the arms of men who were more interested in shape than substance when it came to women.
Not that he was immune. Shape did it for him every time.
But she wasn’t blonde. There was nothing obvious or predictable about her. Her hair was dramatically black and tipped with purple and her strong features were only prevented from overwhelming her face by a pair of large dark eyes. And while her shape was blurred by the bulky robe she was wearing, she was certainly on the skinny side; there were no artificially enhanced curves hidden even in that abundance of white towelling.
In fact she was so very far from what he would have expected that his interest had been unexpectedly aroused. Rather more than his interest if he was honest; a sure sign that his brain was under-occupied but it certainly took his mind off his back.
An effect that was amplified as she stepped up onto his deck and paused there for a moment.
Straight from the shower, her face bare of make-up, her hair a damp halo that hadn’t seen a comb, without sexy clothes or high heels, it had to be the fact that she was naked under that robe that momentarily squeezed the breath from his chest as she’d walked towards him.
‘You’re an angel, Miss Blaize,’ he said, collecting himself.
‘Not even close,’ she replied.
She’d worked hard to scrub the inner city from her voice, he judged, but it was still just discernible to someone with an ear for it.
‘On either count,’ she added. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint, but I’m plain Josie Fowler.’
She wasn’t the bride?
Nor was she exactly plain but what his mother would have described as ‘striking’. And up close he could see that those dark eyes were a deep shade of violet that exactly matched the highlights in her hair, the colour she’d painted both finger and toenails.
‘Who said I was disappointed, plain Josie Fowler?’ he said, ignoring the little leap of gratification that she wasn’t Crystal Blaize. It was her coffee he wanted, not her. ‘I asked if you’d share your coffee and here you are. That makes you an angel in my eyes.’
‘You’re easily satisfied…?’
On the contrary. According to more than one woman of his acquaintance, he was impossible to please—or maybe just impossible—but right now any company would be welcome. Even a big-eyed scarecrow with purple hair.
‘Gideon McGrath,’ he said in answer to the unvoiced question. Offering her his hand.
She hesitated for the barest moment before she stepped close enough to take it, but her hand matched her features. It was slightly too large for true femininity, leaving him with the feeling that her body hadn’t quite grown to match her extremities. But her grip was firm enough to convince him that, apart from the contact lenses—no one had eyes that colour—its owner was the real thing.
‘Forgive me for not getting up, but if I tried you’d have to pick me up off the deck.’
‘In that case, please don’t bother. One of us with a bad back is quite enough. Enjoy your coffee,’ she said, taking a clear step back.
‘Would you mind pouring it for me? It’s a bit of a stretch,’ he lied. But he didn’t want her to go.
‘Bad luck,’ she said, turning to the tray and bending to fill his cup. ‘Especially when you’re on holiday.’ Then, glancing back at him, ‘What on earth made you think I was Crystal Blaize?’
Her hair, drying quickly as the sun rose, began to settle in soft tendrils around her face. And he caught the gleam of a tiny purple stud in her nose.
Who was she? What was she? Part of the media circus surrounding the coming wedding?
‘One of the staff called you the “the wedding lady”?’ he replied, pitching his answer as a question.
‘Oh, right. Milk, sugar?’ she asked, but not bothering to explain. Then, looking over the tray, ‘Actually, that would be just milk or milk. There doesn’t appear to be any sugar.’ She sighed as she straightened. ‘I was assured that this place was the last word in luxury and to be sure it looks beautiful…’
‘But?’
‘There’s no power point or hairdryer in my room, no sugar on your tray and no telephone to call the desk and tell them about it, despite the fact that David told me to ring for anything I needed. I can’t even get a signal on my mobile phone.’
‘You won’t. The whole point of Leopard Tree Lodge is to get away from the intrusion of modern life, not bring it with you,’ he said, totally ignoring the fact that he’d been fuming about the same thing just minutes before.
Well, obviously not the hairdryer. But he could surely do with a phone signal right now, if only to reassure himself that this was a one-off. That someone in marketing hadn’t decided that weddings were the way to go.
Since he was the one who’d laid out the ground rules before a single stone had been laid or piece of timber cut, however, he could hardly complain.
But it occurred to him that if ‘plain Josie Fowler’ was with the wedding party, she would be given free run of the communications facilities and, if he played his cards right, she’d be good for a lot more than coffee.
‘The electricity to heat the water is supplied by solar energy,’ he explained, ‘but it doesn’t run to electrical appliances.’
‘Once I’d clocked the candles, I managed to work that out for myself,’ she replied. ‘The escape from reality thing. Unfortunately, I’m here to work. If I was mad enough to come here for a holiday I’d probably feel quite differently.’
Clearly that prospect was as unlikely as a cold day in hell.
‘You don’t like it?’
‘I’d like it better if it was beside a quiet bay, with a soft white beach and the kind of sea rich people pay to swim in.’
‘This is supposed to be a work-free zone,’ he pointed out, more than a touch irritated by her lack of enthusiasm. He put all his heart and a lot more into building his hotels, his resorts, some of them in exactly the kind of location she described.
But this had been his first. He loved it and hated it in equal measure, but he had the right.
‘For others, maybe,’ she retaliated, putting her hand to the small of her back and stretching out her spine, ‘but for the next few days it’s going to be twenty-four/seven for me.’
‘Sore back?’ he asked.
‘Just a bit. Is it catching?’ she asked with a wry smile.
‘Not as far as I know.’
Maybe.
Her back hadn’t seized up—yet—but just how many of his guests arrived feeling as if they were screwed up into knots? Zahir had built a very profitable spa on the coast at Nadira, where most of his travellers chose to spend a couple of days after the rigours of the desert. Would that work here, too? Massage, pampering treatments,
