to surrender to his charm, or be amused by his wit, which was wicked and dry, just the way she liked it.
‘I love it when you laugh,’ he said. ‘You look even more beautiful when you laugh.’
‘Do stop flattering me, Rafe. I might get used to it.’
‘Ooh, and wouldn’t that be dreadful?’
‘Not so dreadful. Just unwise.’
‘Why?’
She sighed as her good humour faded. ‘I told you once before, Rafe. I don’t want to have another relationship with a man whose idea of a relationship begins and ends in the bedroom.’
‘And you think that’s all I’d ever want from you?’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘That depends.’
‘On what?’
On whether you’re carrying my child…
‘On how good you can cook,’ he quipped.
Her eyebrows shot up. ‘You’re saying the way to your heart is through your stomach? I don’t believe it.’
‘I do like my food. This way to the Hibiscus,’ he directed on seeing an arrowed sign veering off to the right through the gardens. ‘Mmm, I wonder what their wine list is like? Since there’s no extra charge, I’ll order a different bottle with each course.’
‘I’m not going back in that tin-can with you if you’ve been drinking heavily,’ she warned.
‘Me, neither. If I feel I’m over the limit, we’ll get someone else to take us back. Okay?’
‘Okay.’ She nodded. ‘And don’t encourage me to drink too much, either. I still haven’t got over the hangover I had from my last binge.’
‘Yes, but that was hard liquor. A few glasses of wine won’t hurt.’
‘Mmm. You’d say that. You’re probably trying to get me drunk so that you can have your wicked way with me.’
He laughed. ‘Honey, I don’t have to get you drunk to do that.’
Isabel winced. ‘I asked for that one, didn’t I?’
He gave her an affectionate squeeze. ‘Don’t be silly. I love the way you are.’
Isabel didn’t doubt it. Men had always been partial to whores.
Her stomach turned over at this last thought. She wasn’t a whore, but maybe, in Rafe’s eyes, she was acting like one. There again, maybe not. Rafe was not a narrow-minded man, and he didn’t seem to be afflicted with that dreadful set of double standards which some men dragged up to make women feel guilty about their sexuality.
Her mother, however, wouldn’t be impressed with the way she’d been behaving.
Isabel suppressed a groan. Why, oh why did she have to think of her mother? The woman was out of the ark when it came to her views on such things. She didn’t appreciate that the world was a different world now. Marriage couldn’t be relied upon any more to provide a woman with security for life. And men…men couldn’t be relied upon at all!
‘You’ve gone all quiet on me,’ Rafe said worriedly.
‘Just thinking.’
‘Thinking can be bad for you.’
‘What do you recommend?’
‘Talking is good. And so, sometimes, is drinking. You could do with a measure of both.’
‘You conniving devil. You just want to find out all my secrets.’
‘You mean you have some?’
‘Don’t we all?’
‘My life is an open book.’
‘Huh! Any man with designer stubble and a phantom’s head in his ear has to have some secrets.’
‘Not me. What you see is what you get. If you think I’m indulging in some kind of pretentious arty-farty image with the way I look, you couldn’t be more wrong. The phantom’s head belonged to my father. I wear it all the time because when I look in the mirror I’m reminded of him. I don’t shave every day because it gives me a rash if I do. As far as my clothes are concerned, I dress strictly for comfort, and in colours which don’t stain easily. I am who I am, Isabel. And I like who I am. Can you say the same? Aah. Here we are. The Hibiscus.’
THE Hibiscus lived up to its recommendation, with even the indoor tables having a view of the spectacular pool, courtesy of glass walls on three sides of the restaurant.
Still, given the balmy night, it was going to be very pleasant sitting outside under the stars, and the table they were shown to did overlook the pool directly.
Round and glass-topped, the table was set with hibiscus-patterned place-mats, superb silverware and crystal glasses to suit every type of wine. The menus were printed with silver lettering on a laminated sheet which matched the place-mats.
After seeing them seated, the good-looking young waiter handed Rafe the wine list, then lit the lantern-style candle resting in the circular slot in the middle of the table, possibly where an umbrella would be inserted during daylight hours. The wine list was small but select, and Rafe ordered an excellent champagne to start with whilst Isabel silently studied the menu.
Even after the waiter departed she didn’t glance up or say a word, leaving Rafe to regret the crack he’d made about her perhaps not liking who she was. She’d looked down-in-the-mouth ever since.
But if she was going to keep firing bullets, then she had to expect some back.
Still…he hated seeing her sad.
But what to do?
‘Find anything there to tempt your tastebuds?’ he asked lightly on picking up his own menu. A quick glance showed there were three choices for each course, rather like a set menu.
‘I’m not that hungry, actually,’ she murmured, still not looking up.
Rafe put down his menu. ‘Look, I’m sorry, all right? I didn’t mean to offend you.’
Now she did look up. ‘Don’t apologise. You’re quite right. I don’t think I do like who and what I am. I suspect I never have.’
‘What rubbish. What’s not to like, except the way you used to do your hair? I hated that. And it wasn’t the real you at all.’
‘The real me? And what’s that, pray tell? Slut of the month?’
Rafe was truly taken aback, then annoyed with her. ‘Don’t you dare say that about yourself. So you’re
