Wedding Wishes. Liz Fielding
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‘Josie?’
It had taken no more than a heartbeat for her to realise what she’d done, spin on her heel and walk away.
‘I’m busy,’ she said and kept going.
‘I know, but I was hoping, since you’re so concerned about my mental welfare, that you might fetch a notebook and pen from my laptop bag?’
Gideon had framed it as a question, not an order and she put out her hand to grasp the handrail as the black thoughts swirling in her brain began to subside and she realised that his ‘wait!’ had been an urgent appeal rather than the leap-to-it order barked at someone who had no choice but obey.
She took a moment while her heart rate slowed to catch her breath, gather herself, before turning slowly to face him.
‘Do correct me if I’m mistaken,’ she said, ‘but I’d have said they were on the doctor’s forbidden list.’
‘At the top,’ he admitted, the slight frown at her strange reaction softening into a rerun of that car-crash smile.
‘Well, there you are. I’ve done more than enough damage for one day—’
‘No. It’s important. I’ve had a couple of ideas and if I don’t make some notes while they’re fresh in my mind, I’m just going to lie here and…well…stress. You wouldn’t want that on your conscience, would you?’
‘You are a shameless piece of work, Gideon McGrath,’ she told him, the irresistible smile doing nothing good for her pulse rate.
‘In my place, you’d do the same.’
Undoubtedly.
And, since they both knew that right now her prime motivation was keeping him stress-free, he had her. Again.
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior, but at first glance his room appeared to be identical to her own. It certainly wasn’t any larger or fancier, so presumably Serafina had chosen it as the bridal suite purely because of its isolation at the furthest point from the main building.
Tomorrow it would be decked with flowers. There would be fresh fruit, champagne, everything laid on for the stars of the show.
For the moment, however, it was bare of anything that would give a clue to the character of its occupant. There was nothing lying on the bedside table. No book. No photograph. Nothing to offer any clues as to who he was. What he was. He’d said travel was his business, but that could mean anything. He could work for one of the travel companies, checking out hotels. A travel writer, even.
No laptop bag, either.
‘I can’t see it,’ she called.
‘Try the wardrobe.’
She opened a door. A well-worn carry-on leather grip was his only luggage and, apart from a cream linen suit, his clothes were the comfortable basics of a man who had his life pared to the bone and travelled light.
His laptop bag was on a high shelf—put there out of reach of temptation by his doctor?
‘Got it!’
She took it down, unzipped the side pocket, but there were no files, no loose paperwork. Obviously it wasn’t just his wardrobe that was pared to the bone. The man didn’t believe in clutter. Not that she’d been planning to snoop, but a letterhead would have given her a clue about what he did.
‘Forget the notebook, just bring the bag,’ he called impatiently.
All he carried was a small plain black notebook held together by an elastic band, an array of pens and the same state-of-the-art iPhone that she used and a small but seriously expensive digital camera.
She extracted the notebook, selected a pen, then zipped the bag shut and lifted it back into place.
‘I thought I asked you to bring the bag,’ he said when she handed them to him.
‘You did, but I thought I’d give you an incentive to get back on your feet.’
His eyes narrowed and he took them on a slow, thoughtful tour of her body. It was as if he were going through an empty house switching on the lights. Thighs, abdomen, breasts leaping to life as his eyes lighted on each in turn. Lingered.
Switching on the heating.
Then he met her eyes head-on with a gaze that was direct, unambiguous and said, ‘If you’re in the incentive business, Josie, you could do a lot better than that.’
She’d had her share of utterly outrageous propositions from men since she’d been in the events business, most of which had, admittedly, been fuelled by alcohol and, as such, not to be taken seriously, even if the men involved had been capable of carrying them through.
They were all part of the job and she’d never had any problem dealing with them so the heat searing her cheeks now had to be caused by the sun. It was rising by the minute and the temperature was going up with it.
‘Lunch?’ he prompted.
‘What?’
‘As an incentive?’
Another wave of heat swept over her cheeks as he laughed at her confusion. Furious with herself—she did not blush—she replaced her dark glasses and managed a brisk, ‘Enjoy the magazine, Mr McGrath.’
‘I don’t think so,’ he said, holding it out to her. ‘Give it to Alesia.’
‘Alesia?’
‘The receptionist. The girls on the staff will get a lot more enjoyment than I will, catching up with the inside gossip on the wedding.’
‘Are you quite sure?’ Something about him just brought out the worst in her. The reckless…‘You have no idea what you’re missing.’
‘You can tell me all about it over lunch.’
The man was incorrigible, a shocking tease, but undoubtedly right. And thoughtful, too. Who would have imagined it?
Taking the magazine from him, she said, ‘So, what would you like?’ His slate-grey eyes flickered dangerously, but she didn’t fall for it again.
‘For lunch? Why don’t you surprise me?’ he said after the briefest hesitation.
‘I thought I already had,’ she replied, mentally chalking one up to herself. ‘Don’t overdo it with that heavy pen,’ she warned. ‘I need you fit and on your feet, ready to fly out of here tomorrow.’
‘Don’t hold your breath,’ he advised.
‘So that would be a light chicken soup for lunch…’ she murmured as she walked away. ‘Or a little lightly poached white fish.’
‘Chilli.’
Nothing wrong with his hearing, then.
‘Or a very rare steak.’
‘Maybe just a nourishing posset…’
A posset? Gideon frowned. What the heck was a posset? It sounded like something you’d give a sick kid…
Oh, right.
Very funny.
And she’d also managed to get in the last word again, he realised as the sound of her humming a familiar tune faded into the distance.
Never smile at a crocodile…
He grinned. Any crocodile who came face to face with her would turn tail and run, but plain Josie Fowler didn’t frighten him. She could strut all she wanted in those boots but she’d made the fatal error of letting him see beneath the mask.
He knew that without wax her spiky purpletipped hair curled softly against her neck, her cheeks. That her eyes needed no enhancement and, beneath the unnatural pallor of her make-up, her complexion had a translucent glow.
But,