had been his good fortune that she’d been looking for an escape route at the time. One that had backfired on her. As Bram Gifford leaned across her to get a better look, his thick corn-coloured hair catching the sun, the small inner voice that warned her she was being used, grew louder.
She was being used by everyone. All that had changed was her ability to see the game for what it was and ensure that she wasn’t hurt in the process.
‘We’re going up there?’ Bram asked, looking up at mountain peaks gold-misted in the dawn light before turning to her. He was, she thought, heart-meltingly handsome, with warm, toffee-brown eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled. ‘You aren’t bothered about snakes and spiders and creepy-crawlies?’
For pity’s sake! Did she look like a bird-witted fool? Patronising cancelled out toffee-brown eyes—however crinkly their corners—every time.
‘In my experience they have more reason to be scared of me than I have of them,’ she replied matter-of-factly. She’d witnessed the most practised flirts at work, but she’d only been caught once. She was a quick learner, and it would take a lot more than ‘Me Tarzan, you Jane’ to impress her. ‘There are far more unpleasant things in this world than arthropoda,’ she added.
Bram, who’d expected the usual shiver of horror, gave a mental nod in her direction. Not too many women of his acquaintance would have resisted the opportunity to squeal a little, just to boost his ‘big strong man’ quotient. Or used arthropoda in a sentence. But then he was the first to admit that he wasn’t interested in their IQ.
Having neatly put him down, she wasn’t waiting for him to compliment her on her backbone either. He was getting the message, loud and clear, that she didn’t care what he thought.
Instead she began gathering her personal possessions without any fuss, not taking the slightest bit of notice of him.
In his experience this was usually a calculated ploy. Not noticing men had been raised to an art form by a certain type of woman. The kind who wanted to be noticed.
He had to concede that she didn’t appear to be one of them, but he’d reserve judgement.
Right now the early-morning sun, pouring in through the window, was lighting up her tortured hair and glinting off a dozen hairpins. Someone should do her a favour and throw them away, he thought. And those damned combs that she was forever replacing without seeming to notice what she was doing. As if reading his mind, she raised her hands to capture a loose strand of hair and anchor it in place.
Then, as if sensing him watching her, she let her hands drop to her lap. ‘I’m so sorry, I wasn’t thinking. That’s so remiss of me. Are you concerned for your own safety, Mr Gifford?’
This was the nearest they’d come to a conversation in the endless hours of flying. She was still sticking to his surname though, despite his request that she call him Bram. But at least it was a question: a mocking one, to be sure, but one that required an answer. A decided advance on the monosyllabic responses she’d stuck to throughout the long flight.
Clearly a seasoned traveller, she’d eaten little, refused anything but water to drink and slept without fuss when she wasn’t working—although that hadn’t been often. And while they’d waited for their transfer to the Saraminda flight at Singapore she’d toured the shops, looking at everything but buying nothing. And saying even less.
He’d used the time when she’d been sleeping to take a long hard look at Flora Claibourne. She might be clever, but she was a woman, and they all had their weak spots. If he was going to get her to open up to him, trust him, confide in him, he’d have to discover hers.
Of the three Claibourne sisters she most favoured her father in looks. Not much of a start for a girl. On her, the nose only just missed being a disaster. But then all her features were larger than life. She had a full, generous mouth that might have been dangerous if she’d bothered to make the most of it. And eyes that, although a rather undistinguished shade of brown, were strikingly framed by long lashes and fine brows.
It was a face full of character, he decided. Then had recalled his formidable grandmother ticking him off when, as a callow youth, he’d rather unkindly dismissed some girl as plain. ‘Her face may not be pretty, but it has character, Bram,’ she’d told him. ‘And she has lovely skin. That will last long after chocolate-box prettiness has lost its charm.’
He hadn’t been convinced at the time. Still wasn’t. But he had to admit that Flora Claibourne had lovely skin too. In the clear, unforgiving light at thirty thousand feet it had seemed almost translucent, with just the faintest dusting of freckles that had been invisible in the grey London morning they’d left behind them. The kind of skin that without sun block would frazzle to a red, peeling crisp. He hoped she didn’t take her reverse vanity that far.
He’d noticed, too, that asleep she lost the wary look that she disguised well beneath a faintly aggressive attitude. So what, exactly, was she wary of? Him? He hadn’t done anything to warrant wariness. Yet.
Awake, she’d concentrated on work, and he’d known better than to push his company on her. Instead he’d read her book from cover to cover, which was why he now knew more than he’d ever wanted to know about the history of gold working in West Africa. That wasn’t a complaint. She had a lively style and could tell a story. It was just that he hadn’t anticipated reading it all in one go.
To sum up, then, she was aggressively dowdy, wary and clever. In short, everything he disliked in a woman.
She was also, having ignored his presence for most of the flight, now taking the opportunity to poke a little fun at him. She might not have the style of her sisters, but he was beginning to suspect that she wasn’t going to be the push-over he’d anticipated.
A flicker of anticipation rippled through him. An unexpected charge of excitement. It was a long time since the outcome of the chase had seemed so uncertain. Or the stakes so high.
CHAPTER TWO
‘WELL?’ she prompted, still waiting for his answer. ‘Are you scared?’
‘Of spiders? Absolutely terrified of the little beggars,’ he said, the long pause lending authenticity to his apparently reluctant confession. Acknowledging a weakness had, in his experience, never failed to bring out that innate protective instinct that was the birthright of every woman.
Why spoil such a perfect opportunity to evoke her sympathy by telling the truth?
Flora regarded him levelly for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to believe him. Then she said, ‘The plane has come to a stop, Mr Gifford.’ He still didn’t know what she thought. About anything. It was disconcerting, to say the least, and he turned away to peer out of the opposite window at quaint wooden airport buildings that were smothered with flowering climbers.
‘I do believe you’re right, Miss Claibourne,’ he replied, getting to his feet to retrieve their bags and jackets from the overhead locker.
There was a bump as the door was opened and the aircraft was flooded with soft warm air, the smell of aircraft fuel mingling with the scent of the tropics. Musty, spicy, different.
‘This certainly beats London on a grey day in May,’ he said as they walked across the tarmac towards the terminal building.
‘There are no snakes in London,’ she said, automatically
