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She shivered a little, her hands clenched in the pockets of the silk robe. There was something about his sophisticated, world-weary manner which made her feel about twelve years old. And yet the dark glitter in his gaze made her feel quite the opposite. Gabriella doubted if she’d ever felt so bewildered by her own reactions…
In silence she sat down in the chair opposite his, and crossed her legs. Equally silent, he finished pouring the wine, and handed her a glass. As she reached to take it, the silky grey material of the robe slithered stubbornly off her thighs, and she hastily uncrossed her legs and tugged the fabric back in place, clamping her knees together. When she met Rick Josephs’ enigmatic gaze across the table, she saw that he was laughing at her.
‘Perhaps you have a low opinion of men in general. But I assure you, I am not a sex-crazed beast…’ he mocked gently.
‘Your private life is of no interest to me.’ She sounded stiffly pompous, she knew she did. Her stomach was tight with tension as she warily sipped her wine.
‘So tell me, what is?’ The lazy question caught her by surprise. He was regarding her levelly over his glass, his narrowed gaze unreadable. She stared at him in blank silence for a while, then slowly shook her head.
‘I’m sorry…?’
‘What interests you, Gabriella?’
‘That’s a rather sweeping question, isn’t it?’ She frowned at him, doubting his sincerity. This was another mocking wind-up, she was sure. ‘I suppose my job, at the moment.’
‘So you are ambitious? At the moment, you are an assistant to a fashion editor. What are your ambitions within First Flair magazine?’
She shrugged, then laughed uncertainly. ‘Whatever promotion comes along, I suppose. Although there have been rumours recently that there’s a change of ownership on the cards for the magazine. So things may not be all that…stable. In the long term…’
She’d heard rumours, in fact, that Piers and his father had made a bid for the magazine. Which could no doubt spell an abrupt end to her career prospects in that particular environment. But it was no use worrying about it. She’d become philosophical lately. One day at a time…
‘Are you well qualified?’ He’d been watching her silent reverie with an amused expression.
‘Reasonably well. I took a fashion design course at St Martin’s, while I was working for a PR company. I’ve worked with fashion stylists, and that’s really what I want to do—fashion styling…’
For the life of her, she couldn’t fathom why he should be so interested in her career plans in the fashion world. Unless he was involved in it personally? That possibility had only just occurred to her. The glamorous girls at the bar had been tall and willowy and elegant enough to be models…
‘Styling?’ Rick had nodded, his expression deadpan. ‘Are you any good at it?’
‘I think so.’
‘So that explains why they’ve trusted you to organise locations for this fashion shoot. You’re in charge of the look, are you? The location, models, hair, make-up?’
‘Well, only by default, as I told you. The others due to come out with me have been flattened by this flu virus. Do you work for First Flair?’ she demanded suddenly, feeling even more confused. He seemed altogether far too knowledgeable about the whole business.
He shook his head, with a faint grin. ‘No. Not exactly.’
‘What kind of an answer is that? Not exactly? You’re on intimate terms with Ursula Taylor, and you seem to know an awful lot about magazine fashion work…’
‘I would describe myself as self-employed.’
‘So what are you doing in Mauritius?’
‘Relaxing, after some arduous power-play. I spend a lot of time here. I was born here.’
‘You’re Mauritian?’
He smiled. ‘Franco-Mauritian. My ancestors settled here in the eighteenth century. A motley crew of pirates and corsairs, I regret to confess. Enticed here by the French East India Company to colonise the island…’
‘Enticed?’
‘They were enticed by offers of money, and land. And women. Girls were rounded up on the quaysides in France, and shipped out here to provide them with the means to procreate. The prospect of an “imported wife” must have been the deciding factor, don’t you think?’
She blinked at the relentless gleam of mockery in his eyes.
‘So…you don’t actually live here?’
He shook his head. ‘I live in New York. Or in Paris. Sometimes in London. But whenever I can, I come back here. I’m planning on having a house built here, at the moment.’
‘I see.’ She stared at him, frustrated by his subtle, deliberate evasiveness, her thoughts whirring uncontrollably. When a long silence had stretched out, he lifted a curious eyebrow.
‘You look lost in thought, Gabriella.’
‘I was thinking how your ancestry throws a lot of light on your character!’ she heard herself saying coolly. ‘When you’re descended from a bunch of pirates, I expect a small matter of…adultery is of no importance at all…’
Instantly rather ashamed of her snide insult, she watched his face tauten slightly, darken with anger. Her heart jolted in her chest. Quickly standing up, she put her glass on the table, and turned away. ‘Thanks for the drink. If you’ll excuse me, I’d rather eat alone tonight…’
She got no further than the door. She found herself captured, trapped against it by at least six feet of lean masculinity. Her throat choked with anger and emotion, she glared up at him in alarm.
‘Let me go…’ she began shakily.
‘In a moment.’ She couldn’t say he was exerting force, she reflected hazily, because he was hardly touching her. His hands were on the door, on either side of her, effectively imprisoning her without body contact. Likewise, his torso, smoothly muscled beneath the fine white lawn of his shirt, threatened to move closer but didn’t, hovering alarmingly just an inch away from the agonised tips of her breasts. The moment was intimate but restrained.
‘I’m a tolerant man,’ he continued, huskily amused, ‘but I am getting rather tired of being insulted, Miss Gabriella Howard.’
‘Let me go…’
There was an elusive trace of expensive cologne, the clean, warm, musky smell of his body. Her senses whirled. She was close enough to see dilated black pupils in the centre of the golden irises, to notice the faint blue-black smudge of evening beard-growth along his chin. She should be feeling threatened, she reflected dazedly, but instead she felt overwhelmed with physical awareness. It was like someone pressing a switch, triggering a new set of emotions previously dormant…
‘I dislike hypocrisy,’ he added, as if she hadn’t spoken.
The shadowed amber gaze moved up and down her trembling body, lingering deliberately on the points of her nipples beneath the Paisley, on the parted fullness of her mouth.
‘Hypocrisy?’ she echoed faintly.
With a hard smile, he stepped back a fraction, freeing her. She found that her knees had weakened to the point where she found it hard to move.
‘I dislike females who are scarcely out of the nursery, yet feel compelled to pass judgement on other people’s failings,’ he went on remorselessly, watching as the colour came and went in her cheeks. ‘And at the same time suppress their own needs and desires…’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about…’
‘Oh, yes, you have,’ he grinned, reaching unexpectedly to capture her chin, tilting her face up for inspection. Their eyes met, and for a splitsecond, caught up in that magnetic golden gleam, Gabriella felt as if she was mentally slipping out of control. ‘I’m tempted to kiss you, ma petite, to prove the point.’
‘Just try it,’ she flung at him, choking on her fury. ‘I promise you’ll regret it!’
He gave a low, impatient laugh, and caught hold of her shoulders, twisting her round to him.
‘That’s a dare that is too tempting to ignore!’ he murmured, his voice thickening. Then he dropped his dark head to take slow, expert possession of her mouth.
CHAPTER TWO
IT WASN’T so much a kiss as a light, sensual caress of the lips. But while it lasted all comparisons between Piers and Rick Josephs vanished abruptly from Gabriella’s mind. The feel of the hard male lips brushing tantalisingly over hers, the wave of reaction as the muscular body made contact with hers, was overpowering. Everything else simply melted from her consciousness. All she was capable of thinking was that, even if she’d once imagined she’d been in love with Piers, he’d never had this devastating physical effect on her.
This was something new, shockingly intense. Unthinkable…
Battling to her senses, rigid with denial, she summoned the will-power to push Rick fiercely away. The emotion he’d aroused in her had left her feeling weak and shaky, and very frightened by her own responses.
‘If you’ve quite finished?’ she said in a low, choked voice. ‘Frankly, I need a lot more than a glass of white wine to stand being mauled by men like you!’
Rick Josephs’ face was a mask of cool mockery.
‘Next time I’ll have champagne on ice,’ he quipped with a bleak grin. ‘Won’t you stay and have dinner with me, Gabriella?’
‘Not in a million years!’ She grabbed the doorhandle, snatching it open. ‘I’d rather starve…!’
Uncaring of the Paisley robe, she escaped into the humid darkness and made her way, half walking, half running, towards the lights and laughter of the hotel.
No one seemed surprised to see her asking for her room key at Reception dressed in a man’s silk robe. But she felt acutely embarrassed. Mortified, she finally made it back to her room, and slammed and locked the door behind her, almost numb with disbelief at the events of the evening so far, and her own emotional overreaction to them.
She ought to ring Room Service, she supposed distractedly, order herself a snack in her room. The thought of going down to the restaurant again tonight was more than she could face. That hateful, mocking man…with his glamorous girlfriends at the bar, and his suspicious relationship with her boss…
Shivering, Gabriella went across to sit at the kidney-shaped dark wood dressing-table, gazing at her pale reflection in the oval mirror.
She touched her fingers slowly to her mouth. It hadn’t even been a madly passionate kiss. There’d been no dramatic fencing of tongues or hungrily devouring attempts to reach her tonsils, the way Piers had favoured. Ironically enough, it had been rather a chaste kiss. So why had it left her feeling as if she’d been seduced by someone in the master class…?
The silk robe felt like a caress against her skin. With trembling fingers, she abruptly tore it off, and threw it angrily into the corner of the room. How she was going to return it she couldn’t imagine. The thought of seeking him out for the purpose filled her with dread. Yet she could hardly hand it to Reception and ask them to return it to the man in the private villa. Not if she valued her reputation…
But then there was the small matter of her dress. Presumably, Rick Josephs would return that at some point. She could hand the robe back then. As quickly as possible. And then steer clear of him, as firmly as she could…
Blankly, she examined her face. Large sage-green eyes stared back, from a heart-shaped bonestructure strengthened by a firm, chisel-shaped chin. She was here in Mauritius to prove that she could do a good job, she reminded herself sternly. Preliminary set-backs such as these brief skirmishes with a man like Rick Josephs were trivial, and irrelevant.
Dragging her shattered defences together, she rinsed her face in the bathroom, then picked up the telephone and ordered a light salad to be sent up to her room. Food, a good night’s sleep, and a strict veto on her wayward emotions. That was all she needed to set her back on course, surely?
Digging in her luggage, she found the thick historical paperback novel she’d begun on the plane, settled herself on her bed, and determinedly lost herself in the fictional world of the nineteenth century.
‘Helicopter trips to surrounding islands?’ The girl at Reception nodded doubtfully. ‘Yes, it is possible. I will try to organise a trip for you…’
‘Thanks.’ Gabriella smiled hopefully. She was feeling a small glow of self-confidence returning this morning. She’d eaten a delicious breakfast, delivered to her room and consumed on her balcony with its breathtaking vista of ocean and beach. The warm rolls and exotic fruit juice and fragrant creamy coffee had done much to restore her equilibrium, even if she hadn’t slept as well as normal. With her long blonde hair in a high, tight plait, flat tan sandals on bare feet, and in a short white cotton sundress, the cross-over backstraps allowing maximum air to circulate, she was bright and raring to go. She shifted the roomy raffia bag, containing money, camera, sun-lotion and all manner of other necessities, a little higher on her shoulder, and waited expectantly.
‘The problem is the weather,’ the girl was saying, shaking her head as she consulted with another member of the hotel staff. ‘Regular trips around the islands are not running at the moment…’
‘The weather?’ Gabriella echoed, perplexed, glancing over her shoulder at the sapphire sky and dazzling sunshine. ‘What’s wrong with the weather?’
‘Cyclones are forecast.’
Gabriella stared at the girl pleadingly.
‘There’s no sign of any cyclones yet,’ she pointed out encouragingly. ‘My boss in London rang this morning. She’s very insistent that I take a look at Rodrigues as a potential location. There are some marvellous remote areas, with dramatic waterfalls and—’
‘Not even the all-powerful Ursula Taylor can play God with the tropical weather, Gabriella.’
The deep voice was all too familiar. As she spun round, her heart sank. Rick Josephs lounged against the end of the reception desk, wickedly dark and handsome in sawn-off denims, espadrilles and a plain white T-shirt.
‘Good morning,’ she supplied briefly, shooting him a cool, repressive look. ‘Do you never mind your own business?’
‘Such gratitude. When I was about to offer my services as taxi driver?’
‘Taxi driver?’ She couldn’t help her jaw dropping slightly.
‘And guide,’ he added calmly, exchanging an enigmatic smile with the girl receptionist, who was gazing at him as if he were royalty. ‘Ignore Ursula. There is no need to go five hundred kilometres to search for locations on Rodrigues when Mauritius has everything you need.’
‘Oh, so I ignore my employer, do I?’ she countered, feeling her temper rising all over again. ‘Why do I get the feeling you’re trying to get me sacked?’
‘Paranoia will not get you very far in the fashion world, Gabriella.’ He’d sauntered closer, eyeing her appearance with casual interest. ‘How urgently do you need to explore for locations?’
‘Very urgently,’ she told him, resenting his presence but struggling with her antagonism.
‘Then since you’ll find that all the commercial helicopter operators will have shut up shop pending this cyclone, my humble jeep and I are available for hire,’ he informed her, grinning at her tightly set face. ‘At a price to be agreed.’
‘I’m sure First Flair would pay normal rates,’ she retorted stiffly. ‘If I took you up on the offer, which is unlikely!’
‘I’m sure Ursula would expect you to use your common sense,’ he purred smoothly. ‘Make use of any available help to facilitate the project.’
This was undoubtedly true. Damn the man. She felt hopelessly inexperienced suddenly, unsure how to handle the situation.
‘Well, yes. But what about this cyclone?’ She glanced back at the receptionist, praying for some other suggestion. ‘How long before it comes? Is it dangerous? Should I let First Flair know…?’
‘Bad cyclones are quite rare,’ Rick Josephs reassured her calmly. ‘Normally they are just high winds and torrential rain, over quite quickly.’
‘I see. Well, thanks for the offer, but I’m sure I can find some other means of transport…’
Torn between telling him to get lost, and possibly needing his help, she turned back to the receptionist, who’d been joined by the manager.
‘If you are in a hurry to see different places, I suppose you could get a taxi, or hire a car yourself…’ the manager began helpfully.
‘No, she couldn’t,’ Rick put in calmly. ‘The young lady is under age. Twenty-three’s the minimum, isn’t it?’
‘Ah, yes, that is true…If Monsieur Josephs is prepared to help, he knows the island very well,’ the manager confirmed. ‘And I can vouch for his integrity. I’d say it seemed the perfect solution, mademoiselle…’
‘Perfect,’ said the lazy voice at her side.
Gabriella looked round, and found his golden eyes mockingly intent on her indecision. Heart thudding as the options sank in, she capitulated with a brief, angry shrug.
‘Then I suppose I’m stuck with Monsieur Josephs,’ she agreed sweetly.
‘A wise decision, graciously made,’ he applauded softly, taking her arm and escorting her out of the hotel. ‘And may I say how delighted I am to be given the chance to spend more time in your charming company, Gabriella?’
‘They say sarcasm is the lowest form of wit,’ she reminded him, in a furious undertone.
‘Je m’excuse,’ he murmured unrepentantly, ushering her around to the car park of the hotel where a large open-topped jeep glinted in the sun. ‘You seem to have the knack of bringing out the lowest traits in my character.’
‘You have other traits?’ She met his narrowed gaze with wide, unblinking eyes, and he burst out laughing.
‘All right,’ he said finally. ‘If we are to spend the day together, perhaps we could agree on a truce.’
She chewed her lower lip, then looked away from him and sighed, feeling faintly ashamed of herself. ‘You’re right. I’m sorry. I suppose a spell of adult civility wouldn’t hurt.’
‘An apology? This is progress!’ The smile he shot towards her as he fired the engine was infectious, and wickedly amused, she registered uneasily. Despite everything, she supposed he did have a few likeable qualities, but she’d be crazy to trust him. She knew very little about him, but she sensed he was a renegade. A descendant of those lawless pirates who’d first colonised the island…and he was too much like Piers…
‘Did you say this was your jeep?’ she managed in a determinedly civil tone of voice.
He nodded, his eyes now hidden behind dark glasses as he concentrated on the winding road up from the beach.
‘Do you keep it at the hotel?’
‘It’s convenient, until my house is finished.’
‘Where are you building your house?’
‘On a small island off the coast.’
She found herself staring at him, speechless.
‘A small island? A private island, you mean?’ It was no good, she couldn’t keep the spark of professional interest out of her voice.
‘Private enough.’ He glanced at her quizzically, his mouth twisting. ‘I own it. Don’t tell me. You think you could use it for your fashion shoot?’
‘I didn’t say that, but…is it easily accessible?’ she countered cautiously. If Ursula Taylor knew this man so well, why hadn’t she tipped Gabriella off about the possibility of a private island for the shoot? It would be ideal, surely…?
‘It’s a short trip by motorboat. But for today I had in mind a scenic tour of the whole island, Gabriella, starting with the Savanne region in the south…’
The message seemed definite. Steer clear of his private island. Gabriella subsided reluctantly, absorbing the scenery, trying not to brood on this intriguing revelation.
It was hot and humid. The heat of the sun was like a naked flame against her face as they drove. She pulled sunglasses and a small white cotton sunhat out of her bag and jammed them firmly in place. She had a long-sleeved shirt rolled up in her bag, in case the high protection sun-lotion she’d plastered on earlier ceased to feel protective. Notebook to hand, camera round her neck, keeping up a non-stop flow of questions, she twisted and turned in fascinated interest at the ever-changing scenery. There was sugar cane in waving green abundance along the sides of the road. Palm trees, fanning their tropical fronds against the cobalt sky. Grey-white monkeys with sweet, friendly faces crouched in the twisted branches of trees. Mountains with irregular twisted peaks coated in green. Above it all swirled sporadic clouds, fluffy and innocuous to Gabriella’s mind.
This talk of cyclones seemed like unnecessary scaremongering…
‘A low-altitude helicopter flight is the best way to see the island.’ Rick glanced at her lit-up face, when she’d made an involuntary exclamation at the sight of a dramatic gorge, with tumbling water flowing seawards. ‘If the weather had been more predictable, I’d have taken you up in the Jet Ranger. From the air, you can see how the landscape changes dramatically…’
Taken her up in the Jet Ranger? Was he saying he had his own private helicopter, too? Gabriella decided to stop speculating about this man, just go with the flow. It made no difference, anyway. She didn’t like him, she didn’t trust him, and, although she knew it was unfairly prejudiced on her part, with all his casual wealth and privilege and power he was appearing more like Piers Wellington by the second…
They lunched at a restaurant with a big, thatch-roofed awning, and dramatic views over a tranquil turquoise lagoon. Beyond the distant coral reef, the Indian Ocean surged with ominous potency, and sprayed warning plumes of white foam.
Gabriella, on her companion’s advice, chose palm-heart salad, with pommes d’amour, tiny cherry tomatoes which Rick told her grew all over the island, and then camarones, grilled freshwater prawns, followed by a small fresh pineapple. This had been peeled and cut into spirals, with the stem left as a handle. By the end of the meal she was feeling so relaxed that she was in danger of forgetting her mission.
Across the table, Rick watched her with that now familiar worldly, amused tolerance. He paused in the act of biting into his pineapple, the yellow juice running over his fingers.
‘What did you think of the sacred Hindu lake, the Grand Bassin?’ he queried softly, watching her licking the sweet, sugary juice off her own lips. ‘Suitable for your fashion shoot?’
‘Hardly—somehow sacred lakes don’t go with flashy fashion articles, do they?’
He laughed. ‘I’m not sure that’s the attitude for an ambitious fashion stylist, Gabriella. What about the Botanical Gardens? The pond of lotus flowers? The giant Amazon water lilies?’
She frowned reflectively.
‘They were beautiful, but…’ She’d loved the peaceful atmosphere there, the cooing of the pigeons, the lizards, the brilliant flashes of tropical birds. Rick had shown her a huge talipot palm tree, which flowered only once in its lifetime of sixty years, and then died in a glorious mass of yellow blooms…
She hesitated, reaching for the starched white linen napkin to wipe her fingers, then plunged in with what she’d had on her mind for the last hour or so. ‘Before I draw up a shortlist, is there any chance we could take a look at this island of yours? I mean, if it’s small and private, it would be absolutely ideal for First Flair’s purposes. We could do anything we liked, without fear of upsetting the locals…!’
‘Sounds intriguing,’ he teased. ‘What did you have in mind? An open-air orgy?’
She coloured slightly. ‘Don’t be silly. But, well, obviously you wouldn’t know anything about it, but with fashion shoots there can be an awful lot to organise and…’
He angled an eyebrow, gravely non-committal. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m sure Ursula would appreciate it if you helped us out!’ she finished up, with a stroke of inspiration. ‘In fact, I’m surprised she hasn’t already suggested it!’
‘Perhaps Ursula doesn’t even know about it?’ he suggested blandly.
Gabriella lowered the chunk of pineapple she’d been about to finish, and met his mocking gaze. He was leaning back in his chair, eyes narrowed, but his expression impossible to read. She felt a fresh jolt of annoyance. He was playing games with her. She sensed that strongly now. And the more frustrated and annoyed she became, the more he’d be quietly enjoying himself.