An Imported Wife

‘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 lowest and most despicable, bien sûr. But don’t worry,’ he teased, opening the door and observing her pink-cheeked fury with a short laugh, ‘we philanderers are very discreet. A bientôt, mademoiselle.’

He’d gone. She found herself glaring helplessly at the closed door, unable to recall ever feeling such a violent loathing for someone she barely knew. A bientôt? She’d think herself lucky if she never had to see him again!

Her luck was out. Fierce hopes of avoiding bumping into him again evaporated as she walked out to the palm-tree-dotted poolside restaurant an hour later. He was drinking red wine, lazily relaxed on a bar stool, darkly attractive in a white dinner-jacket and an amber bow-tie which seemed to emphasise his golden eyes. Around him, in an animated group, milled several glamorouslooking people who appeared to be hanging on his every word. Two girls in particular held Gabriella’s attention. Chic, dark, svelte as models, they fawned over him, vying for his attention. In clinging evening dresses, they looked dauntingly poised and beautiful. For a few seconds, Gabriella felt rooted to the spot, glancing round uncertainly at the other guests, standing near the bar or seated at the candlelit tables all around the circular floodlit pool.

Her heart plummeted. Everyone seemed to have dressed for dinner! Everywhere she looked she saw silks and crepe de Chines, sequins and satins. And here she was, face bare of make-up, hair dragged into a high French plait, in a favourite but totally unsuitable short apple-green cotton T-shirt dress, and flip-flops…

Rick Josephs had seen her. Half turning from his seat on the bar stool, he raised a hand in brief salute, his eyes lingering on her for a while, his expression unreadable. The girls nearest him turned too, eyeing Gabriella with swift, derisive glances before swinging away, resuming their vivacious conversation.

Too late to duck back upstairs, and riffle through her skimpy wardrobe for her smartest dress. She’d look an immature idiot, if she ran out now. She’d just have to brazen it out.

Head high, she aimed for the bar and smiled confidently at the friendly Asian barman.

‘I’d like a…a glass of pineapple juice, please…’

Near by, she could hear one of the girls and Rick Josephs talking in rapid French, his husky, amused baritone growl a contrast to her cool feminine voice. With relief, she realised that the head waiter had spotted her, and was bearing down on her, smiling in welcome.

‘Bonsoir, Mademoiselle Howard. Would you like me to show you to your table?’

‘Oh, yes. Thank you…’ She followed him, averting her gaze as she passed Rick Josephs. As she drew level with his party, one of the girls in the group surrounding him burst into a peal of laughter, swirled blindly round, glass in hand, and collided head-on with Gabriella. With a gasp of dismay, Gabriella felt the contents of the glass of red wine splash down the front of her dress.

‘Oh, pardon! I am so sorry…’ The girl was definitely slightly tipsy. From the laughingly unrepentant expression on her face, as she eyed Gabriella’s casual outfit, she didn’t view the accident with too much gravity.

Pink-faced, Gabriella stared down at the spreading stains on her dress, suddenly the centre of everyone’s attention, wishing she could vanish into thin air.

‘It doesn’t matter…’ Embarrassment engulfed her. Not only was she not dressed in an evening gown, as everyone else appeared to be, she was also sporting a T-shirt dress with red wine all over it…

‘Mademoiselle, how unfortunate…’ the head waiter was saying anxiously. ‘Perhaps you would like to change your clothes before you sit down to dinner…?’

‘Yes…I think I’d better…’

They were interrupted by Rick Josephs, who took charge of the situation with cool aplomb.

‘Leave it to me, René,’ he told the head waiter with a grin. ‘Come with me, Gabriella…’

When he took her arm, she was so stunned by his audacity that she barely had time to argue before she was escorted away from the restaurant, and into the cicada-filled darkness of the hotel gardens.

‘Let go of my arm,’ she said, icily polite, swinging to confront him as he dropped his hand. ‘You’d be far better off chatting up your drunken female admirers at the bar than hauling me out here…!’

He gave a weary sigh, eyeing her taut face with wry annoyance.

‘Gabriella…you don’t mind if I call you Gabriella?’

‘As a matter of fact, I do…’

‘You must try not to judge people so harshly,’ he went on softly, ignoring her. ‘I apologise for the accident, and for the clumsiness of my companion. And I will buy you a new dress.’

‘I happened to like this one!’ she countered obstinately, with what she knew to be a lamentable lack of social grace. ‘And just because I have certain…standards…doesn’t mean that I judge people harshly…’