by Jessica Hart
‘Have you considered how painful it’s going to be for you if I’m there instead of Julia?’
‘Not as painful as forking out however many thousand pounds and having absolutely nothing to show for it,’ he said, but he knew that Imogen had a point.
‘I suspect it’s going to be awkward to be around for a while,’ he went on, not without some difficulty. ‘It’ll be easier for everyone if I’m not here and then they don’t have to tell me they’re sorry or remember not to mention anything to do with weddings.’
He hesitated, his eyes on the wet pavements far below. The sun would be shining in the Maldives, he thought. What would it be like there? He hadn’t really thought about going with Julia but now he let himself imagine being there with Imogen.
It would be easier if he could work, and she could help him to do that. The beauty of modern technology was that you could work anywhere, so why not the Maldives? Imogen could be his PA there as well as here.
And while Tom might try and tell himself that he didn’t care what people thought, deep down his humiliation was still raw. It would be bad enough dealing with the sympathy here without having to explain himself all over again when he turned up for a honeymoon on his own.
He could feel Imogen watching him warily.
‘I could go to the island on my own,’ he said, turning back to face her, his hands in his pockets, ‘but then it really would be obvious that something was wrong. There would be fewer explanations if you came too.’
Dammit, he didn’t want to beg! ‘You’ve been doing all the work for this wedding, anyway,’ he ploughed on. ‘You deserve a break.’
‘I thought I was going to work?’
‘I’ll be working,’ he said. ‘You can do what you like.’
Imogen regarded him a little helplessly. It seemed all wrong to be taking another woman’s place on a honeymoon, but she sensed that Tom was too proud to ask her outright. The holiday would probably be a good thing for him, but he would lose face going alone, and she knew that would be difficult for him.
Was it so much to ask? She hated the thought of Tom being on his own at a time like this, and this way she could at least keep him company and offer support if he needed it.
And, when it came down to it, it was February and he was offering her three free weeks in luxurious surroundings in the Maldives. If nothing else, it would get her away from Star Wars fanatics and allergy sufferers.
She drew a breath. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘if you really would like me to go, I’ll go.’
‘Fine’ was all he said, but he couldn’t quite conceal the flash of relief in his eyes as he sat back down at his desk, and that made her feel better, or at least as if she was doing the right thing.
‘Transfer Julia’s ticket into your name,’ he said, ‘and tell anyone who asks that we’re going on a business trip.’
CHAPTER THREE
‘W ELCOME, Mr and Mrs Maddison, and congratulations!’ The resort manager himself met Tom and Imogen as they stepped onto the jetty. The light was dazzling and the heat was both a relief and a shock after the air-conditioning on the flight. A flying boat had brought them from the airport on Malé to their base, and their luggage was already being transferred to a sleek speedboat that was waiting to take them on the last leg to Coconut Island itself.
Imogen averted her eyes from her battered old trolley bag. It was perfectly adequate for package holidays to Greece and Spain, but it looked very out of place here amongst the other designer cases and honeymooners’ matching luggage sets that were being unloaded from the seaplane.
She must look as out of place as her luggage, she realised. She was very conscious of her crumpled trousers and creased top. February wasn’t the best time to buy hot-weather clothes in London, so she had little choice but to bring the clothes she had worn to Greece the year before. They were cheap and cheerful, and had been perfect there, but she could see the other travellers eyeing her askance.
There was nothing cheap about this resort, where all the guests seemed to be beautifully dressed. Everyone seemed to be in couples, and they were uniformly lithe and golden and glowing with happiness.
Imogen shifted uncomfortably. In comparison, she knew she must look pasty, fat and frazzled by the tension of the last few days. There was no way anyone would take her for a radiant bride, that was for sure. They must all be wondering what on earth she was doing with someone like Tom Maddison.
Not that Tom fitted in any better than she did. He was actually wearing a suit! At least he had taken his jacket off now, but his shirtsleeves were still buttoned, his tie still knotted. Imogen wondered if he had ever been on holiday before.
Tom wasn’t giving a very good impression of a newlywed either, it had to be said. His expression was as forbidding as ever, but the power of his presence was such that the resort manager had picked him unerringly from all the couples who disembarked from the seaplane as the recently married Tom Maddison, who had hired the most luxurious and expensive accommodation available.
‘If you wouldn’t mind completing a few formalities…’ he said, politely concealing his disbelief at Tom Maddison’s new wife, who was clearly not what they had been expecting.
He led them ahead of everyone else to the spectacular reception area, which was all dark wood, lush tropical plants and understated glamour. It practically reeked of money, thought Imogen, trying not to stare. Fabulously expensive hotels would be ten a penny to the new Mrs Maddison.
‘As soon as this is done, you’ll be taken straight to Coconut Island, where you’ll be assured complete privacy during your stay,’ the manager went on. He gestured towards a slim young man dressed in pristine white, who was waiting to one side. ‘Ali will visit once a day and will make sure you have everything you need.’
Tom merely nodded, but Imogen felt as if she ought to show a little more enthusiasm. ‘Thank you,’ she said, plastering on a big smile. ‘I’m sure it will all be lovely.’
The manager, having obviously decided he wouldn’t get much small talk out of Tom, turned to Imogen with a courteous smile.
‘I hope you had a happy day for your wedding?’
There was a tiny pause. They had agreed on the plane that it would be easier not to go into complicated explanations, but surely it must be obvious that they weren’t actually married. Imogen felt as if there must be a neon sign flashing ‘liar’ with an arrow pointing down right above her head, but she kept her smile in place somehow.
‘Er…yes…thank you,’ she said awkwardly, tucking her left hand away so that the manager wouldn’t notice the glaring absence of a wedding ring.
Tom glanced up from the form he was signing and, rather to Imogen’s surprise, seemed to pick up on her discomfort. Or perhaps he just didn’t think she was putting on a very convincing performance, because he reached out and put his arm around her waist, pulling her into his side.
‘Imogen’s very tired,’ he explained her lack of enthusiasm. ‘She’s had a busy time organising the wedding, and it was a long flight.’
‘Of course, of course.’ The manager beamed at them both. ‘But now you are here, you can be alone together and relax.’
Oh, yes, sure, thought Imogen, who had rarely felt less relaxed than she did at that moment. Tom had shaken her hand when they’d first met, but she didn’t think he had ever touched her since, and now his arm was warm and strong around her, holding her against a body that was leaner and harder and more solid than she could ever have imagined. His big hand rested casually, proprietorially, at her waist, exactly as a besotted husband’s would, and he seemed astonishingly natural, as if he knew her body as well as his own.
Imogen’s heart was pounding and her skin where she was pressed into his side, and beneath his hand, was tingling and twitching with awareness of him, of his warmth and his strength and the clean masculine smell of him. Her knees felt ridiculously weak and she was conscious of a bizarre and disturbing desire to turn into the hard security of his body, to hold him tight a
nd burrow into him.
Her mouth dried at the very thought of it. Relax? Ha!
She managed a weak smile. ‘I can’t wait.’
‘You must let us know if there is anything-anything at all!-we can do to make your stay more comfortable.’
Imogen wondered wildly if she could ask if he would swap Tom for a less unsettling companion, one she could chat away to without her heart thudding and thumping with the memory of what it felt like to be held against him.
She was overreacting, Imogen scolded herself. She could blame it on jet lag. This was Tom, for heaven’s sake! Her boss.
The boss who had just had his heart broken, remember? Imogen felt a little ashamed to realise that she hadn’t given Julia a thought since she’d arrived. It had been such a thrill to fly over the islands. Pressing her nose against the seaplane’s window, she had gasped at the heart-stopping beauty of the scene.
They’d flown across islands fringed with dazzling white sand, while the water between them was so intensely coloured it seemed almost unreal: the deep, dark blue of the ocean beyond the reefs; bright aquamarine striped with violet and lilac over the sand bars; the pale, translucent emerald of the shallow lagoons. Far below, the little boats zipping over the sea had been tiny streaks flecking the surface with their wake, while the waves broke silently against the reef in a froth of white.
Caught up in amazement at it all, it wasn’t surprising that she had forgotten Julia, but Tom wouldn’t have done. How could he?
This must all be so difficult for him, she thought as, to her intense relief, Tom released her to complete the paperwork. How hard would it be to arrive in this beautiful place to spend what should have been three glorious weeks with his bride, knowing that whenever he turned his head, instead of the svelte, gorgeous Julia, he would just see his very ordinary PA? It would be like salt rubbing into the wound every time.
Imogen bit her lip. And here she was getting in a state about a brief hug! It was far, far worse for Tom. He must surely be regretting now that he had asked her to come.
She stood feeling miserably self-conscious as the resort manager outlined the arrangements that had been made for them. It was clear that Tom wasn’t listening any more than she was. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said with a trace of impatience as he signed the last form. ‘Whatever’s been arranged will be fine.’
‘Excellent. In that case, I’m sure you’re anxious to be left alone.’ The manager waved Ali over and they all trooped back down to the jetty, where the speedboat was already throbbing gently, ready for the off.
Tom put his hand lightly against her back to guide her to the steps leading down to the boat, and Imogen’s heart lurched into her throat once more. Telling herself not to be so stupid, she climbed into the boat, barely noticing the hand Ali put out to steady her, but burningly aware of Tom’s touch long after he had dropped his hand.
Willing the blush she could feel creeping up her cheeks to fade, Imogen sat stiffly on the luxurious seat as Tom jumped easily down into the boat and took his place beside her. She couldn’t let herself get into a state whenever he touched her! The next three weeks were going to be difficult enough as it was.
Three weeks alone with him.
What on earth was she doing here? It had made a warped kind of sense that day in London when she had agreed to come. Tom had needed to get away. She would help him save face. It was a purely business arrangement.
True, Amanda hadn’t seemed convinced. ‘Business?’ she said when Imogen told her that she would be away for three weeks. ‘On a tropical island?’
‘It’ll be just like being in the office,’ Imogen said. ‘But with better weather.’
‘Sure.’ Amanda’s tone reeked scepticism.
‘It will,’ she insisted. ‘I’ve got to take my laptop. I’ll have to work.’
‘And when you’re not working and there’s just the two of you alone in paradise? It sounds like this Tom Maddison is pretty hot,’ said Amanda. ‘How are you going to keep your hands off him? And don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it!’
‘I haven’t!’ And she hadn’t. Not since Tom had announced that he was getting married, anyway.
‘Honestly, Amanda, the man has just been jilted at the altar,’ Imogen went on a little huffily. ‘He won’t admit it, but he’s really hurt. The last thing he needs is me making things awkward for him! Besides, this is my boss we’re talking about.’
‘So?’
‘So there’s no question of anything like that. Tom’s too churned up about Julia and I’ve got more sense. OK, he is quite attractive,’ Imogen conceded, ‘but he’s out of my league, I know that.
‘Even if he wasn’t in love with someone else, I wouldn’t consider it,’ she went on. ‘Tom Maddison doesn’t even have a nodding acquaintance with his emotions. Look at how he’s suppressing everything now! A relationship with a man like him would be asking for trouble. I’d end up miserable, and I’ve had enough misery, thank you very much.
‘Quite apart from anything else, it would be unprofessional,’ Imogen finished primly. ‘It’s a well-paid job, and if I can stick it for another two or three months I’ll have enough money to take off for a year. There’s no way I’m risking that for the sake of a quick fling. No,’ she told Amanda, ‘I don’t think I’ll have any trouble keeping my hands to myself!’
Now her words rang a little hollowly in her ears. It had been easy to say in London. She had been so confident then, but that was before he had touched her, before the nerves beneath her skin had started jumping and jittering with awareness of him. Before that long flight, sitting right next to him.
They had travelled first-class, of course, and to Imogen, used to cheap package holidays, it had been absolute luxury. She had been thrilled, playing with her chair, opening her free bag of toiletries, accepting a glass of champagne.
Only she would have enjoyed it more if Amanda had been with her, say. Tom wasn’t the kind of person you could have a giggle with.
Understandably enough, he was looking forbidding when he’d come to pick her up from her flat in a chauffeur-driven limousine that had whisked them out to Heathrow. Conversation so far had been confined to practicalities about passports and boarding times. There had been no speculation about what to buy in Duty Free, no testing of perfumes or loitering in the bookshops. The First Class Lounge was very comfortable, but it wasn’t much fun, Imogen had decided.
Tom had sat down and opened his laptop and, apart from take-off and landing, he had worked steadily. To Imogen, it seemed as if the anger and hurt over Julia’s rejection was still buttoned up tightly inside him. She desperately wanted to help him but she didn’t know how. With anyone else she would offer a hug, but she hesitated even to lay a hand on Tom’s arm.
Which was difficult when it was just there. Imogen could see the immaculate cuff of his pale blue shirt, the expensive watch, the square, capable hand, and she’d found herself fixating on tiny details, like the creases on his knuckles, or the fine dark hairs at his wrist.
Afraid that Tom would see her staring, she’d forced herself to look at the magazine she had bought instead, but her eyes kept straying back to him. His gaze had been fixed on the computer screen and, with the piercing grey eyes shielded, it was easier to study his face. He had surprisingly thick, dark lashes, but the uncompromising angles of cheek and jaw offset any suggestion of softness, as did his mouth, which was set in a stern, straight line. Every time Imogen’s eyes had come to rest on it, she got a squirmy, fluttery feeling inside.
In the end, it had been a relief to get off the plane and have something else to look at but, as Imogen sat in the boat, the reality of the situation began to sink in. She was about to spend three weeks alone with a man she found unsettlingly attractive, who just happened to be (a) her boss and (b) in love with someone else, and therefore doubly out of bounds.
Imogen adjusted her sunglasses and tried to wriggle the tension out of her shoulders. Perhaps Amanda was right and it was all going to be a ter
rible mistake.
But how could it be a mistake when the sun was warm on her skin, and the sea so clear that she could see every ripple in the sand beneath the boat? When she could hear the water slapping gently against the hull and smell the bleached wood of the jetty?
She could be in London, making the most of Tom’s absence by catching up on her filing. She could be fielding phone calls and dealing with the emails stacked up in her inbox and chasing up those expenses with the Finance department.
Instead, she was here, with Tom, very distinct beside her, his austere profile outlined against the tropical sky. Eyeing him surreptitiously from behind her glasses, Imogen felt as if she had never seen him properly before. He had put on his sunglasses, which made his expression even more inscrutable than ever, but everything else about him seemed preternaturally clear in the light that bounced off the water: the texture of his skin, the line of his cheek, the faint stubble darkening his jaw after the long flight, the edge of his mouth.
She wished it would curl in a smile sometimes.
The boat started slowly, making its way out to the gap between the reef, but once on the open water the throbbing note of the engine deepened to a throaty roar as Ali accelerated and they skimmed over the waves.
The sun glittered on the water and, in spite of the wind-shield, Imogen’s hair blew crazily around her face. It was so exhilarating that she could feel her fretfulness unravelling with every bounce of the boat and, without thinking, she smiled at Tom, who looked startled for a moment until, incredibly, he smiled back.
‘OK?’ he shouted over the noise of the engine, and she nodded vigorously as she tried to hold her hair back.
‘It’s wonderful!’ she said, trying to ignore the breathless flip of her heart at his smile.
Although it had only taken a matter of minutes to reach the island in the powerful boat, it felt as if they had entered another world, one that made the laid-back resort seem a frenetic metropolis in comparison. When Ali cut the engine, the silence hit them like a blow.
