Kitabı oku: «Bought for His Bed»

She’s been purchased for his pleasure – but will a heart be the true price?

Bought for His Bed

Three exhilarating romances from three bestselling Mills & Boon authors!

Bought for His Bed
Robyn Donald
Melanie Milburne
Kate Hardy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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In August 2010 Mills & Boon bring you four classic collections, each featuring three favourite romances by our bestselling authors

THE SPANIARD’S PLEASURE

The Spaniard’s Pregnancy Proposal by Kim Lawrence

At the Spaniard’s Convenience by Margaret Mayo Taken: the Spaniard’s Virgin by Lucy Monroe

BOUGHT FOR HIS BED

Virgin Bought and Paid For by Robyn Donald

Bought for Her Baby by Melanie Milburne

Sold to the Highest Bidder! by Kate Hardy

THE MILLIONAIRE’S CLUB: CONNOR, TOM & GAVIN

Round-the-Clock Temptation by Michelle Celmer

Highly Compromised Position by Sara Orwig

A Most Shocking Revelation by Kristi Gold

PROTECTOR, LOVER…HUSBAND?

In the Dark by Heather Graham

Sure Bet by Maggie Price

Deadly Exposure by Linda Turner

Virgin Bought and Paid for

By

Robyn Donald

ROBYN DONALD can’t remember not being able to read and will be eternally grateful to the local farmers who carefully avoided her on a dusty country road as she read her way to and from school, transported to places and times far away from her small village in Northland, New Zealand. Growing up fed her habit; as well as training as a teacher, marrying and raising two children, she discovered the delights of romances and read them voraciously, especially enjoying the ones written by New Zealand writers. So much so, that one day she decided to write one herself. Writing soon grew to be as much of a delight as reading – although infinitely more challenging – and when eventually her first book was accepted by Mills & Boon she felt she’d arrived home. She still lives in a small town in Northland with her family close by, using the landscape as a setting for much of her work. Her life is enriched by the friends she’s made among writers and readers and complicated by a determined corgi called Buster who is convinced that blackbirds are evil entities. Her greatest hobby is still reading, with travelling a very close second.

Don’t miss Robyn Donald’s exciting new novel, Powerful Greek, Housekeeper Wife, available in October 2010 from Mills & Boon.

Chapter One

A MOVEMENT at the door caught Luke Chapman’s eye. So tall he saw above the heads of his guests, he met the newcomer’s gaze. Although no one else at the crowded cocktail party would have noticed anything more than the slightest narrowing of Luke’s eyes, and a swift, barely perceptible shake of his head, it was enough to make his head of security step back out of the room and wait outside for his employer.

The middle-aged magnate beside Luke lifted his glass. ‘Charming little spot you’ve got here.’ He grinned and added slyly, ‘Of course you could tuck Fala’isi and its outlying islands in one corner of my ranch in Texas, but we certainly don’t have anything like these magnificent mountains. Or your beaches! And this plantation house is something else again.’

Amused, Luke said smoothly, ‘We do pride ourselves on our beaches,’ before steering the conversation into the prospective ramifications of the collapse of a huge company with world-wide interests.

Ten minutes later, after introducing the Texan to an Australian pastoral tycoon, he made his way across the room, pausing frequently to chat to various guests. Although this sort of social-cum-business occasion wasn’t his favourite form of entertaining, in his position as heir to the very small country of Fala’isi—several islands sprinkled across one corner of the Pacific Ocean—they were part of his life. And his decision to hold the party in his parents’ house was vindicated; many of the guests had complimented him on the old mansion’s beauty and style.

Just outside the door, his security man straightened up.

Luke asked swiftly, ‘What’s happened?’

‘I saw Ms Harrison—Mrs van Helgen—walking along the road. Well, staggering, actually. I stopped to see if she was all right,’ Valo told him in a rapid undertone. ‘She passed out cold in front of me, so I took her to your place.’

Not a muscle moved in his boss’s hard, handsome face. ‘How is she?’

‘Not too good. When she didn’t regain consciousness I called the doctor. She hadn’t got there when I left, but I thought you should know.’

‘You were right.’ Luke looked at his watch. ‘I’ll be finished in an hour.’

A bright, feminine voice said, ‘Luke—so this is where you are!’

The head of security for Chapman Inc watched the younger man turn to the improbably blonde woman in the doorway and smile. It had the usual effect.

His boss’s smile worked on everyone—he’d even seen it charm a tantrum-throwing three-year-old into instant submission. As the uncle of the tantrum-thrower, he’d been hugely impressed.

But those who thought his boss just another tycoon’s spoilt heir soon learned their mistake. The autocratically chiselled features hid a brain that was cold and incisive and penetrating. Luke Chapman’s overwhelming aura cut women off at the knees, yet he was as respected in the arcane world of high finance and business as his father, the legendary Grant Chapman, who held the reins of power in this tiny, hugely wealthy realm.

His head of security looked discreetly away while the woman said something. Luke’s voice, deep and deliberate, put her at a slight distance, but not enough to stop her kissing his cheek before she turned back into the room.

He followed her after saying curtly, ‘Make sure no one talks.’

She could hear people talking in low, muted tones. She’d been awake before, she knew dimly, but each time she’d immediately slid back into sleep, or maybe it had been unconsciousness?

This time she stayed awake. Over a raging headache, and an even worse thirst, she strained to separate the voices. One was a woman, Australian by her accent, and the other a man with the soft lilt that marked the natives of Fala’isi.

‘…dehydrated, and it looks as though she hasn’t been eating much, either. She should be all right now that we’ve got the drip in her, but she’ll need care for several days.’

That was the woman. Fleur tried to open her eyes, but the lashes weighted her eyelids.

However, the woman must have seen that abortive flutter. ‘She’s coming to.’

An arm slipped around her shoulder, lifting her so that someone could nudge a straw between her lips.

‘Janna, here’s some water. Drink it down—small sips to begin with.’

Janna? Who was Janna? The thought fled as she dragged greedily on the straw, letting the cool water slide down her parched throat, feeling it spread through her body like a benediction.

When the straw was pulled away she croaked a protest, to be told firmly, ‘Not too much at first. Just take it slowly. You’re on a drip so you’ll soon be feeling better.’

There was a stir at the door, a kind of quickening in the air, as though a presence had arrived. The woman said, ‘Ah, Luke, as always your timing is impeccable. She’s just woken up.’

Fleur forced her heavy lids up, met a pair of steel-grey eyes, hard and direct and penetrating, in formidably handsome features that seemed vaguely familiar.

His scrutiny was a swift, shocking invasion until he turned away as though dismissing her. ‘This isn’t Janna.’

He had, she thought in bewilderment, the most wonderful voice she’d ever heard—rich and textured, so potent it stopped the breath in her lungs. She’d heard people speak of dark voices; now she knew what they meant. This one reminded her of bronze, with an underlying note of concentrated authority that should probably warn any woman to watch her step.

She summoned the strength to whisper, ‘My name is Fleur.’

Nobody said anything. She closed her eyes and finished wearily, ‘Fleur Lyttelton.’

The water had revived her brain enough so that she could think again. Clearly this was a case of mistaken identity, but who was she mistaken for? She could remember walking back along the road to the beach, and the heat. She’d felt sick, and so weary she could hardly put one foot ahead of the other, and then a car had come to a halt beside her…

The odd silence in the room worried her. Frowning, she forced up her lashes to peer at the shuttered face of the man called Luke. He was scrutinising her as though she was some sort of strange being, his cold, metallic gaze slicing through the fragile remnants of her composure like a sword through silk.

‘And I’m Luke Chapman,’ he said calmly, as though this were an ordinary social occasion.

‘How do you do?’ she muttered, and thankfully let her lashes cover her eyes again.

Luke felt something stir inside him as he examined her face. Close up she didn’t resemble Janna at all, although the hair—long, badly cut, an amazing blaze of primal colour around her white face—was an identical red-gold. However, he suspected Fleur Lyttelton’s was natural, unlike Janna’s.

Neat features—she’d photograph well—but she didn’t have Janna’s carefully cultivated beauty. Something stirred deep inside him. There should be a law against mouths like hers—full, subtly sensuous, it was an incitement in itself.

Her lashes drifted upwards again and she fixed him with a wide, slightly vacant stare. The limpid green of the sea at dawn, black-lashed and wide, and with no sign of contact lenses to enhance their colour, they seemed to bore right through him. A tiny frown pleated her narrow dark brows, and she surprised him with a little nod, no more than a queenly inclination of her square chin.

‘Thank you,’ she said, quite clearly, and slid back into sleep.

The doctor said, ‘I’ll organise an ambulance, although I don’t know where we’re going to put her. The hospital’s full with this wretched flu epidemic. By the way, the Sulus baby’s on the mend.’

‘Thank God for that.’ Luke’s austere expression was transformed by a smile.

The doctor nodded. ‘I can put Ms Lyttelton in with the—’

‘She can stay here, if that’s medically OK?’ Luke said, making up his mind instantly.

The doctor’s brows shot up. ‘Well…no reason why not, I suppose. The drip will need supervision and replenishment, of course, but a nurse can do that, as well as do bloods to check the balance of water and salts in her body. But she’s going to be pretty weak for several days, possibly longer.’

Luke nodded, watching the still, uncommunicative face, white against the pillows. In spite of that sensuous mouth, and the tumbled, provocative silk of her red-gold hair, she looked like a woman who’d learned self-discipline in a hard school. He turned to the man who’d picked her up and brought her here. ‘I presume she had a bag?’

His head of security indicated a shabby black handbag on the chest at the foot of the bed. ‘There.’

‘See if she’s got any ID, and find out where she’s staying, will you?’ He looked at the doctor. ‘Can you organise a nurse? One who can keep her mouth shut?’

She didn’t look surprised. Originally an Australian, she’d spent most of her professional career in Fala’isi, coping with everything the tropics—and the Chapmans—had thrown at her. ‘Of course I can. And all my nurses know the value of discretion. One’s on leave at the moment, and I happen to know she’d like some extra money. I’ll send her over.’

‘Thanks.’ He left the room, saying once he and the other man were outside, ‘Find out about Fleur Lyttelton. Get what information you can from her purse and run a complete check on her.’

When Fleur woke again she could see light glow through her closed eyelids. Instinct told her it was daylight. For a few seconds she lay still, orienting herself. Close by, a dove cooed plaintively, the soft notes backed by the rustle of a breeze in palm tree fronds. A faint fragrance, like vanilla combined with a more exotic scent, transported her back to her mother’s kitchen. There that had been the comforting aroma of home and love.

Here it smelt seductive, almost opulent.

Even though her eyelids were too heavy to lift, she knew where she was: in Fala’isi. But instead of the hard ground she’d slept on for the past three nights she was lying on a very comfortable bed. She forced her eyelids up a fraction.

In spite of the spicy perfumes, she expected the usual hospital ward, sparse and institutional; she’d seen enough of them to last a lifetime. But this was a bedroom, modern and enormous, with filmy curtains billowing and stained wooden shutters pushed back against the pale walls.

And she wasn’t in a hospital nightgown. Except for a pair of briefs, she was only wearing a tee-shirt. Not one of her own, she realised, looking down at it. Humiliating tears stung her eyes. What was she doing here?

The room’s cool, understated simplicity breathed a restrained opulence that intimidated her. A pot of orchids on a long black dressing table made a bold statement against pale walls. The butterfly flowers in shades of scarlet and crimson and gold breathed all the dangerous allure of the tropics. On one wall hung a magnificent panel of tapa cloth, its stylised patterns in shades of tan and bronze redolent of the Pacific.

Slightly dizzy, Fleur closed her eyes, but couldn’t block out the face that swam into her consciousness—strong, autocratic, totally compelling. Tall and powerfully built, he’d stood by her bed and subjected her to a clinical, unsparing survey.

Was he the owner? The man with the steel-grey eyes and that wonderful voice?

In spite of the sun that spilled through the curtains she shivered, recalling a perfectly moulded mouth that had exuded strength and potency…

Her mind groped for a name, failed, and then caught a fragment of memory. ‘Chapman,’ he’d said.

Everyone in the Pacific had heard of the family; their status as lords of Fala’isi was the stuff of legends, and the fact that the man who ruled the chain of islands, Grant Chapman, had married a Kiwi meant that the New Zealand women’s magazines followed the exploits of their children with great interest, especially the only son and heir apparent.

A sound at the door brought her head around with a jerk. A bad move, she thought dizzily, and sank back onto the pillow as the room wavered hideously in front of her.

A woman in nurse’s uniform hurried across to the bed. ‘Oh, you’re awake at last! How are you feeling this morning?’

‘Much better, thank you.’ But Fleur’s voice was hoarse and she swallowed to ease her dry throat as she closed her eyes again. So she was in hospital—a very up-market one. Perhaps a clinic…

‘Here, drink this.’

An arm lifted her while another straw was inserted between her lips. This time she drank without her previous greedy desperation.

‘You’ve been on a drip to get you rehydrated,’ the woman told her. ‘You certainly look much better than you did last night.’

Just when Fleur had had her fill of water the door opened again and the man walked in, effortlessly dominating his surroundings. It helped, Fleur thought raggedly, that his casual clothes were superbly tailored to fit his big lean frame, but even in a tee-shirt and board shorts he’d give off that same primal, disturbing magnetism.

Luke. His name was Luke, heir to all this beauty and wealth. Fleur stiffened, then set her jaw. Magazine and newspaper photographs hadn’t done justice to a face that made him some dark prince of fantasy, its arrogant, uncompromising bone structure honed by tanned skin.

He came across to the bed and smiled at her. It packed a punch, Fleur thought, surprised at the odd little chill that tightened her skin. The swift smile had everything—humour and concern and a smidgeon of sexual interest. It was dangerous.

And so, she thought with a flash of insight, was Luke Chapman.

‘You’re looking much better,’ he said in that deep, exciting voice. ‘Breakfast’s on its way. Do you feel well enough to answer a few questions?’

‘Yes, of course,’ she said weakly. ‘Thank you. I don’t remember what happened, but…’ Her voice trailed away.

He said something in the liquid Polynesian language of the island, and the nurse left the room.

Gaze locked with his, Fleur heard the almost silent closure of the door, leaving her alone with Luke Chapman.

He stood looking down at her, his hooded eyes contrasting with that unsettling, charismatic smile. ‘You fainted on the road,’ he said in a bland voice, ‘just as my driver was passing. He brought you here.’

A frown drew her brows together. ‘Why here?’ she asked, forcing herself to meet that penetrating stare.

Luke resisted the temptation to shrug. She wasn’t going to accept any smooth lies, and although he applauded her caution he wasn’t going to tell her that she’d been mistaken for the woman he’d had a brief affair with two years previously.

This morning, a faint wash of pink over her cheeks set off her eyes and mouth. With more colour along those high cheekbones and her stunning hair properly cut she’d be more than appealing, he thought with involuntary masculine appreciation. Rehydration had restored an ethereal bloom to her skin, and her green eyes were huge in their thickets of dark lashes.

‘Because the house was closer than the hospital,’ he said, and in answer to the question he saw forming on her lips he went on, ‘You spent the night here because the hospital is small and needed for real emergencies. We’re in the midst of a flu epidemic, and although you probably feel rotten you’re not exactly sick, simply dehydrated and exhausted.’

It didn’t satisfy her, he could tell. That frown still puckered her brows as she said with automatic politeness, ‘Thank you so much, but I have to go.’

‘Why?’ he asked, intentionally brutal. ‘So you can go back to sleeping on the beach? We have laws prohibiting that, you know. How did you get through Immigration without proof of accommodation?’

The delicate colour warmed her face, then faded, leaving her cheekbones standing out too prominently. Not only had she been sleeping rough, he thought with a spurt of irrational anger, but she’d been starving herself as well.

However, she met his eyes steadily. ‘I had a holiday cottage booked,’ she said. ‘But when I arrived there, it appeared that the person who arranged the trip—’ she had difficulty saying that ‘—had made a mistake in the dates. The cottage is occupied.’

‘So why not find somewhere else to stay?’

Fleur hated the fact that she blushed so easily—it made people think she was shy and easily manipulated. She wasn’t going to tell Luke Chapman that her mother had organised the holiday just before she died. That pain was still too raw.

It was hard to meet those steely eyes, but pride kept her voice level. Ignoring her heated skin, she said, ‘I don’t have enough money.’

One black brow climbed with calculated affect. ‘It didn’t occur to you to go to the New Zealand consul here, or ask if someone could help?’

She shook her head, then winced and shut her eyes hastily. It would have been the sensible thing to do, but once she’d discovered that her non-refundable air ticket meant she couldn’t get an earlier flight home, she’d thought that in this glorious climate sleeping rough would be fine.

And it had been, until—

Quietly, but with a merciless note in his voice, he stated, ‘You had no money in your bag. None at all. And where are your clothes?’

When she didn’t answer, he asked again with a little more emphasis, ‘Fleur, what happened to your money and your luggage? I assume you had some when you arrived?’

Opening her eyes she said, ‘I had—have—a pack. I took it with me when I went to the market to buy some food. I put it down to get my money out of it, and someone came up and offered me a lei made of frangipani flowers—actually slung it around my neck while the stall owner was weighing out the fruit.’

His frown deepened. ‘So you bought the pretty lei and when you turned around your pack had gone?’

Her eyes sparked. ‘I didn’t buy it, but, yes, that’s what happened.’ When she saw his incredulous look she added in selfdefence, ‘I only took my eyes off it for a second.’

Straight black brows met over his nose. ‘That’s all it takes. When did this happen?’

Her mind felt sluggish. She hesitated, trying to count back. ‘Three days ago, I think.’

‘Did you go to the police?’

‘Yes. They were as helpful as they could be, but nobody had seen anything. They did find the pack behind one of the market stalls.’

‘Empty?’

‘Except for my passport and airline tickets,’ she admitted, feeling stupid.

He dismissed them. ‘They’re not worth anything here. You didn’t tell the police your circumstances?’

‘No,’ she said briefly, irritated by his interrogation into turning her head away.

‘You didn’t think to contact your credit card company?’

‘I don’t have a credit card.’ Her voice was frosty.

His expression didn’t change, and the calm, remorseless interrogation continued. ‘Where do you live in New Zealand, Miss Lyttelton?’

‘In Waiora, a village on the west coast north of Auckland,’ she said as crisply as she could, trying to sound like her normal competent self. ‘Why?’

‘I’m just seeing if the facts match your story.’

Fleur closed her lips over the tumultuous words that threatened to break through, and glared at his handsome, implacable face. It took almost all her strength to say evenly, ‘I’m telling you the truth.’

‘I’m sorry to be so rough on you.’ His voice was as controlled as hers, although, she thought in ineffectual anger, with considerably less effort.

‘I’m taking that for granted,’ she flashed.

At his swift grin her stomach performed an intricate manoeuvre and she felt an alarming shortness of breath.

‘So I needn’t stress it,’ he said. ‘You’re Fleur Lyttelton of New Zealand, twenty-three years old—and a Leo, I noticed from your birth date.’

His smile might be lethal, but it was his voice that got to her. She had to swallow before she could say curtly, ‘I didn’t know men were interested in star signs.’

‘I have two sisters,’ he said with a wry twist to his lips before reverting to an intimidating formality. ‘I’ve put your passport and airline tickets in my safe, where they’ll be completely secure. I’m sorry you’ve had such a rough time. Fala’isi is usually safe, but like any place we have a small number of people who can’t be trusted. As it happens, the police tell me they think the pack was probably stolen by another tourist, possibly someone who’d run out of money. They’d stolen the lei from another stall. If it had been a local, someone would have noticed or recognised them.’ Without changing his tone he asked, ‘Can you sit up without help?’

She stared at him. ‘What?’

‘You’re obviously still thirsty,’ he said, and looped an arm around her shoulders, easing her up against the pillows.

So startled she couldn’t think, Fleur stiffened while the room lurched again. Close up he was overwhelming, and his touch did strange things to her. Heart beating far too rapidly, she suffered another pillow being stuffed down behind her.

Luke said, ‘It’s all right. Just blink a couple of times, and then open your eyes slowly.’

His steady tone gave her confidence, although this time it hadn’t been movement that caused the room to whirl.

He handed her a glass. ‘Keep sipping this. Breakfast will be here shortly, and after that the nurse will help you shower.’

‘No—wait.’ Under his cold steel-grey scrutiny her confidence dwindled into nothingness. ‘I can’t stay here,’ she said, much less trenchantly than she wanted to.

Black brows drew together in an autocratic frown. ‘You’re not able to look after yourself. Dehydration can be a killer if it’s not monitored, and you’re still not out of the woods, so finding other accommodation isn’t an option. Neither is sleeping on the beach.’

Angry yet helpless, she met his eyes. The implacable determination she read in them robbed her of strength, so that she said feebly, ‘You can’t want me to stay here.’

‘Don’t be foolish.’ A note of impatience hardened his voice. ‘Believe me, you’ll be a lot less trouble if you stay here and are being looked after. We have children so sick they’re on oxygen in the hospital. The staff don’t need anyone else there unless it’s imperative.’

‘I—thank you. I think.’ She lifted the glass to her lips, using it as a pathetic shield to bolster her shaky defences against his powerful presence.

‘You’ve nothing to thank me for. If you’d done the sensible thing when you realised your plans had gone astray you wouldn’t be in this situation. In Fala’isi we don’t allow people to starve on our beaches.’

‘No doubt because it doesn’t look good in the newspapers,’ she retorted, and immediately felt ashamed. In his forceful fashion he’d been kind to her.

She expected a cutting reply, but his face didn’t give anything away—well, not if she discounted the unwavering aura of authority and assurance that radiated from somewhere deep inside him.

With an undertone of sarcasm, he said, ‘If it makes you feel better, yes, that’s partly it. We guard the island’s reputation zealously, which is why we don’t encourage freeloaders and would-be beachcombers. But common humanity is a factor, too. This situation isn’t your fault, so the least I can do is help.’

Fleur bit her lip as he walked out of the room, leaving her shaking and wretched. She’d thought she’d cried all her tears before she’d left on this ill-fated holiday, but the let-down from her brief adrenalin rush was churning her emotions into chaos.

Chapter Two

THE return of the nurse with cereal and tropical fruit was a relief.

Settling the tray on Fleur’s knees, she said cheerfully, ‘Eat it all, the doctor said. Why didn’t you ask for food if you couldn’t buy it? No islander would have let you go hungry, and there’s plenty of food for everyone.’

It was kindly meant, no doubt, but it seemed to Fleur that everyone on Fala’isi felt the need to question her. ‘I had enough to eat mostly,’ she said defensively.

‘Doesn’t look like it. What I want to know,’ the nurse said with genuine interest, ‘is how you managed to hide from everyone that you were sleeping on the beach. The islanders usually know exactly what’s happening in their own areas, and you’d have been picked up on any of the resort beaches.’

Fleur flushed. ‘I found a tiny bay with only two houses in it—both of them seemed empty holiday houses.’

‘About a kilometre away on the road back to town?’

Fleur nodded. ‘No one seemed to live there.’

‘It’s owned by a family who are in Australia for a wedding. They’ll be back in a couple of days, so you’d have been found then.’

‘I slept under a big tree so even if anyone was on the beach at night they wouldn’t see me.’ She redirected the conversation. ‘This looks delicious, thank you.’

‘Coffee or tea?’

The thought of coffee made her stomach roil. ‘Tea, please.’ And asked impulsively, ‘Where am I?’ At the nurse’s astonished look she added, ‘I’ve seen photos of the Chapman house—a lovely old house. This seems much more modern.’

‘Oh, you’re thinking of Luke’s parents’ house, the old mansion.’

Unconsciously Fleur must have hoped that this was a new wing built onto the old plantation-style house, and that any moment Luke’s mother might come to see her. The knowledge that she was in Luke’s house produced an odd kind of panic, mingled with an even stranger excitement.

Chattily, the nurse went on, ‘Luke had this one built a couple of years ago when he came back from overseas and decided he needed his own place. We hoped he might be getting married, but it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen for a while yet.’

Perhaps realising that this was moving too close to gossip, she smiled and reiterated, ‘Eat up everything! Then you can shower. I’ve brought you a wrap to wear, and a proper nightgown. You need something a bit nicer to wear than Luke’s tee-shirt.’

Which brought more heat to Fleur’s cheeks. It seemed somehow sinfully decadent to be clad in her reluctant host’s shirt.

‘Where did you get the wrap and nightgown?’ she asked.

‘Luke’s housekeeper gave me the money, so I suppose it was from Luke.’

Fleur vowed to pay him back, no matter how long it took, but when she thanked him for them he said matter-of-factly, ‘Don’t worry about that now. Concentrate on eating and sleeping and drinking!’

That day set a pattern for the several that followed, except that she was allowed up for progressively longer periods each day, although both nurse and the doctor when she visited each evening kept a close eye on her welfare.

Luke came in twice a day, bringing with him that instant awareness, a charge of vital energy she’d never experienced before. When he walked through the door she felt invigorated, every sense newly alert, as though previously she’d lived in a kind of stupor.

Apart from those moments, she spent most of her time reading. He had a very good library, she discovered enviously, and once he’d asked her tastes he chose a book for her each day. She also watched videos and the local television station. And she looked wistfully at the wonderful garden she could see from the windows.

She also found that she was too wobbly on her feet to entertain the thought of going out. But the days were long and she disgusted herself by thinking far too much about Luke, and was shocked at the eagerness with which she waited for him to call in night and morning.

The day she was allowed up the nurse arrived with an armful of colour.

‘Pareus,’ she said. ‘In Fiji they call them lavalavas. My daughter sent them along for you.’

‘They’re beautiful,’ Fleur said, ‘but I can’t wear your daughter’s clothes.’

Patiently the older woman told her, ‘They’re not clothes, they’re just a piece of material. She’s got dozens. Look, all you do is drape the length right round you and tuck it in. Hold your arms out.’

Feeling both ungrateful and ungracious, after an embarrassed second Fleur obeyed. Deftly the nurse wound the fine cotton around her and showed her the way to tuck it in.

‘Won’t it come undone?’ she asked doubtfully.

‘Not unless it gets rough handling,’ the nurse said cheerfully. ‘Our girls wear them all the time, even swim in them. Now, watch while I show you how to fasten it again.’

Once satisfied that Fleur knew how to do it, she said, ‘I’ve brought some underwear for you, too—Luke told me to buy what you needed. I even found the right bra in one of the shops in town!’

‘Thank you,’ Fleur said, her pride taking yet another battering.

Under the nurse’s supervision she showered, then wrapped herself in the pareu.

‘Go and see how you look,’ the other woman said, ‘while I get you a cup of tea.’

Warily Fleur examined herself in the mirror. The pareu was blissfully cool, and although it showed a lot of pale skin it was modest enough, fastening above any cleavage and falling loosely to knee level.

How would Luke Chapman think she looked in it?

‘He probably wouldn’t even notice you’re wearing something different,’ she told her reflection contemptuously. He certainly wouldn’t notice that she wasn’t wearing a bra beneath it.

The next evening the doctor said, ‘Right, you don’t need me any more. You’re fully recovered from the dehydration, but I’m not too happy about your general health.’ She paused as though inviting a confidence.

Fleur said tonelessly, ‘My mother died a while ago—I nursed her until she went. I’m fine. Thank you for everything you’ve done for me.’

Eyes unexpectedly keen, Dr King waved away Fleur’s thanks. ‘Just doing my job. How long was your mother ill?’

‘Five years.’

The doctor nodded. ‘And you looked after her all that time?’

‘Towards the end she spent quite a bit of time in the hospice,’ Fleur told her, keeping her voice level and unemotional.

‘I see. Well, when you go home, see your own doctor. You’ve been under considerable stress, and this last little problem on the island certainly hasn’t helped. Talk to him and see what he can do for you.’

‘I’m fine,’ Fleur said automatically. What could anyone prescribe for grief?

The pleasant Australian said shrewdly, ‘Your mother had the right idea—she knew you’d be exhausted, and that you’d need a complete change of circumstances to get the full benefit of any holiday. Dehydration and heat exhaustion certainly played a part in your collapse, but there was more to it than that. Nursing someone you love is exhausting in more ways than the physical. I don’t think you should go home until you’re fully rested.’

‘How long will that be?’

Dr King smiled. ‘At least a week,’ she said noncommittally.

Fleur said, ‘Two days.’ When the doctor lifted her brows she explained, ‘I have a non-refundable ticket, and it has to be used then.’

‘I see.’ The older woman frowned, then said, ‘While you’re here, stay in the shade and use sunscreen and moisturiser. The tropical sun’s hard on skin. And keep drinking at least every half hour.’

She could certainly do that, but now that she was all right, where would she spend the next two days until she could go home?

That night she told Luke what the doctor had said.

‘Now you’re worrying about it,’ he said, and smiled.

In spite of everything, Fleur felt herself surrender to the charm of that smile. An aching warmth seemed to burgeon in her breasts, and to her astonishment she felt the nipples peak into tight, expectant buds.

Hoping desperately it wasn’t as obvious to him as it was to her, she said, ‘Thank you very much for your kindness. If I can get a lift into town—’

‘Don’t be silly. It will be dark soon.’ He got to his feet and looked down at her, his eyes cool and speculative. ‘Have a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow you’re going to be allowed outside.’

‘I’m so looking forward to that,’ she said, her fears for the immediate future swamped in the pleasure of being able to do something for herself again.

He didn’t come to see her the next morning. Frightened at how much that hurt, she donned a pair of white trousers and a loose cotton shirt—both the right size—spread sunscreen over every inch of exposed skin, and accepted a hat to shade her face.

When she asked who the clothes had belonged to, she was told firmly that they were new. ‘Luke bought them,’ the nurse finished, as though that was all she needed to know.

It galled Fleur’s pride to be a charity case, but again she banished the chagrin by telling herself she’d pay Luke Chapman back somehow, however long it took.

Besides, her spirits were too high now that she was out of the house to brood on something she had no control over. So she reclined in a chair on the private terrace outside her room and read the local newspaper.

Until then she’d only seen the garden from inside. She’d expected tropical gardens to be a riot of colour, and there was indeed a lot of colour there, but it was the form and the myriad shades of the foliage that struck her. As for rioting—well, whoever took care of this garden didn’t allow that! For all the bravura effect of huge glossy leaves in every shade of green and gold and bright red, the garden was an exercise in discipline.

Like its owner, she thought, wondering if anything ever managed to disturb Luke Chapman’s cool, self-contained confidence.

Making love, perhaps? An odd twist of sensation—heat and hunger combined—coiled up from deep within her.

Embarrassed, she forced herself to concentrate once more on her surroundings. Everything about the place—the choice of plants, the furniture along the terrace, even the tray waiting on the table—was like something out of one of those very expensive magazines that captured the lives of the very rich.

You should be enjoying this, she thought reproachfully. Living in the lap of tropical luxury—it’s never going to happen again!

Dutifully Fleur finished the surprisingly hard-hitting pages of local news that included a summary of progress at a conference Luke had presided over—something to do with a Pacific-wide stand on over-fishing. Guiltily she let herself scrutinise a photograph of him. He looked stern and powerful, a truly formidable man—and outrageously handsome.

‘High society indeed,’ she said aloud, and turned the page to start on the foreign section.

Ignoring the headline that screamed ‘MODEL LEAVES HUSBAND OF SIX MONTHS’, she tried to read about turmoil in the Common Market, but gave up almost immediately, putting the paper aside.

She lay back in the indecently comfortable lounger and closed her eyes against the sun. Even though she still felt slightly wobbly, it was wonderful to be outside.

However, there was the question of what to do until she left Fala’isi. Overnight she’d managed to ignore the problem, but she had to face it now. She had no money, no clothes and no place to live. And she couldn’t stay here.

Almost certainly Luke would be glad to see the back of her; she had no claim on him at all, which meant she had to organise some way out of this impasse.

After fruitless minutes of mulling, she came up with nothing. ‘Oh, Mum,’ she whispered, fighting back a rush of debilitating tears.

She squared her jaw. No, damn it, she wasn’t going to dissolve into a puddle. She owed it to her mother to salvage what she could of the situation.

Opening her eyes, she let the peace sink into her and deliberately stored up memories. Her gaze wandered down a long border where tree ferns canopied a lush planting of peace lilies, their white flowers hovering like doves above glossy leaves. Restful in green and white, the border was finished in the distance by a splash of crimson, bright as a skyrocket against the dark green foliage.

‘It’s probably just a hibiscus,’ she muttered.

Her mother used to pick them and put them on the table, frilly and frivolous with their silken petals and pure, saturated colour, enjoying their fragile temporary beauty.

Fleur’s throat tightened. To distract herself, she got up and walked out into the heat to identify that elusive splash of colour.

Halfway there, voices in the distance turned her head. Across the lawn two men were walking along the terrace that surrounded the house. Her unruly heart jumped at the sight of Luke, his tall, lean figure immediately recognisable. She barely noticed the other man, but she felt the impact of Luke’s gaze on her, and for some idiotic reason felt that she should have stayed where she was, safe in the little private patio off her room.

Fleur hesitated, but to turn back would be idiotic—and besides, it would make her look suspicious, like someone casing the joint. Setting her teeth, she walked across to the creeper with its bright splash of colour.

It was beautiful, but although she forced herself to examine the flowers, she couldn’t enjoy them, and too soon she turned and hurried back to the chair.

The haste was a mistake—one she wouldn’t repeat. Head whirling, legs slack and achy, she was sipping water when Luke said from behind her, ‘Are you all right?’

Heart jumping, blood pumping through her in a response that came stupidly close to panic, she said thinly, ‘I’m fine.’

He stopped in front of her, his too-handsome face set. ‘You’re white as a sheet,’ he said abruptly. ‘Didn’t the doctor tell you to take things easily?’

Fleur repressed a gesture of irritation. ‘Don’t you ever stop asking questions?’

‘Once I’ve got the answers, yes.’ He lowered himself into the chair opposite her and surveyed her face with those disconcertingly keen eyes. ‘I saw you walking across the lawn. Was it too far?’

‘I might have taken it too fast.’ She knew she sounded defensive and tried to qualify it with a faint smile. ‘I feel like a wimp.’

‘Dehydration isn’t something to be taken lightly,’ he said uncompromisingly. ‘And in the tropics it’s too easy to forget to drink enough.’

Fleur bit her lip. ‘I’m making up for it now. Apparently I have to drink every half-hour.’

‘Make sure you do, and if you must move about, take things slowly!’

His tone made her bristle, but she restrained her automatic reaction. He was right, the nurse was right, and she was beholden to them both. And the doctor.

‘Yes, sir,’ she said, helplessly watching the corners of his mouth lift in that potent smile. Her heart skipped a beat, and she added, ‘The funny thing is that I felt pretty good until a few minutes before I—well, fainted so melodramatically in front of your car.’

‘It wasn’t anything as easily dealt with as a faint. You collapsed,’ he said brutally.

‘Yes, well, I’m better now,’ she said. She sat up straight and squared her shoulders, making her voice brisk and impersonal. ‘Thank you so much for everything you’ve done. I’ll find some other accommodation—’

‘Don’t be silly,’ he drawled, thick lashes shading his eyes. ‘I’ve checked, and the cottage is booked solid for another month. You have no money, and as Dr King wants you to be where someone can keep an eye on you, I told her you’d stay here as my guest until you return to New Zealand.’

‘No!’

‘You needn’t look at me as though I’ve made you an indecent proposition,’ he drawled, an amused glint in his eyes making her squirm. ‘It’s by far the best way to handle the situation.’

Fugitive colour burned across her skin. ‘I couldn’t possibly impose on you,’ she said stiffly.

‘You’re not going back to sleeping on the beach,’ he said with ruthless frankness. ‘In fact, you’re not going anywhere for a while. On the doctor’s recommendation I’ve cancelled your return ticket.’

Eyes flashing, Fleur sat up straight. ‘You—she—had no right to do that!’ she spluttered, barely able to articulate.

‘Dr King said that not only were you suffering from dehydration, but that you’re exhausted and run-down and very close, she suspects, to burning out. She doesn’t want to see you travel for at least a week, and possibly a fortnight.’

‘A fortnight!’ Her brain raced frantically, but he looked so arrogantly confident she was reduced to a kind of mental stammering, and could only stare impotently at him.

‘Do you have a home to go to in New Zealand?’

Mutely, Fleur glared at him. ‘I have a room in a boarding house,’ she said. A small, hot room.

Luke’s brow lifted in ironic surprise. ‘So exactly what were you planning to do once you got back to New Zealand?’

She’d planned to take up a temporary job in the local supermarket and regroup, find some direction to her life.

Ruthlessly Luke pressed home his advantage. ‘Dr King doesn’t feel happy about your going back unless you have support waiting for you in New Zealand. Do you?’

Fleur wouldn’t lie, so she folded her lips and stared silently at him.

‘No friends to make sure you’re all right?’

No one close, but she wasn’t going to tell him that, either.

He said sardonically, ‘Of course I can’t keep you here if you don’t want to stay, so I’ll organise a private room for you in the hospital until the doctor says you’re fit to travel. You can go home in the family’s private jet—’

‘No, don’t be silly!’ she spluttered, pressing her palms to her hot cheeks. ‘I don’t want a room in the hospital, not when every one is needed for sick people. It never occurred to me that you even had a private jet!’

‘I’m merely pointing out your options.’

Fleur took her hands away from her face and asked desperately, ‘Surely there’s somewhere else I can stay?’

‘Not in your present state.’ He waited, then said, ‘Look, you won’t be imposing on me at all—as you’ve probably gathered, my staff do the actual work around here. If you stay here both the doctor and I will be reassured that you’re OK, and that you’re eating and drinking properly.’

He made it sound so reasonable, she thought with difficulty. ‘I don’t know…’

‘And when you’re feeling up to par I’ll lend you enough money to see out your holiday—’

‘No,’ she interrupted, the heat fading from her skin. Head held high, she said proudly, ‘I can’t afford to repay you.’

Long black lashes half hid his eyes, but couldn’t mask the penetrating quality of his scrutiny. ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’

‘No,’ she said, more calmly. There was no way out; she’d have to accept. ‘Now that you’ve cancelled my flight I have no alternative but to accept your offer. I’ll try not to get in your way at all, and if there’s anything I can do to repay you, I will.’

It sounded false even as she said it—because what could she do, penniless as she was, to repay him? But her pride demanded she make the offer.

He didn’t answer, and the silence stretched beyond the normal length. Startled, she looked up. He was watching her, grey eyes like polished steel, intent and probing.

Something hot and reckless that had been smouldering deep inside her burst into flame, burning into the barriers she’d erected against him. And then she realised what she’d said.

Appalled, she thought, Surely he doesn’t think—? Surely he can’t—?

Oh, why did she have to blush every time she got embarrassed?

She stumbled into speech. ‘I don’t mean—that is, I’m not offering—’

‘Yourself?’ The word hung in the air between them.

Fleur crimsoned. ‘Yes. I mean, no, I’m not…’

He suddenly laughed. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and that strange intensity vanished. ‘I was teasing. It’s probably just as well you didn’t have brothers—they’d have made your life a misery.’

‘I’d have learned how to deal with them,’ she returned tartly, feeling a total fool.

He grinned. ‘Probably.’ He glanced across the lawn, and said, ‘Ah, here’s Susi with lunch. I suggest we discuss the state of the world while we eat and drink, and then I think you probably should go back inside. Dr King was very firm about not too much exercise and as little exposure to the sun as possible.’

Susi was a large, comfortable-looking woman who looked at her closely when Luke introduced her as the housekeeper. Something about her gaze set Fleur’s teeth on edge, until the big woman relaxed into smiles and offered her hand in a hearty shake.

‘On Fala’isi we introduce staff,’ Luke said when she’d left them. ‘Here everyone is related, and they can usually tell you to an exact degree the degree of relationship.’

‘That must be lovely,’ she said quietly.

‘You sound as though you don’t have much close family.’

She moved uncomfortably. ‘A father in Australia,’ she admitted. ‘And at least one half-sibling, I’ve been told. No one else.’

The corners of his beautifully chiselled mouth lifted in a wry smile. “The thing about relatives is that they have a vested interest in every aspect of your life and an opinion on everything you do.’

Fleur remembered the nurse’s comment that they’d thought his new house meant a marriage. ‘I suppose there are disadvantages to everything, but that seems a minor one compared to the advantages. How did everyone get to be related?’

He told her of the ancestor who’d landed on Fala’isi only to find it almost depopulated by diseases brought by Europeans. His description of that first wild seafarer’s forced marriage to the only surviving child of the paramount chief’s family fascinated her. The story—sometimes brutal, sometimes unexpectedly lightened by flashes of compassion and kindness—was utterly compelling.

Finally he said, ‘I have to go out in a few minutes, but we’ll meet for a drink before dinner.’

He got to his feet, and once again Fleur realised how tall he was—a naturally dominant man, lean and big, who moved with the powerful litheness of a predator at the top of the food chain.

She took a deep breath and stood up, too, holding herself desperately erect, but when she took her first step she managed to sabotage herself by stumbling against the leg of her chair.

Like the predator she’d likened him to, he moved fast, his hand fastening onto her arm and holding her upright. His closeness stirred her physically and in other, more subtle ways—she wanted to lean against him, to absorb some of that strength and power, to let him—

Alarm bells clanging in her mind, she thought desperately, Get out of here! Now!

She flinched and tried to step free, making a soft sound of dismay when she found that her legs refused to obey her brain’s command.

‘I think probably the best way to do this is for me to carry you,’ Luke said judicially, and, ignoring her shocked objection, he picked her up as effortlessly as if she’d been a child and strode into her bedroom.

Fleur wanted to command him to put her down, but her bones were too heavy and she felt waves of tiredness wash over her. For the first time since her father had left her and her mother, she felt a sense of utter security. She might not approve of Luke Chapman’s ruthlessness, but she felt utterly safe in his arms, her fuzzy brain accepting him as though it had been waiting for him for years.

‘I’m fine,’ she blurted.

He didn’t put her down until they reached the bed. ‘Rest until later in the afternoon,’ he commanded, looking down at her with complete confidence that she’d do exactly as he ordered. ‘And in case you feel like doing something stupid—walking out, for instance—the staff know that you’re staying. You wouldn’t get far.’

Incredulously, Fleur lifted her head off the pillows to meet his uncompromising eyes. ‘I hope you’re not insinuating that I’m a prisoner here.’

‘I’m not insinuating anything,’ he returned, assessing her with an enigmatic gaze. ‘I’m telling you that the staff know that you’re not fit to leave, so they won’t let you. Only a Leo would call that being taken prisoner.’

She said irritably, ‘I’ll bet you’re a Scorpio.’

‘You’re an astrologer?’ he asked with a hint of cynicism.

‘No, but I know a Scorpio when I meet one. You all have that innate arrogance.’

He laughed. ‘I draw the line at you telling me that I share some of my genetic traits with one-twelfth of the population. My mother says it’s a Chapman characteristic.’

‘She should know,’ Fleur said crisply.

Luke found himself admiring her. According to the information Valo had pulled together she was penniless after her mother’s long illness, her future without prospects, yet although she wasn’t yet up to par she was full of fight. Her cool, still pride, oddly at variance with that mane of red-gold hair, both amused and touched him.

‘Are your parents here?’ she asked remotely.

He heard the rapid chill in the voice that should be slow and warm, with its lazy, sensuous undertone that made him think of cool sheets on a hot summer night…

‘No,’ he said, irritated by the reaction from a part of his body that had no right to be responding. ‘They’re holidaying in the Caribbean. If they were here, you’d have been staying with them.’

Fleur felt as though she’d been put firmly in her place. A nuisance.

Chapter Three

ONCE he’d gone Fleur was sure her roiling mass of emotions would prevent any rest, but now she was on that supremely comfortable bed sleep claimed her with voracious speed.

She woke to the seductive cooing of doves, their tranquil notes floating on the drowsy air. Tropical scents—sweet, heavy, sharpened with the all-pervading perfume of vanilla—summoned a long, slow sigh to her lips, followed by a wavering smile. Not since before her mother’s condition had rapidly worsened a year ago had she slept like that.

How strange, she thought, listening to the muted roar of the waves on the reef. In spite of everything—her prickly reaction to her arrogant host, her experience of living rough—she could sleep as soundly as though she’d reverted back to her childhood, when her world had been bright and shining and seamless.

If this was the fabled spell of the Pacific, she was hooked.

Yawning, and feeling much more human, she got up and showered in the white-tiled bathroom with its wooden shutters, sprays of orchids and air of restrained opulence.

Now, she thought, what on earth am I going to wear if I have to stay here for another week?

Even if by some miracle her pack turned up with its contents intact, she had nothing suitable. She hadn’t been able to afford new clothes for this ill-fated holiday. Her sundresses, shorts and the couple of tops were all several years old, and fitted a more rounded woman than the one who’d cared for her mother these past years.

A soft tap at her door swivelled her around.

But of course Luke Chapman wasn’t there. Instead, Susi, in a pareu of bold scarlet and dark blue, said, ‘Luke would like it if he could join you on the terrace outside in half an hour, miss. I’ll collect you then.’

And that, Fleur decided as she watched the door close, was definitely an order.

So why was her heart skipping unevenly and a slow, sensuous warmth stealing through her veins like a drug?

Glowering at her reflection, Fleur wished she’d surrendered to the seduction of some sexy little silk tee-shirts she’d seen in the market. But, cheap as they were, they’d still been too expensive for her. And even if she had bought one, it would have been stolen like the rest of her gear.

Besides, tee-shirts were not for her. Her mother used to say she had an Edwardian hourglass figure, a small waist emphasised by maternal hips and breasts that were slightly too ample for the rest of her. Tee-shirts clung and made her look conspicuous.

At least the colour suited her. Whoever had chosen the outfit had known that camel silk would go with her bright hair and pale skin. After a last defiant look at her neat, uninteresting reflection, she tucked a stray strand of hair back into place just as the housekeeper tapped at the door.

However, it was Luke who stood in the corridor outside, not Susi. ‘If I give you an arm, do you think you could make the few yards to another terrace?’ he asked, his expression noncommittal.

Fleur’s heart gave another of those peculiar jumps in her chest. ‘Of course,’ she said brightly, and fixed her eyes on the magnificent portrait at the end of the hallway—an elegant woman of the thirties.

‘My great-grandmother,’ he said, following her gaze. ‘She was French.’

No wonder she radiated that sleek, effortless chic. ‘She looks fascinating.’

‘She was.’ His tone was affectionately reminiscent.

There were resemblances—the midnight hair, and possibly his brilliant clothes sense. Luke’s shirt matched his steel-grey eyes, and his trousers had been tailored to reveal his long, powerful legs. But where had his boldly chiselled face come from, underpinned by the magnificent bone structure that gave him such authority and that intimidating air of mastery and force? Add that to a lithely powerful body, and you had the sort of man women dreamed of.

So the rapid thud of her heartbeat in her ears was quite understandable, as was the heat that crept into her skin when he gave her a lazy smile after he’d tucked her into a chair at their destination, a long terrace with a sunset view over the lagoon.

‘You look infinitely more yourself,’ he said gravely.

‘I must have looked pretty dreadful before.’ Her green glance gleamed in challenge.

‘Exhaustion has that effect on people,’ he agreed. ‘According to Dr King, alcohol would be all right if suitably diluted. I can offer you a very weak gin and tonic, if you’d like that.’

‘Could I just have something nonalcoholic and not too sweet? Fruit juice will be fine.’

‘We have plenty of fruit juice.’ He poured her a glass.

Fleur sipped it gratefully. ‘It’s delicious,’ she said with a smile. ‘Perfect.’

‘I’m glad you like it—it’s Susi’s secret recipe. Pineapple, of course, and papaya and mango, and some spices she refuses to divulge.’

‘Vanilla, perhaps?’ When he looked quizzically at her she said, ‘The whole house is delicately scented with it.’

‘The whole island,’ he corrected. ‘We grow it for export. It’s an orchid, and we’re lucky to have just the right conditions for it to flourish.’

A dove flew down onto the lawn a few feet away and pecked, the contrast of its white plumage and the vivid coarse green grass almost startling.

Fleur let out a long, soft sigh. ‘This is so beautiful,’ she said quietly, watching the sun dip towards the horizon.

While the great, flaming disc edged its way into the sea, Luke told her about the green flash that was part of the folklore of the tropics.

‘So it’s only ever seen at sunset?’ she marvelled.

‘Even then conditions have to be absolutely right. No one seems to know what causes it.’

‘It sounds—amazing,’ she said quietly. ‘Have you seen it?’

‘A couple of times.’

The swift tropical dusk was falling as darkness swept in from the east. Luke got to his feet and lit candles at the table; their soft, romantic light flickered a little in the breeze that ruffled across Fleur’s acutely sensitised skin. The small lights settled, washing gold over the dark planes of his face.

A stab of some unknown sensation took Fleur by surprise. She knew she was attracted to him, but attraction didn’t describe this fierce hunger that seemed to blast out of nowhere and take her over.

Fortunately he didn’t notice. Over the drink they talked of nothing much, the sort of light conversation that sophisticated people like Luke Chapman did so well. Fleur was grateful to him for his tact; the past year had been spent almost entirely in conversation with medical personnel, and she’d nearly forgotten how to do idle conversation. He made it easy for her, and although over dinner she realised he was learning a lot about her, she responded easily.

Until she found herself talking about her mother.

Then her voice faltered; tears ached behind her eyes and she took refuge in the glass of water he’d poured for her.

‘I’m sorry,’ Luke said quietly.

‘It’s all right.’ She set the glass down and fought for composure. He didn’t seem embarrassed, and he didn’t try to hurry her up.

Eventually she said in a brittle voice, ‘It’s just that—she died about six weeks ago, after spending five years fighting a progressive illness. She organised the holiday and paid for it before she died—she used to worry about me not having any fun.’ Her throat thickened. ‘She’d have been h-horribly upset if she’d known that the travel agency had got the dates wrong.’

‘She’d probably have been more horrified if she’d known you were going to tough it out by sleeping on the beach,’ he said grimly.

She flashed him an indignant glance. ‘I didn’t sleep on the beach. I had a comfortable nest under some bushes nearby, and I felt perfectly safe.’

‘You were lucky. We work damned hard to keep the island free of crime, but even so, we can’t vet every tourist who comes in. Or, unfortunately, all of the islanders. Once you’d lost your money you should have realised you were in an untenable position. People can survive starvation for much longer than they realise, but it was stupid to emulate them when there was no need. Any islander would have given you food.’

‘I was managing. I ate fruit from the trees on the side of the road. I only fainted—’

‘Collapsed,’ he interjected uncompromisingly.

‘I only fainted,’ she repeated with more emphasis, ‘because I’d walked a long way in the heat and stupidly I’d forgotten to fill my water bottle.’ And then she remembered something that had completely skipped her mind. ‘Who is Janna?’

His brows drew together. The frown lasted only a second, and his voice was easy and pleasant when he answered, ‘She’s a friend of mine. Why?’

‘When I woke I thought you called me Janna. No, someone else did.’ She searched her brain, thinking out loud. ‘You said, “This is not Janna.” But that’s who your man thought I was, and that’s the reason he brought me here. I’d forgotten until now.’

‘He brought you here because it’s a half-hour drive to the hospital and he was worried,’ Luke said evenly. ‘I wasn’t here, but when you didn’t regain consciousness the staff decided to call the doctor. By the time I got home she’d checked you over and fixed up the drip. If you hadn’t collapsed in front of the car you could well have become dangerously ill—most people don’t realise how much water you need to drink in the tropics.’

Soberly she said, ‘I realise now, believe me. It’s not an experience I want to repeat.’ She looked at him. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever thanked you for taking me in. I’m truly grateful—’

‘It’s not necessary,’ he interrupted curtly, getting to his feet. ‘And you’re looking smoky around the eyes, so I suggest it’s time for you to go to bed.’

Of course she acquiesced, and it wasn’t until just before tiredness overwhelmed her that she realised he’d told her nothing about the mysterious Janna, the woman she apparently resembled closely enough for almost everyone at the house to have believed that was who she was. Except for Luke, who’d known instantly that she wasn’t.

His lover?

Almost certainly, she thought as she slid into sleep. That air of authority was underpinned by a compelling sexuality. Somehow, without him being at all overt, any woman meeting him knew that he’d be a superb lover…

Luke put down the receiver and swore luridly in a mixture of Polynesian and English. Then he stood and walked across to the window and stared out into the darkness, his mind racing furiously.

Five minutes later he picked up the telephone again. His chief of security answered; from the sounds in the background it was obvious he was socialising.

‘Sorry to interrupt,’ Luke said abruptly. ‘I’ve just heard from a contact in Germany that Eric van Helgen’s disappeared. And yesterday morning I was interviewed by a Common Market journalist, who happened to leave the house at the same time that Ms Lyttelton walked across the lawn in full sight, her hair very much in evidence.’

After a tense silence, the other man said, ‘So Ms van Helgen is in danger.’

‘Possibly. Though I can think of reasons for his secrecy—their break-up has already been splashed through the world’s papers, and if he wants to reconcile with Janna the last thing he needs is paparazzi dogging his every footstep.’

‘What do you think?’

Luke said slowly, ‘I don’t know.’ Janna was spoilt, and she’d been angling for his sympathy. Her story of violence and fear had sounded genuine enough, but Luke had caught her out in previous exaggerations. ‘There’s the fact that the research you did on him didn’t back her story at all.’

‘Not a shred of evidence.’

‘But we can’t ignore her completely. Alert the airport and tell them you want to know if he’s booked on a flight here. You’ve got photographs of him, haven’t you?’

‘Yes. I’ll make sure the immigration officials understand that they need to be on the alert. What do you want to do if he turns up?’

‘Let me know first, and put your best man onto tailing him,’ Luke said. ‘See what he does.’

‘And if he comes with false papers?’

‘If he tries that, he probably assumes that Fala’isi is some tropical backwater where money will get you anything, so he’s not going to be too careful. Let him think he’s got away with it, but again, watch him.’

‘Fortunately we’ve got the perfect decoy to convince him that he’s made a huge mistake by coming here.’

Luke thought of the woman who’d been resident in his house for the past few days. He said curtly, ‘Hell, no. Ms Lyttelton has nothing to do with this mess. Keep looking into his background. Work your links and connections—trawl for anything at all that might back up Janna’s allegations. If you find any dirt at all, or if van Helgen arrives, we’ll get both Janna and Ms Lyttelton off the island as quickly and inconspicuously as we can. If his wife’s story is true he’s a very dangerous man.’

‘What do you think?’

‘I think she made the whole thing up.’ He paused, then added fairly, ‘No, it’s more likely she’s embroidered a quarrel they had and has now convinced herself that her tale is true.’

His man’s frown showed up his voice. ‘So you just want him watched?’

‘For the time being. Oh, and get your wife to bring out a selection of clothes for Ms Lyttelton tomorrow, will you? She needs everything, so a complete new wardrobe is in order.’ He gave the sizes.

Fleur turned away from the mirror with a grimace. During these past few days she’d spent entirely too much time staring at her reflection. But this morning before Luke left the house he’d sent along a note with the housekeeper asking her to join him on the terrace for lunch, and as Susi had whisked away the shirt and trousers she’d worn before, ‘For cleaning, miss,’ Fleur was forced to wear a pareu.

It showed too much of her skin, she thought critically, and the colours—a mixture of orange-red and periwinkle-blue with a light, clear bold purple—were shockingly flamboyant, but somehow they seemed to bring colour and life to her face, while not clashing with her vivid hair. Perhaps the earthy tans and greens she’d always worn had been wrong for her pale colouring.

Or perhaps it was the spell of the tropics.

When Luke greeted her, she saw his gaze go from her face to her breasts in one swift reconnaissance. He didn’t ogle, but she had no doubt that he approved of her change of clothes. Heat fountained up from some previously inviolable place in her body, and she felt an odd tightening in her breasts.

Holding onto her fragile composure with every bit of her pride, she said as she slipped into the chair, ‘Susi persuaded me to wear this. I hadn’t realised how cool they were.’

Yes, that was fine; her voice was steady, her tone light—only the faint pinkness of her skin gave her away. Nothing less than a shroud would cover that, she thought despondently, wishing she hadn’t inherited her mother’s tendency to blushes.

Her senses seemed supercharged, so that she was vibrantly conscious of the man who seated himself opposite her and acutely aware of the air caressing her skin, and the warmth of the sun, and the delicious scent of some flower.

Rest and good food and rehydration had certainly made a difference, she told herself tartly. She felt more alive than she had for years.

‘Would you like coffee?’ he asked. And when she accepted he said, ‘Could you pour for me, please? Black.’

‘Of course,’ she said brightly. ‘Scorpios always have black coffee. It goes with the sign.’

Luke watched her slim, elegant hands as she poured the coffee. They did odd things to him, summoning reckless images that had no place at the lunch table—images of them stroking slowly over his skin.

He’d spent half his life being chased by women and understood them well. He took it for granted that most were far more attracted to his money than to him, but he’d have been an idiot not to know that the genes responsible for his face and body had their own appeal.

So he recognised the signs of physical response in Fleur, though she certainly wasn’t giving him any obvious signals. A pretence of aloofness to pique his interest? He didn’t think so, but his attention was certainly aroused. Apart from his sympathy for what had to have been a traumatic experience, he wanted to know more about her.

He said coolly, ‘I have to apologise for being remiss—it’s been a busy few days, but now the conference is over things will be back to normal. Or as normal as it ever gets here. And, as you can’t continue walking around in borrowed pareus, I’ve organised a local boutique owner to bring a selection of clothes here this afternoon. Choose what you want.’

Fleur wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. Outrage warring with a demoralising pleasure, she looked up and met hooded iron-grey eyes. ‘You didn’t have to do that,’ she said stiffly. ‘I can organise my own wardrobe.’

‘Relax, I’m not casting aspersions on either your clothes or your taste,’ he said with infuriating calmness, adding to her anger by finishing, ‘And how are you going to organise a wardrobe without money?’

He looked amused, but Fleur sensed a hard will behind the coolly confident exterior.

Well, her mother had always said she was stubborn. ‘If you lend me a small amount of money I can get a selection of sarongs from the market—they don’t cost much and they’re all I need. Then I can return the ones I’ve been wearing to the nurse’s daughter.’

‘Don’t worry about the cost—you must know that I have more money than I can cope with. Think of it as redressing the balance a bit.’

Green fire glittered in her eyes. ‘Redressing what balance? I don’t want to accept anything more from you—you’ve already been far too good to me. In fact, I feel well enough to go home now.’

‘Did Dr King say so?’

She hesitated. ‘No,’ she admitted reluctantly, after a glance at Luke told her that he knew exactly what the doctor had told her. ‘Clearly she has no hesitation in breaking patient confidentiality.’

Luke’s shoulders lifted in a shrug that reminded her of his French great-grandmother. ‘I knew most of it, and guessed the rest,’ he drawled. ‘And if staying here galls you so much, you can earn your keep.’

She froze. ‘How?’ The word came more sharply than she’d intended.

‘Not the way you’re thinking,’ he told her with a hint of hauteur. ‘I’ve never had to pay for sex, and I don’t intend to start now.’

Fleur had always thought that the desire for the ground to swallow some embarrassed soul was weird, one that made her shudder. Now she understood the power of total humiliation. If the ground had cracked open in front of her she’d have leapt into the hole without hesitation.

Scarlet-faced, she said, ‘I didn’t think of anything like that until you…made it obvious what you thought I meant.’ Before she got too hopelessly tangled, she took a deep breath, then ploughed valiantly on. ‘I understand that it wasn’t what you meant, but I’m afraid I don’t have any skills to pay for my board.’

‘Let’s get one thing perfectly clear,’ he said, his gaze metallic. ‘I don’t expect you to pay for anything. What I meant by my offhand comment was that I find myself in somewhat of a bind, and if you’re agreeable, you can help me.’

‘I’d like to,’ she said quietly. ‘You’ve been very kind to me and I’m not ungrateful.’

‘I don’t want your gratitude,’ he said, his aloofness setting a boundary between them. ‘The situation I’m in is an unusual one. An old friend of my father’s is arriving to stay soon, and bringing his granddaughter with him to a charity affair we’re all attending. Gabrielle is young, very pretty, and I like her, but she’s suffering a massive crush on me, and it’s becoming embarrassing.’

‘They usually are—to both the crusher and the crushee,’ Fleur said tartly. And she didn’t believe for a second that this was an unusual situation for him.

‘This is sliding over the edge into something that comes just a bit close to stalking for my liking. I’ve just read an interview she gave to a fashion magazine. She implied that she and I are engaged, and that I’m just waiting for her to grow up.’

Rapidly revising her impression of a high school Gabrielle, Fleur asked, ‘How old is she?’

‘Nineteen. She’s a model.’

‘I’m surprised. I’d have thought you’d be able to deal with a situation like this.’

‘Normally I would.’ His voice hardened. ‘But her grandfather is old, and it would hurt him if my lawyers sent her a letter telling her to desist, or if I contacted the press with a denial. And I like the girl—I don’t want to humiliate her.’

‘Somebody must have given her the idea that you were in love with her.’

He paused. ‘Not I.’

Fleur was inclined to believe him. After all, with all the women he could pick and choose from, it seemed unlikely that he’d choose one so young. ‘So how do you think I can help?’

He looked enigmatically at her. ‘You’ve been staying here for several days, and it might reinforce that I am not interested in her as wife material if we convince her that we’re lovers.’

‘Lovers?’ Her voice hit a high, shocked note.

He lifted her hand from the table and got to his feet, bringing her with him. ‘Lovers,’ he repeated calmly, a cynical smile tilting the corners of his mouth. ‘As in sharing a bed.’

‘As in being your mistress?’ Her heart was thumping so loudly she could barely hear her words, and she couldn’t tear her eyes away from his, gunmetal grey and direct, yet heated in some mysterious way.

‘Mistress? That’s a very old-fashioned word,’ he said with an odd inflexion. Still holding her hand, he lifted his other one to trace the outline of her lips.

His touch was pure fire, lightning in her blood, a fever on her skin.

‘No,’ he said deeply. ‘Apart from that erotic mouth, you’re not mistress material. In fact, Gabrielle is light years ahead of you in sophistication. A mistress she could deal with. I want her to believe that we’re in love, that this is serious.’

One knowledgeable finger smoothed along one cheekbone. Trying hard to muster her thoughts into some coherent form, she muttered, ‘If she’s so sophisticated she’ll know…she’ll know…’

‘What will she know?’ His voice was amused, and when she lifted her lashes she could see that he was watching her mouth with narrowed, intent eyes.

An electric charge shot through her, setting every cell humming in dangerous intoxication. ‘That…that I’m not the right sort of person for you.’

It was so difficult to articulate her tumbling thoughts. She tried to ignore the compelling fascination of his dark voice, that hypnotic glint in his eyes and the slow, sensuous caress across her skin, the touch she felt right down to her innermost core.

Rallying herself, she said, ‘I mean, I’m not the sort of person you’d be attracted to. I blush all the time. It’s my skin—it’s the sort that shows colour—’

She was babbling and she cut back the words, afraid that she was making a total fool of herself. Pull away, she commanded her body. Step back. He’s only holding one hand—he’ll let you go…

His gaze darkened. ‘Ah, but you’re wrong. I find you very attractive—surely you’ve realised? Your skin is like silk, and the blushes you find so dismaying are charming.’

He released her hand, but before she could take the opportunity to leap backwards he cupped her face with both hands and smiled at her.

Even in her dazzled state, Fleur was aware that he was consciously using his charm and compelling male presence to persuade her. She should be angry—but when he smiled at her she felt its erotic impact zing like lightning through her body.

However, he dropped his hands and took the step backwards himself, a touch of colour along his cheekbones reassuring her that he hadn’t been entirely unaware of her as a woman, even if it had been in the most basic way.

He said, ‘Trust me, if you agree, they will believe that we are in love. The men in my family marry for love. And this will be the least painful way—and probably the only one they’d accept—for Gabrielle to find out that her hopes and dreams are nothing more than fairy gold.’

‘Will she be upset?’

Again his broad shoulders lifted. ‘Almost certainly a little,’ he conceded. ‘But surely it’s better that than to waste several years believing she’s in love with me and that we’re meant for each other, or to suffer public humiliation when I make it obvious that I’m not interested in her as a wife.’

‘I suppose so.’ Although every instinct of self-preservation was howling a warning, Fleur said, ‘Very well, I’ll do it.’

It would be one way of repaying him for some of his consideration. And she’d be quite safe, because you couldn’t fall in love so quickly. You had to know someone to love them, and even then, she thought with a shiver of remembrance, love was often based on illusion. She’d live a fantasy life for a short time and then she’d go back to her everyday life without a regret.

Luke didn’t overwhelm her with effusive thanks. His smile was ironic, a little twisted. ‘Thank you. So treat the clothes as a necessary part of your role. And to establish that, tonight I’m hosting a dinner party for twenty. Don’t look so alarmed, I won’t expect you to be the hostess—’

‘Which is just as well, because I’ve never hosted a dinner party in my life,’ she said, terrified at the thought of pretending to be Luke’s lover in front of his friends. ‘Do I have to be there? We don’t have to fool them—I can have dinner in my room.’

‘Like a Victorian governess? Your presence here has been noticed,’ he said, adding with crisp ruthlessness, ‘Of course if anyone asks me where you are I can tell your sad little story.’

She drew in a hiss of breath between her teeth. ‘You fight dirty,’ she said unsteadily. ‘I’ll be totally out of my depth and you know it. I’m sure you’re trying to be kind, but—’

Luke gave a short bark of laughter. ‘I’m not, and you know that. I dislike seeing anyone cut off their nose to spite their face—it’s always seemed a pastime singularly lacking in sense or entertainment value. You don’t need to come to the dinner party but I think you’d enjoy it, just as I’m sure you’ll enjoy the day we plan to spend out on the lagoon tomorrow.’

She flushed. ‘I’m being ungrateful, aren’t I?’

Luke had always chosen sophisticated lovers, sure of themselves and their own attractions, yet he found her pride and her embarrassment endearing. She was fresh and charming and her mouth promised erotic delights untold, but everything about her warned him that she was totally lacking in the worldliness he’d always sought in his women.

Coolly he said, ‘I told you before, I don’t want gratitude. And if you’re wondering whether I’d expect you to indulge in overt displays of affection you needn’t worry—I’m not so crass. I merely thought that tonight would be a test run, and that you might be able to think yourself into the part easier if Gabrielle and her grandfather were not here.’