Surrender To Seduction

Once home, she filled them both up on toast and pea and ham soup from the fridge—comfort food, because she had the feeling they were going to need it.

And three exhausting hours later she morosely ate a persimmon as Troy—by then fully in command of herself—drove off in a taxi.

Not that exhausting was the right word; gruelling described the afternoon more accurately. Although Troy was bitterly unhappy she still clung to her marriage, trying to convince herself that because she loved her husband so desperately, he had to love her in return.

The old, old illusion, Gerry thought sadly and sardonically, and got to her feet, drawing some consolation from her surroundings. She adored her house, revelled in the garden, and enjoyed Cara’s company as well as her contribution to the mortgage payments.

But restlessness stretched its claws inside her. Gloomily she surveyed the tropical rhododendrons through her window, their waxy coral flowers defying the grey sky and cold wind. A disastrous lunch, a shattered friend, and the prospect of heavier rain later in the evening didn’t mean her holiday was doomed. She wasn’t superstitious.

But she wished that Bryn Falconer had chosen to eat lunch anywhere else in New Zealand.

Uncomfortable, jumpy—the way she felt when the music in a horror film indicated that something particularly revolting was about to happen—Gerry set up the ironing board. Jittery nerves wouldn’t stand up to the boring, prosaic monotony of ironing.

She was putting her clothes away in her room when she heard the front door open and Cara’s voice, bright and lively with an undercurrent of excitement, ring around the hall. The masculine rumble that answered it belonged to Bryn Falconer.

All I need, Gerry thought with prickly resignation.

She decided to stay in her room, but a knock on her door demanded her attention.

‘Gerry,’ Cara said, flushed, her eyes gleaming, ‘come and talk to Bryn. He wants to ask you something.’

Goaded, Gerry answered, ‘I’ll be out in a minute.’

Fate, she decided, snatching a look at the mirror and despising the colour heating her sweeping cheekbones, really had it in for her today.

However, her undetectable mask of cosmetics was firmly in place, and anyway, she wasn’t going to primp for Bryn Falconer. No matter that her dark blue-green eyes were wild and slightly dilated, or that her hair had rioted frivolously out of its usual tamed waves. She didn’t care what he thought.

The gas heater in the sitting room warmed the chilly air, but the real radiance came from Cara, who lit up the room like a torch. Should I tell her mother? Gerry thought, then dismissed the idea. Cara was old enough to understand what she was doing.

But that little homily on messing around with married men might be in order.

Not that Bryn looked married—he had the air of someone who didn’t have to consider anyone else. Forcing a smile, Gerry said, ‘Hello, Bryn. Did you have a good lunch?’

His eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Very.’

Gerry maintained her hostess demeanour. ‘I like the way they do lunch there—sustaining, and it doesn’t make you sleepy in the afternoon.’

‘A pity you weren’t able to stay long enough to eat,’ he said blandly.

Despising the heat in her skin, Gerry kept her voice steady. ‘My friend wasn’t well.’ Before he could comment she continued, ‘Cara tells me you want to ask me something?’

‘I’d like to offer you a very short, one-off project,’ he said, and without giving her time to refuse went on, ‘It involves a trip to the islands, and some research into the saleability—or not—of hats.’

Whatever she’d expected it wasn’t that. ‘Hats,’ she repeated blankly.

The green gaze rested a moment on her mouth before moving up to capture her eyes. ‘One of the outlying islands near Fala’isi is famous for the hats the islanders weave from a native shrub. They used to bring in an excellent income, but sales are falling off. They don’t know why, but I suspect it’s because they aren’t keeping up with fashion. Cara tells me you have a couple of weeks off. One week at Longopai in the small hotel there should be ample time to check whether I’m right.’

No, she wanted to say, so loudly and clearly that there could be no mistaking her meaning. No, I don’t want to go to a tropical island and find out why they’re no longer selling their hats. I don’t want anything to do with you.

‘I’d love to go,’ Cara said eagerly, ‘but I’m booked solid for a couple of months. You’re a real expert, Gerry—you style a shoot better than anyone, and Honor says you’ve got an instinct about fashion that never lets you down. And you’d have a super time in the islands—it’s just what you need.’

Gerry looked out of the window. Darkness had already fallen; the steady drumming of rain formed a background to the rising wail of wind. She said, ‘I might not have any idea why they aren’t selling. Marketing is—’

‘Exactly what you’re good at,’ Bryn said smoothly, his deep voice sliding with the silky friction of velvet along her nerves. ‘When you worked as fashion editor for that magazine you marketed a look, a style, a colour.’ He looked around the room. ‘You have great taste,’ he said.

As Gerry wondered whether she should tell him the room was furnished with pieces from her great-grandmother’s estate, he finished, ‘I can get you there tomorrow.’

Gerry’s brows shot up. It was tempting—oh, she longed to get away and forget everything for a few days, just sink herself into the hedonism of a tropical holiday. Lukewarm lagoons, she thought yearningly, and colour—vivid, primal, shocking colour—and the scent of salt, and the caress of the trade winds on her bare skin…

Aloud, very firmly, she said, ‘If you got some photographs done I could probably give you an opinion without going all the way up there. Or you could get some samples.’

‘They deal better with people,’ he said evenly. ‘They’ll take one look at you and realise that you know what you’re talking about. A written report—or even a suggestion from me—won’t have the same impact.’

‘Most people,’ Cara burbled, ‘are dying to get to the tropics at this time of the year. You sound like a wrinklie, Gerry, hating the thought of being prised out of your nice comfortable nest!’

And if I go, Gerry thought with a tiny flash of malice, you’ll be alone here, and no one will realise that you’re spending nights in Bryn’s bed. Although that was unkind; Cara knew that Gerry wouldn’t carry tales to her parents. And she honestly thought she was doing Gerry a favour.

Hell, she probably was.

Green eyes half-closed, Bryn said, ‘I’d rather you actually saw the hats. Photographs don’t tell the whole story, as you’re well aware. And of course the company will pay for your flights and accommodation.’

She was being stupid and she knew it; had any other man suggested it she’d have jumped at the idea. Striving for her usual equanimity, she said, ‘Of course I’d like to go, but—’

Cara laughed. ‘I told you she wouldn’t be able to resist it,’ she crowed.

‘Where is this island?’ Gerry asked shortly.

‘Longopai’s an atoll twenty minutes by air from Fala’isi.’ All business, Bryn said, ‘A taxi will pick you up at ten tomorrow morning. Collect your tickets from the Air New Zealand counter at the airport. Pack for a week, but keep in mind the weight restrictions.’

What did he think she was? One of those people who can’t leave anything in their wardrobe when they go overseas?

Cara headed off an intemperate reply by breaking in, ‘Gerry can pack all she needs for three weeks in an overnight bag,’ she said on an awed note.

Bryn’s brow lifted. ‘Clever Gerry,’ he said evenly, his voice expressionless.

So why did it sound like a taunt?

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_2177cd8c-4e22-5258-b859-8fd648ff90fe)

IT DIDN’T surprise her that Bryn Falconer’s arrangements worked smoothly; he’d expect efficiency in his hirelings.

Everything—from the moment Gerry collected her first-class ticket at Auckland airport to the cab-ride through the hot, colourful streets of Fala’isi with the tall young man who’d met the plane—went without a hitch.

‘Mr Falconer said you were very important, and that I wasn’t to be late,’ her escort said when she thanked him for meeting her.

A considerable exaggeration, she thought with a touch of cynicism. Bryn liked her as little as she liked him. ‘Do you work for the hotel on Longopai?’

He shook his head. ‘For the shipping company. Mr Falconer bought a trader to bring the dried coconut here from Longopai, so it is necessary to have an office here.’