Rosalie Ash - An Imported Wife

‘OK. Now we marinate the dress in the white wine,’ he quipped lightly, bearing it off into what looked to be an expensively equipped kitchen. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

‘I…no, thank you.’

He returned, minus the dress, but carrying a silver tray with a freshly opened bottle of wine, and two glasses.

‘I said “no, thank you”. Do you ply all your female acquaintances with alcohol?’ she queried, sweetly sarcastic.

He paused in the act of pouring, one dark eyebrow raised quizzically.

‘No. It is not always necessary,’ he mocked obliquely. ‘Usually my female acquaintances are quite happy to relax with me, without the aid of alcohol.’

Embarrassment heated her face again.

‘How gratifying for you,’ she smiled through gritted teeth. ‘So what went wrong with your female friend at the bar?’

The golden gaze gleamed ominously. ‘Sit down, Gabriella,’ he suggested softly, pulling out one of the white cane chairs, and waiting with an air of patient confidence. ‘Let’s see if we can hold a civilised conversation while we are waiting for our dinner to arrive.’

‘While…what?’ The flustered feeling was intensifying. ‘Our dinner?’

‘We can eat here. Give us the perfect chance to get to know each other a little better. So that when Ursula gets here she can see what excellent friends we have become? D’accord?’

Mutinously, she glared at him. Why did she get the feeling that this was some subtle, teasing kind of blackmail?

She shivered a little, her hands clenched in the pockets of the silk robe. There was something about his sophisticated, world-weary manner which made her feel about twelve years old. And yet the dark glitter in his gaze made her feel quite the opposite. Gabriella doubted if she’d ever felt so bewildered by her own reactions…

In silence she sat down in the chair opposite his, and crossed her legs. Equally silent, he finished pouring the wine, and handed her a glass. As she reached to take it, the silky grey material of the robe slithered stubbornly off her thighs, and she hastily uncrossed her legs and tugged the fabric back in place, clamping her knees together. When she met Rick Josephs’ enigmatic gaze across the table, she saw that he was laughing at her.

‘Perhaps you have a low opinion of men in general. But I assure you, I am not a sex-crazed beast…’ he mocked gently.

‘Your private life is of no interest to me.’ She sounded stiffly pompous, she knew she did. Her stomach was tight with tension as she warily sipped her wine.

‘So tell me, what is?’ The lazy question caught her by surprise. He was regarding her levelly over his glass, his narrowed gaze unreadable. She stared at him in blank silence for a while, then slowly shook her head.

‘I’m sorry…?’

‘What interests you, Gabriella?’

‘That’s a rather sweeping question, isn’t it?’ She frowned at him, doubting his sincerity. This was another mocking wind-up, she was sure. ‘I suppose my job, at the moment.’

‘So you are ambitious? At the moment, you are an assistant to a fashion editor. What are your ambitions within First Flair magazine?’

She shrugged, then laughed uncertainly. ‘Whatever promotion comes along, I suppose. Although there have been rumours recently that there’s a change of ownership on the cards for the magazine. So things may not be all that…stable. In the long term…’

She’d heard rumours, in fact, that Piers and his father had made a bid for the magazine. Which could no doubt spell an abrupt end to her career prospects in that particular environment. But it was no use worrying about it. She’d become philosophical lately. One day at a time…

‘Are you well qualified?’ He’d been watching her silent reverie with an amused expression.

‘Reasonably well. I took a fashion design course at St Martin’s, while I was working for a PR company. I’ve worked with fashion stylists, and that’s really what I want to do—fashion styling…’

For the life of her, she couldn’t fathom why he should be so interested in her career plans in the fashion world. Unless he was involved in it personally? That possibility had only just occurred to her. The glamorous girls at the bar had been tall and willowy and elegant enough to be models…

‘Styling?’ Rick had nodded, his expression deadpan. ‘Are you any good at it?’

‘I think so.’

‘So that explains why they’ve trusted you to organise locations for this fashion shoot. You’re in charge of the look, are you? The location, models, hair, make-up?’

‘Well, only by default, as I told you. The others due to come out with me have been flattened by this flu virus. Do you work for First Flair?’ she demanded suddenly, feeling even more confused. He seemed altogether far too knowledgeable about the whole business.

He shook his head, with a faint grin. ‘No. Not exactly.’

‘What kind of an answer is that? Not exactly? You’re on intimate terms with Ursula Taylor, and you seem to know an awful lot about magazine fashion work…’

‘I would describe myself as self-employed.’

‘So what are you doing in Mauritius?’

‘Relaxing, after some arduous power-play. I spend a lot of time here. I was born here.’

‘You’re Mauritian?’

He smiled. ‘Franco-Mauritian. My ancestors settled here in the eighteenth century. A motley crew of pirates and corsairs, I regret to confess. Enticed here by the French East India Company to colonise the island…’

‘Enticed?’

‘They were enticed by offers of money, and land. And women. Girls were rounded up on the quaysides in France, and shipped out here to provide them with the means to procreate. The prospect of an “imported wife” must have been the deciding factor, don’t you think?’

She blinked at the relentless gleam of mockery in his eyes.

‘So…you don’t actually live here?’

He shook his head. ‘I live in New York. Or in Paris. Sometimes in London. But whenever I can, I come back here. I’m planning on having a house built here, at the moment.’

‘I see.’ She stared at him, frustrated by his subtle, deliberate evasiveness, her thoughts whirring uncontrollably. When a long silence had stretched out, he lifted a curious eyebrow.

‘You look lost in thought, Gabriella.’

‘I was thinking how your ancestry throws a lot of light on your character!’ she heard herself saying coolly. ‘When you’re descended from a bunch of pirates, I expect a small matter of…adultery is of no importance at all…’

Instantly rather ashamed of her snide insult, she watched his face tauten slightly, darken with anger. Her heart jolted in her chest. Quickly standing up, she put her glass on the table, and turned away. ‘Thanks for the drink. If you’ll excuse me, I’d rather eat alone tonight…’

She got no further than the door. She found herself captured, trapped against it by at least six feet of lean masculinity. Her throat choked with anger and emotion, she glared up at him in alarm.

‘Let me go…’ she began shakily.

‘In a moment.’ She couldn’t say he was exerting force, she reflected hazily, because he was hardly touching her. His hands were on the door, on either side of her, effectively imprisoning her without body contact. Likewise, his torso, smoothly muscled beneath the fine white lawn of his shirt, threatened to move closer but didn’t, hovering alarmingly just an inch away from the agonised tips of her breasts. The moment was intimate but restrained.

‘I’m a tolerant man,’ he continued, huskily amused, ‘but I am getting rather tired of being insulted, Miss Gabriella Howard.’

‘Let me go…’

There was an elusive trace of expensive cologne, the clean, warm, musky smell of his body. Her senses whirled. She was close enough to see dilated black pupils in the centre of the golden irises, to notice the faint blue-black smudge of evening beard-growth along his chin. She should be feeling threatened, she reflected dazedly, but instead she felt overwhelmed with physical awareness. It was like someone pressing a switch, triggering a new set of emotions previously dormant…