The Marriage Merger. Liz Fielding

that her legs matched her ankles very nicely.

      That would be taking unfair advantage.

      He drew the drapes to keep off any curious insects that might fly in, then, closing the louvre doors to the veranda behind him and leaving her to sleep, returned to his delayed breakfast.

      To consider the conundrum that was Flora Claibourne. The woman hiding behind the disguise of a plain, spinsterish academic. All she’d left out was a pair of spectacles, he thought.

      Ones with heavy tortoiseshell frames—to match the combs.

      CHAPTER THREE

      FLORA woke feeling muzzy-headed, dry and aching in all her joints. She also felt slightly hungover, as if she’d been sitting in one position for too long. Then she remembered. She had.

      Not been drinking too much, just sitting in one position for hours and hours and hours. In a plane. With Bram Gifford.

      Working to avoid talking. Working in an effort to stave off the tension caused by his presence.

      She’d thought she’d got over her problem with men like him, with their good looks, easy smile, natural charm. Had it under control.

      Apparently not. The moment he’d stepped into the car it had all come flooding back. The shame. The painful humiliation.

      The hot, sweet rush of desire.

      It wasn’t fair to blame Bram Gifford, take it out on him. He was a man who worked hard and played hard. And made no pretence of being interested in her. She’d try and be nicer to him. She owed it to India.

      She sat up, easing her limbs, then blinked, thinking there was something wrong with her eyes. But it wasn’t her eyes that were misted, just the sheer drapes pulled around the bed.

      She pushed them aside, swung her feet to the floor and, finding a bottle of mineral water on the night table, opened it and took a long drink as she looked about her. She must have crashed fairly spectacularly since she hadn’t even noticed the bedroom. It wasn’t surprising. She’d been on the go non-stop for the best part of two days.

      The only surprise was that she’d managed to get to bed at all. Divested of most of her clothes and with her hair loose, her hairpins and precious antique combs neatly laid out in a row by the bed—all but one of them, anyway—was quite an achievement. She checked her hair for the missing comb, but it must have slipped out somewhere.

      The last time she’d flown long-haul she’d woken up with her head on her desk, a crick in her neck that it had taken a week to straighten out and a hairpin jammed in the keyboard of her laptop.

      If Bram Gifford had found her like that… Well, she preferred not to think about the kind of impression that would have made. India, quite rightly, would have thrown a hissy fit.

      She stood up, did a few stretches. What did the man want, for heaven’s sake? He made her so nervous with all that quiet consideration. He was too serious. She didn’t believe it. It had to be an act. She just knew he was laughing at her… She stopped herself.

      Why would he be laughing? He didn’t even want to be here. She had nothing that he wanted.

      Except control of Claibourne & Farraday.

      As for being serious, wasn’t it more likely that he was thoroughly bored? Fed-up with having to trail around after her when he could be hitting the high-life at some fashionable resort packed with pretty girls eager for a holiday flirtation.

      At least he hadn’t flirted with her.

      Despite the lack of encouragement, in her experience men like him could rarely resist any opportunity to set female hearts fluttering.

      If her mother was busy, they’d practise on her.

      Just to keep their hand in.

      Most of them had meant no harm. They might even have thought they were being kind. Clearly she’d been desperate for attention.

      They had been right. She had. Until she’d learned that not all attention was good. Too late. But she’d learned.

      Bram Gifford must wonder what he had to do to get some response from her. She hadn’t even squealed entertainingly at the thought of bugs in her sleeping bag. She was no fun at all, she told herself sternly, and caught herself grinning.

      And on that cheering note she decided it was time for a shower and something to eat.

      Twenty minutes later, wrapped in a towelling robe and with her hair in a turban, she padded back into the bedroom to look for something to wear. She picked up her wristwatch. It was gone three in the afternoon. No wonder she was hungry.

      She crossed to the louvre doors and opened them. They were on the east of the island and the veranda was pleasantly shaded—something that Bram Gifford, stretched out on a cane lounger in a pair of shorts and T-shirt, was taking full advantage of.

      He had terrific legs, she thought, before she could stop herself from looking. Sportsman’s legs—but more tennis pro than footballer, she thought. She’d become good at spotting the differences. Her mother loved sportsmen.

      ‘Feeling better?’ he asked, peeling off a pair of dark glasses and looking up from the latest bestselling legal thriller. Well, he was a lawyer. Maybe he was hoping to pick up some useful tips.

      She fought down the urge to beat an immediate retreat to the safety of her bedroom, instead pulling the towel from her hair and shaking it out to dry naturally in the warmth. ‘Yes, thanks,’ she said, taking a wide-toothed comb from her pocket. Sleeping with her hair lose had its downside, she decided, easing it through the knots. ‘Hungry, though.’

      ‘There’s an all-day restaurant over by the pool. I checked it out when I had a look around earlier. The food’s good. There’s a shop, too.’ He indicated the book. ‘It has all the latest bestsellers. Including yours.’

      ‘They knew I was coming,’ she replied, unimpressed. ‘You didn’t take a nap?’

      ‘I made do with a swim. It’s better to tough it out if you can, keep local hours.’

      ‘Yes, well, not all of us are superhuman.’ She winced as the comb caught a tangle.

      ‘I’m not criticising, Flora. I got more sleep than you did on the plane, that’s all.’ He got up. ‘Here, let me do that.’ He took the comb from her, lifted a hank of wet hair and began to carefully tease through a difficult knot.

      She kept very still. He was just combing through her hair, she told herself. It didn’t mean a thing. But her body wasn’t listening. It hadn’t been this close, this intimate with a man in a long time, and every cell seemed to swivel in his direction, attracted by the warm scent of his skin, the small, careful movements of his hand as he worked at the knot. His hair, gleaming in the bright air, slid forward as he bent to his task; the space between his eyes creased in concentration.