Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

Copyright

“Hypocrisy?” Gabriella echoed faintly

“I dislike females who are scarcely out of the nursery, yet feel compelled to pass judgment on other people’s failings,” Rick went on remorselessly. “And at the same time suppress their own needs and desires….”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about….”

“I’m tempted to kiss you, ma petite, to prove the point.”

“Just try it!”

“That’s a dare that is too tempting to ignore!” Rick murmured, his voice thickening.

Having abandoned her first intended career for marriage, ROSALIE ASH spent several years as a bilingual personal assistant to the managing director of a leisure group. She now lives in Warwickshire, England, with her husband, and daughters Kate and Abby, and her lifelong enjoyment of writing has led to her career as a novelist. Her interests include: languages, travel and research for her books, reading and visits to the Royal Shakespeare Theatre in nearby Stratford-upon-Avon. Other pleasures include: swimming, yoga and country walks.

An Imported Wife
Rosalie Ash

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

THE tall, dark, powerful-looking man, in sunglasses, khaki shirt and dusty cream trousers, seemed to be attracting attention, like bees to a honeypot. A willing porter scurried after him with his luggage, and another was practically breaking his neck to hail him a taxi as quickly as possible.

Lesser mortals, reflected Gabriella wryly, from her hot and dusty vantage point as she waited in the sun for a taxi for herself, could only look on, in envy and admiration.

She shifted position, waiting beside her suitcase, perspiration trickling uncomfortably down between her breasts, and dampening her jade T-shirt beneath the light white cotton jacket she wore. January in Mauritius, a tiny dot of an island far south in the vast expanse of Indian Ocean between Africa and Australia, was an abrupt contrast to January in London. Back home, she’d locked up her small one-bedroomed flat in Wimbledon and left behind icy sleet showers, and temperatures of minus two. Here, outside Plaisance Airport, the sun scorched down from a limpid blue sky, edged with fluffy tropical clouds, and it had to be at least ninety-five in the shade.

She lifted the heavy rope of honey-blonde hair at her nape, and blew upwards to cool her hot forehead. The tall man had been ushered respectfully into a taxi now, his cases stowed in the boot. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see the porters bow and salute, as the taxi revved up to pull away.

It was hard to tell, behind his dark glasses, but she thought he was looking at her. She dropped her eyes quickly, hoping he hadn’t had the satisfaction of seeing her gazing at him. In spite of her current aversion to the opposite sex, she had to concede that he looked disturbingly attractive. In fact, even from a safe distance, he was the most attractive man she’d ever set eyes on in her life, she acknowledged, a small twist of apprehension stirring her stomach. He looked lean, athletic, smooth-muscled. The dark brown hair, straight and thick, looked vibrantly clean and glossy, the wide, hard mouth, and the suggestion of five o’clock shadow on the firm jaw eyecatchingly male.

Strange, then, that he should remind her of Piers…Piers was blond, while this man was dark. Facially they weren’t remotely similar. Piers was much younger, only twenty-five, whereas this man had an air of experience and sophistication that suggested early thirties. She identified the similarity, a subtle one. It must be that aura of inborn privilege and careless arrogance which was so reminiscent of Piers. The cool way he took all the fuss and attention as his due…

She unconsciously lifted her shoulders, shrugging off the memories. It didn’t matter any more. About her disillusionment over Piers. Men were definitely going to take a back seat in her life from now on. Her career was showing signs of progression. That was all that mattered. She was new to this job, and she wanted to do well, and on top of that she was here alone in advance of the others. She should have been accompanying the fashion editor, who’d gone down with the flu which had been decimating the entire fashion department, literally at the eleventh hour…

Now was her chance to prove herself, show First Flair magazine that she was more than just a lowly assistant. Until suitably experienced reinforcements could be dispatched, the responsibility for advance checking of locations for the forthcoming fashion shoot lay on her novice shoulders. It was exciting, and rather terrifying…

‘Welcome to the Hotel Sable Royale,’ smiled a receptionist, when Gabriella finally presented herself and her luggage. ‘Did you have a good journey, Madame Taylor?’

‘Fine, thanks…’ Apart from paying what appeared to be a small fortune in rupees to the taxi driver who’d just roared away from the hotel entrance…

‘But I’m not Madame Taylor…’ Gabriella added, smiling apologetically. ‘The rooms are booked in Ursula Taylor’s name. But I’m Gabriella Howard, Mrs Taylor’s assistant. Mrs Taylor was too ill to fly out with me…’

The pretty Creole girl shrugged and smiled again.

‘OK. I hope you have a wonderful stay.’

She would, Gabriella reflected, following the porter carrying her suitcase to her room, if she could manage to fulfil her obligations to First Flair without any hitches, and, more immediately, if she could just cool off…

When the door was closed, she wasted no time, ripping off her jacket, sweat-damp jade T-shirt and smart jade culotte-skirt, tossing her coffee silk bra and pants on to the haphazard heap on the floor, twisting and pinning her blonde plait into a tight topknot, then running a cool shower in the elegant en-suite bathroom, and diving under it with relish.

The room which Ursula Taylor, First Flair’s stylish, thirty-something fashion editor, had apparently booked for her, was delightful, furnished in colonial style, with lots of wood and brass. A large balcony overlooked a crystal-white coral beach, fringed with soft, frondy pine trees. Beyond, a mill-pond-calm ocean glittered in the sun, turquoise and kingfisher-blue in its sheltering bracelet of coral reef.

Feeling slightly guilty, enjoying all this unbelievable luxury alone, while her boss languished in London with a high fever, Gabriella emerged from her shower, dried herself and found a baggy white over-sized ‘Minnie Mouse’ T-shirt to pull on while she searched for her hairdrier.

She was in the act of rummaging through her flight-bag, for the travel-plug, when without warning there was a hard hammering on the bedroom door, and it was pushed forcefully open. She leapt to her feet, her heart doing a shocked, frightened somersault as the man who barged furiously inside began with, ‘Ursula, just what the devil did you think you were playing at—?’ The gravel baritone clipped off abruptly in mid-sentence. The confrontational anger slowly died from his eyes, replaced by a wary gleam of humour as he realised his mistake.

Hugging her arms around herself indignantly, Gabriella found herself gazing up at the tall, dark man in the khaki shirt and cream trousers whom she’d been surreptitiously watching outside the airport.

‘I think I should be asking you that question,’ she heard herself saying, in a voice which trembled uncontrollably. Something in the darkness of his eyes was giving her unwelcome shivers of awareness, all over her body.

Seeing him at closer quarters, she had a niggling feeling she had seen this man somewhere before…apart from outside the airport on her arrival. His face was strangely familiar. Obviously he was someone Ursula knew…

Something she’d overheard in the office a couple of weeks ago darted back into her mind. Some gossip over problems in Ursula Taylor’s marriage. Could this be Mr Taylor, pursuing his wife for a dramatic, romantic reconciliation? He was in his early thirties, about the same age as the woman she worked for…

‘Do you make a habit of barging unannounced into other people’s hotel rooms?’ she added, her throat annoyingly dry.

The hard mouth twitched. But he was regarding her shocked expression and wide green eyes with grave apology.

‘Mille pardons, if I have frightened you, mademoiselle. The door was not locked. I believed Madame Taylor to be in this room. So who are you?’

He was subjecting her to a cool, unhurried scrutiny, the gleam of male assessment making her inwardly wince.

‘I am Ursula Taylor’s assistant,’ she said stiffly; ‘Madame—er—Mrs Taylor has the flu. But you’re…I mean, you’re not Mrs Taylor’s husband?’

‘No.’ The gravel-deep voice was wry as understanding dawned. ‘I am not Mrs Taylor’s husband.’

‘Oh, I see…!’ She tried her best, but it was quite impossible for her to keep the note of shocked dismay, even distaste, from her voice. This man wasn’t too thick-skinned to be aware of it, even if he was insensitive enough just to loll there against the door-jamb, watching the emotions flitting across her face, instead of making a hasty, ashamed exit…

She bit her lip. She could only thank the gods she’d had time to put on the T-shirt. If he’d chosen to fling open the door a few seconds earlier, she’d have been stepping stark naked out of the shower. This man must have an intimate relationship with Ursula Taylor if he felt entitled to barge, unannounced, into her bedroom…Gabriella felt slightly sick, as the implications began to sink in. She might be naive, but to her marriage was sacred. It didn’t feel very pleasant to be caught up in the middle of what presumably could be an adulterous liaison…

He really seemed to have marked similarities to Piers, another of that cool, amoral breed who calmly disregarded convention, saw all women as fair game. But it took two to tango, as the saying went. What her married boss got up to in her private life was no business of hers, Gabriella reminded herself warily.

‘I detect disapproval.’ He shook his head sadly, mockery evident in every line of his face. ‘You see me as a reckless philanderer, mademoiselle?’ Amusement had deepened the voice still more. ‘How refreshing to find someone still young enough to be shocked by the notion of extramarital affairs. Truth comes from the mouths of babes and innocents, as they say.’

Colouring slightly, she gripped her arms more closely across her breasts, and fixed him with a level green gaze.

‘Philanderer was your word, not mine. But if the cap fits…’ she countered, with as much force as she could muster. ‘And I assure you I’m neither a babe nor an innocent!’

‘Ah. Une vrai femme du monde!’ he teased gently. Deep-set eyes, unnervingly intense, moved probingly over her appearance, assessing her wet blonde hair, her slender figure, the long slim expanse of thigh, the mouse logo on the T-shirt. His eyes were an extraordinary colour. Not brown, not hazel, more a sort of molten, antique gold, Gabriella decided uneasily. Fringed with sable-dark lashes, and emphasised by the harshly cynical olive-skinned face, they were the most disconcerting eyes she’d ever encountered. ‘A real woman of the world. How old are you, mademoiselle?’

‘Twenty-one,’ she supplied huskily. ‘Old enough to know the score, Mr…?’

There was a brief pause, before he answered.

‘Josephs. Rick Josephs.’ The dark hand extended in greeting was large, lean, spatulatefingered. She stared at it in panic for a splitsecond, before briefly, reluctantly shaking it. Rick Josephs didn’t sound a very French name for a Frenchman. She assumed he was French, at any rate. He certainly spoke French, although when he spoke in English his French accent was negligible. A mystery hybrid, she decided dubiously. One of those global travellers with the panache and confidence to fit in anywhere…

‘Gabriella Howard.’ She whipped her hand away from his with unseemly speed. The warm strength of the hand-clasp was unbelievably disturbing. Glaring at him in a sudden, unexpected spurt of defensive fury, she added, ‘Now that we’re formally introduced, would you please go? As you see, Mrs Taylor is not hiding under the bed, or lurking behind the door. If you want to see her so urgently, you’ll have to hop on the plane back to London and minister to her on her sick bed! Although Mr Taylor might be a bit surprised.’

A faint grin lit the dark face, as he absorbed her sudden outburst. ‘It can wait,’ he said briefly, straightening up from the doorway with infuriating lack of haste. ‘Is Ursula still intending to fly out here when she’s well?’

‘Oh, yes. Along with half a dozen others! Meanwhile, by default, I’m the advance location scout for this fashion shoot…’

He paused at the door, his gaze narrowing. ‘Are you indeed? I might be able to help you there.’

‘I’m sure I can manage quite well without your help, thanks!’ The sharp retort was out before she had time to analyse it.

The grin grew broader. ‘I have to hand it to you, Mademoiselle Howard, you have spirit. High principles. A more timid employee might think twice about being rude to a friend of her boss. Might, perhaps, fear for her job?’

She stared at him, her heart suddenly beginning to pound at twice its normal speed. She was so angry that she could hardly find her voice, but his words had jolted her back to reality. He might be arrogant and patronising, and he might have barged into her room and narrowly missed catching her in an embarrassing state, but he evidently knew Ursula Taylor very well indeed. Even if he appeared to be enjoying taunting her over the mix-up, it wasn’t her place to appear to be passing judgement on the situation.

She chewed her lip, in a turmoil of uncertainty. With a sudden surge of emotion, she found herself detesting the man, with an intensity which took her by surprise.

‘What sort of a person are you?’ she demanded shakily.

‘The lowest and most despicable, bien sûr. But don’t worry,’ he teased, opening the door and observing her pink-cheeked fury with a short laugh, ‘we philanderers are very discreet. A bientôt, mademoiselle.’

He’d gone. She found herself glaring helplessly at the closed door, unable to recall ever feeling such a violent loathing for someone she barely knew. A bientôt? She’d think herself lucky if she never had to see him again!

Her luck was out. Fierce hopes of avoiding bumping into him again evaporated as she walked out to the palm-tree-dotted poolside restaurant an hour later. He was drinking red wine, lazily relaxed on a bar stool, darkly attractive in a white dinner-jacket and an amber bow-tie which seemed to emphasise his golden eyes. Around him, in an animated group, milled several glamorouslooking people who appeared to be hanging on his every word. Two girls in particular held Gabriella’s attention. Chic, dark, svelte as models, they fawned over him, vying for his attention. In clinging evening dresses, they looked dauntingly poised and beautiful. For a few seconds, Gabriella felt rooted to the spot, glancing round uncertainly at the other guests, standing near the bar or seated at the candlelit tables all around the circular floodlit pool.

Her heart plummeted. Everyone seemed to have dressed for dinner! Everywhere she looked she saw silks and crepe de Chines, sequins and satins. And here she was, face bare of make-up, hair dragged into a high French plait, in a favourite but totally unsuitable short apple-green cotton T-shirt dress, and flip-flops…

Rick Josephs had seen her. Half turning from his seat on the bar stool, he raised a hand in brief salute, his eyes lingering on her for a while, his expression unreadable. The girls nearest him turned too, eyeing Gabriella with swift, derisive glances before swinging away, resuming their vivacious conversation.

Too late to duck back upstairs, and riffle through her skimpy wardrobe for her smartest dress. She’d look an immature idiot, if she ran out now. She’d just have to brazen it out.

Head high, she aimed for the bar and smiled confidently at the friendly Asian barman.

‘I’d like a…a glass of pineapple juice, please…’

Near by, she could hear one of the girls and Rick Josephs talking in rapid French, his husky, amused baritone growl a contrast to her cool feminine voice. With relief, she realised that the head waiter had spotted her, and was bearing down on her, smiling in welcome.

‘Bonsoir, Mademoiselle Howard. Would you like me to show you to your table?’

‘Oh, yes. Thank you…’ She followed him, averting her gaze as she passed Rick Josephs. As she drew level with his party, one of the girls in the group surrounding him burst into a peal of laughter, swirled blindly round, glass in hand, and collided head-on with Gabriella. With a gasp of dismay, Gabriella felt the contents of the glass of red wine splash down the front of her dress.

‘Oh, pardon! I am so sorry…’ The girl was definitely slightly tipsy. From the laughingly unrepentant expression on her face, as she eyed Gabriella’s casual outfit, she didn’t view the accident with too much gravity.

Pink-faced, Gabriella stared down at the spreading stains on her dress, suddenly the centre of everyone’s attention, wishing she could vanish into thin air.

‘It doesn’t matter…’ Embarrassment engulfed her. Not only was she not dressed in an evening gown, as everyone else appeared to be, she was also sporting a T-shirt dress with red wine all over it…

‘Mademoiselle, how unfortunate…’ the head waiter was saying anxiously. ‘Perhaps you would like to change your clothes before you sit down to dinner…?’

‘Yes…I think I’d better…’

They were interrupted by Rick Josephs, who took charge of the situation with cool aplomb.

‘Leave it to me, René,’ he told the head waiter with a grin. ‘Come with me, Gabriella…’

When he took her arm, she was so stunned by his audacity that she barely had time to argue before she was escorted away from the restaurant, and into the cicada-filled darkness of the hotel gardens.

‘Let go of my arm,’ she said, icily polite, swinging to confront him as he dropped his hand. ‘You’d be far better off chatting up your drunken female admirers at the bar than hauling me out here…!’

He gave a weary sigh, eyeing her taut face with wry annoyance.

‘Gabriella…you don’t mind if I call you Gabriella?’

‘As a matter of fact, I do…’

‘You must try not to judge people so harshly,’ he went on softly, ignoring her. ‘I apologise for the accident, and for the clumsiness of my companion. And I will buy you a new dress.’

‘I happened to like this one!’ she countered obstinately, with what she knew to be a lamentable lack of social grace. ‘And just because I have certain…standards…doesn’t mean that I judge people harshly…’

‘Dieu!’ he growled, half laughing and half angry, catching her by the shoulders and giving her a slight shake. ‘What an unbearable little prig you are, Gabriella!’

His words seemed to hit her square in the face. Opening her mouth to retort, she felt her throat tighten without warning. Abruptly, her fragile poise began to crumble, and anger came to her rescue.

‘I couldn’t really care less about your opinion of me,’ she retorted shakily, trying to free herself from his firmly guiding hand as he steered her through the undergrowth. ‘I assure you my opinion of you is every bit as low! Where are we going…?’

‘My mother taught me that to remove red wine the stain must be soaked in white wine,’ he re- torted calmly, ‘as quickly as possible.’ They’d reached a detached white villa, palms swaying beside the arched, carved wooden doorway, the air heavy with the lush musky scent of tropical flowers. ‘Come inside, and take off your dress. I can supply the white wine, if you wish to put my mother’s remedy to the test?’

The sardonic grin as he ushered her inside what seemed to be a private villa in the hotel grounds sent her temper soaring even higher.

‘Take my dress off…? Are you serious?’

‘Why, yes—’ he spread his hands ironically ‘—unless you wish me to pour white wine over it while you are wearing it?’

‘Look, if this is some kind of…of cheap seduction technique…’

‘Far from it, Gabriella.’ He was guiding her into a luxurious wood-panelled bathroom, handing her a grey Paisley silk robe before leaving her. ‘You are not my type. I prefer older, married women. Or drunken pick-ups at hotel bars. Remember?’

Hot colour burned her cheeks as she stared at his mocking dark face. Catching an angry breath in her chest, she demanded unsteadily, ‘And what am I supposed to wear to dinner, your silk dressing-gown?’

‘Relax. I promise I will not let you starve.’

He withdrew, leaving her seething with mixed emotions, not least of which was acute apprehension.

After a long, indecisive wrestle with her temper, she rammed the bolt home on the door, and then slowly slid the apple-green dress off. She examined her white lacy bra. There was a red stain on that, too, but she’d rather die than present her underwear for Rick Josephs’s stain-removing treatment.

With the Paisley robe belted tightly enough to endanger her circulation, she emerged with the dress.

Rick Josephs had discarded his white dinner-jacket, and loosened his bow-tie. He was stretched out quite happily on a white LloydLoom-style cane chair on a paved balcony with a spectacular view of the moonlit ocean, as she came reluctantly in search of him.

When he saw her he stood up, took the dress from her stiff fingers, and waved an opened bottle of white wine with a lop-sided smile.

‘OK. Now we marinate the dress in the white wine,’ he quipped lightly, bearing it off into what looked to be an expensively equipped kitchen. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

‘I…no, thank you.’

He returned, minus the dress, but carrying a silver tray with a freshly opened bottle of wine, and two glasses.

‘I said “no, thank you”. Do you ply all your female acquaintances with alcohol?’ she queried, sweetly sarcastic.

He paused in the act of pouring, one dark eyebrow raised quizzically.

‘No. It is not always necessary,’ he mocked obliquely. ‘Usually my female acquaintances are quite happy to relax with me, without the aid of alcohol.’

Embarrassment heated her face again.

‘How gratifying for you,’ she smiled through gritted teeth. ‘So what went wrong with your female friend at the bar?’

The golden gaze gleamed ominously. ‘Sit down, Gabriella,’ he suggested softly, pulling out one of the white cane chairs, and waiting with an air of patient confidence. ‘Let’s see if we can hold a civilised conversation while we are waiting for our dinner to arrive.’

‘While…what?’ The flustered feeling was intensifying. ‘Our dinner?’

‘We can eat here. Give us the perfect chance to get to know each other a little better. So that when Ursula gets here she can see what excellent friends we have become? D’accord?’

Mutinously, she glared at him. Why did she get the feeling that this was some subtle, teasing kind of blackmail?

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.

The only solution was to stay calm. And polite.

‘All right, I’m sorry I asked,’ she said evenly, ‘And I do appreciate your help today. I’d never have known where to go without a knowledgeable guide…’

‘Finish your lunch, and spare me the flowery gratitude, Gabriella,’ he grinned. ‘It makes me feel distinctly uneasy. We’ll continue our coastal tour. Some of the finest beaches are along the next stretch.’

‘Which coast does your island lie off?’ She asked the question casually, as they walked slowly back through a shady belt of casuarinas towards the jeep.

‘The north,’ he supplied briefly.

‘Isn’t that where our hotel is?’

He gave a short laugh as they drove away. ‘Yes, it is. Which is why I stay at the Sable Royale, because I can moor my boat in the lagoon, and easily get across to the island. And you don’t give up, do you? Have no worries about your career, Gabriella. You’ll go far.’

‘Then we can take a look at it? Don’t you need to see how your house is progressing?’

‘We’ll see. It depends on the time. And the weather.’

‘But look at the sky,’ she argued, gesturing towards the high, white-dotted arc of sapphire above. ‘Not even a teensy little cyclone in sight!’

‘Take a look behind you,’ he suggested flatly. She twisted, saw the faint inky blue darkness heralding storm clouds in the distance.

‘It’s moving the other way,’ she judged confidently.

‘And you are a pushy young lady.’

It was mid-afternoon when they got back to the hotel and parked the jeep. Rick took a long, hard look at the sky and back at Gabriella’s persuasive expression.

‘We can go across?’ she hazarded, barely restraining her excitement. He gazed at her shining dark green eyes for a moment, then shrugged.

‘OK, I surrender,’ he grated with wry amusement. ‘Just don’t blame me if we end up camping overnight with a cyclone raging all around us.’

Something in the dark gleam in his eyes gave her the unsettling impression that he might quite enjoy the challenge. She suppressed panic, and remembered her job. Ursula Taylor had sounded very keen on a small, sparsely populated island as a setting for the project. What a coup, to present her superiors with a ready-made private island for the fashion shoot, in spite of the setback over the weather…

Her radiant smile triggered a speculative narrowing of the cool amber gaze.

‘Thank you. I’m sure it won’t come to that,’ she said confidently, resolutely refusing to be unnerved by his mocking expression. ‘And I’m sure First Flair will make it worth your while…’

‘I sincerely hope so.’ He made no attempt to expand on his cryptic comment, but such was her euphoria that she hardly noticed.

Rick’s boat turned out to be a graceful white power-launch, moored at a small nearby marina. She scarcely had time to take stock of the gleaming brass rails, the mahogany fittings, the luxurious interior, before they were speeding across the clear blue waters towards the distant reef.

It was a longer trip than she’d anticipated. But at last the pearl-white gleam of a fringe of sand was visible, backed by thickets of green, then the deep emerald of the ocean began to lighten to layers of powder blue, eau-de-Nil, translucent aquamarine. The islet appeared to have its own partial coral reef, protecting it from the muted power of the ocean.

The ocean had become noticeably rougher during the trip. A darkness to the north had begun to produce some ominous-looking grey clouds, and a stronger breeze. Then they were through the narrow opening in the reef, which Gabriella decided looked as difficult to negotiate as threading a needle blindfold, and they were slowing alongside a new-looking wooden jetty. Even in the relatively protected lagoon, the water was swelling and heaving. The trees on the island were swaying dizzily, the wind susurrating through the pine needles with a ghostly hiss.

‘Et voilà.’ Rick cut the engines, jumped out to secure the launch, and stood gazing down at her as she hesitated in the boat. There was an unfathomable expression in his eyes as he scanned the gathering clouds around them, and then studied her face. ‘It looks as if we’ve just beaten the cyclone, Gabriella. So welcome to L’Ile des Couleuvres.’

‘Ile des Coul…what?’ She accepted his hand as he reached to help her out of the launch, laughing slightly to hide her flurry of reaction to his touch, as well as her secretly mounting apprehension about the weather. ‘What does that mean?’

‘The couleuvre is a small Indian snake.’ He grinned as her expression switched from curiosity to alarm, tightening his grip on her hand as she made to draw back to the boat.

‘Well, thanks a lot!’ she managed to gasp, looking warily around her feet. ‘You might have warned me I was coming to a snakes’ nest!’

‘It’s hardly that,’ he assured her calmly, leading the way from the jetty to the beach. ‘Don’t worry, the couleuvre is mainly nocturnal, and is not poisonous. I’ve only ever seen a couple of them, in all the times I’ve been here. I suspect the name was the brainwave of a long-dead Josephs to keep the island free from intruders.’

‘Really?’ She heard the acid note in her voice, and knew she was being deliberately awkward. She didn’t really mind a few harmless little Indian snakes. ‘So the island belonged to your pirate ancestors? How long have your family owned this place?’

‘Since the eighteenth century.’

She was following him up the softly sloping white beach, towards the belt of filaos, the casuarinas which seemed to grow in profusion everywhere in this region. Dotted among them were tall coconut palms, and unknown varieties of flowering trees of such startling brightness that they looked artificial. Scarlet, yellow, deep cerise pink. Her hunch had been right; this was an absolute gem of a setting for the shoot…

‘I suspect my unscrupulous ancestors used it as a useful hideaway for their buccaneering and wrecking exploits.’ Rick grinned at her over his shoulder. ‘There are quite a few interesting wrecks just beyond the coral reef, just as there are around most of Mauritius itself. I do a bit of diving down there, but so far no caskets of gold have emerged to prove the crimes of three hundred years ago…’

‘You mean your ancestors used to deliberately wreck ships here?’ she demanded, horrified.

The amber gaze held a teasing gleam. ‘Quite likely. They were a thoroughly amoral bunch, from what I can gather. But life was hard, remember. It was every man for himself…’

‘And an “imported wife” for every man?’ she echoed distastefully.

‘I’ve a feeling there was a bit of a shortage of women, despite the imports,’ he mused laconically, glancing up as the sun was blotted out by a ragged black cloud. ‘So they’d have two or three partners each.’

‘Yes, I think I’m getting the picture! So what did your pirate ancestors do for accommodation while they were holed up here?’

‘For a long time there’s been a little campement here…’

‘What’s that?’

‘A traditional Mauritian holiday cottage,’ he grinned. ‘A stone-built, thatch-roofed dwelling. That’s what I’m planning on having extended and enlarged to make a full-sized house.’

‘I’m surprised you’d want to build a house here and associate yourself with such a lawless history,’ she said coolly, ‘and as for the snakes…

He stopped in mid-stride, facing her in the shadow of the filaos. Some of the teasing had darkened to exasperation as he caught hold of her shoulders.

‘Just a minute,’ he said softly, searching her face beneath the brim of her white cotton hat with grim displeasure. ‘An hour ago you were practically begging me, come cyclone or hurricane, to bring you out here, Gabriella. The least you can do is spare me your shrewish comments! It is impossible to believe you’re only twenty-one, when you insist on behaving like a maiden aunt of sixty!’

‘I do not…!’ In the recess of her mind, she had the sinking feeling that he was right, and that made her feel even angrier. ‘I’m entitled to express an opinion, without being manhandled by you!’

He smiled thinly, sliding his hands down her arms and then releasing her abruptly.

‘You certainly are,’ he agreed evenly, his eyes glittering with mockery. ‘But if you want my cooperation on this precious fashion shoot of yours, mademoiselle, I strongly recommend you curb that sharp tongue and follow a diplomatic course from now on…’

The wind had risen to a low, eerie moan, and the susurration in the trees had subtly increased to a wilder swishing sound. She was opening her mouth to retort when a sudden roar of wind came rushing across the beach, whirling up a miniature sand-storm like an invisible express train.

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