Liz Fielding - Wedding Wishes - A Wedding at Leopard Tree Lodge

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?’

Another wave of heat swept over her cheeks as he laughed at her confusion. Furious with herself—she did not blush—she replaced her dark glasses and managed a brisk, ‘Enjoy the magazine, Mr McGrath.’