Tahitian Wedding

Cover Page

Title Page

Dedication

About the Author

Excerpt

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Copyright

Tahitian Wedding

Angela Devine

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my mother, the world’s champion baby-sitter.

ANGELA DEVINE grew up in Tasmania surrounded by forests, mountains and wild seas, so she dislikes big cities. Before taking up writing, she worked as a teacher, librarian and university lecturer. As a young mother and Ph.D. student, she read romantic fiction for fun and later decided it would be even more fun to write it. She is married with four children, loves chocolate and Twinings teas and hates ironing. Her current hobbies are gardening, bushwalking, traveling and classical music.

“I don’t intend to marry.”

“Just as well,” muttered Alain under his breath.

Suddenly, amid the laughing, milling crowd, it was as if they were alone.

“Why do you say that?” Claire challenged, hating herself for rising to the bait, but unable to resist.

“Because I can’t imagine you ever being content with one man,” was the cruel reply.

CHAPTER ONE

THE plane bucked friskily. Bells chimed a warning and down the long cavern of the interior the ‘fasten seatbelts’ signs lit up. With the ease of long practice Claire came out of her doze, flung back the lightweight blue blanket and sat up straight. As she cinched the seatbelt firmly round her waist, she gazed out of the window with a troubled frown. It was not the motion of the plane that worried her. Minor air turbulence was something she could deal with, but the turbulence in her feelings was another matter entirely.

Going home to Tahiti for the first time in years thrilled her to the core and she was genuinely excited at the prospect of her sister Marie Rose’s wedding. Yet she could not shake off the feeling of dread that weighed on her more heavily with each passing minute. And there could be no doubt about the cause of her uneasiness. What disturbed her was the fear that she would meet the man who had driven her away from home in the first place. The one man in the world capable of turning elegant, sophisticated Claire Beaumont to a quivering mass of jelly. A man who seemed perfectly charming on the surface, but was capable of being ruthless, forceful and terrifyingly stern. Alain Charpentier. Alain, whom she had idolised for a few brief months. Until something happened which had ruined his good opinion of her forever.

Restlessly Claire pushed up the sliding shutter which covered the window and pressed her face to the glass. Outside it was dark except for the light of a single star which winked out like the flash of a solitaire diamond. Far ahead the blackness was still impenetrable with no sign of the South Pacific Islands which were her destination. Yet Claire’s watch showed almost four-fifteen a.m. It could not be long before the Air New Zealand plane touched down in Papeete and she had to face the ordeal ahead. Her stomach churned with nerves at the thought, but she gritted her teeth, picked up her toiletries bag and made her way down the aisle to freshen up. Five minutes later she was back in her seat with her long, dark brown hair combed into a smooth bun, discreet eyeshadow accentuating her lustrous brown eyes and a touch of blusher on her high cheekbones. And, as always, her clothes were impeccable. A lightweight jade-green dress with white trim around the neckline and short sleeves, which she had bought in Marseilles the previous summer. And white basket-weave sandals and matching shoulder-bag from Florence. There were some advantages to constant international travel, thought Claire wryly, although not as many as most people thought.

‘Say, don’t I know you from somewhere, honey?’ exclaimed a startled American voice.

The woman paused in the aisle, clutching the back of a seat to steady herself as another flurry of air turbulence hit the plane.

‘You’re the spitting image of the girl reporter in that TV show Towards the Future. What’s her name now? Claire Bowman?’

Claire grinned and held out her hand.

‘Claire Beaumont,’ she agreed.

‘Oh, wow, that’s really something,’ said the woman. ‘I’ve never met anybody famous before. My name’s Sarah Howard and that’s my husband Norman. Norm, come on over here. Just wait until you hear who this is.’

Claire smiled until her cheeks ached, while Sarah and Norman questioned her excitedly about life as an international reporter. She was touched by their warmth but it was a relief when the captain announced the plane’s impending descent. As she sank back into her seat, a deep pang of longing flooded through Claire. All the fame in the world could never compensate her for the things which were still missing from her life. Love. A real home. A family.

The lights of Papeete began to show white and sulphur-yellow beneath the plane’s wing, and Claire leaned forward eagerly. It was six years since she had been home and a fever of impatience gripped her now as the plane’s engines screamed and the tarmac came hurtling towards her. There was a faint bump, then the plane taxied to a halt about fifty metres from the terminal. Stepping out on to the ramp, she took a deep breath of the warm, moist tropical air. High on the bank surrounding the airport, coconut palms waved their feathery tops and the cloying scent of frangipani drifted from unseen gardens. Ahead of her lay the terminal building, constructed in the Polynesian style with swooping gables and thatched roofs. And, somewhere inside, her sister Marie Rose should be waiting to meet her. Marie Rose, who would no doubt be bubbling with news about her forthcoming wedding and Claire’s role as bridesmaid at it. The thought of seeing her sister again filled Claire with excitement but also a faint, uneasy misgiving. She couldn’t help dreading that Marie Rose would probe into her secret reason for staying away so long.

Yet it was not Marie Rose who came forward to greet her as she emerged from Customs. It was somebody else. And, as Claire saw that lean, dark, unsmiling figure striding across the polished vinyl floor, her heart skipped a beat.

She had not seen him for six years, but every nerve in her body was clamouring recognition. He had not changed much. His frame was as lithe and muscular as ever and his face was still satanically handsome. She had always realised that he was good looking. Yet, staring at that springy, dark hair, those intense cornflower-blue eyes and that finely chiselled nose, Claire was stunned anew at the vibrant animal magnetism that Alain Charpentier exuded. In fact, if it had not been for a sardonic twist to the well shaped mouth and a stormy look in his blue eyes, he would have been downright irresistible. He wore a navy and white short-sleeved shirt that had the indefinable stamp of quality, tailored navy shorts and rope-soled espadrilles. Obviously his habit of being casually well dressed had not changed since the last time they had met. Yet there was something else that had not changed in Alain Charpentier: his hostility towards Claire.

As he came to a halt in front of her there was no hint of a smile on his lips. Nevertheless, his manners were as impeccable as ever. Placing a lei of fragrant frangipani blossoms over her head, he kissed her formally on both cheeks. Claire was shaken by that contact. Alain’s powerful fingers were gripping her shoulders and she caught the whiff of an expensive cologne as his warm cheek touched hers. An odd, fluttering sensation quivered deep inside her. Perhaps, after all this time, we can finally be friends, she thought. Yet there was nothing friendly in Alain’s manner as he released her. His eyes wandered down over her body with a brooding hostility that stung her unbearably.

‘So. After six years you finally honour us with your presence,’ he drawled insultingly.

Claire’s brown eyes blazed.

‘Did you think you could keep me out of Tahiti forever?’ she demanded. ‘I’m not a gullible nineteen-year-old any more, you know. So if you’re planning to order me out of the country again, don’t bother!’

Alain’s bottom lip curled.

‘I see,’ he said with heavy irony. ‘So I am the reason that you haven’t come home for six years, am I? I’m flattered. I didn’t know my desires meant so much to you.’

‘They don’t!’ retorted Claire in a furious whisper, conscious of the interested glances of other travellers. ‘But if I remember correctly, last time we met you told me you never wanted to see me in Tahiti again.’

‘You do remember correctly,’ agreed Alain. ‘Just as I do, Claire. Not one word or one action of yours has been forgiven or forgotten. But for the sake of Marie Rose I am prepared to be polite to you during this visit.’

Claire seethed at the antagonism in his tone, but his words were a nagging reminder of something else. Gazing impatiently round the building, she looked in vain for her sister.

‘Where is Marie Rose?’ she demanded. ‘She promised to come and meet me.’

‘Unfortunately she was not able to do it,’ replied Alain. ‘She asked me to come in her place.’

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Claire in alarm. ‘She’s not ill, is she?’

Alain dismissed that with a shrug.

‘Marie Rose? No! But for your father, it’s a different matter. His heart has been giving him trouble for the last two years, although perhaps you didn’t know or care about that.’

‘I knew,’ replied Claire shortly. ‘And I cared.’

‘But not enough to come home and visit him?’ challenged Alain.

Claire bit her lip, but remained silent. Alain’s barbed comments filled her with guilt. Knowing Alain, that was probably just what he intended. After all, he had never hidden his opinion that Claire was heartless and totally indifferent to other people’s feelings. In fact, her father’s illness troubled Claire deeply, but pride would not allow her to tell Alain the truth—that she had repeatedly tried and failed to persuade Roland Beaumont to visit a Sydney heart specialist at her expense. As for visiting her family, her conscience was quite clear on that score. Fear of meeting Alain had always kept her away from Tahiti, but she had paid several times for her parents and sister to join her in Sydney. Yet why should she have to justify herself to Alain by explaining all this?

‘Well,’ said Alain with a lift of his eyebrow, ‘there will be plenty of time to catch up on the rest of the news in my car. For now, I think we should go and collect your luggage. After that, I will take you to meet Marie Rose and your parents, just as she asked.’

Claire stared at him in perplexity.

‘But why should Marie Rose ask you to do all that?’ she demanded. ‘You hardly knew her.’

‘Six years ago, no,’ agreed Alain. ‘But a lot can happen in six years. Didn’t Marie Rose tell you that her fiancé Paul Halévy is my cousin and the manager of my new hotel on Moorea?’

Claire took a step back.

‘No, she didn’t!’ she replied in a startled voice.

Alain smiled sardonically.

‘Then, in that case, she probably did not tell you either that I am to be best man at her wedding. Am I right?’

This time Claire stared at him in horror.

‘Best man?’ she croaked. ‘That’s impossible! Ridiculous!’

‘Believe me,’ Alain assured her, ‘the thought of being constantly thrown into your company for the next week is just as unwelcome to me as it must be to you. But for the sake of Marie Rose and Paul, we must both put a good face on it. Now come and we’ll collect your luggage. You must be tired after your long trip.’

Claire’s thoughts whirled as Alain whisked her through the building. For one insane moment she was tempted to flee back to the plane she had just left, but Alain was handling her arrival as efficiently as he had once organised her departure. With the ease of a man accustomed to prompt service, he soon had her outside the airport and comfortably settled in the luxurious front seat of his gleaming Citroen car.

‘You travel light,’ he observed. ‘Only one small suitcase on wheels. As if you were always ready for a fast getaway.’

Claire shrugged.

‘That’s truer than you know,’ she agreed. ‘I’ve been on the move so much in the last six years that I’ve reduced it to a fine art. I never own more than I can carry.’

‘That must be difficult,’ observed Alain.

‘Not really. It’s very simple. All you have to do is decide never to get attached to things.’

‘Or people?’ Alain challenged.

‘Or people!’ retorted Claire with a defiant toss of her head.

Settling back into her seat, she folded her arms and stared resentfully ahead of her into the darkness. He was determined to goad her, she thought fiercely, but she wasn’t going to be drawn. Alain Charpentier had made a blistering attack on her morals and her character once in her life, but she certainly wasn’t going to give him a second opportunity.

‘You’ve done very well since you left Tahiti,’ he said in milder voice. ‘You should be very proud of yourself.’

‘Thank you,’ replied Claire coolly.

‘Of course it’s not the sort of lifestyle that would suit everybody,’ continued Alain. ‘I’ve always admired your poise in front of the cameras and your ability to adapt to new countries, but I should imagine that sort of jet-setting must be very exhausting. It’s a good thing you’ve never wanted a settled home or any serious attachments, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, isn’t it?’ retorted Claire with an edge to her voice.

She stared out the window again and an ache like a physical pain filled her entire body. Her throat tightened as she remembered how often she had cried herself to sleep in her first bewildering months in Sydney. How many times had she felt a sharp, nostalgic longing for Tahiti, simply because of some trivial reminder that had sent her thoughts winging back to her home? The scent of warm croissants outside a bakery, the sight of scarlet bougainvillaea spilling over a balcony, the feathery crown of a coconut palm waving against a blue sky had all been enough to reduce her to tears. But worst of all had been the pain of missing her family. Her easygoing father Roland, with his rumbling laugh and his home handyman projects that never quite worked, her mother Eve, who sometimes surfaced from her painting long enough to cook wonderful French meals, not to mention her numerous aunts and uncles and cousins. And, of course, warm-hearted Marie Rose, whose only fault was her well-meaning desire to get Claire married off as soon as possible. How dared Alain assume that Claire’s home meant nothing to her or that she didn’t want deep attachments to anyone? Unconsciously she leaned forward urgently, as if she could make the car go faster.

‘We should be there just as the sun rises,’ she said. ‘I do hope we can reach Point Cupid before it comes up! I always used to love watching it from that bare hillside overlooking the bay.’

‘Did you?’ asked Alain. ‘Well, I’ll be glad to stop and let you see it, but I should warn you that the hillside is no longer bare. I’ve built a hotel there.’

‘You’ve what?’ cried Claire in horror. ‘Oh, how could you, Alain? How could you possibly ruin that beautiful headland by building some ghastly eyesore of a hotel there? Don’t you have any sensitivity at all?’

To her astonishment the car suddenly veered sharply off the road and came to halt. The glow from one of the sulphur-yellow street-lights filled the vehicle’s interior, turning Alain’s face to a bronze mask as he turned off the ignition. Then he seized her wrist, and glared down at her.

‘No,’ he said through his teeth. ‘I am like you in that respect, Claire. I have no sensitivity whatsoever and you would do well to remember it. And like you, I care only about one thing—the satisfaction of my own desires. All the same, I flatter myself that I do have good taste. So why don’t you wait until you’ve seen the hotel before you condemn it as being ghastly? It seems to me that you’re entirely too willing to make judgements about situations without being in full possession of the facts!’

‘Really?’ retorted Claire. ‘I always thought that was your speciality!’

‘You go too far!’ grated Alain.

His glittering blue eyes narrowed as he stared down at her and she caught her breath in a swift, convulsive gulp. The movement made her breasts strain against the low-cut neckline of her dress and she was conscious of the swift, instinctive flare of desire in Alain’s glance. Against her will Claire felt an answering surge of excitement as his eyes rose to scan her face. The silence lengthened and Claire was conscious of an unwelcome throbbing that pulsed through her entire body. Alain’s grip on her wrist seemed to scorch through her like a bracelet of fire. Then with a low, shuddering sigh he released her. Turning back to the steering-wheel, he switched on the ignition, rammed the car into gear and pulled out on to the road with a protesting squeal of rubber.

‘We’ll be at Point Cupid in another twenty minutes,’ he said with biting sarcasm. ‘So you’ll soon have the chance to see for yourself whether I’ve ruined the place or not.’

The streets of Papeete flashed past, ghostlike in the gloom. Down by the harbour, Claire caught a glimpse of the lights of moored ships and heard the distant laughter of all-night revellers on the docks, then Alain took a turning which led out towards the east of the island. Ten minutes later as the car was speeding up a winding road through lush tropical forest, a sudden burst of orange radiance filled the landscape around them.

‘Oh, do stop,’ begged Claire.

With a brooding glance at her, Alain sent the car hurtling round one final bend and brought the Citroën to a halt in a parking area overlooking the magnificent bay of Point Cupid. Scrambling eagerly out, Claire darted across to the viewing platform and stood gazing out over the ocean. As the sun rose like a blood-red orange from the sea, its rays lit up the dark blue of the outer ocean, the lacy necklace of foam that marked the hidden coral reef and the much lighter blue waters of the lagoon. Down below them a tangle of luxuriant tropical vegetation rioted exuberantly over the hillside. The flaming orange canopies of African tulip trees were noisy with the cries of mynah birds and, further down, coconut palms, hibiscus and banana trees jostled in colourful profusion. Claire gazed and gazed, avidly noting the far-off buildings of Papeete and the yachts at anchor in the harbour.

‘You haven’t told me what you think of my eyesore of a hotel yet,’ reminded a sardonic voice beside her.

‘W—what?’ stammered Claire. ‘Where is it?’

‘You’re practically on top of it,’ said Alain.

Gripping her shoulders, he turned her forty-five degrees further east and pointed downwards. Claire gasped. Tucked into the hillside, so cunningly that it was scarcely visible, was a set of buildings that looked more like a living staircase than a luxury hotel. Built in a series of tiers that followed the shape of the hillside, it was surrounded by coconut palms and banana trees that sheltered it from the wind and the gaze of curious sightseers. In addition, each unit had its own large balcony with planter boxes filled with tropical creepers. Bougainvillaeas in every imaginable shade of scarlet, orange and white cascaded over the walls and the air was heavy with the scent of tropical flowers. On the highest level of the cliff-top, the whole structure was dominated by a longhouse in the traditional Polynesian style, with the graceful swooping lines of a ship’s hull. And in the gap between the screen of trees Claire caught a glimpse of the sapphire-blue water of a large swimming-pool.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she acknowledged reluctantly.

Her admission seemed to dissolve some of the hostility between them. Alain’s face relaxed into an unexpected smile and he looked almost friendly.

‘Why don’t you come and have breakfast with me and see it properly?’ he invited.

Claire bit her lip.

‘I really want to get home and see my family,’ she protested.

‘Of course,’ he agreed. ‘But there are some wedding presents for Marie Rose that arrived through my hotel’s courier service yesterday. It’s some items of china and glassware from my great-aunt in France. She didn’t trust them to the mail and I thought you might like to take them with you for your sister.’

‘Oh,’ said Claire. ‘Well, in that case, I suppose I should stop. Besides, nobody ever gets up early in our house. They’ll probably all be snoring blissfully if I arrive now.’

‘True,’ said Alain gravely. ‘Besides, there’s another reason why you’d be wise to stop here on your way home.’

‘What’s that?’ asked Claire with a puzzled frown.

Alain took her arm and escorted her back to the car.

‘According to Marie Rose, your father has been putting in a new bathroom,’ he explained.

A horrified look spread over Claire’s face.

‘Oh, no,’ she wailed. ‘Papa’s been tinkering with the plumbing? You don’t mean—?’

‘I’m afraid so. Marie Rose says they’ve had no hot water for the past six weeks, so if you want a decent shower your best chance is at my house. I think you’ll find the facilities there are adequate.’

They were more than adequate, they were totally luxurious, Claire discovered. Alain’s new house was built at a distance from the main hotel and was set amid such a luxuriant private garden that it seemed totally secluded. White stucco walls and a hedge of red ginger plants almost concealed it from view and, as Alain drove into the double garage, Claire saw that the garden was a riot of colourful tropical plants. Yellow and pink hibiscus flowers jostled for space with cascades of orange and scarlet bougainvillaea that spilt over the enclosing walls. Like the reception building of the hotel, the house was constructed in the traditional Polynesian style with a thatched roof. Yet, as Alain unlocked the front door and led her into the entrance hall, Claire saw that the resemblance to a primitive thatched hut ended there. Once inside, they were met by the discreet hum of airconditioning and a welcome coolness descended on them. Claire gazed around her in surprise, taking in the colourful riot of Polynesian bark paintings, glossy green plants and a glimpse of a vivid, casual living-room with deep, comfortable sofas and bright wall-hangings.

‘Goodness,’ she murmured under her breath.

‘What is it?’ demanded Alain.

‘I didn’t expect your home to look so colourful and relaxed,’ admitted Claire, turning to face him.

‘Oh?’ retorted Alain. ‘Why not?’

‘It doesn’t go with your personality somehow,’ explained Claire. ‘It’s quite different from what I expected.’

‘And what did you expect?’ he prompted.

Claire wrinkled her nose.

‘Oh, white walls, lots of chrome everywhere. A kitchen that looks like a cross between a butcher’s shop and an operating theatre. Like that house you were renting a few years ago. The sort of place nobody could really relax in, not that you would worry about that. I mean, you’ve always been more into working than relaxing, haven’t you?’

‘I see,’ murmured Alain. ‘Well, how cosy. It sounds as though you regard me as some kind of clinical, unfeeling robot, whose only interest in life is making money. Am I right?’

Claire’s face flamed. She opened her mouth to protest that she hadn’t intended anything quite so rude, but saw that Alain was gazing at her with mocking blue eyes that held an unmistakable challenge. Her chin lifted defiantly.