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it should be “Not worth it, sir”.’ A dark brow rose a fraction. ‘You must’ve heard of establishing good customer relations—or don’t you aim to win the employee of the month award?’
‘I’m not an employee, I’m a volunteer,’ Cass told him crisply.
‘Whatever your status, I am a customer,’ he responded. ‘Which entitles me to a little…courtesy.’
Her full mouth thinned. He was deliberately baiting her. Once she would have found his sardonic humour amusing, but not now. Now she felt tempted to tell him to go take a long walk off a short pier—or something far coarser—but instead she slitted her eyes at him.
‘In your dreams,’ she said.
His lips twitched. He had always liked her verve and had enjoyed the cut-and-thrust repartee which they had often shared.
‘Sassy as ever, I see.’
‘You better believe it,’ she responded, and stalked away.
In the kitchen, Cass swung into action, collecting eggs from the fridge, locating a pan, setting a tray. She had always imagined that when they did meet again—at her bidding, and at her choice of location—Gifford Tait would leave her cold, she reflected as she worked. Stonecold. Alas, it was not so. With his thickly lashed grey eyes, features which were a touch too strong to be described as handsome, and lean, muscular physique, he continued to be disruptively—and alarmingly—virile. He also had undeniable charisma.
Reaching for a whisk, she beat the eggs fiercely. Snap out of it, she ordered herself. The dynamic Mr Tait may possess more than his fair share of sex appeal, but when it comes to caring and sharing and common-or-garden decency he rates a whopping great minus. Any charisma is superficial.
Gifford had been unwell. What did that mean? she wondered. She shrugged. He had not wanted to tell her and she would not ask.
The eggs were scrambled, sprinkled with chopped herbs, and arranged on a plate with triangles of hot, buttered toast. Lifting the tray, Cass steered out through the saloon-style swing doors which separated the kitchen from the restaurant. When she drew near, she saw that her customer was tapping the pepper pot up and down on the table in a sombre distracted rhythm. He looked uncharacteristically tense, like a man with a lot on his mind. As well he might, she thought astringently.
At the pad of her rubber-soled thongs on the plank floor, he glanced round.
‘Quick service,’ he said, as though she had caught him unawares in his introspection and caught him out.
‘You’ll be writing a letter of commendation to the Tourist Board?’ she enquired.
‘And faxing copies to the Prime Minister and President of the Seychelles,’ he assured her, deadpan. As she served his food, a slow grin angled its way across his mouth. ‘Do you finish off by bobbing a curtsy?’
‘Don’t push it,’ Cass warned. ‘You may be getting a kick out of this, but I have my limits.’
‘A generous tip won’t persuade you to curtsy?’
‘I wouldn’t curtsy if you sank to your knees, clasped your hands together and begged.’ She tilted her head.
‘Or perhaps I might. Going to try it?’
‘Not my style,’ Gifford replied.
‘I thought not.’
He noticed that she had put down two cups and saucers. ‘You’re joining me?’
She nodded. They had to talk about the baby.
‘I’m ready for a break,’ she declared, thinking that what she really needed was a lie-down in a darkened room with cold compresses on her eyes and complete silence. ‘You don’t mind?’ she asked, a touch belligerently.
‘Be my guest,’ he said, and, lifting his knife and fork, he began to eat.
As Cass poured the rich, dark, steaming coffee, she studied him from beneath her lashes. She had not noticed it when she had been looking down, but sitting directly
across from him she saw that his face was leaner than she remembered and his high cheekbones were more sharply defined.
He had lost weight. Gifford also looked drawn—which could be due to jet-lag, or to the shock of being confronted by her and the knowledge that he must soon meet the child whom they had both created.
‘The restaurant may not open until noon, but everything seems remarkably organised,’ he said, indicating the surrounding tables which were neatly set with gleaming cutlery and sparkling glasses.
‘I was awoken at the crack of dawn, so I was able to
get a good start,’ Cass explained, and waited for him to ask about who had woken her up so early.
‘Monday is a busy day?’
‘Er—no. The busy days are Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, when we provide a buffet lunch for tour parties of around twenty or so. The rest of the time, it’s quiet The road outside is unmade and full of potholes—’
‘I noticed when I was in the taxi,’ he cut in, frowning, and briefly placed a hand on his thigh.
‘And the prospect of such a bumpy ride puts people off. We get a few holidaymakers wandering down from Club Sesel, and the occasional determined backpacker, but it’s the tour lunches which keep the place ticking over.’
‘What do the tours take in?’
‘They start off with a nature trail through the Vallee de Mai, which is an eerie and rather forbidding place, thick with palms, in the heart of Praslin. It’s a World Heritage site. Next they come here for lunch, and then they drive up to Anse Lazio, a beach on the northern tip of the island which is great for swimming and snorkelling. You should go there some time.’
‘Maybe,’ Gifford said, frowning. He ate a few more mouthfuls. ‘Your uncle was happy for things to just tick over?’
‘Yes. Oscar was an ex-hippy who just wanted enough to get by on, and to “hang loose”.’ Cass smiled, thinking fondly of her pony-tailed and somewhat eccentric uncle. A member of the peace-and-love brigade, he had been so laid-back as to be almost falling over. There’s no word for “stress” in the Creole dictionary, so when he decided to live here he came to the perfect spot.’
‘What about paying guests?’ he asked.
‘Oscar rarely advertised or did much in the way of repairs, so unfortunately those who managed to find their way here were not inclined to come again. The food is good—Edith’s an excellent cook—but the accommodation’s in urgent need of updating.’
‘What is the accommodation?’ Gifford enquired.
‘Just the cottages,’ she said, gesturing across the restaurant and out over an oval lawn of thick-bladed grass to where three pale blue wooden cottages sat in the dappled shade of stately palm trees. Tricked out with pointed arches and gingerbread eaves, they possessed a shabby, fairy-tale charm.
Gifford turned to look. ‘No one’s in residence?’
‘I’m in the nearest one, but the others have been unoccupied since I arrived, and there are no forward bookings. Edith lives in the main house here, in a flat above the kitchen,’ she added.
He set down his knife and fork. The plate was clean.
That was ambrosia,’ he told her.
Thanks.’
‘Thank you. I feel a darn sight more human now,’ he said, and, easing back his chair and splaying his legs, he stretched lazily.
As he raised his arms, his shirt pulled up to reveal a strip of firm, flat midriff above the waistband of his jeans. Cass felt her heart start to pound. Her erstwhile lover was human; he was six feet three inches of powerfully constructed male. She could remember running her fingers over the hairy roughness of his chest, across that smooth midriff and down. She could remember the burn of his skin and—
Are you here on your own? he enquired.
She flushed. She had, she realised, been staring. Had Gifford noticed her fascination? Probably. He did not miss much.
She took a sip of coffee. Was she here alone? At long last, he had worked around to Jack. Alleluia! But what did he think she had done? Parked the baby with someone and swanned off unencumbered to the tropical sunshine? Come on! Yet by avoiding a direct question Gifford was playing games. She shot him an impatient glance. OK, she would play games, too.
‘On my own?’ Cass repeated, all innocence.
‘There’s no man around?’
She opened her blue eyes wide. If he wanted to be obtuse, she would also be obtuse.
‘Man?’ she enquired.
‘Is Stephen with you?’ he said, and heard the curtness of his voice reflect his distaste for the idea.
‘Stephen?’ She gave a startled laugh. ‘No.’
Stephen was Stephen Dexter, head of the Dexter sports equipment company which had been bought out the previous year by the vigorously expanding Tait-Hill Corporation. She had worked for the young man, first as his secretary, then as his personal assistant, and later in the upgraded role of business aide.
‘Does Edith do all the cooking or do you lend a hand there, too’ Gifford asked.
Cass looked blank. She had been thinking how Stephen had been a loyal and generous friend, but hopeless when it came to trade. It had been his incompetence which had hastened the family firm’s decline, made it ripe for a take-over and thus brought Gifford Tait into her life.
‘I help with minor tasks sometimes—like peeling vegetables—but Edith plans the menus and makes all the dishes. I wonder what’s happened to her?’ she carried on, inspecting the slim gold watch which encircled her wrist. ‘She’s gone to visit her sister and take—’
Cass bit off the words. She had been on the brink of saying that Edith had taken Jack along in his buggy to be fussed over and admired—all the Seychellois seemed to love children—but she refused to open up the subject. The lengthy months of silence had made it clear that Gifford regarded her pregnancy as her fault and the baby as her responsibility—a responsibility which she had willingly accepted. But it was now a point of principle that he must refer to their son first.
‘Edith should be back at any moment,’ she said.
He drank a mouthful of coffee. ‘Whoever’s buying this place must believe they can drum up customers from somewhere,’ he remarked.
She balled her fists, the knuckles draining white. He was a perverse so-and-so. His refusal to speak of Jack—innocent, adorable, fatherless Jack—made her want to
throw things at him. Hard. In the past, Gifford had exhibited a straight-arrow approach to problems—an approach which could be ruthless, as she knew to her cost—so why was he avoiding this issue now?
Cass shot him a look from beneath her too long fringe. Could he be embarrassed by his failure to respond to her letters, make contact and offer help? He was far too urbane an individual to visibly squirm, but did he feel ashamed? Might he want to say sorry, yet be tonguetied by thoughts of his abysmal behaviour?
‘Apparently,’ she said, thinking that when he did pluck up the courage to apologise she would take immense satisfaction in watching him grovel.
‘Has the guy run a hotel before?’
‘Yes, in South Africa.’
‘What made him decide to come here?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ Cass said impatiently. Once upon a time they had spent hours avidly discussing business matters, but the pressing topic for discussion now was Jack. Her darling Jack. ‘Edith had the first dealings, and although I met him when he called in a couple of weeks ago basically all I know is that his name is Kirk Weber and he comes from Johannesburg.’
‘What’s he like?’ Gifford asked.
‘In his forties, good-looking, friendly. Edith thinks he’s the bee’s knees and calls him Mr Wonderful.’
‘You said he’s yet to close the sale.’
She nodded. ‘It was supposed to go through a month ago, but Kirk’s been having difficulty transferring his funds, and since then—zilch.’
‘Perhaps he’s changed his mind.’
Her brow crinkled. ‘I don’t think so. He insists the money is on its way and rings every few days to check that no one else has been to look at the property.’
‘Edith always tells him no?’
‘Yes.’
‘An error.’
‘Could be,’ Cass acknowledged.
‘Is. Damn.’
As Gifford had spoken, he had slashed out a hand in emphasis and knocked a spare knife from the table, sending it flying and clattering to the floor a couple of yards away.
She waited for him to rise and, with the athletic grace which she remembered so well, retrieve the knife, but when he didn’t she pushed back her chair. Collecting fallen cutlery had, it seemed, been designated as the waitress’s work. Cass bent, picked up the knife and polished it on a napkin.
She thrust it towards him. ‘May I return this?’ she said.
‘You’re too kind.’
‘It’s all part of the service.’
Amusement quirked in one corner of his mouth. ‘And you’ve resisted the urge to carve me up into little pieces.’
She shone a saccharine smile at him. ‘Just.’
As she handed him the knife, their fingers touched. Cass stood rigid. The brush of his skin against hers seemed to create an electric current which tingled in her fingertips and shot up her arm.
‘You look…different,’ Gifford said, his grey eyes starting to move over her in a slow inspection.
Once again, she drew in her stomach. Since arriving on the island a month ago she had exercised every day, and soon she would be firm and trim—back to her original figure. But right now her belly remained a touch flabby.
‘I’ve put on weight which I’m trying to shed. Though it’s hardly surprising. Is it?’ she challenged.
‘You mean because you’re living alongside a restaurant, day in, day out?’ He pursed his lips. ‘I guess not.’ Cass glared. He was so infuriating, so frustrating. I mean because I’ve had a baby! she yelled inside her head.
‘Your breasts are fuller,’ he murmured, and lifted his gaze to hers.
Her heartbeat quickened. She still attracted him. She could see it in the smoky depths of his eyes and hear it in the sensual purr of his voice. She sank down onto her chair. Half of her was pleased, smug even—but the other half, the sensible half, insisted that, from now on, their relationship must be strictly neutral and strictly business. It had been the sexual draw which had caused so much havoc before, but she would not make the same mistake twice.
