âI find you very attractive,â she hurried on, âbut the idea of being married to youâif thatâs what we areâis ridiculous. And I certainly donât want an affair with you.â
âReally?â he said politely. âI can think of plenty of words to describe such a marriage, but ridiculous doesnât come to mind. As for the affairâI thought weâd already had it.â
âWe spent a few days together,â she corrected, gripped by intolerable anguish. Yet she had to send him out of her life. âIâm sorry, but a tropical fling is not expected to last beyond the tropics. Iâll always be grateful to you for saving my life, because I suspect thatâs what you did.â
âStop right there,â he advised with an inflection so deadly it chilled her into temporary paralysis. âIf youâre telling me that you slept with me out of gratitude, Iâll just have to show you that youâre wrong.â
WHEN the hair on the back of Guy Bagatonâs neck lifted, he finished cracking a joke with the bartender before straightening to his full, impressive height and allowing his tawny gaze to drift casually across sand as white as talcum powder.
A woman was coming towards the bar, the fierce Pacific sun summoning blue flames from her hair as she emerged from the feathery shade of the coconut palms. Camouflaged by the woven side panels of the bar, Guy admired the way her crimson sarong set off bare white shoulders. On her the all-purpose cover-all looked coolly sophisticated, especially paired with frivolous sandals that emphasised long, elegant legs. Yet heâd be prepared to bet she hadnât come to the resort to lie in the sun; in spite of the sarong and the erotic sway of her hips, she walked with purpose.
Guyâs body stirred in primal interest. âWho is that?â he asked the bartender, pitching his voice so that it wouldnât travel.
The barman looked up. âThatâs Ms Lauren Porterâgot in on the plane from Atu a couple of hours ago. Sheâs staying two nights.â
âI see,â Guy said without expression.
When the manager had rung Guy an hour previously, disturbed because their newest guest had broached her intention of visiting a mountain village, the name had rung bells somewhere in his mind. It hadnât taken him long to trace the thin thread of memory to its sourceâa conversation a few months ago with one of his cousins, an elderly Bavarian princess who had a keen nose for gossip and a connoisseurâs eye for a good-looking man.
âI noticed you talking to Marc Corbett and his charming wife,â she said after one of her famous dinner parties. âI wonder if Paige knows that he keeps an English mistress.â
âI doubt it,â Guy said curtly. Paige Corbett had struck him as straightforward and very much in love with her husband, a magnate with varied interests and a reputation for honest dealing.
âNot many people do; they are very discreet and never seen together, but of course you canât stop gossipâsomeone always knows. She is a Miss Lauren Porter, who is long-legged and beautiful and English. She works in his business. Very clever, Iâm told. She has been close to him for years now.â
Guy raised his brows but said nothing.
The elderly princess nodded. âAnd now you donât like him very much. Even as a child you had a rigid sense of honour. I like that in a manâitâs so rare.â
Heâd smiled cynically down at her, but his respect for Marc Corbett had lessened. When Guy made promises he kept them.
Now, narrowing his eyes against the tropical sun, he watched Lauren Porter approach the bar. Her travel arrangements had been made by the Corbett organisation, so this had to be the same woman.
What the hell was she doing here?
When she got close enough for him to see her face, he blinked in something like shock and inhaled swiftly. An enchantressâno wonder she kept Marc Corbett on a leash! Skin like silk, large eyes so pale a grey they glinted uncannily like crystals, and a mouth sultry enough to set the world aflame, allied to a body that gave new meaning to the words sexual chemistryâLauren Porter had all the necessary attributes for a mistress.
Why did she plan to visit a small, dirt-poor village in the mountains? It had to be business, and so it had to be connected to Marc Corbett, who had fingers in all sorts of industrial pies around the world.
Ignoring the reckless drumming of lust through his body, he frowned and watched her veer away from the bar and disappear into the reception area. Heâd better go and find out what she was up to.
It shouldnât be too difficult to persuade her not to leave the resort; women who looked as though theyâd just emerged from a fashion magazine scared easily. Heâd mention that mountain cockroaches were huge, follow it up with an allusion to leeches, and sheâd probably pass out.