White Lies (2 page)

Preoccupied by her thoughts, she stumbled on a ridge of sand. Seeing Simon's curious glance, she grinned and said, 'It's OK. I feel wobbly. I'm just nervous as a kitten about this meeting!'

Simon's step faltered. 'Monsieur St Honore is—' He stopped, seemingly unable—or unwilling—to continue.

Mandy's joy faded a little. There seemed to be a kind of warning in Simon's silence. Feeling a little alarmed, she stopped and touched his arm. 'What is it?' she asked uncertainly. 'What's worrying you? He is here, isn't he?' Frantically she searched up and down the shoreline, her heart sinking. 'There isn't anyone with clothes on,' she said in wry disappointment, 'let alone a suit!'

'Monsieur St Honore, he don't wear a suit often. Or many clothes much,' explained Simon.

'Not...wear...!' Her eyes widened. 'Where is he?'

'There!' Simon seemed embarrassed but she didn't have time to question him further because he added hastily, 'Monsieur St Honore!'

He lay sprawled beneath the waving fronds of a nearby palm tree, sunlight and palm shadows contriving to slash his lithe form with gold and black. A sleeping tiger. A rather magnificent animal, the torso sculpted with firm muscle, the tanned body beautifully taut and lean. And he wasn't wearing much—only a pair of brief green bathing shorts, low on the narrow hips.

This was Monsieur St Honore? A
lawyer
? Mandy put a hand to her mouth to stop her gasp of disbelief and tried to gather her wits. 'Simon, I think you've made a mistake—' she began in a hushed and urgent whisper.

'No mistake,' he replied, sounding hurt. 'This is him.'

For §imon's sake she gave the man another once-over. He looked thirtyish, his flaxen hair sun-streaked and with no hint of grey. It was untidy too, the thick, springing curls tousled and damp as though he'd recently been for a swim. Her uncertain gaze took in his thick, honey- coloured brows and his strong bone structure, highlighted by the sun where it hit the prominent cheekbones and firm jawline.

OK, she thought. Solicitors came in all shapes and sizes. But.. .tousled?
Rakish?
Mandy now understood Simon's unstated warning. He looked the kind of man who'd bite.

'This is Monsieur St Honore? You're absolutely
sure!'
she persisted in a whisper.

'Definitely,' the young man answered. 'This, Monsieur St Honore.
That—'
and he pointed out to sea '—his boat.'

'Oh! Thanks,' she said absently, riveted by the sight of the boat.

Simon left her gaping at the sleek motor yacht lying a short distance off shore. Its size and elegant lines screamed money. She shaded her eyes against the glare from the sea and watched its launch being drawn up out of the water by an on-board crane.

'Wow!' she breathed. A crane on a boat! Even more astonishing was the sea-level bathing deck at the stern, where a couple of St Lucians in white shorts and shirts were setting up a barbecue—a barbecue! 'Now that is money! How the rich do live!' she marvelled.

The gold letters on the stern proclaimed the boat to be named
St Honore,
confirming Simon's claim. Confounded, Mandy followed the line of the mooring rope. It extended all the way to the beach where its end had been coiled a couple of times around a palm tree. The one that shaded the sleeping tiger.

Mandy moved closer, eyeing the teak-coloured body admiringly. It was too good a sight to ignore. His flat, muscle-defined stomach tensed slightly and she took a startled pace back, thinking for a crazy moment that he was aware of her presence despite the resolutely closedeyelids. Embarrassment made her pink and hot. Nice, women didn't ogle men's bodies in public!

Then something dawned on her. He didn't look ready to conduct any business at all. There was just him and the sand and the palm tree. No briefcase, no shoes, no clothes, no towel. She swayed slightly and realised that the sun was beating down on her head. Cautiously she ducked under the shady palm and wondered what to do.

There had been some mistake. Her stomach turned over with the intense disappointment. Someone had got his wires crossed. Her soft eyes glazed over as she gloomily reviewed her situation and battled with the fear of failure.

Perhaps her hopes had been raised unnecessarily. All along she'd tried not to expect too much, just in case she was disappointed. But how could you
not
get excited at the prospect of finding a blood relative when you'd longed for family all your life?

And... maybe she'd be asked to pay back the cost of the ticket! Appalled, she lifted her eyes to the heavens. 'Oh, Lord!' she groaned aloud, swamped with misery. 'If this doesn't work out, I could be on the streets!'

Something shimmered at her feet, making her look down quickly. The man had stirred and stretched, sunlight bouncing off the planes and curves of his body and the wide bracelet of his gold watch. As she watched, holding her breath, the heavy fringe of golden lashes fluttered. So did her pulses and her stomach. And then she found herself pinned by the bluest and most compelling pair of eyes she'd ever seen.

'Hi,' said their owner lazily, bringing up an arm behind his head. And then the tiger stretched again, flexing and tensing a battery of shifting muscles in the process. Mandy half expected him to purr.

She cleared her throat. 'Hi.' And cleared it again because she'd sounded as if she was suffering from bronchitis. 'I was looking for Monsieur Vincente St Honore...' She paused and took a deep breath, her mouth trembling. Better get it over with. 'I don't think I've got the right man, have I?' she asked sadly.

He smiled. Not much, just enough to make the firm, male mouth quirk in a disconcertingly attractive curve. He'll bite! she reminded herself hastily.

'Expecting someone older?' he murmured.

For a moment she was taken aback by his silky, fascinating accent. And then, seeing his amused eyes on her, she found her voice again. 'Well, yes...'

'My father.'

'Oh! Mystery explained!' she said huskily. 'I thought there had been a mistake. I'm so relieved!'

'I bet.'

Mandy risked a friendly smile and tried to place the accent. French, presumably. Herbert, the man who'd driven the minibus from the airport, had said the British and French had fought endlessly over the island. Seven times British, seven times French.

It seemed to her that the man's sexy accent was mixed with the slow-blues drawl of the Caribbean, and it reached into her stomach like warm, soothing cocoa. Mandy concealed the weakening effect of the richly flowing voice and got down to business.

'I'm glad there's no mix-up,' she said in a rush. 'Mr Lacey told me Monsieur St Honore would contact me— and then the girl at the bar said Monsieur St Honore was waiting on the beach and then, when I saw you, well!' She laughed but he didn't smile in response and continued to gaze at her cynically. Her smile faded. 'I was sure something was wrong,' she said more soberly, 'and I didn't know what to do.'

He jack-knifed his strong legs and stood up in a leisurely, languid way as if his joints had been oiled as comprehensively as his gleaming dark body. 'I'm Pascal.' Then he smiled and two dimples appeared in each cheek, utterly distracting her because they turned him from a rake into a charmer. 'You're Mandy Cook, I presume?'

'Yes!'

Everything was going to be all right! Overjoyed, Mandy took the offered hand enthusiastically. It was large and dry and strangely comforting, and it reminded her of her beloved Dave's hands so much that she was momentarily thrown off balance.

'Delighted,' he murmured. 'Absolutely delighted.'

And the frisson that Pascal St Honore engendered was something new—a sudden contracting of her loins, and unexpected awareness of his sexuality. Startled, she flipped a quick glance up at the blue, blue eyes and then wished that she hadn't. He was studying her with a frank and open interest that left her wondering where her breath had gone.

'Thank goodness!' she burbled, letting her mouth take over. 'For a ghastly moment I thought I'd been the victim of a practical joke! I'd half expected someone with a bald head, a pinstriped suit and a briefcase, you see, and you didn't fit that bill at all so—'

'You're after my father.'

It sounded like a statement rather than a question. 'Yes,' she said eagerly. 'I—'

'How was the flight?' he enquired politely.

'Endless.' she grinned, forgiving him his constant interruptions. She had been gabbling on. Nerves seemed to have loosened her tongue. She sighed and tried to stay demure and decent. 'So was the drive from the airport. We took twenty minutes to do the last two miles! TTiose potholes in the road are unbelievable! My body's still swaying—'

'It is somewhat inaccessible here,' he conceded. 'But it keeps down the number of tourists on this end of the island.' His eyes seemed to mock her. 'A little discomfort is worth suffering if you end up with your dream, isn't it?' he drawled.

She nodded vigorously. 'I absolutely agree! I never mind hardship if there's something special at the end, as a reward.' There was an odd flicker in his eyes that made them briefly splinter with cold lights and then he was smiling again. 'I suppose you're used to travelling on that road. It joggled every bone in my body,' she said wryly.

'Travel by boat,' he advised, indicating the hotel launches and the long motorised canoes in the bay. 'I suggest you go back that way when you fly home. It's cheap—and a lot quicker. When are you going home?' he asked smoothly.

'It depends,' she said, her eyes shining with joy. 'It could be in two weeks, or never. It's up to fate and what happens when I meet your father.' And there was no way that she could keep the eagerness out of her voice.

Pascal nodded slowly as though he already knew some details of her visit. 'And whether you can bear the boredom of such isolation,' he said softly.

Mandy looked around and sighed. 'I wouldn't get bored. I love remote places,' she said warmly. 'I live in a tiny little village in Devon and I hate crowds.'

His heavy lids half closed over the deep blue eyes. 'You
like
isolation?' he asked, as though that was a failing on her part.

Puzzled, she explained. 'I prefer living in the country but I do enjoy company. I'd be quite happy stuck in the middle of a forest, providing I had someone to talk to.'

Pascal let out a long breath. 'My father doesn't entertain. He has few friends.'

Mandy looked at him in surprise. 'Some people like their own company,' she remarked politely, wondering why he'd confided that piece of information to her.

'Life with him would be very lonely,' he said flatly.

' Y-y-yes,' she said hesitantly. 'But he's got you, hasn't he?' she added with a gentle smile.

'Like your villa?' he shot at her suddenly.

Her smile broadened. 'It's wonderful, like a luxurious tree-house,' she enthused warmly. 'I've been treated like a princess. Champagne in the fridge, a basket of weird fruit, garlands of flowers over every available surface- even around the bath taps! How's that for a welcome?'

'Warm,' agreed Pascal in his honeyed drawl. 'Bordering on the enthusiastic.'

'It's fantastic. I'm walking on air,' Mandy confessed. 'I can't thank your father enough for organising it so beautifully.'

The chiselled lips thinned. 'You will. I'm sure he'll get his pound of flesh,' Pascal murmured enigmatically.

Mandy looked at him with anxious eyes. Did he mean that the solicitor's fees were excessive? Still, presumably whoever had hired Pascal's father could afford the cost— or maybe they wanted to find her so much that they'd pay anything to get her. A soft affection filled her eyes.

'I know he'll expect fair payment,' she said dreamily. 'That's reasonable since we could both be benefiting from this. You don't get something for nothing, do you? For instance, I imagine that even the view from my villa must be costed in the overall price.'

'What a practical turn of mind!' he murmured. 'What view do you have?' he asked casually. 'Which one have they given you?'

She thought of it with such pleasure that she wanted to share it with him. 'Up there,' she said, pointing at the gazebo poised some way up the hill, above the circular reception building. It was just visible amid a tumble of purple and red. 'I have this incredible open-air deck— I swear it's larger than my whole house put together! And it's smothered in bougainvillea and I look down on banana trees and coconut palms with little yellow birds flitting around—'

'Bananaquits,' he supplied with a languid air—but watching her intently.

'Bananaquits!' she repeated in delight. 'And the black birds like starlings on stilts?'

'Grackles.'

Mandy laughed—a gurgling chuckle that welled up from her great happiness. But, instead of smiling back at her as people usually did, Pascal remained neutral, as though he found her joy a little childish. She didn't care. If she was unsophisticated, so be it. Right at this moment she could have hugged everyone in sight.

'I'm going to buy some biscuits to feed the birds,' she said contentedly. 'They're amazingly tame. I think I'll spend quite a bit of my time on my deck. The view is stunning. I look across that valley to the hill,' she said, waving expansively at the jungle. 'I can see the ocean and the two mountains—Herbert, the minibus driver, said they were volcanic cones or something—'

'The Pitons,' provided Pascal lazily, his eyes as sharp as glinting knives.

'Yes,' she said, in a voice tinged with awe. 'Aren't they something? Two triangles—just like the mountains that kids draw! Herbert lives near them—can you imagine having that view every morning? We had a long . chat. He showed me his family photos,' she added softly, her eyes glowing at the memory of the man's friendliness.

'Herbert got chatty with you?' he asked in a tone of mild surprise.
'Herbert?'

'Yes. Do you know him? I love talking to people, don't you?'

Pascal lifted a hand and rubbed the nape of his neck thoughtfully, his brows angling to meet in a frown over his nose. 'He's wary of strangers.'

Mandy laughed again. 'But you can't sit next to someone for an hour and a half and remain strangers! I'm going to visit his family some time. Won't that be lovely?'