Bought for His Bed. Kate Hardy

was what sexual attraction was all about. She didn’t even know him, yet she’d trusted him when he’d suggested this charade. Had that been because she felt sorry for the girl Luke didn’t want, or was it because she was clutching at any straw to stay here in paradise with a man she wanted?

      That thought made her feel sick. Was she being a total idiot? Through her lashes she saw him ahead, riding his big gelding with the ease and grace of a man who had spent a lot of time on horseback.

      Did he make love with the same cool mastery? Colour burned through her skin, and she had to force herself to concentrate. She was utterly sure her mother hadn’t had this dangerous attraction in mind when she’d organised a holiday on Fala’isi for her daughter.

      He halted his horse and waited for her to catch up. ‘We can ride back along the beach if you like,’ he said, then frowned. ‘Although you look as though you’ve caught a bit of sun. Do you want some sunscreen?’

      ‘No, thanks, I’m slathered in the stuff, and I’d love to ride along the beach.’

      ‘No mad galloping,’ he said with a hint of irony.

      ‘I’ve never been into mad,’ she told him with perfect truth. ‘I was always the one who waited to make sure it was safe before I did anything.’

      Even as she said the words she knew their truth—and realised how far she’d strayed from that sensible, if too cautious, attitude.

      Luke reached into his shirt pocket and tossed her a tube. ‘Sunscreen first.’

      Resigned, because he clearly wasn’t planning to go anywhere until she’d put more on, she caught it neatly and unscrewed the top. It was warm, mostly from the sun, she told herself sturdily as she smoothed it into her skin. Certainly not from his body…

      The thought sent another erotic little shiver through her. Keeping her eyes studiously on the tube, she recapped it and held it out to him. His fingers closed around hers; her mount moved at an involuntary signal from its rider.

      ‘Steady,’ she crooned to her horse, and the mare settled.

      Luke didn’t release her. ‘Listen,’ he said beneath his breath.

      Like a carillon of exquisite purity, a bird sang from somewhere close by.

      Enchanted, she listened until the song wound down in a cascade of notes, keeping her eyes on the sight of her hand enclosed in Luke’s big, lean tanned one. Time stood still; her breath locked in her throat. She thought dazedly that the sun stopped and no sound of the waves on the reef came to her ears. Even the wild thunder of her heart eased in the haunting, melancholy sweetness of the song. Luke’s touch seared through her like the sweetest of daggers, setting off fires in a million unsuspected pleasure points.

      Then the notes died away, and she dragged in a breath and pulled, and immediately he let her go.

      ‘That was—superb,’ she half said, half whispered. ‘It sounded a bit like a kokako—or a tui when it stops mimicking.’

      Luke set his horse in motion. ‘A tikau, native to the island, although I believe it’s a distant relative of the kokako. It’s a bird of the high mountains and the forest—it rarely comes this close to the sea.’ He nodded at a gully to one side. ‘It must have lost its way and found some shelter there. I’ll have traps set tonight.’

      She gazed at him in horror. ‘Why?’ she demanded.

      He gave her a narrow, somewhat cynical smile. ‘Because there are predators here—rats, dogs. The bird needs to be taken back to the mountains. It will die here.’

      ‘Oh, I see.’

      He indicated a track leading downwards. ‘The sea is that way,’ he said.

      Fleur followed, conscious that something had changed. Gone was the camaraderie of a few minutes ago, replaced by a barrier that hurt her in some obscure way.

      The ride along the beach should have been wonderful but although they didn’t gallop they cantered, and she suspected that was so he didn’t have to talk to her.

      Back at the house he said courteously, ‘I suggest you have a rest after lunch. Our guests will start arriving at seven.’

      ‘I’ll be ready,’ she said brightly.

      The hairdresser arrived with an assistant. ‘Our cosmetics specialist,’ she said, and made horrified clucking noises as she examined Fleur’s chopped tresses. ‘My friend suggested you might like to see a sample of our range.’

      ‘I can’t afford any cosmetics,’ Fleur said firmly.

      The two women looked a little startled, but the hairdresser said, ‘We’ll give you a free consultation—that is our policy. What you decide to do afterwards is entirely up to you.’

      Fleur protested, but both women assured her that whether or not she bought anything was irrelevant.

      ‘So that is settled,’ the hairdresser said when Fleur gave in. ‘Now, about your hair…’

      They discussed the final cut, both women vetoing Fleur’s sudden, defiant request for short hair.

      ‘Apart from it being a crime against whatever gene gave you that fabulous hair, it wouldn’t suit you,’ the hairdresser stated. ‘Your eyes and mouth and skin would vie for attention and that wouldn’t work at all well. What I suggest is we use that gentle curl and pull the hair back softly to suit your features. Here, I’ll show you.’

      And Fleur had to agree that she was right.

      Just as she had to marvel when she examined her reflection after being made up with cosmetics that smelt subtly of some exotic tropical flower. Somehow, without being obvious, her eyes seemed bigger and much greener, and the lashes she’d thought too pale were now darker and more defined without being spidery. She’d have loved to buy the products, but their quality warned her they’d be expensive.

      ‘They’re made on the island, using traditional recipes and scents,’ the assistant told her with pride. ‘My cousin is the manager. At first we sold only to tourists, but the business is expanding and now we sell to North America and Australia. Mr Chapman—Mr Luke—thinks that Asia will be our biggest market soon.’

      ‘You’ve done a wonderful job.’ Fleur smiled at them, and hoped fervently that they didn’t expect a tip. Fortunately, it seemed Fala’isi was like New Zealand, where tipping wasn’t done. ‘Thanks so much for everything.’

      After the two women left Fleur stared at herself a moment more, before turning away from the mirror in embarrassment. It was foolish to be so charmed by what a skilful cosmetician and some truly wonderful products could do; she couldn’t afford them and that was that.

      When she went to change her clothes, she stopped, astounded at the sight of rack upon rack of outfits. Everything she’d tried on that morning—not just the ones she’d chosen, but every outfit that had suited her—was there.

      Frowning, she spread out the skirt of a silk chiffon evening dress in the softest apricot; it had looked divine, but she’d discarded it because she didn’t need more than one outfit for after dark.

      She let the silk sift through her fingers, her frown deepening, then turned to the big chest of drawers. Biting her lip, she scrutinised the drawer full of subtly shimmering underwear. The owner of the boutique must have misunderstood.

      Well, it would have to go. But halfway down the hall to find Luke she met Susi, carrying a bag of sophisticated blue and green that contained the cosmetics Fleur had just rejected.

      ‘Oh, no!’ Fleur stopped. ‘There’s been some mistake—I didn’t buy those.’

      ‘Mr Chapman says they are for you,’ the housekeeper said, her smile vanishing.

      ‘No,’ Fleur said, flustered yet determined. ‘I haven’t bought them.’

      ‘But—’

      ‘It’s