For the briefest second that strange, half-hidden look was back in his eyes.
‘No, you won’t,’ he agreed.
Then it was gone, and he was taking a long draft from his glass, turning his head to look out over the sea, where the sun was lowering its golden orb towards the waiting embrace of the ocean.
Just like I am waiting for Athan’s embrace … thought Marisa dreamily.
They sat half in silence, half in companionable chit-chat, listening to the warm wind soughing in the tops of the palms, the gentle susurration of the wavelets breaking on the silver shore. It was so incredibly quiet and peaceful they might have been the only people on the beach or even the island, Marisa thought.
‘Is that actually a coconut?’ she asked, her gaze drifting to the top of one of the nearby palms.
Athan gave a laugh. ‘Do you think it’s a fake one, then?’ he challenged, amused.
‘Maybe the hotel ties fake ones to the tops of the palm trees to impress the visitors,’ she responded, entering into the spirit of the banter.
‘We’ll ask one of the garden staff to get it down for us, if you like,’ Athan said. ‘You should see them climb palm trees. It’s quite ingenious—they use a short length of rope which they hook around the trunk, then use it to lever themselves up to the top—it’s quite a skill!’
‘You sound like you’ve seen it before,’ she said.
‘Well, not here,’ he admitted. ‘I’ve never been to this resort before.’
That, of course, was why he’d chosen it. He wasn’t known here, and he was unlikely to bump into anyone who knew him. Or his sister. Besides, this resort was specifically aimed at couples who wanted to get totally away from it all—including any other couples.
That was what made it so ideal a place for him to bring Marisa Milburne.
Remote, luxurious, discreet. Perfect for his intentions.
A shadow of a flicker fleeted across his face. She was so trusting of him—lounging there, sipping her juice, gazing out over the vista ahead, her pose relaxed and graceful.
Should I really do this?
The question he didn’t want to hear came from nowhere—sliding like a needle under his consciousness.
His conscience?
You’ve brought her here to make her want you instead of him.
And she did want him! Wanted him as much as he wanted her—all his senses told him so. And for that reason he crushed down his disquiet.
England, his sister, his philandering brother-in-law—all seemed very, very far away.
And Marisa … ah, she was blissfully close.
He raised his glass to her again. ‘To us,’ he said softly.
And her eyes glowed like jewels in the golden light of the setting sun.
Marisa narrowed her eyes in concentration, listening intently. One of the serving staff was talking to another islander, and she was trying to make out what they were saying.
She abandoned the attempt, turning her attention back to Athan, sitting opposite her at the table.
‘Do you know, I can’t make out a single word?’ she said. ‘It doesn’t even sound like English.’
‘It isn’t,’ he told her, amused. ‘The island Creole is French-based, dating from the time when St Cecile was ruled by France, but it also includes fragments of African languages, as well as the original Carib languages. Don’t worry if you can’t understand it—outsiders seldom do. All the island Creoles across the Caribbean have virtually evolved into their own languages. They have their own literature as well, and these days there’s a real effort to preserve them for future generations of islanders.’
Marisa shook her head. ‘It doesn’t sound like French, either,’ she admitted.
She glanced across at Athan. He was looking, as the habitual little catch in her throat informed her, lethally attractive. Since lolling on the palanquin—where they had, as he had promised, toasted each other in champagne as the sun set—he’d changed into tan chinos and another short-sleeved open-necked shirt, and he looked disgustingly, casually gorgeous. His sable hair was slightly feathered, and his relaxed pose seemed to emphasise the lean, muscled power of his body.
What she wanted to do, she knew, was simply sit there and gaze at him. But what she had to do, she also knew, was keep chatting to him to stop herself being reduced to such a gormless level. It was hard, though—and not just because of her own sharpened awareness of him. It was also because he had the devastating habit of relaxing back in his chair and letting his gaze wash over her, making no bones about showing that he liked what he was seeing.
That he liked it very much …
Again that flutter in her stomach came, and she knew that the effort she’d made to look her absolute best tonight was paying off. After the champagne on the beach she’d disappeared into the bathroom, taking excruciating care over her make-up—not too much for the climate and setting, but enough to enhance her eyes to the maximum—glossing her lips with dew, and styling her hair so that it looked artlessly tumbled. Her choice of clothes was equally careful. A long dress in a swirling mix of vermilions and gold, with spaghetti straps and a high waist that made her seem taller and more slender. She’d wrapped a piece of filmy gauze picked out in the same vermilion and gold thread around her shoulders. The temperature had dropped, but by very little—the night was sweet and balmy, as caressing as a silken touch to her skin.
Now, as she lifted her wine glass to her lips, the golden sheen from her narrow gilt bangles catching the candlelight, she knew that she had got the look just right. Other couples were dining in the main restaurant as well, though each table was afforded privacy by potted palms and brilliant bougainvillaea, and the whole dining area formed almost a semicircle around the resort pool which glowed, unearthly, with underwater lights.
All my life, she thought hazily, I’ll remember this. This wonderful, magical place, this wonderful, magical evening.
This wonderful, magical man who had made it all come true for her …
But she couldn’t just go on staring helplessly at him.
‘So, when did the island become English, then?’ she asked, infusing interest into her voice.
‘I believe it swapped hands several times—depending on the fortunes of war and various treaties between France and England during the eighteenth century. But it ended up being definitely English after the Napoleonic Wars. One of the perks of victory,’ Athan said dryly. ‘The French owners of the plantations kept their property, however, so they didn’t mind too much. As for the slaves—well, I guess they benefited in the end by being emancipated in 1834, which was earlier than in the remaining French colonies.’
A troubled expression lit Marisa’s eyes. ‘It casts a long shadow, doesn’t it, slavery? Over such a beautiful place?’
Athan
