Читать книгу An Imported Wife - Rosalie Ash - Страница 7

IT WASN’T so much a kiss as a light, sensual caress of the lips. But while it lasted all comparisons between Piers and Rick Josephs vanished abruptly from Gabriella’s mind. The feel of the hard male lips brushing tantalisingly over hers, the wave of reaction as the muscular body made contact with hers, was overpowering. Everything else simply melted from her consciousness. All she was capable of thinking was that, even if she’d once imagined she’d been in love with Piers, he’d never had this devastating physical effect on her.

This was something new, shockingly intense. Unthinkable…

Battling to her senses, rigid with denial, she summoned the will-power to push Rick fiercely away. The emotion he’d aroused in her had left her feeling weak and shaky, and very frightened by her own responses.

‘If you’ve quite finished?’ she said in a low, choked voice. ‘Frankly, I need a lot more than a glass of white wine to stand being mauled by men like you!’

Rick Josephs’ face was a mask of cool mockery.

‘Next time I’ll have champagne on ice,’ he quipped with a bleak grin. ‘Won’t you stay and have dinner with me, Gabriella?’

‘Not in a million years!’ She grabbed the doorhandle, snatching it open. ‘I’d rather starve…!’

Uncaring of the Paisley robe, she escaped into the humid darkness and made her way, half walking, half running, towards the lights and laughter of the hotel.

No one seemed surprised to see her asking for her room key at Reception dressed in a man’s silk robe. But she felt acutely embarrassed. Mortified, she finally made it back to her room, and slammed and locked the door behind her, almost numb with disbelief at the events of the evening so far, and her own emotional overreaction to them.

She ought to ring Room Service, she supposed distractedly, order herself a snack in her room. The thought of going down to the restaurant again tonight was more than she could face. That hateful, mocking man…with his glamorous girlfriends at the bar, and his suspicious relationship with her boss…

Shivering, Gabriella went across to sit at the kidney-shaped dark wood dressing-table, gazing at her pale reflection in the oval mirror.

She touched her fingers slowly to her mouth. It hadn’t even been a madly passionate kiss. There’d been no dramatic fencing of tongues or hungrily devouring attempts to reach her tonsils, the way Piers had favoured. Ironically enough, it had been rather a chaste kiss. So why had it left her feeling as if she’d been seduced by someone in the master class…?

The silk robe felt like a caress against her skin. With trembling fingers, she abruptly tore it off, and threw it angrily into the corner of the room. How she was going to return it she couldn’t imagine. The thought of seeking him out for the purpose filled her with dread. Yet she could hardly hand it to Reception and ask them to return it to the man in the private villa. Not if she valued her reputation…

But then there was the small matter of her dress. Presumably, Rick Josephs would return that at some point. She could hand the robe back then. As quickly as possible. And then steer clear of him, as firmly as she could…

Blankly, she examined her face. Large sage-green eyes stared back, from a heart-shaped bonestructure strengthened by a firm, chisel-shaped chin. She was here in Mauritius to prove that she could do a good job, she reminded herself sternly. Preliminary set-backs such as these brief skirmishes with a man like Rick Josephs were trivial, and irrelevant.

Dragging her shattered defences together, she rinsed her face in the bathroom, then picked up the telephone and ordered a light salad to be sent up to her room. Food, a good night’s sleep, and a strict veto on her wayward emotions. That was all she needed to set her back on course, surely?

Digging in her luggage, she found the thick historical paperback novel she’d begun on the plane, settled herself on her bed, and determinedly lost herself in the fictional world of the nineteenth century.

‘Helicopter trips to surrounding islands?’ The girl at Reception nodded doubtfully. ‘Yes, it is possible. I will try to organise a trip for you…’

‘Thanks.’ Gabriella smiled hopefully. She was feeling a small glow of self-confidence returning this morning. She’d eaten a delicious breakfast, delivered to her room and consumed on her balcony with its breathtaking vista of ocean and beach. The warm rolls and exotic fruit juice and fragrant creamy coffee had done much to restore her equilibrium, even if she hadn’t slept as well as normal. With her long blonde hair in a high, tight plait, flat tan sandals on bare feet, and in a short white cotton sundress, the cross-over backstraps allowing maximum air to circulate, she was bright and raring to go. She shifted the roomy raffia bag, containing money, camera, sun-lotion and all manner of other necessities, a little higher on her shoulder, and waited expectantly.

‘The problem is the weather,’ the girl was saying, shaking her head as she consulted with another member of the hotel staff. ‘Regular trips around the islands are not running at the moment…’

‘The weather?’ Gabriella echoed, perplexed, glancing over her shoulder at the sapphire sky and dazzling sunshine. ‘What’s wrong with the weather?’

‘Cyclones are forecast.’

Gabriella stared at the girl pleadingly.

‘There’s no sign of any cyclones yet,’ she pointed out encouragingly. ‘My boss in London rang this morning. She’s very insistent that I take a look at Rodrigues as a potential location. There are some marvellous remote areas, with dramatic waterfalls and—’

‘Not even the all-powerful Ursula Taylor can play God with the tropical weather, Gabriella.’

The deep voice was all too familiar. As she spun round, her heart sank. Rick Josephs lounged against the end of the reception desk, wickedly dark and handsome in sawn-off denims, espadrilles and a plain white T-shirt.

‘Good morning,’ she supplied briefly, shooting him a cool, repressive look. ‘Do you never mind your own business?’

‘Such gratitude. When I was about to offer my services as taxi driver?’

‘Taxi driver?’ She couldn’t help her jaw dropping slightly.

‘And guide,’ he added calmly, exchanging an enigmatic smile with the girl receptionist, who was gazing at him as if he were royalty. ‘Ignore Ursula. There is no need to go five hundred kilometres to search for locations on Rodrigues when Mauritius has everything you need.’

‘Oh, so I ignore my employer, do I?’ she countered, feeling her temper rising all over again. ‘Why do I get the feeling you’re trying to get me sacked?’

‘Paranoia will not get you very far in the fashion world, Gabriella.’ He’d sauntered closer, eyeing her appearance with casual interest. ‘How urgently do you need to explore for locations?’

‘Very urgently,’ she told him, resenting his presence but struggling with her antagonism.

‘Then since you’ll find that all the commercial helicopter operators will have shut up shop pending this cyclone, my humble jeep and I are available for hire,’ he informed her, grinning at her tightly set face. ‘At a price to be agreed.’

‘I’m sure First Flair would pay normal rates,’ she retorted stiffly. ‘If I took you up on the offer, which is unlikely!’

‘I’m sure Ursula would expect you to use your common sense,’ he purred smoothly. ‘Make use of any available help to facilitate the project.’

This was undoubtedly true. Damn the man. She felt hopelessly inexperienced suddenly, unsure how to handle the situation.

‘Well, yes. But what about this cyclone?’ She glanced back at the receptionist, praying for some other suggestion. ‘How long before it comes? Is it dangerous? Should I let First Flair know…?’

‘Bad cyclones are quite rare,’ Rick Josephs reassured her calmly. ‘Normally they are just high winds and torrential rain, over quite quickly.’

‘I see. Well, thanks for the offer, but I’m sure I can find some other means of transport…’

Torn between telling him to get lost, and possibly needing his help, she turned back to the receptionist, who’d been joined by the manager.

‘If you are in a hurry to see different places, I suppose you could get a taxi, or hire a car yourself…’ the manager began helpfully.

‘No, she couldn’t,’ Rick put in calmly. ‘The young lady is under age. Twenty-three’s the minimum, isn’t it?’

‘Ah, yes, that is true…If Monsieur Josephs is prepared to help, he knows the island very well,’ the manager confirmed. ‘And I can vouch for his integrity. I’d say it seemed the perfect solution, mademoiselle…’

‘Perfect,’ said the lazy voice at her side.

Gabriella looked round, and found his golden eyes mockingly intent on her indecision. Heart thudding as the options sank in, she capitulated with a brief, angry shrug.

‘Then I suppose I’m stuck with Monsieur Josephs,’ she agreed sweetly.

‘A wise decision, graciously made,’ he applauded softly, taking her arm and escorting her out of the hotel. ‘And may I say how delighted I am to be given the chance to spend more time in your charming company, Gabriella?’

‘They say sarcasm is the lowest form of wit,’ she reminded him, in a furious undertone.

‘Je m’excuse,’ he murmured unrepentantly, ushering her around to the car park of the hotel where a large open-topped jeep glinted in the sun. ‘You seem to have the knack of bringing out the lowest traits in my character.’

‘You have other traits?’ She met his narrowed gaze with wide, unblinking eyes, and he burst out laughing.

‘All right,’ he said finally. ‘If we are to spend the day together, perhaps we could agree on a truce.’

She chewed her lower lip, then looked away from him and sighed, feeling faintly ashamed of herself. ‘You’re right. I’m sorry. I suppose a spell of adult civility wouldn’t hurt.’

‘An apology? This is progress!’ The smile he shot towards her as he fired the engine was infectious, and wickedly amused, she registered uneasily. Despite everything, she supposed he did have a few likeable qualities, but she’d be crazy to trust him. She knew very little about him, but she sensed he was a renegade. A descendant of those lawless pirates who’d first colonised the island…and he was too much like Piers…

‘Did you say this was your jeep?’ she managed in a determinedly civil tone of voice.

He nodded, his eyes now hidden behind dark glasses as he concentrated on the winding road up from the beach.

‘Do you keep it at the hotel?’

‘It’s convenient, until my house is finished.’

‘Where are you building your house?’

‘On a small island off the coast.’

She found herself staring at him, speechless.

‘A small island? A private island, you mean?’ It was no good, she couldn’t keep the spark of professional interest out of her voice.

‘Private enough.’ He glanced at her quizzically, his mouth twisting. ‘I own it. Don’t tell me. You think you could use it for your fashion shoot?’

‘I didn’t say that, but…is it easily accessible?’ she countered cautiously. If Ursula Taylor knew this man so well, why hadn’t she tipped Gabriella off about the possibility of a private island for the shoot? It would be ideal, surely…?

‘It’s a short trip by motorboat. But for today I had in mind a scenic tour of the whole island, Gabriella, starting with the Savanne region in the south…’

The message seemed definite. Steer clear of his private island. Gabriella subsided reluctantly, absorbing the scenery, trying not to brood on this intriguing revelation.

It was hot and humid. The heat of the sun was like a naked flame against her face as they drove. She pulled sunglasses and a small white cotton sunhat out of her bag and jammed them firmly in place. She had a long-sleeved shirt rolled up in her bag, in case the high protection sun-lotion she’d plastered on earlier ceased to feel protective. Notebook to hand, camera round her neck, keeping up a non-stop flow of questions, she twisted and turned in fascinated interest at the ever-changing scenery. There was sugar cane in waving green abundance along the sides of the road. Palm trees, fanning their tropical fronds against the cobalt sky. Grey-white monkeys with sweet, friendly faces crouched in the twisted branches of trees. Mountains with irregular twisted peaks coated in green. Above it all swirled sporadic clouds, fluffy and innocuous to Gabriella’s mind.

This talk of cyclones seemed like unnecessary scaremongering…

‘A low-altitude helicopter flight is the best way to see the island.’ Rick glanced at her lit-up face, when she’d made an involuntary exclamation at the sight of a dramatic gorge, with tumbling water flowing seawards. ‘If the weather had been more predictable, I’d have taken you up in the Jet Ranger. From the air, you can see how the landscape changes dramatically…’

Taken her up in the Jet Ranger? Was he saying he had his own private helicopter, too? Gabriella decided to stop speculating about this man, just go with the flow. It made no difference, anyway. She didn’t like him, she didn’t trust him, and, although she knew it was unfairly prejudiced on her part, with all his casual wealth and privilege and power he was appearing more like Piers Wellington by the second…

They lunched at a restaurant with a big, thatch-roofed awning, and dramatic views over a tranquil turquoise lagoon. Beyond the distant coral reef, the Indian Ocean surged with ominous potency, and sprayed warning plumes of white foam.

Gabriella, on her companion’s advice, chose palm-heart salad, with pommes d’amour, tiny cherry tomatoes which Rick told her grew all over the island, and then camarones, grilled freshwater prawns, followed by a small fresh pineapple. This had been peeled and cut into spirals, with the stem left as a handle. By the end of the meal she was feeling so relaxed that she was in danger of forgetting her mission.

Across the table, Rick watched her with that now familiar worldly, amused tolerance. He paused in the act of biting into his pineapple, the yellow juice running over his fingers.

‘What did you think of the sacred Hindu lake, the Grand Bassin?’ he queried softly, watching her licking the sweet, sugary juice off her own lips. ‘Suitable for your fashion shoot?’

‘Hardly—somehow sacred lakes don’t go with flashy fashion articles, do they?’

He laughed. ‘I’m not sure that’s the attitude for an ambitious fashion stylist, Gabriella. What about the Botanical Gardens? The pond of lotus flowers? The giant Amazon water lilies?’

She frowned reflectively.

‘They were beautiful, but…’ She’d loved the peaceful atmosphere there, the cooing of the pigeons, the lizards, the brilliant flashes of tropical birds. Rick had shown her a huge talipot palm tree, which flowered only once in its lifetime of sixty years, and then died in a glorious mass of yellow blooms…

She hesitated, reaching for the starched white linen napkin to wipe her fingers, then plunged in with what she’d had on her mind for the last hour or so. ‘Before I draw up a shortlist, is there any chance we could take a look at this island of yours? I mean, if it’s small and private, it would be absolutely ideal for First Flair’s purposes. We could do anything we liked, without fear of upsetting the locals…!’

‘Sounds intriguing,’ he teased. ‘What did you have in mind? An open-air orgy?’

She coloured slightly. ‘Don’t be silly. But, well, obviously you wouldn’t know anything about it, but with fashion shoots there can be an awful lot to organise and…’

He angled an eyebrow, gravely non-committal. ‘Yes?’

‘I’m sure Ursula would appreciate it if you helped us out!’ she finished up, with a stroke of inspiration. ‘In fact, I’m surprised she hasn’t already suggested it!’

‘Perhaps Ursula doesn’t even know about it?’ he suggested blandly.

Gabriella lowered the chunk of pineapple she’d been about to finish, and met his mocking gaze. He was leaning back in his chair, eyes narrowed, but his expression impossible to read. She felt a fresh jolt of annoyance. He was playing games with her. She sensed that strongly now. And the more frustrated and annoyed she became, the more he’d be quietly enjoying himself.

The only solution was to stay calm. And polite.

‘All right, I’m sorry I asked,’ she said evenly, ‘And I do appreciate your help today. I’d never have known where to go without a knowledgeable guide…’

‘Finish your lunch, and spare me the flowery gratitude, Gabriella,’ he grinned. ‘It makes me feel distinctly uneasy. We’ll continue our coastal tour. Some of the finest beaches are along the next stretch.’

‘Which coast does your island lie off?’ She asked the question casually, as they walked slowly back through a shady belt of casuarinas towards the jeep.

‘The north,’ he supplied briefly.

‘Isn’t that where our hotel is?’

He gave a short laugh as they drove away. ‘Yes, it is. Which is why I stay at the Sable Royale, because I can moor my boat in the lagoon, and easily get across to the island. And you don’t give up, do you? Have no worries about your career, Gabriella. You’ll go far.’

‘Then we can take a look at it? Don’t you need to see how your house is progressing?’

‘We’ll see. It depends on the time. And the weather.’

‘But look at the sky,’ she argued, gesturing towards the high, white-dotted arc of sapphire above. ‘Not even a teensy little cyclone in sight!’

‘Take a look behind you,’ he suggested flatly. She twisted, saw the faint inky blue darkness heralding storm clouds in the distance.

‘It’s moving the other way,’ she judged confidently.

‘And you are a pushy young lady.’

It was mid-afternoon when they got back to the hotel and parked the jeep. Rick took a long, hard look at the sky and back at Gabriella’s persuasive expression.

‘We can go across?’ she hazarded, barely restraining her excitement. He gazed at her shining dark green eyes for a moment, then shrugged.

‘OK, I surrender,’ he grated with wry amusement. ‘Just don’t blame me if we end up camping overnight with a cyclone raging all around us.’

Something in the dark gleam in his eyes gave her the unsettling impression that he might quite enjoy the challenge. She suppressed panic, and remembered her job. Ursula Taylor had sounded very keen on a small, sparsely populated island as a setting for the project. What a coup, to present her superiors with a ready-made private island for the fashion shoot, in spite of the setback over the weather…

Her radiant smile triggered a speculative narrowing of the cool amber gaze.

‘Thank you. I’m sure it won’t come to that,’ she said confidently, resolutely refusing to be unnerved by his mocking expression. ‘And I’m sure First Flair will make it worth your while…’

‘I sincerely hope so.’ He made no attempt to expand on his cryptic comment, but such was her euphoria that she hardly noticed.

Rick’s boat turned out to be a graceful white power-launch, moored at a small nearby marina. She scarcely had time to take stock of the gleaming brass rails, the mahogany fittings, the luxurious interior, before they were speeding across the clear blue waters towards the distant reef.

It was a longer trip than she’d anticipated. But at last the pearl-white gleam of a fringe of sand was visible, backed by thickets of green, then the deep emerald of the ocean began to lighten to layers of powder blue, eau-de-Nil, translucent aquamarine. The islet appeared to have its own partial coral reef, protecting it from the muted power of the ocean.

The ocean had become noticeably rougher during the trip. A darkness to the north had begun to produce some ominous-looking grey clouds, and a stronger breeze. Then they were through the narrow opening in the reef, which Gabriella decided looked as difficult to negotiate as threading a needle blindfold, and they were slowing alongside a new-looking wooden jetty. Even in the relatively protected lagoon, the water was swelling and heaving. The trees on the island were swaying dizzily, the wind susurrating through the pine needles with a ghostly hiss.

‘Et voilà.’ Rick cut the engines, jumped out to secure the launch, and stood gazing down at her as she hesitated in the boat. There was an unfathomable expression in his eyes as he scanned the gathering clouds around them, and then studied her face. ‘It looks as if we’ve just beaten the cyclone, Gabriella. So welcome to L’Ile des Couleuvres.’

‘Ile des Coul…what?’ She accepted his hand as he reached to help her out of the launch, laughing slightly to hide her flurry of reaction to his touch, as well as her secretly mounting apprehension about the weather. ‘What does that mean?’

‘The couleuvre is a small Indian snake.’ He grinned as her expression switched from curiosity to alarm, tightening his grip on her hand as she made to draw back to the boat.

‘Well, thanks a lot!’ she managed to gasp, looking warily around her feet. ‘You might have warned me I was coming to a snakes’ nest!’

‘It’s hardly that,’ he assured her calmly, leading the way from the jetty to the beach. ‘Don’t worry, the couleuvre is mainly nocturnal, and is not poisonous. I’ve only ever seen a couple of them, in all the times I’ve been here. I suspect the name was the brainwave of a long-dead Josephs to keep the island free from intruders.’

‘Really?’ She heard the acid note in her voice, and knew she was being deliberately awkward. She didn’t really mind a few harmless little Indian snakes. ‘So the island belonged to your pirate ancestors? How long have your family owned this place?’

‘Since the eighteenth century.’

She was following him up the softly sloping white beach, towards the belt of filaos, the casuarinas which seemed to grow in profusion everywhere in this region. Dotted among them were tall coconut palms, and unknown varieties of flowering trees of such startling brightness that they looked artificial. Scarlet, yellow, deep cerise pink. Her hunch had been right; this was an absolute gem of a setting for the shoot…

‘I suspect my unscrupulous ancestors used it as a useful hideaway for their buccaneering and wrecking exploits.’ Rick grinned at her over his shoulder. ‘There are quite a few interesting wrecks just beyond the coral reef, just as there are around most of Mauritius itself. I do a bit of diving down there, but so far no caskets of gold have emerged to prove the crimes of three hundred years ago…’

‘You mean your ancestors used to deliberately wreck ships here?’ she demanded, horrified.

The amber gaze held a teasing gleam. ‘Quite likely. They were a thoroughly amoral bunch, from what I can gather. But life was hard, remember. It was every man for himself…’

‘And an “imported wife” for every man?’ she echoed distastefully.

‘I’ve a feeling there was a bit of a shortage of women, despite the imports,’ he mused laconically, glancing up as the sun was blotted out by a ragged black cloud. ‘So they’d have two or three partners each.’

‘Yes, I think I’m getting the picture! So what did your pirate ancestors do for accommodation while they were holed up here?’

‘For a long time there’s been a little campement here…’

‘What’s that?’

‘A traditional Mauritian holiday cottage,’ he grinned. ‘A stone-built, thatch-roofed dwelling. That’s what I’m planning on having extended and enlarged to make a full-sized house.’

‘I’m surprised you’d want to build a house here and associate yourself with such a lawless history,’ she said coolly, ‘and as for the snakes…

He stopped in mid-stride, facing her in the shadow of the filaos. Some of the teasing had darkened to exasperation as he caught hold of her shoulders.

‘Just a minute,’ he said softly, searching her face beneath the brim of her white cotton hat with grim displeasure. ‘An hour ago you were practically begging me, come cyclone or hurricane, to bring you out here, Gabriella. The least you can do is spare me your shrewish comments! It is impossible to believe you’re only twenty-one, when you insist on behaving like a maiden aunt of sixty!’

‘I do not…!’ In the recess of her mind, she had the sinking feeling that he was right, and that made her feel even angrier. ‘I’m entitled to express an opinion, without being manhandled by you!’

He smiled thinly, sliding his hands down her arms and then releasing her abruptly.

‘You certainly are,’ he agreed evenly, his eyes glittering with mockery. ‘But if you want my cooperation on this precious fashion shoot of yours, mademoiselle, I strongly recommend you curb that sharp tongue and follow a diplomatic course from now on…’

The wind had risen to a low, eerie moan, and the susurration in the trees had subtly increased to a wilder swishing sound. She was opening her mouth to retort when a sudden roar of wind came rushing across the beach, whirling up a miniature sand-storm like an invisible express train.