The Duke's Proposal. Sophie Weston
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hoping to stay in town. See a bit of local life,’ she said tactfully. ‘Would it be difficult to get a room?’
The woman shook her head decisively. ‘All town places fill up this time of year.’
Jemima’s heart sank.
‘You talk to Mr Derringer out at Pirate’s Point,’ the woman said comfortably. ‘He’ll take you in. Big place like that, with the casino and all, they bound to have a room.’
Jemima smiled wryly. The casino! That was hardly the escape she had imagined. A load of tired New Yorkers, who didn’t like the desert or the weather in Atlantic City, playing slot machines.
‘A casino is not quite what I had in mind…’
A trolley of medical supplies and baby powder rolled out from the customs area. The man in charge of it applied the brakes and leaned his arm on top of the boxes.
‘There’s the place in town,’ he offered.
‘That’s for those kids who crew on the boats,’ said the coffee-seller loftily. ‘Not a young lady.’ And her eyes skimmed the silver and gold label again.
He was less impressed by the first-class trappings. ‘Well, now, that may be true. But beggars can’t be choosers.’
The woman was not listening. She was looking over Jemima’s shoulder, and a big grin grew from ear to ear.
‘You lucky. Here’s the man to help you,’ she said. ‘Hi, Niall.’
Behind them, an unmistakably English voice said lazily, ‘Hi, Violet. How’s it going?’
English!
Basil!
Jemima spun round, heart thundering so hard she felt that it would tear her in two.
She half threw her bag away, ready to defend herself. Basil had once seized her arm and held it agonisingly high behind her back until she had agreed to do some stunt that he was insisting on. Logically, she did not think he would do that again in public. But logic did not have much to do with her feelings about Basil. She took a step back, half turning away, gathering herself to fight back…
But it wasn’t Basil. It was a man she hadn’t seen before.
If she had seen him she wouldn’t have forgotten him.
He was tall, with a lazy grin and denim shorts that looked as if they were probably illegal. Apart from the shorts he was wearing nothing but some disgraceful flip-flops and a tan that the male models she knew would kill for. But it was not the spectacular tan or even the outrageous gear that hit her between the eyes. It was his face.
This was a face that would stick in the memory. Not because he was particularly handsome. He wasn’t. His nose was crooked and much too big, and the high, haughty cheekbones were far too prominent. But it had intensity and a fierce intelligence. Oh, yes, definitely unforgettable.
And just now his eyebrows were as high as they could go.
‘Hey, up,’ he said. ‘Oh, boy, have you got a bad conscience.’
Jemima stared at him, bemused. ‘What?’
‘You look as if you think you’re going to be arrested,’ said Haughty Cheekbones. ‘Put your bag down. Look. No handcuffs.’ He sounded amused.
Jemima lowered her bag, feeling rather a fool. It irritated her profoundly. But, for all that, he still took her breath away. He looked like one of those Renaissance princes. Probably one who had people locked up on the whim of the moment, she thought, hanging on to her irritation for all she was worth.
In fact, that was why you wouldn’t forget that face, thought Jemima, trying her calm her galloping pulse. It was too much of everything—too dark, too shuttered, too impatient. And—she looked for the first time at the wide, sensual mouth and swallowed hard—much, much too passionate.
Violet of the coffee stall could clearly take all that passion in her stride.
‘We fine,’ she interceded placidly. ‘But lady here just got off the plane. Nowhere to stay.’ She patted Jemima proprietorially on the shoulder. ‘You take her back to Al’s place.’
Jemima’s pulse had returned to normal. Well, nearly. But this sounded as if Violet was sending her off to the slave market.
‘Al’s place?’ she echoed.
The Renaissance prince cast her a sardonic glance and she felt her cheeks heat. Damn, did the man read minds as well?
‘Local name,’ said Violet carelessly, all but ignoring Jemima in her determination to convince Haughty Cheekbones. ‘You going to take her back with you?’
He clearly didn’t like it. That voluptuous mouth tightened. ‘You’re a fixer, Violet.’ He didn’t say anything to Jemima at all.
Jemima found her voice. Now she saw he wasn’t Basil she wasn’t afraid of him, she told herself fiercely. Passionate or not, he was just a man—and a stranger. She could handle strangers. Even relaxed, nearly naked strangers, with hair-roughened chests and a mean streak.
‘No need,’ she said crisply, avoiding his eyes. ‘I came on spec and it clearly wasn’t a good idea. I’ll just stay here and take the next plane out.’
‘Can’t do that,’ said the Englishman, relaxed to the point of boredom. ‘There isn’t another flight until tomorrow.’
Damned Toy Town island, fumed Jemima silently. Aloud, she said brightly, ‘Then I’ll find somewhere to stay in town.’
He shrugged. ‘Fat chance. There are only three hotels, and they’ll all be full if you haven’t booked.’
She met his eyes. He looked back with total indifference.
Jemima told herself that she wasn’t vain and she didn’t expect every man in the world to fall at her feet. But it was a long time since a man had looked at her with such total absence of interest. At her? Through her! It made her feel cold and just a little afraid.
I’m never going to be afraid of a man again.
It was all she needed to put some steel into her backbone. She stuck up her chin and said, with a very good imitation of friendliness, ‘Then I won’t waste my time. I’ll sleep here.’
‘In the airport?’ Even Mr Indifference was taken aback.
‘Yes.’
‘Do that a lot, do you?’
Actually, she had never done it before. But her sister was an experienced traveller, and Jemima had been listening to Izzy’s stories of missed connections and jaunty improvisation all her life. In comparison with Izzy’s hair-raising experiences, sleeping in a clean and peaceful airport didn’t seem too difficult. Even for a spoilt model girl, thought Jemima dryly.
She tilted her chin. ‘You got a problem with that?’
He shrugged again. ‘Not me. But they have a strong vagrancy law here. They’ll probably throw you in jail.’
Jemima tried to stay cool, but her assumed friendliness slipped a bit.
‘Then that will solve the problem of where I spend the night, won’t it?’ she said sweetly.
Too sweetly. This time when he looked at her it was not with indifference. It was with undisguised temper.
She glared back.
Reluctantly, it seemed, his lips twitched. ‘Okay, you’ve made your point.’ Suddenly, there was an unexpected undertone of laughter. ‘You don’t want to go to Al’s. I see that. But I don’t think you’ve got an alternative, at least for tonight. Tell her, Violet.’
The coffee-seller nodded vigorously. ‘Listen to the man.’
‘So neither of us has much choice,’ said the Englishman dispassionately. ‘I’ll