White Lies (6 page)

S
LOWLY
Mandy opened her eyes and a wave of nausea hit her. Grimly she fought it down, realising to her dismay that her stomach had been so churned up with the unfolding nightmare that she was feeling quite ill, just when she needed to be strong enough to take whatever came her way.

Pressing a hand to her middle, she tried her best to calm herself with some long, deep breaths. But they made her dizzy and nauseous again and she slanted an alarmed glance at the watchful Pascal. 'I don't feel too good,' she said miserably. 'I need to lie down.'

Her free hand drifted vaguely over her forehead and found beads of perspiration there. It was the heat. She needed fluids. Her drink was still in her right hand and she gulped it down fast, draining the glass. Then she stood up to go and sat down almost immediately. Something hot and fiery was coursing through her stomach and her legs had melted along with every muscle in her body.

It was more than sunstroke or the spices in the drink. Closer to flu, she thought woozily. Or some virulent stomach bug—already! She let out a little moan to bewail her bad luck.

'We'll get you to your villa,' came Pascal's voice, a million miles away. It seemed almost concerned. But she must have been mistaken, because she thought he said, 'And I'll give you ten thousand dollars to get out of my hair and off the island
now.'

'Ten thousand?' she repeated uncertainly.

'You're not asking for more, are you?'

The world went fuzzy. She looked down to quell the nausea, and the waves lapping her feet became a blur. When she laboriously lifted her head to judge his meaning, she found that his strong, dark face was hazy too, and her mind wasn't connecting properly with her body. Or her mouth.

'How could it be...enough...when I could have...?' she began, shaping the words painstakingly and feeling worried about her woolly tongue. Food poisoning, perhaps. Something on the plane...the ice in the drink... 'I want—' She blinked. He was peeling her fingers from the glass and removing it from her hands. 'What... was I s-saying?' she asked, stumbling over the sentence.

'That you want to accept my offer of money to go immediately,' he replied silkily.

'No! I wasn't! Why are you offering me money?' She frowned over the way her mouth had become all lips and tongue and how carefully she had to concentrate on her words. 'Ten thousand won't buy me—'

'That's the price,' he said shortly. 'Take it or leave it.'

She couldn't have moved if she'd tried. Her body had turned to stone. The waves slurped backwards and forwards over her ankles, backwards and forwards with a dizzying effect... Afraid that she'd lose her balance, she pressed her hands firmly into the jagged contours of the rock and concentrated hard.

'I'll 1-leave it. I want—'

'To go home,' he supplied helpfully. 'I'll take you to your villa and get your things together while you lie down. I doubt you can walk straight—'

Mandy's eyes rounded. He could be right. Through the fog she saw that he'd lifted an amused eyebrow, mocking her confusion. And then she realised what he'd done.

'There
was
alcohol in that fruit j-juice, wasn't there?' she said in dismay. 'I wasn't sure...I thought there might be, but—'

She broke off in mid-sentence because he was smiling. And she knew that she'd knocked back—what?—three strong, alcoholic drinks in an alarmingly short space of time!

As she swayed Pascal placed his arm around her waist and laughed softly, the warmth of his laugh floating over her parted lips and making them feel in dire need of a kiss. Startled, she blinked, but was mesmerised by the swimming depth of his sea-blue eyes, his too near mouth, the even white teeth in the deeply tanned face. . 'Voodoo Punch,' he murmured in her ear. Her inhibitions had been loosened from their tight control. His warm breath made her tremble as it teased her skin. He gave a slow and self-assured smile. 'Your drinks contained a hefty slug of rum. One Voodoo Punch can be invigorating. Two tend to remove constraints. And,' he said in a 'don't blame me' tone of voice, 'you had a Planter's Punch in the bar when you arrived. Unwise in this heat.'

'I asked you for fruit juice!' she wailed indignantly.

'Something fruity,' he corrected.

She groaned and worried over the thin line between the effects of alcohol and sexual desire, because there was a lovely warmth heating her pelvis and her breasts, a deep warmth that flushed through her body like the aftermath of love. No wonder people drank! she thought faintly.

'The rum was disguised!' she muttered crossly, her hand drifting up so that it could hold her head in one place. 'I knocked it back too fast. Don't you know how dangerous that could have been?' she asked in a rush of anger.

'Not for you, apparently,' he said, totally unconcerned. 'I took the precaution of asking Simon if you'd had the "welcome" drink. He said you tossed it down as if you were used to it.' He grinned at her with his hungry tiger's grin. 'The rum did wonders to the way you walked down those steps and across the beach.'

He'd seen her then? The warm air seemed to wrap itself around them both, intensifying the huskiness of his voice, the steadiness of his compelling gaze. 'What way I walked?' she asked uncertainly, her mouth working hard on shaping each word properly.

'As if your muscles had been loosened by sex, by love, by alcohol. It's not a very English way of moving,' he explained. 'More fluid and Tahitian. Very sultry and exotic. Erotic. Every male on the beach was fascinated.' There was a purr to his voice and it curled into her with a deep intimacy that made her feel uncomfortable. And vulnerable.

His fingers lightly stroked her shoulder and she felt the pressure from each firm pad burn into her skin. But still she couldn't move. It was all she could do not to slump disgracefully to the sand in a helpless heap.

'Punch-drunk!' she groaned, annoyed at his amused chuckle. 'And I thought I was getting in the holiday mood...and feeling relaxed!' She struggled to overcome the lassitude. Tentatively she stood up. Sea and sky hurtled around in a wild loop-the-loop, and sand and sunbathers described a kaleidoscope of colour. 'I feel dreadful!' she muttered.

'You look it,' he agreed, brutally frank. 'But incredibly sexy.'

A sun-heated arm came around her. But she jerked away from his embrace because only Dave had ever held her that close and no man was going to poach on his territory.

'Don't
touch
me!' she seethed. 'How
could
you do this to me? It's so humiliating. I want to lie down! Find me*a sun-lounger in the shade and leave me in peace!'

Ignoring her wishes, Pascal drew her back into his arms with a quiet laugh. Unfortunately, her body was too uncoordinated to reject him again. 'Everywhere in the shade has been taken,' he crooned. 'With skin as pale as milk, you'd get second-degree burns if you fell asleep in the sun. I'll get you to your villa.'

Her villa. The last place she should go with Pascal accompanying her... She took several deep breaths. His skin felt like soft, warm water flowing over rock and her heart had reacted to the discovery by lurching into a reggae beat. Furiously she cleared her head.

'No. Find—find Simon. He can help me—'

'Simon,' he said in amusement, 'would get the sack if he had to handle you the way I need to. Come on. You know it makes sense. We'll pretend I'm a Zimmer frame, shall we?' And with surprising gentleness he gingerly moved her to the dry sand.

Zimmer frames weren't covered in living, breathing, silken skin that vibrated beneath her leaning body. They didn't have muscles that rippled and bulged with power, or hands which spanned the curve of her waist and shifted with every movement, giving her an expert and disturbingly enjoyable massage.

Her mind was wandering. She had to get a grip. They had a fair distance to cover. Miles. Well, several hundred yards, dotted with thatched shelters and reclining bodies and hazards like palm trees to dodge.

'I can't! People will see I'm tipsy!' she wailed, and blushed at the very thought of facing the disapproving stares during every future mealtime.

'Not if we cuddle and pretend to be lovers,' soothed Pascal.

Mandy groaned at the very idea. 'You think that's better?' she squeaked. 'You think I could 1-let them believe that you'd picked m-me up on my first afternoon here, and that we've got to the cuddling s-stage already?' But she knew she didn't have any option.

'You have to let them think you're drunk
or
affectionate. Take your choice,' he answered smugly. 'I'll let you stagger over on your own if you like.'

'Brute!' she mumbled, grabbing her shoes and trying to aim them at her wet, sandy feet. 'Oh, get in!' she ordered her toes, grabbing at Pascal when she almost toppled over.

He chuckled and hauled her close against his body, both arms wrapped around her. 'If two legs won't hold you steady,' he said in amusement, 'what makes you think you can manage on one?'

'Optim... optim...
Hope,'
she muttered, wriggling away with dreadful reluctance and trying to get a wayward toe into the canvas shoe. But her mind—what there was of it—had been fatally diverted; assailed by his physical presence, by the clean scent of his hair, the salty taste of his shoulder where her protesting mouth had briefly passed.

So he crouched down on his haunches, keeping one hand in contact with her body, allowing it to trail in a lightning movement over her breast and waist before it curved around her trembling thigh.

'Oh!' She shuddered with involuntary desire.

'My sentiments exactly,' he said huskily. He lifted his lashes and gave her a smouldering look and Mandy realised to her dismay that she'd spoken aloud, and wanted to groan some more to release the backlog of breath that seemed to be building up in her chest.

Gently he removed her shoe and began to dust the sand from her toes as well as he could. His touch was delicate and careful, belying the potential strength of his big hands. And there was something achingly sexual about his concentration, the curve of his lashes on his fine cheekbones, the slight jut of his upper lip. Each small toe was tenderly brushed free from sand and he checked her shoes before persuading her feet to slip inside. She felt cherished, and tingled right through all the sensation-hungry parts of her body and up to her brainless head.

All the while she wobbled outwardly and inwardly too, and despairingly placed both hands on his tousled curls so that she didn't disgrace herself by collapsing. The sun had turned his hair into liquid gold. His curls shone as if they'd been filled with light and flipped up at the nape of his neck. And, in the haze of the late afternoon and the haze of her mind, she felt an uncontrollable urge to let her fingers thread through the shimmering coils and gently draw him up, turning his strong-boned face to hers so that she could release her emotions in a fierce kiss.

Instead she stood—she hoped—as stiff and as unresponsive as a block of wood. The alcohol was eating her brain! she thought miserably, when the moment was over. Hope and disappointment, apprehension and setbacks had all combined to heave her emotions into the melting pot.

Pascal managed to slide his way up her body as he straightened and she glared, wishing that she could risk stepping back and thereby avoid the invasion by his searching hands.

'Ready to go?' he asked. She nodded sullenly and he gave her a charming smile. He was apparently in his element because he was
in
charge and indispensable, she thought crossly. 'Put your arm around my waist,' he said cheerfully.

They began to walk to the steps. And she hoped that most people would be too engrossed in their paperbacks to notice that she and Pascal were wrapped so enthusiastically around each other.

'You've made a fool of me!' she muttered.

'Thank you,' he answered gravely, as though she'd complimented him. 'I've had enough practice. My father's always luring beautiful women and I'm always getting rid of them.'

'Thank heavens I'm not beautiful,' she said, trying to work out what he was driving at.

'No, you're not,' he agreed equably. 'Not conventionally so. But you're sexy and you have a certain gut appeal and that's what men want.'

Mandy shot him a scathing look. As she and Pascal crossed the sand to the dreaded steps she hoped that he'd been lying about his father. She didn't want to deal with a lecherous solicitor whose behaviour was even worse than his rakish son's.

'Climbing boots on?' Pascal asked cheerfully when they reached the foot of the steps.

'Mount Everest!' she said wryly, glad that he was giving her a breather. She was certain that her feeble legs wouldn't get her to the top.

'Funny how booze and sex have exactly the same effect on one's leg muscles, isn't it?' commented Pascal loudly, just as a couple of American women passed them.

The women gave a joint intake of breath. Mandy briefly closed her eyes. 'Don't!' she pleaded. 'Please don't shame me any more! I wish I'd never seen the advert that brought me here!'

'It would have saved me a lot of hassle if you hadn't,' Pascal agreed quietly.

And she knew that the regret in his low tones was genuine. For some reason he felt that he had to keep her from his father. It was such a driving need, in fact, that he'd offered her a huge sum of money as a bribe. There was something odd about that. What would he gain?

'Let's go.'

She resisted. 'I can't
think
if I'm moving—'

'I know. Quick. Before too many people see you.'

The idea appalled her, as, no doubt, he'd planned. She postponed the thinking and kept her mind fixed on reaching sanctuary. As if to hasten the moment when he could get rid of her, he drove her upwards, all but lifting her from step to step at a breathless pace.

Several people passed them, all smiling sentimentally at what must have looked like two lovers—perhaps a honeymoon couple, she thought with dismay—snuggling up together on their way to their villa. And she felt worse and worse the higher they climbed, because her soggy leg muscles ached from the unaccustomed exercise and Pascal's hold became bolder and more possessive.