An Imported Wife

‘Dieu!’ he growled, half laughing and half angry, catching her by the shoulders and giving her a slight shake. ‘What an unbearable little prig you are, Gabriella!’

His words seemed to hit her square in the face. Opening her mouth to retort, she felt her throat tighten without warning. Abruptly, her fragile poise began to crumble, and anger came to her rescue.

‘I couldn’t really care less about your opinion of me,’ she retorted shakily, trying to free herself from his firmly guiding hand as he steered her through the undergrowth. ‘I assure you my opinion of you is every bit as low! Where are we going…?’

‘My mother taught me that to remove red wine the stain must be soaked in white wine,’ he re- torted calmly, ‘as quickly as possible.’ They’d reached a detached white villa, palms swaying beside the arched, carved wooden doorway, the air heavy with the lush musky scent of tropical flowers. ‘Come inside, and take off your dress. I can supply the white wine, if you wish to put my mother’s remedy to the test?’

The sardonic grin as he ushered her inside what seemed to be a private villa in the hotel grounds sent her temper soaring even higher.

‘Take my dress off…? Are you serious?’

‘Why, yes—’ he spread his hands ironically ‘—unless you wish me to pour white wine over it while you are wearing it?’

‘Look, if this is some kind of…of cheap seduction technique…’

‘Far from it, Gabriella.’ He was guiding her into a luxurious wood-panelled bathroom, handing her a grey Paisley silk robe before leaving her. ‘You are not my type. I prefer older, married women. Or drunken pick-ups at hotel bars. Remember?’

Hot colour burned her cheeks as she stared at his mocking dark face. Catching an angry breath in her chest, she demanded unsteadily, ‘And what am I supposed to wear to dinner, your silk dressing-gown?’

‘Relax. I promise I will not let you starve.’

He withdrew, leaving her seething with mixed emotions, not least of which was acute apprehension.

After a long, indecisive wrestle with her temper, she rammed the bolt home on the door, and then slowly slid the apple-green dress off. She examined her white lacy bra. There was a red stain on that, too, but she’d rather die than present her underwear for Rick Josephs’s stain-removing treatment.

With the Paisley robe belted tightly enough to endanger her circulation, she emerged with the dress.

Rick Josephs had discarded his white dinner-jacket, and loosened his bow-tie. He was stretched out quite happily on a white LloydLoom-style cane chair on a paved balcony with a spectacular view of the moonlit ocean, as she came reluctantly in search of him.

When he saw her he stood up, took the dress from her stiff fingers, and waved an opened bottle of white wine with a lop-sided smile.

‘OK. Now we marinate the dress in the white wine,’ he quipped lightly, bearing it off into what looked to be an expensively equipped kitchen. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

‘I…no, thank you.’

He returned, minus the dress, but carrying a silver tray with a freshly opened bottle of wine, and two glasses.

‘I said “no, thank you”. Do you ply all your female acquaintances with alcohol?’ she queried, sweetly sarcastic.

He paused in the act of pouring, one dark eyebrow raised quizzically.

‘No. It is not always necessary,’ he mocked obliquely. ‘Usually my female acquaintances are quite happy to relax with me, without the aid of alcohol.’

Embarrassment heated her face again.

‘How gratifying for you,’ she smiled through gritted teeth. ‘So what went wrong with your female friend at the bar?’

The golden gaze gleamed ominously. ‘Sit down, Gabriella,’ he suggested softly, pulling out one of the white cane chairs, and waiting with an air of patient confidence. ‘Let’s see if we can hold a civilised conversation while we are waiting for our dinner to arrive.’

‘While…what?’ The flustered feeling was intensifying. ‘Our dinner?’

‘We can eat here. Give us the perfect chance to get to know each other a little better. So that when Ursula gets here she can see what excellent friends we have become? D’accord?’

Mutinously, she glared at him. Why did she get the feeling that this was some subtle, teasing kind of blackmail?

She shivered a little, her hands clenched in the pockets of the silk robe. There was something about his sophisticated, world-weary manner which made her feel about twelve years old. And yet the dark glitter in his gaze made her feel quite the opposite. Gabriella doubted if she’d ever felt so bewildered by her own reactions…

In silence she sat down in the chair opposite his, and crossed her legs. Equally silent, he finished pouring the wine, and handed her a glass. As she reached to take it, the silky grey material of the robe slithered stubbornly off her thighs, and she hastily uncrossed her legs and tugged the fabric back in place, clamping her knees together. When she met Rick Josephs’ enigmatic gaze across the table, she saw that he was laughing at her.

‘Perhaps you have a low opinion of men in general. But I assure you, I am not a sex-crazed beast…’ he mocked gently.

‘Your private life is of no interest to me.’ She sounded stiffly pompous, she knew she did. Her stomach was tight with tension as she warily sipped her wine.

‘So tell me, what is?’ The lazy question caught her by surprise. He was regarding her levelly over his glass, his narrowed gaze unreadable. She stared at him in blank silence for a while, then slowly shook her head.

‘I’m sorry…?’

‘What interests you, Gabriella?’

‘That’s a rather sweeping question, isn’t it?’ She frowned at him, doubting his sincerity. This was another mocking wind-up, she was sure. ‘I suppose my job, at the moment.’

‘So you are ambitious? At the moment, you are an assistant to a fashion editor. What are your ambitions within First Flair magazine?’

She shrugged, then laughed uncertainly. ‘Whatever promotion comes along, I suppose. Although there have been rumours recently that there’s a change of ownership on the cards for the magazine. So things may not be all that…stable. In the long term…’

She’d heard rumours, in fact, that Piers and his father had made a bid for the magazine. Which could no doubt spell an abrupt end to her career prospects in that particular environment. But it was no use worrying about it. She’d become philosophical lately. One day at a time…

‘Are you well qualified?’ He’d been watching her silent reverie with an amused expression.

‘Reasonably well. I took a fashion design course at St Martin’s, while I was working for a PR company. I’ve worked with fashion stylists, and that’s really what I want to do—fashion styling…’

For the life of her, she couldn’t fathom why he should be so interested in her career plans in the fashion world. Unless he was involved in it personally? That possibility had only just occurred to her. The glamorous girls at the bar had been tall and willowy and elegant enough to be models…

‘Styling?’ Rick had nodded, his expression deadpan. ‘Are you any good at it?’

‘I think so.’

‘So that explains why they’ve trusted you to organise locations for this fashion shoot. You’re in charge of the look, are you? The location, models, hair, make-up?’

‘Well, only by default, as I told you. The others due to come out with me have been flattened by this flu virus. Do you work for First Flair?’ she demanded suddenly, feeling even more confused. He seemed altogether far too knowledgeable about the whole business.

He shook his head, with a faint grin. ‘No. Not exactly.’

‘What kind of an answer is that? Not exactly? You’re on intimate terms with Ursula Taylor, and you seem to know an awful lot about magazine fashion work…’

‘I would describe myself as self-employed.’

‘So what are you doing in Mauritius?’