“I find you very attractive,” she hurried on, “but the idea of being married to you—if that’s what we are—is ridiculous. And I certainly don’t want an affair with you.”

“Really?” he said politely. “I can think of plenty of words to describe such a marriage, but ridiculous doesn’t come to mind. As for the affair—I thought we’d already had it.”

“We spent a few days together,” she corrected, gripped by intolerable anguish. Yet she had to send him out of her life. “I’m sorry, but a tropical fling is not expected to last beyond the tropics. I’ll always be grateful to you for saving my life, because I suspect that’s what you did.”

“Stop right there,” he advised with an inflection so deadly it chilled her into temporary paralysis. “If you’re telling me that you slept with me out of gratitude, I’ll just have to show you that you’re wrong.”

By Royal Command
Robyn Donald

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

PROLOGUE

WHEN the hair on the back of Guy Bagaton’s neck lifted, he finished cracking a joke with the bartender before straightening to his full, impressive height and allowing his tawny gaze to drift casually across sand as white as talcum powder.

A woman was coming towards the bar, the fierce Pacific sun summoning blue flames from her hair as she emerged from the feathery shade of the coconut palms. Camouflaged by the woven side panels of the bar, Guy admired the way her crimson sarong set off bare white shoulders. On her the all-purpose cover-all looked coolly sophisticated, especially paired with frivolous sandals that emphasised long, elegant legs. Yet he’d be prepared to bet she hadn’t come to the resort to lie in the sun; in spite of the sarong and the erotic sway of her hips, she walked with purpose.

Guy’s body stirred in primal interest. ‘Who is that?’ he asked the bartender, pitching his voice so that it wouldn’t travel.

The barman looked up. ‘That’s Ms Lauren Porter—got in on the plane from Atu a couple of hours ago. She’s staying two nights.’

‘I see,’ Guy said without expression.

When the manager had rung Guy an hour previously, disturbed because their newest guest had broached her intention of visiting a mountain village, the name had rung bells somewhere in his mind. It hadn’t taken him long to trace the thin thread of memory to its source—a conversation a few months ago with one of his cousins, an elderly Bavarian princess who had a keen nose for gossip and a connoisseur’s eye for a good-looking man.

‘I noticed you talking to Marc Corbett and his charming wife,’ she said after one of her famous dinner parties. ‘I wonder if Paige knows that he keeps an English mistress.’

‘I doubt it,’ Guy said curtly. Paige Corbett had struck him as straightforward and very much in love with her husband, a magnate with varied interests and a reputation for honest dealing.

‘Not many people do; they are very discreet and never seen together, but of course you can’t stop gossip—someone always knows. She is a Miss Lauren Porter, who is long-legged and beautiful and English. She works in his business. Very clever, I’m told. She has been close to him for years now.’

Guy raised his brows but said nothing.

The elderly princess nodded. ‘And now you don’t like him very much. Even as a child you had a rigid sense of honour. I like that in a man—it’s so rare.’

He’d smiled cynically down at her, but his respect for Marc Corbett had lessened. When Guy made promises he kept them.

Now, narrowing his eyes against the tropical sun, he watched Lauren Porter approach the bar. Her travel arrangements had been made by the Corbett organisation, so this had to be the same woman.

What the hell was she doing here?

When she got close enough for him to see her face, he blinked in something like shock and inhaled swiftly. An enchantress—no wonder she kept Marc Corbett on a leash! Skin like silk, large eyes so pale a grey they glinted uncannily like crystals, and a mouth sultry enough to set the world aflame, allied to a body that gave new meaning to the words sexual chemistry—Lauren Porter had all the necessary attributes for a mistress.

Why did she plan to visit a small, dirt-poor village in the mountains? It had to be business, and so it had to be connected to Marc Corbett, who had fingers in all sorts of industrial pies around the world.

Ignoring the reckless drumming of lust through his body, he frowned and watched her veer away from the bar and disappear into the reception area. He’d better go and find out what she was up to.

It shouldn’t be too difficult to persuade her not to leave the resort; women who looked as though they’d just emerged from a fashion magazine scared easily. He’d mention that mountain cockroaches were huge, follow it up with an allusion to leeches, and she’d probably pass out.

Yet even as he grinned derisively, that sense of unease, of prospective danger, thickened around him. Although he had no information to back it up, the tenuous foreboding had been correct too often to dismiss; a couple of times it had saved his life.

He should have collected his mobile phone from the office before coming down to the resort.

‘So you’ve heard nothing about any problems,’ he said to the bartender.

The man shrugged. ‘There’s talk,’ he said, ‘but on Sant’Rosa we talk a lot.’

‘Sit in the bush and drink grog and gossip,’ Guy returned tolerantly. ‘OK, forget I asked.’

The young man had been polishing glasses. He stopped now and looked up, the concern in his dark eyes and dark face mirrored in his tone. ‘What have you heard?’

‘Nothing,’ Guy told him truthfully. ‘Not a single thing, but you know me— I like to gossip too.’

‘War,’ the bartender said wearily, picking up another glass. ‘We hoped it had finished, but since this preacher started talking about John Frumm bringing in food and drink and cigarettes and all the good things from America, people are getting nervous.’

‘I know. Just keep your eyes and ears open, will you?’ Guy nodded towards the reception area. ‘I think I’ll go and make the acquaintance of Ms Porter.’

And once he’d convinced her a trip into the mountains wasn’t feasible, he’d talk to the receptionist. She came from a village close by the border, so she might have heard something that would explain the elemental warning running down his spine like a cold finger.

The younger man grinned. ‘That Ms Porter, she’s pretty—skinny, though. Don’t know why you Europeans like skinny women.’ He shook his head over the weird tastes of western men, then added, ‘She’s nice—she smiles and talks to you when you carry her bags.’

She wasn’t smiling when Guy stopped just outside the door to the entry lobby; she was talking so intently she hadn’t noticed him arrive.

Recalling a fairy tale his English nanny had read to him, he thought, Hair black as coal, skin white as snow, lips red as roses…

Up close, she wasn’t beautiful, but with a mouth that fuelled erotic dreams, who cared? His body certainly didn’t; it was at full alert.

Yet in spite of that mouth and the high, small breasts and slim waist beneath the sarong, Lauren Porter was all poised control, even though she wasn’t getting what she wanted.

Time to bring on the cockroaches, Guy decided ironically, and stepped inside out of the sun.

CHAPTER ONE

LAUREN frowned. ‘Do you mean it’s impossible to get to this village?’

The receptionist hesitated before saying cautiously, ‘It is not impossible, ma’am, but it is difficult.’

‘Why?’

Anxious brown eyes avoided Lauren’s in a respectful manner. ‘The road is too dangerous, ma’am.’

On Sant’Rosa the word road was used loosely; the memory of the minibus juddering violently sent a reminiscent twinge through Lauren’s body. And that was on the road from the airport to the resort.

The prospect of tackling an even worse route wasn’t pleasant. So what, she thought grimly, was new? Nothing about this side trip had been easy.

Not for the first time, she wished she hadn’t promised to check out Paige’s favourite charity. In London it had seemed simple, a mere matter of breaking her journey to a New Zealand holiday with a couple of days on a tropical island.

Ha! Her flight to Singapore had been delayed so she’d missed the connection, and as she hadn’t got to Sant’Rosa until after midnight she’d had to wait for the early-morning plane to the South Coast.

After only a couple of hours’ sleep, her head was aching, her eyes were gritty, and her smile was hurting her lips. And now this! She pushed a stray strand of damp black hair back from her cheek. ‘What about public transport?’

Still avoiding her gaze, the receptionist stopped shuffling papers to adjust the scarlet hibiscus behind one ear. ‘Ma’am, there is nothing suitable for you.’

‘I’m perfectly happy to go on the local bus,’ Lauren said crisply.

The woman looked harried. ‘It is not suitable,’ she repeated. ‘And that village is very alone—apart.’

The village had set up an export venture that involved a factory, so it couldn’t be too isolated. A steely note running through her words, Lauren persisted, ‘In that case, where can I hire a car?’

From behind a hard masculine voice drawled, ‘You can’t. There are no car-hire firms on the South Coast.’

Lauren stiffened, every sense sounding alarms. The new arrival’s voice—deep, subtly infused with irony—oozed male confidence.

Slowly she turned. Although tall, she had to look up to meet half-closed topaz eyes between lashes as dark as her most forbidden desire. Her stomach—normally an obedient organ not given to independent action—lurched, then dropped into free fall.

Inanely she repeated, ‘No car-hire firms?’

‘Lady, the closest car-hire firm is in the capital, and that, as you already know, is an hour’s flight away over a mountain range.’

He infused the word lady with a slow, purring sexuality that fanned over her skin like the warm breath of a lover. And where did that thought come from? Clutching her tattered dignity around her, she asked crisply, ‘Then how can I get to this village?’

Because she couldn’t pronounce the name she thrust out the slip of paper Paige had given her.

His expression altered in some subtle way as he examined it, but his tone didn’t change. ‘I doubt if you can. The last rains brought down half a mountain onto the road.’

‘Surely they’ve fixed it.’

One dark brow—his left, she noticed—lifted in sardonic amusement. ‘The locals walk it, and as you may have noticed, Sant’Rosa hasn’t yet flung itself headlong into tourism. It’s still trying to get over a civil war.’

‘I know that.’ Someone should tell him that the purpose of designer stubble was to emphasise boldly chiselled features, not blur them. And his black hair needed cutting.

A second glance convinced her that the shadow across his jaws and cheeks wasn’t for effect—this man hadn’t shaved because he didn’t care what people thought of him. From the corner of her eye she catalogued the rest of his assets, admitting reluctantly that the overlong black hair had been well cut, and stubble couldn’t hide strong bones and a mouth that combined sculpted beauty with a suggestion of ruthlessness.

An elusive flash of memory teased her brain. Somewhere she had seen him…or someone who looked like him?

Startled, she pinned a brief, dismissive curve to her lips. Of course she didn’t recognise him! An unkempt expatriate on an island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean was as far out of her ken as an alien. The men she met as a junior executive wore suits and strove for worldliness. This beachcomber, clad in an old black T-shirt and trousers, looked as though neither the word sophistication nor the concept existed for him.

She took a deep breath and spoke clearly and carefully. ‘Can I fly in? Ms Musi—’ she indicated the receptionist, who was gazing at the newcomer as though he’d saved her from a shark ‘—tells me that the local public transport isn’t suitable.’

‘She’s right.’

‘Why?’

His eyes glinted. ‘Would you be happy to travel on the back of an elderly, bullet-holed truck with no shelter from the sun and no seats?’

‘If I had to,’ she said curtly.

‘And cockroaches.’ No malice coloured the words as he said, ‘Big, black ones. If you go to sleep they chew your toenails.’

Hoping he couldn’t see her skin crawl, she snapped, ‘I can cope with the local fauna.’

‘I doubt it,’ he drawled. ‘If you’re really determined to get there, you could try walking.’ He inspected her without haste before adding gravely, ‘But if you go like that you’d better invest in some sunscreen.’

Who was this sarcastic newcomer with mocking eyes and far too much presence? The manager? Hardly, but it was typical of this trip into the wilds of the Pacific Ocean that she should be confronted by a scruffy dead-beat with an attitude—and a bewildering, raw sex appeal that set every treacherous nerve in her body jangling into awareness.

Her composure evaporating under the impact of his lazily appreciative smile, Lauren stiffened. All right, so the pretty sarong in her favourite shade of crimson revealed an uncomfortable amount of white skin, but she wasn’t an idiot! Forcing her voice into its usual confident tone, she asked, ‘How long would that take me?’

‘It depends how fast you walk. Don’t stop for long or leeches will bite you. Do you know how to take a leech off your skin? Remove the small end first—’

The receptionist broke in. ‘Mr Guy is making a joke, ma’am, because it is too far for you to walk.’ She gave him a shocked look, as though this wasn’t what she expected from him. ‘It takes two days to come by walking, ma’am.’

Mr Guy didn’t exactly tell her who this man was, but at least his name gave her a handle.

In a voice that blended satire with long-suffering, he said, ‘Your travel agent should have warned you that this region is pretty much without civilisation.’ He paused a fraction of a second before finishing, ‘As you’d know it, anyway.’

‘As you know nothing about me, I’m going to ignore that remark!’ Furious with herself for letting him get to her, she reined in her temper.

Fortunately the receptionist burst into the local language and the newcomer turned to listen, obviously understanding every word.

Skimming a cold grey glance over the T-shirt and trousers moulded lovingly to long, powerful legs and lean hips, Lauren was forced to revise her first impression. This was no loser. His thrusting bone structure—high cheekbones and a chin that took on the world—spoke of a total lack of compromise.

And now that he’d dropped the mocking veneer, neither old clothes nor villainous stubble could hide his formidable authority. Beneath the beachcomber persona was pure alpha male, testosterone and arrogance smoking off his bronzed hide like an aura. Untamed, certainly, but—intriguing, if you fancied men who looked as though they could deal with anything up to and including marauding Martians.

In other words, she thought hollowly, just the sort of man to take her to Paige’s pet village—if she could ignore the instincts that warned her to run like crazy in the opposite direction.

He looked up, meeting her sideways glance with a coolly speculative survey.

Lauren’s self-possession crumbled under an awareness as steamy and ruthless as the tropical heat. Not my type! she thought fiercely. She preferred men with at least basic social skills. More colour stung her skin, fading swiftly at the note of desperation in the receptionist’s tone.

Black brows meeting above a nose that hinted at Roman gladiators, the newcomer posed several staccato questions, to which the woman responded with increasing reluctance.

Feeling like an eavesdropper, Lauren examined a rack of postcards. Fans hummed softly overhead, sending waves of sultry air over her bare arms. The small resort promised total relaxation, and what it lacked in modern luxuries it made up for in exquisite beauty and peace. Until this man appeared she hadn’t missed air-conditioning a bit.

Now, in spite of the heat, she wished she’d slung a shirt over her shoulders before leaving her cabin.

Eventually the receptionist’s lengthy explanation—punctuated by worried glances at Lauren—wound down to a conclusion.

Something was clearly amiss; a chilly emptiness congealed beneath Lauren’s ribs, but she hadn’t come all this way to be fobbed off.

The man turned to inspect her. ‘Why do you want to go to this village? It has no accommodation for tourists, nothing to do. The only bathroom is a pool in the river. They are not geared for sightseers.’

He had a faint trace of an accent, so elusive Lauren wasn’t sure it existed. Exasperated by the beads of moisture gathering across her brow and top lip, she evaded his question. ‘I know that, but I’m not planning to stay. All I want is to spend an afternoon there. In fact, that’s why I came to Sant’Rosa—specifically to go there.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t see that it’s any concern of yours.’ Lauren didn’t try to hide the frosty undertone to her words.

He shrugged broad shoulders. ‘Whatever your reason is, it’s not good enough,’ he said flatly, and forestalled her instant objection. ‘Come and have a drink with me and I’ll explain why.’

Was this merely a pick-up? Obscurely disappointed, Lauren glanced at the receptionist, who hurried into speech with an air of relief. ‘Mr Guy will help you,’ she promised, indicating the man with a wave of one beautiful hand and a smile that paid tribute to his potent male magnetism.

OK, so he wasn’t a rapist or serial killer. Not here, anyway.

‘In that case, I will have a drink, thank you,’ Lauren said calmly, wishing that she’d worn something cool and well-cut and sharply classical—and a lot less revealing.

And it would help to have some make-up to shelter behind; sunscreen and a film of coloured lip gloss were flimsy shields against the hard intimidation of his gaze.

The man beside her walked as silently and easily as a panther, his controlled grace hinting subtly of menace. Lauren resented the way he towered above her, especially as each inch of powerful, honed male exuded a potent sensuality.

So his name was Mr Someone Guy. Or Mr Guy Someone. And she wasn’t going to tell him who she was; if he didn’t have the manners to properly introduce himself, she certainly wasn’t going to make the effort.

As though he felt her survey, he shafted a glance her way. A high-voltage charge sizzled between them, part antagonism, part heady chemistry. Tension jolted her heart into overcompensation.

Turning her face resolutely towards the small bar, she decided wildly that he was wasted here. A man who gave off enough electricity to melt half the world’s ice caps should head for some place where his talents could be really appreciated.

The North Pole, for instance.

Who was he? The local layabout, angling for a wild holiday fling? Or perhaps looking out for a rich, lonely woman to rescue him from all this tropical heat?

No. Disturbingly sexy he might be, but instinct warned her he was more buccaneer than gigolo.

In the voice her half-brother, for whom she worked, referred to as Patient but Friendly Executive, she asked, ‘Do you own the resort, Mr Guy?’

Winged black brows lifted. ‘No,’ he said briefly. ‘It belongs to the local tribe.’ Without touching her, he steered her across to a table beneath a large thatched umbrella. ‘This is probably the coolest spot around, and it’s got a good view of the lagoon.’

Grateful for the shade, she lowered herself into a chair and persevered, ‘But you live here? In this particular area of Sant’Rosa?’ she amended, when his brows lifted in saturnine enquiry.

‘Off and on.’ He nodded to a waiter. ‘What would you like to drink?’

‘Papaya and pineapple juice, thank you.’

He ordered it for her, and a beer for himself. A tiny gecko scuttled across the table; smiling, Lauren watched it disappear over the edge. When she looked up, Guy was watching her.

‘You’re not afraid of them?’ he asked.

A subtle intonation convinced her that he wasn’t English. ‘Not the little ones, although some of the big ones have a nasty predatory gleam in their eyes.’

He laughed outright at that—another slow, sexy laugh that brushed her taut nerves with velvety insinuation.

‘They won’t bite, not even in self-defence,’ he said, stressing the first word just enough for Lauren to immediately wonder if he bit—and when…

He finished, ‘But you’d be surprised at the number of women who are terrified of even the tiny ones.’

‘Men too, I’ll bet. It makes you wonder why some people come to the tropics.’ Was the stubble soft to touch—or bristly? She’d never kissed a man with that much—

Whoa!

He leaned back in the chair, his pose utterly relaxed, but his level, cool gaze held her prisoner. ‘So why are you here? More specifically, why are you determined to find your way to one of the more untamed spots on Sant’Rosa?’

She parried, ‘Is that untamed as in dangerous?’

‘As in without conveniences,’ he told her, his keen gaze steady and intimidating. ‘But it’s in the border area, and the border between Sant’Rosa and the Republic has always been tense.’

‘I thought the treaty after the civil war stopped the threat of an invasion by the Republic.’

Wide shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. ‘A new player—a charismatic preacher—seems to have got together a ragtag following on both sides of the border. He’s preaching part religious revival, part cargo cult. Which is—’

‘I know what a cargo cult is,’ she said crisply. ‘Its followers expect a saviour to bring them the benefits of western civilisation. I’d not realised they could be violent.’

‘So far they’re not, but over the past couple of days there have been rumours that someone is supplying them with weapons.’

Not that anyone had actually seen the rifles and explosives that were being talked about. Guy suspected they didn’t exist. However, every islander was taught to use a machete from a very early age, and he’d seen the damage the long blades could inflict. If—and it was a big if—any hyped-up converts decided to go on the rampage, they could kill.

He watched her slender black brows draw together. What the hell was she doing here? And why was she so evasive? Women like her—sleekly elegant from the shiny top of her black head to the polished nails on her toes—demanded more from their holidays than a tiny resort with little social life and a heavy emphasis on family groups.

She looked up sharply, the eyes that had been ice-clear now silvery and impossible to read. ‘Only rumours?’

‘Almost certainly. Rumours—most of them false—run hot through Sant’Rosa. The people are barely coping with the aftermath of a bloody ten years of civil war, and in spite of the peace treaty they still don’t trust the Republic over the border.’ He paused. ‘The receptionist comes from the village you want to visit, and she’s just told me that the preacher has disappeared.’

‘And that’s bad?’

‘Almost certainly not,’ he said, hoping he was right.

Because it was too easy to watch her face, he switched his gaze to a family, parents shepherding two small children. Armed with beach toys and a couple of inflatable rings, the children dashed into the improbably turquoise lagoon, yelling and laughing as they splashed each other and their parents.

That itch at the back of his neck sharpened his senses to primitive alertness, a fierce, feral reaction to stimuli his rational brain couldn’t process.

Which was why he was resisting the compulsion to bundle up these helpless family groups—and the woman opposite with her cool touch-me-not air—and get them out of here on the next plane.

He didn’t dare follow his impulse because the local tribe had sunk every bit of cash they had into the resort; a false alarm, with the resultant bad publicity, could see them lose it all.

The woman opposite was watching the group too, her mouth curving as one of the children shrieked with delight. Grimly, he cursed his unruly loins for responding to that smile with piercing hunger.

Lauren Porter frowned. ‘So are this preacher’s followers likely to turn violent when no saviour turns up with all the blessings of western civilisation free for the taking?’

‘I doubt it. They’ve seen what fighting does, so they’ll almost certainly drift off through the bush to their native villages.’

But they were edgy and frustrated. Peace hadn’t brought the people the benefits they’d longed for, and many were ripe for unscrupulous manipulation. When the promised saviour didn’t eventuate the preacher might try to salvage his slipping authority by suggesting they collect the material benefits from the nearest place that had them.

They wouldn’t go to the mine, which had its own private security force; they’d choose easy pickings. In other words, the resort.

All ifs and buts, with absolutely nothing to base it on. Guy shrugged, trying to banish that needling premonition.

‘But they might not,’ she said shrewdly, and echoed his thoughts with uncanny accuracy. ‘Perhaps they might decide to come and get the goodies for themselves.’

‘It’s unlikely, and even if they did, the police are watching the situation very closely. The resort would be notified in time to get you out.’

‘And everyone else too, I hope.’

‘Trust me,’ he said with a smile he hoped was reassuring.

The arrival of the bartender with their drinks silenced her; Guy eyed her from beneath his lashes, controlling the sharp appetite her presence roused. The combination of thoroughbred lines and the gentle curves of her breasts and hips packed an explosive impact. Mix all that with silky black hair and eyes of cool, translucent grey, and you had trouble.

He wasn’t even going to think about her mouth; it did serious damage to his objectivity.

Lifting his beer in silent salute, he said, ‘At the moment it wouldn’t be sensible to go into the mountains.’

‘What about you?’ she asked abruptly.

‘What about me?’

‘Would you go there?’

‘If I had to,’ he said warily, watching her.

‘So you could take me with you to the village?’

Even softened by femininity, her jaw was combative. God save him from stubborn women, and this one in particular. ‘I’m not taking you there,’ he said curtly.

‘Of course I’d pay you.’

‘Lady,’ he said, angry in a way he’d never experienced before, ‘I am not going, and neither are you. If you want to see how the third world lives, the resort will organise a tour to the local village.’ His voice was scathing.

Colour swept along those high cheekbones and her teeth clamped down on her bottom lip.

Guy resisted the urge to lean forward and put a hand over her mouth to stop the ravaging of that ripe bow. He’d take much better care of it than she did…

It was no better when she drank some of her juice; how the hell did she make a simple act like that signal a prelude to sex?

Get over it! he ordered savagely.

Putting the glass down, she fixed him with a determined gaze. ‘I want to visit that particular village and tribe because a—a friend of mine has helped them set up an oil industry from sali nuts. I’m on my way to New Zealand on holiday, and I promised my friend I’d see how things were going.’

Marc Corbett, of course. Guy nodded, watching her from beneath drooping lashes. ‘Then you’ll have to tell your friend that I wouldn’t let you go.’

He wasn’t disappointed by her reaction to this deliberate provocation. Her smile froze, but she let it linger as she reached for her glass and lifted it once more to her mouth, keeping her gaze on his face while she drank the juice slowly and delicately.

Although he knew exactly what she was doing—using her female appeal as a weapon—his pulses jumped, and a carnal urgency heated his blood. When lust hit inconveniently he could usually kill it without too much effort, but this time he had to wrestle it back into its lair.

‘Well, that’s a moot point,’ she said sweetly, putting the glass back down. ‘I don’t know that you have any authority to stop me.’

She didn’t lick the juice from her lips; she wasn’t so obvious. Guy counted to ten before saying bluntly, ‘I’ll stop you if I have to handcuff you to my side until I can put you on a plane out. Going into the mountains might well be dangerous; if you pay enough you’ll probably get someone to take you, but you’ll be putting them in danger too.’

Her eyes were translucent, the grey soft as a dove’s breast, but intelligent and searching. She scrutinised him for several long seconds before nodding. ‘Yes, you really do mean it. All right, I won’t go.’

Surprised by relief, Guy picked up his beer and took another long swallow, welcoming the cool bitterness before realising that she hadn’t actually said she wouldn’t try to go. ‘Give me your promise that you won’t leave the resort.’

She looked at him with stony dignity. ‘You have no right to demand any promise from me, but I’m not stupid; I don’t want to put anyone in jeopardy and neither would my friend. I wish I could get in touch with the headman, though, just to ask how the scheme is going.’

That he could give her. ‘As far as I’m aware, it’s doing very well, but if you want to contact him, I have a mobile phone in my office,’ he offered.

She sent him a glance, cold as moonlight, from beneath her lashes. ‘Thank you, but I’ll ring from here,’ she said politely.

‘You can’t.’

When her brows shot up he explained, ‘After the civil war each village chief in this area was supplied with a mobile phone. Their link isn’t connected to the ordinary telephone system, which doesn’t extend much beyond the towns.’

After a moment’s pause she said, ‘I see.’ And added on a sigh, ‘It’s so beautiful here, like paradise. Why can’t it be peaceful too?’

‘There’s always a serpent,’ he told her laconically, getting to his feet. ‘And usually what it wants is power and money.’

‘Do you think this has anything to do with the fact that there’s a huge copper mine in this part of Sant’Rosa—and that the area has been under claim by the Republic for fifty years or so?’

‘You’ve done some research.’

‘I always research,’ she said calmly, thick lashes hiding her thoughts.

When they flicked up again she gazed at him with a limpid innocence that sent suspicion bristling through him.

He jibed, ‘And now you know its limitations.’

She ignored that. ‘It seems interesting that the preacher started destabilising the border area just after the international peacekeeping force left. If I were cynical, I might wonder whether the Republic hopes that perhaps they can use the cargo cult to foment trouble, then invade under the excuse of preventing yet another civil war.’

He nodded. ‘I’d call that realistic rather than cynical. Especially as the Sant’Rosan army is very small, and made up of units that still don’t trust each other after fighting on opposite sides in the war. How they’d fare in battle no one is prepared to say.’

‘Do you expect war?’

‘No.’ He drained his beer and set the bottle down on the table with a sharp clink. ‘Come on, we’ll go into town.’

‘Town?’ Lauren asked foolishly.

His brows lifted. ‘You wanted to use the telephone, didn’t you? It’s in my office in town.’

When she didn’t immediately answer he added with mocking amusement, ‘You’ll be perfectly safe with me. I have a reputation to uphold.’

And because she didn’t suspect him of anything more than an overdose of testosterone, she shrugged slightly and got up to go with him—although not before stopping at the reception desk to tell the woman where she was going.

That done, she hitched her bag over her shoulder. ‘I’d better go and get some money,’ she said brightly. And after she’d extracted her money from the safe that held her papers, she’d sling a shirt over her shoulders.

With an amused glance he opened the door for her. ‘Why? I don’t expect payment, and the shops aren’t open so late in the day. Even if they were, I doubt very much whether you would find anything to buy in them.’

Bother. She summoned her most dazzling smile, recklessly glad when she saw his eyes darken. ‘You’d be surprised,’ she said sweetly, going through the door ahead of him.

CHAPTER TWO

GUY’S vehicle could probably take the terrain on Mars in its stride. An elderly Land Rover, it possessed only the most basic conveniences and had never had air-conditioning, but that was all right; it didn’t have any windows either.

‘At least it doesn’t have bullet holes,’ Lauren observed with a kind smile that might have been overdone.

‘Only because I had them taken out,’ he said blandly, opening the passenger door for her. ‘It probably has cockroaches, though.’

She gave him a repeat of her smile, and forced herself not to search for insects while she waited for him to get in. Because her father, a motoring enthusiast, had taught her to recognise a well-tuned engine, she was surprised when he switched on the key; the battered, dusty vehicle ran like a dream.

Guy Whoever—or Whoever Guy, she reminded herself scrupulously—was familiar to the locals; most waved cheerfully at him, flashing smiles as he tooted in return.

She turned around to gaze at two small boys, hand in hand on the side of the road. ‘Are they born with machetes over their shoulders? They look far too young to be carrying such dangerous implements around with them.’

‘They call them bush knives here, and yes, they learn to use them almost as soon as they can walk.’

Rebuffed by his indifferent tone, she concentrated on admiring the jungle and the range of mountains ahead, purple-blue in the distant haze that indicated the approach of dusk. When they arrived at the little town, some miles along the road to the mine and the airport, the empty streets gave it a disturbing, almost sinister atmosphere.

‘Dinner time,’ Guy said laconically, stopping outside the only block of shops in the scruffy main street. He cast her an enigmatic glance. ‘The women prepare the food while the men wind down.’

Refusing to rise to the bait, she shrugged and opened the door to get out.

‘My office is on the first floor.’ Guy indicated a flight of stark concrete steps rising from the street.

Noting the casually efficient way he examined the street and the stairs, Lauren decided that he’d know how to deal with any threat. His seamless air of confidence placated fears she hadn’t allowed herself to recognise.

A large, anonymous room, his office was at least clean and tidy, with everything locked away in steel cabinets.

‘To keep the insects and vermin out,’ Guy said when he saw her looking around.

When eventually they got in touch with the headman of the village, Lauren spoke to him for some minutes, straining to follow his heavily accented English. The sali nut scheme was coming along well; the chief told her proudly of the oil-extraction process, and the amount sent to be turned into soap and other toiletries in New Zealand, and the teacher who had come to live in the village once they’d built the school.

‘I’ll tell the person who sent me,’ she said. ‘I’ve been told it might not be a good idea to travel to the village just now.’

‘Not good, ma’am,’ he said somberly. ‘There are too many rascals around now. Come back next year, when it is quiet again.’

‘If I can,’ she promised.

From beside her Guy said, ‘I’d like to speak to him, please.’

Lauren handed over the receiver and walked to the window to peer down at the dirt road, still eerily vacant except for two small dogs glowering and posturing in a show of dominance. The buildings and trees were rapidly losing substance in the swift tropical dusk. Deep and thick and velvety, it softened the raw intrusion of the buildings on the timeless tropical landscape.

Covertly eyeing Guy as he rattled off what sounded like a set of questions, she learned nothing from his face. He was, she thought warily, big in every way—tall and lithe and powerfully muscled, his wide shoulders and long legs backed up by an overpowering air of strength, both mental and physical.

Conversation concluded, he put the phone in his pocket and said in his almost perfectly accented English, ‘Everything seems quiet there. The headman says the preacher is with his family high in the mountains—there has been a death.’

‘So we can breathe again,’ she said frivolously, shocked to realise how tense she’d been.

‘I hadn’t stopped,’ he returned on a dry note, and opened the door.

Unclenching her teeth, Lauren preceded Guy out into the darkness, tossing words over her shoulder like hand grenades.

‘I’m glad I can tell my friend that the nut-oil scheme seems to be working. It’s great that the villagers get a reliable income from their land without having to fell the forests for lumber.’ A little more steadily she added, ‘I wish I could have seen what they’re doing, though.’

Locking the door behind them, Guy responded with brutal frankness, ‘They’ve got enough to worry about without trying to keep you safe. What are your plans now?’

Lauren looked at the single naked bulb that lit the stairwell. Fighting back a highly suspect—and dangerous—temptation to linger a few days at the resort, she said too promptly, ‘I’ll leave for New Zealand as soon as I can. Tomorrow, if I can get a seat on an outgoing plane.’

Guy startled her by unlocking the door again. ‘You might, but don’t bank on it. There are only two a day, not counting the twice-a-week flight to Valanu.’

‘Where’s Valanu? I’ve never heard of it. Is it another town on Sant’Rosa?’

‘No.’ Back in the office he picked up a telephone and punched in a few numbers. ‘It’s a scatter of islands to the south, part of another small Pacific nation.’

‘The back of beyond, in other words.’

‘Or paradise, depending on your outlook. It’s a fair way off the beaten track,’ he conceded, a disconcerting thread of mockery running through each word as he surveyed her with unreadable eyes and a tilted smile. ‘But incredibly beautiful.’ His voice lingered half a beat too long on the final word.

Colour tinged the skin along her cheekbones and an odd sensation twisted fiercely in the pit of her stomach. Swallowing, she switched her mind to her half-brother’s holiday home in New Zealand, remote and lovely and utterly peaceful. Until she’d seen—until a short time ago, she amended swiftly, she’d been aching to get there.

And she still was. Jet lag had clouded her mind. As soon as she had some sleep she’d be her usual self. ‘Who are you ringing?’

‘The last flight to Atu will have just left, but someone should still be at the airfield. I’ll book you a seat on the first plane out.’

Oddly piqued that he was so eager to get rid of her, she said lightly, ‘Thank you so much.’

Someone was at the airfield, someone called Josef, with whom Guy conducted a conversation in the local language. When he hung up Lauren lifted her brows enquiringly.

‘You’ve a seat reserved on tomorrow afternoon’s flight,’ he told her.

Formally, her smile set, she murmured, ‘You’ve been very kind.’

His white teeth flashed in a grin. ‘My pleasure,’ he returned easily. ‘Now, as the Chinese restaurant seems to be closed, we can go back to the resort and have dinner or I can take you home and feed you.’

‘The resort,’ Lauren said instantly, stopping when she realised that he’d tricked her. She met his amused eyes and thought with an entirely uncharacteristic rashness, Well, why not?

She was leaving tomorrow, so why shouldn’t she share dinner with the most intriguing man she’d met for a long time? Utterly infuriating, of course—far too macho and high-handed and dominating—but since she’d seen him that dragging tiredness had been replaced by a swift, intoxicating excitement.

They had absolutely nothing in common, and when she was back home she’d wonder what it was about him that arced through her like an electrical charge, but for one night—one evening, she corrected herself hastily—she’d veer slightly towards the wild side. Every woman probably deserved a buccaneer experience once in her life.

But to make sure he didn’t think he could lure her into his bed, she said, ‘It won’t be a late night, though—I’ve had two hours’ sleep in the last twenty-four, and I’m running on empty.’

He understood the implication. Irony tinged his smile as he held open the door. ‘I’ll deliver you to your door within two minutes of the first yawn. Watch where you put your feet.’

The single bulb over the stairs flickered ominously as a huge moth came to rest on it. To the sound of their footsteps echoing on the bare concrete, Lauren gripped the pipe handrail and negotiated the stairs.

‘Now that it’s dark the air is fresher, even though it hasn’t cooled down much,’ she remarked sedately as they walked towards the Land Rover. ‘I can smell the scent of the flowers without any underlying taint of decay.’

‘That’s the tropics—ravishing beauty and rotting vegetation,’ Guy said unromantically, opening the vehicle door.

Lauren slid in, watching him walk around the front of the vehicle, tall and powerful in the weak light of the only street lamp. She felt exposed and tingling, as though meeting him had stripped away several skins to reveal a world of unsuspected excitement and anticipation.

Calm down, she warned herself. Heady recklessness is so not your thing.

She’d built a successful and satisfying life on discretion and discipline; she wasn’t going to allow the tropics to cast any magic spell on her!

Halfway back to the resort, Guy said, ‘It seems a pity to leave the South Coast without seeing our main claim to fame.’

‘Which is?’ she asked cautiously.

‘A waterfall.’

Lauren paused. Maybe it was the soft radiance in the sky that proclaimed the imminent arrival of a full moon, but another rash impulse overrode common sense.

‘All right,’ she said, regretting the words the moment they left her mouth.

Guy swung the vehicle between two dark walls of trees; within seconds the unmarked road deteriorated into teeth-jolting ruts. Nevertheless, he skirted potholes with a nonchalant skill she envied. Clinging to the seat, she looked around uneasily; nightfall had transformed the lush vegetation into an alien, menacing entity that edged onto the track.

Watching large leaves whip by, she decided she’d been crazy to accept Guy’s challenge—because challenge it had definitely been.

He pulled up beneath a huge tree, its heavy foliage drooping to the ground to make a kind of tent around the Land Rover. As he switched off the engine, Lauren groped for the handle and jumped out.

‘This way,’ he said crisply.

After a few yards the oppressive growth pulled back to reveal a swathe of coarse grass. Lauren’s eyes grew accustomed to the darkness as they walked towards a steady soft murmur, infinitely refreshing, that whispered through the sticky air.

‘Look,’ Guy said, stopping.

Water fell from on high, a shimmering veil under the stars. Down the rock face clustered palms, their fronds edged with the promise of moonlight.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she said softly. ‘Oh— I didn’t realise we were so close to the coast.’

The wide pool emptied over another lip of rock into a small stream that wound its way a few hundred yards to the sea. Through the feathery tops of the coconut palms she could see the white crescent of a beach and the oily stillness of a wide bay.

‘I’m surprised there’s no coral reef around the island,’ she said, uncomfortably moved by the exquisite allure of the scene. It roused a wild longing she’d never experienced before—an urge to shuck off the trappings of civilisation and surrender to the potent seduction of the Pacific.

Guy told her, ‘Not all South Sea islands have them. Right, it’s just about time for the show. Look at the waterfall.’

The moon soared above the horizon, its light transforming the fall of water into a shimmering gold radiance.

‘Oh!’ she breathed. ‘Oh, that is exquisite—like a fall of firelit silk! Thank you for bringing me here.’

When he didn’t answer she looked up.

He was watching her, the bold structure of his face picked out by the moonlight. His mouth was compressed, and his high, faintly Slavic cheekbones gave him a half-wild, exotic air. He looked, she thought feverishly, like the buccaneer she’d likened him to before—merciless and utterly compelling. Tension flamed through her, driven by a rush of adrenaline that took her breath away.

Dry-mouthed and desperate, she swivelled away to fix her gaze on the quietly falling water, glowing with an iridescent mingling of gold and silver and copper, and tried to defuse the situation with words. ‘It’s such a familiar glory, isn’t it, moonrise, and yet I get carried away by it each time. But I’ve never seen anything like this—it looks like cloth of gold, almost as though the light is coming through the water from the back.’

‘As you say, a familiar miracle.’ He took her arm and walked her across to the bank. The moonlight hadn’t yet reached the pool; it gleamed before them, a shimmering circle of obsidian.

His touch cut through her defences, bypassing will-power, smashing her hard-won control to kindle fires in her flesh.

Dark magic, she thought despairingly. She ached to surrender to its terrifying temptation so much she could taste the craving, sweet and potent and desperate.

Staring into the smooth black water, she clenched her muscles against desire, forcing herself to freeze, not to turn into his arms and lift her face in mute invitation. He said nothing, but she heard his breathing alter, and tension spiralled between them, glittering and seductive. All it would take was one movement from her, and she’d know the power of his kiss and shiver at the warmth of his hands on her breasts…

‘The stream comes from springs in the mountains, so the water is cold.’ His voice was steady, yet a raw note grated beneath the matter-of-fact tone.

Heat spread from the pit of her stomach, a sweet, piercing flame that took no prisoners.

Cold water, she thought feverishly, just might do the trick, because this instant arousal had never happened to her before, and one-night stands were not her style. Stooping, she dipped her hand in, whipping it back with shock as it numbed her fingers. ‘It’s freezing!’

Something in his stillness alerted her; he seemed to loom over her, almost threatening. She scrambled up again and took a couple of hasty steps away, turning to watch the transient radiance of the waterfall fade as the moon leapt higher in the sky. Her blood pulsed heavily, filling her with this strange, exotic madness.

The tropics, she thought feverishly, were notorious for this sort of thing. Get over it.

‘That is utterly beautiful,’ she said, striving for a briskly practical tone. ‘Thank you for bringing me here.’

‘My pleasure,’ he told her without expression. ‘Shall we go?’

She nodded and they started back towards the tree that hid the Land Rover. A few steps beneath the overhanging branches, Guy stopped and listened, an intimidating shadow in the darkness of the canopy. Startled and uneasy, Lauren opened her mouth to ask what was going on, but the hard impact of his hand across her mouth stopped the words.

Oh God, she thought, struggling violently, you utter moron, Lauren Porter!

Hand still across her mouth, he hauled her into the thicker darkness and slammed her against the trunk, judging his strength so that although she was crushed breathless between his body and the unforgiving tree, she wasn’t hurt. Imprisoned by his strength, she felt the iron strength of muscles flexed for action.

Think! she adjured herself, fighting the terror that tried to freeze her brain. Buying time and hoping to take him by surprise, she slumped against him and sucked in air, visualising just what she’d do to disable him.

His words pitched only for her ear, he said, ‘I can hear voices, and I don’t know who they are.’

Lauren strained to listen, but apart from the sweet singing of the waterfall she could hear nothing.

Eventually, still in that same chilling monotone, he said, ‘Stay still and don’t make a noise.’

Eyes enormous above the ruthless hand that compelled her silence, she nodded.

His grip relaxed. Instantly, fingers curving into claws, Lauren reached for his genitals and opened her mouth to scream.

His cruel hand stifled any sound. With lethal strength Guy quelled her struggles and pulled her against him, locking his other arm around her.

‘Shut up!’ he said in a low, fierce thread of a voice that terrified her anew.

When she tried to fight with her teeth and her nails, he shook her hard enough to jar her, then muttered, ‘Listen, damn you! What can you hear?’

Above the softly lyrical music of the waterfall came voices. Male voices chanting something—the guttural rhythms becoming louder. Tension dried Lauren’s mouth and drove more adrenaline into every cell. The primitive fear of assault and rape was replaced by an even more basic one—that of death.

Yet possibly they were just villagers out on a fishing trip, and Guy was making sure there’d be no witnesses to—to whatever he wanted to do.

She had an instant to make up her mind whether or not to trust him. Later she’d convince herself that her decision was based on sheer pragmatism—she’d have a better chance of survival if she had to deal with only one man.

Yet it was instinct that convinced her, not common sense or good judgement.

In her ear he murmured, ‘Don’t move, don’t say anything.’

She nodded. Stealthily, slowly, he eased his hand away from her mouth. In spite of his size he moved as silently as a cat, positioning himself with his back to her, shielding her, she realised, with his body from whatever danger lurked out there. Terrified for his safety, she took comfort from the steady pounding of his heart as her apprehension condensed into ice.

The voices receded, but still Guy stayed motionless.

She was stiff and shaking when at last he stepped away.

‘Who—?’ she whispered.

Guy’s lethal, slashing gesture stopped the words in her throat. He was looking towards the sea; as she watched he moved with a fluid lack of noise to part the leaves on one of the branches that sheltered them.

Beneath his breath he said, ‘There—yes. Can you see them?’

They were some distance away, but the moon shone on lithe oiled bodies, already almost on the beach. About twenty men, carrying what appeared to be spears.

‘Out to sea,’ Guy said quietly.

Narrowing her eyes, she squinted into the glare of the moon. Small black shapes seemed to be skipping across its path over the sea.

‘Canoes?’ she whispered.

‘Dugouts. Banana boats, which have outboards, but they’re not using them tonight. And they’re coming from the wrong direction—heading towards the resort.’ He made up his mind. ‘Come on, we need to get out of here. Get into the Land Rover, but don’t slam the door until I turn the engine on. Then lock it and keep down.’

Numbly, Lauren obeyed. As the vehicle burst from beneath the tree, she locked the door and prayed that no one lay in wait along that narrow, treacherous track.

Guy had the night sight of a predator; without headlights, he drove at high speed through the thick darkness, confidently following the track Lauren couldn’t see. On the way to the waterfall she’d enjoyed the difference between the exotic vegetation and the woods she was accustomed to; now the jungle threatened, hiding who knew what danger.

‘Do you think they were going to join the canoeists, or fight them?’ she asked once they had left the waterfall and its black pool behind.

‘I don’t know, but that was a war chant,’ he said curtly.

Fighting a sickening knot of fear, she swayed as the vehicle swung around corners and surged through potholes and ruts. A sense of danger—palpable and chillingly pervasive—settled around them. Once, in a small clearing, she caught a glimpse of Guy’s profile against the moon, and a memory teased her mind with fugitive recognition.

She’d seen a photograph—and then the tantalising image vanished, wiped from her brain.

Where—and how—would she have seen a photograph of a beachcomber from Sant’Rosa?

He glanced at her and suddenly swore in a liquid language that sounded vaguely Italian before ordering, ‘Pull my shirt out of my trousers.’

‘What?’

He flashed her a feral grin. ‘Contain yourself. You’re showing far too much gleaming skin—far too obvious. Cover it with my shirt.’

‘But that leaves you exposed.’

‘I’m much darker than you, so I’m harder to see.’ The amusement was gone; this time it was an order. ‘Pull the shirt out from my waistband and haul it up over the arm furthest from you; I’ll tell you when to drag it over my head.’

‘Surely stopping—’

‘I’m not stopping,’ he said quietly. ‘I don’t know who else might be around. Get the shirt off.’

Lauren gritted her teeth as her questing fingers skidded over sleek skin padded with muscle. Once his arm had been freed she waited, the material gathered in her hand.

‘There’s a straight length of road— OK, haul it over my head. Now!’

She jerked the soft, warm garment over his head in one smooth movement.

‘Get it off my other arm—now!’ he barked.

He made it easy for her, lithely shrugging free of the shirt. ‘Now cover yourself,’ he ordered in a tone that lifted every tiny hair on her body upright.

Silently she hauled it over her head, shivering as the material settled around her shoulders. The faint scent of his skin—vital, potent—almost banished the metallic taste of fear in her mouth.

Guy commanded, ‘Crouch down on the floor and stay there until I tell you to get out. Cover your face and your hands. If we stop, don’t move unless I tell you to. If we get stopped, don’t say anything—try not to breathe.’

The ice beneath her ribs expanding, she obeyed, folding herself into the foot well and praying that the maverick instinct to trust him hadn’t played her false. ‘Those men were aiming for the resort, weren’t they?’

He didn’t try to evade the truth. ‘That was the direction they were heading towards.’

‘Do you think there might be violence?’

When he didn’t answer immediately she said with sharp emphasis, ‘I’m not going to faint or scream or panic.’

The swift flash of his grin reassured her. ‘I believe you.’ But the momentary spark of humour dissolved into grimness as he swerved to avoid some small animal scurrying across the road.

Lauren braced herself, wincing as her elbow hit the floor.

He went on calmly, ‘What their leader—or leaders—plan, I have no idea. If they find the resort empty, they’ll probably take what they want, get drunk on the contents of the bar, then go back home.’

She nodded. ‘How long will it take us to get to the resort?’

‘We’re not going there,’ he said, changing gear.

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