prospect of finding a blood relative when you’d longed for family all your life?
And... maybe she’d be asked to pay back the cost of the ticket! Appalled, she lifted her eyes to the heavens. ‘Oh, Lord!’ she groaned aloud, swamped with misery. ‘If this doesn’t work out, I could be on the streets!’
Something shimmered at her feet, making her look down quickly. The man had stirred and stretched, sunlight bouncing off the planes and curves of his body and the wide bracelet of his gold watch. As she watched, holding her breath, the heavy fringe of golden lashes fluttered. So did her pulses and her stomach. And then she found herself pinned by the bluest and most compelling pair of eyes she’d ever seen.
‘Hi,’ said their owner lazily, bringing up an arm behind his head. And then the tiger stretched again, flexing and tensing a battery of shifting muscles in the process. Mandy half expected him to purr.
She cleared her throat. ‘Hi.’ And cleared it again because she’d sounded as if she was suffering from bronchitis. ‘I was looking for Monsieur Vincente St Honoré...’ She paused and took a deep breath, her mouth trembling. Better get it over with. ‘I don’t think I’ve got the right man, have I?’ she asked sadly.
He smiled. Not much, just enough to make the firm, male mouth quirk in a disconcertingly attractive curve. He’ll bite! she reminded herself hastily.
‘Expecting someone older?’ he murmured.
For a moment she was taken aback by his silky, fascinating accent. And then, seeing his amused eyes on her, she found her voice again. ‘Well, yes...’
‘My father.’
‘Oh! Mystery explained!’ she said huskily. ‘I thought there had been a mistake. I’m so believed!’
‘I bet.’
Mandy risked a friendly smile and tried to place the accent. French, presumably. Herbert, the man who’d driven the minibus from the airport, had said the British and French had fought endlessly over the island. Seven times British, seven times French.
It seemed to her that the man’s sexy accent was mixed with the slow-blues drawl of the Caribbean, and it reached into her stomach like warm, soothing cocoa. Mandy concealed the weakening effect of the richly flowing voice and got down to business.
‘I’m glad there’s no mix-up,’ she said in a rush. ‘Mr Lacey told me Monsieur St Honoré would contact me—and then the girl at the bar said Monsieur St Honoré was waiting on the beach and then, when I saw you, well!’ She laughed but he didn’t smile in response and continued to gaze at her cynically. Her smile faded. ‘I was sure something was wrong,’ she said more soberly, ‘and I didn’t know what to do.’
He jackknifed his strong legs and stood up in a leisurely, languid way as if his joints had been oiled as comprehensively as his gleaming dark body. ‘I’m Pascal.’ Then he smiled and two dimples appeared in each cheek, utterly distracting her because they turned him from a rake into a charmer. ‘You’re Mandy Cook, I presume?’
‘Yes!’
Everything was going to be all right! Overjoyed, Mandy took the offered hand enthusiastically. It was large and dry and strangely comforting, and it reminded her of her beloved Dave’s hands so much that she was momentarily thrown off balance.
‘Delighted,’ he murmured. ‘Absolutely delighted.’
And the frisson that Pascal St Honoré engendered was something new—a sudden contracting of her loins, and unexpected awareness of his sexuality. Startled, she flipped a quick glance up at the blue, blue eyes and then wished that she hadn’t. He was studying her with a frank and open interest that left her wondering where her breath had gone.
‘Thank goodness!’ she burbled, letting her mouth take over. ‘For a ghastly moment I thought I’d been the victim of a practical joke! I’d half expected someone with a bald head, a pinstriped suit and a briefcase, you see, and you didn’t fit that bill at all so—’
‘You’re after my father.’
It sounded like a statement rather than a question. ‘Yes,’ she said eagerly. ‘I—’
‘How was the flight?’ he enquired politely.
‘Endless.’ she grinned, forgiving him his constant interruptions. She had been gabbling on. Nerves seemed to have loosened her tongue. She sighed and tried to stay demure and decent. ‘So was the drive from the airport. We took twenty minutes to do the last two miles! Those potholes in the road are unbelievable! My body’s still swaying—’
‘It is somewhat inaccessible here,’ he conceded. ‘But it keeps down the number of tourists on this end of the island.’ His eyes seemed to mock her. ‘A little discomfort is worth suffering if you end up with your dream, isn’t it?’ he drawled.
She nodded vigorously. ‘I absolutely agree! I never mind hardship if there’s something special at the end, as a reward.’ There was an odd flicker in his eyes that made them briefly splinter with cold lights and then he was smiling again. ‘I suppose you’re used to travelling on that road. It joggled every bone in my body,’ she said wryly.
‘Travel by boat,’ he advised, indicating the hotel launches and the long motorised canoes in the bay. ‘I suggest you go back that way when you fly home. It’s cheap—and a lot quicker. When are you going home?’ he asked smoothly.
‘It depends,’ she said, her eyes shining with joy. ‘It could be in two weeks, or never. It’s up to fate and what happens when I meet your father.’ And there was no way that she could keep the eagerness out of her voice.
Pascal nodded slowly as though he already knew some details of her visit. ‘And whether you can bear the boredom of such isolation,’ he said softly.
Mandy looked around and sighed. ‘I wouldn’t get bored. I love remote places,’ she said warmly ‘I live in a tiny little village in Devon and I hate crowds.’
His heavy lids half closed over the deep blue eyes. ‘You like isolation?’ he asked, as though that was a failing on her part.
Puzzled, she explained. ‘I prefer living in the country but I do enjoy company. I’d be quite happy stuck in the middle of a forest, providing I had someone to talk to.’
Pascal let out a long breath. ‘My father doesn’t entertain. He has few friends.’
Mandy looked at him in surprise. ‘Some people like their own company,’ she remarked politely, wondering why he’d confided that piece of information to her.
‘Life with him would be very lonely,’ he said flatly.
‘Y-y-yes,’ she said hesitantly. ‘But he’s got you, hasn’t he?’ she added with a gentle smile.
‘Like your villa?’ he shot at her suddenly.
Her smile broadened. ‘It’s wonderful, like a luxurious tree-house,’ she enthused warmly. ‘I’ve been treated like a princess. Champagne in the fridge, a basket of weird fruit, garlands of flowers over every available surface—even around the bath taps! How’s that for a welcome?’
‘Warm,’ agreed Pascal in his honeyed drawl. ‘Bordering
