The Marriage Proposition. Sara Craven

couple.

      Jack and Angie would have been so pleased—and so smug, she reminded herself wryly.

      But it wasn’t to be, and that was all there was to it.

      ‘How did it go?’ Angie whispered as Paige sat down beside her.

      ‘He’s really sweet,’ Paige temporised.

      ‘But you’re still going back tomorrow.’ Angie’s face fell. ‘Jack said you would.’

      ‘He has wisdom beyond his years.’ Paige squeezed her friend’s arm affectionately. ‘But I’ll be back to stay some other time, if you’ll have me.’

      She glanced around her. The tables, set with pristine white linen and gleaming silverware, were stationed round the edge of a large dance floor. The band, a four-piece combination, were playing quietly, but no one was dancing yet, although all the tables were fully occupied. Soft-footed waiters were moving among the diners, and there was a hum of conversation and laughter punctuated by the popping of corks.

      Coloured lights were festooned across the thatched roof, and each table also had a candle burning in a pretty glass shade, surrounded by a garland of bright flowers.

      ‘It’s really lovely here,’ Paige commented. ‘And very crowded. I thought this was the off season.’

      ‘A couple of big yachts docked in the marina this morning. Jack says it’s Alain Froyat, who owns a string of European magazines, and Kel Drake, the film producer.’ Angie shrugged. ‘Apparently there’s been a weather warning, so they’ve decided to play it safe. And their guests have all come ashore to dine and lose some of their accumulated wealth in Brad’s casino.’

      ‘A weather warning?’ Paige frowned. ‘Do you mean a hurricane?’

      ‘Oh, it probably won’t be that bad. But we can get the odd tropical storm at this time of year.’ She pursed her lips. ‘And that might delay your ferry.’

      ‘That’s not a problem.’ Paige’s tone was rueful. ‘Apparently I’m going to Sainte Marie in style—courtesy of Brad, and someone called Hilaire.’

      ‘Holy smoke,’ said Angie. ‘I’m impressed. Hilaire must have had to toss out the odd millionaire to make room for you.’

      Their table was in the corner of the restaurant nearest the beach, to take advantage of the breeze from the sea. Only there didn’t seem to be one. The air was very warm, and very still. In fact it had almost a brooding quality, Paige thought, watching the reflection of the moon on the calm water. Maybe the skippers on those yachts had known what they were doing when they’d looked for a secure haven. For a moment she was aware of a faint shiver of uneasiness, but dismissed it. She would be halfway home by the time bad weather struck, she told herself resolutely. If indeed it did.

      The food was delicious—pumpkin soup followed by red snapper, and a spicy chicken dish served with fragrant rice, all of it accompanied by vintage wines. Dessert was slices of fresh pineapple marinated in liqueur, and a wonderful home-made coconut ice cream.

      Brad was an attentive host, keeping the conversation general and light-hearted, and, to Paige’s relief, making no further comment about her imminent departure.

      Now that the pressure was off, it was turning into a really enjoyable evening, she decided, as coffee and brandy were served.

      The band was playing something soft and dreamy, and Jack and Angie got up to dance. Paige watched them slowly circling the floor in each other’s arms, Jack smiling adoringly into his wife’s eyes and Angie lifting her hand to stroke his cheek.

      They’ve got it right, Paige thought, suppressing a pang of envy so fierce it was almost painful.

      ‘Shall we join them?’

      Paige started. Brad was watching her enquiringly, his brow slightly furrowed.

      She sent him a bright smile. ‘Why not?’

      He was a good dancer, holding her lightly and not too closely. As they moved he exchanged greetings with the people at the tables they passed, or acknowledged someone’s presence with a smile and a nod.

      ‘You’re good at this,’ she told him.

      His grin was rueful. ‘I’m in business, and the rich can be touchy. You can’t afford to ignore anyone. And when someone like Froyat hits town you’ve no idea who might be travelling with him, so it can be perilous.’

      ‘I bet.’ She was smiling as she glanced towards the big table he was indicating. A sea of faces, all animated, chattering to their neighbours. All relaxed and having a good time.

      All, that was, except one. A dark face, cool and sardonic, swam out of the crowd. A man who wasn’t talking to anyone around him, who was even momentarily oblivious to the young and pretty blonde who was draped across him, her arm round his neck. A man who was staring right at her, his eyes narrowed and appraising.

      The smile froze on her lips. She felt the breath catch in her throat, the sudden grim thud of her astonished heart against her ribcage.

      No, she thought desperately. It can’t be. It can’t …

      ‘Are you all right?’ Brad’s voice was concerned.

      ‘Yes.’ Her voice was hoarse, unlike her own. ‘I mean—no. At least …’ She paused. ‘Do you think we could sit down, please?’

      ‘Of course.’ His arm went round her, supporting her, and she was grateful for it as they made their way off the floor. Because her legs were shaking under her.

      ‘Can I get you something?’ Brad put her gently into her chair. ‘What’s wrong? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’

      No ghost, she thought. But someone only too real, who was, by some terrible mischance, right here on St Antoine.

      She said quickly, ‘I think it’s the weather.’ She fanned herself with her hand. ‘It’s got so oppressive suddenly.’

      She sipped the glass of iced water he poured for her, and assured him that the slight faintness was passing. That she’d be fine if she could just sit quietly for a few minutes. And that she’d really prefer to be on her own.

      ‘There must be people you should be talking to,’ she urged. ‘Go and do your social thing while I pull myself together. I feel such a fool …’

      ‘I’d rather not leave you.’

      ‘Then you’ll make me feel worse than ever. Please, Brad. I might even go for a quick stroll along the beach—clear my head properly,’ she added with determined brightness.

       Or I might run away and never be found again …

      ‘Are you sure you’d rather be alone?’ He was doubtful—reluctant.

      ‘Absolutely. Anyway, Jack and Angie will be back in a minute.’ She smiled at him, willing him to walk away. ‘And when you come back I’ll be fine again. Rarin’ to go, in fact.’

      She sounded hyper—like a crazy woman—but it seemed to work. She didn’t watch to see what table Brad was heading for, because she didn’t want to know.

      She drank some more water, staring at the flicker of the candle-flame behind the glass. What was that old saying? ‘Speak of the devil and he’s sure to appear.’ Only a few hours ago she and Angie had talked about Nick Destry—and here he was.

      Unless her imagination was playing tricks—had conjured him up to torment her. Her mind was spinning—in overdrive. Could it be that? Had the trauma of the past months caught up with her at last?

      All she had to do was look up—look across the room—and she would know for certain if he was real or some hobgoblin of fantasy. Only she didn’t dare.

      Under cover of the tablecloth, her hands clenched impotently into fists. What the hell was the matter with her? she railed