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CHAPTER FOUR
A stylish wedding often owes more to natural elements than the designer’s art…
—The Perfect Wedding by Serafina
March
JOSIE was trying very hard not to grin as she walked back through the trees to her own deck and, once safely out of reach of those dangerous eyes, a mouth that teased without conscience, she swiftly recovered her senses.
Gideon McGrath might be in pain but it hadn’t stopped him flirting outrageously with her. Not that she was fooled into thinking it was personal, despite the way he’d peered down her robe until she’d realised what he was doing and moved.
All he was interested in was her coffee. In having her run his errands.
‘One o’clock…’ His voice reached her through the branches.
And her lunch, damn it!
She was sorely tempted to stand by the rail and eat that luscious blueberry muffin, very slowly, just to torment him.
Perhaps it was just as well that the monkeys had taken advantage of her absence to clear her tray. Upsetting the milk, scattering the little packets of sugar, leaving nothing but crumbs that were being cleaned up by a bird with dark, glossy green plumage who gave her a look with its beady eyes as if daring her to do anything about it.
She wouldn’t want the man to get the impression that she gave that much of a damn and, quite deliberately turning her back towards him, she looked up at a monkey chittering at her from a nearby branch. He turned on the charm with a smile, an outstretched hand, the moment he’d snagged her attention, hoping for more little treats.
It had to be a male.
‘You’ve cleaned me out,’ she said. ‘Try next door.’
She was treated to a bare-toothed grin before the little monkey swung effortlessly away into the trees, putting on a dazzling acrobatic show just for her.
‘Show off,’ she called after him. But the fact that she was smiling served as a reminder, should she need it, of just how dangerous that kind of self-serving charm could be. How easy it was to be fooled, sucked in.
She took a slow breath, then turned her face up to the sun, absorbing for a moment the heat, the scent of warm earth, the exotic high-pitched hum of the cicadas.
Five years ago she had been peeling vegetables and washing up in a hotel kitchen; the only job she could get.
Today, Celebrity magazine was paying for her to stay in one of the most exclusive safari lodges in Africa. Paying her to ensure that the year’s most expensive wedding went without a hitch. And, with her name attached to this event, she would be one of the ‘chosen’, accepted in her own right; finally able to justify Sylvie’s faith in her.
Gideon McGrath could flirt all he wanted. It would take more than his devastating smile to distract her from her purpose.
She swiftly unpacked, hung up her clothes, then waxed up her hair before dressing for work. At home she would have worn layers of black net, Lycra and jersey; the black tights, T-shirt, a sleeveless belted slipover that came to her thighs, the purple DMs that had become her trademark uniform.
On her first foray into a ‘destination’ wedding, on the island of St Lucia, she’d shed the neck-to-toe cover-up in favour of black shorts, tank top and a pair of strappy purple sandals.
The misery of sunburn, and ploughing through soft sand in open-toes, had taught her a sharp, painful lesson and she hadn’t made the same mistake again. Instead, she’d invested in a hot weather uniform consisting of a black long-sleeved linen shirt and a short skirt pulled together with a purple leather belt. Despite the heat, she’d stuck with black tights, which she’d also learned from experience, protected her legs from the nasty biting, stinging things that seemed to thrive in hot climates. As did her boots.
She took a folder from her briefcase that contained the overall plan for the wedding as envisaged by her predecessor, the latest guest list Marji had emailed to her—she’d need to check it against the rooms allocated by David—and her own lists of everything that needed to be double and triple-checked on site.
Marji had also sent her the latest edition of Celebrity with Crystal’s sweetheart face and baby-blue eyes smiling out of the cover. The first of half a dozen issues that would be dedicated to the wedding.
She glanced in the direction of Gideon’s tree house. It wasn’t the requested newspaper—far from it—but it did contain a dozen pages of the bride on her hen party weekend at a luxury spa. Impossibly glamorous girls poolside in barely-there swimsuits, partying till all hours in gowns cut to reveal more than they concealed would do a lot more to take his mind off his back than the latest FTSE index.
It was just the thing for a man suffering from stress overload.
Then she felt guilty for mocking him. Okay, so he’d taken shameless advantage of her, but it had to be miserable having your back seize up when you were on holiday in a place that had been designed to wipe out all traces of the twenty-first century. No television or radio to distract you. No way to phone home.
If he was as incapable of moving as he said he was. He looked fit enough—more than fit. Not bulky gym muscle, but the lean, sinewy lifestyle fitness of a walker, a climber even.
That first sight of him had practically taken her breath away.
Not just his buff body and powerful legs, but the thick dark hair and sexy stubble. Eyes from which lines fanned out in a way that suggested he spent a lot of time in the sun.
Eyes that unnerved her. Seemed to rob her of self-will. She’d been on the point of leaving him more than once and yet she’d stayed.
She dismissed the thought. It had been a long trip and she never had been able to sleep on a plane. She was simply tired.
The only thing that bothered her about Gideon McGrath was that he was here. Immovably so, according to him, and she could see how impossible it would be for him to climb aboard the tiny four-seater plane that had brought her here.
But there had to be a way. If it had been a life-threatening illness, a broken leg, they would have to get him out somehow.
She’d ask David about that.
The entire complex would very shortly be full to bursting with the wedding party, photographers, hairdressers and make-up artists for the feature on the build-up to the wedding, the setting, and no one was immune from an accident, falling ill.
She needed to know what the emergency arrangements were.
Meanwhile, whatever he came up with, they were going to need Gideon McGrath’s goodwill and co-operation and she regretted dropping yesterday’s newspaper in the rubbish bag before she’d left the flight from London. Getting him out of Tal and Crystal’s bridal suite was her number one priority and, for that, she needed to keep him sweet. Even if it did mean hand-feeding him from her lunch tray.
She put on her sunglasses and, shouldering her bag, she headed back across the bridge. Trying very hard not to think about slipping morsels of tempting food into his mouth. Giving him a massage. Helping him into the plunge pool.
She jangled the bell to warn him of her arrival, then stepped up onto his deck.
He hadn’t moved, but was lying back, eyes closed and, not eager to disturb him, she tiptoed across to the table.
‘Admit it, Josie, you just can’t keep away,’ he said as she put the magazine down.
She jumped, her heart jolting against her breast as if she’d been caught doing something wrong and that made her mad.
‘I’m on an errand of mercy,’ she said, then jumped again when he opened his eyes. He did a good job of hiding his reaction to her changed appearance. Was doubtless a good poker player.
But, for a woman who knew what to look for, the mental flinch that was usually accompanied by a short scatological four-letter word was unmistakable.
He had enough control to keep that to himself, too—which was impressive; there was simply a pause so brief as to be almost unnoticeable unless you were waiting for it, before he said, ‘So? Have you changed your mind about the massage?’
And it was her turn to catch her breath, catch the word that very nearly slipped loose. Was it that obvious what she’d been thinking? Had he been able to read her mind as easily as she’d read his?
It wasn’t such a stretch, she realised.
He must know how important it was to her that he move and she let it out again, very slowly.
‘Sorry. It was your mental well-being I was concerned about. I didn’t have a newspaper,’ she said, ‘but I did have this in my bag.’
He took one glance at the magazine she was offering him and then looked up at her. ‘You’ve got to be kidding?’
‘It’s the latest issue.’ She angled it so that he could see Crystal on the cover. ‘At least you won’t mistake me for the bride again.’
‘I always did think you were an unlikely candidate,’ he admitted, taking it from her and glancing at the photograph of the bikini-clad Crystal. ‘She is exactly what I expected, whereas you are…’
He paused, whether out of concern for her feelings or because he was lost for words she didn’t know. Unlikely on both counts, she’d have thought.
‘Whereas I am what?’ she enquired.
‘I’m not sure,’ he replied. ‘Give me time and I’ll work it out.’
‘There’s no rush,’ she said, taking a step back. ‘You’ve got until ten o’clock tomorrow morning. And in the meantime you can get to know Crystal.’
‘Why would I want to do that?’
She shrugged. ‘You tell me. You’re the one who wants to share her room.’
Deciding that now might be a good moment to depart, she took another step back.
‘Wait!’
And, even after all these years, her survival instinct was so deeply ingrained to respond instantly to an order and she stopped and turned without thinking.
‘Josie?’
It had taken no more than a heartbeat for her to realise what she’d done, spin on her heel and walk away.
‘I’m busy,’ she said and kept going.
‘I know, but I was hoping, since you’re so concerned about my mental welfare, that you might fetch a notebook and pen from my laptop bag?’
Gideon had framed it as a question, not an order and she put out her hand to grasp the handrail as the black thoughts swirling in her brain began to subside and she realised that his ‘wait!’ had been an urgent appeal rather than the leap-to-it order barked at someone who had no choice but obey.
She took a moment while her heart rate slowed to catch her breath, gather herself, before turning slowly to face him.
‘Do correct me if I’m mistaken,’ she said, ‘but I’d have said they were on the doctor’s forbidden list.’
‘At the top,’ he admitted, the slight frown at her strange reaction softening into a rerun of that car-crash smile.
‘Well, there you are. I’ve done more than enough damage for one day—’
‘No. It’s important. I’ve had a couple of ideas and if I don’t make some notes while they’re fresh in my mind, I’m just going to lie here and…well…stress. You wouldn’t want that on your conscience, would you?’
‘You are a shameless piece of work, Gideon McGrath,’ she told him, the irresistible smile doing nothing good for her pulse rate.
‘In my place, you’d do the same.’
Undoubtedly.
And, since they both knew that right now her prime motivation was keeping him stress-free, he had her. Again.
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior, but at first glance his room appeared to be identical to her own. It certainly wasn’t any larger or fancier, so presumably Serafina had chosen it as the bridal suite purely because of its isolation at the furthest point from the main building.
Tomorrow it would be decked with flowers. There would be fresh fruit, champagne, everything laid on for the stars of the show.
For the moment, however, it was bare of anything that would give a clue to the character of its occupant. There was nothing lying on the bedside table. No book. No photograph. Nothing to offer any clues as to who he was. What he was. He’d said travel was his business, but that could mean anything. He could work for one of the travel companies, checking out hotels. A travel writer, even.
No laptop bag, either.
‘I can’t see it,’ she called.
‘Try the wardrobe.’
She opened a door. A well-worn carry-on leather grip was his only luggage and, apart from a cream linen suit, his clothes were the comfortable basics of a man who had his life pared to the bone and travelled light.
His laptop bag was on a high shelf—put there out of reach of temptation by his doctor?
‘Got it!’
She took it down, unzipped the side pocket, but there were no files, no loose paperwork. Obviously it wasn’t just his wardrobe that was pared to the bone. The man didn’t believe in clutter. Not that she’d been planning to snoop, but a letterhead would have given her a clue about what he did.
‘Forget the notebook, just bring the bag,’ he called impatiently.
All he carried was a small plain black notebook held together by an elastic band, an array of pens and the same state-of-the-art iPhone that she used and a small but seriously expensive digital camera.
She extracted the notebook, selected a pen, then zipped the bag shut and lifted it back into place.
‘I thought I asked you to bring the bag,’ he said when she handed them to him.
‘You did, but I thought I’d give you an incentive to get back on your feet.’
His eyes narrowed and he took them on a slow, thoughtful tour of her body. It was as if he were going through an empty house switching on the lights. Thighs, abdomen, breasts leaping to life as his eyes lighted on each in turn. Lingered.
Switching on the heating.
Then he met her eyes head-on with a gaze that was direct, unambiguous and said, ‘If you’re in the incentive business, Josie, you could do a lot better than that.’
She’d had her share of utterly outrageous propositions from men since she’d been in the events business, most of which had, admittedly, been fuelled by alcohol and, as such, not to be taken seriously, even if the men involved had been capable of carrying them through.
They were all part of the job and she’d never had any problem dealing with them so the heat searing her cheeks now had to be caused by the sun. It was rising by the minute and the temperature was going up with it.
‘Lunch?’ he prompted.
‘What?’
‘As an incentive?’
