Читать книгу Innocent Virgin, Wild Surrender - Anne Mather, Anne Mather - Страница 6

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 Antoine 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?’

A waitress appeared at her elbow, and Rachel pulled a wry face. ‘Just for one,’ she said, half apologetically, and was unaccountably pleased when the young woman looked surprised.

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.

Oh, God!

Rachel couldn’t understand why she was so aware of him. Of all the men she’d ever met, and goodness knew there’d been plenty, why did she feel such a powerful reaction when Matt Brody was near?

Like mother, like daughter, perhaps?

But she refused to go there.

‘Did you sleep well?’

Rachel decided she’d get a crick in her neck if she was forced to look up at him. Pushing back her chair, she got to her feet, but she still had to tilt her head to meet his gaze. Green eyes—were they mocking her?—looked mild and inoffensive. But why was he bothering with her? Had he guessed why she was here?

‘Very well, thank you,’ she answered, aware of the crisp-ness of her tone. ‘Did you?’

‘I always sleep well, Ms Claiborne,’ he said, his thin lips twitching with what could only be amusement. He paused. ‘I wondered if you had any plans for this morning.’

Rachel’s jaw nearly dropped. ‘Plans?’ she said somewhat blankly. And then, deciding he couldn’t possibly know what she was thinking, she added, ‘I—why, no. I was just considering my options, actually.’

Like, should I try and find out where you live, and whether my mother is staying in your house? Or if I should just wait and see what happens if you tell her that I’m here?

‘Good.’ He gave her a swift appraisal, and Rachel felt as if those shrewd green eyes had stripped her naked and found her wanting. ‘So how do you feel about seeing a little more of the island?’

Once again Rachel felt that sense of disbelief that had accompanied his first question. ‘I—yes,’ she said, not at all sure what she was committing to, but prepared to take it anyway. ‘I was thinking about that myself.’ She took a breath. ‘Are there guided tours?’

‘You could say that.’

Matt grinned, and Rachel’s stomach quivered in response. When he was relaxed, as now, he looked quite devastating, his eyes crinkling at the corners, their expression softening his masculine features.

‘I was offering my services, actually,’ he murmured. ‘I was born in England, but apart from college I’ve lived all my life on St Antoine. I know this place—intimately.’ Had he used that word deliberately? ‘I guess I know places the guidebooks couldn’t know.’

Rachel was sure he did. But she wasn’t half as sure about taking him up on his invitation. It was an ideal opportunity to question him without giving herself away. But it was also far too attractive a proposition, and she wasn’t at all certain her father would approve.

‘Um—will anyone else be coming with us?’ she asked, innocently, and for a moment she thought his eyes darkened with sudden impatience.

‘No,’ he said at last, his tone flat. ‘Does that bother you? If I promise to keep my hands off you, will you come?’

Rachel’s face flamed with colour. ‘Oh, I—that is, I wasn’t implying—’

‘Yes, you were.’ He gave a careless shrug. ‘So? What’s your answer?’

Rachel let out a nervous breath. ‘Do I need to bring anything?’ she asked, holding up her head, and his mouth twisted consideringly.

‘What did you have in mind?’ he queried. And then, as if aware of her embarrassment, he took pity on her. ‘Just some sunscreen, I guess. And your swimsuit, if you have one.’

Rachel put a little space between them. ‘All right,’ she said, mentally assuring herself that her swimsuit was the last thing she’d be putting in her bag. ‘When do we leave?’

He glanced at the thick gold watch on his wrist. ‘Is fifteen minutes long enough?’

Rachel nodded. ‘I should think so.’

His smile was ironic. ‘A woman who doesn’t need the better part of an hour to get ready. How lucky am I?’

We’ll see, thought Rachel, but she didn’t make any comment. She was already feeling apprehensive about her decision. Regretting it, no. Fearing it, yes.

‘Then I’ll see you in the foyer in fifteen minutes,’ he said, and with a polite nod he strode into the hotel.

Rachel had to sit down for a minute after he’d left her. She told herself it was so she could finish her coffee, but the truth was her legs felt decidedly weak.

Dear God, what had she let herself in for?

But she couldn’t sit here indefinitely, she thought. She needed to go back to her room and collect the sunscreen he’d mentioned. She was determined not to take a swimsuit, though she was aware that her skirt was almost as revealing. But then when she’d packed her suitcase for the trip she hadn’t expected her mother’s—what? Boyfriend? Lover?—would be, at the most, ten years older than herself.

Oh, to hell with it, she chided herself impatiently. She might be a virgin, but she was still capable of taking care of herself. On her father’s advice, she’d taken classes in both karate and tae-kwon-do, and although she wasn’t a black belt in either, her height made her a worthy opponent.

She pulled her backpack out of the wardrobe and stowed suncream and her dark glasses inside. Then, snatching up the one-piece black swimsuit she’d bought the previous year in Barcelona, she packed that, too, adding one of the hotel’s towels and daring Brody to object.

A glance in the mirror above the vanity had her pulling her hair free from the scrunchie. She usually wore it straight, but she hadn’t brought her tongs with her. In consequence, it spiked up at the ends, just past her shoulders. She combed her fingers through its silky strands and decided it would have to do.

It was almost exactly fifteen minutes later when she left the room. And. to her surprise, she saw Matt Brody just coming out of the double doors at the end of the landing. So did he live in the hotel, or had he just been checking up on his house guest? she wondered. If the doors were unlocked, she might check it out herself later in the day.

A shiver of anticipation glided down her spine and she hurried down the stairs ahead of him. This was proving to be more exciting than she’d thought. She pretended she hadn’t seen Matt, hoping to reach the foyer before he did. But she should have known he would be wise to a move like that.

‘No hurry,’ he remarked, closing the gap between them. A surprisingly callused palm closed on her bare shoulder. ‘I’m right behind you.’

Rachel felt the heat of that momentary possession pass through her body like an electric current. It was only momentary, because she stumbled forward in an effort to shake him off. And almost succeeded in breaking her neck when her foot came out of one of her flip-flops. She felt herself pitching forward, her arms flailing helplessly for the rail.

But then Matt’s arm slipped around her waist, dragging her back from certain disaster. Well, one disaster, anyway, Rachel taunted herself silently, feeling a hysterical desire to laugh. Being hauled up against Brody’s pelvis was hardly the safest thing. She was almost sure she could feel his body stirring against her, and that offered what might be greater dangers than she’d ever anticipated.

‘Th-thank you.’

Somehow she managed to extricate herself from his hold, pick up the offending flip-flop and complete the staircase on one bare foot. Then, reaching the lobby, she hastily lifted her leg and restored her footwear. In the normal way she would have bent over to accomplish the task, but the idea of giving her rescuer an uninterrupted view of her bottom was not something she wanted to pursue.

Particularly not at present.

‘You okay?’

Matt came round her as she was lowering her foot to the floor again, and Rachel managed a careless nod.

‘As I’ll ever be, I suppose,’ she declared lightly. ‘It’s my fault for wearing these things.’ She indicated the flip-flops. ‘I’d have been better off in flats.’

‘You’d have been better off if you hadn’t tried to outrun me,’ Matt replied drily. ‘What’s the matter, Ms Claiborne? Do I make you nervous?’

Rachel was about to deny it, but then changed her mind. ‘Perhaps a little,’ she admitted tightly. ‘I’m not a very tactile person, I’m afraid.’

Matt arched dark brows. ‘Maybe what you mean is you’re only tactile with people you like.’

‘I neither like nor dislike you, Mr Brody,’ she retorted, realising he was going to be more difficult than she had even imagined. She glanced towards the palm-fringed forecourt. ‘Do you have a car?’

Matt regarded her silently for a long moment, and she was half afraid he was going to blow her off. She didn’t want that, she realised. However reckless that made her. But, after all, this was why she’d come to St Antoine.

Then, with a casual flick of his shoulders, he gestured that she should lead the way outside. And Rachel did so, supremely aware of him following her. She should have worn her Capri pants, she thought. They would have been far more suitable. She felt totally exposed in the short cotton skirt.