‘How fascinating! And it sounds logical. Oooh!’ she squealed rapturously, almost hugging herself in her bemused delight. ‘Isn’t this the most incredible experience? I can’t believe I’m going to have lunch in such a famous movie mogul’s house. Drinks on the patio, Cleopatra said. Oh, do hurry up, Catherine!’
It was a confusingly large house, more like a mansion, and Catherine wondered if they would find their way all right. To her intense relief they did so without difficulty by the simple expedient of following the tinkle of glasses, the murmur of voices, and one frequent full-blooded laugh. It was the gusty and appreciative rumble of enjoyment that issued from Gus Strindberg’s throat, they were soon to discover.
A big man with bold Nordic features and a fair complexion, he had a handshake that was as welcoming and hearty as his laugh. First it engulfed Deirdre’s hand, then moved on to take Catherine’s in a prolonged hold as his eyes fixed speculatively on her face, telling her that Paul had made a satisfactory explanation for their being here, but raising alarm in her at what he might have said.
‘Welcome to my house,’ he greeted them with just the faintest trace of a Swedish accent.
He hadn’t waited to be introduced, but had come forward on his own. Zoe Sheridan and Jeremy Cain waited more reticently for Paul to perform the honors, the latter introduction sending Deirdre into a paroxysm of delight under the former’s cynical surveillance.
Deirdre was in her element and determined to push herself forward, Catherine noted with extreme embarrassment. Did Deirdre have to be so blatant? Zoe Sheridan was openly contemptuous of her. Paul’s attitude was guarded, but she knew what he thought of Deirdre. Gus Strindberg and Jeremy Cain were pleasant on the surface, but Catherine sensed that one of them was demonstrating a host’s politeness, while the other was playing up to a fan. She didn’t realize until later that her prickly, protective anxiety on Deirdre’s behalf had dulled her mind to other things it would have been as well to observe.
Perhaps it was her earlier conversation with Deirdre, along with the presence of the film producer and the two superstars, that did it, but the setting, the deep and comfortable and colorful loungers, the circular pool and the glass-topped table set with tall frosted glasses and a matching jug containing an interesting-looking concoction afloat with fruit, was reminiscent of a scene straight from a Gus Strindberg production. The point that didn’t occur to Catherine at the time was that the theatrical aspect didn’t end there, but that everyone present—with the exception of Gus Strindberg, who seemed perfectly natural—was acting a part. Deirdre was out to impress in the hope of being noticed. Jeremy Cain was oozing with his screen-image charm. Zoe Sheridan’s laugh was falsely high and brittle as it escaped her sullen mouth. Catherine found herself unconsciously maneuvered into the role that Paul had scripted for her. He was being excessively familiar in his manner, suggesting a degree of intimacy they didn’t share. The way his hand rested on her arm, his fingers drawing sensuous circles on her skin, his trick of adding bits to confirm things she said, combined to make their relationship look both close and long term.
Gus asked her if she’d had a good flight, and that opened the subject of flying.
‘I sat next to this woman who went to sleep practically on takeoff and snored all the way,’ Jeremy Cain proclaimed.
‘How could anyone fall asleep while sitting next to you?’ Deirdre gasped, gazing at him adoringly.
Gus said, ‘My first wife talked in her sleep.’
‘Is that why you divorced her—guilty confessions?’ Zoe asked. ‘If you talk in your sleep, Catherine, be warned of the danger.’
‘I’ve been told that I do,’ Catherine admitted.
‘But only gibberish,’ Paul said lazily.
Catherine couldn’t believe her ears. The liberties he had taken with her body in private paled into insignificance beside this. He had as good as announced to everyone that he had slept with her.
No one looked aghast or gave any indication that he had said anything untoward, so Catherine decided she must have misheard. It was possible. Her brain wasn’t too clear. She had taken a long, thirst-quenching draught of the innocuous looking fruit juice, not realizing until she’d repeated the action several times that it was spiked with a combination of spirits. The others didn’t seem to find it all that heady, possibly because they were more used to liquor than she was.
Over lunch Zoe’s earlier petulance melted into a mood of pure scintillation. She was exquisitely beautiful. Catherine recalled that her abundance of silky raven hair had reached her waist in the film. At this precise moment it was plaited ’round her head to show off the perfection of her features. Her eyes were the color of dark oloroso sherry, resting frequently on Paul with a strange, unreadable expression in their mysterious liquid depths.
It was natural, because this was the site where Edge of Paradise had been filmed, for Catherine’s thoughts to dwell for a moment on the one who’d loved her, given her her big chance, and lost her because of it. She couldn’t help thinking of the friction the shifting relationships during the making of the film must have caused, or to wonder what further pain the shooting of the sequel would bring.
‘No sign of the director and his new flame,’ Deirdre made use of an opportune moment to whisper. ‘If you remember, Piers said they were to be among the party he was instructed to pick up from New Providence in the morning.’
‘Perhaps they couldn’t alter their schedule to come a day earlier than planned,’ Catherine responded.
‘A pity. It could have been quite amusing. I’d have given a lot to see how Zoe reacted to her ex-director boyfriend’s new live-in girl friend. And whether he was still in love with Zoe.’
‘Piers didn’t say she was his live-in girl friend. You shouldn’t assume such things.’
‘Grow up, Catherine. Their sort don’t stop at holding hands and kissing. They always sleep together.’
‘That’s their business. I’m glad they couldn’t make it. I wouldn’t want to get caught in the middle of a situation like that, and I’m surprised you would. He’s suffered enough. I hope he’s found someone who’ll treat him better than Zoe did and that they’re both hopelessly in love with one another. That would be one in the eye for Zoe.’
The love scenes, although beautifully and tastefully done, had left little to the imagination. The director must have known every kind of agony directing his woman and her new lover through them. He wouldn’t have been unaware of what was going on for long. How must he have felt? Catherine wondered. And now—could he bear to watch the finished product and know that it wasn’t just a brilliant piece of acting? How could he bring himself to go through the torture again by signing up to direct the sequel? She knew that a lot of exaggeration took place for publicity purposes, to draw the crowds, but the sequel was predicted to be even more daring and frank than the original had been.
After lunch everyone took advantage of the reclining loungers until it was agreed that the food had settled and more energetic pursuits could safely be allowed.
Someone suggested a dip in the pool, upon which both Zoe and Deirdre divested themselves of their clothes to disclose swimming apparel. Zoe’s was so minute, a contraption of the scrappiest piece of material held together by a single, string-thin long lace, that even Deirdre’s predictably tiny bikini looked modest by comparison. Catherine would have felt nude parading around in either one. Then she recalled the waterfall scene in Edge of Paradise. Nudity before a mixed assembly was nothing new to Zoe. And in all fairness, Catherine had to admit that she didn’t strike a provocative pose, but conducted her near-nakedness with grace and naturalness. Perhaps, Catherine wondered, because she was too thin to look sensuous? Had she lost weight since displaying her luscious all in Edge of Paradise? Her measurements then had been perfect. Zoe as she was now could never wear the ‘body beautiful’ tag; she was positively skinny, her bust practically nonexistent. In fact, Catherine decided with a small, smug smile, the delectable Zoe looked bet
ter with her clothes on. She was shocked at the pleasure she derived from this because she couldn’t ever remember harboring a jealous or catty thought about another woman. What was it about Zoe that rubbed her the wrong way?
A shadow fell over her. She redirected her eyes and took in Paul’s excellent physique. He had stripped off his slacks and his lean hips were clad in plain, no-nonsense blue swimming trunks. A silver medallion suspended on a silver chain encircling his strong masculine neck rested in the growth of hair on his chest, enhancing his deep teak suntan. Her throat constricted as her eyes took pleasure in the virile and very male picture he presented.
He lifted one foot, maintaining a steady balance, and nudged her thigh with his big toe. ‘What about stirring those lazy bones?’
His eyes strolled indolently down her throat; she wasn’t able to stop the telltale swallow that told of her disturbed emotions; and their jade green depths contained a marked twinkle as they dropped to the area most marked by the rapid rise and fall of her breathing.
Deliberately keeping his gaze in that vicinity, he said, ‘Why don’t you strip off and enjoy the fun?’
His surveillance was having a strange effect on her. The bodice of her sundress seemed tighter. She hoped it wasn’t giving away the fact that she was still as she had been on the balcony at breakfast that morning, bra-less, and that she hadn’t had the foresight to equip, herself with a bikini underneath.
‘I’m sure Zoe could be presumed upon to loan you something,’ he said, his grin teasing.
Her glance automatically went to Zoe in her almost-swimsuit, which in turn brought a mischievous smile to her own lips. ‘I won’t bother, thank you.’
There was the faintest suggestion of a taunt in his voice as he said, knowing full well that such an ambiguous remark would provoke her curiosity, ‘I don’t know why it is, but it’s always the same.’
‘What is?’ she asked before she could stop herself.
His eyes finally left their seemingly fixed observation point to slide across to indicate both Zoe and Deirdre. ‘The girl with the best body is always the one who leaves the flaunting to others who aren’t as favorably endowed, those without or those too voluptuously with, and keeps her perfect statistics well hidden.’
She had to smile at the way he’d summarized both Zoe and Deirdre, unkind as it was; the blush, part pleasure and part confusion, came when she’d sifted through his words and found the compliment for herself.
It got him nowhere. She wouldn’t be talked into borrowing a swimsuit from Zoe and joining him and the others, and so he left her to her sunbathing.
She wished she were back at the hotel so that she could curl up in bed in her darkened room. The spiked drink, the intensely hot sun, which she was also unaccustomed to, coupled with insufficient food in her stomach, were making her feel queasy. She closed her eyes on the beating glare, wishing she’d had the good sense to choose a lounger within the bountiful shade of the house or the canopy of trees, but feeling too lazy to move. She realized she was shivering. How was that possible in this heat?
She wasn’t conscious of falling asleep, only of waking up. The sun had moved ’round, granting one of her wishes, because she was now in the shade. She felt much better, only a little floaty, and now she was cold because she was in the shade and not because of any disability. She sat up, surprised to discover that she was completely alone. The pool area was deserted.
Wandering into the house to find out where everyone was, she came upon Cleopatra, whose mouth opened in the white-toothed grin which seemed almost to be her trademark.
‘There you is, honey. I was just going to take another look at you. Last time you were out like a li’l babe in lullaby land. Like me to show you where you’s sleeping? Will you be wanting a double room or two singles?’
‘Aren’t we returning to New Providence today, then?’
‘No’m. The arrangements are for you to stay here, and I’ve been told to fix you up. Singles or a double?’
Catherine would have preferred two singles, but she thought it would have to be a double. Knowing Deirdre’s aptitude for getting into trouble, and wondering where Piers’ sleeping quarters were and whether Jeremy Cain was also a house guest and not just paying a flying visit, she thought it might be best to keep Deirdre under her eye.
‘A double,’ she said with conviction.
Then she speculated on whether similar thoughts had been skipping through Cleopatra’s mind. A bright look of intelligence widened the woman’s grin and the hastily smothered peal of laughter was definitely saucy.
‘Yes’m, Miss Catherine. This way if you please.’ As they went up the stairs she asked, ‘Which side of the house do you want? You’ve got the choice of the sunrise or the sunset.’
‘I’m not fussy. It doesn’t matter either way.’
Again Catherine was rewarded with a flash of those perfect white teeth as the housekeeper replied, to puzzle her, ‘In that case I’ll give you the sunset. More romantic.’ The accompanying laugh was distinctly ribald.
The room she was shown into was truly beautiful. Catherine left off pondering Cleopatra’s strange manner to voice her delight and appreciation. It was huge, tastefully yet luxuriously furnished, cool and restful, with a long balcony, shared with the next room. The sunrise side would have the mountains; this side appealed to Catherine much more, as it had a view of the sea.
She couldn’t think of a tropical sunset without thinking of Paul, how he’d been waiting for her to come out of the bathroom—had it only been the night before?—to show her her first tropical sunset, witness her enjoyment and share the precious moment with her.
She realized, after she’d let Cleopatra go, that she ought to have been more practical, asking things like where everyone was and what time dinner would be served. She didn’t bother going after her, but stepped out onto the balcony. The air was as sensuous as perfumed velvet, the sea lagoon-calm and serene, the only sound the distant roar of the surf on the reef. The sun had begun its nightly slide; the color of the sky was changing. In her mind she was back on that other balcony, her shoulders pressing against Paul’s muscular chest. She heard a step behind her. Had Deirdre come up? Reluctant to curtail her thoughts, and needing a few seconds to compose her face, she didn’t turn ’round.
‘Come and see the sunset,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘It’s a sight not to be missed.’
‘Stop pinching my lines,’ a voice—not Deirdre’s—said.
She spun ’round, not realizing that he’d crept up behind her, and the unexpected collision of bodies would have sent her reeling backward if he hadn’t reached out to steady her.
‘Paul! I didn’t . . . expect . . . to see you.’
‘You mean not this soon?’
‘I mean I didn’t expect to see you here.’ This habit of walking into her room without invitation had to stop. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Didn’t Cleopatra tell you? I took Deirdre back to New Providence and while I was there I called in at our hotel to collect our luggage and check out. The maid repacked the odd things you had taken out of your case.’
‘Cleopatra didn’t tell me. It must have slipped her mind.’
‘She probably assumed I’d mentioned it to you. You were asleep when we left. You knew we were moving on. As this was our ultimate destination, it seemed a pity to wake you and drag you off to New Providence only to bring you back.’
With Paul standing this close it was difficult to assimilate the facts. ‘You said you took Deirdre back to New Providence?’
‘That’s right. Escorted her to the door of her hotel. She asked me to say her goodbyes and to tell you how much she enjoyed today and meeting you, and that she very much hopes your paths cross again some time.’
‘Deirdre didn’t—’ She swallowed painfully. ‘—return with you?’
‘Why should she?’
‘Oh, dear. I thought—’ What would Cleopatra think of her, asking for a double and not two singles? Because it
was now appallingly obvious whom she was sharing with. She remembered the housekeeper’s smothered laughter and saucy appreciation when she’d said they’d have a double room, and knew what she had thought. Perhaps of even greater concern, what was he thinking? He’d been chasing her pretty constantly from the moment she arrived. Did he think he’d won her ’round to his way of thinking? What had she agreed to?
Paul touched a finger to her hot cheek. His eyes took in the distress and agitation in hers. ‘Hey, what is this?’
‘When Cleopatra asked me if we wanted singles or a double, I assumed I’d be sharing with Deirdre. You know that.’
‘I know no such thing,’ he replied in biting, frightening fury. ‘Although, thinking about it, I don’t know why I’m so surprised. It’s typical of you. You’ve blown hot and cold since we first met. The big come-on followed by the door slam. Will you tell me what game you’re playing?’
‘I’m not playing any game. I think your familiarity is contemptible. You’ve taken things for granted that no decent man would.’
‘God Almighty! What things?’
‘That you could—’
‘You two having a fight?’ Cleopatra called out to them, her face appearing at the balcony door. ‘I knocked. If you didn’t want me to barge in on you, you should have locked your door. You knows I was coming to unpack your bags, Mister Paul; I did told you.’
‘That’s right, you did,’ Paul said tersely, not looking at Cleopatra, but keeping his eyes fixed on Catherine. ‘I need to cool off. If you don’t mind, I’ll shower first.’
His expression said that he wasn’t skipping out of an argument, and he waited until she made a sign of assent before turning on his heel and slamming into the bathroom.
With Cleopatra looking at her with her big, anxious, disapproving eyes, what else could she have done but let him go?
‘You giving Mister Paul a bad time, girl?’ Cleopatra chided.
‘You don’t understand, Cleopatra.’
‘I understands enough. He’s a good man and he’s had it mighty rough. I can’t figure out you modern girls. Mebbe your mommas didn’t smack your bottoms often enough when you were li’l children.’
Edge of Paradise Page 10
