Wife in the Making

Wife in the Making Lindsay Armstrong Bryn Wallis chose Fleur as his new assistant because she insisted marriage was definitely not on her agenda! That suited Bryn perfectly. They'd be working very closely together in the tropical Australian resort he owned, and the last thing he wanted was any romantic complication….Only, he began to find Fleur irresistible. Perhaps it had been a mistake to warn her against getting any romantic ideas…. “Don’t set your sights on me.” Bryn coolly studied Fleur’s reaction to his words as he continued, “I’m not on the marriage market.” “I see. But I’m not on the marriage market either, so—” she smiled at him ruefully “—we might even find we get along like a house on fire, Mr. Wallis.” “Are you running away from a man, Fleur?” “What makes you think that?” Bryn shrugged. “You must attract men like bees to a honey pot.” LINDSAY ARMSTRONG was born in South Africa, but now lives in Australia with her New Zealand-born husband and their five children. They have lived in nearly every state of Australia and tried their hand at some unusual, for them, occupations, such as farming and horse training—all grist to the mill for a writer! Lindsay started writing romances when their youngest child began school and she was left feeling at a loose end. She is still doing it and loving it. Wife in the Making Lindsay Armstrong www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) CONTENTS CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER ONE FLEUR MILLAR studied the brief from the employment agency as she sat in the back of a taxi on her way to a Brisbane hotel for a job interview. One Bryn Wallis, restaurateur, was seeking a personal assistant cum bookkeeper who was also experienced with computers. ‘Personal Assistant’ was highlighted on the brief and there was a handwritten note that suggested a broad interpretation should be placed on this—‘Be prepared to turn your hand to just about anything’ was what the note said. Fleur smiled fleetingly because she liked the sound of that—especially as the restaurant was situated on a tropical island. It would certainly make a change from being cooped up in an office as well as the rest of it. In fact, she realised, the prospect of this job had made her feel better and more positive than she had for a while… The taxi deposited her and she made her way into the foyer of the luxury hotel and across to Reception, where she gave the name of the person she was to meet, and was personally—and more effusively than she would have expected—escorted by the concierge to a table in the adjacent lounge. The man sitting at it stood up with a frown as she approached and, rather distractedly, shook her proffered hand. Early thirties, Fleur estimated, tall with a rangy, rugged physique that let you know he’d be quite capable of tossing you over his shoulder should he so desire—to add you to his harem, for example—and the unconventional but interesting looks that made you wonder whether you mightn’t mind… On the other hand, his clothes suggested very much a man about town. He wore a pair of superfine bone-cord trousers, a trendy cream linen shirt and a beautiful and faultlessly-tailored tweed jacket. His hair was longish, a dark copper colour, his eyes were hazel, very penetrating and not entirely approving, she couldn’t help feeling, and his hand was lean and strong. So, mixed signals, she thought. Damn! Why couldn’t he have been a more conventional restaurateur? But she immediately countered this thought with the wry reflection that there was probably no such thing, as well as a caution not to judge on appearances, and sat down to smile across at him, unable to hide her eagerness to get this job. Bryn Wallis shoved a hand through his tawny hair and stared grimly at the girl sitting opposite him so hopefully. She was gorgeous, having stunning, long-lashed deep blue eyes, a river of smooth, bluntly cut, medium blonde hair that fell loose from a side parting to below her shoulders, a wide brow tapering to a beautifully defined jaw line and the most elegant, fastidious nose. Her perfection didn’t end there, either. Her whole aura was elegant although her clothes were simple. She wore well-pressed, tailored jeans, a white shirt and a navy jacket. But beneath was a shapely body and long legs—she was about five feet six, he judged—and a graceful mover with slim expressive hands, although—the only fault he could find—she bit her nails. She was also not a day over twenty, if he was any judge, which meant all sorts of things but principally that he could end up feeling responsible for her and that would be counterproductive, since he’d been down that road before and because he was looking for someone to share his responsibilities. He sighed savagely. ‘What the hell am I going to do with you—uh—’ he glanced at the paperwork in front of him to discover that she was aptly named ‘—Fleur?’ She put a thumb to her mouth as if to bite the nail then stopped herself and twisted her hands together. ‘I gather I’m not what you expected, Mr Wallis?’ ‘Not in the least. That is to say,’ he sought to sweeten that blunt statement then shrugged and decided to opt for honesty, ‘you’re far too young and inexperienced, you would be the kind of distraction I need like a hole in the head and I don’t think you’d be tough enough.’ She thought through this quite calmly, which surprised him a bit, but she surprised him even more when she said with a slight smile, ‘I don’t know why but people do tend to take me for younger when in fact I’m twenty-three.’ He blinked then frowned down at the paperwork, to have this fact confirmed. ‘All the same—’ he started to say. ‘No, although I have a degree, I’m not terribly experienced in the workplace,’ she agreed, ‘but you will find a couple of good references amongst my r?sum? and you’d be very welcome to check them out.’ This time he flicked through the paperwork to see that she did indeed have a degree in computer science and business applications, with honours, what was more. And the two references, which he scanned swiftly, were impressive. ‘I’m not quite sure what you mean by a distraction,’ she went on, with—could it have been a secret little gleam of laughter in those stunning eyes? he wondered, ‘but perhaps I should reassure you that I never,’ she paused for emphasis, ‘mix business with pleasure.’ Bryn Wallis knew he was doing it but couldn’t help himself—he smiled coolly and cynically. She said nothing but looked him straight in the eye, all secret amusement gone from hers now so that it was a particularly level gaze he found himself returning. Well, well, Miss Fleur, he thought and, for the first time since the employment agency had presented him with this highly unsuitable candidate, felt intrigued. ‘And,’ she said, ‘I’m not sure why I would need to be for personal assistant duties and to work a computer, but I’m as strong as a horse, Mr Wallis.’ ‘I meant mentally tough, Ms…?’ He found he couldn’t remember her surname. ‘Millar,’ she supplied flatly. ‘Fleur Millar, with an A.’ It was the second tinge of acerbity he’d detected, a sign that he might be getting under the gorgeous Miss Millar’s skin, Bryn mused and decided he enjoyed doing that for some odd reason… So he went on with a certain amount of relish, ‘I’m not easy to work with, I can be impatient, scathing, intolerant and the last thing I need is a girl who will dissolve into tears when the going gets rough.’ He waited but she made no comment other than narrowing those blue eyes slightly. ‘What’s more,’ he continued, ‘since this is a live-in position on an island, you wouldn’t be able to go home to Mum every evening, out to the movies or whatever, to slough all that off.’ ‘It’s not a permanent position, though,’ she pointed out. ‘I was given to understand the duration was three months. That’s not very long.’ He grimaced. ‘Long enough to have a gutful of me, Fleur. The other thing is, it’s not only straight PA,’ he gestured impatiently, ‘office duties I had in mind, so you could in fact be over-qualified for the position.’ He paused and congratulated himself on thinking of that. ‘I,’ he went on, ‘need someone who is prepared to muck in and be a receptionist, wait tables, play cricket with my kid when I don’t have the time—even peel potatoes should I be short-staffed. I need a bloke in other words.’ Once more Bryn Wallis shoved his hand through his hair. ‘That’s why I asked the agency not for a Girl Friday but a Man Friday,’ he added bitterly. Fleur raised her eyebrows. ‘I don’t think you’re allowed to do that in this day and age, Mr Wallis. Discriminate on the basis of sex. And it so happens that while I’m not much good at cricket, I do play a mean game of chess, I like children and…I can peel potatoes as well as any man.’ He paused and their gazes clashed. ‘I also gather,’ she said after a long, fraught moment, ‘that your bookwork is in a bit of a mess. I’ve recently specialized in a computer program that I could install and run for you, so it could all be done electronically and correctly and I’d be happy to show you how to work it.’ Bryn lay back in his chair and looked around the plush Brisbane hotel lounge he was conducting this interview in at the same time as he pondered how deceptive appearances could be. This girl, who had started out looking vulnerable and hopeful as well as potential Hollywood starlet material, was beginning to exhibit a mind like a steel trap. Perhaps his less than tactful approach had crushed that hopeful air he’d divined, or perhaps he’d imagined it—not that it mattered, he still didn’t want her for the job, but… ‘Why do you want to bury yourself on an island for three months, anyway?’ he asked abruptly. He saw the momentary hesitation in her eyes before she looked away, and said quietly, ‘I thought it would be a nice change from working in an office, in a high-rise building, in a city.’ Yes, and all the rest you don’t want to tell me, Miss Millar, he reflected sardonically. ‘Incidentally,’ he said, ‘I don’t believe in mixing business with pleasure either. But it’d be fair to say you would provide a distraction I need like a hole in the head.’ Her gaze came back to him. ‘Why?’ He looked her up and down from head to toe ironically. ‘Hedge Island,’ he said, ‘does not have a large population but we recently acquired an upmarket resort situated on the other side of the island from Clam Cove, where I am. This has been a boon for my restaurant,’ he said rather shortly, ‘because guests of the resort patronize me when they feel like a change of scene, not to mention stunning food.’ ‘So?’ Fleur enquired politely. ‘I don’t know if you’re familiar with the workings of upmarket island resorts—’ ‘It so happens I am,’ she said coolly. He chewed his lip and studied her. ‘Well, then,’ he drawled, ‘you probably don’t need me to tell you that their water-sports department alone employs at least six lusty, good-looking young men who are cut off from their sweethearts or whatever. Then there’s the golf instructor, the tennis coach, the pilots, the guests themselves and so on. Thus,’ he said, ‘it could become a full-time job helping you to fend off unwelcome advances.’ He eyed her sardonically. ‘Not to mention the possibility of you being poached away from my job.’ ‘I can do my own fending off, thank you, and I have no intention of being poached. On the other hand,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘if my presence were to bring in more customers, could that be a bad thing, Mr Wallis?’ Getting more and more like a steel trap by the moment, Bryn mused unamusedly. ‘You might be right,’ he replied with a glint of satire in his hazel eyes. ‘Both on the customer issue and because I think you might also be a smart…be smart enough to look after yourself.’ ‘Thank you,’ she said, serenely ignoring his heavily sarcastic tone and what he patently hadn’t said. ‘When would you like me to start?’ ‘Oh, no, you don’t, Miss Millar. I haven’t agreed to anything yet because even if we dismiss your looks—please don’t think I mean to be uncomplimentary about them incidentally but—’ ‘Forgive me for doubting you, Mr Wallis,’ she broke in swiftly, ‘but I do. I seem to have put your hackles up from the moment you laid eyes on me. What puzzles me is why, at the same time, you should be attributing these…’ she gestured ‘…these…Helen of Troy powers to me? One would have thought it was quite a contradiction.’ She gazed at him questioningly then added composedly, ‘Other than that, I’m quite sure I could cope with the job. But, naturally, it’s up to you.’ Somewhat to his amazement, Bryn heard himself saying, ‘It’s isolated unless you want to hang around the resort. If you’re not attuned to the life, it can be boring. Getting to the mainland, to hairdressers, beauty parlours, the movies and the like on your days off takes an hour boat ride each way and I’m told boats are most conducive to bad hair days anyway.’ She merely looked at him with that secret amusement again. ‘All right. There is one last embargo, Fleur Millar.’ He studied her coolly. ‘Don’t set your sights on me.’ Whether it was his bluntness or the subject itself, he couldn’t say, but those blue eyes definitely widened in surprise. And she seemed genuinely lost for words. Then she made a rolling motion with her slim hands as she said, ‘You…have a problem with that?’ ‘I have a problem with that,’ he agreed ironically. ‘But I’m not on the marriage market.’ ‘I see. Well,’ she enlarged and summed him up from head to toe, ‘it’s not hard to see why—you have the problem, I mean.’ ‘Thank you,’ he returned, grimly polite. ‘But I’m not on the marriage market either, so,’ she smiled at him ruefully, ‘we might even find we get along like a house on fire, Mr Wallis.’ He let about half a minute pass in silence, then, ‘Are you running away from a man, Fleur?’ ‘What makes you think that?’ He didn’t answer immediately because he’d noted that momentary hesitation again. Then he shrugged. ‘A girl with your undoubted intelligence despite your looks should know why I’m wondering that, Fleur. You must attract men like bees to a honey pot.’ He saw the shutters come down in her eyes, and noted the way her gorgeous mouth trembled slightly. But she stood up and said evenly enough, ‘Keep your job, Mr Wallis. I’ll find something else.’ He stood up too. ‘Sorry—that was unnecessary. If you want it, it’s yours.’ Her eyes widened. ‘What made you change your mind?’ Heaven alone knows, Bryn Wallis thought drily; I can feel in my bones that I’m going to regret this! He said, however, and smiled crookedly, ‘I’m desperate.’ Three weeks later Fleur walked along a sandy beach that fringed a turquoise bay between steep, wooded headlands to her tiny bungalow on Hedge Island. There were three accommodation bungalows set wide apart next to the beach. The largest was inhabited by Bryn Wallis and his son, and a slightly larger version of her own was currently occupied by the only other live-in restaurant staff, Julene and Eric Philips, who were taking a break from sailing around the world to earn some money. Julene was assistant chef although that was another job description worthy of a broad interpretation. And Eric, who was a giant of a man with bleached blond hair that made you think of a Viking reincarnated, was very much a jack-of-all-trades, who could turn his hand to just about anything—bar keeping the books. In contrast to his wife, he said very little. All other staff were locals who lived on the island. Although her bungalow was the essence of simplicity with a palm-thatch roof and similar windows that you propped open, it was sturdily built, and had its own modern bathroom. It also afforded her absolute privacy and the veranda, complete with hammock, had stunning views over the bay. In fact she often felt like a castaway not on a desert island but in a tropical paradise. There was the beach and some coral reefs at the mouth of the bay which were wonderful to snorkel over and also protected the bay. There were the headlands, covered in bush and studded with tall, dark green hoop pines and grey boulders, and she loved to watch the fish hawks and brahminy kites that soared from their nests through the sky with their high, clear whistles. There were cockatoos and rosellas, pigeons and plovers and often, at night, the mournful cry of curlews. Behind the beach and around the buildings that fitted in with the landscape so well, a riot of colour had been created. Bougainvillaea, in many shades, the yellow trumpet flowers of the allamanda creeper, frangipani and hibiscus as well as native grevilleas, bottle brush and melaleucas, coral trees and impatiens. All of it appealed not only to her senses but suited her mood and her simple needs of the moment. Not only that, she reflected and rubbed her neck wearily as she walked up the steps, the beauty of Clam Cove formed her retreat from the impossible demands of Bryn Wallis. She poured herself a cool drink and slipped into the hammock. He was every bit as bad as he’d painted himself—sarcastic, arrogant, impatient and volatile. Added to all that, she’d divined that, although he loved to cook, not far beneath the surface there were times when he not only loathed to cook for the public but he loathed having to share his bit of tropical paradise with them. So why, she wondered not for the first time, was he doing it? But Bryn Wallis was a mystery in many respects. His son, Tom, six, was a delightful bundle of energy and mischief as well as extremely bright, and she and Tom had formed an instant rapport because he was wild to learn about computers and have someone to play computer games with. But, while it was patently obvious that Tom didn’t have a mother around, there was no explanation of what might have happened to her. Tom never spoke of her. Fleur had found out that they’d lived on Hedge Island for some time and that the restaurant was only open during the cooler winter months. Although other people lived on the island, the population was small and, although people came to the island all year round, it was the winter influx of southern visitors, visitors escaping the rigours of colder winters down south for the still balmy warmth of the north, that made it viable. All in all, she thought, Bryn Wallis came across as a man who had decided to opt out of the rat race, but the reason for it was another matter. There was no sign at Clam Cove, which was the name of his restaurant as well as his little slice of paradise, that he’d ever been anything else but a beachcomber who loved to dive, swim, fish, cook when the mood was on him, and turn his hand to building bungalows and making some exquisite pieces of wooden furniture. Although she did wonder sometimes if he was a writer because of something Tom had said, and because, some nights when she couldn’t sleep, often the early hours of the morning she’d noticed a lamp on in the main bungalow. He was also a man of decided opinions and causes. In two and a half weeks she’d heard him declaim scathingly on the iniquities of longline fishing and the declining albatross and dolphin population and conversely on the protection of crocodiles to the extent that the creatures could now be found in Cairns, their nearest coastal city, itself. She’d been subjected to his vehemence on genetic food engineering and discovered that he had a thing about women who wore artificial nails. It had amused her to think that was probably the only thing he approved of about her. As for the restaurant itself, it had soaring palm-thatch ceilings, was open-sided with roll-down clear plastic blinds in case of inclement weather, and was built over the beach. It featured his pieces of furniture, some wonderful pottery urns planted with flowering plants and creepers, as well as nautical and beachcomber memorabilia hung from the rafters. There was no separate cooking area. The chef operated from a raised, counter-enclosed area where Bryn did a lot of his cooking on rotisserie spits and grids over charcoal fires. On starry, moonlit nights with the water lapping close by it was especially exotic and romantic. One mystery she had solved, though, was why he might not be on the marriage market. The deputy manager of the resort on the other side of the island was a woman, Stella Sinclair, a very attractive brunette in her early thirties. Although she blended in with the tropical ambience of the island well, Fleur had detected a sharp brain and consummate businesswoman in Stella Sinclair. And Julene, who was something of a character, had let slip to Fleur that, although on account of Tom it was never alluded to at Clam Cove, the rest of the island well knew that Stella was Bryn Wallis’s lover. But the most puzzling aspect of all about the man, Fleur reflected, was his deep and instant antipathy to her. Yes, no one around him got a smooth ride when the restaurant was busy and things went wrong even if they were not the culprit. But they put up with it because at other times he could be charming, funny, kind even and irresistible. His son adored him and he seemed to have a natural way with the boy. They were often to be seen working together, which meant that Tom fetched and carried tools for Bryn as he did some woodwork. They were often to be heard having long, serious conversations about anything and everything then breaking up into laughter or song. And Tom cherished the growing menagerie of little animals Bryn carved for him. Not so with her, however. He had a subtle way of needling her, he was a genius at innuendo and the kind of double entendre that might float over other heads but found their mark with her unerringly like well-placed arrows intended to wound. There was an undoubted and barely veiled hostility in all his dealings with her even though, so far, she’d not retaliated in kind. Why? she wondered, staring out to sea unseeingly. In the two and a half weeks since she’d started working for him she’d gone out of her way not to put a foot wrong. She’d ‘turned her hand’ to everything that was requested of her, including all the things he himself had mentioned bar cricket. But she’d more than compensated for that by spending as much time with Tom as she could when Bryn wasn’t able to. This had been no hardship. Tom was a real character and exceptionally articulate for his age. And she’d gone out of her way, when helping out in the restaurant, to attract as little attention as possible. She’d scraped her hair back, worn no make-up and a dowdy, voluminous dress she’d had the forethought to purchase before arriving on the island. Not only that, but to date she hadn’t set foot beyond Clam Cove. Also, while she’d been meticulous as a waitress or the receptionist, she’d also been at pains not to allow her natural sense of fun or anything that could be termed joie de vivre, come-hitherness or whatever it was Helen of Troy might have possessed, to show through. True, there had still been some speculative glances but to say that she was providing the kind of distraction he needed like a hole in the head was simply not true. Unless… No, she thought. No. She couldn’t be distracting him. There was absolutely no sign of it, he had Stella… No. In fact, he had Stella at that moment, although quite properly, she realized as her gaze focused over the veranda. The deputy manager of the resort had come for lunch and was now strolling along the beach with Tom and Bryn. They all wore their swimming costumes, and as Fleur watched they plunged into the sea and started to splash each other. She watched for a while, unable to control a desolate little sense of envy. They looked like a family engaged in such simple fun and togetherness. Stella wore a red bikini and Bryn a faded pair of green board shorts. In fact, board shorts, an old frayed straw hat and a shark’s tooth on a leather thong around his neck was his preferred mode of dress on the island. Nor did his preferred mode of dress on the island do much to conceal a rather breathtaking physique. Not that she hadn’t suspected it at the interview in Brisbane but it had come as a bit of a shock to see him like this after his sartorial elegance that day. Nor had the way he’d been dressed at the interview given her to suspect that when in Clam Cove restaurant mode, as opposed to beachcomber mode, he would wear a red bandanna around his longish tawny hair, black trousers and a white pirate shirt with an emerald cummerbund. The first time she’d seen him thus arrayed she’d been tempted to laugh, but had desisted on receiving a laser-like glance from those hazel eyes that seemed to promise she could be made to walk the plank should she exhibit any amusement. Strangely enough she soon realized that, although the surprise of it had been amusing, she was not alone in finding him oddly magnificent in this get-up. Many a woman guest followed him around with their eyes. Especially on those starry, romantic nights. Were they visualising being tossed over his shoulder and carried off to be made love to in a way that his physique and sheer, magnetic arrogance made promise of an experience never to be forgotten? She stirred in the hammock as she watched Bryn Wallis stand in the shallows with his hands planted on his hips, with his back to the beach, as he watched Stella and Tom race towards him, and felt an odd little contraction at the pit of her stomach that reinforced the fear she had that she might be no different from some of his restaurant guests… So, she thought, he wasn’t being impossibly egotistical when he said he had a problem with women. Damn. And she turned to her other side restlessly and closed her eyes determinedly. Remember, Fleur, she told herself, no more men… A week later, the day started out like any other. She went for an early morning swim, alone. She had a simple breakfast of fruit and muesli with Tom and Julene. Eric was out fishing, it appeared, but of Bryn there was no sign until Tom explained why. ‘Bryn didn’t get back from the resort last night—I wonder why?’ Tom had the habit of calling his father by his first name, which always made Fleur want to smile. But there was no doubting whose child he was—he had fair hair but his father’s hazel eyes, and not only that; although only six, he also had his father’s, when Bryn chose to be that way, charm and wit. Julene removed Tom’s empty plate and said soothingly, ‘That’s why you spent the night with us, honey, remember? In case it got too late for your dad to come home. I expect he’ll be here any time soon!’ ‘I hope it’s before I go to school!’ Tom said enthusiastically. ‘I guarantee he’ll be here when you get home after school!’ Julene promised. ‘And, talking of school, you’ve got five minutes before the bus arrives! Off you go—and don’t forget your lunch,’ she added, pointing to a plastic box on the counter. Tom went, scooping up his lunch on his way past. Julene subsided and poured herself another cup of coffee to which she appeared to be addicted. She was an easy-going, friendly, bottle-blonde in her late thirties who loved nothing better than a good chat and displaying her voluptuous figure in a series of vibrantly coloured sarongs that made Fleur feel dull by comparison in her sensible shorts and T-shirts. Now she grimaced as she sipped her coffee. ‘I’d say la Stella is putting on an act. Although we often baby-sit Tom for him, he doesn’t usually stay overnight.’ Fleur gazed at her. ‘What kind of an act? They always seem so…relaxed and well-suited when she’s here.’ ‘I’m sure that’s what she thinks,’ Julene commented, ‘which is why it’s probably a puzzle to her that she’s not getting any further forward with our Bryn.’ ‘As in…?’ ‘As in nailing him, honey, trotting him down the aisle, getting a ring on her finger,’ Julene explained laconically. ‘The man is dynamite, in case you hadn’t noticed.’ This time she frowned at Fleur. Fleur shrugged, decided that denying it would give cause for curiosity if not be a waste of time, and said laconically back, ‘Yep. But I got the impression she was a career woman and, well…’ She paused. ‘That’s the effect Bryn has! Lord knows even I wasn’t immune at first.’ Fleur blinked. ‘But you and Eric are such an ideal couple.’ ‘We still are. It doesn’t stop you from looking over the fence occasionally and,’ she spread her hands and laughed infectiously, ‘wondering, now, does it, doll?’ she added. ‘I’ve never been married,’ Fleur replied with a glint of laughter in her eyes. ‘But I don’t think it would do me the slightest good to wonder too much about Bryn. In case you hadn’t noticed, he treats me as if I’ve crawled out from under a stone.’ Julene sobered. ‘I must say, you could have knocked us over with a feather when he produced you, Fleur. Still, I guess he had his reasons!’ She got up and began to collect the dishes. ‘He did. He was desperate.’ Fleur rose and helped her clear the table. ‘Mind you, I can see why. His bookwork is chaotic. It’s going to take me all of the three months to sort it out and his last tax return has been queried. Strange,’ she said more to herself than Julene, ‘you wouldn’t think he’d be that, I guess, uninterested in his own affairs.’ Julene was silent and when Fleur looked at her it appeared as if the other woman was debating with herself. She even opened her mouth, closed it, then said simply, ‘Takes all kinds, doll! Don’t you worry about the dishes!’ and departed for the washing-up area round the back of the restaurant. Fleur hesitated with the feeling she’d had a door closed in her face, then neatly stacked the salt and pepper shakers on the rack, shook out the tablecloth—and went to her office. “Office” was a misnomer. She had a small room also off the back of the restaurant with one table, one chair, a computer, yes, but no drawers, no filing cabinets—none of the normal office furniture in fact. Bryn’s preferred system of filing had been nails in the wall onto which he affixed his paperwork, but by no means all of it. The rest of it had overflowed across every available inch of table surface. And the computer had obviously just come out of the box but not even been connected yet. She’d drawn a deep breath on being introduced to her office, had turned to Bryn Wallis to protest that no one could be expected to work like this—but had changed her mind suddenly. Because he’d been watching her with the obvious and cynical expectation of her making a fuss and more than that, a certain relish at being able to point out to her she was unequal to this particular job. An extremely unladylike piece of advice for him had crossed her mind but she’d managed not to say it. She’d merely shrugged and turned back to the computer. ‘Good enough for you, Ms Millar?’ he’d enquired. ‘More than good enough.’ She’d paged through the literature. ‘You have enough memory here to store the workings of a worldwide chain of restaurants but I always say better to have too much than too little—memory, that is. I’ll need a screwdriver, Mr Wallis. Do you intend to get an e-mail address for the restaurant, incidentally?’ ‘That was the idea. Can you handle the setting up of it, Miss Millar?’ he’d replied, stressing the AR at the end of her surname. ‘I can; I see you have an internal modem but I need a phone line in here.’ She’d looked around. ‘Voil?—I’m not quite as useless about all this as you imagine,’ he’d drawled and picked up a stack of papers to reveal a phone. ‘Not only did I get this phone installed but it is also on a separate line.’ ‘Good thinking,’ she’d murmured coolly. ‘Uh—would there be anything resembling stationery?’ He’d subjected her to a lengthy aren’t-you-a-clever-little-miss? gaze then strolled across the room and hefted a cardboard box onto the tables. ‘Pads, pens, paper for the printer, envelopes—I even got stamps.’ ‘How thoughtful,’ she’d commented. Their gazes had clashed then he’d smiled sweetly. ‘Thank you—well, I’ll leave you to it, Fleur.’ And he’d walked out. She’d gritted her teeth and restrained herself from throwing something at him. But she’d reminded herself that she’d almost always known this would be a challenge and now was not the time to get faint-hearted. By that evening, with Eric’s help—he’d provided her with some boxes she could use as file boxes and rustled up another table—she’d been more or less up and running, even able to play computer games with Tom. It was Tom who’d, at the same time, told her that Bryn had a laptop computer in their bungalow but never seemed to have the time to play computer games with him. ‘So—what does he do on it?’ she’d asked, taken by surprise because she’d formed the impression her boss was computer illiterate. ‘He just writes things, that’s all. Oh, wow! We’ve got that new computer game, Fleur. Let’s play that!’ But, she reflected, coming back to the present as she looked around her ‘office’, three and a half weeks of utter professionalism and making the best of things without one murmur of discontent had obviously not changed Bryn Wallis’s view, whatever it was, of her. She pulled her chair out and sat down but, for perhaps a good five minutes, stared unseeingly at the wall with a frown in her eyes. Then she shrugged and switched on the computer. At five o’clock that same evening the day was starting to assume catastrophic proportions. Julene took to her bed with a migraine. Lobster, a great favourite on the Clam Cove menu, had to be struck off because the outboard motor on the dinghy, the only dinghy used to catch the lobster fresh every day from the waters around the island, seized up and required a part to be sent from the mainland, something that could take a day. Tom came home from school feeling feverish and uncomfortable, and with the news that his best friend had chickenpox. Fortunately the reservation list for dinner was small; on the other hand only one waitress from Bryn’s list of casual local staff had been rostered on and she called in late afternoon to report that she’d just sprained her ankle. Frantic telephoning around had not produced a replacement for her although Bryn had enlisted the aid of the community nurse to sit with Tom. It was when he’d exhausted all possibilities of getting anyone to replace Julene or the waitress that Bryn slammed the phone down and said savagely to Fleur, ‘Let’s see how you cope with this, Miss Competence Personified!’ ‘Just you and me?’ she hazarded. ‘Eric can help wait tables,’ he said shortly and eyed her sardonically. ‘Are you on?’ ‘Of course,’ she replied calmly. Five hours later, the last guests had departed, the candles were guttering in their glasses and the cooking area was a scene of colourful chaos. Fleur looked around at the tables that needed to be cleared, at the huge, decorative bowl of fruit on the counter. Her gaze drifted on over the dirty sauce pots in which fragrant, pastel and delicious sauces had been prepared, the lined-up empty bottles of wine, and paused as she spotted one that was not empty—a half-full bottle of Chianti in fact. Whereupon she ceremoniously removed her apron, reached for a glass and poured some of the wine, then turned to her boss, who was looking at her quizzically, and threw the Chianti into his face. ‘Take that,’ she spat at him. ‘I have never in my life witnessed such an exhibition of boorish behaviour or been treated so shockingly when all I was trying to do was help! Not only trying, incidentally, but it’s only thanks to me that they didn’t all get up and walk out!’ Bryn blinked several times and wiped his eyes. ‘I was under a bit of pressure,’ he started to say, ‘which I’m the first to admit can affect me adversely—’ ‘Rubbish!’ she yelled at him. ‘You deliberately set out to make this evening as difficult as possible for me with your cutting little remarks, your dreadful impatience, your insolent looks and all the rest. You deliberately set out to get me as flustered as possible—just as you have been ever since we set eyes on one another. Well, here’s what I think of you, Bryn Wallis!’ This time it was a bowl of unwhipped cream she poured over him. And when he started to laugh, she upended another bowl down the front of his clothes—a bowl of raspberries. But as she turned to find something else to pour over him, he simply picked her up and carried her, kicking and fighting, down the stairs to the beach, where he walked straight into the sea with her. CHAPTER TWO ‘PUT me down!’ Fleur ordered and pummelled Bryn ineffectually. He did so, up to her knees in water, but kept his hands around her waist. ‘Now let me go!’ she gasped, unable to believe what was happening to her as her skirt billowed wetly around her legs. ‘I don’t know who you think you are or what you think you’re doing, but this is crazy.’ She looked around wildly but Clam Cove was serene with its curve of white beach fringed by shadowy palm trees. There were no lights on in any of the cottages, although the restaurant was still lit, there was no sign of Eric, and beneath the surface of the water her shoes sank into the sand. ‘Fleur,’ he said mildly, ‘you’re almost as messy as I am.’ She glanced down at herself then up to the heavens in furious exasperation because she was also now liberally coated with cream and raspberries. ‘Therefore,’ he continued reasonably, ‘I thought we both might avail ourselves of the sea’s cleansing properties.’ And, so saying, he lifted her off her feet and moved to deeper water so that when he put her down again, it lapped around her shoulders and was about mid-chest height for him, but still he didn’t release her waist. And he actually smiled down at her as he said, ‘Now, that’s not so bad, is it? A bit cool but then we were both overheated—emotionally at least.’ But Fleur was not ready to be placated in any way. ‘Cool?’ she retorted with her teeth chattering. ‘I’m freezing and you’re mad, Bryn Wallis! Not only mad but horrible and…and…’ As her voice broke he released her waist but took her hand. ‘Can you float on your back, Fleur?’ ‘Of course I can float on my back but it’s not something I usually do fully clothed and with my shoes on in the middle of the night!’ she replied witheringly. ‘Take them off and give it a try,’ he suggested. ‘The Southern Cross is up there bright and clear—it’s a marvellous way to do a bit of star-gazing.’ He let her hand go and pulled off his bandanna then his shirt and tossed them away from him. ‘If you’re suggesting,’ she said arctically, ‘that I—’ ‘Just down to your undies,’ he reassured her and, not without some difficulty, pulled his trousers off under the water and threw them away too. ‘Feels wonderful!’ Two shoes and a pair of socks bobbed away from them. ‘And I’m still quite decent, believe me.’ He lay back to reveal a pair of boxer shorts and, with his ankles crossed, floated gently and with little effort. ‘The more you’re in it, the warmer it gets incidentally,’ he told her seriously. ‘Wow, just saw a falling star!’ Fleur muttered something and, with no real idea why she was doing it other than that she felt awful with her voluminous dress clinging to her and weighing her down, struggled out of it and threw it away from her. To her surprise, she was immediately conscious of a sense of liberation mental as well as physical. So she reached for her shoes and consigned them to sink or swim, and dived beneath the water. When she surfaced she dragged her hair out of her eyes and flipped onto her back to float as effortlessly as did her tormentor. There was a sheen of starlight on the dark surface of the water, and the soft, rhythmic sound of waves breaking on the reef that protected Clam Cove. The Milky Way looked like silver tinsel pasted to a midnight-blue heaven, so close you felt you could reach out and touch it. ‘Not such a bad idea after all?’ he suggested. ‘I still think you’re quite mad,’ she replied after a long moment. ‘Nor have I forgiven you for anything, but…the stars are fantastic.’ He laughed softly. ‘You were fantastic tonight as a matter of fact.’ Fleur sank beneath the surface and came up spluttering. ‘So why…?’ ‘Race you to the beach, and after I’ve made you a nightcap I’ll tell you.’ ‘No—’ ‘Fleur, lovely as this is, enough is enough.’ He flipped over. ‘Ready?’ ‘I…oh, all right!’ They reached the beach together and he took her hand as they waded out of the water. ‘Let’s run,’ he suggested. ‘Just to your bungalow.’ ‘Hang on—what other Olympic endeavours do you have in mind for me tonight?’ she enquired a little bitterly. ‘None,’ he assured her, ‘but it will ward off the cold.’ She hesitated then remembered she was standing before him in her bra and briefs. Indeed, as she hesitated his gaze slid up and down her sleek wet body and a frisson communicated itself to her to be beneath his gaze wearing only a mostly lace bra and a triangle of matching satin and lace, both pasted to her skin revealingly… Had it come from him through their hands? she wondered. Or was it only she who was responding, not only to her state of undress but also to Bryn Wallis, who was tall and rangy and rather magnificent? She shook her head to dispel these thoughts and said with some acerbity, ‘OK, but that’s my last form of exercise for the night!’ He grinned and they started to jog down the beach towards her bungalow. Twenty minutes later she’d showered and was wrapped in an ice-blue towelling robe and drying her hair, when he returned bearing a tray. He came into the bungalow wearing an old football jersey with cut-off sleeves and a pair of khaki shorts, with his tawny hair ruffled and spiky as if he’d dragged a towel through it then used his fingers as a comb. And he had on the tray two of the house specials—Irish coffee ? la Clam Cove in tall glasses with filigree silver holders, topped with swirled cream and sprinkled with chocolate. She raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment and sat down on the bed beneath the furled-up mosquito net so he could have the only chair. In typical Bryn Wallis fashion, however, which was to say there was never any disputing who owned and ran the place if not to say dominated it, he made a few adjustments to the room before he sat down. He lit the oil lamp she never used because he’d explained to her it was only for power failures, and switched off the overhead light. Then he adjusted the pole that lowered the palm-frond window so that it was only open a few inches. Finally, he looked around and commented that she needed another chair. Fleur lowered the towel she was using to dry her hair and replied that she wasn’t planning to entertain anyone in her bungalow on a regular basis so one chair was fine with her. ‘Yes, well,’ he said a little drily and brought her coffee over to her, ‘perhaps you should.’ Her eyes widened, then she smiled ironically. ‘You were the one who was afraid of just that,’ she reminded him. He studied her comprehensively, her fresh, perfect, radiant skin, the fair silk of her drying hair, the elegance of her chin, her slender neck enfolded in the blue terry towelling and the twisted grace of her body as she sat sideways on the edge of her bed, her slim bare feet. Then their gazes caught and held again and, because of the long moment during which neither of them were able to break it, it was unspoken but obvious that a physical awareness of each other had come into play between them. Fleur swallowed visibly and her fingers tightened on the towel as she wondered how to get across to Bryn Wallis that she had no intention of responding to this physical tension that had sprung up even though she couldn’t deny it. But he was the one who broke the unseen form of electricity that was flowing between them. A frown grew in his eyes then he looked down at the coffee glass in his hands, and carefully put it down on her bedside table. And he strolled over to the only chair and sank down into it. ‘The thing is,’ he said, picking up his own glass and gazing at it reflectively, ‘one of the problems I have is that you remind me of someone I don’t particularly want to be reminded of. But…’ He paused and looked up at last. ‘The far greater part of it is—you’re too good to be true, Fleur. The most human thing I’ve seen you do is pour food and drink all over me. It’s,’ his lips twisted ruefully, ‘unnerving to witness such a gorgeous twenty-three-year-old girl who is also so reserved and contained and buttoned up and—solitary.’ He looked around and continued, ‘There’s nothing here, no photos, mementoes, nothing—apart from some books. By the way, I have quite a library in my bungalow. Please feel free to help yourself.’ Fleur shook her head as if to clear it. ‘Am I buttoned up with Tom?’ she protested after a moment. ‘No. But that’s different—kids are easier to relate to.’ She was silent for a long time, then she said composedly, ‘OK, I’m trying out a new kind of life. I woke up one day and discovered I was going down a road I didn’t like, so,’ she shrugged, ‘I opted out. Would I be right in thinking you yourself might have opted out, Bryn?’ He smiled faintly. ‘Touch?. On the other hand, has that steel-trap mind of yours perceived a difference between us? For example, I may have opted out of the rat race but I haven’t cut myself off from people.’ Fleur raised her eyebrows. ‘I had noticed that—I’m not blind,’ she said wryly. ‘A mind like a steel trap, though? Isn’t that a bit of an exaggeration?’ ‘No,’ he replied flatly. ‘Otherwise I’d have broken you down a lot sooner, Ms Millar. Three and a half weeks of putting up with me at my worst, with such composure, definitely denotes a steely mind.’ Fleur’s lips parted and her eyes widened. ‘Which is not to say,’ he mused, ‘that I did actually break you down, not in the way I anticipated anyway. No one,’ he emphasized, ‘has ever thrown a drink in my face let alone poured raspberries and cream all over me. In fact,’ he looked briefly gloomy, ‘the honours go to you, Fleur, which is a little demoralizing, to be honest.’ Fleur struggled through several emotions then started to smile reluctantly. ‘That’s better,’ he murmured and sipped his coffee. ‘It’s not really,’ she denied. ‘I only found it amusing that you’ve managed to escape that fate for so long, to be honest. Otherwise, you’ve admitted to being highly manipulative if nothing else.’ She wrinkled her brow. ‘What I don’t understand is why you care one way or the other?’ He took another sip and said at length, ‘In another life I was a journalist. Old habits, such as digging out the truth of things, die hard, I guess. So, going to tell me why you’ve decided there should be no more men in your life, Fleur?’ Fortunately Fleur had put her coffee glass down on the bedside table, otherwise the sheer accuracy of this observation might have seen her spill it. Even so, her restless movement didn’t escape him. ‘You don’t need to be a genius to see that,’ he said. ‘Julene is of the opinion you got your heart broken and Eric thinks it might have happened a couple of times. Mind you, while they needed a couple of weeks to work it out, I did spot it straight away,’ he said modestly. Fleur sat up straighter and said in a strangled voice, ‘You…you’ve all discussed it? Behind my back!’ He shrugged. ‘Human nature.’ ‘No…I… Darn it, it’s unforgivable…and you…’ She could only glare at him. He shrugged again. ‘You think that because of how much you have cut yourself off from the rest of the world. But nothing on earth would have stopped Julene having a good gossip about you, me included.’ ‘You didn’t have to participate, though,’ she said through her teeth. He smiled crookedly. ‘I didn’t contribute that much. In fact it came up when Eric told me I was being extremely unkind to you.’ ‘What a pity you don’t take more notice of Eric,’ she shot back. Bryn lay back in his chair. ‘I do. Well, sometimes. Eric and I go way back and, on the whole, I’ve found his advice to be wise—I just wasn’t in the mood to take it this time.’ Fleur stared at him incredulously, trying to sort through it all, then she closed her eyes and shook her head. ‘It’s like being in a madhouse,’ she said. ‘On the other hand, we just might be able to help.’ Her lashes lifted and a sudden thought came to her. ‘Who do I remind you of? What part does that play in it all?’ she asked slowly. He finished his coffee and stood up. ‘Oh, that was only fleeting and not really important. What is important, Fleur,’ he paused and looked at her with a mixture of sympathy and seriousness—with absolutely no hint of that electric tension that had flowed between them before—and went on, ‘is that you can talk to us. You really don’t have to soldier on alone. But that’s enough for one night—I’ll leave you to finish your coffee in peace. Goodnight!’ Fleur listened to him walking down the veranda steps, then there was silence as the beach swallowed up his footsteps. She blinked several times, lay flat then sat up, shaking her head, and reached for her coffee with her mind in turmoil. How had she not realized that she came across as so obviously isolated and damaged? To the extent that people would gossip about it behind her back? Apart from Bryn’s hostility to cope with, she’d thought she’d appeared tranquil and even enjoying her sojourn at Clam Cove—apart from him, she had been, damn it! So was it another frustrating example of give a girl a pretty face and figure—and you only acquired those because of your genes—and, without a constant supply of men dancing attendance, people immediately assumed there was some trauma? Well, there was, she thought ruefully, but whose business was it but her own? She drained her glass and stood up to pace around her bungalow for a while. On the other hand, could she have landed amongst a bunch of fruit loops? And why did she have this conviction, despite Bryn’s disclaimer about her reminding him of someone not being important, it was much more of a key to things than he’d been prepared to admit? She stopped abruptly in the middle of the cabin as her conversation with Julene just that morning came back to her. What was it Julene had said—‘You could have knocked us over with a feather when he produced you…’ Yes, her exact words. Did this mean Julene and Eric knew who she reminded Bryn of? And to produce such a hostile reaction in him from the first moment they met—it had to be another woman in his life, she reasoned, a woman who had left her mark most unhappily on him… Right on cue Tom’s little face floated into her mind. Tom, whose mother was never mentioned, which in itself meant there had to be trauma, for whatever reason, associated with her memory. Was that what she’d walked into? Reminding a man of the mother of his child when he’d much prefer to forget her? She came to life and turned off the oil lamp, shrugged out of her robe and slipped into bed as exhaustion suddenly hit her. Then she remembered what he’d said about being a journalist in a former life. She sat up and pondered this. It explained the laptop Tom had told her about in his bungalow. It probably explained the light on in his bungalow at all hours. So did he still practise journalism? If so, why did he never mention it? And before she fell asleep another dilemma raised its head with her. Her physical reaction to Bryn Wallis, and his to her, unless it had been her imagination… Julene was up and about and apparently restored to normal when Fleur surfaced a little later than usual the next morning. ‘Some night,’ she said chattily as she sat down with a cup of coffee while Fleur ate her breakfast. ‘I have to tell you Eric was most impressed.’ Fleur opened her mouth to ask what with, but decided to save her breath. ‘He can’t remember anyone giving Bryn as good as they got quite like that before,’ Julene went on. ‘Of course, I knew you had to crack eventually, he was being totally unreasonable and impossible but—raspberries and cream! Way to go, kid.’ Fleur smiled feebly. ‘You’re not feeling guilty?’ Julene enquired with a frown. ‘You see, it’ll clear the air tremendously—by the way, all your clothes washed up on the beach. I reckon the shoes are ruined but a bit of bleach will get the stains out of his shirt; not so sure about your dress, though. If you don’t mind me saying so, it wasn’t the most attractive dress, so that could be a good thing—What’s the matter? Fleur had stopped eating abruptly. Now she put her hands to her head and started to laugh helplessly. Finally she looked up at Julene with streaming eyes. ‘Does this place ever strike you as a madhouse?’ she asked. ‘Well, now,’ Julene started to laugh too, ‘can’t say things are ever boring around Bryn!’ Fleur sobered. ‘I gather you’re all worried about me? There’s no need. OK, yes, I’m not into men at the moment—’ ‘They can be bastards,’ Julene broke in sympathetically. Fleur smiled mechanically then frowned. ‘Can I ask you something?’ ‘Fire away, honey!’ ‘Surely it’s better, after you’ve—’ she shrugged ‘—got your fingers burnt, in a manner of speaking, to…retire for a bit? That’s, well, one thing I’m doing, trying to build another life, I guess.’ ‘What was your previous life?’ Julene asked curiously. ‘Two years studying computer science and statistics after school then receiving an offer from a modelling agency I couldn’t refuse—or so I thought at the time. But it all palled, so,’ she spread her hands palms outward, ‘I decided to get my feet back on the ground.’ Julene reached for the percolator and poured herself another cup of coffee. She stirred sugar into it. ‘You still need friends, hon,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘And what about your family?’ Fleur made a curiously helpless little gesture and said wryly, ‘My parents are overseas travelling the world and I do keep in touch with them regularly via e-mail. The same with friends.’ Julene shrugged. ‘I’d still feel happier if you got some letters or phone calls.’ Fleur bit her lip and for a moment was tempted to tell Julene why it made her extremely happy to receive no mail, no phone calls and especially no flowers at Clam Cove. But she stifled the urge—it was like living in a fishbowl here anyway. So she changed the subject. ‘Julene, who do I remind Bryn of?’ A flicker of indecision passed through Julene’s eyes then she shrugged. ‘Tom’s mother, but that’s something you should ask Bryn about.’ Fleur started to say something then changed her mind. ‘Where is he? The place seems to be very quiet.’ She looked around. ‘He took Tom across to the mainland for a checkup.’ ‘Any spots?’ ‘Nope.’ Julene stood up. ‘He was as bright as a button this morning. Might have been a false alarm but he wanted to be sure. Oh, well, guess I’ll finish clearing up the mess—by the way, the boss has decreed that we are closed tonight even though it’s not a Monday.’ Monday was the one day of the week the restaurant didn’t open. ‘Glory be,’ Fleur said with feeling. ‘I’ll give you a hand with the mess.’ Her lips curved into a rueful smile. ‘Since I caused a lot of it.’ Bryn didn’t arrive home until late afternoon—minus Tom. He came into Fleur’s office just as she was preparing to knock off for the day and was massaging the back of her neck. She didn’t hear him come back, didn’t know he was in the office behind her until he said, ‘Tired?’ She dropped her hand and turned to face him slowly. ‘A little. How…how is Tom?’ Bryn looked her over thoroughly before replying. If anyone looked tired, he did, she thought in the pause, in his moleskins, check shirt and deck shoes. There seemed to be shadows beneath his eyes and more lines beside his mouth than she remembered, and she flinched inwardly because she didn’t want to notice things like that about this man but didn’t seem able to help herself. ‘Tom appears to be fine,’ he said at last. ‘But friends of mine are holidaying on the mainland. They have a couple of kids round about his age and he knows them well, so I left him with them for a couple of days. They’ve both had chickenpox and their mum knows what to look out for in Tom.’ ‘Oh. Well, I guess he’ll enjoy some company of his own age.’ Bryn smiled twistedly. ‘So he gave me to understand. Like a drink?’ Fleur blinked. ‘I…’ ‘Eric is setting up a barbecue on the beach and Julene is going to cook. We’ll have the pleasure of Clam Cove to ourselves this evening.’ ‘That sounds…that sounds wonderful,’ Fleur heard herself say with more enthusiasm than she could explain. And after a moment Bryn Wallis smiled down at her more genuinely than he ever had before, causing her to catch her breath—and pray he hadn’t noticed. It was a wonderful evening. They swam, while the water was smooth, silky and coloured oyster with touches of fire from the setting sun. Eric built a fire and Julene grilled fillets of fish, heated crusty bread in the coals and provided a delicious risotto as well as a fresh salad to go with the fish, plus her homemade tartar sauce. They opened a couple of bottles of wine and sat in deckchairs on the beach—more relaxed than Fleur would have thought possible only a day ago. Bryn built up the fire after they’d eaten and the swift darkness of the tropics fell. Then, in a rather orchestrated way, Fleur felt, Julene and Eric yawned simultaneously, claimed they needed an early night in the same breath, and departed for bed. She was still looking surprised when Bryn started to laugh softly. ‘What was that all about?’ she asked. ‘I have to agree they’re lousy actors,’ he said, still grinning. ‘But why?’ She looked even more puzzled. ‘Fleur, your steely mind must be taking a break—I should have thought it was obvious.’ ‘Not to me. I feel as if I’ve suddenly acquired body odour.’ She shrugged whimsically. ‘Not at all. I’d say that Julene and Eric, with a consummate lack of subtlety, have decided to throw us together.’ Fleur’s lips parted incredulously. ‘But…I don’t understand… Why?’ ‘They’ve obviously come to the conclusion we’d be good for each other.’ ‘Only last night,’ she said, ‘and for the past three and a half weeks it’s been—’ She stopped and gestured helplessly. ‘The other side of a certain coin?’ he broke in to say. ‘Perhaps.’ In the silence that followed his statement, Fleur wished with all her heart that she could feign misunderstanding or deny it. She moved restlessly in her deckchair and shuffled her bare feet in the sand. It was another beautiful night with the Southern Cross hanging above their heads, and the fire was casting leaping shadows on the beach. ‘You and I,’ he said quietly at last, ‘may have a better understanding of things, though.’ ‘Such as?’ ‘Such as why we don’t wish to pursue the other side of the coin—I’m talking about the attraction that lies just beneath the surface.’ She released a deep breath and glanced at him through her lashes. He had on the same football shirt and khaki shorts of the night before and he was lying back in his chair with his legs sprawled out, looking up at the stars. He was, it would appear, relaxed and in a contemplative frame of mind, as if he was talking about something quite abstract and he was not, at that moment, prey to any physical attraction to her. Whereas just looking at his big frame sprawled in the chair as he gazed up at the stars brought a strange clenching to the stomach for her, for example. ‘Go on,’ she said, when she could keep her voice cool and calm. He glinted a quizzical hazel glance at her and resumed his study of the heavens. ‘Well, the reason you may not want to pursue it is because you, for whatever reason, have given up men.’ ‘And you?’ she queried. ‘Ah. It couldn’t be said that I’ve given up women.’ ‘I had noticed that.’ He smiled. ‘On the other hand, I have given up Stella.’ Fleur blinked. ‘Why?’ ‘The same reason that would make it unforgivable for me to take up with you, Fleur. I’m perfectly happy to continue my bachelor existence. I don’t say this with any pride but I’m a hard man to pin down—’ ‘I’d say there’s a lot of pride in that statement, Bryn,’ she interjected sharply. ‘How did you fail to make Stella aware of this before you took up with her—or didn’t you even try?’ She looked across at him sardonically. But something in his expression arrested her. Something in the way he fleetingly lowered his eyelids made her wonder whether he was actually hiding cool amusement—and she’d walked into a trap of his devising. ‘Bryn,’ she said slowly, ‘I’m not really interested in what reasons you may have for not wanting to take up with me—I’m just glad you have them.’ He sat up at last, to clasp his hands between his knees and subject her to a penetrating gaze that was also quite enigmatic. ‘So we understand each other quite well?’ he said at length. ‘We do.’ ‘Hmm…’ A smile trembled on Fleur’s lips but she forced it to disappear at the same time as she thought, Got you there, Bryn Wallis! Perhaps he read her thoughts, though, because the glance he then bestowed upon her was loaded with irony. ‘So be it,’ he murmured. ‘By the way, I’ve decided to close again tomorrow night. Could you see your way clear to taking a day off, Miss Millar?’ Fleur frowned. ‘I—’ ‘It’s just that Eric and Julene want to take their yacht for a spin and there’s a beach on the mainland with this marvellous waterfall and pool. It’s a great spot for a picnic.’ She thought for a bit. ‘And you don’t think Eric and Julene will come up with another novel way to “throw us together”?’ she queried. He grinned. ‘What do they say—forewarned is forearmed? I was also thinking of getting my friends and Tom to join us. They’ve got a four-wheel-drive, so they can get to this beach by road—track really. I would imagine all that should be sufficient to dampen any suspicious ardour we might feel for each other, don’t you?’ ‘Bryn,’ she responded swiftly and through her teeth, ‘don’t make me mad enough to want to throw another drink over you with that kind of clever satire!’ He blinked, looked at her fingers clenched around her wineglass and said gravely, ‘Sorry. My ego just took another little dent, you might say.’ ‘You mean it’s all right for you to tell me you don’t want to pursue me but it’s a bit different for me to tell you I’m happy about it?’ she responded tartly. ‘I told you you had a mind like steel trap, Fleur, didn’t I?’ he marvelled, looking glum. She stood up. ‘Not really. But I do have some experience of men and their egos.’ His false expression of glumness faded, to be replaced by something alert and probing. Fleur bit her lip and wished she’d held her peace rather than making inflammatory remarks—she also knew enough about men to know that what she’d said would invite curiosity at the least. She discovered almost immediately that she was not wrong. ‘How many have there been?’ he queried. ‘Men, I mean.’ ‘I’ve known dozens of men,’ she replied. ‘Allow me to rephrase.’ He looked up at her as if to say, Two can play that kind of game. ‘How many have you slept with?’ ‘It was not a profession with me, if that’s what you’re implying.’ The firelight made her eyes look bluer—and very cynical. Bryn swore beneath his breath and stood up to put his hands on her shoulders. ‘Don’t—’ ‘Don’t you try to manhandle me again, Bryn Wallis,’ she said through gritted teeth. His fingers dug into her shoulders briefly then he shook his head savagely and released her. ‘I was about to say, don’t read things into everything I say before I’ve had a chance to say it, Fleur. But, even if it wasn’t a profession,’ he continued grimly, ‘it’s a road to destruction, Fleur. Hell, now look what you’ve done!’ he finished bitterly. She blinked several times and looked around in utter confusion. ‘What?’ ‘I knew you’d get me all worried about you—that’s why I didn’t want you for the job!’ ‘I…I…but you hardly know me from a bar of soap,’ she said confusedly. ‘I know the type all too well,’ he replied. ‘Too gorgeous for your own good, Ms Millar, not to mention walking man-bait.’ Fleur’s mouth fell open, then she snapped it shut. ‘All right!’ She was so angry it amazed her that her words came out crisp and crystal-clear. ‘This was meant to be the path to redemption, Mr Wallis. But I can travel it on my own; I don’t need help or anyone to worry about me—least of all you. In which case it might be an idea for you to go back to Stella, if that’s what this is really about.’ She put her hands on her hips to stare at him levelly, and saw him react sharply. Then he took hold, folded his arms leisurely and summed her up comprehensively from head to toe. She’d put a thin white pullover on over her swimming costume, so her legs were bare, and his gaze lingered on them. Finally he drawled, ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/lindsay-armstrong/wife-in-the-making/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.