by Penny Jordan
To Gemma’s surprise, after driving through the capital Luke carried on to Samantha’s home.
There was a very pregnant silence as he stopped the buggy in the drive, and Gemma was once again conscious of Samantha’s dislike as the other girl got out, and coaxed Luke pleadingly, ‘Do stay and eat with us, darling, I’m sure your friend won’t mind.’
Her stare challenged Gemma to dare to object but, before she could say a word, Luke was saying smoothly. ‘Gemma might not, but I would, I’m afraid. I’m just not up to a game of chess with your uncle tonight. Give him my regards, though, and tell him I’ll be in touch soon.’
He had put the buggy in gear before Samantha could object, and within seconds they were speeding back down on to the tarmac road.
‘Sorry about that,’ Luke apologised when they were once again through the town.
‘There’s nothing to apologise for,’ Gemma managed lightly. ‘It’s only natural that your … your girlfriend should want your company, especially as you’ve been away.’
She saw his eyebrow lift sardonically at her use of the word ‘girlfriend’, but he made no comment, apart from saying coolly, ‘Samantha likes to play-act. At the moment she’s enjoying imagining she’s in love with me. It won’t last.’
It was plain to Gemma that however real or imagined the other girl’s feelings might be, Luke did not reciprocate them—further confirmation, had she needed it, of the control he exercised over his emotional life, and his aversion to any sort of real commitment.
They had now turned off the tarmac road and were driving along a bumpy track and through what was obviously a building site. A row of Portacabins ran alongside the track with gaps here and there where materials had been delivered. To Gemma’s left lay the sea, sparkling beneath the silver glitter of the moon, and she caught her breath at the beauty of it. The road ran alongside the beach, silver white in the moonlight and studded with clumps of palms. She had to blink several times before she could accept that it was real.
‘Are you glad now that you didn’t turn tail at the airport and run?’ Luke asked her mockingly, shocking her with the accuracy with which he had read her emotions and thoughts. Instead of replying to him she compressed her mouth and looked the other way.
Right at the outset, Luke had told Gemma that he would provide the accommodation, and until now it had not occurred to her to query this. Now as she looked around at the deserted beach and shadowy clumps of Portacabins, she wondered where on earth she was going to live. If anything, she had envisaged staying at perhaps a small hotel, or a villa, but now she began to wonder if Luke meant to house her in one of these cabins. What she had seen of the back streets of Georgetown as they drove through, and on the drive from the airport, had not reassured her as to the quality of the local habitation, but suddenly the road swerved; the beach started to shelve away and behind them rose cliffs.
The long, shadowed finger of a jetty stretched out into the sea and two or three small speedboats bobbed at their moorings alongside it. Beyond the jetty, and beyond the reef itself, lay the long shape of an expensive oceangoing yacht. It was well illuminated, and Gemma gazed at it in awe, admiring its sleek lines.
‘Like it?’ Luke asked her in an offhand fashion, bringing the buggy to a halt alongside the jetty.
‘Mm, she’s beautiful. Who does she belong to?’
‘Me,’ Luke told her laconically. ‘Come on.’ He opened the buggy door for her, having lithely leapt over his and come round to her side. ‘Don’t worry about the luggage, one of the men will ferry it out. You look ready to fall asleep on your feet. For the moment we can’t bring the Minerva in close enough to moor her to the jetty—we’ll need to deepen the harbour before we can do that—but these little speedboats are easy enough to handle; you’ll soon get the hang of it. Come on.’
In a bemused daze, Gemma allowed Luke to bustle her on to the jetty and down into the first of the bobbing boats. The yacht belonged to Luke. She could hardly take it in.
‘Do you mean …’ She swallowed and started again. ‘Did you mean that I’d be living on the yacht?’
‘Yes, any objections? We won’t be alone, if that’s what’s bugging you,’ he added sardonically. ‘She holds a full complement of staff, and crew.’
Gemma was glad that she was sitting with her face in the shadows so that Luke couldn’t see the embarrassed burn of colour that scorched her skin.
‘I’m not totally naïve, Luke,’ she managed to retort. ‘You’re hardly likely to have designs on me while there are women like Samantha about.’
‘You think not? Don’t be too sure.’
He was just being gallant, she told herself, just flirting automatically with her, and it didn’t mean a thing, but even so she could feel the blood beating through her veins, accompanied by a curious sense of weightlessness which she tried to ascribe to exhaustion.
One of the members of Luke’s crew helped them on board, and while Luke excused himself to catch up on his outstanding messages, Gemma was shown to what were to be her quarters for the duration of her stay.
Their magnificence left her completely lost for words. In addition to a bedroom which possessed an enormous king-size bed, she had a bathroom, and a dressing-room lined with wardrobes and mirrors, plus her own private sitting-room equipped with telephone, desk, settee, television, and even a small dining-table and two chairs.
She was so quiet that the steward asked her anxiously, ‘Is it not to your liking?’
Not to her liking! Gemma swallowed hard. Her small Manchester flatlet would have fitted into the bedroom and still left space over.
‘It … it’s fabulous,’ she managed at last and was rewarded with a beaming smile.
‘It is the guest suite, and Mr Luke he told us to have it specially prepared for you. If you want something to eat, the chef he suggests perhaps a salad and some of our king-sized prawns.’
She hadn’t thought she was hungry, but suddenly the thought of food was tempting. It was too early to go to bed yet, and if she did, she would be awake in the early hours, suffering the effects of jet lag.
While she waited for the steward to return with her supper, and for her luggage to arrive, Gemma wandered around her suite, gazing at everything with awe.
The mahogany furniture and panels in the sitting-room gleamed richly in the soft light from the Christopher Wray lamps. The settee was upholstered in an exclusive British chintz, and the carpet had quite obviously been woven especially to pick out the soft blue in the pretty pink, blue and green colourway of the creamy background fabric.
Bookshelves packed with leather-bound volumes flanked a fake fireplace; the desk provided for her use was a beautiful Regency antique, and carefully arranged in front on top of the desk was a selection of stationery bearing the name of the yacht. Gemma touched the thick paper with tense fingers. How her mother would have loved this! A piece of Meissen china was artfully arranged on the sofa table behind the settee, and a bowl of fresh flowers decorated the coffee table, which also held the very latest glossy magazines.
She wandered into her bedroom, touching the thick quilted cotton bedspread. This room echoed the same soft colours as her sitting-room. She stroked the pillowcases. Percale cotton. No expense had been spared. There were even matching towels in the bathroom, with its marble sanitary wear and brass fittings. A huge mirror on one wall enhanced the small space and green plants massed in one corner gave the room an air of tropical splendour.
A discreet rap at her outer door made her walk bemusedly back into her sitting-room. The same steward who had shown her to her suite was back, carrying a tray with her supper. The salad had been arranged with exquisite artistry, the prawns so succulent-looking and fresh that she could feel her mouth watering.
A china tea service in a design she recognised as Spode was deposited on her round dining-table, a chair solicitously pulled out so that she could sit down. Not until he had assured himself that she was served with everything that she might need did her
steward retire.
It was like stepping into a fantasy, Gemma thought dreamily as she finished her meal. She felt as though she had to keep reaching out to touch things to reassure herself that it was all real.
CHAPTER SEVEN
GEMMA’s first day in her new employment did not begin well. For a start, despite all her good intentions, she overslept, waking only when a steward came in with a tray of tea.
‘Mr O’Rourke said to tell you that if you sleep any longer it will only make the jet lag worse,’ he informed Gemma, grinning at her when she realised what time it was.
Ten o’clock in the morning! What on earth must Luke think of her?
She rushed through her tea and showered and dressed at speed. The steward had told her that Luke was in his own private office, and had given her instructions as to how to find it.
It was exactly ten forty-five when she knocked on the imposing polished door.
Luke opened it himself, his eyebrows lifting in patent surprise when he saw her standing there.
‘I’m sorry I overslept,’ she began to apologise, but he cut her off with a negative wave of his hand, frowning at her thoughtfully as he studied her pale face and worried eyes.
‘You can’t possibly have had time to have breakfast. My message to the steward wasn’t designed to have the effect on you that it evidently did. You mustn’t try to rush about here too much until you’re properly acclimatised, Gemma, and that will take several days.’
Several days! But he had brought her here to work, not to laze around like a holidaymaker.
When she said as much he laughed. ‘Oh, you won’t be wasting time. I’m going to give you the men’s files to read so that you can familiarise yourself with their names and occupations, and then, perhaps tomorrow, I’ll take you round the site. Today, though, you will rest and find your feet, and the first thing you’re going to do is to have a proper breakfast.’
It must be the change of climate that was making her so biddable, Gemma decided ten minutes later as another white-jacketed steward held out her seat for her in the private dining area in Luke’s quarters.
The dining area had sliding glass doors that were open to the tropical heat, and it overlooked the yacht’s pool and deck space.
The freshly squeezed tropical fruit juice and muesli cereal placed in front of her were too tempting for Gemma to resist, although she did refuse the offer of scrambled eggs and toast.
‘Heavens, if I eat like this all the time I’m here, I’ll grow enormous,’ she complained to Luke, as she accepted a second cup of coffee.
‘Make the most if it,’ he teased her warningly. ‘You’ll be working so hard later on that you’ll need your energy.’
From the deck of the yacht she could see the construction site, and hear the sounds of the heavy plant being used there. While they drank their coffee Luke produced a plan of what the complex would look like once it was completed, and the ambitious scope of it almost took Gemma’s breath away. It truly would be a holidaymakers’ paradise, once it was finished.
‘This afternoon I’ll show you the other side of the island—not the glamour of the hotels, but the reality of what life can be like here for some of the people.’
Poverty and deprivation would always touch him like this, Gemma suspected, because he had once known them for himself. How many other men would channel those memories to positive actions on behalf of others? So many self-made men preferred to lock away their youthful memories of poverty and hardship as though in some way they were detrimental to them. Or was it that they were so haunted by them that to release them from their deepest memories would somehow act as a bad luck charm on their success? She was venturing into emotional territory about which she knew very little, Gemma realised, acknowledging that it would be pointless for her to pursue such an avenue of thought.
‘We’ll wait until it gets a little cooler; because of the yacht’s air conditioning you’ll probably find it takes you a little longer to get acclimatised.’
Gemma nibbled on her bottom lip as she tried to think of the best way to bring up something that was bothering her.
‘Is something wrong?’ Luke questioned, accurately reading her mind.
‘Well, yes, and no … Luke, I feel very guilty about staying here in all this luxury. Your other employees …’
‘Are all male, and none of them are also personal friends. St George’s might look a very relaxed and carefree place, but it isn’t always as safe as it looks. You have to bear in mind that quite a considerable proportion of the population lives in conditions of appalling poverty.
‘Petty thieving, often with violence, can be quite common. That’s why most of the hotels advise their guests to stay within the confines of their grounds, or, when they do go outside, not to wear expensive jewellery, or to carry cameras or large sums of money. The men who are working for me here, and who have come from Britain, in the main share rented accommodation—I can hardly see your parents being pleased at the thought of you shacking up with half a dozen unattached males, can you? Nor would I myself feel happy about the idea of you living alone, and the nearest hotel is several miles away down the coast, which would mean that I would have to provide you with transport and possibly a driver as well. So all in all I decided it would be best if you stayed here on board the Minerva. Any objections?’
What female in her right mind could object to such luxurious surroundings? Samantha for instance would probably leap at the chance. So why did she feel so uncomfortable with the situation? Was it because she feared that the men might not take her seriously once they knew she and Luke were personal friends? Surely it wasn’t Luke himself she feared? No … no, it wasn’t that, even though his sexuality did cause more than the odd frisson of response to run through her body from time to time.
Instead of doing all this mental agonising she should be grateful that Luke had taken such pains over her comfort and accommodation, Gemma chided herself. Just this brief foray on to the deck to look across the lagoon at the construction site had brought home to her how enervating the climate could be. Her thin cotton shirt was already soaked through with perspiration, her skin prickling with heat and discomfort.
‘Perhaps if I took some of those files and studied them sitting out here on the deck, I might be able to start getting acclimatised,’ she suggested.
‘Good idea, but don’t overdo it, and remember to sit in the shade, and to keep yourself covered up; we don’t want you going down with either heat or sun stroke. Come with me and I’ll show you where the files are kept.’
They were back in his study, and as he motioned her forwards to show her how the lock on the cabinet worked Gemma found herself having to squeeze past him. Awareness of him as a man flooded hotly through her body, making her tremble and tense, all too conscious of the heat and weight of his arm against her body as he drew her forwards to look at the cabinet.
He felt her tremble and frowned down at her, unexpectedly placing one cool hand against her throat and making her pulse jump in frantic excitement.
‘Do you feel feverish? You’re looking very pale.’
‘No … no, it must just have been the shock of the air conditioning after the heat outside,’ she fibbed to explain away her shivery reaction to his touch. ‘I’m fine, Luke, don’t fuss. You’re beginning to make me feel like a fragile Victorian female,’ she teased him, trying to shake off her disturbing awareness of him.
‘Maybe that’s because I think you are—fragile, not Victorian. Girls like you with wealthy parents are always fragile, because you’ve never been exposed to the realities of life.’
‘I teach at a North Mancester comprehensive school, Luke,’ Gemma reminded him, suddenly angered by his assumptions about her. ‘I’m not fragile at all.’
‘Yes you are. You always have been. You’ve been protected all your life, like a rare piece of glass swaddled in cotton wool, far too delicate to be touched by rough uncouth hands,’ he told her broodingly.
Gemma cou
ldn’t understand what had got into him, but he was wrong about her. Her parents might have tried to preserve around her the rarified atmosphere Luke was describing, but she had never allowed them to do so.
‘If you think I’m so helpless and delicate, I’m surprised you wanted me out here,’ she snapped, suddenly almost resenting him.
The phone on his desk rang, abruptly shattering the tension. Luke opened the drawer and thrust a pile of files into her hands before striding over to pick up the receiver.
Standing at such close confines to him, Gemma could hardly avoid hearing Samantha’s voice.
It became apparent that the other girl was inviting him out for lunch, but Luke refused.
Samantha’s voice grew querulous and then bitter as Luke resisted her arguments, and, feeling acutely de trop, Gemma moved towards the door. She had almost reached it when Luke’s hand shot out and pinioned her wrist. Without looking at her, he said into the receiver, ‘Samantha, this has gone far enough. As I told you before I left for London, what we had between us was good as far as it went, but now it’s over. Now be a good girl, and go and find someone else to play with.’
Gemma felt the heat scorch her own skin at the stinging contempt in the last few words. She wanted to berate him for it on behalf of her sex, and also to berate him for his lack of discretion in speaking like that to Samantha while she was in earshot.
As he replaced the receiver he released her, studying her flushed face and angry eyes with cool composure.
‘Don’t look like that. All your sex aren’t like you, you know. Some of them can be pretty thick-skinned when it suits them. Samantha knew the score right from the start, and if she chooses to change the rules now, then she must accept the fact that I don’t want to abide by those changes.’
‘Your … your relationship with her is scarcely any concern of mine,’ Gemma told him huskily, unable to stop herself from adding, ‘Luke, you were so unkind to her. If she loves you …’
‘Loves me!’ He laughed acidly. ‘Oh, my God, you’re even more naïve than I thought. Samantha loves no one other than herself. It’s a game to her, Gemma, and I’m just one in a long line of players. Because this time I was the one who called the shots she doesn’t want the game to end. I know what you’re thinking; that it’s ungentlemanly of me to tell you all this, but I have my reasons. I don’t want you getting the wrong idea about my relationship with Samantha.’