Wife in the Making
Page 3
And when he started to laugh, she upended another bowl down the front of his clothes—a bowl of raspberries. But as she turned to find something else to pour over him, he simply picked her up and carried her, kicking and fighting, down the stairs to the beach, where he walked straight into the sea with her.
CHAPTER TWO
‘PUT me down!’ Fleur ordered and pummelled Bryn ineffectually.
He did so, up to her knees in water, but kept his hands around her waist.
‘Now let me go!’ she gasped, unable to believe what was happening to her as her skirt billowed wetly around her legs. ‘I don’t know who you think you are or what you think you’re doing, but this is crazy.’
She looked around wildly but Clam Cove was serene with its curve of white beach fringed by shadowy palm trees. There were no lights on in any of the cottages, although the restaurant was still lit, there was no sign of Eric, and beneath the surface of the water her shoes sank into the sand.
‘Fleur,’ he said mildly, ‘you’re almost as messy as I am.’
She glanced down at herself then up to the heavens in furious exasperation because she was also now liberally coated with cream and raspberries.
‘Therefore,’ he continued reasonably, ‘I thought we both might avail ourselves of the sea’s cleansing properties.’ And, so saying, he lifted her off her feet and moved to deeper water so that when he put her down again, it lapped around her shoulders and was about mid-chest height for him, but still he didn’t release her waist.
And he actually smiled down at her as he said, ‘Now, that’s not so bad, is it? A bit cool but then we were both overheated—emotionally at least.’
But Fleur was not ready to be placated in any way. ‘Cool?’ she retorted with her teeth chattering. ‘I’m freezing and you’re mad, Bryn Wallis! Not only mad but horrible and…and…’
As her voice broke he released her waist but took her hand. ‘Can you float on your back, Fleur?’
‘Of course I can float on my back but it’s not something I usually do fully clothed and with my shoes on in the middle of the night!’ she replied witheringly.
‘Take them off and give it a try,’ he suggested. ‘The Southern Cross is up there bright and clear—it’s a marvellous way to do a bit of star-gazing.’ He let her hand go and pulled off his bandanna then his shirt and tossed them away from him.
‘If you’re suggesting,’ she said arctically, ‘that I—’
‘Just down to your undies,’ he reassured her and, not without some difficulty, pulled his trousers off under the water and threw them away too. ‘Feels wonderful!’ Two shoes and a pair of socks bobbed away from them. ‘And I’m still quite decent, believe me.’ He lay back to reveal a pair of boxer shorts and, with his ankles crossed, floated gently and with little effort. ‘The more you’re in it, the warmer it gets incidentally,’ he told her seriously. ‘Wow, just saw a falling star!’
Fleur muttered something and, with no real idea why she was doing it other than that she felt awful with her voluminous dress clinging to her and weighing her down, struggled out of it and threw it away from her. To her surprise, she was immediately conscious of a sense of liberation mental as well as physical. So she reached for her shoes and consigned them to sink or swim, and dived beneath the water. When she surfaced she dragged her hair out of her eyes and flipped onto her back to float as effortlessly as did her tormentor.
There was a sheen of starlight on the dark surface of the water, and the soft, rhythmic sound of waves breaking on the reef that protected Clam Cove. The Milky Way looked like silver tinsel pasted to a midnight-blue heaven, so close you felt you could reach out and touch it.
‘Not such a bad idea after all?’ he suggested.
‘I still think you’re quite mad,’ she replied after a long moment. ‘Nor have I forgiven you for anything, but…the stars are fantastic.’
He laughed softly. ‘You were fantastic tonight as a matter of fact.’
Fleur sank beneath the surface and came up spluttering. ‘So why…?’
‘Race you to the beach, and after I’ve made you a nightcap I’ll tell you.’
‘No—’
‘Fleur, lovely as this is, enough is enough.’ He flipped over. ‘Ready?’
‘I…oh, all right!’
They reached the beach together and he took her hand as they waded out of the water. ‘Let’s run,’ he suggested. ‘Just to your bungalow.’
‘Hang on—what other Olympic endeavours do you have in mind for me tonight?’ she enquired a little bitterly.
‘None,’ he assured her, ‘but it will ward off the cold.’
She hesitated then remembered she was standing before him in her bra and briefs. Indeed, as she hesitated his gaze slid up and down her sleek wet body and a frisson communicated itself to her to be beneath his gaze wearing only a mostly lace bra and a triangle of matching satin and lace, both pasted to her skin revealingly… Had it come from him through their hands? she wondered. Or was it only she who was responding, not only to her state of undress but also to Bryn Wallis, who was tall and rangy and rather magnificent?
She shook her head to dispel these thoughts and said with some acerbity, ‘OK, but that’s my last form of exercise for the night!’
He grinned and they started to jog down the beach towards her bungalow.
Twenty minutes later she’d showered and was wrapped in an ice-blue towelling robe and drying her hair, when he returned bearing a tray. He came into the bungalow wearing an old football jersey with cut-off sleeves and a pair of khaki shorts, with his tawny hair ruffled and spiky as if he’d dragged a towel through it then used his fingers as a comb. And he had on the tray two of the house specials—Irish coffee à la Clam Cove in tall glasses with filigree silver holders, topped with swirled cream and sprinkled with chocolate.
She raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment and sat down on the bed beneath the furled-up mosquito net so he could have the only chair. In typical Bryn Wallis fashion, however, which was to say there was never any disputing who owned and ran the place if not to say dominated it, he made a few adjustments to the room before he sat down. He lit the oil lamp she never used because he’d explained to her it was only for power failures, and switched off the overhead light. Then he adjusted the pole that lowered the palm-frond window so that it was only open a few inches.
Finally, he looked around and commented that she needed another chair.
Fleur lowered the towel she was using to dry her hair and replied that she wasn’t planning to entertain anyone in her bungalow on a regular basis so one chair was fine with her.
‘Yes, well,’ he said a little drily and brought her coffee over to her, ‘perhaps you should.’
Her eyes widened, then she smiled ironically. ‘You were the one who was afraid of just that,’ she reminded him.
He studied her comprehensively, her fresh, perfect, radiant skin, the fair silk of her drying hair, the elegance of her chin, her slender neck enfolded in the blue terry towelling and the twisted grace of her body as she sat sideways on the edge of her bed, her slim bare feet. Then their gazes caught and held again and, because of the long moment during which neither of them were able to break it, it was unspoken but obvious that a physical awareness of each other had come into play between them.
Fleur swallowed visibly and her fingers tightened on the towel as she wondered how to get across to Bryn Wallis that she had no intention of responding to this physical tension that had sprung up even though she couldn’t deny it. But he was the one who broke the unseen form of electricity that was flowing between them. A frown grew in his eyes then he looked down at the coffee glass in his hands, and carefully put it down on her bedside table. And he strolled over to the only chair and sank down into it.
‘The thing is,’ he said, picking up his own glass and gazing at it reflectively, ‘one of the problems I have is that you remind me of someone I don’t particularly want to be reminded of. But…’
He paused an
He looked around and continued, ‘There’s nothing here, no photos, mementoes, nothing—apart from some books. By the way, I have quite a library in my bungalow. Please feel free to help yourself.’
Fleur shook her head as if to clear it. ‘Am I buttoned up with Tom?’ she protested after a moment.
‘No. But that’s different—kids are easier to relate to.’
She was silent for a long time, then she said composedly, ‘OK, I’m trying out a new kind of life. I woke up one day and discovered I was going down a road I didn’t like, so,’ she shrugged, ‘I opted out. Would I be right in thinking you yourself might have opted out, Bryn?’
He smiled faintly. ‘Touché. On the other hand, has that steel-trap mind of yours perceived a difference between us? For example, I may have opted out of the rat race but I haven’t cut myself off from people.’
Fleur raised her eyebrows. ‘I had noticed that—I’m not blind,’ she said wryly. ‘A mind like a steel trap, though? Isn’t that a bit of an exaggeration?’
‘No,’ he replied flatly. ‘Otherwise I’d have broken you down a lot sooner, Ms Millar. Three and a half weeks of putting up with me at my worst, with such composure, definitely denotes a steely mind.’
Fleur’s lips parted and her eyes widened.
‘Which is not to say,’ he mused, ‘that I did actually break you down, not in the way I anticipated anyway. No one,’ he emphasized, ‘has ever thrown a drink in my face let alone poured raspberries and cream all over me. In fact,’ he looked briefly gloomy, ‘the honours go to you, Fleur, which is a little demoralizing, to be honest.’
Fleur struggled through several emotions then started to smile reluctantly.
‘That’s better,’ he murmured and sipped his coffee.
‘It’s not really,’ she denied. ‘I only found it amusing that you’ve managed to escape that fate for so long, to be honest. Otherwise, you’ve admitted to being highly manipulative if nothing else.’ She wrinkled her brow. ‘What I don’t understand is why you care one way or the other?’
He took another sip and said at length, ‘In another life I was a journalist. Old habits, such as digging out the truth of things, die hard, I guess. So, going to tell me why you’ve decided there should be no more men in your life, Fleur?’
Fortunately Fleur had put her coffee glass down on the bedside table, otherwise the sheer accuracy of this observation might have seen her spill it. Even so, her restless movement didn’t escape him.
‘You don’t need to be a genius to see that,’ he said. ‘Julene is of the opinion you got your heart broken and Eric thinks it might have happened a couple of times. Mind you, while they needed a couple of weeks to work it out, I did spot it straight away,’ he said modestly.
Fleur sat up straighter and said in a strangled voice, ‘You…you’ve all discussed it? Behind my back!’
He shrugged. ‘Human nature.’
‘No…I… Darn it, it’s unforgivable…and you…’ She could only glare at him.
He shrugged again. ‘You think that because of how much you have cut yourself off from the rest of the world. But nothing on earth would have stopped Julene having a good gossip about you, me included.’
‘You didn’t have to participate, though,’ she said through her teeth.
He smiled crookedly. ‘I didn’t contribute that much. In fact it came up when Eric told me I was being extremely unkind to you.’
‘What a pity you don’t take more notice of Eric,’ she shot back.
Bryn lay back in his chair. ‘I do. Well, sometimes. Eric and I go way back and, on the whole, I’ve found his advice to be wise—I just wasn’t in the mood to take it this time.’
Fleur stared at him incredulously, trying to sort through it all, then she closed her eyes and shook her head. ‘It’s like being in a madhouse,’ she said.
‘On the other hand, we just might be able to help.’
Her lashes lifted and a sudden thought came to her. ‘Who do I remind you of? What part does that play in it all?’ she asked slowly.
He finished his coffee and stood up. ‘Oh, that was only fleeting and not really important. What is important, Fleur,’ he paused and looked at her with a mixture of sympathy and seriousness—with absolutely no hint of that electric tension that had flowed between them before—and went on, ‘is that you can talk to us. You really don’t have to soldier on alone. But that’s enough for one night—I’ll leave you to finish your coffee in peace. Goodnight!’
Fleur listened to him walking down the veranda steps, then there was silence as the beach swallowed up his footsteps. She blinked several times, lay flat then sat up, shaking her head, and reached for her coffee with her mind in turmoil. How had she not realized that she came across as so obviously isolated and damaged? To the extent that people would gossip about it behind her back? Apart from Bryn’s hostility to cope with, she’d thought she’d appeared tranquil and even enjoying her sojourn at Clam Cove—apart from him, she had been, damn it!
So was it another frustrating example of give a girl a pretty face and figure—and you only acquired those because of your genes—and, without a constant supply of men dancing attendance, people immediately assumed there was some trauma?
Well, there was, she thought ruefully, but whose business was it but her own?
She drained her glass and stood up to pace around her bungalow for a while. On the other hand, could she have landed amongst a bunch of fruit loops? And why did she have this conviction, despite Bryn’s disclaimer about her reminding him of someone not being important, it was much more of a key to things than he’d been prepared to admit?
She stopped abruptly in the middle of the cabin as her conversation with Julene just that morning came back to her. What was it Julene had said—‘You could have knocked us over with a feather when he produced you…’ Yes, her exact words. Did this mean Julene and Eric knew who she reminded Bryn of? And to produce such a hostile reaction in him from the first moment they met—it had to be another woman in his life, she reasoned, a woman who had left her mark most unhappily on him…
Right on cue Tom’s little face floated into her mind. Tom, whose mother was never mentioned, which in itself meant there had to be trauma, for whatever reason, associated with her memory. Was that what she’d walked into? Reminding a man of the mother of his child when he’d much prefer to forget her?
She came to life and turned off the oil lamp, shrugged out of her robe and slipped into bed as exhaustion suddenly hit her. Then she remembered what he’d said about being a journalist in a former life.
She sat up and pondered this. It explained the laptop Tom had told her about in his bungalow. It probably explained the light on in his bungalow at all hours. So did he still practise journalism? If so, why did he never mention it?
And before she fell asleep another dilemma raised its head with her. Her physical reaction to Bryn Wallis, and his to her, unless it had been her imagination…
Julene was up and about and apparently restored to normal when Fleur surfaced a little later than usual the next morning.
‘Some night,’ she said chattily as she sat down with a cup of coffee while Fleur ate her breakfast. ‘I have to tell you Eric was most impressed.’
Fleur opened her mouth to ask what with, but decided to save her breath.
‘He can’t remember anyone giving Bryn as good as they got quite like that before,’ Julene went on. ‘Of course, I knew you had to crack eventually, he was being totally unreasonable and impossible but—raspberries and cream! Way to go, kid.’
Fleur smiled feebly.
‘You’re not feeling guilty?’ Julene enquired with a frown. ‘You see, it’ll clear the air tremendously—by the way, all your clothes washed up on the beach. I reckon the shoes are ruined but a bit of bleach will get the stains out of his shirt; not so sure about your dress, though. If you don’t mind me saying so, it wasn’t the most attractive dress, so that could be a good thing—What’s the matter?
Fleur had stopped eating abruptly. Now she put her hands to her head and started to laugh helplessly. Finally she looked up at Julene with streaming eyes. ‘Does this place ever strike you as a madhouse?’ she asked.
‘Well, now,’ Julene started to laugh too, ‘can’t say things are ever boring around Bryn!’
Fleur sobered. ‘I gather you’re all worried about me? There’s no need. OK, yes, I’m not into men at the moment—’
‘They can be bastards,’ Julene broke in sympathetically.
Fleur smiled mechanically then frowned. ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Fire away, honey!’
‘Surely it’s better, after you’ve—’ she shrugged ‘—got your fingers burnt, in a manner of speaking, to…retire for a bit? That’s, well, one thing I’m doing, trying to build another life, I guess.’
‘What was your previous life?’ Julene asked curiously.
‘Two years studying computer science and statistics after school then receiving an offer from a modelling agency I couldn’t refuse—or so I thought at the time. But it all palled, so,’ she spread her hands palms outward, ‘I decided to get my feet back on the ground.’
Julene reached for the percolator and poured herself another cup of coffee. She stirred sugar into it. ‘You still need friends, hon,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘And what about your family?’
Fleur made a curiously helpless little gesture and said wryly, ‘My parents are overseas travelling the world and I do keep in touch with them regularly via e-mail. The same with friends.’
Julene shrugged. ‘I’d still feel happier if you got some letters or phone calls.’
Fleur bit her lip and for a moment was tempted to tell Julene why it made her extremely happy to receive no mail, no phone calls and especially no flowers at Clam Cove. But she stifled the urge—it was like living in a fishbowl here anyway.
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