Beaumont Brides Collection (100 page)

‘Well? Am I right?’ Jack Wolfe was still regarding her with a look that told her she was doing a good job, but she wasn’t fooling him. But she didn’t scream. Instead she lifted the corners of her mouth into the slightest of smiles.

‘No, you’re not right. Worse, Mr Wolfe. You’re lying.’ He stared at her, clearly taken aback by her attack. ‘You don’t have a television,’ she pointed out with considerable satisfaction. ‘And I may be wrong, but I’m sure you don’t visit Miss Hickey to watch hers.’ Miaow. ‘However, you will be getting a bill for costume hire.’ She was sure Fizz would be grateful for a donation to her children’s charity. And it would make up for losing the bet with Richard. She wasn’t prepared to count this week.

‘How big?’

‘It will be cheaper than buying me a whole new wardrobe,’ she promised. ‘But everyone needs working clothes and somehow I didn’t think you’d appreciate my overall and cap?’

His eyes swept over her once again. ‘You thought right.’

That was heartfelt and Melanie smiled. ‘You approve of my choice of costume?’

‘I can’t wait to see what else you’ve brought with you - darling,’ he added, provocatively, echoing her own taunting remark at the check-in desk. There was no doubt about which particular garment he was referring to and a slow blush seared her cheekbones. Well, if he expected sexy nightwear he could think again. ‘And you can while away the long, tedious hours of the journey explaining why you found it necessary to make quite such a point of changing your appearance.’

‘That’s simple enough. I prefer to keep my two lives entirely separate.’

‘Each clad in darkness?’ It was her turn to stare at him. ‘Did I get it wrong? Clad in darkness. That is what you said your name meant?’

‘Oh, yes. Yes.’

He shrugged. ‘Why?’

For a moment she didn’t understand what he was asking. Then, as the penny dropped, ‘Oh, I see. My appearance. I should have thought that was obvious.’ She’d known he would ask that and had her answer ready. ‘When I’m a star I won’t want every Tom, Dick and Jack running to the papers with the story about how I was once their cleaner. Will I?’

‘Isn’t that a little unkind? Robbing us poor men of such a small thrill. Darling.’

Melanie’s smile was an essay in insincerity. ‘Darling?’ she repeated with distaste. ‘Don’t you think that is such a false term of endearment? Almost as if you have forgotten my name.’ Before he could answer, she indicated the bookshop with the smallest gesture. ‘Do you mind if I look for something to read on the plane? What with the hairdresser and packing, I didn’t have time to shop this morning.’

And a book would avoid the need for unnecessary conversation during the long haul across the Atlantic.

Taking her hand, he ignored her question, instead he spread her fingers out over his to admire the pale pink ovals of her nails. A slightly crooked smile lifted one corner of his mouth. ‘I see the hand cream worked.’

‘That, and the judicious use of rubber gloves. I never saw myself playing in kitchen sink dramas. I have enough of that in my day job.’

She attempted to pluck her fingers from his but before he let her go, he lifted her hand, touching it lightly with his lips.

They were cool, dry, electric and the tingle that shot from her hand to every part of her body warned that he packed the kind of voltage usually carrying a danger sign.

What on earth was Caro thinking, letting him off the leash?

‘We’re not in the West Indies yet, Mr Wolfe,’ she reminded him.

‘Every role needs rehearsing, Mel. And it’s time you started calling me Jack, don’t you think?’

‘It’s certainly an improvement on darling,’ she agreed.

He looked at her thoughtfully, then dropped her hand. ‘Did you say you wanted a magazine to read on the flight?’

A magazine. What else? A book would certainly be too much for a mere cleaner with pretensions to a stage career. Especially a book without pictures.

‘Yes,’ she replied, coolly, heading for a display of the kind of magazines that offered true life stories of such horror that she almost flinched. Bravely she picked up two of them. Jack plucked them from her fingers and replaced them. After consulting the shelves, he took down a couple of thick glossy magazines.

‘You look the part, but you’ll have to try harder than that to keep in character,’ he said, mildly.

‘Character?’ To Melanie, hovering on the brink of madness, it suddenly seemed possible, just possible that she might just derive some amusement from the situation if she could keep her head. ‘Oh, I see. You want me to behave like Caroline?’

‘There’s no need to go quite that far.’

‘You’d better keep an eye on me,’ she said, throwing a look of regret at the abandoned magazines as she carried the glossies to the check out. ‘In case I do anything silly.’

‘I intend to. A very close eye. Fortunately it won’t be difficult,’ he said, as he paid for the magazines.

Melanie swallowed hard and turned away. ‘Aren’t you going to choose something?’ she prompted.

‘I think I have pretty much everything I need,’ he said, recapturing her hand and holding it possessively enfolded in his.

His fingers were cool, strong. She snatched her hand away.

‘Not quite everything.’

Despite his assurances, she was determined to make that quite clear at the outset, after all he had been dealing with the worker bee when he’d made those. Now he’d seen what lay beneath the yellow and black horror of her uniform, she didn’t entirely trust him to keep his word.

He might not play house with his staff, but there was nothing to stop him from sacking her. Not that she had the slightest intention of resuming her job on her return to London.

‘For everything you need Caroline Hickey,’ she reminded him.

‘Oh, I think we both know that Caro blew it. But she’ll have her career to keep her warm on long winter nights.’ The smile that had momentarily brightened the slate darkness of his eyes abruptly vanished and he lifted his head as the public address system called a flight departure.

She recalled Richard telling her that the moment any woman showed signs of seeking something more permanent than bed and breakfast, she was dropped. It seemed that Richard was right.

‘That’s our flight. Come along, darling. Paradise is waiting.’ And taking her by the elbow, he led her towards the boarding gate.

The aircraft seemed to be overflowing with couples who were about to get married in the exotic beauty of one of the endless string of islands that made up that much-blessed area known as the West Indies.

The excitement even overflowed into the more sedate first class section of the aircraft as one couple attempted to press champagne on their fellow travellers.

‘Maybe Caroline made a mistake after all,’ Melanie remarked, dryly, as the excited couple were ushered back to their section of the aircraft by a grinning stewardess. ‘Wedding fever could be catching.’

Jack raised his head from the file he had been studying since they lifted above the grey English skies and out into the sunshine. ‘Like measles?’ he enquired.

‘Oh no, you can be vaccinated against measles. Marriage is more like the common cold. Immunity is much harder to come by.’

‘I’ve been vaccinated, Melanie.’ His face betrayed nothing. ‘But then you already know that, having thoroughly polished the family picture gallery.’ Including the wedding photograph which he preferred tucked away out of sight. ‘But it was a long time ago. Maybe I should have a booster shot. What do you think?’

‘I think your reaction to Caroline would suggest your immune system is in perfect working order.’

‘Maybe. Or maybe I’m just immune to Caroline.’ He reached across and rubbed the side of his thumb gently against her cheek. His touch made the fine down of her skin prickle and she jerked back.

‘You don’t have to worry about me, Jack,’ she said, quickly. ‘I’m not contagious.’

The look he gave her was long and thoughtful, as if he might be tempted to put that assertion to the test.

Melanie quickly buried herself in her magazine and stayed there. Just in case.

They left the big jet at Antigua, joining a small charter plane and Melanie watched as the British Virgin Islands gradually appeared out of the haze, a broken necklace of small islands thrown down by some careless giant hand in a jade and emerald sea.

‘Which one are we going to?’ she asked, as excitement overcame her growing apprehension about what would happen when they arrived at their destination.

Jack leaned across her as the plane began to bank, his shoulder pressing firmly against hers as he surveyed the horizon. ‘That one,’ he said, pointing out one of the larger islands. ‘At least that’s where we’re landing. It’s called Virgin Gorda. Columbus is supposed to have said it looked like a young woman in early pregnancy. What do you think?’

As she turned to answer him her cheek brushed against his chin and once more that dangerous tingle of electricity sparked through her. ‘He... he wasn’t looking at it from the air.’

‘I suppose not. The Ark is that small island beyond it.’

She swiftly re-directed her gaze to the window but his chin, roughened with the day’s growth of dark beard, remained tucked up against her cheek as he abandoned work in favour of the view and she was right about the way it would feel.

Harsh and exciting.

It took every ounce of willpower to remain staring out of the window when all she wanted to do was turn her head so that their lips tangled and instead of playing games with words, they played something altogether more dangerous. Madness.

‘It’s an island? I thought it was just the name of the hotel.’

There had been telephone numbers and a contact address in the envelope he had sent over to Mrs Graham, but no further details about their destination.

‘Oh, it’s more than a hotel. It’s a resort. Very exclusive, very expensive and it can only be reached by boat so we’ll have a Columbus-eye view ourselves shortly. I hope you don’t get sea-sick.’

Unfortunately not. Throwing up over Jack Wolfe might just have made the whole trip worthwhile.

A taxi took them from the airport along the narrowest part of the island, offering tantalising glimpses of the sea and distant islands on either side of them. And yachts everywhere.

This was, she realized, with a sudden niggle of apprehension, a playground for the rich and famous and she sent a heartfelt prayer to whatever saint was responsible for such things, that no one she knew sailed by.

Then, as they climbed to the highest point of the island the setting sun turned the whole world to gold dust and she forgot all about her problems, turning to Jack, wanting to share the beauty of the moment with him. It was then that she realized he had been watching her rather than the view.

‘Aren’t you glad I forced your hand?’ he asked.

Irritated by his smug assumption that he knew what was best for her, she snapped back, ‘No one likes to be left without a choice.’

‘Even when the choice is between this and scrubbing floors?’

She had annoyed him and Melanie told herself that she was glad of it. ‘Scrubbing floors is honest work,’ she declared, and turned back to the view, but the magic had gone and by the time they had descended to the creek to board the launch that would take them across to The Ark the sun had slipped into the sea leaving only an afterglow to light their path.

Lights began to string out along the shoreline, and the gentle rhythm of the steel pans drifted out across the water. As they headed across the bay, Jack made his way to the rear of the launch and she wondered if her last remark had been one too many.

He’d been abstracted all through their journey, apparently engrossed in figure-covered papers. But the papers, like her magazine, had been there as a barrier between them. An excuse not to talk. She wondered if he was beginning to wish he’d coaxed Caroline to give up her magazine cover, no matter what he’d had to promise. He surely wouldn’t worry overmuch about breaking his word once he’d got his way? Or was she maligning him?

As if he could sense her thoughts he turned suddenly, the breeze feathering a dark lock of hair that fell across his forehead and for a moment it seemed that everything stood still. The sea, the spray, the lock of hair. Then he held out his hand to her in an invitation to join him.

It was as if he was saying, come on, this is going to be great. Relax. And without hesitation she went to him and he looped his arm about her shoulders.

Relax. Why not? With the soft Caribbean air warm against her face, the heady evening scent of tropical flowers mingling with the fresh salt tang of the sea it was easy. Then the launch hit an eddy and as she staggered slightly, his grip tightened.

‘Okay?’

‘Fine,’ she murmured, as he drew her back against his lean, hard body.

Absolutely fine, she told herself, refusing to acknowledge the flutter of nerves that rippled over her stomach, the fact that it was increasingly difficult to breathe as she found herself drifting under the romantic spell of the place.

Romantic spell?

Listen to her.

This wasn’t romance, it was jetlag. She was just tired. She glanced at her watch, but it was no help. She had already changed it to local time and real time was hours later than that. She should be in bed. Her mind backed rapidly away from that disturbing thought.