Wedding Wishes. Liz Fielding
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get to work. She had no time to waste talking to a man who thought that all he had to do was smile to get her attention.
Even if it was true.
She didn’t do holiday flirtations. Didn’t do flirtations of any description.
‘Hold on,’ he called as she turned away, completely oblivious to, or maybe choosing to ignore her ‘not interested’ response to whatever he was offering. Which was about the same as any man with time on his hands and nothing but birds to look at. ‘Won’t you spare a cup for a man in distress?’
‘Distress?’
He didn’t sound distressed. Or look it. On the contrary, he had the appearance of a man totally in control of his world. Used to getting what he wanted. She met them every day. Wealthy, powerful men who paid for the weddings and parties that SDS Events organised. The kind of men who were used to the very best and demanded nothing less.
She groaned at falling for such an obvious ploy. It wouldn’t have happened if she’d had more than catnaps for the last twenty-four hours. But who could sleep on a plane?
‘The kitchen sent me some kind of ghastly herbal tea,’ he said, taking full advantage of her fatal hesitation.
‘There’s nothing wrong with herbal tea,’ she replied. ‘On the contrary. Camomile is excellent for the nerves. I thoroughly recommend it.’
She kept a supply in the office for distraught brides and their mothers. For herself when faced with the likes of Marji Hayes. Men who got under her skin with nothing more than a smile.
There was a pack in the bridal emergency kit she carried with her whenever she was working and she’d have one now but for the fact that if she were any calmer, she’d be asleep.
‘I’d be happy to swap,’ he offered.
Despite her determination not to be drawn into conversation, she laughed, as no doubt she was meant to.
‘No, you’re all right,’ she said. ‘I’m good.’
Then, refusing to allow a man to unsettle her with no more than a look—she was, she reminded herself, now a partner in a prestigious event company—she surrendered.
After all, she had a pot full of good coffee that she wasn’t going to drink. And unless he was part of the wedding party—and, as far as she knew, no one was arriving until tomorrow—he’d be gone by morning.
‘But if you’re desperate you’re welcome to come over and help yourself.’
‘Ah, there’s the rub,’ he said before she could take another step towards the safety of the interior, leaving him to take it or leave it while she got on with the job she’d come here to do. ‘The mind is willing enough, but the back just isn’t listening. I’d crawl over there on hot coals for a decent cup of coffee if it were physically possible, but as it is I’m at your mercy.’
‘You’re hurt?’ Stupid question. If he couldn’t make the short distance from his deck to hers there had to something seriously wrong. She would have rung for room service if there had been a bell. Since that option was denied her, she stuck her notebook in the pocket of her robe, picked up the coffee pot and said, ‘Hang on, I’ll be right there.’
His tree house was at the end of the bridge, the furthest from the main building. The one which, according to the plan she’d been given, had been allocated to Crystal and Tal as their bridal suite.
Definitely leaving tomorrow, then.
There was a handbell at the foot of the steps and she jangled it, called, ‘Hello,’ as she stepped up onto his deck.
Then, as she turned the corner and took the full impact of the man stretched out on the lounger—with not the slightest sign of injury to keep him there—she came to an abrupt halt.
Even from a distance it had been obvious that he was dangerously good-looking. Up close, he looked simply dangerous.
He had a weathered tan, the kind that couldn’t be replicated in a salon and never entirely faded, even in the dead of winter. And the strength of his chin was emphasized by a ‘shadow’ that had passed the designer stubble stage and was heading into beard territory.
She’d already experienced the smile from twenty metres but he wasn’t smiling now. On the contrary, his was a blatantly calculating look that took in every inch of her. From her damp hair, purple-streaked and standing on end where she’d been finger-drying it, her face bereft of anything but a hefty dose of moisturiser, to her bare feet, with a knowingness that warned her he was aware that she was naked beneath the robe.
Worse, the seductive curve of his lower lip sparked a heat deep within her and she knew that he was far more deadly than any of the wild animals that were the main attraction at Leopard Tree Lodge.
At least to any woman who didn’t have her heart firmly padlocked to her chest.
Resisting the urge to pull the robe closer about her and tighten the belt, betraying the effect he had on her, she walked swiftly across the deck and placed the coffee pot on the table beside him.
‘Emergency coffee delivery,’ she said, with every intention of turning around and leaving him to it.
Gideon had watched her walk towards him.
Until ten minutes ago, he would have sworn he wasn’t in the mood for company, particularly not the company of a woman high on getting her man to sign up for life—or at least until she was ready to settle for half his worldly goods. But then the tantalising scent of coffee had wafted towards him.
Even then he might have resisted if he hadn’t seen this extraordinary woman sitting on the deck, raking her fingers through her hair in the early morning sun.
If he had given the matter a second’s thought, he would have assumed anyone called Crystal to be one of those pneumatic blondes cloned to decorate the arms of men who were more interested in shape than substance when it came to women.
Not that he was immune. Shape did it for him every time.
But she wasn’t blonde. There was nothing obvious or predictable about her. Her hair was dramatically black and tipped with purple and her strong features were only prevented from overwhelming her face by a pair of large dark eyes. And while her shape was blurred by the bulky robe she was wearing, she was certainly on the skinny side; there were no artificially enhanced curves hidden even in that abundance of white towelling.
In fact she was so very far from what he would have expected that his interest had been unexpectedly aroused. Rather more than his interest if he was honest; a sure sign that his brain was under-occupied but it certainly took his mind off his back.
An effect that was amplified as she stepped up onto his deck and paused there for a moment.
Straight from the shower, her face bare of make-up, her hair a damp halo that hadn’t seen a comb, without sexy clothes or high heels, it had to be the fact that she was naked under that robe that momentarily squeezed the breath from his chest as she’d walked towards him.
‘You’re an angel, Miss Blaize,’ he said, collecting himself.
‘Not even close,’ she replied.
She’d worked hard to scrub the inner city from her voice, he judged, but it was still just discernible to someone with an ear for it.
‘On either count,’ she added. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint, but I’m plain Josie Fowler.’
She wasn’t the bride?
Nor was she exactly plain but what his mother would have described as ‘striking’. And up close he could see that those dark eyes were a deep shade of violet that exactly matched the highlights in her hair, the colour she’d painted both finger and toenails.
‘Who said I was disappointed, plain Josie Fowler?’ he said, ignoring the little leap of gratification that she wasn’t Crystal Blaize. It was her coffee he wanted,