by Susan Napier
Rosalind. was tempted to flounce off, except that what he said was perfectly true. Her green eyes sparkled as her mouth curved self-mockingly. ‘I was, wasn’t I?’
A twitch of his extraordinary brows showed that her ready confession was unexpected, and evidently unwelcome. ‘You also lie extremely well,’ he accused unsmilingly.
His chilly disapproval earned him a taunting little bow. “‘If I chance to talk a little wild, forgive me; I had it from my father,”’ she said sweetly. The obscure Shakespearian quotation was certainly apt—she had learned much of what she knew about acting at Michael Marlow’s knee...including how to make blank verse sound like modern, everyday speech!
He gave her a darkling look, as if he suspected that the lyrical apology was not her own and was frustrated by his inability to challenge her sincerity by quoting its source. She had already guessed that Mr James liked to be safely armoured head to toe in facts before he proceeded into verbal engagements.
Unable to resist rubbing his nose in it, she placed a hand over her heart and flaunted a more recognisable quotation. ‘Ah, “parting is such sweet sorrow”, isn’t it, Mr James?’ She batted her eyelashes shamelessly at him. ‘But now I know that you’re such a boringly well-organised individual I suppose I’ll have to find someone else to patronise. Enjoy the rest of your trip. Ciao, baby.’
She turned and sauntered on her way, making sure she gave her hips an extra swivel just in case he was still watching.
He was, and it was fortunate for Rosalind’s peace of mind that she couldn’t see the expression on his face. It was a mask of cold-blooded calculation, the mouth a cruel, hard line of satisfaction, the eyes hot and hungry, seething with an unstable combination of unwilling admiration and reluctant contempt.
The bitter face of a man on a particularly unpleasant mission.
And who was determined to succeed.
CHAPTER THREE
ROSALIND clamped her shoulder bag to her side as she jogged across the shimmering tarmac towards the small, colourful, twin-propellered aircraft. A steamy, swirling Singapore wind whipped her hair into a red halo as she cast an angelic smile of apology at the uniformed airline officer standing beside the lowered steps at the rear of the fuselage. She had been deep in conversation with a young German tourist when she had realised she was going to be late for her connecting flight. She had made it with barely thirty seconds to spare!
The door Was pulled smartly shut behind her, shutting out the baking afternoon sun, and Rosalind’s smile swept around the narrow, nineteen-seat cabin before zeroing in on the gap halfway up the left-hand side of the aisle. She eased herself between the rows of single seats, scattering apologies as her bag banged protruding elbows, and crammed herself gratefully into her seat. She could see the pilot looking back through the open door of the cockpit and she gave him a cheeky thumbs up.
‘You nearly missed the flight.’
Rosalind looked across the aisle into a pair of familiar, dark, disapproving, bespectacled eyes.
Oh, no! The insipid Mr James was a reminder of the country and complications she was trying to escape.
‘Don’t tell me you’re going to Tioman too,’ she blurted out as the plane began to vibrate with engine noise.
‘No, I’ll be parachuting out halfway there,’ he said drily.
Considering that they were on a non-stop, terminating flight, his sarcasm was justified, but just as Rosalind was appreciating his glimmer of wit he spoiled it by adding ponderously, ‘That was rather reckless of you, cutting it so fine. You could have wasted your ticket.’
‘Nonsense; I had it timed perfectly to the last second,’ she lied airily. ‘When you’ve flown as often as I have you’ll realise that there’s an art to minimising boring waiting times.’
‘Right,’ he murmured, eyeing her flushed complexion, slicked with perspiration from her dash to the plane, and the green shirt which clung in interesting patches to her dampened skin.
Rosalind rummaged in her bag and produced a moistened towelette which she used to blot her face, uttering a sensuous sigh of pleasure as the cooling alcohol evaporated on her hot skin. He was still in his suit, she noticed, although he had removed his jacket and tie as a concession to the heat; his ubiquitous laptop was jammed under his feet. Was he going to work all the way across the South China Sea, the way he had across the Pacific?
Curiosity—her besetting sin—got the better of her. If she was stuck with him as a seat companion for the next hour or so she might as well make the best of it.
‘What a coincidence we’re both going to the same place,’ she remarked as the plane taxied down the runway. ‘Are you going there on business or pleasure?’ she asked, although she thought she knew the answer. Nobody went on holiday wearing a suit!
‘You might say a bit of both,’ he replied. One corner of his narrow mouth indented briefly, as if he was restraining a smile of grim anticipation. He obviously wasn’t expecting to enjoy himself much on either score.
‘And what exactly is your business? You never did say...’ Rosalind trailed off invitingly.
He hesitated. ‘I’m an accountant.’
‘Oh...really?’ Rosalind managed to keep a straight face but she quickly lowered her eyes, knowing they must be brimming with suppressed laughter. ‘I never would have guessed.’
She didn’t fool him one bit. His jaw stiffened. ‘You find my profession amusing?’
‘Of course not; accounting is a very serious, very honourable, highly regarded profession,’ she said earnestly.
‘Don’t overdo it,’ he warned her wryly.
She-let him see her dancing eyes as she burbled, in a little-girl voice of breathless admiration, ‘And so exciting, too. You must get a big thrill whenever you get your accounts to balance.’
His expression was stoical. ‘My accounts always balance.’
He managed to make his conscientiousness sound like a threat. It was too much for Rosalind’s sense of humour.
‘So many thrills, so little time!’ she giggled. ‘No wonder you look so strung up. You have all the hallmarks of a workaholic. I won’t ask you what your pleasure is; it probably has something to do with that laptop. I bet you have no idea how to really kick back and relax. Where are you staying on Tioman?’
When he named the resort her first reaction was amused resignation. So much for her flippant ‘Ciao, baby’. It seemed that they were fated to run into each other.
‘Me too.’
As the words left her mouth a nasty suspicion began to buzz crazily in her head. Ridiculous as it might appear, maybe coincidence had little to do with it...
‘Are you following me?’ she rapped out.
He looked so alarmed at the prospect that her brief attack of paranoia subsided as abruptly as it had arisen. He was an accountant, for goodness’ sake! He wore a suit, and an expensively tailored one at that. All the tabloid journalists Rosalind knew—and she knew some of them on a first-name basis by now—dressed for comfort and climbing walls rather than for impressing their quarry with their sartorial elegance.
They didn’t travel first class, either, and in the unlikely event of managing to persuade his tight-fisted employer to spring for a ticket no self-respecting hack would have piously waved away the free booze every time it was offered, as she had noticed Mr James do.
‘I think you’ll find I was the first person to check in for the connection and I was certainly on board this plane first,’ he pointed out with the stiffness of outraged innocence. ‘How could I possibly be following you?’
Quite. Remembering what her mother had told her about the underdeveloped nature of Tioman, Rosalind conceded that of course anyone who travelled first class would inevitably stay at the island’s most luxurious hotel. She tried to smooth his ruffled dignity with a mischievous, melting look.
‘Mmm. How indeed? Maybe I’m the one following you...’
He blinked rapidly, blurring the expression in his dark eyes. Rosalind noticed a small tick in hi
s left temple and realised that her provocative reply had only made him even more uncomfortable. He jerked his face away from her scrutiny, glancing out of his window just as the nose of the plane lifted, his fingers gripping the armrest as the ground fell sharply away beneath them and they shuddered across the heatwaves rising from the city.
Rosalind looked at the white knuckles. Maybe it wasn’t her teasing banter that had made him poker up so suddenly.
‘Flown much in small planes, have you?’ she asked with studied casualness, determined not to make the same mistake she had on the flight from Auckland.
He wrenched his gaze reluctantly away from the window and gave her a wary, sidelong look as if he still didn’t know quite what to make of her. Did he expect her to pounce on him and start ripping his clothes off? Or perhaps he was afraid to admit his vulnerability because he thought she would mock his fears. She smiled kindly, encouragingly, determined to make up for embarrassing him with her absurd suspicions.
His eyes narrowed on her eager, enquiring expression.
‘Not a great deal, no,’ he admitted slowly, surprising her, for she had half expected a snub.
Rosalind beamed at him and adopted a bracing tone. ‘Well, don’t worry; the ride’ll smooth out when we get up a little higher. And we’ll leave the up-draughts behind once we get over the sea. The flight’s not much more than an hour long. We’ll be there in no time. If your ears start to hurt, suck one of these.’ She whipped out a few boiled lollies from the fistful she had pocketed on their previous flight and held them out to him. ‘Sorry if they’ve melted a bit but they’re still in their wrapping so you won’t get sticky.’
He accepted the peace offering, picking out the paper-sealed toothpick with the airline logo which had been hidden amongst the sweets and gravely handing it back.
‘Surely you want to keep your souvenir, Miss Marlow?’
She grinned sheepishly as she dropped the toothpick into the breast pocket of her shirt. ‘It’s the bargain-hunter in me, I’m afraid. I just can’t pass up a free offer. I can never leave a hotel room without making a clean sweep of the teabags and coffee sachets and the soap and little bottles of shampoo. Things like that are built into the room rate, you know, and they can be very handy when you’re living on a budget.’
His eyebrows rose steeply. She was beginning to get rather fond of them. They were his most expressive feature.
‘A very poorly balanced budget, Miss Marlow, that affords first-class travel but leaves you insufficient funds to buy the small essentials of life.’
She grinned at his professional criticism. ‘I didn’t say I couldn’t afford them; it’s only that I’d rather spend the money on other things. Actually, this whole trip is a gift. Normally I’m strictly a second-class traveller. And my name is Rosalind by the way. Most people call me Roz.’
No dawn of recognition crossed his expression, no glimmer of licentious speculation intruded into the clear dark gaze.
‘Luke James.’
There was a pause, almost as if he expected her to recognise him. Maybe he was famous in accounting circles.
She prodded him further. ‘I’m an actress.’
‘I’m afraid I’m not much of a movie-goer,’ he began politely.
‘I work mostly in the theatre.’
‘Or a theatre-goer either.’
‘I did have a leading part in a BBC costume drama a few years ago—’
‘I don’t own a television set,’ he said without regret.
‘Oh. Well, I’ve done a number of radio plays—’
‘I rarely have the radio on...’
Rosalind was stunned. How could someone of his evident education have no interest in or appreciation of the dramatic arts? Didn’t he know that the theatre provided both a window and a mirror to humanity? How could he consider himself a well-rounded personality if he ignored such an influential part of his cultural heritage?
She scowled. Perversely, considering the lengths that she had gone to in the last twenty-four hours to avoid being recognised, she felt slighted by his complete lack of awareness of her talent. She wasn’t overly big-headed, but she knew that she had earned every one of her glowing reviews. She worked hard and believed passionately in the importance of her craft. And yet here was a man who didn’t even care about what she did, let alone how well she did it!
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask whether he read the newspapers, but she wasn’t prepared to go that far towards betraying herself.
‘Well, then, what do you do for entertainment?’ she asked, hiding her chagrin.
‘I don’t feel the need for it. My life is very full.’
‘It must be,’ she said tartly. Full of work, she guessed disparagingly. Parades of dull, unimaginative figures marching across his computer screen. Her generous lower lip pushed out moodily, her green eyes darkening as she contemplated the philistine across the aisle. No wonder he didn’t interact very well with people, poor lamb. He lacked the practice in sharing his emotions which was normally imparted by exposure to common cultural experiences. If variety was the spice of life, his must be singularly bland.
‘I’m sure you’re a very good actress.’
Her trained ear detected the dubious note in the comment that was obviously meant to mollify her.
‘How would you know?’ she pointed out sarcastically.
‘Well...’ He lowered his voice, his gaze fixed on her stormy face. ‘You are very attractive...’
Rosalind bristled like a ginger kitten whose fur had been stroked the wrong way. ‘What’s that got to do with how well I can act?’ she crackled.
‘Uh, I... suppose it must make it easier for you to get parts,’ he explained.
Did he realise what he was implying? Could those brown eyes really be as innocent and guileless as they seemed? Rosalind bristled even more fiercely. ‘You mean sleep my way into them—is that what you’re saying?’
Her bluntness had the desired effect. He blinked rapidly. ‘Oh, no...I would never suggest such a thing. Uh, I’m sure you’re a very respectable, very distinguished actress.’
Rosalind was as quick to forgive as she was to anger. She was aware of the irony, even if he wasn’t. Her ire dissolved in a gamine grin.
‘Now who’s overdoing it? I think you must be confusing me with my mother. Dignity is not exactly my strong point and respectable I ain’t! I will, however, concede that my work is respecter.’
In case her wordplay was too subtle for him she added firmly, ‘If I sleep with someone, it’s because I want to, not because I have to. As far as I’m concerned, sex is not a marketable commodity.’
Surprisingly he neither blushed nor looked flustered by the raw revelation. One eyebrow flicked up. ‘Your mother is also an actress.’
Given his cultural ignorance, Rosalind treated it as a question. Connie would have been mortified that he had had to ask. She had been playing leading roles for nearly four decades. The Marlow name was a byword in the New Zealand theatre. Rosalind felt honour-bound to defend the family pride in its accomplishments.
‘Yes. Constance Marlow.’
She half expected him to look blank but instead he dipped his head in acknowledgement.
‘You’re one of those Marlows. Didn’t your father receive a knighthood for services to the theatre in the last honours list?’
Where art failed, snobbery succeeded!
‘Yes, he did.’ The new title had been the source of some mirth as well as pride within the family, since Michael’s bark had frequently reduced quavering young newcomers to calling their director ‘sir’ and Connie had been going under the affectionate theatre nickname of Her Ladyship for years.
‘I suppose your mother is an accountant?’ she teased, basking in the safety of her clan. As ‘one of those Marlows’ she was shielded from the infamy of her individuality.
Again that slow, assessing look. ‘My mother died when I was a child.’
‘Oh.’ Rosalind’s amusement was instantly tempered,
her jewel-bright eyes softening sympathetically. ‘I’m sorry. What a shock that must have been.’
Her vivid imagination sketched a picture of what he had been like as a child. He would have been a thin, clever, gentle little boy, too shy to attract many friends and, after the loss of his mother, probably even more insecure. She couldn’t imagine Luke as the kind of self-confident daredevil that her brothers had been...or herself, come to that.
Impulsively she spanned the aisle with her slender arm and placed her hand over the one lying on his seat-rest. The back of his hand felt cool and hard against her palm, as if the tanned skin were sheathing cold steel rather than warm muscle and sinew. Rosalind had somehow expected that an accountant would have hands that were soft and pampered. Maybe it was all that exercise on his computer keyboard that made his fingers feel as if they were capable of cracking walnuts!
Even more disconcerting, the hum of the aircraft was transmitted to her via her touch—a prickling vibration which shot from the point of contact right up the length of her arm, raising the fine hairs on her skin as if it were charged with electricity.
Luke looked down at the small, pale, delicate hand cuddled protectively over his.
Absorbed in her imaginative reconstruction of his orphaned boyhood, Rosalind missed the significance of the slight, premeditated pause before he added with stark pathos, ‘It was an accident. My father died too.’
Her hand contracted, along with her tender heart, her fingers curling comfortingly between his. The engine hum in her arm increased to a steady tingle that spread up her shoulder and down over her collar-bone. ‘You were an orphan? Oh, Luke...how awful for you. Do you have any brothers or sisters?’
He turned his head. She was leaning towards him, her vibrant restlessness momentarily subdued by the desire to comfort, her creamy skin pale with the intensity of her feelings, her beautiful eyes wide with anxiety and muted with sorrow.
All for a virtual stranger.
Where in the hell were her self-protective instincts? wondered Luke James with a savage dissatisfaction. Damn it, she was making this too easy...
