Innocent Virgin, Wild Surrender

She recoiled immediately, pulling down her hands and stepping back out of sight. Dear God, had he seen her? Well, of course he had. But what was he doing out there anyway? Surely he didn’t live at the hotel.

A tap at her door had her panicking again. But then she remembered Room Service, and hastily pulled on a cotton wrapper over her vest and shorts. It was a young man she hadn’t seen before, his eyes dark and admiring as they travelled over the curling dampness of her hair and the curving shape of her figure, barely concealed by the thin wrap.

‘Enjoy your supper, Ms Claiborne,’ he said, accepting the tip she offered with easy approval. And Rachel recognised how differently she’d reacted to two almost equally attractive men.

She ate all the salad and most of the ice-cream, nibbling on a sweetened wafer as she clambered between the sheets of the big bed. Her hair was still damp, and she supposed she ought to dry it. And she would, she told herself sleepily, as soon as she’d finished her biscuit.

It was light when Rachel awakened. She hadn’t pulled the drapes the night before and the sun was streaming in through the balcony doors. At least she’d closed the door, she reflected, pushing back her hair with a lazy hand. Though the idea of anyone climbing over her balcony and invading her room was as far-fetched as her dreams.

It was only seven o’clock, but it was already far too warm in the room. She’d turned off the air-conditioning the night before, but now she pushed her legs out of bed and trudged across the carpeted floor to turn it on again. The rough shag tickled her toes, but the cool tiles in the bathroom provided a welcome contrast.

She examined her face in the mirror above the handbasin. Despite the troubling content of her dreams, she’d slept reasonably well. There were slight shadows around her eyes, and she was sure she’d acquired another wrinkle. But her skin was clear, albeit too fair for her liking, and although she’d never consider herself beautiful, her features were acceptable, she supposed.

She sighed, and, reaching for her toothbrush, started her morning routine. Nothing too complicated, just a cream cleanser to freshen her skin and a perfumed deodorant.

She still hadn’t decided what she was going to do about speaking to Matt—Matthew Brody again. Or indeed how she was supposed to contact her mother. It would probably be too much to hope that she was staying at this hotel. Her father didn’t have an address for her, but Rachel suspected she might be staying with the man she’d come to meet.

And where did he live?

She dressed in a short pleated skirt that left a tolerable length of leg bare and a daffodil-yellow tank top. She wore flip-flops instead of the heels she’d worn to travel in, acknowledging that if she did see Matt Brody he would seem that much taller and—maybe—intimidating.

But she didn’t want to think about that. Leaving her room, she closed the door and, after glancing up and down the landing, she headed towards the stairs.

A middle-aged couple, just coming out of the room next door, said, ‘Good morning’. Rachel returned their greeting with a smile, noticing how pale her skin looked beside theirs. Evidently they’d been here for several days. The man, who was fairer, was already exhibiting signs of sunburn.

At the other end of the landing a pair of double doors provided an effective barrier. As she went down the stairs Rachel wondered what was beyond them. Offices, perhaps, or a boardroom? Or the private apartment of the owner of the hotel?

Shrugging, she decided that could wait until later. She followed her neighbours down to the lobby, noticing that they knew their way around. For obvious reasons, she hadn’t ventured out of her rooms again the night before.

The receptionist—not Rosa this time, but another girl—called a greeting, and Rachel had to admit that the staff were very friendly. Was it company policy, she wondered cynically, or were they just naturally gregarious people?

Like Matt Brody?

But she didn’t want to go there, so instead she trailed her neighbours across the lobby and through open double doors into a casual dining area. Some of the tables were occupied inside, but most people who were there seemed to have opted for the patio. Leaving the others behind, Rachel stepped out into the sunshine with a feeling of optimism she couldn’t suppress.

‘Table for two?’

A waitress appeared at her elbow, and Rachel pulled a wry face. ‘Just for one,’ she said, half apologetically, and was unaccountably pleased when the young woman looked surprised.

She was seated at the far side of the patio. It was still early—barely eight o’clock—but the sun was already gaining in strength. She was glad of the awning that protected the tables. She didn’t want to start her trip with sunstroke.

She drank freshly squeezed fruit juice and several cups of strong black coffee. Jamaica was famous for its coffee, and unless this was home-grown Rachel suspected she was enjoying a Jamaican blend. She ate only a warm roll and a Danish pastry, passing up French toast and maple pancakes, despite their delightfully appetising smell.

She was tempted to go for a swim after breakfast. Her usual routine, when she was on holiday, was to go sightseeing in the morning, before the sun became too unbearable, and then swim or sunbathe in the afternoon. But she wasn’t on holiday, she reminded herself, as if any remainder was necessary. And as far as sightseeing was concerned, wasn’t she more likely to find her quarry here?

She was lingering over one final cup of coffee when she became aware that someone had stopped beside her table. Someone who was tall and dark and disturbingly familiar, so that her nerves tingled and her breathing quickened, and she really had no need to look up from her abstract contemplation to find out who it was.

But of course she did.

‘Good morning, Ms Claiborne.’

Matt Brody’s voice caused the little hairs on the back of her neck to rise expectantly. Rachel found herself putting up a hand to calm them, half surprised to find the stubby ponytail she’d made of her hair that morning was still in place.

‘Um—good morning.’

Her brief appraisal told her everything about him, and that was worrying. He, too, was wearing shorts this morning, cargo shorts that exposed brown legs and muscled calves. A white body shirt clung to every heft and sinew of his torso, once again revealing the arrow of air on his stomach.

Oh, God!

Rachel couldn’t understand why she was so aware of him. Of all the men she’d ever met, and goodness knew there’d been plenty, why did she feel such a powerful reaction when Matt Brody was near?

Like mother, like daughter, perhaps?

But she refused to go there.

‘Did you sleep well?’

Rachel decided she’d get a crick in her neck if she was forced to look up at him. Pushing back her chair, she got to her feet, but she still had to tilt her head to meet his gaze. Green eyes—were they mocking her?—looked mild and inoffensive. But why was he bothering with her? Had he guessed why she was here?

‘Very well, thank you,’ she answered, aware of the crisp-ness of her tone. ‘Did you?’

‘I always sleep well, Ms Claiborne,’ he said, his thin lips twitching with what could only be amusement. He paused. ‘I wondered if you had any plans for this morning.’

Rachel’s jaw nearly dropped. ‘Plans?’ she said somewhat blankly. And then, deciding he couldn’t possibly know what she was thinking, she added, ‘I—why, no. I was just considering my options, actually.’

Like, should I try and find out where you live, and whether my mother is staying in your house? Or if I should just wait and see what happens if you tell her that I’m here?

‘Good.’ He gave her a swift appraisal, and Rachel felt as if those shrewd green eyes had stripped her naked and found her wanting. ‘So how do you feel about seeing a little more of the island?’

Once again Rachel felt that sense of disbelief that had accompanied his first question. ‘I—yes,’ she said, not at all sure what she was committing to, but prepared to take it anyway. ‘I was thinking about that myself.’ She took a breath. ‘Are there guided tours?’

‘You could say that.’

Matt grinned, and Rachel’s stomach quivered in response. When he was relaxed, as now, he looked quite devastating, his eyes crinkling at the corners, their expression softening his masculine features.

‘I was offering my services, actually,’ he murmured. ‘I was born in England, but apart from college I’ve lived all my life on St Antoine. I know this place—intimately.’ Had he used that word deliberately? ‘I guess I know places the guidebooks couldn’t know.’

Rachel was sure he did. But she wasn’t half as sure about taking him up on his invitation. It was an ideal opportunity to question him without giving herself away. But it was also far too attractive a proposition, and she wasn’t at all certain her father would approve.

‘Um—will anyone else be coming with us?’ she asked, innocently, and for a moment she thought his eyes darkened with sudden impatience.

‘No,’ he said at last, his tone flat. ‘Does that bother you? If I promise to keep my hands off you, will you come?’

Rachel’s face flamed with colour. ‘Oh, I—that is, I wasn’t implying—’

‘Yes, you were.’ He gave a careless shrug. ‘So? What’s your answer?’

Rachel let out a nervous breath. ‘Do I need to bring anything?’ she asked, holding up her head, and his mouth twisted consideringly.