Best of Virgins Bundle

by Cathy Williams

  Someone knocked on the door.

  Mrs Oliver carried a small box—one Paige thought she recognised. Why, she thought in bewilderment, would Juliette leave me her mother’s bracelet?

  ‘Mr Corbett asked me to bring you this,’ the older woman said. ‘And there’s this too.’ She looked down at an envelope.

  ‘Thank you,’ Paige said thinly. She held out her hand, and after a moment’s hesitation the housekeeper gave both the box and the envelope to her.

  Clutching them, Paige backed into the room and closed the door, waiting long, hushed seconds before putting the box down on the white cover of the huge bed. A dark fingertip of premonition touched her soul.

  ‘Open it!’ she told herself, but it took her several more minutes before she overcame the sick panic clogging her chest and unsealed the lid.

  She blinked back tears. A gold chain-link bracelet met her eyes, its heart-shaped lock set in small diamonds.

  As a child she’d admired the little bracelet extravagantly, convinced it was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. Juliette had occasionally let her wear it, and she’d strutted around feeling like a princess.

  And now Juliette was dead, and this was all she had of her—the bracelet, and the letter that had come with it. With tear-blurred eyes she picked up the envelope and read her name, written in Juliette’s distinctive handwriting. Paige tore it open and took out the note inside. Slowly, carefully, she unfolded the paper.

  Dearest P, if you ever read this it will mean that Marc was right to persuade me to make a will! Sorry it has taken a couple of years to get this to you—there is a reason for it, but it is not important. If it ever does become important, you’ll find out why.

  I know Marc will make it possible for you to stay here at Arohanui, no matter what your circumstances are now. Have fun—and that is an order. I want you to stay for a week because you work far too hard, and I know that you will not have had a proper holiday since your father left.

  Are you wondering if I have any words of wisdom for you? Sorry, I have not. Just that you should grab life and enjoy it—especially the time you’re spending here.

  Lots of love, J.

  She’d added a PS.

  You were always my best friend, as well as the little sister I never had.

  Clutching the letter, Paige got to her feet and walked across to the window. She stared out with unseeing eyes until another knock at the door broke into the shell of silence.

  Silently she dashed across the room and stuffed the letter beneath the coverlet.

  Sure enough, Marc stood outside the door. ‘You’ve been crying,’ he accused, his voice clipped and hard.

  ‘No. Just—remembering.’ Before she could stop herself, she asked, ‘Was Juliette happy?’

  He looked at her with an enigmatic hooded gaze. ‘She was always bright and serene, and she seemed perfectly happy.’

  In spite of Lauren’s presence in his life? Not likely.

  Paige said ‘Why did she insist I come up here to collect the bracelet?’

  ‘I have no idea.’ He paused, then added, ‘You didn’t see much of her after she went away to boarding school, did you?’

  ‘No,’ Paige said distantly.

  ‘Nevertheless, you must have had a strong friendship, to last so long and bridge distance and the years so successfully. Juliette always knew what she wanted, and she wanted you here.’ Marc glanced at his watch. ‘Lunch is ready—come and have it with me.’

  He didn’t ask her what had been in the letter—not then, and not before he left. Paige sat on her bed listening to the helicopter engines fade into the distance, bitter tears aching at the back of her eyes and clogging her throat.

  That night Marc rang from Australia, and the next night from Singapore, and the evening after that from Tokyo in Japan. The calls continued, and Paige found herself waiting expectantly through each lovely, lonely day for his ring.

  He didn’t spend much time talking, but with the brutal intensity of physical awareness muted by distance she discovered a new Marc; he told her a little of his day, described each city with economy and a flair for bringing it to life. He joked with her, teased her a little, and asked her what she’d done.

  She stored small discoveries to tell him—that the fruit on the loquat tree was being eaten by a pair of large, beautiful native pigeons who sat on the branches and peered interestedly down at her with heads tipped to one side. She told him she’d been rowing around Home Bay with Fancy for a figurehead, that Mrs Oliver was making guava jelly and had shown her how bake the perfect pavlova.

  Later she’d realise that she fell in love with him during those telephone calls, but for now she just knew that they satisfied something deep inside her.

  On her second to last night at Arohanui he didn’t ring. Painfully disappointed, she resisted the stupid feeling that because she couldn’t talk it over with Marc her day had been wasted and barren.

  The next morning she came in from the terrace after breakfast and said to the housekeeper, ‘Summer’s come early this year.’

  ‘It’s certainly a glorious day.’ Mrs Oliver smiled, efficiently continuing her dusting.

  ‘I thought I might row around to Cabbage Tree Bay,’ Paige said, tracing the outline of a flower on a blue Japanese bowl.

  Her sleep had been punctuated by long periods of wakefulness when her brain had twisted and turned in futile, anguished resentment. In the end she’d had to accept that she’d allowed herself to become subtly dependent on Marc for—oh, not her happiness, but for an intangible support.

  She needed exercise, something physically draining, to stop her remembering that after she left Arohanui she’d never see him again.

  Mrs Oliver nodded. ‘The forecast is excellent. I’ll pack you a lunch.’

  ‘Thanks, but you’ve got your own work to do. I’ll make it.’

  ‘It’s no problem,’ the housekeeper said, casting a knowledgeable eye across the sky. ‘Start back about two o’clock; at half-tide a current sets in around the headlands on that side of the island, and you won’t want to be caught in it. Once you get out to sea there’s nothing between here and South America.’

  Half an hour later Paige stacked a change of clothes, sunscreen, her hat and enough food and drink for a regimental exercise into the dinghy. Fancy got in, taking up her usual position in the bow.

  ‘Here’s her leash,’ the housekeeper said, handing it over. She smiled at Paige’s surprise. ‘There are kiwis on the island, and they’re fatally attractive to dogs. Last summer Marc had a run-in with some yachties who brought their Jack Russells ashore in Cabbage Tree Bay; he sent them packing in no time. Fancy’s obedient, but even she finds it hard to resist kiwis, and you might want to take her for a walk.’

  ‘OK.’ Paige put it in with the pile. ‘I look as though I’m doing a Robinson Crusoe,’ she observed, smiling. ‘I hope you don’t expect me to eat all that?’

  ‘You’ll be surprised. Sea air makes you hungry.’ As Paige got into the dinghy Mrs Oliver said, ‘You’re not going to swim by yourself?’

  ‘No, I haven’t got my togs with me.’ She organised Fancy and the oars. ‘Don’t worry, I know how to deal with the water. I lived beside a river for years.’

  Mrs Oliver nodded. ‘If anything goes wrong, just stay at Cabbage Tree and I’ll send my husband for you.’

  ‘OK.’ Paige waved and set off.

  CHAPTER NINE

  AT THE Bay Paige and a leashed Fancy explored the grove of cabbage trees, and when the sun reached its full height Paige sat down on a rug beneath a sprawling pohutukawa and confronted lunch.

  It looked and smelt delicious; Rose Oliver was a superb cook. Yet Paige’s appetite refused to be aroused. In the end she ate a slice of perfect bacon and egg pie, followed it with the scented, custardy white flesh of a small cherimoya fruit, drank lime juice and water, and looked helplessly at the rest of the food.

  Fancy lay a few feet away, eyes fixed on the hamper. She’d already dr
unk her fill from the small stream that trickled into the sea between the cabbage trees.

  ‘We’d better not waste it all, I suppose. And you’ve done a lot of dashing about and swimming,’ Paige said, and fed her a sandwich.

  Tomorrow she was leaving this beautiful place, this dog she’d come to love, and the man who owned both island and dog. She wouldn’t come back, and he wouldn’t seek her out.

  Even if he did, she’d refuse him. With Lauren Porter still in his life, Paige knew that the most he could offer her was less than she wanted.

  After a glance at her watch she lay down on the rug and watched the sun dazzle across the sea. She had time to rest before she needed to set off again for Home Bay. Firmly, she closed her eyes.

  Not a good idea. Helplessly, without mercy, her mind replayed everything Marc had ever said to her, every touch, each eloquent lift of his brow, the stunning brilliance of his eyes, his heart-shaking smile, the angular, powerful symmetry of his face…

  And the way she’d gone up in flames when they’d kissed. The violent, incandescent heat of sensation he’d summoned so effortlessly.

  She startled Fancy by getting abruptly to her feet. ‘Come on, let’s go,’ she said raggedly.

  The dog snatched up a stick from the sand and dropped it at Paige’s feet. Paige sighed, but said, ‘Well, why not? I suppose you’re missing Marc too.’

  Ears pricked, Fancy looked around, as though expecting him.

  ‘He won’t come back until I’ve gone,’ Paige told her drearily, and picked up the stick.

  Although the very simple game involved only hurling the stick into the waves and watching Fancy retrieve it, kill it on the sand and then bring it back to her, it should burn off some of the reckless energy that pulsed through her.

  And perhaps it might keep at bay for a few minutes the secret unhappiness that had stolen like a thief into her heart.

  She strode along the beach towards the rocky headland that separated this beach from Home Bay, trying to smile as Fancy pounced on the stick before dancing it back through the tiny waves, golden hair flying, sheer joy in every movement.

  Pain gripped her. After tomorrow she’d never see the dog again. She’d never see Mrs Oliver, or her silent, shy husband, never see the vivid garden and the lovely, gracious house at its heart.

  Never see Marc, her heart whispered.

  Once more Paige threw the stick, then set off towards the dinghy, trying to banish the bitter taste of loss.

  She stopped, shading her eyes to watch the dog. Sunlight sultry with the promise of summer beat down on her head and shoulders. The hollow emptiness eating into her self-sufficiency terrified her.

  She had no idea when she’d made the decision never to rely on another person for her happiness; it hadn’t been a conscious one. Living with a mother whose sense of self-hood had depended completely on the man she’d married had produced that unspoken determination to keep her own identity intact.

  And now it was under threat. Marc’s potent masculinity had bulldozed through her defences, but that was only part of the problem; she wanted much more from him than the promise of magnificent sex. She wanted the companionship he’d given her in those telephone calls—she wanted a future with him.

  A shiver tightened her skin, chilled her heart. She crossed her arms and rubbed from her wrists to her elbows, staring blindly out to sea.

  ‘I’m not in love with Marc Corbett,’ she said aloud, despising the sound of her thin, unsure voice.

  This acute physical awareness wasn’t love, and neither was her fascination with him. Naturally she found him interesting to talk to—intelligence always intrigued her. So did competence. And Marc was nothing if not competent.

  If he’d been born without that solid wealth behind him he’d have made it for himself. Articles in the financial pages praised his raw ability and dynamic initiative, tempered by a disciplined, incisive brain and will; they were his defining qualities, not the results of his privileged background.

  ‘And don’t forget the fact that he looks like some romantic dream,’ she said on a whiplash of self-contempt.

  Shaking her head, she narrowed her eyes against the brilliant light. The more she let Marc invade her mind, the greater power she yielded to him.

  Frowning, she focused on the water, trying to pick out the stick in the shimmering, deceptive webs of gold the sun spun on the surface of the sea. Fancy was swimming steadily on.

  ‘Ah, there it is,’ Paige muttered, then drew in a quick breath.

  The stick had acquired momentum, and was moving slowly, purposefully away from the beach. Squinting against the sun, Paige realised that it had been caught in a current.

  She cupped her mouth and shouted, ‘Fancy, come back! Get back here!’

  But Fancy ignored her. And she too was being dragged inexorably towards the rocky end of the far headland.

  Fear coagulated in an icy pool beneath Paige’s ribs. Once past the cliffs there was nothing between Fancy and the open sea.

  Marc loved this dog; if she’d thrown sticks along the beach, instead of into the water, Fancy would be safely on firm ground.

  Paige raced over the hot sand to the dinghy. It took her precious moments to pull on and secure the life jacket, but she didn’t dare go out without it. And it seemed to take an age to drag the dinghy to the water’s edge.

  Once it was floating she heaved it seawards with all her strength and flung herself in, snatching up the oars to row as hard and as steadily as she could. Within a couple of minutes she heard the current chuckle under the boat, and felt its inexorable grip carry her towards the dog. A brisk wind whipped her hair into her eyes; she shook it free and concentrated on getting to Fancy.

  From what she remembered of the tour Marc had given her, the headland straightened out into a long line of cliffs facing the open sea, rock stacks cluttering their base. Although the sea couldn’t be more calm, there’d be no safe harbour there, so she’d have to make it back to Cabbage Tree Bay. And with wind and tide against her that could take some effort.

  Fortunately that combination of wind and current meant she got to Fancy before the dog exhausted herself.

  ‘All right, girl,’ she said, steadying the little craft against the current; she shipped the oars and leaned over to grab Fancy’s collar.

  ‘Up, girl,’ she coaxed, and hauled.

  It took a couple of heaves, but Fancy’s scrabbling cooperation and the dinghy’s inherent stability finally brought the dog safely in—where, of course, she promptly shook herself, drenching the only other inhabitant.

  ‘Sit down, you daft dog! We have to get back.’ Paige risked a glance at the headland, now ominously close, and wished fervently that the dinghy had come equipped with an anchor.

  ‘Well, it hasn’t,’ she said, beginning the row back to Cabbage Tree Bay. To hearten herself she told Fancy, now in her usual place as figurehead, ‘It’s do-able. We’ll just take it steadily.’

  But the current showed its teeth. And the dinghy, so stable and safe, caught enough wind to make progress slow and difficult. After ten minutes Paige glanced up and realised with an abrupt arrow of foreboding just how far she still had to go.

  She was only just making headway against that lethal combination of tide and wind; if either increased in strength she’d be swept out to sea.

  Setting her jaw, she concentrated on rowing evenly, letting her mind concentrate on getting the dinghy a little closer to land with each stroke.

  Where the hell were the boats that usually dotted the Bay? She could see sails, and some motor cruisers, but they were all too far away to be hailed and none came closer.

  ‘It’s a conspiracy,’ she muttered, trying to smile at the absurd idea.

  The muscles in her shoulders were beginning to burn resentfully when Fancy barked. Paige cast a glance over her shoulder, and if she’d had any energy to spare might have cheered at the sight of the motor cruiser purling around the headland that separated Cabbage Tree Bay from Home B
ay.

  Waving frantically, she croaked above the growing roar of its engine, ‘There, old girl, everything’s fine now! We’re safe!’

  An alteration in the pitch of the engines confirmed that the driver had seen her and answered her call for help. But, just in case, she kept rowing. The big cruiser idled closer; frowning, she scanned its lines, then looked up into the flybridge. Her pulses raced when she recognised Marc behind the wheel.

  Such potent, overwhelming delight blazed through her that she realised just how much she’d been fooling herself.

  ‘Oh, God,’ she whispered, face white beneath her hat. ‘What have you done?’

  Limp with reaction, she shipped the oars and waited until the cruiser eased to a halt between them and the flow of the current. At the helm, Marc cut the engines to a mere throb in the water.

  Paige waited tensely as he manoeuvred the big craft with skilful, delicate precision; a couple of times she had to use the oars, until eventually the dinghy was swept gently against the diving platform at the stern. He left the engines idling and came rapidly down from the flybridge, hauling the dinghy onto its platform with raw energy that spoke of strong emotion.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he demanded, his voice abrasive with anger.

  Paige looked up into his blazing eyes. ‘Fine,’ she said tonelessly.

  ‘Get out and I’ll deal with Fancy.’

  He made it sound easy, but when she tried to stand up her legs buckled like straws. Strong hands grabbed her and hauled her up into the cockpit. Violently tempted to collapse against him, she forced herself upright.

  ‘I’m all right,’ she muttered. ‘Why have my legs given way? It’s my arms and shoulders that have done all the work.’

  ‘Shock.’ He plonked her down onto a padded bench and turned to fasten the dinghy after ordering, ‘Don’t move.’

  By now Fancy was aboard, frisking around Marc until he spoke with crisp authority to her. When he bent to deal with a rope Paige watched the muscles in his shoulders bunch and flex, appalled at the power of the sexual instinct in humans. Although waves of tiredness were draining the energy from her, something feral and uncontrolled stirred in the depths of her body. She’d have to be dead, she thought, her palms clammy with fear, not to respond to him.