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Her admission seemed to dissolve some of the hostility between them. Alain’s face relaxed into an unexpected smile and he looked almost friendly.
‘Why don’t you come and have breakfast with me and see it properly?’ he invited.
Claire bit her lip.
‘I really want to get home and see my family,’ she protested.
‘Of course,’ he agreed. ‘But there are some wedding presents for Marie Rose that arrived through my hotel’s courier service yesterday. It’s some items of china and glassware from my great-aunt in France. She didn’t trust them to the mail and I thought you might like to take them with you for your sister.’
‘Oh,’ said Claire. ‘Well, in that case, I suppose I should stop. Besides, nobody ever gets up early in our house. They’ll probably all be snoring blissfully if I arrive now.’
‘True,’ said Alain gravely. ‘Besides, there’s another reason why you’d be wise to stop here on your way home.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Claire with a puzzled frown.
Alain took her arm and escorted her back to the car.
‘According to Marie Rose, your father has been putting in a new bathroom,’ he explained.
A horrified look spread over Claire’s face.
‘Oh, no,’ she wailed. ‘Papa’s been tinkering with the plumbing? You don’t mean—?’
‘I’m afraid so. Marie Rose says they’ve had no hot water for the past six weeks, so if you want a decent shower your best chance is at my house. I think you’ll find the facilities there are adequate.’
They were more than adequate, they were totally luxurious, Claire discovered. Alain’s new house was built at a distance from the main hotel and was set amid such a luxuriant private garden that it seemed totally secluded. White stucco walls and a hedge of red ginger plants almost concealed it from view and, as Alain drove into the double garage, Claire saw that the garden was a riot of colourful tropical plants. Yellow and pink hibiscus flowers jostled for space with cascades of orange and scarlet bougainvillaea that spilt over the enclosing walls. Like the reception building of the hotel, the house was constructed in the traditional Polynesian style with a thatched roof. Yet, as Alain unlocked the front door and led her into the entrance hall, Claire saw that the resemblance to a primitive thatched hut ended there. Once inside, they were met by the discreet hum of airconditioning and a welcome coolness descended on them. Claire gazed around her in surprise, taking in the colourful riot of Polynesian bark paintings, glossy green plants and a glimpse of a vivid, casual living-room with deep, comfortable sofas and bright wall-hangings.
‘Goodness,’ she murmured under her breath.
‘What is it?’ demanded Alain.
‘I didn’t expect your home to look so colourful and relaxed,’ admitted Claire, turning to face him.
‘Oh?’ retorted Alain. ‘Why not?’
‘It doesn’t go with your personality somehow,’ explained Claire. ‘It’s quite different from what I expected.’
‘And what did you expect?’ he prompted.
Claire wrinkled her nose.
‘Oh, white walls, lots of chrome everywhere. A kitchen that looks like a cross between a butcher’s shop and an operating theatre. Like that house you were renting a few years ago. The sort of place nobody could really relax in, not that you would worry about that. I mean, you’ve always been more into working than relaxing, haven’t you?’
‘I see,’ murmured Alain. ‘Well, how cosy. It sounds as though you regard me as some kind of clinical, unfeeling robot, whose only interest in life is making money. Am I right?’
Claire’s face flamed. She opened her mouth to protest that she hadn’t intended anything quite so rude, but saw that Alain was gazing at her with mocking blue eyes that held an unmistakable challenge. Her chin lifted defiantly.
‘Yes, I suppose I do,’ she replied.
His mouth set grimly and his gaze travelled down over her slender body.
‘Well, I won’t tell you what sort of decorating style I’d expect you to favour,’ he drawled. ‘I don’t suppose you’d have room to cart soft lighting and red satin sheets around in your little suitcase anyway.’
Claire caught her breath in a sob of rage and her eyes sparkled dangerously. Lunging forward, she tried to wrestle her bag out of his grip.
‘How dare you?’ she cried unsteadily. ‘Look, Alain, I should never have come here! It was ridiculous to think that you and I could be pleasant to each other for five minutes at a time. So, if you’ll just call me a taxi, I’ll take my unwelcome presence away.’
‘Don’t be such a melodramatic little fool!’ growled Alain. ‘You’ll go when I’m ready to take you, Claire, and not before. I promised Marie Rose that you and I would get along together until the wedding is over.’
‘Fine,’ seethed Claire, still trying to wrestle her bag from his grip. ‘I’ll see you again on the actual day of the wedding and I’ll even bare my teeth and smile at you. But in the meantime, give me my suitcase and let me go!’
‘When you’ve had a shower and breakfast and calmed down, I’ll let you go!’ thundered Alain. ‘But I won’t allow you to turn up at your home in such a state as this. Your father is a sick man and you’ll upset him!’
‘I am not in a state!’ cried Claire.
‘Yes, you are,’ contradicted Alain. ‘Your hands are shaking! Look at them.’
It was true. Claire looked down and saw that her slim, tanned fingers were gripped around the handle of the bag so tightly that they were trembling. Very slowly and deliberately, as if he were undoing a padlock, Alain prised them free. Then he patted Claire soothingly on the shoulder.
‘Now, go and have a shower,’ he advised, ‘while I order some breakfast for us. You can use the green bedroom through there. And just come back to the dining-room when you’re ready.’
Claire stared at him with blazing brown eyes.
‘I hate you,’ she breathed. ‘You’re the most overbearing, ruthless, patronising, hateful—’
‘Remember that,’ cut in Alain, ‘and the next week will pass very smoothly. I’ll see you in the dining-room in fifteen minutes, Claire.’
Left alone, Claire stalked into the bedroom, slammed the door and leaned against it, choking for breath.
‘Swine!’ she muttered. ‘Swine, swine, swine!’
But she could see quite clearly that staying in a rage would only serve to amuse Alain even further, so she knew she would have to regain control of herself. Taking a long gulp of air, she looked around her. The room was decorated in cool shades of blue and green and white and the curtains were drawn back, revealing a panoramic view of the ocean. In the far corner was a small sitting area with deep, cream leather armchairs and feathery potted palms, while nearby french doors led on to a private balcony. A queen-sized bed with a colourful floral cover dominated the centre of the room, but there were also spacious built-in wardrobes, a carved chest of drawers and a wall unit that held everything from a television set and video-recorder to a large aquarium filled with red and blue fish. Exploring further, Claire found a spacious bathroom and let out a low gasp of astonishment at its magnificence. It was faced with palest green marble and had gold fittings in the shower and bath. Yet what held her gaze longest was not the décor, but the view. Because of the house’s location high on the cliff-top, there was no problem of privacy. Consequently one wall had been lined with huge picture windows, overlooking the dazzling sapphire vista of the sea. Walking slowly towards them as if in a dream, Claire stared down at the beach of black, volcanic sand far below. Shading her eyes, she peered intently at the cluster of houses backing on to the foreshore and caught a glimpse of her parents’ modest bungalow between the coconut palms.
‘Oh, it’s so nice to be home!’ she murmured. ‘If only I didn’t have to deal with Alain, everything would be perfect.’
But she did have to deal with him. That was the whole problem. If only I hadn’t been such a fool six years ago, she thought passionately, he wouldn’t hate me like this! Still, there’s no way I can change the past, so I’ll just have to grit my teeth and get through this somehow…
Five minutes later she was rotating blissfully under the warm downpour of the shower. In spite of her tension, a ridiculous, bubbling happiness welled up inside her each time she remembered she was home. And when at last she reluctantly turned off the water, wrapped a gigantic white towel around her and padded into the bedroom, she did something entirely unexpected. Reaching down into her suitcase full of neatly folded clothes, she picked up a smart, tailored black and white dress and then hesitated. It was an outfit she had worn several times on reporting assignments and with the small pearl and gold stud earrings and the black pumps she knew it made her look cool and sophisticated and totally in control of life. Exactly the way she wanted to feel in order to deal with Alain Charpentier. Yet some strange nostalgia made her replace it in the bag and pick up something else instead. A dress she hadn’t worn for six years, but which she had never been able to throw away. A pareu, the national costume of Tahiti, in her favourite colours of scarlet and white.
Picking up the rectangular piece of cloth, Claire wound it round her body, tucking it high under her armpits, so that it concealed her breasts, but left her shoulders bare. Then, watching herself thoughtfully in the mirror, she pulled off her plastic shower cap and let her long brown hair tumble loose to her waist. A jolt of shock went through her as she saw her own reflection. The last time she had worn that dress, she had been squirming in Alain Charpentier’s grip, sobbing and pleading and babbling incoherent explanations as he ordered her to leave Tahiti. Wearing it now seemed like an act of defiance, a way of showing him that she could no longer be bullied. If he even remembered the dress, which was highly unlikely.
Alain’s sharp intake of breath as she entered the sitting-room five minutes later showed her that she was wrong on that score. His brows drew together in a scowl and she had no doubt at all that he was remembering the past just as vividly as she was. However, he made no mention of it as he rose to his feet and came towards her.
‘You look very attractive,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ replied Claire warily.
‘Let me get you some juice,’ suggested Alain. ‘I’ve ordered breakfast from the hotel, but I don’t expect it for another five minutes or so. Now what would you like? Orange juice or a tropical medley?’
‘Tropical medley, please,’ said Claire.
His fingers brushed hers as he handed her the tall, frosted glass and she flinched. Colouring self-consciously, she took a hasty gulp of the chilled drink. It was delicious, thick with shreds of fresh pineapple and mango and full of crushed ice. Alain’s gaze did not leave hers as he set down the crystal jug on the coffeetable.
‘Well, sit down and tell me about yourself,’ he ordered abruptly. ‘How did you get into this television reporting in the first place? Was it your little brush with the film world in Tahiti that inspired you?’
Claire cast him a suspicious glance, but was not certain whether any malice lay behind his question. In any case, she decided that dignity was her best defence. Sitting back in her chair and toying with her glass, she adopted the cool, poised manner that had seen her through countless difficult interviews.
‘No, not at all,’ she replied. ‘It was pure chance really. After I left home, I went to stay with relatives in Sydney. As you probably know, my mother is originally Australian and she had always planned for me to spend a year in Australia when I finished school. Anyway my aunt managed to find me a job at a television station as a sort of Girl Friday. In the beginning I was only doing odd jobs, typing, making coffee, running messages, that sort of thing. But then I had a lucky break.’
‘What happened?’ he asked.
‘A famous French scientist from New Caledonia was visiting Sydney and we had a reporter who spoke French lined up to do a live interview with him. But as they were all coming down the stairs to the recording studio, the reporter slipped and broke his ankle. Of course, there was instant pandemonium. The poor chap was in dreadful pain and couldn’t possibly go on air, but the interview was due to start at any moment. I was the only other person around who spoke fluent French, so I offered to do it. Luckily the head of the studio was very impressed with the result.’
‘And so?’ prompted Alain.
Claire smiled.
‘And so nothing,’ she retorted with a shrug. ‘For the next few months, everything went on exactly as usual, but then one day the boss called me into his office. He said they were starting up a new programme about international scientific discoveries and they wanted a roving reporter who spoke a major language other than English. He offered me the job on a trial basis and naturally I jumped at the chance.’
‘And you enjoy it, do you?’ asked Alain, eyeing her searchingly.
Claire sighed.
‘I did at first,’ she agreed. ‘What twenty-year-old wouldn’t? Constantly jetting around the world, wearing lovely clothes, having somebody else do my hair and my make-up every day. Yes, it’s been fun! But it’s also a lot harder than it looks. Lately I’ve found the constant travel an absolute nightmare and I’m not alone in that. None of the other original team of reporters is still doing the job. The others all found it clashed too much with their family commitments and gave it up.’
‘But you didn’t have that problem?’ asked Alain with a touch of sarcasm.
‘No,’ replied Claire shortly. ‘As you say, I didn’t have that problem. All the same, I sometimes find myself at some ungodly hour of the morning waiting for a change of planes in Singapore airport and feeling dead on my feet. And I ask myself, “What on earth am I doing this for?”’
‘I know what you mean,’ agreed Alain, staring out of the window with a brooding expression. ‘I’ve almost worked myself to death trying to get these new hotels up and running, but I don’t know if there’s really any point to it. Perhaps if I had someone to share it with, I might feel differently.’
‘You’ve never thought about marrying?’ asked Claire curiously.
Alain’s mouth tightened. Setting down his glass, he strode across to the huge picture window and stared sombrely out to sea.
‘Only once,’ he replied indifferently. ‘There was only one girl who ever touched my heart. But it soon became apparent that my good opinion of her was totally unfounded. So why bother? If I were going to marry, I would want a wife whom I could trust completely. A woman who would commit herself to me, body and soul. Not an easy thing to find these days!’
‘Don’t be so cynical!’ protested Claire. ‘There are plenty of women like that!’
Alain swung round to face her, his blue eyes glittering fiercely.
‘Are there?’ he sneered.
Claire flinched at the bitterness in his tone. It was as if he felt that no woman could be trusted because a single person had once betrayed him.
‘I think you’re being absurd,’ she said with spirit. ‘You shouldn’t let one bad experience sour your entire life. Anyway, what about all the women you go around with? Don’t they mean anything to you?’
Alain’s eyes narrowed.
‘What do you know of the women I go around with?’ he demanded.
Claire flushed.
‘Only what Marie Rose tells me,’ she muttered.
‘I see,’ said Alain thoughtfully. ‘So you find my private life interesting enough to ask Marie Rose about it, do you?’
‘No!’ cried Claire. ‘I didn’t do anything of the kind, but you know what Marie Rose is like. Her biggest interest in life is other people’s relationships. If she could pair off everybody she knows and march them up the ramp to Noah’s Ark, she’d die happy! Anyway, whenever I phone home, she always tells me about everybody’s love life. Yours included.’
Alain swore under his breath.
‘If I didn’t need Marie Rose in my new hotel, I’d wring her neck for her impertinence!’ he vowed. ‘But if Marie Rose keeps you so well informed, you must realise that there have been women who were only too happy to join me for a frolic in a tropical paradise. Women who meant as much to me as I meant to them. Which was absolutely nothing! And I dare say that will be the pattern for the rest of my life.’
Claire stared at him in dismay.
‘I think that’s awful,’ she said bluntly.
‘Do you?’ retorted Alain. ‘How odd. I thought you were the expert when it came to sexual frolics without commitment.’
With an angry gasp Claire shot to her feet, knocking over her glass of juice.
‘How can you be so—?’ she began.
But at that moment the front door bell chimed musically. Alain strode off to answer it and Claire was left fuming.
‘Come in, Paulette,’ invited Alain.
A moment later the door to the sitting-room opened and an elderly Tahitian woman dressed in a scarlet pareu with a garland of acacia blossoms in her hair came in with a heavy tray in her hands. She smiled dazzlingly at Claire and wished her good morning before trudging through into the dining-room.
‘There you are, Monsieur Alain,’ she said, setting down the tray. ‘Juice, croissants, butter, jam and fresh coffee from the hotel restaurant. Is there anything else I can bring you?’
‘No, thank you, Paulette,’ replied Alain pleasantly. ‘But if you could just mop up the couch I’d be grateful. Mademoiselle Beaumont had an accident with her drink.’
‘Ooh, là!’ exclaimed the housekeeper, clicking her tongue. ‘But, of course, monsieur. I’ll just fetch a cloth from your kitchen.’
Paulette was stoutly built and Claire felt a pang of guilt as she saw the older woman waddle back and sink to her knees with the damp cloth.
‘Oh, let me,’ she begged. ‘It was my fault.’
‘But of course not, mademoiselle,’ protested Paulette in outrage. ‘This is my job. You sit down and enjoy your breakfast. Ta maa maitai. Good appetite.’
‘Mauruuru,’ replied Claire. ‘Thank you.’
The task did not take long and, in spite of the maid’s protests, Claire stood by and helped her to her feet when she finished.
‘You’re very kind, mademoiselle,’ Paulette panted. ‘Thank you very much.’
‘Aita pea pea,’ smiled Claire. ‘No problem.’
