Wife in the Making. Lindsay Armstrong
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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 and looked up at last. ‘The far greater part of it is—you’re too good to be true, Fleur. The most human thing I’ve seen you do is pour food and drink all over me. It’s,’ his lips twisted ruefully, ‘unnerving to witness such a gorgeous twenty-three-year-old girl who is also so reserved and contained and buttoned up and—solitary.’
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.