New Zealand seemed a long, long way away. For this week she’d forget about it, and the life that had become so terrifyingly flat, to wallow in the delights of doing practically nothing in one of the most perfect climates in the world.
And in one of the most perfect settings!
Following the hotel porter along a path of crushed white shell, Gerry breathed deeply, inhaling air so fresh and languorous it smelt like Eden, a wonderful mixture of the unmatched perfumes of gardenia and frangipani and ylangylang, salted by a faint and not unpleasing undernote of fish, she noted cheerfully. Her cabaña, its rustic appearance belying the luxury within, was one of only ten.
‘Very civilised,’ she said aloud when she was alone.
A huge bed draped in mosquito netting dominated one end of the room. Chairs and sofas—made of giant bamboo and covered in the soothing tans and creams of tapa cloth—faced wide windows which had shutters folded back to reveal a deck. Separated from a tiny kitchen by a bar, a wooden table and chairs stood at the other end of the room. Fruit and flowers burst from a huge pottery shell on the table.
Further exploration revealed a bathroom of such unashamed and unregenerate opulence—all marble in soft sunrise hues of cream and pale rose—that Gerry whistled.
Whoever had conceived and designed this hotel had had a very exclusive clientele in mind—the seriously rich who wanted to escape. Although, she thought, eyeing the toiletries laid out on the marble vanity, not too far.
The place was an odd but highly successful blend of sophisticated luxury and romantic, lazy, South Seas simplicity. Normally she’d never be able to afford such a place. She was, she thought happily, going to cost Bryn Falconer megabucks.
Half an hour later, showered and changed into fresh clothes, she strolled down the path, stopping to pick a hibiscus flower and tuck it behind her ear, where its rollicking orange petals and fiery scarlet throat would contrast splendidly with her black curls. Only flowers, she decided, could get away with a colour scheme like that! Or silk, perhaps…
According to the schedule her escort in Fala’isi had given her, she’d have the rest of the day to relax before the serious part of this holiday began. Tomorrow she’d be shown the hats. As the swift purple twilight of the tropics gathered on the horizon, she straightened her shoulders and walked across the coarse grass to the lounge area.
And there, getting up from one of the sinfully comfortable chairs and striding across to meet her, was Bryn Falconer, all power and smooth, co-ordinated litheness, green eyes gleaming with a metallic sheen, his autocratic features only hinting at the powerful personality within.
Gerry was eternally grateful that she didn’t falter, didn’t even hesitate. But the smile she summoned was pure willpower, and probably showed a few too many teeth, for he laughed, a deep, amused sound that hid any mockery from the three people behind him.
‘Hello, Geraldine,’ he said, and took her arm with a grip that looked easy. ‘Somehow I knew just how you’d look.’
As she was wearing a gentle dress the dark blue-green of her eyes, with a long wrap skirt and flat-heeled sandals, she doubted that very much. Flattering it certainly was—the straight skirt and deep, scooped neckline emphasised her slender limbs and narrow waist—but fashionable it was not.
Arching her brows at him, she murmured, ‘Oh? How do I look?’
His smile hardened. ‘Rare and expensive and fascinating—perfect for a tropical sunset. A moonlit woman, as shadowy and mysterious as the pearls they dive for in one small atoll far to the north of here, pearls the colour of the sea and the sky at midnight.’
Something in his tone—a disturbing strand of intensity, of almost-hidden passion—sent her pulse skipping. Automatically, she deflected.
‘What a charming compliment. Thank you,’ she returned serenely, dragging her eyes away from the uncompromising authority of his face as he introduced his companions.
Gone was the lingering miasma of ennui; the moment she’d seen him every nerve cell had jolted into acute, almost painful alertness.
Narelle and Cosmo were an Australian couple—sleek, well-tanned, wearing expensive resort clothes. Lacey, their adolescent daughter, should have been rounded and sturdy; instead her angular figure indicated a recent illness.
After the flurry of greetings Gerry sank into the chair Bryn held for her, aware that Lacey was eyeing her with the yearning intensity of a hungry lion confronted by a wildebeest. Uncomfortably, Gerry waited for surnames, but none were forthcoming.
‘Isn’t this a wonderful place for a holiday?’ Narelle, a thin, tanned woman with superbly blonded hair and a lot of gold chains, spoke brightly, her skilfully shaded eyes flicking from Gerry to Bryn.
‘Ideal,’ Gerry answered, smiling, and was about to add that she wasn’t exactly on holiday when Bryn distracted her by asking her what she’d have to drink.
‘Fruit juice, thanks,’ she said. After the fiasco with Troy she wasn’t going to risk anything alcoholic in her empty stomach. She smiled at the waiter who’d padded across on bare feet, and added, ‘Not too sweet, please.’
‘Papaya, madam? With passionfruit and lime?’
‘That sounds wonderful,’ she said.
She was oddly uneasy when Lacey said loudly, ‘I’ll have one of those too, please.’
Her mother gave her a sharp look. ‘How about a diet soft drink?’ she asked.
‘No, thanks.’
Narelle opened her mouth but was forestalled by Bryn, who said, ‘Did you have a good flight up, Geraldine?’
Why the devil didn’t he use her proper name? ‘Geraldine’ sounded quite different from her normal, everyday self. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she said, smiling limpidly.
If he thought that one compliment entitled him to a more intimate footing, he was wrong. All right, so her heart was still recovering from that first sight of him, and for a moment she’d wondered what it would be like to hear that deep voice made raw by passion, but she was strong, she’d get over it.
‘We’ve been here several times,’ Narelle said, preening a little. ‘Last year Logan Hawkhurst was here with the current girlfriend, Tania Somebody-or-other.’
Logan Hawkhurst was an actor, the latest sensation from London, a magnificently structured genius with a head of midnight hair, bedroom eyes, and a temper—so gossip had it—that verged on molten most of the time.
‘And was he as overwhelming as they say?’ Gerry asked lightly.
Narelle gave an artificial laugh. ‘Oh, more so,’ she said. ‘Just gorgeous—like something swashbuckling out of history. Lacey had a real a crush on him.’
The girl’s face flamed.
Gerry said cheerfully, ‘She wasn’t the only one. I had to restrain a friend of mine when he finally got married—she wept half a wet Sunday and said she was never going to see another film of his because he’d break her heart all over again.’
They dutifully laughed, and
