“Don’t do that, Flora.”

“What? What am I doing?”

“You’re treating me like the enemy again. I’m here. I’m with you.” For a moment their gazes locked. “For you, not against you. I’ll come with you.”

Flora felt as if the ground were crumbling beneath her feet. That like the cliff face before them, the foundations upon which she lived her life were being undermined by Bram Gifford. First he had taken her hand and she had not pulled away. Too late, she’d learned that she was not immune to the touch of a man’s hand, a certain look in his eyes, the hot lick of desire.

He’d kissed her with a sweetness that was designed to turn her head, make her forget that they were rivals. That they were both after the same prize.

And she’d forgotten.

Dear Reader,

Welcome to my brand-new trilogy, BOARDROOM BRIDEGROOMS.

Claibourne & Farraday is “the most stylish department store in London.” On the retirement of their father, the three talented Claibourne sisters are all set to take the store into the twenty-first century. Romana as head of public relations, Flora, a designer, and India, the oldest of the sisters, stepping into her father’s shoes as managing director.

But the Farradays, three dynamic businessmen with plans of their own for Claibourne & Farraday, are determined to take full control of the store back into Farraday hands.

India invites the Farraday cousins to “work-shadow” the sisters in order to find out what it takes to run the store. In this book, quiet reserved Flora tries to avoid being work-shadowed—only, her plan backfires, and she’s now stuck with playboy Bram Farraday Gifford on a romantic island paradise….

With love,

Liz Fielding

To find out more about Liz Fielding, visit her Web site at www.lizfielding.com

BOARDROOM BRIDEGROOMS!

It’s a marriage takeover!

Read all three books in this exciting trilogy by Liz Fielding!

The Corporate Bridegroom

The Marriage Merger

The Tycoon’s Takeover

The Marriage Merger
Liz Fielding

For Betty, Nancy, Doris, Glenys and Eiddwen…my mother and her sisters…with all my love

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

PROLOGUE

CITY DIARY, LONDON EVENING POST

WHAT is going on at Claibourne & Farraday?

Following the departure of Peter Claibourne last month, it’s rumoured that London’s most stylish department store has become a war zone, with the Claibournes and the Farradays in a battle to control the boardroom.

The two families each own forty-nine per cent of the store, with the remaining ‘golden share’ of two per cent passing to the oldest male heir of either family, and with it total control over the future of the company.

Peter’s lovely daughters, who have been part of the store since their pictures appeared in C&F’s first mail order catalogue for nursery furniture, have cited equality in the workforce and refused to move over. I am informed that, confident of their position, they have invited the Farradays to ‘shadow’ them during the next few months, promising to step down if the men can do a better job.

Today’s surprise announcement of the marriage of Romana Claibourne, youngest of the Claibourne girls, to Niall Farraday Macaulay in a brief ceremony in Las Vegas would suggest one Farraday was so impressed with the woman he was shadowing that he married her.

With Bram Farraday Gifford about to take his turn shadowing jewellery buyer and designer Flora Claibourne, we await the outcome with considerable interest. Watch this space.

MEMORANDUM

From: J D FARRADAY

To: BRAM FARRADAY GIFFORD

Subject: CLAIBOURNE & FARRADAY

Bram, the Claibourne girls are playing dirty. If Romana Claibourne was able to subvert Niall to their cause, she must be a lot cleverer than she looks. Flora Claibourne, as you will see from the file I’m biking over to you, just looks clever.

Since the gloves are now off, I see no reason why you shouldn’t employ your infamous charm to even the score.

E-MAIL

From: Dr T Myan, Minister of Antiquities, Saraminda

To: Flora Claibourne, London

My dear Miss Claibourne

You will no doubt have seen sensational reports of the discovery of a rich burial site in Saraminda. As you can guess, we have been overwhelmed with requests from journalists wishing to view this ‘lost princess’, as they have dubbed her.

As a matter of urgency my government has asked me to approach you, as an authority on ancient jewellery and the author of Ashanti Gold, to write about the treasure. Your combination of scholarship and vivid writing would put this truly extraordinary find above lurid exploitation.

I would be grateful if you could respond by return.

Your honoured friend

Tipi Myan

FAX

From: INDIA CLAIBOURNE

To: BRAM GIFFORD

Subject: WORK SHADOWING

Miss Flora Claibourne will be travelling to Saraminda on Wednesday 1st May on a work-related project. Since you will be shadowing her during that month I have made arrangements for you to travel with her. I attach an itinerary for your information.

A car will collect you and deliver you to the airport in good time for the flight. Should you have any queries, please call this office.

CHAPTER ONE

‘SARAMINDA?’ Bram Gifford took the fax from his secretary. ‘Isn’t that some island in the middle of nowhere? One plane a week in the dry season if the pilot’s sober?’

‘Not so. I checked it out on the Internet. Saraminda, according to the sales pitch, is an undiscovered paradise. It’s being touted as the latest luxury “fall off the end of the earth” holiday destination.’

‘Paradise is overrated. It inevitably comes with a serpent.’ He knew that for a fact. He’d got the scars to prove it. ‘Besides, this isn’t luxury, this is a package tour,’ he said as he scanned the fax. ‘Flora Claibourne is the package.’ Then, ‘What “work-related project” could involve a couple of weeks in this doubtful paradise, do you suppose?’

‘Maybe the Claibourne girls are looking into the possibility of opening a local branch to sell designer swimsuits and sun specs to rich tourists?’

Bram pulled a face. ‘Please let it be so. That level of incompetence would be a gift.’

‘But unlikely. Nothing I’ve ever heard about the Claibourne girls suggests they’re incompetent. It’s more likely that Flora’s going to have a look at this “lost princess” they’ve found in some ruins deep in the interior. Dripping with gold and jade and pearls and goodness knows what else.’ She handed him a printout from the tourist department website. ‘Flora Claibourne designs the most stunning jewellery exclusively for the store.’

‘So?’

‘Maybe she’s looking for inspiration.’

He tossed the paper on his desk. ‘More likely it’s some fancy way of keeping me out of the way while their lawyers waste their time searching for some way to prevent us from ousting them.’

‘Maybe it is, but you’ll be shadowing her anyway and it has to beat trailing her around a department store for a month. You could do with a holiday.’

‘This won’t be a holiday.’

‘I’m sure it won’t be as bad as you think. You’ve got a lot in common.’

‘We both have a major holding in a department store. And we both want to be in control,’ he agreed, with just a touch of irony. ‘Whether that will make for a relaxing time, I take leave to doubt.’

‘Is she pretty? Her sisters are lovely but I don’t think I’ve ever seen a photograph of Flora.’

Bram offered her a copy of Ashanti Gold, the latest non-fiction title to grip the public imagination and become a runaway bestseller. ‘Her picture’s on the back,’ he said, leaving her to make up her own mind.

‘Oh, well, I suppose you can’t have everything. You’ll be in paradise; getting Eve would be too much to ask. You’ll just have to lie back, close your eyes and remember how much you want to get your hands on that department store.’

‘Haven’t you got something important to do?’ he asked irritably.

‘Yes, but this is more interesting. I’ll go and make some coffee.’

Left to himself, Bram took out his wallet. At the back, stashed away where no one would see, was a snapshot of a small boy with his puppy. He looked at it for a long time. Then, about to return it to its hiding place, he put it instead in the small pocket provided for such treasures.

It was a timely reminder that he’d thought he’d found paradise once, when he was young enough to believe in such a concept. He’d bitten the apple and found the serpent.

‘You’ve done what?’

‘Don’t look at me like that, Flora Claibourne. You were there when it was arranged for Bram Gifford to shadow you during May. I asked you to put off your trip, but you went ahead and arranged it anyway.’

It had been a matter of self-preservation. Flora didn’t think her sister would accept that as an excuse, however, so she pleaded a higher cause. ‘I can’t put off an invitation from the Saramindan government until it’s more convenient for you, India. You might be pretty big here, but I don’t suppose they’ve ever heard of Claibourne & Farraday.’

‘Nonsense. Their royal family has an account with us.’ She shrugged. ‘But it doesn’t matter. If you won’t stay here and let Mr Gifford watch you at work, he must go with you to Saraminda.’

‘That’s out of the question.’ Flora reached up to capture a handful of untidy curls that had slithered from a comb, twisting them carelessly into a knot on top of her head and anchoring them out of her eyes. ‘And pointless. I don’t know a thing about running Claibourne & Farraday, Indie. I just design the occasional jewellery collection—’

India regarded her younger sister with undisguised exasperation. ‘You do a lot more than that,’ she said. ‘I don’t think you understand just how important you are to us. You bring us your own amazing jewellery designs, new fabrics you’ve picked up on your travels, and before you know it the entire store has been inspired. Last year you went to Africa and this summer everyone’s going to be wearing hot colours and animal prints to go with those gold wire chokers and cuffs. The opposition is scrambling to catch up. But you know what they say about a bandwagon. If you can see it—’

‘You’ve missed it. I know.’

‘And this autumn and winter is going to be fabulous. Celtic silver and platinum jewellery against soft, misty greens and mauves…’

Flora knew when she was being buttered up, and this was buttering on a grand scale. ‘Indie—’

‘Enough. You didn’t object at the time, and one month out of your life is not a lot to ask…’ she paused briefly ‘…considering you’re a director of this company.’

‘That was not my choice. I’m not a businesswoman.’ She’d been railroaded into taking it on in order to show solidarity against the Farradays. ‘I really don’t have the time—’

‘I’ll let you go, Flora—and I promise I’ll never ask you to do another thing for me once this Farraday nonsense is out of the way—but I need you to show total commitment right now. Not next month. Not next year. Now. We have to offer a united front in the face of their attempt to grab control. Please don’t be difficult.’

Flora wanted to be difficult. She wanted to scream and stamp and throw things, just the way her mother did when she didn’t get her way. Knowing from experience just how unattractive that was, she restrained herself. She didn’t give up, though. ‘I’m going there to look at some ancient finery, take some pictures and then write about it, Indie. It’s not a spectator sport,’ she said. ‘And Bram Gifford will not be amused when he finds out that it’s nothing to do with the store.’

‘You’ll have to convince him that it is. Tell him you’re working on next year’s collection. Ask his advice about camera angles if he gets tricky,’ she suggested, abandoning buttering in favour of arm-twisting. ‘Men can’t resist any opportunity to display their superiority. Especially Farraday men,’ she added, with feeling. ‘I just need you to keep Bram Gifford busy and out of my hair while the lawyers work on a strategy to keep them out. It isn’t much to ask.’ She paused only long enough to draw breath. ‘Unless you want to see them move in and take over?’

Flora didn’t care much one way or the other, but she knew better than to say so.

‘The last thing I want is him being left to his own devices, poking around the store, probing into things that don’t concern him,’ India added. ‘And if you leave him behind, that’s what he’ll be doing.’

Flora thought that as a major shareholder Abraham Farraday Gifford had every right to ask difficult questions. But since that was part of the agreement—whichever family was in control ran the place without interference—she didn’t bother to say so. Her apparently watertight excuse to avoid getting involved in this shadowing scheme had just developed a leak.

‘Any progress with the lawyers?’ she asked, infinitely hopeful.

‘Well, the fact that the agreement states control should pass to the “oldest male heir” offers considerable scope on the sex discrimination front, but it isn’t going to hold Jordan Farraday for long. He’s older than I am, so he can surrender the “male” bit without giving away a thing—’

‘After which it’ll be a mad race to see who can produce the first baby Claibourne or Farraday so that the next generation can do this again in another thirty years,’ said Flora. Put like that, maybe she did have a duty to help put an end to such nonsense.

Her sister apparently missed the irony, because she simply shrugged and said, ‘As women, I think we might have the upper hand there.’

Flora doubted that. She strongly suspected that if Bram Gifford called for volunteers, he’d be in severe danger of being trampled in the crush.

‘In the meantime,’ she went on, ‘I’ve got to make my case on the grounds of equality in the workplace. Which means proving I’m Jordan Farraday’s equal.’

‘So prove it. Go ahead and announce your stunning plans for the total revamping of Claibourne & Farraday. Surely that’s the quickest way to demonstrate your capability?’

‘There’s a problem with that.’

Flora waited.

‘I can’t announce my plans right now because they include removing the name Farraday from the store.’

‘What?’

‘I’m going to relaunch it as Claibourne’s. One snappy, modern name instead of two long-winded ones.’

‘Oh, fudge! I really wish you hadn’t told me that.’ Flora really wished she hadn’t asked. She wasn’t good at secrets. Not those kind of secrets. She’d used up her entire store of secrecy genes keeping just one. ‘I can see how that might be…um…’

‘Like waving a red rag at a bull? Inviting court injunctions and goodness knows what else?’

‘I shouldn’t think goodness would have much to do with it.’

‘Which is why you have to keep Bram Gifford occupied for the next month. Try and stun him with one of your flashes of genius—demonstrate just how indispensable you are to the success of the store. I don’t expect him to be on our side, but if he can be neutralised—’

‘You’re not suggesting I neutralise him the way Romana neutralised Niall?’ Flora asked. ‘Because I’m telling you now—’

‘Until they return from their honeymoon we won’t know who neutralised whom,’ she said. ‘I need you, Flora. I really need you.’

That her sister would admit to needing anyone had to be a first. India had always been entirely self-sufficient. But Flora had her own problems. ‘I just don’t see what I can do. I’m going to be working in the museum most of the time and when I’m not there I’m going to have to take a trip into the interior to look at the excavations. It’ll be very short on mod cons and it’s got nothing to do with the store.’ She hoped, if she kept repeating that, India might eventually realise the futility of involving her.

‘Bram Gifford doesn’t have to know that.’

‘Oh, please! His middle name is Farraday. He won’t be that easy to fool.’

‘Then don’t even try. The Tutankhamun treasure inspired the Egyptian look. With a bit of effort your “lost princess” could do the same. Just give us something to work with. And it won’t hurt Mr Gifford to work up a sweat following you through the rainforest.’

‘What about me?’

‘You won’t even notice the discomfort. You never do.’ India finally smiled. ‘It won’t be that bad, Flora. I’ve been doing a little research of my own and, believe me, Bram Gifford is at the top of every girl’s wish list.’

‘Not mine,’ she said, with feeling. She’d seen photographs of him in Celebrity magazine—a golden bear of a man, oozing wealth and power, with an endless succession of lovely women clinging to his arm.

Her mother would adore him.

‘Hey, I’m not suggesting anything serious, but it wouldn’t hurt to flirt with him a little. Just don’t, whatever you do, fall in love with the man.’

The warning was quite unnecessary. If he was going to be dogging her heels, the next month was going to be quite bad enough without making a total fool of herself. Once was more than enough. But she didn’t say that. What she said was, ‘Don’t be silly. There isn’t a girl alive who could meet him without falling in love with him. That’s what men like Bram Gifford are for.’ Her mother had an entire collection of them. But she pulled a face so that India would know she was joking.

India, realising that she’d won, laughed more with relief than amusement. ‘I have the feeling that meeting you will be a unique experience for him.’

Bram leafed through the thick file of newspaper cuttings and magazine articles that in one way or another touched on the life of Flora Claibourne. Other than the dreary formal portrait used on the jacket of her book, which made her look ten years older that she was, and the broadsheet reviews, few concerned her as an individual.

Mostly they included her as an add-on. She was a member of a well-known family whose loves and lives had always provided fodder for newspaper diarists. She didn’t appear to have had any affairs worth reporting, though. Unlike her mother, who was a tabloid editor’s dream.

Peter Claibourne’s second wife had been a model. Tall, leggy and stunningly good-looking in those early photographs. She hadn’t stayed with Claibourne long. She hadn’t stayed with anyone long. She must be in her forties now, although cosmetic surgery and kind lighting made her appear closer to Flora’s age. Maybe that was why they had rarely been seen together much once Flora had grown out of photogenic babyhood. The myth of endless youth would not survive the comparison, and since her latest husband—formerly her personal trainer—was considerably younger than her, that illusion was a necessity.

And Flora might prefer it that way too. It must be tough to be compared with your mother and found wanting.

On those rare occasions on which she’d been forced to put on a long frock and makeup she looked ill at ease, as if desperate to escape and return to the safety of her books. She looked, he decided, like a virgin who didn’t quite know what her body was for.

An innocent little fish just waiting for a cunningly tied fly to be drifted temptingly over the water? It seemed unlikely. She was twenty-six years old. There must be more to her than that.

There was a long ring at the doorbell.

He took one last look at the photograph. It was true that she was no Eve, but it was entirely possible she’d open up like a flower to the sun in response to a little attention. He wouldn’t be closing his eyes, though. He’d be watching her every minute of the day.

Picking up the overnight bag that contained his passport, along with the essentials for coping with a long flight, he went to answer it.

‘Mr Gifford? Your car for the airport, sir.’

Flora Claibourne barely looked up from the notes she was reading as he joined her in the rear of the limousine that was taking them to the airport. Just long enough to nod and say, ‘I’m sorry about dragging you away like this, Mr Gifford. I hope I haven’t inconvenienced you.’

She was wearing a crumpled linen trouser suit in some indescribably drab colour, her hair an untidy bird’s nest inadequately secured with pins and combs. If she’d tried, he thought, she couldn’t have looked less appealing.

He turned on a suitably low-wattage smile to match her cool businesslike manner. Maybe the sun would warm her up.

‘It’s Bram,’ he said. ‘And don’t apologise. A couple of weeks on a tropical island sounds a lot more attractive than following you around a department store.’

‘The whole purpose of this exercise is to demonstrate what it takes to run a department store,’ she pointed out, not bothering with a smile of any kind. Or a return invitation to use her given name.

Prickly, as well as plain. God, he hated women who made no attempt to look attractive, instead challenging the male of the species to hunt for inner beauty and gain his true reward. He had news for her. The average male wasn’t interested in inner beauty. But it wasn’t his job to tell her that. His brief was to find out what was going on behind the scenes at Claibourne & Farraday.

He didn’t think flattery would impress her much either, so he said, ‘If that were the case we’d both be wasting our time. You know nothing and since I’m a lawyer, not a shopkeeper, I’m not especially interested.’

The smile hadn’t made any impression; maybe he could disarm her with frankness. Okay, so he wasn’t being totally frank. He was very interested in getting the Claibournes out and the Farradays in with the minimum amount of fuss. Legally.

‘At least this way I’ll be wasting my time in the sun.’

She glanced at him again without raising her head, just a sideways look—a lift of lashes untroubled by mascara but long and dark enough without it. In any other woman he’d have taken it as the opening move in a game of flirtation, but Flora appeared to be totally oblivious of the effect such a look might provoke. Or maybe she was cleverer than he’d given her credit for. She must have learned something from her mother, even if she’d only absorbed it by osmosis.

‘Have you packed walking boots?’ she asked.

No, she was oblivious, he decided.

‘Should I have?’

She shrugged, as if it was of no particular concern to her whether he had or not. ‘I anticipate taking a trip into the interior. It might be rough going. Of course you don’t have to come with me.’ She reached up and pushed a comb more firmly into the bird’s nest. ‘I’m sure you’d be much happier staying at the beach.’

Roughly translated, that meant, I’d be much happier if you stayed on the beach, he thought. She’d probably be a lot happier if he stayed at home. Well, it wasn’t his role in life to make her happy.

‘On the contrary, Miss Claibourne, I’m along for the ride. Wherever it goes. I’ll be most interested in everything you do.’

She looked doubtful, but didn’t argue, returning to the handwritten notes in the file she was holding, suggesting without words that they were far more interesting that anything he might have to say.

Again, in any other woman he would have assumed it was all part of the game and been amused, but it was clear that Flora Claibourne didn’t play games. She really didn’t care.

Round one to her, then.

His presence ignored, he opened his briefcase and extracted a brand-new hard-back book. Ashanti Gold, by Flora Claibourne.

He, too, began to read.

Flora didn’t miss his attempt to flatter, although why he would bother at all surprised her. Not that it mattered, because she wasn’t impressed. She’d seen all the moves before.

He pushed long, elegant fingers through his shaggy mane of sun-streaked hair, taking it back from his forehead in an unconsciously graceful gesture.

That one was a classic, she thought. And beautifully done, with not a hint of the self-conscious. He made it look like a gesture he’d used all his life—not one he’d practised in front of a mirror.

She still wasn’t impressed. Bram Gifford might consider himself a world-class charmer, but it would take more than the purchase of her book, a faux interest in her subject, to turn her head. But she didn’t say anything.

While he was pretending fascination with the history and uses of gold in West Africa he wasn’t attempting to engage her in conversation, which was just fine with her.

With any luck he’d read all the way to Saraminda.

Saraminda. The name had an exotic ring to it and the island didn’t disappoint, Flora decided, as the small inter-island plane banked steeply to line up with the floor of a tropical valley, offering them a breathtaking view of the mountainous landscape.

The lower slopes were farmed on terraces painstakingly cut into the hills, but above the farms the foothills rose in wave after wave, until they soared into peaks densely thicketed with the dark green vegetation of a rainforest that until recently had hidden the ruins of a temple where a young woman had been buried with all the ceremony of a queen.

Allegedly.

She’d met Tipi Myan briefly at a reception given by the travel department at the store more than a year ago. He hadn’t been Minister of Antiquities then. He’d been running the country’s tourist authority.

Call her cynical, but if she’d been in his shoes she might have been tempted to use that very tenuous acquaintance to ask the author of Ashanti Gold to write about his “lost princess”. It would provoke a lot more interest in his island than an article by some jobbing photo-journalist looking for a story to sell.

It had been his good fortune that she’d been looking for an escape route at the time. One that had backfired on her. As Bram Gifford leaned across her to get a better look, his thick corn-coloured hair catching the sun, the small inner voice that warned her she was being used, grew louder.

She was being used by everyone. All that had changed was her ability to see the game for what it was and ensure that she wasn’t hurt in the process.

‘We’re going up there?’ Bram asked, looking up at mountain peaks gold-misted in the dawn light before turning to her. He was, she thought, heart-meltingly handsome, with warm, toffee-brown eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled. ‘You aren’t bothered about snakes and spiders and creepy-crawlies?’

For pity’s sake! Did she look like a bird-witted fool? Patronising cancelled out toffee-brown eyes—however crinkly their corners—every time.

‘In my experience they have more reason to be scared of me than I have of them,’ she replied matter-of-factly. She’d witnessed the most practised flirts at work, but she’d only been caught once. She was a quick learner, and it would take a lot more than ‘Me Tarzan, you Jane’ to impress her. ‘There are far more unpleasant things in this world than arthropoda,’ she added.

Bram, who’d expected the usual shiver of horror, gave a mental nod in her direction. Not too many women of his acquaintance would have resisted the opportunity to squeal a little, just to boost his ‘big strong man’ quotient. Or used arthropoda in a sentence. But then he was the first to admit that he wasn’t interested in their IQ.

Having neatly put him down, she wasn’t waiting for him to compliment her on her backbone either. He was getting the message, loud and clear, that she didn’t care what he thought.

Instead she began gathering her personal possessions without any fuss, not taking the slightest bit of notice of him.

In his experience this was usually a calculated ploy. Not noticing men had been raised to an art form by a certain type of woman. The kind who wanted to be noticed.

He had to concede that she didn’t appear to be one of them, but he’d reserve judgement.

Right now the early-morning sun, pouring in through the window, was lighting up her tortured hair and glinting off a dozen hairpins. Someone should do her a favour and throw them away, he thought. And those damned combs that she was forever replacing without seeming to notice what she was doing. As if reading his mind, she raised her hands to capture a loose strand of hair and anchor it in place.

Then, as if sensing him watching her, she let her hands drop to her lap. ‘I’m so sorry, I wasn’t thinking. That’s so remiss of me. Are you concerned for your own safety, Mr Gifford?’

This was the nearest they’d come to a conversation in the endless hours of flying. She was still sticking to his surname though, despite his request that she call him Bram. But at least it was a question: a mocking one, to be sure, but one that required an answer. A decided advance on the monosyllabic responses she’d stuck to throughout the long flight.

Clearly a seasoned traveller, she’d eaten little, refused anything but water to drink and slept without fuss when she wasn’t working—although that hadn’t been often. And while they’d waited for their transfer to the Saraminda flight at Singapore she’d toured the shops, looking at everything but buying nothing. And saying even less.

He’d used the time when she’d been sleeping to take a long hard look at Flora Claibourne. She might be clever, but she was a woman, and they all had their weak spots. If he was going to get her to open up to him, trust him, confide in him, he’d have to discover hers.

Of the three Claibourne sisters she most favoured her father in looks. Not much of a start for a girl. On her, the nose only just missed being a disaster. But then all her features were larger than life. She had a full, generous mouth that might have been dangerous if she’d bothered to make the most of it. And eyes that, although a rather undistinguished shade of brown, were strikingly framed by long lashes and fine brows.

It was a face full of character, he decided. Then had recalled his formidable grandmother ticking him off when, as a callow youth, he’d rather unkindly dismissed some girl as plain. ‘Her face may not be pretty, but it has character, Bram,’ she’d told him. ‘And she has lovely skin. That will last long after chocolate-box prettiness has lost its charm.’

He hadn’t been convinced at the time. Still wasn’t. But he had to admit that Flora Claibourne had lovely skin too. In the clear, unforgiving light at thirty thousand feet it had seemed almost translucent, with just the faintest dusting of freckles that had been invisible in the grey London morning they’d left behind them. The kind of skin that without sun block would frazzle to a red, peeling crisp. He hoped she didn’t take her reverse vanity that far.

He’d noticed, too, that asleep she lost the wary look that she disguised well beneath a faintly aggressive attitude. So what, exactly, was she wary of? Him? He hadn’t done anything to warrant wariness. Yet.

Awake, she’d concentrated on work, and he’d known better than to push his company on her. Instead he’d read her book from cover to cover, which was why he now knew more than he’d ever wanted to know about the history of gold working in West Africa. That wasn’t a complaint. She had a lively style and could tell a story. It was just that he hadn’t anticipated reading it all in one go.

To sum up, then, she was aggressively dowdy, wary and clever. In short, everything he disliked in a woman.

She was also, having ignored his presence for most of the flight, now taking the opportunity to poke a little fun at him. She might not have the style of her sisters, but he was beginning to suspect that she wasn’t going to be the push-over he’d anticipated.

A flicker of anticipation rippled through him. An unexpected charge of excitement. It was a long time since the outcome of the chase had seemed so uncertain. Or the stakes so high.

CHAPTER TWO

‘WELL?’ she prompted, still waiting for his answer. ‘Are you scared?’

‘Of spiders? Absolutely terrified of the little beggars,’ he said, the long pause lending authenticity to his apparently reluctant confession. Acknowledging a weakness had, in his experience, never failed to bring out that innate protective instinct that was the birthright of every woman.

Why spoil such a perfect opportunity to evoke her sympathy by telling the truth?

Flora regarded him levelly for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to believe him. Then she said, ‘The plane has come to a stop, Mr Gifford.’ He still didn’t know what she thought. About anything. It was disconcerting, to say the least, and he turned away to peer out of the opposite window at quaint wooden airport buildings that were smothered with flowering climbers.

‘I do believe you’re right, Miss Claibourne,’ he replied, getting to his feet to retrieve their bags and jackets from the overhead locker.

There was a bump as the door was opened and the aircraft was flooded with soft warm air, the smell of aircraft fuel mingling with the scent of the tropics. Musty, spicy, different.

‘This certainly beats London on a grey day in May,’ he said as they walked across the tarmac towards the terminal building.

‘There are no snakes in London,’ she said, automatically rescuing a comb and tucking it back in place. ‘Outside of the zoo. Or poisonous spiders.’ She knew he’d been lying. Or at least suspected as much.

‘There’s always a downside. You can’t have everything.’

‘No, you can’t, Mr Gifford.’ The customs officer waved them through with a smile. ‘You, for instance, can’t have Claibourne’s.’

Taken by surprise at her unexpected mention of the dispute, he was still groping for an appropriate answer when a short slender man, formally attired in a long silk high-necked jacket and a traditional sarong that covered him to his ankles, approached Flora and bowed politely before extending his hand.

‘Miss Claibourne! What a pleasure to meet you again. And how kind of you to come so far to write about our small treasure.’

‘Not at all, Dr Myan. I’d seen reports in the press and I’m excited at the prospect of seeing what you’ve found for myself. May I introduce my colleague, Bram Gifford?’

‘Mr Gifford.’ He covered his surprise with a small bow. ‘Are you an expert in the same field as Miss Claibourne?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘By “colleague” Miss Claibourne was referring to other interests we have in common.’

‘Oh?’ Then, with a bland look that didn’t entirely hide a touch of pique, he drew his own conclusion as to what that might be. ‘Oh, I see. Well, I’m sure you’ll enjoy your stay, Mr Gifford. Maybe we can arrange some excursions for you while Miss Claibourne is working,’ he added. ‘Saraminda is a lovely country. Wonderfully peaceful,’ he stressed.

‘Peace and love. I’m all for it,’ he said.

The flash of annoyance that had crossed Flora’s face at the man’s unspoken assumption that ‘colleague’ in this instance meant ‘lover’—and his implicit response—was the first unconsidered reaction he’d got from her. He didn’t give her a chance to clarify the situation.

‘But I’ll give the excursions a miss, thanks all the same. I’ll be sticking close to Flora.’ A man would hardly call his ‘colleague’ Miss Claibourne, now, would he? ‘Whatever she does.’

Dr Myan said nothing, but his silence was eloquent. Did he fancy her himself? Bram wondered as he turned away and ushered Flora in the direction of a long black car with official numberplates, leaving him to follow in their wake with the porter.

It seemed unlikely. She was six inches taller and didn’t dress to turn heads. Maybe it was her mind he admired. Or maybe he’d expected her undivided attention and was peeved that she wasn’t quite as single-mindedly interested in his affairs as he’d hoped.

If that was the case, the ride in from the airport should have reassured him. She spent the journey bombarding the man with questions about the items that had been found—keen to know when she could go up into the mountains to visit the site where they had been excavated, eager to take photographs for the article she was writing.

‘You wish to see the tomb?’ he enquired. ‘But why? There’s nothing there.’

‘Even so, I think I should see it.’

‘It’s a difficult journey, Miss Claibourne. Hard even for a man,’ he said, which Bram thought was probably a mistake. ‘A long walk up into the mountains. Besides, it isn’t necessary,’ he reiterated. ‘The treasure is all at the museum.’

‘But you asked if I wanted to see it,’ she reminded him. ‘And I do need to look at the excavations, perhaps link decoration of the tomb with the designs of the jewellery.’

‘I’m sorry.’ His expression was that of deep regret. ‘It is not possible.’

‘Not possible?’ she asked. ‘Why?’

Maybe Saramindan women didn’t ask questions. Dr Myan clearly assumed his word would be sufficient. He wasn’t prepared to offer explanations and for a moment floundered. ‘The tremor…there was more damage than we first thought. We cannot take the risk,’ he said, like a man clutching at passing straws.

‘Are you taking steps to stabilise the structure?’ Bram asked.

‘Plans are being made. Engineers are being consulted,’ he said carefully, as if weighing every word before uttering it. Flora glared at him for giving Tipi Myan a chance to evade her persistent questions. ‘And we will restore everything so that visitors will see it as it should be seen. When it’s safe. We are already making plans to build a lodge nearby for visitors, in traditional style, so that when they have seen the tomb they will be able to enjoy the ambience of a tropical forest in complete comfort.’

‘If the climb up there doesn’t kill them,’ Flora muttered.

‘You’re going for the eco-tourist market?’ Bram asked.

‘We have many beautiful flowers, butterflies—’

Flora had had enough. ‘That is very interesting, Dr Myan, but I must have photographs of the tomb for my article,’ she persisted.

Bram reached out and took her hand to distract her. She turned to him with a frown. He said nothing, but she got the message just the same. She wasn’t going to get anywhere by pestering Dr Myan. She retrieved her hand without fuss and let the subject drop.

‘Ah, we have arrived.’ And, having delivered them safely to a new luxury resort complex, the man excused himself with almost indecent haste, claiming an urgent appointment. ‘I will return after the holiday. Rest, enjoy yourselves. This is a charming resort.’

‘Holiday? What holiday?’

‘It is a religious feast day tomorrow.’

‘Holiday,’ she repeated with disgust, when he’d gone. ‘I’ve flown halfway round the world to see a tomb that is apparently out of bounds and now I’m told to sit and twiddle my thumbs while everything stops for a holiday. What on earth am I going to do tomorrow?’ she demanded.

Bram could think of a dozen things. However, since she was clearly outraged at having travelled so far to the see all the riches of Saraminda only to be kept waiting, he thought it wiser not to suggest sun-bathing or sightseeing as an alternative.

Instead he dealt with the formalities at Reception before they were led through the gardens to a traditional bungalow set in a garden that ran down to the beach.

Built of local timber and beautifully thatched, with a wide veranda facing the sea to catch the breeze, the single-storey, self-contained cottage offered the perfect image of a tropical holiday paradise.

He hadn’t realised an academic author warranted such red carpet treatment. Of course it was just possible that the tourist authority wanted Flora Claibourne to see what was on offer, hoping she’d go home and tell her equally wealthy friends.

They were, he thought, doomed to disappointment. Beyond a request that the air conditioner be turned off, Flora appeared as oblivious to her surroundings as she was to her appearance. She was far more interested in the photographs that Tipi Myan had left with her—none of them of the tomb—than in the simple luxury of their accommodation.

Of course it was always possible that Claibourne & Farraday had booked the accommodation when they’d organised his ticket. Maybe that was why they had one of the larger bungalows with two bedrooms, since the Minister of Antiquities had quite obviously not been expecting him. Hadn’t been particularly pleased to see him. Maybe Dr Myan thought he’d distract the lady from her work.

He needn’t have worried. Bram thought he’d never seen anyone so focused.

‘Breakfast, Flora?’ he prompted, when she didn’t seem to hear the hotel porter’s question.

She frowned at him, irritated by the interruption or perhaps by the use of her name. ‘What?’ Then, registering his question, ‘Oh, no.’ She found a smile for the young man waiting anxiously to please her. ‘Just some tea. Thank you,’ she said, before returning to the photographs.

It had been the interruption, then. Pity. For a minute there he’d thought he’d got her attention. Apparently that was reserved for hammered gold. Very old hammered gold.

He picked up one of the large glossy prints, a photograph of a small, exquisitely chased cup. ‘Is this what all the fuss is about?’

‘It’s not a fuss.’ She took the photograph away from him, looked at it for a moment. ‘If the finds are genuine…’ She trailed off, distracted by a detail.

‘If?’ he prompted. She seemed taken aback by his question. ‘You said If the finds are genuine…’

‘Did I? I must be more careful not to do my thinking out loud. Dr Myan would be deeply offended at any suggestion of doubt.’

‘But?’

She looked again at the photograph before returning it to the pile. ‘But I wouldn’t commit myself on the strength of some photographs. No matter how good. And not without seeing the site of the excavation.’

‘Why would you need to see it? You’re an expert in jewellery, not archaeology.’

‘They want my name on an article in a leading British newspaper. For that I need more than pretty pictures of treasure. I need background.’ She did some business with her hair, combing up loose strands and tucking them out of the way, then, ‘You stopped me from pushing that. Why?’

The combs were a prop, he realised with a belated flash of insight. She used them as a defence mechanism, lifting her arms to fiddle with them, putting a barrier between them, cutting off eye contact. As if embarrassed that she’d questioned him so directly.

She wasn’t anywhere near as cool as she would have him believe. In fact she was as nervous as a kitten.

Of him?

He’d done nothing to provoke such a reaction.

‘The subject appeared to make him uncomfortable,’ he said at last.

‘I wonder why?’

For a moment it seemed that they were both having the same thought. That Dr Myan had something to hide. Then she retreated from their silent complicity, returning to the photographs like a snail ducking into its shell.

‘I just can’t believe I’m going to have to waste two days before I get a chance to look at this for myself,’ she declared, with sufficient vigour to suggest her nervousness had nothing to do with him. But he suspended judgement. Flora Claibourne was a lot more complex than he’d expected.

‘It doesn’t have to be a waste of time,’ he pointed out. ‘I’m sure there’s more to the island than a mysterious tomb. That beach looks inviting, for a start. I hope you packed a swimsuit along with your walking boots.’

She looked up at him, then turned quickly away to look out across the garden. ‘It never occurred to me,’ she said. ‘But don’t let me stop you enjoying yourself.’ She opened her laptop, switched it on and plugged it into a telephone point.

About to suggest that she’d be wiser putting her feet up, taking a nap, he thought better of it. Patronising her was not going to make him Mr Popularity, and so, leaving her to it, he went in search of his bag. It was set alongside Flora’s in a large, airy bedroom with a steeply pitched raftered ceiling.

There was a total absence of clutter that he found pleasing. Just acres of dark, polished wooden floor broken only by blue and gold native rugs. There was nothing else to distract from the four-poster bed. Draped in sheer creamy cloth that stirred in the faint breeze, it was very picturesque. Very inviting.

Somehow he didn’t think Flora would be amenable to taking his declared intention to stick close to her ‘…whatever she did…’ that literally, no matter what Dr Myan might be thinking. Retrieving his bag, he moved on to the next room, which was almost identical, with a luxurious bathroom and a large walk-in wardrobe. All it lacked was a warm and eager woman to share the long tropical nights with him.

What he’d got was Flora.

It was just as well that enjoyment was the last thing on his mind right now. He felt as if he’d been travelling for ever. He wanted a shower and then he wanted to sleep. That bed looked mighty inviting.

But he knew that beating jet lag was best served by keeping local hours, and so, virtuously ignoring the siren lure of clean white linen, he took a long, cool, wake-up shower.

Flora tapped in the password to her laptop, her eyes more interested in the back view of Bram Gifford disappearing in the direction of the bedrooms.

What on earth was the man playing at? Okay, the Claibourne & Farraday thing wasn’t anyone’s business but their own, but he’d as good as implied that they were lovers. Tipi Myan had certainly thought so.

What had she been playing at, doing nothing to correct that impression?

She rubbed her hands over her face in an attempt to keep herself awake. At the time it had seemed too complicated to explain—at least that was what she’d told herself. Too complicated and none of Tipi Myan’s business.

She frowned. Despite the man’s fawning welcome, it was clear that something had happened since she’d spoken to him on the phone and agreed to write the article.

She found herself clenching the hand that Bram had taken in silent warning, reliving the moment when their minds had had but one single thought. It had made them—for a heartbeat—partners, allies, on the same side against the world.

She rubbed her palm over her fist, as if to eradicate the memory of his touch. It had been too familiar. Everything about him was too familiar. As was her reaction to him. But then women always fell in love with the same man, over and over again. They never learned, so it was said.

Perhaps she was smarter than most women. Or maybe her lesson had been harder taught. Because she’d put up her defences and now neither her famous name nor her money was sufficient inducement to tempt a man to look in her direction twice. And, if he did, it simply proved he had ulterior motives. A lose-lose situation for any man who bothered.

Bram Gifford was different, though. He didn’t want her money: he had more than enough to last several lifetimes. Nor did he seek the cachet of her famous name. He had his own, right there between the Bram and the Gifford. He was a Farraday to his fingertips.

He only wanted one thing from her. To discover her weaknesses and use them against her and her family.

With her mind quite straight on that point, she reached for her keyboard, setting the search engine to hunt for any reference to Saraminda, hoping to find some clue as to what on earth was going on.

Bram felt almost human. All he needed was coffee and food and he’d make it through the day.

Probably.

He dressed quickly in a pair of comfortable shorts and a faded T-shirt that had been washed duster-soft. Then he padded barefoot out onto the veranda and stretched out on a cane armchair, where the waiter found him when he brought him a light breakfast.

He signed the chit and thanked the young man, who continued to hover a little anxiously. ‘Sir,’ he said. ‘Sir—madam is sleeping.’

She’d finally wound down and gone for a nap, had she? He was relieved to hear it. She must have been running on empty. He’d done that in the past, just kept going, his body clock all over the place, his brain running on pure adrenalin. There was always a payback.

‘Don’t worry. She’ll have tea later.’

‘No, sir. Madam sleeps in her chair.’ He crossed his arms and lowered his head on them in a mime to show exactly how she’d gone to sleep, with her head on her arms at the desk.

‘Oh, I see.’ Not so good. He’d done that too, and he knew from experience that when she woke it would be with muscles screaming and her neck in urgent need of an osteopath. ‘I’ll take care of it.’

He walked along the veranda to the living room and paused in the doorway, grinning despite himself. She must have crashed out over the keyboard not long after he’d left her. The laptop was switched on. It was still connected to the Internet: her head was pressed against the keyboard and the screen was going crazy.

He touched her shoulder lightly. She didn’t stir. He gave it a little shake. She grumbled and turned her head away from him so that he could see the imprint of the keys at her temple. And carried on sleeping.

Her mind, after running almost continually for twenty-four hours, had finally shut down on her.

He didn’t blame it.

He closed the Internet connection, switched off the laptop and then addressed the problem of getting her to bed. She was tall, and far from stick-thin. Beneath the shapeless suit she had an old-fashioned quantity of figure which was made for body-hugging dresses and high-cut one-piece bathing suits.

The downside of that was the risk of putting his own back in traction if he wasn’t very careful how he lifted her.

But he couldn’t leave her slumped in the chair. She’d wake with every muscle screaming in protest.

Or course if she woke up in his arms it wouldn’t be just the muscles that screamed.

He shifted his attention to her ear, stroking the tips of his fingers over the warm outer edge in a manner guaranteed to wake all but the soundest of sleepers. No earrings, just tiny gold studs, he noticed. She wore no jewellery of any kind. Wasn’t that odd in a woman whose life apparently revolved around the stuff?

All that stirred was a comb, which slipped from its tenuous mooring.

He caught it and stuffed it in his pocket. Then, telling himself he’d undoubtedly be sorry for this later, he bent down and, with one arm beneath her knees and the other round her waist, picked her up.

Her head rolled against his shoulder, combs and pins falling in a noisy shower so that her hair began to fall in loose skeins around her shoulders, catching the light. It was a lot longer than he’d realised.

Why?

Hair was sensuous, almost erotic stuff. Man-bait.

Why would a woman who cared so little about her appearance cling to something that she didn’t use to enhance her appearance? Hair that appeared to cause her endless bother?

Why, when on the surface she appeared such a straightforward, uncomplicated woman, were there so many curious contradictions?

Shifting her dead weight so that he took some of the strain against his chest, he took a cautious step, biting back a harsh expletive as one of his bare feet found the upturned teeth of a comb.

Flora didn’t stir. She was dead to the world. Out of it.

As he carried her into her bedroom he began to wish he’d succumbed to temptation and hit the sack himself.

But it didn’t last for ever and he finally put her down on the bed as gently as he could. He wasn’t sure why he was bothering. She probably wouldn’t have woken up if he’d just dropped her on it. And she wouldn’t thank him for his trouble anyway.

She’d just look at him with those wary eyes that gave away nothing, absolutely nothing, and tell him he shouldn’t have bothered.

What was it with her anyway? He wasn’t a monster. Women usually liked him. He had a lot of friends who were women. And a lot of ex-girlfriends who would be happy to see him in hell, he acknowledged. The ones who’d banked on something more permanent.

Maybe Flora was saving time by cutting out the fun bit in between and going straight for the second option.

He’d already decided that she was clever.

He took off her shoes. She had long, narrow feet. Elegant, he thought, although the blue nail polish came as something of a surprise. What kind of woman painted her toenails when no one was going to see them? And didn’t paint her fingernails, which they would?

What kind of woman kept long, difficult hair, and then stuffed it up in an untidy bird’s nest on top of her head?

One with pretty feet. And a pair of very classy ankles.

He put her shoes beside the bed and set about removing her jacket. It was already creased beyond any remedy other than a very hot iron, which proved the linen was the genuine article. No surprise there. But she’d sleep more comfortably without it, in the jersey silk tank she was wearing beneath it.

He sat on the bed and pulled her up into a sitting position. She slumped against him like an exhausted child, her face squashed against his neck. She’d probably kill him if she woke up now, he thought. But he eased off the jacket and dropped it on the floor and didn’t rush to let her go.

If he was going to die, he might as well do something worth dying for. And, with her head still resting against his shoulder, he carefully removed all the pins and combs from her hair.

It descended, heavy and dark, the colour of bittersweet chocolate, over his hands and down her back. He shook it loose, spreading its astonishing silky length through his fingers before he laid her gently back against the pillow and stood back.

Not exactly Sleeping Beauty, but a lot closer than he would ever have imagined when he’d joined her in the back seat of that limousine in the grey chill of a London morning.

It seemed pointless, after such intimacy, to be coy about taking off her trousers. He accomplished that final kindness without difficulty, scarcely pausing to notice that her knickers were not of the plain, functional kind, but were expensive, French, black. And fitted like a second skin.

Or that her legs matched her ankles very nicely.

That would be taking unfair advantage.

He drew the drapes to keep off any curious insects that might fly in, then, closing the louvre doors to the veranda behind him and leaving her to sleep, returned to his delayed breakfast.

To consider the conundrum that was Flora Claibourne. The woman hiding behind the disguise of a plain, spinsterish academic. All she’d left out was a pair of spectacles, he thought.

Ones with heavy tortoiseshell frames—to match the combs.

CHAPTER THREE

FLORA woke feeling muzzy-headed, dry and aching in all her joints. She also felt slightly hungover, as if she’d been sitting in one position for too long. Then she remembered. She had.

Not been drinking too much, just sitting in one position for hours and hours and hours. In a plane. With Bram Gifford.

Working to avoid talking. Working in an effort to stave off the tension caused by his presence.

She’d thought she’d got over her problem with men like him, with their good looks, easy smile, natural charm. Had it under control.

Apparently not. The moment he’d stepped into the car it had all come flooding back. The shame. The painful humiliation.

The hot, sweet rush of desire.

It wasn’t fair to blame Bram Gifford, take it out on him. He was a man who worked hard and played hard. And made no pretence of being interested in her. She’d try and be nicer to him. She owed it to India.

She sat up, easing her limbs, then blinked, thinking there was something wrong with her eyes. But it wasn’t her eyes that were misted, just the sheer drapes pulled around the bed.

She pushed them aside, swung her feet to the floor and, finding a bottle of mineral water on the night table, opened it and took a long drink as she looked about her. She must have crashed fairly spectacularly since she hadn’t even noticed the bedroom. It wasn’t surprising. She’d been on the go non-stop for the best part of two days.

The only surprise was that she’d managed to get to bed at all. Divested of most of her clothes and with her hair loose, her hairpins and precious antique combs neatly laid out in a row by the bed—all but one of them, anyway—was quite an achievement. She checked her hair for the missing comb, but it must have slipped out somewhere.

The last time she’d flown long-haul she’d woken up with her head on her desk, a crick in her neck that it had taken a week to straighten out and a hairpin jammed in the keyboard of her laptop.

If Bram Gifford had found her like that… Well, she preferred not to think about the kind of impression that would have made. India, quite rightly, would have thrown a hissy fit.

She stood up, did a few stretches. What did the man want, for heaven’s sake? He made her so nervous with all that quiet consideration. He was too serious. She didn’t believe it. It had to be an act. She just knew he was laughing at her… She stopped herself.

Why would he be laughing? He didn’t even want to be here. She had nothing that he wanted.

Except control of Claibourne & Farraday.

As for being serious, wasn’t it more likely that he was thoroughly bored? Fed-up with having to trail around after her when he could be hitting the high-life at some fashionable resort packed with pretty girls eager for a holiday flirtation.

At least he hadn’t flirted with her.

Despite the lack of encouragement, in her experience men like him could rarely resist any opportunity to set female hearts fluttering.

If her mother was busy, they’d practise on her.

Just to keep their hand in.

Most of them had meant no harm. They might even have thought they were being kind. Clearly she’d been desperate for attention.

They had been right. She had. Until she’d learned that not all attention was good. Too late. But she’d learned.

Bram Gifford must wonder what he had to do to get some response from her. She hadn’t even squealed entertainingly at the thought of bugs in her sleeping bag. She was no fun at all, she told herself sternly, and caught herself grinning.

And on that cheering note she decided it was time for a shower and something to eat.

Twenty minutes later, wrapped in a towelling robe and with her hair in a turban, she padded back into the bedroom to look for something to wear. She picked up her wristwatch. It was gone three in the afternoon. No wonder she was hungry.

She crossed to the louvre doors and opened them. They were on the east of the island and the veranda was pleasantly shaded—something that Bram Gifford, stretched out on a cane lounger in a pair of shorts and T-shirt, was taking full advantage of.

He had terrific legs, she thought, before she could stop herself from looking. Sportsman’s legs—but more tennis pro than footballer, she thought. She’d become good at spotting the differences. Her mother loved sportsmen.

‘Feeling better?’ he asked, peeling off a pair of dark glasses and looking up from the latest bestselling legal thriller. Well, he was a lawyer. Maybe he was hoping to pick up some useful tips.

She fought down the urge to beat an immediate retreat to the safety of her bedroom, instead pulling the towel from her hair and shaking it out to dry naturally in the warmth. ‘Yes, thanks,’ she said, taking a wide-toothed comb from her pocket. Sleeping with her hair lose had its downside, she decided, easing it through the knots. ‘Hungry, though.’

‘There’s an all-day restaurant over by the pool. I checked it out when I had a look around earlier. The food’s good. There’s a shop, too.’ He indicated the book. ‘It has all the latest bestsellers. Including yours.’

‘They knew I was coming,’ she replied, unimpressed. ‘You didn’t take a nap?’

‘I made do with a swim. It’s better to tough it out if you can, keep local hours.’

‘Yes, well, not all of us are superhuman.’ She winced as the comb caught a tangle.

‘I’m not criticising, Flora. I got more sleep than you did on the plane, that’s all.’ He got up. ‘Here, let me do that.’ He took the comb from her, lifted a hank of wet hair and began to carefully tease through a difficult knot.

She kept very still. He was just combing through her hair, she told herself. It didn’t mean a thing. But her body wasn’t listening. It hadn’t been this close, this intimate with a man in a long time, and every cell seemed to swivel in his direction, attracted by the warm scent of his skin, the small, careful movements of his hand as he worked at the knot. His hair, gleaming in the bright air, slid forward as he bent to his task; the space between his eyes creased in concentration.