they had rarely been seen together much once Flora had grown out of photogenic babyhood. The myth of endless youth would not survive the comparison, and since her latest husband—formerly her personal trainer—was considerably younger than her, that illusion was a necessity.
And Flora might prefer it that way too. It must be tough to be compared with your mother and found wanting.
On those rare occasions on which she’d been forced to put on a long frock and makeup she looked ill at ease, as if desperate to escape and return to the safety of her books. She looked, he decided, like a virgin who didn’t quite know what her body was for.
An innocent little fish just waiting for a cunningly tied fly to be drifted temptingly over the water? It seemed unlikely. She was twenty-six years old. There must be more to her than that.
There was a long ring at the doorbell.
He took one last look at the photograph. It was true that she was no Eve, but it was entirely possible she’d open up like a flower to the sun in response to a little attention. He wouldn’t be closing his eyes, though. He’d be watching her every minute of the day.
Picking up the overnight bag that contained his passport, along with the essentials for coping with a long flight, he went to answer it.
‘Mr Gifford? Your car for the airport, sir.’
Flora Claibourne barely looked up from the notes she was reading as he joined her in the rear of the limousine that was taking them to the airport. Just long enough to nod and say, ‘I’m sorry about dragging you away like this, Mr Gifford. I hope I haven’t inconvenienced you.’
She was wearing a crumpled linen trouser suit in some indescribably drab colour, her hair an untidy bird’s nest inadequately secured with pins and combs. If she’d tried, he thought, she couldn’t have looked less appealing.
He turned on a suitably low-wattage smile to match her cool businesslike manner. Maybe the sun would warm her up.
‘It’s Bram,’ he said. ‘And don’t apologise. A couple of weeks on a tropical island sounds a lot more attractive than following you around a department store.’
‘The whole purpose of this exercise is to demonstrate what it takes to run a department store,’ she pointed out, not bothering with a smile of any kind. Or a return invitation to use her given name.
Prickly, as well as plain. God, he hated women who made no attempt to look attractive, instead challenging the male of the species to hunt for inner beauty and gain his true reward. He had news for her. The average male wasn’t interested in inner beauty. But it wasn’t his job to tell her that. His brief was to find out what was going on behind the scenes at Claibourne & Farraday.
He didn’t think flattery would impress her much either, so he said, ‘If that were the case we’d both be wasting our time. You know nothing and since I’m a lawyer, not a shopkeeper, I’m not especially interested.’
The smile hadn’t made any impression; maybe he could disarm her with frankness. Okay, so he wasn’t being totally frank. He was very interested in getting the Claibournes out and the Farradays in with the minimum amount of fuss. Legally.
‘At least this way I’ll be wasting my time in the sun.’
She glanced at him again without raising her head, just a sideways look—a lift of lashes untroubled by mascara but long and dark enough without it. In any other woman he’d have taken it as the opening move in a game of flirtation, but Flora appeared to be totally oblivious of the effect such a look might provoke. Or maybe she was cleverer than he’d given her credit for. She must have learned something from her mother, even if she’d only absorbed it by osmosis.
‘Have you packed walking boots?’ she asked.
No, she was oblivious, he decided.
‘Should I have?’
She shrugged, as if it was of no particular concern to her whether he had or not. ‘I anticipate taking a trip into the interior. It might be rough going. Of course you don’t have to come with me.’ She reached up and pushed a comb more firmly into the bird’s nest. ‘I’m sure you’d be much happier staying at the beach.’
Roughly translated, that meant, I’d be much happier if you stayed on the beach, he thought. She’d probably be a lot happier if he stayed at home. Well, it wasn’t his role in life to make her happy.
‘On the contrary, Miss Claibourne, I’m along for the ride. Wherever it goes. I’ll be most interested in everything you do.’
She looked doubtful, but didn’t argue, returning to the handwritten notes in the file she was holding, suggesting without words that they were far more interesting that anything he might have to say.
Again, in any other woman he would have assumed it was all part of the game and been amused, but it was clear that Flora Claibourne didn’t play games. She really didn’t care.
Round one to her, then.
His presence ignored, he opened his briefcase and extracted a brand-new hard-back book. Ashanti Gold, by Flora Claibourne.
He, too, began to read.
Flora didn’t miss his attempt to flatter, although why he would bother at all surprised her. Not that it mattered, because she wasn’t impressed. She’d seen all the moves before.
He pushed long, elegant fingers through his shaggy mane of sun-streaked hair, taking it back from his forehead in an unconsciously graceful gesture.
That one was a classic, she thought. And beautifully done, with not a hint of the self-conscious. He made it look like a gesture he’d used all his life—not one he’d practised in front of a mirror.
She still wasn’t impressed. Bram Gifford might consider himself a world-class charmer, but it would take more than the purchase of her book, a faux interest in her subject, to turn her head. But she didn’t say anything.
While he was pretending fascination with the history and uses of gold in West Africa he wasn’t attempting to engage her in conversation, which was just fine with her.
With any luck he’d read all the way to Saraminda.
Saraminda. The name had an exotic ring to it and the island didn’t disappoint, Flora decided, as the small inter-island plane banked steeply to line up with the floor of a tropical valley, offering them a breathtaking view of the mountainous landscape.
The lower slopes were farmed on terraces painstakingly cut into the hills, but above the farms the foothills rose in wave after wave, until they soared into peaks densely thicketed with the dark green vegetation of a rainforest that until recently had hidden the ruins of a temple where a young woman had been buried with all the ceremony of a queen.
Allegedly.
She’d met Tipi Myan briefly at a reception given by the travel department at the store more than a year ago. He hadn’t been Minister of Antiquities then. He’d been running the country’s tourist authority.
Call her cynical, but if she’d been in his shoes she might have been tempted to use that very tenuous acquaintance to ask the author of Ashanti Gold to write about his “lost princess”.
