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But although Troy obediently sipped, she couldn’t leave the subject alone. ‘Have you ever been in love, Gerry? I mean really in love, the sort of abject, dogged, I-love-you-just-because-you’re-you sort of love?’
Gerry hoped that her shrug hid her burning skin. ‘I don’t believe in that sort of love,’ she said calmly. ‘I think you have to admire and respect someone before you can fall in love with them. Anything else is lust.’
It was the wrong thing to say, and she knew it as soon as the words left her mouth. Bryn Falconer’s presence must have scrambled her brain, she decided disgustedly.
Troy dissolved into tears and groped in her bag for her handkerchief. ‘I know,’ she wept into it. ‘Damon wanted me and now it’s gone. He’s breaking my heart.’
Gerry leaned over the table and took her friend’s hand. ‘Do you want to go?’ she asked quietly.
‘Yes.’
Avid, fascinated stares raked Gerry’s back as they walked across to the desk. She’d have liked to ignore Bryn Falconer, but when they approached his table he looked up at her with sardonic green eyes. At least he didn’t get to his feet, which would have made them even more conspicuous.
Handsome meant nothing, she thought irrelevantly, when a man had such presence!
‘Geraldine,’ he said, and for some reason her heart stopped, because that single word on his lips was like a claiming, a primitive incantation of ownership.
Keeping her eyes cool and guarded, she sent him a brief smile. ‘Hello, Bryn,’ she said, and walked on past.
Fortunately Gerry’s custom was valuable, so she and the desk clerk came to an amicable arrangement about the bill for the uneaten food. After settling it, she said, ‘I’ll drive you home.’
‘I don’t want to go home.’ Troy spoke in a flat, exhausted voice that meant reality was kicking in.
‘How long’s Mrs Landless able to stay with the children?’
‘Until four.’ Troy clutched Gerry’s arm. ‘Can I come with you? Gerry, I really need to talk.’
So sorry for Troy she could have happily dumped a chained and gagged Damon into the ocean and watched him gurgle out of sight, Gerry resigned herself to an exhausting afternoon. ‘Of course you can.’
Once home, she filled them both up on toast and pea and ham soup from the fridge—comfort food, because she had the feeling they were going to need it.
And three exhausting hours later she morosely ate a persimmon as Troy—by then fully in command of herself—drove off in a taxi.
Not that exhausting was the right word; gruelling described the afternoon more accurately. Although Troy was bitterly unhappy she still clung to her marriage, trying to convince herself that because she loved her husband so desperately, he had to love her in return.
The old, old illusion, Gerry thought sadly and sardonically, and got to her feet, drawing some consolation from her surroundings. She adored her house, revelled in the garden, and enjoyed Cara’s company as well as her contribution to the mortgage payments.
But restlessness stretched its claws inside her. Gloomily she surveyed the tropical rhododendrons through her window, their waxy coral flowers defying the grey sky and cold wind. A disastrous lunch, a shattered friend, and the prospect of heavier rain later in the evening didn’t mean her holiday was doomed. She wasn’t superstitious.
But she wished that Bryn Falconer had chosen to eat lunch anywhere else in New Zealand.
Uncomfortable, jumpy—the way she felt when the music in a horror film indicated that something particularly revolting was about to happen—Gerry set up the ironing board. Jittery nerves wouldn’t stand up to the boring, prosaic monotony of ironing.
She was putting her clothes away in her room when she heard the front door open and Cara’s voice, bright and lively with an undercurrent of excitement, ring around the hall. The masculine rumble that answered it belonged to Bryn Falconer.
All I need, Gerry thought with prickly resignation.
She decided to stay in her room, but a knock on her door demanded her attention.
‘Gerry,’ Cara said, flushed, her eyes gleaming, ‘come and talk to Bryn. He wants to ask you something.’
Goaded, Gerry answered, ‘I’ll be out in a minute.’
Fate, she decided, snatching a look at the mirror and despising the colour heating her sweeping cheekbones, really had it in for her today.
However, her undetectable mask of cosmetics was firmly in place, and anyway, she wasn’t going to primp for Bryn Falconer. No matter that her dark blue-green eyes were wild and slightly dilated, or that her hair had rioted frivolously out of its usual tamed waves. She didn’t care what he thought.
The gas heater in the sitting room warmed the chilly air, but the real radiance came from Cara, who lit up the room like a torch. Should I tell her mother? Gerry thought, then dismissed the idea. Cara was old enough to understand what she was doing.
But that little homily on messing around with married men might be in order.
Not that Bryn looked married—he had the air of someone who didn’t have to consider anyone else. Forcing a smile, Gerry said, ‘Hello, Bryn. Did you have a good lunch?’
His eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Very.’
Gerry maintained her hostess demeanour. ‘I like the way they do lunch there—sustaining, and it doesn’t make you sleepy in the afternoon.’
‘A pity you weren’t able to stay long enough to eat,’ he said blandly.
Despising the heat in her skin, Gerry kept her voice steady. ‘My friend wasn’t well.’ Before he could comment she continued, ‘Cara tells me you want to ask me something?’
‘I’d like to offer you a very short, one-off project,’ he said, and without giving her time to refuse went on, ‘It involves a trip to the islands, and some research into the saleability—or not—of hats.’
Whatever she’d expected it wasn’t that. ‘Hats,’ she repeated blankly.
The green gaze rested a moment on her mouth before moving up to capture her eyes. ‘One of the outlying islands near Fala’isi is famous for the hats the islanders weave from a native shrub. They used to bring in an excellent income, but sales are falling off. They don’t know why, but I suspect it’s because they aren’t keeping up with fashion. Cara tells me you have a couple of weeks off. One week at Longopai in the small hotel there should be ample time to check whether I’m right.’
No, she wanted to say, so loudly and clearly that there could be no mistaking her meaning. No, I don’t want to go to a tropical island and find out why they’re no longer selling their hats. I don’t want anything to do with you.
‘I’d love to go,’ Cara said eagerly, ‘but I’m booked solid for a couple of months. You’re a real expert, Gerry—you style a shoot better than anyone, and Honor says you’ve got an instinct about fashion that never lets you down. And you’d have a super time in the islands—it’s just what you need.’
Gerry looked out of the window. Darkness had already fallen; the steady drumming of rain formed a background to the rising wail of wind. She said, ‘I might not have any idea why they aren’t selling. Marketing is—’
‘Exactly what you’re good at,’ Bryn said smoothly, his deep voice sliding with the silky friction of velvet along her nerves. ‘When you worked as fashion editor for that magazine you marketed a look, a style, a colour.’ He looked around the room. ‘You have great taste,’ he said.
As Gerry wondered whether she should tell him the room was furnished with pieces from her great-grandmother’s estate, he finished, ‘I can get you there tomorrow.’
Gerry’s brows shot up. It was tempting—oh, she longed to get away and forget everything for a few days, just sink herself into the hedonism of a tropical holiday. Lukewarm lagoons, she thought yearningly, and colour—vivid, primal, shocking colour—and the scent of salt, and the caress of the trade winds on her bare skin…
Aloud, very firmly, she said, ‘If you got some photographs done I could probably give you an opinion without going all the way up there. Or you could get some samples.’
‘They deal better with people,’ he said evenly. ‘They’ll take one look at you and realise that you know what you’re talking about. A written report—or even a suggestion from me—won’t have the same impact.’
‘Most people,’ Cara burbled, ‘are dying to get to the tropics at this time of the year. You sound like a wrinklie, Gerry, hating the thought of being prised out of your nice comfortable nest!’
And if I go, Gerry thought with a tiny flash of malice, you’ll be alone here, and no one will realise that you’re spending nights in Bryn’s bed. Although that was unkind; Cara knew that Gerry wouldn’t carry tales to her parents. And she honestly thought she was doing Gerry a favour.
Hell, she probably was.
Green eyes half-closed, Bryn said, ‘I’d rather you actually saw the hats. Photographs don’t tell the whole story, as you’re well aware. And of course the company will pay for your flights and accommodation.’
She was being stupid and she knew it; had any other man suggested it she’d have jumped at the idea. Striving for her usual equanimity, she said, ‘Of course I’d like to go, but—’
Cara laughed. ‘I told you she wouldn’t be able to resist it,’ she crowed.
‘Where is this island?’ Gerry asked shortly.
‘Longopai’s an atoll twenty minutes by air from Fala’isi.’ All business, Bryn said, ‘A taxi will pick you up at ten tomorrow morning. Collect your tickets from the Air New Zealand counter at the airport. Pack for a week, but keep in mind the weight restrictions.’
What did he think she was? One of those people who can’t leave anything in their wardrobe when they go overseas?
Cara headed off an intemperate reply by breaking in, ‘Gerry can pack all she needs for three weeks in an overnight bag,’ she said on an awed note.
Bryn’s brow lifted. ‘Clever Gerry,’ he said evenly, his voice expressionless.
So why did it sound like a taunt?
CHAPTER THREE
IT DIDN’T surprise her that Bryn Falconer’s arrangements worked smoothly; he’d expect efficiency in his hirelings.
Everything—from the moment Gerry collected her first-class ticket at Auckland airport to the cab-ride through the hot, colourful streets of Fala’isi with the tall young man who’d met the plane—went without a hitch.
‘Mr Falconer said you were very important, and that I wasn’t to be late,’ her escort said when she thanked him for meeting her.
A considerable exaggeration, she thought with a touch of cynicism. Bryn liked her as little as she liked him. ‘Do you work for the hotel on Longopai?’
He shook his head. ‘For the shipping company. Mr Falconer bought a trader to bring the dried coconut here from Longopai, so it is necessary to have an office here.’
Bryn had said he was an importer—clearly he dealt in Pacific trade goods.
At the waterfront Gerry’s escort loaded her and her suitcase tenderly into a float plane. Within five minutes, in a maelstrom of spray and a shriek of engines, the plane taxied out, broke free of the water and rose over the lagoon to cross the white line of the reef and drone north above a tropical sea of such vivid blue-green that Gerry blinked and put on her sunglasses.
She’d forgotten how much she loved the heat and the brilliance, forgotten the blatant, overpowering assault on senses more accustomed to New Zealand’s subtler colours and scents. Now, smiling at the large ginger dog of bewildering parentage strapped into the co-pilot’s seat, she relaxed.
Between the high island of Fala’isi and the atoll of Longopai stretched a wide strait where shifting colours and surface textures denoted reefs and sandbanks. Gazing down at several green islets, each ringed by blinding coral sand, Gerry wondered how long it would take to go by sea through these treacherous waters.
‘Landfall in distant seas,’ the pilot intoned dramatically over the intercom fifteen minutes later.
A thin, irregular, plumy green circle surrounded by blinding sand, the atoll enclosed a huge lagoon of enchanting, opalescent blues and greens. To make it perfect, in the centre of the lagoon rested a boat, white and graceful. Not a yacht—too much to expect!—but a large cruiser, some rich man’s toy.
Gerry sighed. Oh, she wouldn’t want to live on a place like this—too cut off, and, being a New Zealander, she loved the sight of hills on the horizon—but for a holiday what could be better? Sun, sand, and enough of a mission to stop her from becoming inured to self-indulgence.
After a spray-flurried landing in the deeper part of the lagoon, Gerry unbelted as a canoe danced towards them.
‘Your transport.’ The pilot nodded at it.
Glad that she’d worn trousers and a T-shirt, she pulled on her hat. The canoe surged in against the plane, manned by two young men with dark eyes and the proud features of Polynesians, their grins open and frankly appreciative as they loaded her suitcase.
Amused and touched by the cushion that waited on her seat, Gerry stepped nimbly down, sat gracefully and waved to the pilot The dog barked and wagged its tail; the pilot said, ‘Have a great holiday.’
Yes, indeed, Gerry thought, smiling as the canoe backed away from the plane, swung around and forged across the glittering waters.
New Zealand seemed a long, long way away. For this week she’d forget about it, and the life that had become so terrifyingly flat, to wallow in the delights of doing practically nothing in one of the most perfect climates in the world.
And in one of the most perfect settings!
Following the hotel porter along a path of crushed white shell, Gerry breathed deeply, inhaling air so fresh and languorous it smelt like Eden, a wonderful mixture of the unmatched perfumes of gardenia and frangipani and ylangylang, salted by a faint and not unpleasing undernote of fish, she noted cheerfully. Her cabaña, its rustic appearance belying the luxury within, was one of only ten.
‘Very civilised,’ she said aloud when she was alone.
A huge bed draped in mosquito netting dominated one end of the room. Chairs and sofas—made of giant bamboo and covered in the soothing tans and creams of tapa cloth—faced wide windows which had shutters folded back to reveal a deck. Separated from a tiny kitchen by a bar, a wooden table and chairs stood at the other end of the room. Fruit and flowers burst from a huge pottery shell on the table.
Further exploration revealed a bathroom of such unashamed and unregenerate opulence—all marble in soft sunrise hues of cream and pale rose—that Gerry whistled.
Whoever had conceived and designed this hotel had had a very exclusive clientele in mind—the seriously rich who wanted to escape. Although, she thought, eyeing the toiletries laid out on the marble vanity, not too far.
The place was an odd but highly successful blend of sophisticated luxury and romantic, lazy, South Seas simplicity. Normally she’d never be able to afford such a place. She was, she thought happily, going to cost Bryn Falconer megabucks.
Half an hour later, showered and changed into fresh clothes, she strolled down the path, stopping to pick a hibiscus flower and tuck it behind her ear, where its rollicking orange petals and fiery scarlet throat would contrast splendidly with her black curls. Only flowers, she decided, could get away with a colour scheme like that! Or silk, perhaps…
According to the schedule her escort in Fala’isi had given her, she’d have the rest of the day to relax before the serious part of this holiday began. Tomorrow she’d be shown the hats. As the swift purple twilight of the tropics gathered on the horizon, she straightened her shoulders and walked across the coarse grass to the lounge area.
And there, getting up from one of the sinfully comfortable chairs and striding across to meet her, was Bryn Falconer, all power and smooth, co-ordinated litheness, green eyes gleaming with a metallic sheen, his autocratic features only hinting at the powerful personality within.
Gerry was eternally grateful that she didn’t falter, didn’t even hesitate. But the smile she summoned was pure willpower, and probably showed a few too many teeth, for he laughed, a deep, amused sound that hid any mockery from the three people behind him.
‘Hello, Geraldine,’ he said, and took her arm with a grip that looked easy. ‘Somehow I knew just how you’d look.’
As she was wearing a gentle dress the dark blue-green of her eyes, with a long wrap skirt and flat-heeled sandals, she doubted that very much. Flattering it certainly was—the straight skirt and deep, scooped neckline emphasised her slender limbs and narrow waist—but fashionable it was not.
Arching her brows at him, she murmured, ‘Oh? How do I look?’
His smile hardened. ‘Rare and expensive and fascinating—perfect for a tropical sunset. A moonlit woman, as shadowy and mysterious as the pearls they dive for in one small atoll far to the north of here, pearls the colour of the sea and the sky at midnight.’
Something in his tone—a disturbing strand of intensity, of almost-hidden passion—sent her pulse skipping. Automatically, she deflected.
‘What a charming compliment. Thank you,’ she returned serenely, dragging her eyes away from the uncompromising authority of his face as he introduced his companions.
Gone was the lingering miasma of ennui; the moment she’d seen him every nerve cell had jolted into acute, almost painful alertness.
Narelle and Cosmo were an Australian couple—sleek, well-tanned, wearing expensive resort clothes. Lacey, their adolescent daughter, should have been rounded and sturdy; instead her angular figure indicated a recent illness.
After the flurry of greetings Gerry sank into the chair Bryn held for her, aware that Lacey was eyeing her with the yearning intensity of a hungry lion confronted by a wildebeest. Uncomfortably, Gerry waited for surnames, but none were forthcoming.
‘Isn’t this a wonderful place for a holiday?’ Narelle, a thin, tanned woman with superbly blonded hair and a lot of gold chains, spoke brightly, her skilfully shaded eyes flicking from Gerry to Bryn.
‘Ideal,’ Gerry answered, smiling, and was about to add that she wasn’t exactly on holiday when Bryn distracted her by asking her what she’d have to drink.
‘Fruit juice, thanks,’ she said. After the fiasco with Troy she wasn’t going to risk anything alcoholic in her empty stomach. She smiled at the waiter who’d padded across on bare feet, and added, ‘Not too sweet, please.’
‘Papaya, madam? With passionfruit and lime?’
‘That sounds wonderful,’ she said.
She was oddly uneasy when Lacey said loudly, ‘I’ll have one of those too, please.’
Her mother gave her a sharp look. ‘How about a diet soft drink?’ she asked.
‘No, thanks.’
Narelle opened her mouth but was forestalled by Bryn, who said, ‘Did you have a good flight up, Geraldine?’
Why the devil didn’t he use her proper name? ‘Geraldine’ sounded quite different from her normal, everyday self. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she said, smiling limpidly.
If he thought that one compliment entitled him to a more intimate footing, he was wrong. All right, so her heart was still recovering from that first sight of him, and for a moment she’d wondered what it would be like to hear that deep voice made raw by passion, but she was strong, she’d get over it.
‘We’ve been here several times,’ Narelle said, preening a little. ‘Last year Logan Hawkhurst was here with the current girlfriend, Tania Somebody-or-other.’
Logan Hawkhurst was an actor, the latest sensation from London, a magnificently structured genius with a head of midnight hair, bedroom eyes, and a temper—so gossip had it—that verged on molten most of the time.
‘And was he as overwhelming as they say?’ Gerry asked lightly.
Narelle gave an artificial laugh. ‘Oh, more so,’ she said. ‘Just gorgeous—like something swashbuckling out of history. Lacey had a real a crush on him.’
The girl’s face flamed.
Gerry said cheerfully, ‘She wasn’t the only one. I had to restrain a friend of mine when he finally got married—she wept half a wet Sunday and said she was never going to see another film of his because he’d break her heart all over again.’
They dutifully laughed, and some of the colour faded from the girl’s skin.
‘Don’t know what you women see in him,’ Cosmo said, giving Bryn a man-to-man look.
His wife said curtly, ‘He’s very talented, and you saw quite a lot in his girlfriend, whose talent wasn’t so obvious.’ She laughed a little spitefully. ‘He must like fat women.’
Fortunately the waiter returned with the drinks just then, pale gold and frosted, with moisture sliding down the softly rounded glasses.
Gerry had seen more than enough photographs of the woman Logan Hawkhurst had wooed all over the world and finally won; a tall, statuesque woman, with wide shoulders, glorious legs and substantial breasts, she’d looked as though she was more than capable of coping with a man of legendary temper.
Whatever, Gerry didn’t want to deal with undercurrents and sly backbiting. Blast Bryn Falconer. This was not the way she’d envisioned spending her first evening on the atoll.
Even more irritating, Narelle set out to establish territory and pecking order. Possibly Bryn noted the glitter in Gerry’s smile, for he steered the conversation in a different direction. Instead of determining who outranked whom, they talked of the latest comet, and the plays on Broadway, and whether cars would ever run on hydrogen. Lacey didn’t offer much, but what she did say was sharply perceptive.
Gerry admired the way Bryn handled the girl; he respected her intelligence and treated her as an interesting woman with a lot to offer. Lacey bloomed.
Which was more than Gerry did. Infuriatingly, the confidence she took for granted seemed to be draining away faster than the liquid in her glass. Every time Bryn’s hooded green gaze traversed her face her rapid pulse developed an uncomfortable skip, and she had to yank her mind ruthlessly off the question of just how that long, hard mouth would feel against hers…
How foolish of Narelle to try her silly tests of who outranked whom! Bryn was the dominant male, and not only because he was six inches taller than Cosmo; what marked him out was the innate authority blazing around him like a forceful aura, intimidating and omnipresent.
Dragging her attention back, she learned that Cosmo owned a chain of shops in Australia. Narelle turned out to be a demon shopper, detailing the best boutiques in London for clothes, and where to buy gold jewellery, and how wonderful Raffles Hotel in Singapore was now it had been refurbished.
Lacey relapsed into silence, turning her glass in her hand, drinking her fruit juice slowly, as Gerry drank hers, occasionally shooting sideways glances at Bryn. Another crush on the way, Gerry thought, feeling sorry for her.
Politeness insisted she listen to Narelle, nodding and putting in an odd comment, but the other woman was content to talk without too much input from anyone else. From the corner of her eye Gerry noted Bryn’s lean, well-shaped hands pick up his beer glass. So acutely, physically aware of him was she that she fancied her skin on that side of her body was tighter, more stretched, than on the other.
‘You’ve travelled quite a bit,’ Lacey said abruptly, breaking into her mother’s conversation.
‘It’s part of my job,’ Gerry said.
‘What do you do?’
She hesitated before saying, ‘I work in fashion.’
Lacey looked smug. ‘I thought you might be a model,’ she said, ‘but I knew you were something to do with fashion. You’ve got that look.’ She leaned forward. ‘Do models have to diet all the time to stay that slim?’
‘Thin,’ Gerry said calmly. ‘They have to be incredibly thin because the camera adds ten pounds to everyone. Some starve themselves, but most don’t They’re freaks.’
‘F-freaks?’ Lacey looked distinctly taken aback.
Bryn asked indolently, ‘How many women do you see walking down the street who are six feet tall, skinny as rakes, with small bones and beautiful faces?’