An Imported Wife. Rosalie Ash
Читать онлайн.| Название | An Imported Wife |
|---|---|
| Автор произведения | Rosalie Ash |
| Жанр | Современные любовные романы |
| Серия | |
| Издательство | Современные любовные романы |
| Год выпуска | 0 |
| isbn |
Table of Contents
“Hypocrisy?” Gabriella echoed faintly
“I dislike females who are scarcely out of the nursery, yet feel compelled to pass judgment on other people’s failings,” Rick went on remorselessly. “And at the same time suppress their own needs and desires….”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about….”
“I’m tempted to kiss you, ma petite, to prove the point.”
“Just try it!”
“That’s a dare that is too tempting to ignore!” Rick murmured, his voice thickening.
Having abandoned her first intended career for marriage, ROSALIE ASH spent several years as a bilingual personal assistant to the managing director of a leisure group. She now lives in Warwickshire, England, with her husband, and daughters Kate and Abby, and her lifelong enjoyment of writing has led to her career as a novelist. Her interests include: languages, travel and research for her books, reading and visits to the Royal Shakespeare Theatre in nearby Stratford-upon-Avon. Other pleasures include: swimming, yoga and country walks.
An Imported Wife
Rosalie Ash
THE tall, dark, powerful-looking man, in sunglasses, khaki shirt and dusty cream trousers, seemed to be attracting attention, like bees to a honeypot. A willing porter scurried after him with his luggage, and another was practically breaking his neck to hail him a taxi as quickly as possible.
Lesser mortals, reflected Gabriella wryly, from her hot and dusty vantage point as she waited in the sun for a taxi for herself, could only look on, in envy and admiration.
She shifted position, waiting beside her suitcase, perspiration trickling uncomfortably down between her breasts, and dampening her jade T-shirt beneath the light white cotton jacket she wore. January in Mauritius, a tiny dot of an island far south in the vast expanse of Indian Ocean between Africa and Australia, was an abrupt contrast to January in London. Back home, she’d locked up her small one-bedroomed flat in Wimbledon and left behind icy sleet showers, and temperatures of minus two. Here, outside Plaisance Airport, the sun scorched down from a limpid blue sky, edged with fluffy tropical clouds, and it had to be at least ninety-five in the shade.
She lifted the heavy rope of honey-blonde hair at her nape, and blew upwards to cool her hot forehead. The tall man had been ushered respectfully into a taxi now, his cases stowed in the boot. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see the porters bow and salute, as the taxi revved up to pull away.
It was hard to tell, behind his dark glasses, but she thought he was looking at her. She dropped her eyes quickly, hoping he hadn’t had the satisfaction of seeing her gazing at him. In spite of her current aversion to the opposite sex, she had to concede that he looked disturbingly attractive. In fact, even from a safe distance, he was the most attractive man she’d ever set eyes on in her life, she acknowledged, a small twist of apprehension stirring her stomach. He looked lean, athletic, smooth-muscled. The dark brown hair, straight and thick, looked vibrantly clean and glossy, the wide, hard mouth, and the suggestion of five o’clock shadow on the firm jaw eyecatchingly male.
Strange, then, that he should remind her of Piers…Piers was blond, while this man was dark. Facially they weren’t remotely similar. Piers was much younger, only twenty-five, whereas this man had an air of experience and sophistication that suggested early thirties. She identified the similarity, a subtle one. It must be that aura of inborn privilege and careless arrogance which was so reminiscent of Piers. The cool way he took all the fuss and attention as his due…
She unconsciously lifted her shoulders, shrugging off the memories. It didn’t matter any more. About her disillusionment over Piers. Men were definitely going to take a back seat in her life from now on. Her career was showing signs of progression. That was all that mattered. She was new to this job, and she wanted to do well, and on top of that she was here alone in advance of the others. She should have been accompanying the fashion editor, who’d gone down with the flu which had been decimating the entire fashion department, literally at the eleventh hour…
Now was her chance to prove herself, show First Flair magazine that she was more than just a lowly assistant. Until suitably experienced reinforcements could be dispatched, the responsibility for advance checking of locations for the forthcoming fashion shoot lay on her novice shoulders. It was exciting, and rather terrifying…
‘Welcome to the Hotel Sable Royale,’ smiled a receptionist, when Gabriella finally presented herself and her luggage. ‘Did you have a good journey, Madame Taylor?’
‘Fine, thanks…’ Apart from paying what appeared to be a small fortune in rupees to the taxi driver who’d just roared away from the hotel entrance…
‘But I’m not Madame Taylor…’ Gabriella added, smiling apologetically. ‘The rooms are booked in Ursula Taylor’s name. But I’m Gabriella Howard, Mrs Taylor’s assistant. Mrs Taylor was too ill to fly out with me…’
The pretty Creole girl shrugged and smiled again.
‘OK. I hope you have a wonderful stay.’
She would, Gabriella reflected, following the porter carrying her suitcase to her room, if she could manage to fulfil her obligations to First Flair without any hitches, and, more immediately, if she could just cool off…
When the door was closed, she wasted no time, ripping off her jacket, sweat-damp jade T-shirt and smart jade culotte-skirt, tossing her coffee silk bra and pants on to