“Don’t you need to work too?”
“Yes, but a hike beckons.”
She shaded her eyes and peered up. “It’s a steep climb.”
“But I bet the coastal views are stunning from the top.”
“And I’m positive the drop is terrifying if you look straight down.” She snatched her tote bag and pivoted toward the footpath. “Happy climbing.”
“Maeve? ‘The mountains are calling and I must go.’”
She turned. “You couldn’t have made that up. Who are you quoting?”
“John Muir. He was from the UK.”
“You didn’t use his quote on your dating profile.”
“I didn’t remember it until now.” He gestured to a modest sign on the ground. “This path is for beginners and is an easy thirty-minute hike. Don’t you want to explore a famous Corsican rock formation with me?”
“Edward, do I look like a person who hikes? The food and shade helped my headache, but I’m bordering on only 50 percent brilliant at best. Besides, you said yourself I’m not dressed for hiking.” She turned toward the footpath, again, then turned back to him.
“You’re not up for the challenge?” he goaded. “You, a sturdy Irishwoman?”
She wasn’t feeling exceptionally sturdy, but she took the bait, especially when he mentioned the lava rocks were two hundred and fifty million years old, and she being a history buff and all ….
He’d neglected to mention that although there were no words to describe the stunning natural landscape when they reached the top, the hike would leave her breathless. The trail led sharply through the woods. Loose stones were everywhere, and she lost her footing several times on the dangerous, heart-stopping corners.
He frequently steadied her, much as he had the night before, with one arm around her shoulders. Many times she questioned aloud why she’d agreed to go with him; and he smiled, calm and patient, and offered to carry her tote bag. When she told him he didn’t need to hover beside her every minute, he went ahead, although he glanced behind often. Moreover, he took numerous breaks, pausing to snap photos of the scenery until she caught up.
An hour later, she wiped her perspiring face and pushed strands of hair from her forehead, as most of her hairpins had fallen to the ground.
So much for a casual bun. So much for a thirty-minute hike.
He yanked a thin jacket from his day bag and laid it down for them to sit on. They rested on a notched rock with a marvelous view of the entire Calanche area. The lights and shadows of the cliffs, the colors, fluctuated with the angle of the sun, and the rough and wild coastline spread far and unknown beneath them. Maeve admired the panorama as the howl of the ocean whistled between the rocks and a light mist of brine settled on her cheeks.
“Corsica is magnificent, isn’t it?” she mused.
“Extraordinary.” He gestured at the wind-eroded rocks. “How does it feel to be a mountaineer?”
“Exhilarating and exhausting. You were right though. The view is worth it.”
He drew two bottles of water from his bag and offered her one.
“What do you do for a living?” he asked when she’d taken a swig of water and rested against the rocks.
From the tangled underbrush, she plucked a fistful of rosemary and sniffed the mint-like aroma. “I work for a hotel firm, the Merrimac Company. I’m one of the purchasing agents.”
“What are you in charge of buying?”
“Mostly seating and lighting. I compare prices and quality. We’re small, and I pride myself on contracting the lowest bids for everything I order.”
“A good purchasing agent can make or break the profits of a hotel.”
“I’d like to work up to a position in management. Merrimac is based in Ireland. Have you heard of it?”
He drained his water bottle and jammed it into his bag. “England and Ireland are separated by a brief ferry ride, if you recall,” he teased.
“If it’s pouring rain, then the trip wouldn’t be quite as brief, I suppose.” She chuckled and took another sip of water. “What about you? What do you do for a living?”
“I own a hotel resort firm, Penelope and Edward International. Or rather, my father owns the company and I’m vice president.”
She touched a hand to her chest and silenced her gasp.
Penelope and Edward International? The single most distinguished hotel conglomerate in the world, boasting resorts in America, Europe and Asia.
She gazed at a rock formation resembling a staircase so she wouldn’t gaze in shock at him. “You actually own Penelope and Edward?”
“My family does, although I’m at the helm now, being the oldest son. Old-fashioned values and all that. My father is impatient to retire.”
At her quizzical look he went on. “Penelope was my mother’s name. She and my father established their first resort hotel thirty years ago. They learned a lot, struggled a lot and invested judiciously. My father’s name is Edward.”
“And you’re Edward the second?”
That explained it, she thought. His refinement, his utterly sophisticated manner, his private jet.
He chuckled. “You make me sound like royalty which I can confirm I’m not.”
“So you’re not Lord Edward, and I can most assuredly verify I’m not Lady Maeve.”
Where was this leading? she wondered, setting her water bottle down. He owned one of most luxurious hotel resort chains in the world. She worked at a hotel as an employee in the marketing department. Big difference.
Breaking the silence, he pointed outward toward an inlet. “I’ll explore that area tomorrow, along with the lengthy stretch of beach. Penelope and Edward is weighing options for another resort, which is why this is a working holiday for me.”
“Coincidentally, my company is seeking a place to expand as well. They prefer a site that has an existing property, thus my working holiday.”
Before she could react, he brought her hands to his lips and kissed her palms. “Maybe the Perfect Match specialists knew what they were doing after all. We have so much in common.”
The light from the afternoon sun enhanced the laugh lines around his sensual mouth, and she was powerless to tear her gaze away from his persuasive green eyes. A gust kicked up, blowing her remaining hairpins onto the rocks and tossing her shoulder-length hair in all directions. Distractedly, she pulled her hands from his grip and reached for the crinkly scarf she’d packed inside her tote bag. She twisted the scarf’s edges, folded it around her hair, and double knotted it.
“Wouldn’t you agree, Maeve? We get along so well.” He checked her busy hands. “We’re never at a lack for words. Perhaps we are made for each other.”
“You’re joking, right? Not for one minute are we alike. First, you’re ignoring the fact I’m far from wealthy by your lofty standards, and second—”
“We’re both here, aren’t we?” His voice was quiet, seductive.
“Aye, for a week. You’re either very fluthered or—”
“I don’t drink, remember?”
She primly folded her hands on her lap. “I forgot you’re a holy joe.”
“I’m sensible.”
“After your elegant speech last night,” she said, “we both know this conversation isn’t a good idea. Next time I’ll throw more than a wall hanging at you if you try to kiss me.”
“And here I assumed you were trying to elbow that painting off the wall just to test Newton’s theory of gravity.”
Slowly, he drew her to him.
She started to pull back, but his arms tightened around her. At the initial contact of his lips on hers, she froze. He continued, biding his time, his fingers caressing her cheeks, smoothing and shaping, his mouth bold yet tender.
“Edward, I won’t be able to forgive you this time,” she murmured against his lips.
“I’ll take my chances,” he whispered.
The taste of his mouth on hers, the hard, male strength of his body, brought a humming to her veins. She tried to
keep her hands in her lap, but they slid around his neck of their own accord. The more boundless the kiss, the more yielding she became.
When the kiss ended, she rested her face against his chest. Disoriented, she struggled to analyze her emotions. Although angry at him, she was angrier at herself. She’d vowed she wouldn’t become another of his conquests, a woman he had fun with for a week and then discarded. Nonetheless, his charm disarmed her at every corner.
On a sultry August day in Corsica, even the breeze was hot; and the sharp taste of the salty ocean air, even as high up as they were, reminded her of the waves pounding below them.
“Are you ready to leave?” he asked.
After that kiss? She glanced at him, but he’d set his features on neutral. Oh, if only her emotions weren’t such an open book.
“We’ll go down the same path, as we’re familiar with the terrain,” he continued, peering at his expensive watch, the dial illuminated. “It’s three in the afternoon, and we’ll pace ourselves since the grade is so steep. I have responsibilities to attend to before dinner, but I’ve got five hours to get everything accomplished.”
“I have work too, remember?”
“As I pointed out, we’re both workaholics.” With that, he grabbed her water bottle, tightened the cap and added it to his day bag. He offered his hand and brought her to her feet, then tied his jacket around his waist. “Another reason we should head down is because …”
“Dinner is at eight,” they said together, and laughed.
A low-hanging mist hampered their progress down the cliff. They stopped often, and had to use their hands to keep from sliding downhill.
“Look ahead, stay centered,” Edward instructed. “Take small steps. We’re nearing the bottom.”
“It’s steep and slippery in this one patch.” She went to grab a slender tree branch and lost her balance. The scenery tilted and blurred. Her muscles knotted.
She was falling and there was no way to stop it.
She screamed, groping blindly. Stone scraped her bare arms and legs. Soon she’d be plunging through empty air.
“Maeve!”
Scrambling for something to hold onto, she caught sight of Edward, his face ashen as he tore downhill and caught her. With her in his arms, he lost his footing, and they landed together on the uneven ground.
They both saw it. The odd twist of his ankle as he rolled to the side.
Immediately, he stood up and limped two steps.
He looked pale. She righted herself and gripped his hand. His pulse was unsteady.
“I think I sprained it.” His gaze flitted from his ankle to the path. “I don’t think I can walk.”
“I’ll go for someone. There must be a physician on this island.”
He swayed as she steered him to a sheer vertical rock wall. He leaned into her, so much so that she was barely able to support his solid body. Inch by inch she assisted him as he braced a hand behind himself and sat. An oath escaped him.
“I’ll ring for help.” She snatched her cellphone from her tote bag and punched in the resort’s phone number.
Oh no. No service in this remote area.
How was she going to assist a man twice her size down a cliff when he’d twisted his ankle?
She flopped down beside him and ran a shaking hand through her hair.
“Maeve, are you all right?” He gritted his teeth as he leaned forward and brushed her knee where blood streamed from a gash.
“Me? Aye, of course. I’m a sturdy Irishwoman, remember? You’re the worry.” She pulled the scarf off her hair and patted her knee with it. Then she removed the shoe and sock off Edward’s injured foot, untied his jacket from his waist and used it to wrap his ankle. “Just rest for now,” she said calmly, much more calmly than she felt. “There are plenty of hours before dark.”
She set his day bag on the ground. His ankle was swollen and obviously tender to the touch judging by the way he tightened his fingers around his bag and avoided her gaze.
Carefully, she settled his foot onto her lap. He winced.
“I’ll head to the restroom area below,” she said. “It’s not far. There should be cellphone service there and I’ll ring for help.”
He grimaced and sat stiffly against the rock. “You’re a good caregiver, Maeve.”
“Aye, it’s what I do best.” She considered his handsome face. This close, she could see the flecks of gold in his green eyes, his long, soft lashes. “Does your ankle hurt much?”
“Yes.” He managed a smile. “If I were a drinking man, I’d go for a glass of last night’s champagne about now.”
“Believe me.” She gave a doleful laugh and carefully elevated his foot on his day bag. “You’ll be sorry tomorrow.”
“Maeve.” He grasped her fingers as she stood. “Can I admit I don’t want you to leave me?”
She saw the effort it took for him to ask the question, his steely self-control exposed.
“You can admit whatever you’d like.” She pressed her hand against his cheek, an act of comfort. “I won’t be gone long, I promise.”
And with that guarantee, she began her descent.
Chapter Six
Maeve was more than an exceptional caregiver, Edward decided the following morning as he finished a business negotiation with his sister. She was an angel.
After she’d gotten him settled against the rock wall, she’d hurried down the cliff and then came back within a few minutes. Winded, she’d apparently run the entire course. She had been able to use her cellphone at the base and had called Pierre, who had immediately contacted the nearest hospital.
Thirty minutes later, medical aid arrived. By stretcher, the medics carried Edward to the main road where an ambulance idled, waiting to transport him to an accident and emergency center.
Maeve remained with him in the rear of the ambulance, lightly stroking his hair, telling him everything would be all right in a voice clogged with tears, which betrayed her assurances. She’d been more worried about him than he was, unable to hide the concern in her eyes, and his heart had filled with appreciation.
When they’d reached the center, Dr. Dubois, a portly man in his fifties, had assessed Edward’s range of foot motion. After X-rays and because Edward was able to walk without any aids, the doctor had determined no bones were broken.
“I recommend crutches, and I won’t need to see you again unless your ankle isn’t healing properly.” Dr. Dubois’s gaze shot to Maeve. “In the interim, your lovely nurse will help you get around.”
“Oui, she’s a tremendous support,” Edward agreed.
With that pronouncement, every person in the examining room turned to look at Maeve.
She’d laughed a denial, then angled her head to the side to avert their stares. A flattering pink bloomed on her cheeks, resembling an early-summer rose, utterly charming against her creamy skin.
Through his discomfort, her blush had coaxed a grin from him.
Now it was a day later, and nearly noon.
Edward settled into the cushioned chair on his suite’s balcony. Despite his original doubts about this trip, the days were passing surprisingly fast.
Maeve stood in his efficiency kitchen, cobbling together a sandwich for his lunch—thinly sliced turkey, cheddar cheese, mustard and a side of crisps. Although the resort had offered to cater their meal, she’d instead insisted the staff provide ingredients so she could prepare the sandwiches herself.
She pleated white linen napkins, then creased the napkins into a three-way pocket and slipped the utensils inside.
“Did you hear what I said, Edward?” she called.
“Hmm?” He’d been staring at her. She looked so provocative in cut-off jean shorts, bare feet and one of his worn chambray shirts, which she’d tucked into her shorts. She’d spilled orange juice on her blouse when preparing him breakfast, and although she’d unlocked the adjoining door to her suite, she hadn’t returned to change after he’d offered one of his shirts.
Sh
e tilted her head to look at him. “I said, do you want a cup of coffee with your sandwich?”
“I drank my quota for the day, thanks.” Along with eating enough tangy grapefruit that morning to cure the most jaundiced sailor while Maeve had itemized the benefits of vitamin C.
At first, the pain in his ankle had dominated Edward’s attention. Now the pain rested quietly in the background, thanks to compression dressing, ibuprofen and Maeve’s tender care.
After carefully showering, he’d thrown on a pair of fleece shorts and a Snoopy T-shirt. Now he sighed and stretched, comfortable and content.
“Don’t forget,” Maeve said, “that the doctor advised the twenty/twenty rule. Ice on your ankle for twenty minutes, then twenty minutes off. We don’t want you to get frostbite.”
“Oui, mademoiselle,” he teased.
“I’ve always wanted to learn how to speak French.” Finished with plating his sandwich and a salad for herself, she poured a glass of cold tea for him and mineral water for herself.
“Because my hotels are international,” he said, “I’m fluent in the French language. I can teach you if you’re interested.”
She smiled over her shoulder at him and set the food and drinks on a tray. “I’d like that.”
The way her dark eyes shone a deep, sincere brown, the way she carried herself—proud and graceful—sparked something inside him. He didn’t know what to call it, couldn’t give it a name, this strange feeling in his gut each time he looked at her.
Walk off at the end of the week, he reminded himself. No emotional hassles were the best approach to relationships with women.
It had suited him well in the past. The women he dated knew the score. No tension, no promise of commitment, only a brief physical connection.
Yet with Maeve, already their relationship spun with warm-heartedness and a joggle of attraction he couldn’t deny. He recalled the way her face had lit up when she’d described her dog, her Irish flat, her love of history. He liked a woman with a craving for life. Dating a woman like Maeve, he’d never be bored.
When a knock sounded on the door, Edward called for the person to come in. A ramrod-straight Pierre stood in the doorway. When he spotted Edward sitting on the balcony, his foot elevated, his pained expression affirmed that Edward’s ankle sprain had somehow been his fault. “Mr. Newell, I am so sorry about your accident,” he apologized for what had to be the six thousandth time. “I telephoned Mr. and Mrs. Yates and they are very concerned.”
Maeve (Perfect Match Book 6) Page 5
