The room which Ursula Taylor, First Flair’s stylish, thirty-something fashion editor, had apparently booked for her, was delightful, furnished in colonial style, with lots of wood and brass. A large balcony overlooked a crystal-white coral beach, fringed with soft, frondy pine trees. Beyond, a mill-pond-calm ocean glittered in the sun, turquoise and kingfisher-blue in its sheltering bracelet of coral reef.
Feeling slightly guilty, enjoying all this unbelievable luxury alone, while her boss languished in London with a high fever, Gabriella emerged from her shower, dried herself and found a baggy white over-sized ‘Minnie Mouse’ T-shirt to pull on while she searched for her hairdrier.
She was in the act of rummaging through her flight-bag, for the travel-plug, when without warning there was a hard hammering on the bedroom door, and it was pushed forcefully open. She leapt to her feet, her heart doing a shocked, frightened somersault as the man who barged furiously inside began with, ‘Ursula, just what the devil did you think you were playing at—?’ The gravel baritone clipped off abruptly in mid-sentence. The confrontational anger slowly died from his eyes, replaced by a wary gleam of humour as he realised his mistake.
Hugging her arms around herself indignantly, Gabriella found herself gazing up at the tall, dark man in the khaki shirt and cream trousers whom she’d been surreptitiously watching outside the airport.
‘I think I should be asking you that question,’ she heard herself saying, in a voice which trembled uncontrollably. Something in the darkness of his eyes was giving her unwelcome shivers of awareness, all over her body.
Seeing him at closer quarters, she had a niggling feeling she had seen this man somewhere before…apart from outside the airport on her arrival. His face was strangely familiar. Obviously he was someone Ursula knew…
Something she’d overheard in the office a couple of weeks ago darted back into her mind. Some gossip over problems in Ursula Taylor’s marriage. Could this be Mr Taylor, pursuing his wife for a dramatic, romantic reconciliation? He was in his early thirties, about the same age as the woman she worked for…
‘Do you make a habit of barging unannounced into other people’s hotel rooms?’ she added, her throat annoyingly dry.
The hard mouth twitched. But he was regarding her shocked expression and wide green eyes with grave apology.
‘Mille pardons, if I have frightened you, mademoiselle. The door was not locked. I believed Madame Taylor to be in this room. So who are you?’
He was subjecting her to a cool, unhurried scrutiny, the gleam of male assessment making her inwardly wince.
‘I am Ursula Taylor’s assistant,’ she said stiffly; ‘Madame—er—Mrs Taylor has the flu. But you’re…I mean, you’re not Mrs Taylor’s husband?’
‘No.’ The gravel-deep voice was wry as understanding dawned. ‘I am not Mrs Taylor’s husband.’
‘Oh, I see…!’ She tried her best, but it was quite impossible for her to keep the note of shocked dismay, even distaste, from her voice. This man wasn’t too thick-skinned to be aware of it, even if he was insensitive enough just to loll there against the door-jamb, watching the emotions flitting across her face, instead of making a hasty, ashamed exit…
She bit her lip. She could only thank the gods she’d had time to put on the T-shirt. If he’d chosen to fling open the door a few seconds earlier, she’d have been stepping stark naked out of the shower. This man must have an intimate relationship with Ursula Taylor if he felt entitled to barge, unannounced, into her bedroom…Gabriella felt slightly sick, as the implications began to sink in. She might be naive, but to her marriage was sacred. It didn’t feel very pleasant to be caught up in the middle of what presumably could be an adulterous liaison…
He really seemed to have marked similarities to Piers, another of that cool, amoral breed who calmly disregarded convention, saw all women as fair game. But it took two to tango, as the saying went. What her married boss got up to in her private life was no business of hers, Gabriella reminded herself warily.
‘I detect disapproval.’ He shook his head sadly, mockery evident in every line of his face. ‘You see me as a reckless philanderer, mademoiselle?’ Amusement had deepened the voice still more. ‘How refreshing to find someone still young enough to be shocked by the notion of extramarital affairs. Truth comes from the mouths of babes and innocents, as they say.’
Colouring slightly, she gripped her arms more closely across her breasts, and fixed him with a level green gaze.
‘Philanderer was your word, not mine. But if the cap fits…’ she countered, with as much force as she could muster. ‘And I assure you I’m neither a babe nor an innocent!’
‘Ah. Une vrai femme du monde!’ he teased gently. Deep-set eyes, unnervingly intense, moved probingly over her appearance, assessing her wet blonde hair, her slender figure, the long slim expanse of thigh, the mouse logo on the T-shirt. His eyes were an extraordinary colour. Not brown, not hazel, more a sort of molten, antique gold, Gabriella decided uneasily. Fringed with sable-dark lashes, and emphasised by the harshly cynical olive-skinned face, they were the most disconcerting eyes she’d ever encountered. ‘A real woman of the world. How old are you, mademoiselle?’
‘Twenty-one,’ she supplied huskily. ‘Old enough to know the score, Mr…?’
There was a brief pause, before he answered.
‘Josephs. Rick Josephs.’ The dark hand extended in greeting was large, lean, spatulatefingered. She stared at it in panic for a splitsecond, before briefly, reluctantly shaking it. Rick Josephs didn’t sound a very French name for a Frenchman. She assumed he was French, at any rate. He certainly spoke French, although when he spoke in English his French accent was negligible. A mystery hybrid, she decided dubiously. One of those global travellers with the panache and confidence to fit in anywhere…
‘Gabriella Howard.’ She whipped her hand away from his with unseemly speed. The warm strength of the hand-clasp was unbelievably disturbing. Glaring at him in a sudden, unexpected spurt of defensive fury, she added, ‘Now that we’re formally introduced, would you please go? As you see, Mrs Taylor is not hiding under the bed, or lurking behind the door. If you want to see her so urgently, you’ll have to hop on the plane back to London and minister to her on her sick bed! Although Mr Taylor might be a bit surprised.’
A faint grin lit the dark face, as he absorbed her sudden outburst. ‘It can wait,’ he said briefly, straightening up from the doorway with infuriating lack of haste. ‘Is Ursula still intending to fly out here when she’s well?’
‘Oh, yes. Along with half a dozen others! Meanwhile, by default, I’m the advance location scout for this fashion shoot…’
He paused at the door, his gaze narrowing. ‘Are you indeed? I might be able to help you there.’
‘I’m sure I can manage quite well without your help, thanks!’ The sharp retort was out before she had time to analyse it.
The grin grew broader. ‘I have to hand it to you, Mademoiselle Howard, you have spirit. High principles. A more timid employee might think twice about being rude to a friend of her boss. Might, perhaps, fear for her job?’
She stared at him, her heart suddenly beginning to pound at twice its normal speed. She was so angry that she could hardly find her voice, but his words had jolted her back to reality. He might be arrogant and patronising, and he might have barged into her room and narrowly missed catching her in an embarrassing state, but he evidently knew Ursula Taylor very well indeed. Even if he appeared to be enjoying taunting her over the mix-up, it wasn’t her place to appear to be passing judgement on the situation.
She chewed her lip, in a turmoil of uncertainty. With a sudden surge of emotion, she found herself detesting the man, with an intensity which took her by surprise.
‘What sort of a person are you?’ she demanded shakily.
‘The