The Duke's Proposal

by Sophie Weston

  ‘It’s not true,’ she said, knowing they would not believe her. Nobody who listened to Basil ever believed her.

  Basil had been telling himself his version of the story for so long it was word-perfect. He believed it passionately. Even Jemima would have been convinced if she hadn’t known the truth.

  But she opened her eyes and made a last bid to tell the truth. Ignoring Al, she looked straight at Niall.

  ‘I didn’t ditch him. I would never have left him if—’

  Basil interrupted, ‘If her sister hadn’t started working for their rich American cousin and decided I wasn’t good enough for little sister any more.’

  Jemima swallowed. This was the area she didn’t like to look at too closely. ‘It wasn’t Izzy’s fault.’

  ‘You were happy with me until she started interfering.’

  Jemima gave a shock of bitter laughter. ‘And why did she interfere?’

  ‘Because I wasn’t smooth enough—’

  Suddenly Jemima couldn’t bear it any more. She surged to her feet. ‘Because you were bloody killing me.’

  The men blinked. Even Basil was momentarily shocked out of his sense of injury.

  ‘You can’t blame Izzy. It was nothing to do with Izzy. It was down to you and me, Basil,’ she said with intensity. ‘Just you and me.’

  He began to bluster. ‘That’s crazy. We were fine until—’

  ‘You might have been fine. I wasn’t. When Izzy saw what you were doing to me she did what I should have done myself. That’s all.’

  Niall swung round, his eyes hot. ‘What he did to you?’

  Oh, God, she was going to have to tell him the truth. This was much worse than being shown up as a girly wimp. This was the big guns. He would really despise her after this.

  ‘It’s in the past. Over,’ she said cravenly.

  Niall strode over to her. ‘Clearly it isn’t.’ His face was grim, but he touched her cheek with the gentlest of fingers. ‘Your face is bleeding.’

  ‘Oh, damn. Dirty hair and now a scab on my cheekbone,’ she said, trying to make a joke of it. ‘What will happen to my reputation?

  But Niall wasn’t to be deflected. She should have realised that once he’d got his teeth into her sorry past he wouldn’t let go.

  He was gentle. But utterly implacable. ‘You’ll always be gorgeous,’ he said without expression. ‘Enlighten me. What exactly did he do to you?’

  ‘Yes,’ chimed in Basil, triumphant. ‘What did I do for you that you didn’t want? Didn’t beg me for?’

  The look Niall turned on him was so malevolent that Basil actually shot back in his chair and put his hands up. ‘Don’t—’ he said, frightened.

  ‘Then don’t interrupt the lady.’

  Jemima pushed her hands through the ruin of her hair. Oh, well, get it over with, she told herself. Tell the truth. Don’t look at Niall, so you won’t have to see his reaction, then get out. And you won’t have to think about it ever again.

  In a voice as expressionless as his own, she said, ‘Basil gave me pills. Appetite suppressants. Lots of them.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ Basil was scornful. ‘Did I hold you down and pour them down your throat?’

  ‘No,’ said Jemima painfully. ‘You said I was getting so heavy that no one would use me. You said the camera showed every pound. You said that the fashion look was thin, thin, thin. I believed you. I wanted to do well. I chose to take the pills. You’re right.’

  ‘See?’ Basil spread his hands, appealing to the others.

  Niall was utterly intent. Jemima did not look at him. She could not bear to. But even so she could feel his eyes on her, like a magnet, dragging her into his force field.

  Her breast seemed to burn with it. And, looking down, she saw that the damned blouse had slipped again. It was gaping and barely decent. In the circumstances, it was a small enough thing. But she could have cried.

  Hurriedly, clumsily, she hauled the ruined material back over her bared shoulder and clutched it together, as if it could protect her from his scrutiny.

  Niall made a wordless sound. Contempt? Anger? Disgust?

  She didn’t want to know. She refused to look at him.

  She went on in a low voice, ‘He had me locked away in a London hotel. I was high as a kite and half crazy most of the time. My sister Izzy broke in and rescued me.’

  There was almost total silence. Just the wind in the palms and the odd squawk of a nocturnal animal on a rummage in the undergrowth. Jemima looked across the handrail at the dark garden and the stars. She would never, she thought, ever forget those stars. They were all that stopped her seeing Niall’s contempt.

  How did she compare with his not impossible she now? A pretty shoddy substitute, that was all. And purely temporary. As she had always been.

  She straightened her shoulders and told them the last, shameful, dangerous truth.

  ‘She got me into a clinic. I spent a month detoxing.’

  Utter, utter silence. Shock, presumably.

  ‘When I got out, I told Basil I was leaving. That if he contested my contract I’d tell the courts what he’d done. I had the medical evidence after all. It would have finished my career, but—’ she swallowed ‘—anything was better than going back to that.’

  ‘I made you,’ Basil blustered. But it was beginning to sound hollow. Perhaps even to himself, because he trailed into silence before anyone told him to.

  ‘Since then he has stalked me. It’s driven me half crazy. Dodging and weaving and making sure I always had the same chauffeur in case he hijacked my car and—’ She broke off. ‘Well, it’s been horrible. I won’t do it any more. No career is worth it.’

  She walked past Niall without looking at him. She couldn’t bear to look at him. She knew what she would see. But she could feel the warmth of his body, like a familiar fire. She would have given anything in the world to be able to turn to that fire and feel it was where she belonged.

  But she didn’t deserve it. And she belonged with no one.

  So instead she looked at Basil, who knew all the sordidness because he had caused it.

  She said very quietly, ‘This is the end, Basil. If you approach me again, I’ll go to the police.’

  ‘You wouldn’t—’ But she could see from the way his eyes shifted away from hers that he knew she would.

  She shook her poor bruised head and managed not to wince. Well, that was something. A little dignity left, then.

  ‘Like I said. No career is worth it.’

  Her throat hurt. But she kept her head high. She turned to Al.

  ‘I won’t press charges this time. I owe him that. What you do is up to you.’

  And then, to Niall, looking over his shoulder, she said in a voice as cool and remote as the moon, ‘I hope you’re not hurt. Thank you for your help tonight. It won’t be needed again, I promise.’

  She walked off the terrace and into the darkness of the garden before the tears spilled over and she made a terminal fool of herself.

  It took her a while to find her way back to her own apartment. But there was no one waiting for her when she got there. So she was able to tip onto the bed and cry at last.

  When she had finished crying, she got up, soaked her hot eyelids, washed her hair. Then, very carefully, she took the shards of glass out of the pocket of Niall’s dinner jacket and wrapped them so that no cleaners could cut themselves on them.

  And she took the dusty, sandy jacket, that smelled of the sea and his skin. And wrapped it round her.

  Tomorrow she would leave, and she would go home and she would leave the jacket behind her. Maybe with a grateful note of thanks.

  But for tonight, for the last time, with every sleeping breath she would inhale the smell of acacia and Caribbean night and woodsmoke that was uniquely Niall.

  And that would have to last her.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE next morning she was herself again, ultra-cool and ready for anything. Except for the grazed cheek and a slight blind look in he
r eyes when no one was looking, she was Jemima Dare, supermodel, in full working order.

  She called the reception desk as soon as she got up.

  ‘Will you make up my bill please? I’m leaving today.’

  And the airline as soon as the office was open.

  The staff were friendly but laid-back. There wasn’t a connection to London available that day. She’d do better to stay over the weekend, they suggested cheerfully. She could go to the school sports day, the kite flying contest, give the local journalist a proper interview and generally chill out.

  Jemima knew a small town strategy when she saw it.

  ‘Put it this way,’ she said sweetly, ‘I’m getting off this island today. If necessary I’ll hire a plane from Venezuela to pick me up. But I’m leaving.’

  The airline clerk sighed. ‘Well, it was worth a try. I can get you on the three o’clock flight to Antigua. Check in one hour before.’ There was much tapping. ‘You can get a connection there. First class, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve made the reservation. Hope to see you back soon.’

  Not a snowball’s chance in hell, thought Jemima. She was going to retire whichever bit of her subconscious the name Pentecost had floated out of.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said politely.

  In theory, breakfast was over. But Pirate’s Point had a relaxed attitude to things like mealtimes, she found. A couple of tables were still laid on the waterside terrace. The breakfast buffet had been cleared, but a smiling waitress appeared as if by magic to offer her all the bounty she could wish for.

  ‘Coffee? Toast? The full English breakfast?’

  Jemima shuddered. ‘Just coffee, please.’

  ‘Mango? Pineapple? Watermelon?’ said a voice she knew.

  She stiffened.

  Niall strolled into view. He was back to ragged denim shorts and no shirt again. She wanted to touch his golden chest so badly her hands tingled.

  Hands? Who was she kidding? Her whole damned body tingled. Everywhere he had touched yesterday remembered him. And he had touched pretty much everywhere. Jemima swallowed hard and hoped lust didn’t show as unmistakably as it felt.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said in a suffocated voice.

  ‘Hi.’ He pulled out the chair opposite her. ‘Bring a selection of fruit,’ he told the waitress.

  He sat down as the woman went off, grinning conspiratorially.

  But Niall was not grinning. He searched her face for a long moment. Then, ‘How are you feeling?’

  Damn him, how could he look so concerned? As if she mattered to him?

  Jemima’s throat moved. ‘Fine, thank you. A bit bruised.’

  As he had done last night, he air-touched the graze on her cheekbone. ‘That looks painful.’

  She looked away, shrugging. ‘What’s more important, it looks ugly. I shall probably have to hit Harley Street on Monday morning. I’ve got a big shoot next week.’

  He looked bemused. ‘It hardly needs plastic surgery.’

  She shrugged. ‘Whatever it takes,’ she said lightly.

  Niall was briefly sidetracked. ‘You’re joking,’ he said, appalled.

  ‘Am I?’

  She gave him a cynical smile. It was a good one, in the circumstances. You could hardly expect it to make it up as far as her eyes. Not when every moment she looked at him was filled with wild regret that he was a one-woman man and she was not the woman. And never would be.

  ‘God, you’re in a crazy profession,’ he said, from the heart.

  ‘You are so right,’ she agreed cordially. ‘But it takes me round the world and gives me a lifestyle I could only have dreamed about otherwise.’

  He was grave. ‘And that’s important?’

  ‘It keeps me out of mischief,’ she said flippantly.

  He reached out across the table and took her hand. ‘But it doesn’t, does it?’

  She couldn’t bear the gentle teasing. She snatched her hand away.

  ‘It will in future. I’ve learned my lesson.’

  ‘Jay Jay—’ His use of the pet name was somehow the last straw.

  ‘Don’t call me that!’ she flashed. ‘It’s Jemima.’

  He blinked. His eyes were so dark she could have drowned in them. Damn it, she nearly had drowned in them. Was it only yesterday?

  ‘Okay, if that’s what you want. Jemima—’

  How could he be so not-handsome and so devastating at the same time? None of the gorgeous men she had posed with over the years had given her heart more than a passing flutter. But Niall…!

  You’ll get over this. You have to get over this.

  The waitress came back with Jemima’s breakfast, and a mug of fragrant coffee for Niall.

  ‘Gordy from the Messenger called. He’s on his way over to see you,’ she told them.

  Jemima gave an elaborate sigh. ‘He’ll have to be quick. I’m due at the airport at two.’

  The waitress looked astonished. ‘Nothing’s quick on Pentecost.’

  Then how come I lost my heart in twenty-four hours?

  Hell, not even that. Between one moment and the next. Between falling asleep in his arms and waking to the smell of coffee. Between him kissing my grubby hair and me falling asleep.

  Or maybe it was even sooner than that. Between his taking my hand on that beach, as lovers do, and us reaching the boat. Our boat.

  Maybe that was it. One moment it was mine and his; the next it was ours. And she was in love. And it had taken a micro-second.

  Jemima shivered. Oh, boy, she had got it bad!

  Across the table Niall Blackthorne looked sexy and concerned and masterful. But he did not look like a man in love. Because he wasn’t.

  She had to snap out of it before she broke down and begged! She brought herself out of her reverie.

  He was saying, ‘But nothing is very far either. If he’s leaving now, he’ll get here from Queen’s Town before this coffee is cold.’

  Jemima managed another of her lower hemisphere smiles. ‘Well, he can only photograph my best side.’

  The waitress thought that was very funny. She went off back to the kitchen in gales of laughter.

  Niall said gently, ‘You really don’t have to talk to him if you don’t want to, you know. I can head him off at the pass for you.’

  For a moment it felt like being loved. She savoured it, knowing she would hug it to her in the days to come.

  Even so, she shook her head. ‘No. It’s all part of the job. My public wants a photograph. My public gets a photograph. That’s the deal.’

  His eyes were questioning. ‘No private life at all?’

  She gave him a bright smile. ‘Not as long as I want to stay on top.’

  ‘And do you?’ He leaned forward. ‘Want to stay on top, I mean?’

  She looked away. ‘It doesn’t last, you know. I’ve got maybe a year. Maybe two. Then there’ll be a new face, another hank of hair that the columnists rave about. And I’ll be lucky to get one in ten of the jobs my agent pitches for. The world is full of women the world once called top models who are lucky to get an elastic stocking ad.’

  He laughed. ‘That’s the fate that awaits you?’

  ‘Almost certainly,’ she said gaily.

  ‘Live fast and hard and the devil take tomorrow?’ he suggested.

  Her heart hurt. ‘Got it in one.’ Oh, she sounded so indifferent, so careless! Well done, Jemima!

  His eyes were grave. ‘So there wouldn’t be any point in a man asking you to wait for him?’

  What was he talking about? He didn’t want her to wait for him. He didn’t want her at all. If he did want her she wouldn’t have to wait, after all. It wasn’t as if you had a three-month contract with the gambling tables.

  ‘Not a chance.’ Her voice was brittle.

  Niall was silent.

  ‘Grab it now. Nothing lasts. That’s my motto.’

  He looked at her broodingly. ‘You really mean that?’

  ‘Consider yesterday,’
she said, though the pain was so great it was almost physical. ‘Did I seem to you like a put-it-off-till-tomorrow kind of girl? If there’s a new sensual experience on offer, get your hands on it now.’

  Niall’s mouth twitched unexpectedly. ‘Well, it was certainly sensual,’ he said dryly. ‘Remarkably so.’ He beamed at her, but she sensed something real underneath it. ‘Memorable.’

  It was so unexpected Jemima gasped. She felt the colour sweep up her bruised face like a tidal wave in a horrifying tide.

  ‘Damn!’ she said, nearly in tears all of a sudden and hating him for it.

  He did not pretend not to notice. ‘Blow your nose and have some fresh mango,’ he said unsympathetically. ‘That’s another great sensual experience you shouldn’t put off.’ His voice bit.

  Jemima realised suddenly that she couldn’t take any more of this.

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ she choked. And fled before he could stop her.

  She shot back to her room. The tears had subsided by the time she got there but it had been a nasty feeling. She packed with shaking hands.

  She came across the day-glo bikini he had bought her and her heart lurched.

  But— ‘No mementoes,’ she said firmly. ‘You’ll get over him, but not if you keep a bunch of keepsakes. Time to get real.’

  She stuffed it in the wastepaper basket and zipped up her flight bag. It seemed tiny. So little luggage, so little time—and her whole world had turned upside down.

  Still, look on the bright side. At least you’ve finally dealt with Basil, she told herself. You’re not afraid of him any more. Or anyone.

  It was true. Heartbroken? Maybe. Afraid? Nah. Never again.

  She had the chance to prove that almost at once. When she went to the lobby to pay her bill Niall was there, his back to her, talking to Al. She hung back, gathering her forces.

  ‘…second chance,’ Al was saying.

  Niall was impatient. ‘Not this time.’

  ‘Hey, marriages end.’

  Niall laughed reluctantly. ‘You’re a happily married man!’

  ‘Sure. And I’ve been at the luxury end of the tourist trade all my life,’ said Al cynically. ‘Half our wedding trade is people who need to get away from the congregation who witnessed their last fling into matrimony.’ He was riffling through papers. ‘Your lady may come back onto the market yet. Don’t give up hope.’