‘Gideon McGrath,’ he said in answer to the unvoiced question. Offering her his hand.
She hesitated for the barest moment before she stepped close enough to take it, but her hand matched her features. It was slightly too large for true femininity, leaving him with the feeling that her body hadn’t quite grown to match her extremities. But her grip was firm enough to convince him that, apart from the contact lenses—no one had eyes that colour—its owner was the real thing.
‘Forgive me for not getting up, but if I tried you’d have to pick me up off the deck.’
‘In that case, please don’t bother. One of us with a bad back is quite enough. Enjoy your coffee,’ she said, taking a clear step back.
‘Would you mind pouring it for me? It’s a bit of a stretch,’ he lied. But he didn’t want her to go.
‘Bad luck,’ she said, turning to the tray and bending to fill his cup. ‘Especially when you’re on holiday.’ Then, glancing back at him, ‘What on earth made you think I was Crystal Blaize?’
Her hair, drying quickly as the sun rose, began to settle in soft tendrils around her face. And he caught the gleam of a tiny purple stud in her nose.
Who was she? What was she? Part of the media circus surrounding the coming wedding?
‘One of the staff called you the “the wedding lady”?’ he replied, pitching his answer as a question.
‘Oh, right. Milk, sugar?’ she asked, but not bothering to explain. Then, looking over the tray, ‘Actually, that would be just milk or milk. There doesn’t appear to be any sugar.’ She sighed as she straightened. ‘I was assured that this place was the last word in luxury and to be sure it looks beautiful…’
‘But?’
‘There’s no power point or hairdryer in my room, no sugar on your tray and no telephone to call the desk and tell them about it, despite the fact that David told me to ring for anything I needed. I can’t even get a signal on my mobile phone.’
‘You won’t. The whole point of Leopard Tree Lodge is to get away from the intrusion of modern life, not bring it with you,’ he said, totally ignoring the fact that he’d been fuming about the same thing just minutes before.
Well, obviously not the hairdryer. But he could surely do with a phone signal right now, if only to reassure himself that this was a one-off. That someone in marketing hadn’t decided that weddings were the way to go.
Since he was the one who’d laid out the ground rules before a single stone had been laid or piece of timber cut, however, he could hardly complain.
But it occurred to him that if ‘plain Josie Fowler’ was with the wedding party, she would be given free run of the communications facilities and, if he played his cards right, she’d be good for a lot more than coffee.
‘The electricity to heat the water is supplied by solar energy,’ he explained, ‘but it doesn’t run to electrical appliances.’
‘Once I’d clocked the candles, I managed to work that out for myself,’ she replied. ‘The escape from reality thing. Unfortunately, I’m here to work. If I was mad enough to come here for a holiday I’d probably feel quite differently.’
Clearly that prospect was as unlikely as a cold day in hell.
‘You don’t like it?’
‘I’d like it better if it was beside a quiet bay, with a soft white beach and the kind of sea rich people pay to swim in.’
‘This is supposed to be a work-free zone,’ he pointed out, more than a touch irritated by her lack of enthusiasm. He put all his heart and a lot more into building his hotels, his resorts, some of them in exactly the kind of location she described.
But this had been his first. He loved it and hated it in equal measure, but he had the right.
‘For others, maybe,’ she retaliated, putting her hand to the small of her back and stretching out her spine, ‘but for the next few days it’s going to be twenty-four/seven for me.’
‘Sore back?’ he asked.
‘Just a bit. Is it catching?’ she asked with a wry smile.
‘Not as far as I know.’
Maybe.
Her back hadn’t seized up—yet—but just how many of his guests arrived feeling as if they were screwed up into knots? Zahir had built a very profitable spa on the coast at Nadira, where most of his travellers chose to spend a couple of days after the rigours of the desert. Would that work here, too? Massage, pampering treatments, something totally back to nature…
There was plenty to keep the dedicated naturalist happy. Canoe trips, bush walks, birdwatching, but big game viewing was the big attraction and that was primarily a dawn and dusk event.
Not that he was interested, but it would be useful to mention the possibilities for expansion when it came to negotiations with potential buyers.
‘So, tell me, what’s the deal with the herbal tea and no sugar?’ she asked.
‘It’s a mystery,’ he lied. ‘Unless the ants have got into the stores.’
‘Ants?’
‘Big ones.’ He held thumb and forefinger apart to demonstrate just how big.
Her eyes widened a fraction. ‘You’re kidding?’
He said nothing. There were ants that big but the storeroom had been designed and constructed to keep them out.
She had, however, been rather dismissive of Leopard Tree Lodge. Worse, she was on a mission to disrupt it.
Protecting the unspoilt places where he built his resorts from pollution of every kind—including noise—had been high on his agenda from the outset. And, in his admittedly limited experience, weddings tended to be very noisy affairs.
Unfortunately, Celebrity would have a contract and wouldn’t hesitate to sue him and his company for every lost penny if he messed with their big day. And that would be small beer compared to compensation for distress to the bride, the groom, their families, the bridesmaids…
He was stuck with the wedding, so tormenting the woman he now realised was the wedding planner was about as good as it was going to get.
CHAPTER THREE
A wedding is a day to spend with friends…
—The Perfect Wedding by Serafina
March
THE WEDDING PLANNER, however, refused to fulfil the role assigned.
There was no girly squeal at the thought of giant ants munching their way through the sugar supply. No repeat of the shriek provoked by the raid on her breakfast by a thieving monkey.
She merely shook her head, as if he’d done no more than confirm her worst fears, took a small black notebook out of her robe pocket, wrote something in it and then returned it to her pocket before turning back to the tray.
‘There’s a little pot of honey, here,’ she said, picking it up and showing it to him. ‘According to my partner, it actually tastes better in coffee as well as being healthier than refined sugar.’
‘That’ll be fine. I don’t want milk.’ He watched her open the pot, then said, ‘Partner?’
From the way Francis had spoken, he’d assumed she was on her own. He hadn’t noticed anyone with her, but he hadn’t been interested enough to look until the scent of coffee had reached him.
‘Is