Imperfect Stranger

‘The food’s delicious, isn’t it?’ she gabbled.

‘It’s great,’ Flynn agreed, ‘though I’m sorry to have missed out on my smoked salmon.’

Her brows lifted. ‘You had smoked salmon?’

‘You seem astonished I’d aspire to something so refined,’ he drawled.

‘No, no, I’m not,’ Danielle denied hastily.

Dipping a pink prawn into the sauce, Flynn raised it to his lips. ‘Liar,’ he said, and with a crunch of strong white teeth he bit the prawn in half.

As they progressed from the savouries to dessert, Danielle eyed the Jeep which was parked further along the bank of the stream, watched the stream itself, studied his shirt which had been spread over a low-hanging branch, but, in time and as if drawn by a magnet, her gaze returned to the man opposite. Her nerve-ends screamed. If only his shirt would dry. If only he would cover himself up. If only she had allotted him his share of lunch and gone.

Flynn ate a portion of fruit salad, but refused an eclair. ‘Am I making you uncomfortable?’ he enquired, as he rested casually back against a boulder.

Danielle stiffened. ‘I beg your pardon?’

Raising a hand to his chest, he started to slowly rub. ‘You seem kind of edgy.’

‘Edgy? Me?’ She gave a burst of somewhat shrill laughter. ‘Why should I be edgy?’

Flynn’s fingertips trailed across the coils of coarse dark hair in an idle circle. ‘Perhaps coming from the UK where it’s colder and you’re not so used to it, you have a hang-up about male nudity?’

To her fury, Danielle felt herself blush; yet must she blush, again? While she had done so frequently in her teens, as she had grown older the tendency had declined, ended, and now she resented the ease with which he seemed able to turn her into one of nature’s bright red traffic-lights. But she had never met a man who was so discomfitingly aware or who shot so straight from the shoulder. If anyone else had noticed her unease they would have observed the proprieties and ignored it, but not him!

‘I don’t have any hang-up,’ she said glacially.

A smile played around Flynn’s mouth. ‘You’re sure?’ ‘I’m certain,’ she replied, a little more shortly than she had intended.

His hand moved to the brass buckle on his black leather belt. ‘So you wouldn’t mind if I removed my wet jeans?’

Remove his jeans? Danielle thought, in alarm. But was he wearing anything beneath them? An unholy tension gripped her. Flynn seemed the kind of casually erotic adventurer who might not bother.

‘Carry on,’ she said, and, having no interest in her éclair either, put both of them into the empty fruit salad container and snapped the lid. Far too tardily, his smile, allied with the glint in his grey eyes, had made her recognise that he was baiting her, mocking her, having fun at her expense. Damn him. And by becoming rattled she had played right into his hands. Lifting her shoulders, Danielle gave a supremely indifferent shrug. ‘For me, anything goes.’

A brow quirked. ‘Anything?’

‘Anything,’ she declared stalwartly, then, realising she was in danger of digging a pit to hurl herself into, she made a sudden swerve. ‘Do you live in the rainforest?’

To Danielle’s enormous relief, his fingers fell from the buckle and Flynn reached for his can of cola. His mood had changed, for at her query he had picked up a tension. It was slight, yet in her career she had conducted sufficient interviews with sufficient people under pressure to detect when somebody was wary.

‘At present,’ he replied, and took a swig.

‘You’re here temporarily?’

Flynn nodded. ‘I’m taking time out to think about things and re-evaluate my life.’ Swallowing another mouthful, he frowned down at the can he held in his fist. ‘But there’s one big problem I need to solve.’

Whereas his first sentence had sounded practised, as though he had said it several times before, the second seemed to have been a private reflection slipping out. Her journalist’s antennae started to twitch. Could he have come north of the Daintree because he had a story in his background or might he be escaping from something? Danielle wondered. She waited. Was he going to say more?

‘Problem—such as?’ she enquired, when he remained silent.

Flynn shot her an irritated look. ‘What is this, Twenty Questions?’ he growled. ‘Right, it’s my turn. Have you seen the time? Because wherever it is you’re heading for on your day out, I suggest you get on the road again. It’s gone two o’clock and—’

‘I’m not here for the day,’ Danielle cut in, ‘I’m here for three weeks.’

‘Three weeks?’ he repeated incredulously.

‘Why not?’ she protested.

Silver-grey eyes moved over her silky blouson top and slim-cut linen skirt, both of which bore the label of an élite London store. ‘Because you don’t strike me as the kind of girl who’d be interested in spending that amount of time stuck in a jungle. You’re too much of a class act.’

Normally, Danielle would have been pleased with the description, but coming from Flynn it ranked as a gibe. Her lips blotted together. She knew she was overdressed—more suited for a city office than a steamy rainforest—but it could not be helped. When packing for Australia she had decided to leave her casual summer clothes behind and treat herself to some new ones on arrival; but her first fortnight had been too busy for shopping, and so the short-notice order to head for the tropics had found her woefully unprepared. A hasty visit to the shops in Port Douglas that morning had equipped her with shorts, T-shirts and a bikini, but they languished in their plastic bags in the back of the four-wheel-drive.

‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ Danielle said tetchily.

‘So I’ve heard,’ he drawled.

‘And your perception of women is obviously as expert as your touch with a razor,’ she went on, spearing a disdainful look at his stubbled jaw, ‘because I shall be perfectly content.’

Flynn moved his shoulders in a shrug. ‘Life here is casual and no one dresses for dinner,’ he said, his eyes travelling over her in a leisurely re-run, ‘so I’d advise against sauntering along to the restaurant in your ball gown and tiara.’

‘Thanks for the tip,’ Danielle replied grittily. ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’

‘You’ve come all the way from England to spend three weeks in the rainforest?’ he said, still sounding sceptical despite her claim.

Danielle hesitated. Should she say that she had only travelled from Melbourne? But if she did, an explanation would be needed for her presence there and, in turn, for her presence here. Then, if he mentioned her raison d’être, it could be picked up by the local grapevine, and, if that long shot existed and somebody did happen to be growing marijuana, ranks would close and access to information be denied her.

‘Correct,’ she replied.

‘You’re here alone?’ he enquired. ‘There isn’t some lover joining you for three weeks of unbridled passion and sexual gratification?’

‘No.’ Danielle gazed coolly back. The gleam in his eyes indicated Flynn was baiting her again, but she refused to be fazed. ‘I don’t consider a woman needs a lover in order to enjoy herself,’ she declared.

‘Which, in translation, means whoever’s slept with you, they haven’t done such a great job of it. Pity. If they had, you’d know that good sex is the ultimate in enjoyment. So,’ he went on, not missing a beat, ‘how do you intend to pass the time?’

‘Er…’ His so careless analysis of her sex life had knocked her thoughts askew. ‘I shall sunbathe, swim, relax.’

Tipping back his head, Flynn drained the can of cola. ‘That’s all?’

Danielle hesitated, aware that to justify travelling halfway around the world for this supposed holiday she needed a more specific motivation. After all, she could sunbathe, swim and relax far closer to home.

‘I also want to learn about the flora and fauna. This is where the forest meets the reef,’ she said, trying to recall paragraphs fleetingly scanned in a guidebook which she had bought at the airport, ‘and it’s a remarkable area. I hope to see orchids and scrub fowl and—maybe a crocodile.’ Darting him a glance, she saw that he remained dubious. It seemed that the only way to convince him of the validity of her journey was to offer a few grains of truth, albeit twisted truth. ‘And I shall be collecting information for some articles which I plan to write,’ Danielle added.

Flynn sat upright. ‘You’re a reporter?’ he demanded.

She looked at him in surprise. His jaw had tensed, his eyes were dark and critical, stony disapproval was etched in his frown. She had been going to say that she worked as a journalist for an English newspaper, but not now. Her career had brought her face to face with sufficient animosity to know when someone harboured a dislike of the Press, and she had had more than enough of him haranguing her for one day.

‘No, I’m a—a secretary,’ Danielle improvised. ‘I write for a hobby and whether any of my articles’ll be published is in the lap of the gods. But I’m going to take masses of photographs to illustrate them,’ she said, hastily embroidering, ‘in the hope that that’ll make them more acceptable.’