Rosalie Ash - An Imported Wife

She was following him up the softly sloping white beach, towards the belt of filaos, the casuarinas which seemed to grow in profusion everywhere in this region. Dotted among them were tall coconut palms, and unknown varieties of flowering trees of such startling brightness that they looked artificial. Scarlet, yellow, deep cerise pink. Her hunch had been right; this was an absolute gem of a setting for the shoot…

‘I suspect my unscrupulous ancestors used it as a useful hideaway for their buccaneering and wrecking exploits.’ Rick grinned at her over his shoulder. ‘There are quite a few interesting wrecks just beyond the coral reef, just as there are around most of Mauritius itself. I do a bit of diving down there, but so far no caskets of gold have emerged to prove the crimes of three hundred years ago…’

‘You mean your ancestors used to deliberately wreck ships here?’ she demanded, horrified.

The amber gaze held a teasing gleam. ‘Quite likely. They were a thoroughly amoral bunch, from what I can gather. But life was hard, remember. It was every man for himself…’

‘And an “imported wife” for every man?’ she echoed distastefully.

‘I’ve a feeling there was a bit of a shortage of women, despite the imports,’ he mused laconically, glancing up as the sun was blotted out by a ragged black cloud. ‘So they’d have two or three partners each.’

‘Yes, I think I’m getting the picture! So what did your pirate ancestors do for accommodation while they were holed up here?’

‘For a long time there’s been a little campement here…’

‘What’s that?’

‘A traditional Mauritian holiday cottage,’ he grinned. ‘A stone-built, thatch-roofed dwelling. That’s what I’m planning on having extended and enlarged to make a full-sized house.’

‘I’m surprised you’d want to build a house here and associate yourself with such a lawless history,’ she said coolly, ‘and as for the snakes…

He stopped in mid-stride, facing her in the shadow of the filaos. Some of the teasing had darkened to exasperation as he caught hold of her shoulders.

‘Just a minute,’ he said softly, searching her face beneath the brim of her white cotton hat with grim displeasure. ‘An hour ago you were practically begging me, come cyclone or hurricane, to bring you out here, Gabriella. The least you can do is spare me your shrewish comments! It is impossible to believe you’re only twenty-one, when you insist on behaving like a maiden aunt of sixty!’

‘I do not…!’ In the recess of her mind, she had the sinking feeling that he was right, and that made her feel even angrier. ‘I’m entitled to express an opinion, without being manhandled by you!’

He smiled thinly, sliding his hands down her arms and then releasing her abruptly.

‘You certainly are,’ he agreed evenly, his eyes glittering with mockery. ‘But if you want my cooperation on this precious fashion shoot of yours, mademoiselle, I strongly recommend you curb that sharp tongue and follow a diplomatic course from now on…’

The wind had risen to a low, eerie moan, and the susurration in the trees had subtly increased to a wilder swishing sound. She was opening her mouth to retort when a sudden roar of wind came rushing across the beach, whirling up a miniature sand-storm like an invisible express train.

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