Sophie Weston - The Innocent And The Playboy

In spite of herself she could not look away. She stared into the face she did not recognise and knew that she would recognise it anywhere in the world for evermore. It was not just the barbecue-deep tan and insolent eyes. It was something that seemed to look right into the heart of her and imprint his image on her very core. Rachel felt helpless all of a sudden.

If the other guests continued to ignore her, they were more than-enthusiastic to greet him. Women in tiny, jewel-coloured bikinis converged on him; men turned from discussing stock-market prices to greet him. Even Anders got out of his hammock to shake his hand.

And I’m no better, standing here like a mesmerised rabbit, staring at him, thought Rachel. She was disgusted with herself. It was a real physical effort to break that eye contact. Even across the garden she could feel his resistance. But she did it.

She turned away and made for the terrace where the luxurious cold lunch was set out. These days, Rachel had learned to mingle with the sophisticated diners with reasonable confidence.

She was bending all her attention on a dish of exotic fruits, when she felt a butterfly touch against her bare arm. She brushed it away absently. Warm fingers caught and held her own.

Rachel gave a thoroughly unsophisticated squeak and let go of her plate. The pirate caught it neatly, one-handed.

‘Don’t tell me—you’re the discus professional.’ His voice was as casual as his appearance. Casual and low and horribly sexy.

He returned the plate to her with an enigmatic smile. Rachel swallowed hard. This was where that education proved its usefulness. She tried to remember all that the holiday had taught her about dealing with these people.

‘Thank you,’ she said, clutching at the plate. It tilted dangerously and half a mango fell off it. He caught that too.

‘Not the discus,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Maybe ping-pong?’

Rachel was embarrassed. That education did not seem to have stuck after all.

Annoyed with herself, she said curtly, ‘Sorry, no,’ and held out her hand for the fruit.

He turned it over with a grimace. ‘Is this all you’re eating?’

‘I like fruit in the middle of the day.’ Why did she sound so defensive?

His eyes crinkled at the corners. With half the garden between them she had thought his eyes were dark. Now she saw that they were a swirl of curious, complicated mineral colours, flecked with green. They were also oddly weary.

She thought suddenly, He looks as if he’s seen everything in the world. And nothing matters to him any more.

She gave herself a quick shake. This was silly, melodramatic. He was a stranger. And not a very kind stranger, from the expression in those eyes. She did not think he would be kind if he knew what she was thinking about him, anyway.

He looked round at the little groups of people sitting under the trees.

‘Who are you with?’

Rachel almost jumped. ‘What?’ Then she realised what he meant. ‘Oh. I’m not. I mean—’

He looked surprised, his brows rising interrogatively. ‘You don’t eat with the guests?’

‘No,’ she admitted. It felt like owning up to her lack of sophistication all over again. She looked away.

He buffed his knuckles against the top of her arm.

‘No need to look like that. So where do you take your plunder?’

She looked up at that, laughing in quick surprise. At once his eyes narrowed, became intent. Rachel saw that the hand holding the mango clenched. Then slowly, as if in an act of will, he relaxed his fingers and gave her a slow, lazy smile.

‘Well? Do you climb a tree, or what?’ The laughing voice said he shared her amusement.

‘I’ve got a beach,’ Rachel admitted. Laughter always warmed her. The trouble was—and she had not learned enough yet to know how dangerous this was—it also took her off her guard.

‘Really? A whole beach?’

‘Well, no one else seems to use it.’

The pirate looked over his shoulder at the party again. He shrugged.

‘Surprise me,’ he said cynically. ‘Real sand, real seaweed?’ He shook his head. ‘Messy.’

Rachel chuckled.

For a moment those strange eyes widened. Then he seemed to shake himself. He looked down at the mango he was still holding. It was looking distinctly the worse for wear.

‘You can’t eat that.’ He summoned one of the house staff by some magic semaphore which Rachel was not quick enough to catch. As the man appeared at his elbow, he said, ‘Take this away, will you? And bring some food down to—’ He broke off and turned compelling eyes on Rachel. ‘Where is this magic beach of yours?’

It was at the far end of the estate, outside the cabin she had been allotted by the staff. There was no point in trying to hide the location. This was the servant who had shown her to her room three days ago. The man nodded.

‘Coconut Beach. I know. Gladly, sir.’

The pirate took the plate out of her suddenly nerveless fingers. ‘You won’t need that. Ben’s a professional. He’ll bring everything we need for a beach picnic, won’t you, Ben?’

‘I will, sir.’

Rachel did not at all like the look they exchanged. It was not far short of a grin. She suspected masculine conspiracy. It annoyed her. Worse, it made her uneasy.

But she could hardly prohibit one of Anders’ guests from visiting to one of Anders’ private beaches.

She said, ‘Maybe I won’t have anything to eat, after all. It’s hot.’

‘Plenty of shade on Coconut Beach,’ Ben said, thereby confirming Rachel’s suspicions about masculine solidarity.

The pirate chuckled. ‘Lots of ice in that picnic, Ben. Plenty of nice ice-cold drinks. Oh, and the lady likes fruit.’

The man nodded. ‘Leave it to me.’

He went. Rachel found she had an arm round her shoulders. It was warm and sinewy and it felt like iron. Her heart began to slam uncomfortably. She made a move to draw away and the arm tightened as she had somehow known it would. It set her very slightly off balance, so that she had to lean against him.

She looked up, uncertain. He was smiling down straight into her eyes. His expression made her head swim.

‘And now take me to the seaweed.’

He took her down the shallow steps of the terrace into the midday glare. Even in her confusion, Rachel was aware of the eyes watching them. For days her fellow guests had seemed barely aware of her existence. Now she felt as if she were in a spotlight.

The pirate seemed unaware. Or, if he was aware of it, he did not care. Still with that long arm round her, he skirted the pool area, with its spectacular apricot-veined marble, and swept her off into the shade of the casuarina trees.

He let her go then. It was not practical to walk along the uneven, sandy path side by side. But he did not stop touching her. The path through the casuarinas was dotted with fallen vegetation—things like cones and scaly brown twigs. He put out a hand to help her skirt them. He brushed away the feathery branches that drooped over the path, holding them back for her to pass. Once or twice, perhaps by accident, his hand brushed her loose hair.

It was flattering. It was also slightly alarming. Rachel ducked her head and made for the beach without daring to meet his eyes again.

They came out through a grove of trees whose name she did not know. They were slim-trunked and fanned out to make a loose canopy overhead. The sun made a sharply etched lace pattern of shadows beneath.

‘We could sit here. In the shade,’ said Rachel, holding back a little.

In the garden her swimsuit had felt modest until he’d looked at her. Out here, with no companion but the ocean and the pirate, she suddenly needed the covering of shadows.

He shook his head.