by Anne Mather
The hotel was small, it was true, but it was very attractive. Not least because of the white stone pillars that supported the balcony, and the airy brightness of its public rooms. There was a pleasant scent of spices and sweetness. The air outside had been close and humid, but here the layout of the foyer allowed a cross breeze that cooled her skin.
‘Here we are, Ms Claiborne.’
The girl—her name-tag read Rosa—had evidently found what she was looking for. Rescuing a pen from the drawer in front of her, she pushed a registration form towards Rachel.
‘If you just fill this in,’ she said, her dark eyes assessing. ‘Then I’ll get Toby to show you to your room.’
‘Thanks.’
Rachel rested the backpack she’d carried instead of a handbag on the counter and picked up the pen. This part was familiar to her. She’d stayed in plenty of hotels before, albeit not in such exotic surroundings. She couldn’t suppress a momentary twinge of excitement. Whatever else, this was an experience she wouldn’t forget.
She was checking to see that she’d supplied all the necessary information when she became aware of a sudden quickening in the air. Someone else had entered the foyer, and judging by the way the receptionist straightened her spine and adjusted her cleavage it was someone she wanted to impress.
A man, then, thought Rachel cynically. She doubted Rosa would make such an effort for a member of her own sex. Unable to resist, she peeked beneath her arm and saw tan loafers and taut muscular calves clad in black denim.
Definitely a man, she conceded, straightening. Women were such clichés. Didn’t they realise their reactions were so obvious to a man?
‘Hi, Matt.’
Matt!
Was that a coincidence? Rachel couldn’t help herself. She swung round to see who had garnered so much excitement in the building. And found herself confronted by a tall dark man, with a lean muscular frame and broad shoulders.
She supposed he was attractive in a hard athletic sort of way. She was trying to be detached about it, but for once it wasn’t easy. The short-sleeved black shirt that matched his pants was coming loose from his waistband in places. So sexy. And she could see the dusky tattoo of some predatory winged beast etched around his upper arm.
He was olive-skinned and clean-shaven, although she doubted he would ever be able to erase the dark shadow on his jawline. His hair was thick and straight, and just a little too long for her liking. But he evidently ticked all the boxes so far as Rosa was concerned.
‘Hey, Mr Brody’s been phoning here all day, looking for you,’ she said, her expression undeniably seductive. ‘He’s definitely on your case. I’d give him a ring, if I was you.’
‘Would you, now?’
Rachel’s stomach plunged. Despite being convinced now that this was the man she was looking for, his voice caused a primal leap of her senses. It was deep, dark, like black molasses soaked in treacle. Well, that was probably a contradiction, but she couldn’t deny its sensual appeal.
Which bothered her quite a bit. She wasn’t used to having this kind of response to a man—any man. And if this was the man her mother had apparently flown out here to meet, it was all the more disturbing.
But it couldn’t be this man. Surely. He had to be at least ten years younger than Sara Claiborne and a sexy hunk besides. If he was, and her mother had succeeded in attracting his attention, she couldn’t help acknowledging that Ralph Claiborne simply wasn’t in his league.
She wondered what he was doing here. Was her mother staying here, too? At this hotel? She could hardly ask him. She simply wasn’t capable of making such a leap. No, somehow she was going to have to get to know this man. Would it be beyond her capabilities to gain his trust?
Her lips compressed resignedly.
Probably.
CHAPTER TWO
THE man had noticed her now.
Well, he could hardly help it, she supposed, seeing as how she was standing staring at him as if she’d never seen a man before. And because of this she felt hot colour filling her cheeks. Although she turned quickly back to the desk, she was sure he must have seen it.
Rosa was completing her reservation with one eye on what she was doing and the other on the man who was approaching the desk. She pulled open another drawer and extracted a small folder containing a key card. Then, picking up the bell beside her, she gave it a peremptory ring.
‘Are you checking in?’
Rachel started. The molasses-dark voice was speaking to her now, and she swallowed convulsively before turning in his direction.
‘I—oh, yes.’ What it had to do with him she couldn’t imagine, but she wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. She licked her lips. ‘Are you?’
His smile was wide, but faintly ironic, and the explanation was clear when Rosa piped up again.
‘Mr Brody owns the hotel,’ she said, her voice full of amused disdain. Then, as a young West Indian man appeared, she held out the key card towards him. ‘Toby, will show you to your room, Ms Claiborne.’ Another practised smile. ‘I hope you enjoy your stay.’
‘Claiborne?’
Before Rachel could move away, the man—Matt Brody—spoke. He’d come to stand beside her at the reception desk, and she was suddenly aware of the heat of his body and the clean male scent of his skin. He was taller than she was, easily six feet three or four, she estimated, and it was quite a novelty to meet a man who made her feel small.
But what was more unsettling was the fact that she was so aware of him. Of every little thing about him, actually, and that was definitely a new experience for her. A new experience, and one she didn’t quite know how to handle. She’d never considered herself odd in any way because she was still a virgin at thirty. But suddenly the ramifications of her inexperience were beating a frantic path to her door.
But she wasn’t here to learn about her own inadequacies, she chided herself. Or to observe his appearance—she drew the line at ‘admire’—she added, as he crossed his arms over his midriff and regarded her with keen, assessing eyes. Green eyes, she saw, not dark as she’d first imagined, with long straight lashes that any woman would have died for.
‘Your name’s Claiborne?’
He repeated the question, and Rachel had to drag her eyes away from his fascinating tattoo to acknowledge his enquiry. ‘Um—that’s right,’ she said. And then, with more daring than she’d given herself credit for, ‘Does the name mean something to you?’
He seemed to hesitate. His dark brows drew together and the green of his irises deepened so that Rachel understood why she’d originally mistaken their colour. ‘Perhaps,’ he said at last. ‘I have—heard of it. It’s not a common name.’
‘No, it’s not.’
Rachel concentrated on not pursing her lips, but she was tempted to ask where he’d heard of it before. Would he be truthful? She doubted it. But she wondered what he’d say if she told him that Sara Claiborne was her mother.
‘Anyway,’ he added, apparently indifferent to her ambivalence, ‘I hope you find your accommodation satisfactory.’ He nodded towards the young man who was waiting patiently beside her suitcase. ‘If there’s anything else you need, just pick up the phone. I’m sure either the housekeeper or whoever’s on Reception will be able to help you.’
‘Thank you.’
The polite words almost stuck in her throat, but Rachel wasn’t about to air her grievances in public. Despite the adrenalin that was still pumping through her veins, she couldn’t deny she was weary.
It had been a long flight to Jamaica, and an unusually stressful final leg on the inter-island turboprop that had brought her from Montego Bay. The small plane had seemed to hit every air pocket over the Caribbean, and Rachel’s legs had felt decidedly shaky when she’d stepped down onto the tarmac at St Ant
oine airport.
She would be glad to shed her clothes and take a long cool shower. And then maybe Room Service, if the hotel provided such a thing. She was enchanted by the island; she loved the individuality of the hotel. But Matt—Matthew—Brody’s presence was a definite complication.
And it certainly didn’t help her case to know that she was aware of him in a totally inappropriate way.
Now, forcing a thin smile, she left the reception desk to accompany the young man, Toby, across the foyer to the stairs. But she was fairly sure at least two pairs of eyes watched their progress, and she had to suppress the urge to swing her hips to show them that she didn’t care.
Or was she being paranoid? And conceited? Matt Brody had given her no reason to believe he had found anything interesting about her. Only her name had struck a chord with him. And if what she suspected was true that was hardly surprising.
As she’d anticipated earlier, the rooms on the upper landing overlooked the foyer below. But inside they were light and airy, with a balcony opening off the outer wall that overlooked the gardens at the back of the hotel.
After assuring himself that she had everything she needed, Toby departed and Rachel took a few moments to explore her domain. The room wasn’t large, but it was comfortable, with a large colonial-style bed, and a writing table and two armchairs.
There were chairs on the balcony, too, protected from the balcony next door by a trellis of flowering vines. Below, a kidney-shaped swimming pool dozed in the afternoon sun. The pool area was deserted at present, except for a couple of children who were playing tag around the striped umbrellas that provided shade from the blistering heat.
In other circumstances Rachel would have been enchanted. Objectively, the island was everything she could have hoped it would be. But, like all paradises, there had to be a serpent, and despite his fascination Matt Brody certainly fitted the bill.
Fascination?
Where the hell had that come from? Rachel was appalled at the way her mind had latched onto the word. Had she forgotten why she was here, or were her hormones playing tricks on her? For heaven’s sake, this was not the time to find a man could be both dangerous and sexy.
The bathroom was functional, but efficient. Rachel took a long cooling shower and then dressed in the men’s boxers and strappy vest she usually wore to bed. She was glad to shed the fine woollen pants and navy blazer she’d worn to travel from London; February in St Antoine was much different from February back home.
An examination of the hotel information assured her that she could order room service if she wanted. She wasn’t particularly hungry—it was already midnight back in England, and normally she’d have been tucked up in bed by now—but if she didn’t have something she’d be starving by the time it came to breakfast.
A green salad and ice-cream seemed innocuous enough, and while she waited she went out onto the balcony. It was dark outside, but the gardens were illuminated, casting shadows everywhere. The air was exotic, velvety-soft, and scented with a dozen unfamiliar fragrances. Rachel rested her hands on the rail and breathed deeply, trying to inhale the memory into her lungs.
She’d forgotten she was only wearing the boxer shorts and tight-fitting vest. As she raised her arms above her head her breasts moved freely beneath the cloth. She felt curiously free and elemental. The night air moved like a sensual finger against her skin.
And then she saw him. Well, she was almost sure that it was Matt Brody, standing in the shadow of one of the sunshades, his head turned upward towards her balcony.
She recoiled immediately, pulling down her hands and stepping back out of sight. Dear God, had he seen her? Well, of course he had. But what was he doing out there anyway? Surely he didn’t live at the hotel.
A tap at her door had her panicking again. But then she remembered Room Service, and hastily pulled on a cotton wrapper over her vest and shorts. It was a young man she hadn’t seen before, his eyes dark and admiring as they travelled over the curling dampness of her hair and the curving shape of her figure, barely concealed by the thin wrap.
‘Enjoy your supper, Ms Claiborne,’ he said, accepting the tip she offered with easy approval. And Rachel recognised how differently she’d reacted to two almost equally attractive men.
She ate all the salad and most of the ice-cream, nibbling on a sweetened wafer as she clambered between the sheets of the big bed. Her hair was still damp, and she supposed she ought to dry it. And she would, she told herself sleepily, as soon as she’d finished her biscuit.
* * *
It was light when Rachel awakened. She hadn’t pulled the drapes the night before and the sun was streaming in through the balcony doors. At least she’d closed the door, she reflected, pushing back her hair with a lazy hand. Though the idea of anyone climbing over her balcony and invading her room was as far-fetched as her dreams.
It was only seven o’clock, but it was already far too warm in the room. She’d turned off the air-conditioning the night before, but now she pushed her legs out of bed and trudged across the carpeted floor to turn it on again. The rough shag tickled her toes, but the cool tiles in the bathroom provided a welcome contrast.
She examined her face in the mirror above the handbasin. Despite the troubling content of her dreams, she’d slept reasonably well. There were slight shadows around her eyes, and she was sure she’d acquired another wrinkle. But her skin was clear, albeit too fair for her liking, and although she’d never consider herself beautiful, her features were acceptable, she supposed.
She sighed, and, reaching for her toothbrush, started her morning routine. Nothing too complicated, just a cream cleanser to freshen her skin and a perfumed deodorant.
She still hadn’t decided what she was going to do about speaking to Matt—Matthew Brody again. Or indeed how she was supposed to contact her mother. It would probably be too much to hope that she was staying at this hotel. Her father didn’t have an address for her, but Rachel suspected she might be staying with the man she’d come to meet.
And where did he live?
She dressed in a short pleated skirt that left a tolerable length of leg bare and a daffodil-yellow tank top. She wore flip-flops instead of the heels she’d worn to travel in, acknowledging that if she did see Matt Brody he would seem that much taller and—maybe—intimidating.
But she didn’t want to think about that. Leaving her room, she closed the door and, after glancing up and down the landing, she headed towards the stairs.
A middle-aged couple, just coming out of the room next door, said, ‘Good morning’. Rachel returned their greeting with a smile, noticing how pale her skin looked beside theirs. Evidently they’d been here for several days. The man, who was fairer, was already exhibiting signs of sunburn.
At the other end of the landing a pair of double doors provided an effective barrier. As she went down the stairs Rachel wondered what was beyond them. Offices, perhaps, or a boardroom? Or the private apartment of the owner of the hotel?
Shrugging, she decided that could wait until later. She followed her neighbours down to the lobby, noticing that they knew their way around. For obvious reasons, she hadn’t ventured out of her rooms again the night before.
The receptionist—not Rosa this time, but another girl—called a greeting, and Rachel had to admit that the staff were very friendly. Was it company policy, she wondered cynically, or were they just naturally gregarious people?
Like Matt Brody?
But she didn’t want to go there, so instead she trailed her neighbours across the lobby and through open double doors into a casual dining area. Some of the tables were occupied inside, but most people who were there seemed to have opted for the patio. Leaving the others behind, Rachel stepped out into the sunshine with a feeling of optimism she couldn’t suppress.
‘Table for two?’
She was seated at the far side of the patio. It was still early—barely eight o’clock—but the sun was already gaining in strength. She was glad of the awning that protected the tables. She didn’t want to start her trip with sunstroke.
She drank freshly squeezed fruit juice and several cups of strong black coffee. Jamaica was famous for its coffee, and unless this was home-grown Rachel suspected she was enjoying a Jamaican blend. She ate only a warm roll and a Danish pastry, passing up French toast and maple pancakes, despite their delightfully appetising smell.
She was tempted to go for a swim after breakfast. Her usual routine, when she was on holiday, was to go sightseeing in the morning, before the sun became too unbearable, and then swim or sunbathe in the afternoon. But she wasn’t on holiday, she reminded herself, as if any remainder was necessary. And as far as sightseeing was concerned, wasn’t she more likely to find her quarry here?
She was lingering over one final cup of coffee when she became aware that someone had stopped beside her table. Someone who was tall and dark and disturbingly familiar, so that her nerves tingled and her breathing quickened, and she really had no need to look up from her abstract contemplation to find out who it was.
But of course she did.
‘Good morning, Ms Claiborne.’
Matt Brody’s voice caused the little hairs on the back of her neck to rise expectantly. Rachel found herself putting up a hand to calm them, half surprised to find the stubby ponytail she’d made of her hair that morning was still in place.
‘Um—good morning.’
Her brief appraisal told her everything about him, and that was worrying. He, too, was wearing shorts this morning, cargo shorts that exposed brown legs and muscled calves. A white body shirt clung to every heft and sinew of his torso, once again revealing the arrow of air on his stomach.