Читать книгу Surrender To Seduction - Robyn Donald - Страница 8

IT DIDN’T surprise her that Bryn Falconer’s arrangements worked smoothly; he’d expect efficiency in his hirelings.

Everything—from the moment Gerry collected her first-class ticket at Auckland airport to the cab-ride through the hot, colourful streets of Fala’isi with the tall young man who’d met the plane—went without a hitch.

‘Mr Falconer said you were very important, and that I wasn’t to be late,’ her escort said when she thanked him for meeting her.

A considerable exaggeration, she thought with a touch of cynicism. Bryn liked her as little as she liked him. ‘Do you work for the hotel on Longopai?’

He shook his head. ‘For the shipping company. Mr Falconer bought a trader to bring the dried coconut here from Longopai, so it is necessary to have an office here.’

Bryn had said he was an importer—clearly he dealt in Pacific trade goods.

At the waterfront Gerry’s escort loaded her and her suitcase tenderly into a float plane. Within five minutes, in a maelstrom of spray and a shriek of engines, the plane taxied out, broke free of the water and rose over the lagoon to cross the white line of the reef and drone north above a tropical sea of such vivid blue-green that Gerry blinked and put on her sunglasses.

She’d forgotten how much she loved the heat and the brilliance, forgotten the blatant, overpowering assault on senses more accustomed to New Zealand’s subtler colours and scents. Now, smiling at the large ginger dog of bewildering parentage strapped into the co-pilot’s seat, she relaxed.

Between the high island of Fala’isi and the atoll of Longopai stretched a wide strait where shifting colours and surface textures denoted reefs and sandbanks. Gazing down at several green islets, each ringed by blinding coral sand, Gerry wondered how long it would take to go by sea through these treacherous waters.

‘Landfall in distant seas,’ the pilot intoned dramatically over the intercom fifteen minutes later.

A thin, irregular, plumy green circle surrounded by blinding sand, the atoll enclosed a huge lagoon of enchanting, opalescent blues and greens. To make it perfect, in the centre of the lagoon rested a boat, white and graceful. Not a yacht—too much to expect!—but a large cruiser, some rich man’s toy.

Gerry sighed. Oh, she wouldn’t want to live on a place like this—too cut off, and, being a New Zealander, she loved the sight of hills on the horizon—but for a holiday what could be better? Sun, sand, and enough of a mission to stop her from becoming inured to self-indulgence.

After a spray-flurried landing in the deeper part of the lagoon, Gerry unbelted as a canoe danced towards them.

‘Your transport.’ The pilot nodded at it.

Glad that she’d worn trousers and a T-shirt, she pulled on her hat. The canoe surged in against the plane, manned by two young men with dark eyes and the proud features of Polynesians, their grins open and frankly appreciative as they loaded her suitcase.

Amused and touched by the cushion that waited on her seat, Gerry stepped nimbly down, sat gracefully and waved to the pilot The dog barked and wagged its tail; the pilot said, ‘Have a great holiday.’

Yes, indeed, Gerry thought, smiling as the canoe backed away from the plane, swung around and forged across the glittering waters.

New Zealand seemed a long, long way away. For this week she’d forget about it, and the life that had become so terrifyingly flat, to wallow in the delights of doing practically nothing in one of the most perfect climates in the world.

And in one of the most perfect settings!

Following the hotel porter along a path of crushed white shell, Gerry breathed deeply, inhaling air so fresh and languorous it smelt like Eden, a wonderful mixture of the unmatched perfumes of gardenia and frangipani and ylangylang, salted by a faint and not unpleasing undernote of fish, she noted cheerfully. Her cabaña, its rustic appearance belying the luxury within, was one of only ten.

‘Very civilised,’ she said aloud when she was alone.

A huge bed draped in mosquito netting dominated one end of the room. Chairs and sofas—made of giant bamboo and covered in the soothing tans and creams of tapa cloth—faced wide windows which had shutters folded back to reveal a deck. Separated from a tiny kitchen by a bar, a wooden table and chairs stood at the other end of the room. Fruit and flowers burst from a huge pottery shell on the table.

Further exploration revealed a bathroom of such unashamed and unregenerate opulence—all marble in soft sunrise hues of cream and pale rose—that Gerry whistled.

Whoever had conceived and designed this hotel had had a very exclusive clientele in mind—the seriously rich who wanted to escape. Although, she thought, eyeing the toiletries laid out on the marble vanity, not too far.

The place was an odd but highly successful blend of sophisticated luxury and romantic, lazy, South Seas simplicity. Normally she’d never be able to afford such a place. She was, she thought happily, going to cost Bryn Falconer megabucks.

Half an hour later, showered and changed into fresh clothes, she strolled down the path, stopping to pick a hibiscus flower and tuck it behind her ear, where its rollicking orange petals and fiery scarlet throat would contrast splendidly with her black curls. Only flowers, she decided, could get away with a colour scheme like that! Or silk, perhaps…

According to the schedule her escort in Fala’isi had given her, she’d have the rest of the day to relax before the serious part of this holiday began. Tomorrow she’d be shown the hats. As the swift purple twilight of the tropics gathered on the horizon, she straightened her shoulders and walked across the coarse grass to the lounge area.

And there, getting up from one of the sinfully comfortable chairs and striding across to meet her, was Bryn Falconer, all power and smooth, co-ordinated litheness, green eyes gleaming with a metallic sheen, his autocratic features only hinting at the powerful personality within.

Gerry was eternally grateful that she didn’t falter, didn’t even hesitate. But the smile she summoned was pure willpower, and probably showed a few too many teeth, for he laughed, a deep, amused sound that hid any mockery from the three people behind him.

‘Hello, Geraldine,’ he said, and took her arm with a grip that looked easy. ‘Somehow I knew just how you’d look.’

As she was wearing a gentle dress the dark blue-green of her eyes, with a long wrap skirt and flat-heeled sandals, she doubted that very much. Flattering it certainly was—the straight skirt and deep, scooped neckline emphasised her slender limbs and narrow waist—but fashionable it was not.

Arching her brows at him, she murmured, ‘Oh? How do I look?’

His smile hardened. ‘Rare and expensive and fascinating—perfect for a tropical sunset. A moonlit woman, as shadowy and mysterious as the pearls they dive for in one small atoll far to the north of here, pearls the colour of the sea and the sky at midnight.’

Something in his tone—a disturbing strand of intensity, of almost-hidden passion—sent her pulse skipping. Automatically, she deflected.

‘What a charming compliment. Thank you,’ she returned serenely, dragging her eyes away from the uncompromising authority of his face as he introduced his companions.

Gone was the lingering miasma of ennui; the moment she’d seen him every nerve cell had jolted into acute, almost painful alertness.

Narelle and Cosmo were an Australian couple—sleek, well-tanned, wearing expensive resort clothes. Lacey, their adolescent daughter, should have been rounded and sturdy; instead her angular figure indicated a recent illness.

After the flurry of greetings Gerry sank into the chair Bryn held for her, aware that Lacey was eyeing her with the yearning intensity of a hungry lion confronted by a wildebeest. Uncomfortably, Gerry waited for surnames, but none were forthcoming.

‘Isn’t this a wonderful place for a holiday?’ Narelle, a thin, tanned woman with superbly blonded hair and a lot of gold chains, spoke brightly, her skilfully shaded eyes flicking from Gerry to Bryn.

‘Ideal,’ Gerry answered, smiling, and was about to add that she wasn’t exactly on holiday when Bryn distracted her by asking her what she’d have to drink.

‘Fruit juice, thanks,’ she said. After the fiasco with Troy she wasn’t going to risk anything alcoholic in her empty stomach. She smiled at the waiter who’d padded across on bare feet, and added, ‘Not too sweet, please.’

‘Papaya, madam? With passionfruit and lime?’

‘That sounds wonderful,’ she said.

She was oddly uneasy when Lacey said loudly, ‘I’ll have one of those too, please.’

Her mother gave her a sharp look. ‘How about a diet soft drink?’ she asked.

‘No, thanks.’

Narelle opened her mouth but was forestalled by Bryn, who said, ‘Did you have a good flight up, Geraldine?’

Why the devil didn’t he use her proper name? ‘Geraldine’ sounded quite different from her normal, everyday self. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she said, smiling limpidly.

If he thought that one compliment entitled him to a more intimate footing, he was wrong. All right, so her heart was still recovering from that first sight of him, and for a moment she’d wondered what it would be like to hear that deep voice made raw by passion, but she was strong, she’d get over it.

‘We’ve been here several times,’ Narelle said, preening a little. ‘Last year Logan Hawkhurst was here with the current girlfriend, Tania Somebody-or-other.’

Logan Hawkhurst was an actor, the latest sensation from London, a magnificently structured genius with a head of midnight hair, bedroom eyes, and a temper—so gossip had it—that verged on molten most of the time.

‘And was he as overwhelming as they say?’ Gerry asked lightly.

Narelle gave an artificial laugh. ‘Oh, more so,’ she said. ‘Just gorgeous—like something swashbuckling out of history. Lacey had a real a crush on him.’

The girl’s face flamed.

Gerry said cheerfully, ‘She wasn’t the only one. I had to restrain a friend of mine when he finally got married—she wept half a wet Sunday and said she was never going to see another film of his because he’d break her heart all over again.’

They dutifully laughed, and some of the colour faded from the girl’s skin.

‘Don’t know what you women see in him,’ Cosmo said, giving Bryn a man-to-man look.

His wife said curtly, ‘He’s very talented, and you saw quite a lot in his girlfriend, whose talent wasn’t so obvious.’ She laughed a little spitefully. ‘He must like fat women.’

Fortunately the waiter returned with the drinks just then, pale gold and frosted, with moisture sliding down the softly rounded glasses.

Gerry had seen more than enough photographs of the woman Logan Hawkhurst had wooed all over the world and finally won; a tall, statuesque woman, with wide shoulders, glorious legs and substantial breasts, she’d looked as though she was more than capable of coping with a man of legendary temper.

Whatever, Gerry didn’t want to deal with undercurrents and sly backbiting. Blast Bryn Falconer. This was not the way she’d envisioned spending her first evening on the atoll.

Even more irritating, Narelle set out to establish territory and pecking order. Possibly Bryn noted the glitter in Gerry’s smile, for he steered the conversation in a different direction. Instead of determining who outranked whom, they talked of the latest comet, and the plays on Broadway, and whether cars would ever run on hydrogen. Lacey didn’t offer much, but what she did say was sharply perceptive.

Gerry admired the way Bryn handled the girl; he respected her intelligence and treated her as an interesting woman with a lot to offer. Lacey bloomed.

Which was more than Gerry did. Infuriatingly, the confidence she took for granted seemed to be draining away faster than the liquid in her glass. Every time Bryn’s hooded green gaze traversed her face her rapid pulse developed an uncomfortable skip, and she had to yank her mind ruthlessly off the question of just how that long, hard mouth would feel against hers…

How foolish of Narelle to try her silly tests of who outranked whom! Bryn was the dominant male, and not only because he was six inches taller than Cosmo; what marked him out was the innate authority blazing around him like a forceful aura, intimidating and omnipresent.

Dragging her attention back, she learned that Cosmo owned a chain of shops in Australia. Narelle turned out to be a demon shopper, detailing the best boutiques in London for clothes, and where to buy gold jewellery, and how wonderful Raffles Hotel in Singapore was now it had been refurbished.

Lacey relapsed into silence, turning her glass in her hand, drinking her fruit juice slowly, as Gerry drank hers, occasionally shooting sideways glances at Bryn. Another crush on the way, Gerry thought, feeling sorry for her.

Politeness insisted she listen to Narelle, nodding and putting in an odd comment, but the other woman was content to talk without too much input from anyone else. From the corner of her eye Gerry noted Bryn’s lean, well-shaped hands pick up his beer glass. So acutely, physically aware of him was she that she fancied her skin on that side of her body was tighter, more stretched, than on the other.

‘You’ve travelled quite a bit,’ Lacey said abruptly, breaking into her mother’s conversation.

‘It’s part of my job,’ Gerry said.

‘What do you do?’

She hesitated before saying, ‘I work in fashion.’

Lacey looked smug. ‘I thought you might be a model,’ she said, ‘but I knew you were something to do with fashion. You’ve got that look.’ She leaned forward. ‘Do models have to diet all the time to stay that slim?’

‘Thin,’ Gerry said calmly. ‘They have to be incredibly thin because the camera adds ten pounds to everyone. Some starve themselves, but most don’t They’re freaks.’

‘F-freaks?’ Lacey looked distinctly taken aback.

Bryn asked indolently, ‘How many women do you see walking down the street who are six feet tall, skinny as rakes, with small bones and beautiful faces?’

Although the caustic note in his voice stung, Gerry nodded agreement.

‘Well—not many, I suppose,’ Lacey said defensively.

‘It’s not normal for women to look like that,’ Bryn said with cold-blooded dispassion. ‘Gerry’s right—those who do are freaks.’

‘Designers like women with no curves,’ Gerry told her, ‘because they show off clothes better.’

Narelle laughed a little shrilly. ‘Oh, it’s more than that,’ she protested. ‘Men are revolted by fat women.’

‘Some men are,’ Bryn said, leaning back in his chair as though he conducted conversations like this every day, ‘but most men like women who are neither fat nor thin, just fit and pleasantly curvy.’

So she was not, Gerry realised, physically appealing to him. Although not model-thin, she was certainly on the lean side rather than voluptuous. His implied rejection bit uncomfortably deep; she had, she realised with a shock, taken it for granted that he found her as attractive as she found him.

Lacey asked, ‘Are you in fashion too, Mr Falconer?’

‘I have interests there,’ he said, his tone casual.

Did he mean the hats?

With a bark of laughter Cosmo said, ‘Amongst others.’

Bryn nodded. Smoothly, before anyone else could speak, he made some remark about a scandal in Melbourne, and Lacey listened to her parents discuss it eagerly.

Illness or anorexia? Gerry wondered, covertly taking in the stick-like arms and legs. Lacey had her father’s build; she should have been rounded. Or just a kid in a growing spurt? Sixteen could be a dangerous age.

Had Bryn discerned that? Why else would he have bothered to warn her off dieting? Because that was what he’d done, in the nicest possible way.

Gerry drained her glass and settled back in her chair, watching the night drift across the sea, sweep tenderly through the palms and envelop everything in a soft, scented darkness. The sound of waves caressing the reef acted as a backdrop; while they’d been talking several other people had come in and sat down, and now a porter was going around lighting flares.

If she were alone, Gerry thought, she’d be having a wonderful time, instead of sitting there with every cell alert and tense, waiting for something to happen.

What happened was that a waiter came across and bent over Bryn, saying cheerfully, ‘Your table is ready, sir.’

‘Then we’d better eat,’ he said, and got to his feet, towering over them. ‘Geraldine,’ he said, holding out his hand.

Irritated, but unable to reject him without making it too obvious, Gerry put hers in his and let him help her up, smiling at the others. He kept his grip until they were halfway across the room, when she tugged her fingers free and demanded, ‘What on earth is going on?’

‘I’d have thought you’d know the signs,’ he said caustically. ‘If she hasn’t got anorexia, she’s on the brink.’

‘I didn’t mean Lacey,’ she snapped. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I discovered I had a few days, so I decided it would be easier for you if I came up and acted as intermediary.’

Impossible to tell from his expression or his voice whether he was lying, but he certainly wasn’t telling the whole story.

‘Just like that?’ she said, not trying to hide her disbelief. ‘You didn’t have this time yesterday.’

‘Things change,’ he told her blandly, pulling out a chair.

He was laughing at her and she resented it, but she wasn’t going to make a fool of herself by protesting. So when she’d sat down she seized on the comment he’d made. ‘What do you mean, you thought I’d have been able to recognise anorexia?’

‘You deal with it all the time, surely?’ he said.

She replied bluntly, ‘Tragically, anorexic young women who don’t get help die. They don’t have the stamina to be models.’

‘I know they die,’ he said, his face a mask of granite, cold and inflexible in the warm, flickering light of the torches. ‘How many do you think you’ve sent down that road?’

His grim question hurt more than a blow to the face.

Before she could defend herself he continued, ‘Your industry promotes an image of physical perfection that’s completely unattainable for most women. From there it’s only a short step to eating disorders.’

‘No one knows what causes eating disorders,’ she said, uncomfortable because she had worried about this. ‘You make it sound as though it’s a new thing, but women have always died of eating disorders—they used to call it green sickness or a decline before they understood it. Some psychologists believe it’s psychological, to do with personality types, while others think it’s caused by lack of control and power. If you men would give up your arrogant assumption of authority over us and appreciate us for what we are—not as trophies to impress your friends and associates—then perhaps we could learn to appreciate ourselves in all our varied and manifold shapes and sizes and looks.’

‘That’s a cop-out,’ he said relentlessly.