looked more than a little wary.

  But he was no coward either. In fact, she had a sneaking suspicion that he was engaged in some elemental duel with her that they were the only people to recognise. And he was determined to win.

  His lips twitched. ‘My lucky day,’ he said gravely.

  Jemima was dry. ‘Don’t get carried away. All I need is a lift.’

  ‘Then I guess I should be grateful for that.’ But he didn’t sound grateful. He sounded amused and intrigued—and just a little piqued.

  The duel was definitely still in progress.

  But he let her out in the market square of Queen’s Town when she told him to.

  ‘I’ll be down at the dock if you change your mind,’ he said, leaning back to watch her as she fumbled with the awkward catch on the door. ‘Left at the pirate’s statue brings you out onto the waterfront. There aren’t any gates or anything. Just wander along beside the moorings until you find me.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Jemima, not meaning it.

  She jumped down and banged the door shut behind her. She half expected Niall to try and persuade her. But he didn’t. Instead he raised a hand in farewell, pushed dark glasses up his nose, and swung the big vehicle away at speed.

  Queen’s Town turned out to be as tiny as the airport. Its main square had a couple of ramshackle eighteenth-century buildings with pretty ironwork balconies, and there was a handsome customs house on the seafront. Every shop was stocked to the ceiling with stuff that would have been great for fishermen or housewives, or even deep-sea divers. But none of it was much use to Jemima.

  In the end she gave up. In spite of herself—or was it what she had secretly wanted to do all along?—she wandered along the waterfront.

  It was as hot as a baker’s kitchen. The air was full of the scents of exotic fruit and warm bread and coffee—and seaweed and gasoline, she thought with a grimace. There were plenty of people about but nobody hurried.

  Boats were unloading. Jemima saw fish of all colours—pearl and silver and inky-blue and orange. There were baskets of tomatoes, plump as piglets, golden corn bursting out of its restraining husk; aubergine gleaming an imperial purple so rich that they looked like part of the Crown Jewels, not something you could slice and eat, and small green sugar apples that looked as if they had just been delivered from Fabergé’s factory.

  Jemima gave a great sigh of pleasure and bought herself a coffee from a street trader who was happy to take dollars for the paper cup of dark, sweet liquid. She perched on the sea wall, watching the latecoming small boats tie up and start to disgorge their goods. The stone was warm and the salt air was hot against her neck. She put up a hand to protect the skin—and heard her name.

  She looked up.

  Niall was standing on the deck of a boat, moored at some grey stone steps. He looked exactly as she had had him in her head for the last twenty-four hours—tough, competent, relaxed. In control. Unlike her.

  He had pushed his sunglasses up on top of his head. Their eyes met. His flared before he could master himself. Not so controlled, then.

  Paradoxically, that made her feel even more uncertain. The duel was still on—but neither of them was quite sure where it would end.

  Jemima could not make up her mind whether that was a good thing or not. But she found herself standing up and going towards him over the hot cobbles, as if her dusty feet had a mind of their own.

  She stopped just out of reach, hardly noticing the interested crew behind him.

  He stood easily on the rocking deck. He had discarded his shirt and his skin gleamed in the sun like all the richness of fruit and vegetables being traded behind her.

  Jemima swallowed. ‘Hi.’

  The nearly ugly face was still. ‘Going to give me another chance after all?’

  She steadied her breathing deliberately before she spoke. ‘Depends on what you’re offering.’

  Oh, that was good, she thought. It sounded upbeat, even amused. At least it sounded as if she had not made a complete pillock of herself every time they were face to face. That had to be a good start.

  Niall leaped lightly down from the side of the boat onto the pavement. ‘Let’s talk about that.’

  Jemima tensed. But he did not touch her. Instead he stood in front of her, searching her face as if he did not quite believe what she said. Or that she was here.

  Shrewd of him, she thought. It was becoming increasingly difficult to remind herself to be cynical. Suddenly she wished, passionately, that she had been honest with this man.

  She looked away before conscience undermined her and she told him her real name.

  ‘Okay. Make your pitch.’

  He struck the pose of a Restoration seducer. He could have been the pirate on that statue in the main square. Careful, said her inner radio. This man is sex on a stick. And he knows it.

  He gave her a real seducer’s smile too, straight into her eyes so that she almost staggered at the intensity. ‘What do you say to a day on a desert island?’ he suggested softly.

  Jemima blinked. ‘What?’

  He laughed. Oh, he was gorgeous when he laughed. ‘Let me show you a genuine uninhabited island. It’s only about two hours’ sailing.’

  She looked at the boat behind him. ‘Is that where they do the scuba diving classes?’

  Niall looked at her steadily. ‘No. No classes. No crew. I do the sailing. We go alone.’

  Jemima’s heart did an extreme yo-yo. A whole day alone with him in the middle of the Caribbean? Could she trust him?

  Could she trust herself?

  ‘Or we can sign up for scuba on the reef with the guys.’

  So she was off the hook. If she wanted to be. Suddenly her inner radio coughed into life again, Madame President on the air. You have no life. You don’t date. You don’t go out anywhere unless it’s an assignment.

  Suddenly Jemima thought, No life, huh? I’ll show her. I’ll even show this piratical renegade. I’ll show them all.

  She threw back her head and gave him a dazzling smile.

  ‘If I can find somewhere to buy swimming things, then I’m all yours.’

  His brows flew up. ‘Then I shall find you a swimsuit,’ he said with a mock bow. ‘And let the adventure begin.’

  But there was something in his eyes that made her think he meant it. It was exhilarating.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Where? I’ve found high-factor suncream in the dive shop, and a sunhat in the ironmongers. But the only swimsuits I’ve found would go round me twice.’

  His eyes gleamed. ‘A quest! Trust me. You shall have your swimsuit.’

  He seized her by the hand and rushed her across the road into the covered market. It was cooler, but a whole lot noisier. He took her straight to a stall that was full of brilliant colours—jewel-coloured silken saris, day-glo batik, embroidered cotton shirts.

  ‘This,’
he said, almost at once, and flicked a turquoise and cerise bikini out from among the rainbow jumble.

  Jemima blinked. The last bikinis she had worn were for a high fashion shoot—black and cream and tawny, decorated with gold chains and filmy silk wraps. She had reclined in a Moorish courtyard, wearing four-inch heels, while the photographer draped her and the material this way and that in the sun. Not one of those swimsuits, she was certain, would have survived a serious swim.

  These colours hurt her eyes, but the bikinis looked sturdy enough to build a road in. Only a few had a price tag. Not one of them had a size indicator in it.

  She laughed suddenly. Jemima Dare wearing a twenty-dollar bikini! She would have to remember to tell the PR people about that. She put her head on one side, assessing them.

  ‘This one,’ she said, accepting his colour scheme but replacing it with a more realistic size.

  He paid for it while she was still fumbling with her purse. And she found he had thrown in a sarong in shades of lapis lazuli and sea-blue and a severely practical pair of khaki shorts.

  ‘You shouldn’t,’ she said, as awkward as a teenager with her first boyfriend. ‘No one has bought clothes for me since I was a kid.’

  His eyes flicked down her. She felt herself go hot.

  ‘Then savour the new experience,’ he said lightly.

  But his eyes weren’t light.

  Jemima swallowed and looked away. ‘I—er—I may need some more sunblock. If we’re going to be out in the sun all day.’

  Ethereal pallor was her trademark. She could not afford to go back to London with an unscheduled tan, she thought, grinning. She had a photo shoot next week.

  But today was hers, and hers alone.

  ‘Over there,’ he said, waving her towards another stall.

  She bought some aloe moisturiser as well, and a pair of big sunglasses. When she joined him on the quay again Niall was carrying a couple of grocery sacks and climbing nimbly into the boat. The other crew members had disappeared.

  He put his burden down and held out a hand.

  Jemima scrambled onto the boat, grateful for it. She nodded at the bag. ‘Stocking up for a week?’

  His eyes gleamed. ‘Don’t worry. I have to be back tonight. Don’t forget, that’s when I go to work.’