Читать книгу Imperfect Stranger - Elizabeth Oldfield - Страница 7

‘SORRY about that,’ Danielle called, a touch offhandedly, for, while some apology for her dramatic appearance on the scene was necessary, she had no intention of grovelling to him.

‘So you damn well should be!’ the man hollered, and it registered that while the sunglasses might continue to conceal the expression in his eyes, every other part of him breathed pure, unadulterated fury.

Her relief vanished. His anger made it clear that she had done him some damage, caused him some harm. Danielle felt a spiralling, quaking panic. Just because he was standing upright and there were no visible signs of blood or broken bones, it did not mean…

‘What—what’s the matter?’ she faltered.

An olive-skinned arm sliced down the air, indicating a plastic carrier bag, buckled aluminum drink can and various other items of debris which lay scattered around. ‘You’ve flattened my bloody lunch!’

‘Your lunch?’ Danielle echoed, and was gripped by an immediate, acute and manic desire to giggle.

She had been terrified that she might have caused him grievous bodily injury, while he was hopping mad over what had probably been no more than a couple of cheese sandwiches. Correction, beef sandwiches. From the look of him, he fed on a constant diet of red meat.

‘I’d just set everything out,’ the man thundered, in a growly baritone laced with a biting Australian accent, ‘then you drove over it!’

‘I’m very sorry,’ Danielle replied, and, finding it difficult to keep her face straight, withdrew hurriedly back into the Land Rover.

She swallowed down one, two steadying, gigglequelling breaths, turned the key and pushed the gear stick into reverse. For a moment the wheels spun then, finding a grip, the vehicle shot back out of the stream with a little more speed than she had anticipated and on to the side. Switching off the engine, Danielle pinned on what was intended to be a suitably remorseful smile.

‘On the ferry you were selecting your victim for the day,’ the man said, as she opened the door of the Land Rover and started to climb down. He gave a humourless laugh. ‘Now why didn’t I work that out?’

‘Victim?’ Danielle queried, but when her feet hit the ground and she turned, she gaped. Diamond droplets sparkled among his thick black hair, rivulets ran down the taut angles of his face, water dripped from his stubbled chin. The front of the navy shirt was sodden and his jeans were spattered from leather-belted waist down to the knees. ‘You’re wet,’ she said, in astonishment.

He dried off his chin with savage swipes from the back of his hand. ‘Your powers of observation astound me.’

‘So when I reversed—’

‘You spurted back plumes of water which would have put the fountains at Versailles to shame,’ the man said stingingly, and, stepping towards her, he snatched off what had become water-speckled dark glasses. ‘I’d have been grateful if you could have given me just a small break in the form of a word of warning. One word,’ he rasped.

His eyes were a silvery pale grey, fringed with thick black lashes. They were beautiful eyes. He was very arresting. Danielle bit deep into the soft flesh of her lip. Earlier she had been eager for him to remove the RayBans, but now, caught beneath the naked hostility of his glare, she would have preferred him to keep them on. He was making her feel negligent and stupid…and a little scared. ‘Feral people’—the tour guide’s phrase resonated in her head. This man was wild, she thought, wild with anger.

Danielle shone a smile of meek and profuse repentance. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.

‘You bestowed your gracious apologies a minute ago and then proceeded to laugh,’ the stranger retorted, in a scathing condemnation.

She eyed him warily. He was too astute.

‘I—I didn’t laugh,’ she faltered.

‘You were bloody close.’ The dark glasses were folded and thrust into a hip pocket. ‘Are you amused now?’

Danielle swallowed. ‘Not at all,’ she replied, for with him standing a yard away, muscular and censorious and intimidating, amusement had absolutely no chance among her emotions.

Alarm bells started ringing and she sneaked a look through the trees. Although they were within sight of the road it was an exceptionally quiet road and if, heaven forbid, he should lash out, the chances of anyone coming to her rescue were slim. So what did she do? All she could do was attempt to cajole him with abject apologies and, if those failed, remember what she had once learned at a women’s self-protection class and keep her wits about her and a groin-targeted knee at the ready.

‘I wasn’t raised by wolves,’ the man said curtly, ‘and I’m anti-violence so there’s no need to panic.’

Danielle flushed, disconcerted to find that he had so accurately defined her thoughts. But she had been overreacting. No matter how angry he might be, the stranger was an inherently controlled character, in charge of his emotions and his actions. If he wished to inflict punishment it would not take the form of a wild lashing out It would be something far more deliberate, subtle, lethal.

‘I never…’ she began awkwardly. ‘I mean, I wasn’t—’

‘And far be it from a mere colonial like me to outrage the modesty of a well-brought-up English girl by tanning her backside, no matter how great the provocation.’ He paused. ‘Nor however shapely the backside. If I’d been sitting instead of coming to sit down, you would have driven straight over me,’ the man declared, in terse accusation.

Could his remark about her backside be interpreted as a compliment? Danielle wondered. It would be satisfying to think so, satisfying to know there was one thing about her which appealed. Yet why should she want to appeal to an unshaven low-life like him? she thought, a moment later. She didn’t.

Danielle shook her head, sending the fall of corncoloured hair swaying. ‘I’d have seen you and swerved,’ she protested.

‘You didn’t see my lunch,’ he rapped back.

‘Well..no,’ she was forced to concede, then rallied, ‘but you’re a dam sight bigger. You’re—’

‘Seventy-four inches and one hundred and eighty pounds,’ the stranger enunciated. ‘Though after this morning’s scrutiny you must have every one of my vital statistics carved for ever in your brain.’ He arched a thick black brow. ‘Every possible length of me measured.’

At the inescapable sexual implication, Danielle’s pink cheeks flamed scarlet. Two weeks in the country had already taught her that Australians were often more direct in their speech than the British, yet did he have to be quite so brash, so explicit? She poked the toe of her sandal into the stones. Though he could have said it in order to shock her, shock this girl who he appeared to believe was prim and proper. Danielle frowned. Whichever, it seemed that the object of her interest not only knew she had been staring, but was also aware she had done so for an appreciable length of time. So should she claim that he reminded her of someone, someone asexual and platonic, for instance a cousin? It would let her off the hook.

‘When I was—’ Danielle started, wishing she could lay claim to a castrated cousin. She got no further.

‘You’re a menace in that thing,’ the stranger denounced, flinging first her, and then the Land Rover, a withering look. ‘How long have you been driving it?’

‘I picked it up in Port Douglas this morning from—’

‘Which doesn’t surprise me,’ he said, cutting in again. ‘I noticed how you continually kept stalling when you were attempting to board the ferry.’

Danielle straightened her spine. The shock of charging into the stream was wearing off and her natural spirit had begun to reassert itself. She accepted that her driving had been a little erratic, but she was no longer prepared to submit to being so roundly maligned.

‘I did not stall,’ she informed him crisply. ‘The engine cut out-and only twice. And,’ Danielle added, ‘losing control just now was an isolated and totally uncharacteristic incident. Since passing my driving test on my eighteenth birthday, I have not had one accident nor—’ pride tilted her chin ‘—collected so much as a parking ticket.’

Her critic sluiced a shower of drops from his hair. ‘Wow,’ he said, sounding singularly unimpressed and, at the same time, making her sound as if she had been unbearably smug and righteous. ‘When was your eighteenth birthday?’

‘Er…almost ten years ago, and I’ve been driving ever since.’

‘You’ve driven four-by-fours?’

Danielle gave a silent groan. Why must he ask that? He had called himself a victim—some victim! she thought, when she felt as if he had her handcuffed, tied to a chair and was shining a blinding white interrogatory light into her eyes.

‘I haven’t,’ she confessed. ‘However, the rental guy insisted one was essential for the terrain and he said that mine is a woman’s model, so—’

The man plucked distastefully at his wet shirt, lifting its clamminess from his broad chest. ‘You’re still getting used to it.’

‘Well—yes.’ It was impossible to argue with his flat statement of fact. ‘Look, I have a sizeable packed lunch,’ Danielle hurried on. ‘Perhaps you’d like to share it?’

‘You’re concerned about my welfare?’ he asked drily. ‘Now that makes a change.’

His welfare could go hang, Danielle thought astringently; the reason she had made her offer had been to block any further discussion of her handling of the fourwheel-drive. While she was not about to admit it, she felt uncertain whether the engine’s dying was a mechanical fault or could be due to some lack of competence on her part. Why had she let herself be talked into hiring the vehicle? she wondered, when, from travelling the first few yards, she had felt too high up, at odds and not properly in charge.

‘It’d be a shame if you went hungry,’ she said, shining a fake Good Samaritan smile.

Her critic considered the proposition in silence, then gave a brief nod. ‘OK.’

‘The food’s in the back,’ Danielle told him, and walked round to open the rear door of the Land Rover.

When she looked inside, she grimaced. The bounce down the track had dislodged her luggage and while by some miracle the generously filled cardboard box had escaped damage, a heavy suitcase and travel-bag would need to be shoved aside in order to get to it. Danielle wrenched and rearranged, and, growing hotter and sweatier by the minute in the humid heat, eventually managed to haul the box forward. As she wiped beads of moisture from her brow, her lips compressed. She wished she had never suggested dividing her lunch. The beneficiary had not exactly overwhelmed her with grateful thanks, and now he had ignored her struggles and left her to cope alone. She knew all about equality of the sexes, Danielle thought thinly, but a little strong-arm help and a spot of courtesy would have been appreciated.

Deciding that she would allot the stranger the minimally acceptable portion and promptly depart, Danielle swivelled—to find him standing a yard behind her. Her heart kicked. He had not come to her assistance because, firstly, he had been tidying away the litter of his picnic into the plastic bag, and secondly because he had been shedding his soaked shirt. Her blue eyes wide, she gazed at him. Her earlier inspection had revealed that his shoulders were broad, his torso firm-muscled, his waist slim, but seeing him stripped had a new and far greater impact. A disturbingly sensual impact. What she had not known was that his chest was smattered with curls of black hair which made a horizontal pattern of sultry lace against the smooth olive of his skin, while a narrower vertical strip of hair tapered down to vanish into his jeans. However, he was not too hairy and although he had muscles they were not of the exaggerated bodybuilder kind, but rather his physique was well-toned. Danielle swallowed. Her lungs felt tight. His body seemed to be giving off an intense heat which had engulfed her and was making it difficult to breathe.

‘Let me take that,’ the man said, and, reaching past her, he swung the heavy box effortlessly out and into his arms.

‘Take—take it?’ Danielle enquired, in a choky voice.

He nodded towards a leafily spreading tree, beneath which were several large, flat-topped stones. ‘Why don’t we sit over there?’

‘Sit?’ she echoed.

When she had suggested sharing lunch she had meant him going off with his half, while she went off with hers; but he believed she had been inviting him to join her. Was that why his agreement had been less than enthusiastic? she wondered. Did he find the prospect of her company so repellent? Danielle bridled. Most men would be delighted to spend time with a bright, personable young woman like her, so what made him so darned choosy?

‘We’ll be out of harm’s way should any other kamikaze driver decide to hurtle down here,’ the man said sardonically, and strode off.

For a moment Danielle glared at the golden width of his back but then, as His Majesty had already made the decision, she stomped after him.

‘I’m Danielle Tremayne,’ she announced, as he placed the box down on one of the stones.

In truth, Danielle felt scant inclination to be friendly, but if they were to share a meal some approach at social graces seemed to be required.

Straightening up, the man held out his hand. ‘I’m Flynn,’ he said, and promptly frowned.

Why should he frown? Danielle wondered as his strong olive-skinned fingers curved around her tapered, paler ones. Was it because the giving of his name had been automatic and for some reason he regretted it…or might he be having doubts about shaking her hand? His formal introduction had surprised her. She had not imagined them touching, even in such a matter-of-fact manner, and now the pressure of his palm against hers seemed strangely intimate and unnerving.

She withdrew her hand. ‘Is that Flynn something or something Flynn?’ she enquired, being brightly conversational.

‘Just Flynn,’ he said, and looked down at the box. ‘Going to play hostess, Danny? I’m starving.’

Danny? She winced. ‘I prefer Danielle,’ she informed him.

A black brow twitched. ‘I thought you might,’ he remarked, his tone condemning her as a la-di-da English girl.

Danielle glowered. She was tempted to defend herself and make it plain that, far from being some sniffy character, she was down-to-earth with a remarkably easy disposition, but a defence would take time and she was hungry too. Sitting on one of the stones, she took out packets of crab, ham and avocado, and roast chicken sandwiches, a tray of jumbo prawns with a spicy seafood sauce, a large waxed tub of tropical fruit salad, and a couple of chocolate eclairs. Last came two cans of cola, drinking straws and an assortment of plastic cutlery.

‘Help yourself,’ she said.

Flynn sat down on a flat-topped rock. ‘Thanks,’ he said, and for the first time he smiled.

His smile lit him up. It softened the hard angles of his face, warmed his silver-grey eyes, made appealing vertical creases appear in his cheeks. Beguiled, Danielle grinned back—he had the sweetest smile and the world had suddenly become a wonderful place—but a moment later she chided herself for her stupidity. Reaching for a sandwich, she began to eat. She had allowed a brute who had earlier dismissed her and then accepted her lunch invitation with demeaning reluctance to beguile her? Smarten up, girl.

Having resolved that he would not be allowed to beguile her again, as time passed Danielle found herself becoming increasingly aware of Flynn. She wished he had kept his shirt on. She wished he were not sitting directly opposite her. She wanted to ignore him and yet, try as she might, she seemed unable to keep her eyes from drifting to the width of his shoulders, to the bronze of his skin, to the curling dark hair on his chest. And must he sit with his legs spread wide? It was a position which students of body language would doubtless say conveyed openness, confidence and control, but to her it seemed incredibly sexy.

All of a sudden, and to her alarm, Danielle realised that he was watching her watching him. Heavens, if she was not careful he would be accusing her of measuring him up again!

‘The food’s delicious, isn’t it?’ she gabbled.

‘It’s great,’ Flynn agreed, ‘though I’m sorry to have missed out on my smoked salmon.’

Her brows lifted. ‘You had smoked salmon?’

‘You seem astonished I’d aspire to something so refined,’ he drawled.

‘No, no, I’m not,’ Danielle denied hastily.

Dipping a pink prawn into the sauce, Flynn raised it to his lips. ‘Liar,’ he said, and with a crunch of strong white teeth he bit the prawn in half.

As they progressed from the savouries to dessert, Danielle eyed the Jeep which was parked further along the bank of the stream, watched the stream itself, studied his shirt which had been spread over a low-hanging branch, but, in time and as if drawn by a magnet, her gaze returned to the man opposite. Her nerve-ends screamed. If only his shirt would dry. If only he would cover himself up. If only she had allotted him his share of lunch and gone.

Flynn ate a portion of fruit salad, but refused an eclair. ‘Am I making you uncomfortable?’ he enquired, as he rested casually back against a boulder.

Danielle stiffened. ‘I beg your pardon?’

Raising a hand to his chest, he started to slowly rub. ‘You seem kind of edgy.’

‘Edgy? Me?’ She gave a burst of somewhat shrill laughter. ‘Why should I be edgy?’

Flynn’s fingertips trailed across the coils of coarse dark hair in an idle circle. ‘Perhaps coming from the UK where it’s colder and you’re not so used to it, you have a hang-up about male nudity?’

To her fury, Danielle felt herself blush; yet must she blush, again? While she had done so frequently in her teens, as she had grown older the tendency had declined, ended, and now she resented the ease with which he seemed able to turn her into one of nature’s bright red traffic-lights. But she had never met a man who was so discomfitingly aware or who shot so straight from the shoulder. If anyone else had noticed her unease they would have observed the proprieties and ignored it, but not him!

‘I don’t have any hang-up,’ she said glacially.

A smile played around Flynn’s mouth. ‘You’re sure?’ ‘I’m certain,’ she replied, a little more shortly than she had intended.

His hand moved to the brass buckle on his black leather belt. ‘So you wouldn’t mind if I removed my wet jeans?’

Remove his jeans? Danielle thought, in alarm. But was he wearing anything beneath them? An unholy tension gripped her. Flynn seemed the kind of casually erotic adventurer who might not bother.

‘Carry on,’ she said, and, having no interest in her éclair either, put both of them into the empty fruit salad container and snapped the lid. Far too tardily, his smile, allied with the glint in his grey eyes, had made her recognise that he was baiting her, mocking her, having fun at her expense. Damn him. And by becoming rattled she had played right into his hands. Lifting her shoulders, Danielle gave a supremely indifferent shrug. ‘For me, anything goes.’

A brow quirked. ‘Anything?’

‘Anything,’ she declared stalwartly, then, realising she was in danger of digging a pit to hurl herself into, she made a sudden swerve. ‘Do you live in the rainforest?’

To Danielle’s enormous relief, his fingers fell from the buckle and Flynn reached for his can of cola. His mood had changed, for at her query he had picked up a tension. It was slight, yet in her career she had conducted sufficient interviews with sufficient people under pressure to detect when somebody was wary.

‘At present,’ he replied, and took a swig.

‘You’re here temporarily?’

Flynn nodded. ‘I’m taking time out to think about things and re-evaluate my life.’ Swallowing another mouthful, he frowned down at the can he held in his fist. ‘But there’s one big problem I need to solve.’

Whereas his first sentence had sounded practised, as though he had said it several times before, the second seemed to have been a private reflection slipping out. Her journalist’s antennae started to twitch. Could he have come north of the Daintree because he had a story in his background or might he be escaping from something? Danielle wondered. She waited. Was he going to say more?

‘Problem—such as?’ she enquired, when he remained silent.

Flynn shot her an irritated look. ‘What is this, Twenty Questions?’ he growled. ‘Right, it’s my turn. Have you seen the time? Because wherever it is you’re heading for on your day out, I suggest you get on the road again. It’s gone two o’clock and—’

‘I’m not here for the day,’ Danielle cut in, ‘I’m here for three weeks.’

‘Three weeks?’ he repeated incredulously.

‘Why not?’ she protested.

Silver-grey eyes moved over her silky blouson top and slim-cut linen skirt, both of which bore the label of an élite London store. ‘Because you don’t strike me as the kind of girl who’d be interested in spending that amount of time stuck in a jungle. You’re too much of a class act.’

Normally, Danielle would have been pleased with the description, but coming from Flynn it ranked as a gibe. Her lips blotted together. She knew she was overdressed—more suited for a city office than a steamy rainforest—but it could not be helped. When packing for Australia she had decided to leave her casual summer clothes behind and treat herself to some new ones on arrival; but her first fortnight had been too busy for shopping, and so the short-notice order to head for the tropics had found her woefully unprepared. A hasty visit to the shops in Port Douglas that morning had equipped her with shorts, T-shirts and a bikini, but they languished in their plastic bags in the back of the four-wheel-drive.

‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ Danielle said tetchily.

‘So I’ve heard,’ he drawled.

‘And your perception of women is obviously as expert as your touch with a razor,’ she went on, spearing a disdainful look at his stubbled jaw, ‘because I shall be perfectly content.’

Flynn moved his shoulders in a shrug. ‘Life here is casual and no one dresses for dinner,’ he said, his eyes travelling over her in a leisurely re-run, ‘so I’d advise against sauntering along to the restaurant in your ball gown and tiara.’

‘Thanks for the tip,’ Danielle replied grittily. ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’

‘You’ve come all the way from England to spend three weeks in the rainforest?’ he said, still sounding sceptical despite her claim.

Danielle hesitated. Should she say that she had only travelled from Melbourne? But if she did, an explanation would be needed for her presence there and, in turn, for her presence here. Then, if he mentioned her raison d’être, it could be picked up by the local grapevine, and, if that long shot existed and somebody did happen to be growing marijuana, ranks would close and access to information be denied her.

‘Correct,’ she replied.

‘You’re here alone?’ he enquired. ‘There isn’t some lover joining you for three weeks of unbridled passion and sexual gratification?’

‘No.’ Danielle gazed coolly back. The gleam in his eyes indicated Flynn was baiting her again, but she refused to be fazed. ‘I don’t consider a woman needs a lover in order to enjoy herself,’ she declared.

‘Which, in translation, means whoever’s slept with you, they haven’t done such a great job of it. Pity. If they had, you’d know that good sex is the ultimate in enjoyment. So,’ he went on, not missing a beat, ‘how do you intend to pass the time?’

‘Er…’ His so careless analysis of her sex life had knocked her thoughts askew. ‘I shall sunbathe, swim, relax.’

Tipping back his head, Flynn drained the can of cola. ‘That’s all?’

Danielle hesitated, aware that to justify travelling halfway around the world for this supposed holiday she needed a more specific motivation. After all, she could sunbathe, swim and relax far closer to home.

‘I also want to learn about the flora and fauna. This is where the forest meets the reef,’ she said, trying to recall paragraphs fleetingly scanned in a guidebook which she had bought at the airport, ‘and it’s a remarkable area. I hope to see orchids and scrub fowl and—maybe a crocodile.’ Darting him a glance, she saw that he remained dubious. It seemed that the only way to convince him of the validity of her journey was to offer a few grains of truth, albeit twisted truth. ‘And I shall be collecting information for some articles which I plan to write,’ Danielle added.

Flynn sat upright. ‘You’re a reporter?’ he demanded.

She looked at him in surprise. His jaw had tensed, his eyes were dark and critical, stony disapproval was etched in his frown. She had been going to say that she worked as a journalist for an English newspaper, but not now. Her career had brought her face to face with sufficient animosity to know when someone harboured a dislike of the Press, and she had had more than enough of him haranguing her for one day.

‘No, I’m a—a secretary,’ Danielle improvised. ‘I write for a hobby and whether any of my articles’ll be published is in the lap of the gods. But I’m going to take masses of photographs to illustrate them,’ she said, hastily embroidering, ‘in the hope that that’ll make them more acceptable.’

‘Best of luck,’ Flynn said.

‘Thanks.’

‘And thank you for lunch, but now, difficult though it is to tear myself away,’ he said sardonically, ‘I must be going.’ As she packed away the remains of the picnic, he walked over to retrieve his shirt and pull it on over his head. ‘Shall I reverse your Land Rover on to the road?’ Flynn offered, when he had raked his dark hair back into unruly order.

Danielle gave a grateful smile. There was insufficient space beside the stream to turn the vehicle around and she had been wondering how she was going to manage such a difficult backward climb.

‘That would be kind,’ she said.

‘It isn’t kindness,’ he responded, ‘it’s called selfpreservation. After experiencing what happens when you reverse, I’ve no intention of putting myself at risk again.’

Danielle’s hackles rose. ‘You wouldn’t be at risk,’ she said forcefully. ‘I’m an excellent driver.’

Flynn chose not to reply—a most effective comment. Picking up the cardboard box, he stashed it away in the rear of the off-roader and strode round to the driver’s seat. As the sound of revs soared, Danielle took her place alongside him.

‘Does the engine feel right to you?’ she asked, her query offhand and throwaway.

He revved up again. ‘It feels fine. Hold on,’ he instructed, and drove up the incline and on to the road without stopping.

As Danielle walked around the front of the Land Rover to take her place at the wheel, her expression was tight. Not only had she hoped Flynn might detect some quirk in the engine, she had also been hoping he would not find the reverse journey quite such kid’s stuff and irritatingly easy.

‘Thank you,’ she said crisply, and placed her foot on the step.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. ‘You must’ve brightened up the lives of a hell of a lot of guys today.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Danielle said, but when she followed the dip of his grey eyes she saw her skirt had ridden high up her thighs; so high that she was in danger of exposing her white lace briefs. Hoisting herself rapidly into the driving seat, Danielle slammed the door. Had her skirt ridden up every time she had climbed into the vehicle? The answer had to be yes. And had Flynn mentioned it in order to embarrass her? Again the answer was undoubtedly yes. ‘Goodbye,’ she snapped.

‘Bye,’ he said.

Flynn had left the engine running and, as she pushed into gear, Danielle frowned at him through the open window. He might be a louse, but he was an attractive louse—and would be more so if he shaved. He did not appeal to her, but his tough, sexy glamour must have a certain sector of the female population salivating. Could he have Latin blood? she wondered. The sultriness of his looks made it possible.

‘That problem,’ Danielle began.

‘Problem?’ he asked.

‘You mentioned a big problem. It’s a woman,’ she hazarded, and Flynn gave a brief nod. ‘Your wife?’

‘I’m not married.’

‘A girlfriend?’ Danielle suggested.

Her enquiries had taken him by surprise and he had answered without thinking, but now his eyes narrowed.

‘You may not be a reporter, but you sure as hell ask questions like one!’ Flynn grated.

‘All women ask questions,’ she replied lightly.

‘But not all men answer them,’ he countered, and jabbed a finger along the road. ‘Now scoot!’

Danielle knew when she was wasting energy on a lost cause. ‘Yessir,’ she said, and, as she accelerated away, a glimpse through her rear-view mirror showed Flynn already striding off down the track.

The Land Rover behaved itself and the rest of her journey passed without mishap. As Danielle turned into a road signposted for the Fan Palms Lodge, she frowned. Earlier in the day she had sworn that Flynn would not be allowed to become mentally compelling, but ever since she had left him he had dominated her thoughts. There was so much she longed to know. Like, why hadn’t he given her his full name? What was it? Who was the woman causing him a problem and in which way? Flipping down the visor, Danielle cut out the glare of the sun. But the most intriguing part was that his evasions made her wonder if there might be a chance, albeit a slim one, that when she had steam-rollered over his lunch she had steam-rollered over the lunch of a man who was connected with the marijuana racket. A man who could alter her journey from a wild-goose chase into something worthwhile!