Читать онлайн книгу «Looking After Dad» автора Elizabeth Oldfield

Looking After Dad
Elizabeth Oldfield
FROM HERE TO PATERNITYSingle dad requires protection! When Lorcan Hunter is threatened by someone opposed to his latest business project, and leggy blonde Jess Pallister presents herself as the person to protect him, Lorcan is more than a little skeptical! But when his little girl is also threatened, Lorcan is forced to trust Jess.Bright and beautiful Jess soon becomes part of the family, and before he knows it, Lorcan is ready to offer her a permanent assignment so she can watch over both of them for life!FROM HERE TO PATERNITY - men who find their way to fatherhood by fair means, by foul, or even by default!


His blue eyes glittered. “You’re guarding Harriet and only Harriet.” (#u2bb9317d-92d6-54bd-a338-69bfaea2a267)About the Author (#u20229b92-9124-5871-a418-293dec8538de)Title Page (#u0236b1cb-5892-5f9f-9649-d9aa8df80983)CHAPTER ONE (#u48afca10-d815-59e7-8904-17e37cd40760)CHAPTER TWO (#ub4cf5c6a-88cf-5f84-860d-e6f3182bccd5)CHAPTER THREE (#u70b065f2-4f22-5277-9dcd-ab694f1cfdda)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
His blue eyes glittered. “You’re guarding Harriet and only Harriet.”
“All right, but the note referred to both of you, so surely it—”
“Must you always argue?” Lorcan demanded.
“I am not arguing,” she said. “I’m suggesting that if I have a quick reconnoiter—”
“And I’m suggesting that you shut up!”
Jess felt the hot smack of anger. She did not know how it had happened, but a flash fire seemed to have erupted between them and they were fighting like fiends.
Lorcan lowered his tone to a husky snarl. “Did anyone ever tell you that you can be an infuriating woman?”
She straightened her shoulders, which thrust out her breasts. “All the time.”
“How about a sexy one?” he growled and, hooking a hand around her neck, he yanked her close and kissed her.
FROM HERE TO PATERNITY—romances that feature fantastic men who eventually make fabulous fathers. Some seek paternity, some have it thrust upon them. All will make it—whether they like it or not!
ELIZABETH OLDFIELD’s writing career started as a teenage hobby, when she had articles published. However, on her marriage, the creative instinct was diverted into the production of a daughter and a son. A decade later, when her husband’s job took them to Singapore, she resumed writing and had her first romance accepted in 1982. Now hooked on the genre, she produces an average of three books a year. They live in London, England, and Elizabeth travels widely to authenticate the background of her books.
Looking After Dad
Elizabeth Oldfield



www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHAPTER ONE
IT WAS one of those days when it would have been smarter to ignore the bossy beep-beep of the alarm, pull the covers up high over her head and stay in bed.
Clutching a half-eaten prawn and mayonnaise sandwich in one hand and with a magnum of champagne in the other, Jess Pallister sped along the busy city street. First she had forgotten to buy fresh muesli so had had to miss breakfast, then the showers at the pool were out of order, next she had received a worrying gift, and finally, when she was looking forward to a calm afternoon at her easel, an unexpected interview had been sprung on her.
She was a darn sight too pliable, Jess thought as she swerved to avoid a youth dispensing a confetti of ‘cheap pizza’ vouchers. Instead of saying an outright, blunt and forestalling no, she had listened—and allowed herself to be sweet-talked into going along.
‘Sounds like a dream assignment,’ her brother had declared, when relaying the brief details, but she had been on what he had claimed were ‘dream’ assignments before and they had turned out to be nightmares. Her fingers tightened around the throat of the champagne bottle. Like the one with Roscoe Dunbar.
Reaching a glistening white tower block, Jess pushed around revolving doors and into a vast marble-floored lobby. A look was snatched at her watch. She hated to be late and there was five minutes to spare. Five minutes in which to finish her lunch on the hoof and present herself—cool, calm and collected—at the twentieth and top-floor offices of Sir Peter Warwick, business tycoon and international hotelier.
She scanned the bank of lifts and on seeing one with doors smoothly closing leapt forward. Using her bulging sports bag as an impromptu battering ram, she hurtled in through the gap, which forced the half-dozen or so occupants into a collective backwards shuffle.
‘Made it,’ she mumbled, shining a general smile of apology, and turned to inspect the wall indicator panel. Someone had already pressed the ‘20’ lozenge.
As the lift began to rise, Jess took another bite of her sandwich. She might have been persuaded to attend the interview, but that did not mean she would be pliable again and meekly accept the job. No chance. As Kevin had acknowledged it was her decision, and it only required one snag and she intended to refuse. Mutiny simmered in her hazel brown eyes. The days of being Miss Amenable were over. From now on, she did what she wanted to do and ran her life her way.
The lift stopped to allow a couple of middle-aged men with briefcases to get out and, in the pause, Jess ate the remainder of her sandwich. As the ascent restarted, she licked crumbs from the corners of her mouth and wiped her fingers on a tissue. Before she faced the business tycoon lipstick needed to be applied and her hair brushed through, but she would do that when the surprisingly lethargic lift reached the top floor.
Jess hitched the sports bag higher onto her shoulder. Her fellow passengers were all prime examples of city-smart sartorial elegance, whereas in a paint-dotted pastel pink tunic and black leggings which looked as if they might date from the Battle of Trafalgar she was casual. Casual, flustered and disgruntled. Lowering her head, she gave a discreet sniff. Yuck. She also smelled faintly of chlorine.
For a second time the lift halted, disgorged people and resumed its leisurely journey. Now the only other occupant was a man who stood beside the opposite wall. She cast him a glance. With his arms folded across his chest and his head bent, he was lost in thought. He looked sombre and tense. As if this September day had not turned out to be exactly a bundle of laughs for him, either.
He was in his late thirties, tall—she estimated around six feet four—and had a lean, rangy frame. Thick dark hair fell over his forehead in engaging windswept disarray and his skin bore the golden remains of a tan. Clad in an immaculate navy pin-striped suit, he looked like a business executive; yet the hair, which was worn long enough to brush his collar, and a jazzy pink, blue and white patterned silk tie suggested he was not the conventional city type, but had a touch of the maverick about him.
She could not see his eyes, but he had a broad brow, straight nose and granite jaw. His features were too tight-drawn for him to be classified as handsome, yet even standing still he possessed an inherent masculine vibrancy which made him magnetic. The darkness, almost blue-black, of his hair hinted at a Latin lineage...or could it be Irish? She settled on Irish. His mood seemed tinged with the melancholy of the Celt.
He would be someone who was accustomed to command, she assessed, and who did not suffer fools—
Abruptly realising that the man had noticed her examination and was looking coolly and somewhat aggressively back, Jess switched her gaze to the indicator panel. Did he think she had been sizing him up? As other women had doubtless sized him up on numerous occasions before. If so, he was wrong. Her job meant she was trained to be observant and to take note, and he had intrigued her as a case study, that was all. She chewed at her lip. Should she make a comment—perhaps about his tie—which would show she had absolutely no personal interest and defuse the situation?
As the light illuminated for the eighth floor, she turned towards him. ‘I do like—’
Bang! The champagne exploded. The cork shot out from the bottle like the obligatory speeding bullet, whistled past the man’s ear and thudded with a thwack against the wall behind him. Ribbons of white foam followed, spurting crazily. All of a sudden, it was New Year’s Eve.
Startled, Jess jumped. She blinked. Her mouth fell open and she gaped. The man was being sprayed. He had brought his right arm up to shield his eyes, but froth was spewing over his dark hair, across the width of his broad shoulders, splattering like fast-melting snow on the pinstriped jacket.
‘Oh, dear!’ she bleated, holding helplessly onto the magnum with two hands as the foam turned into a high-pressure liquid jet.
Now champagne rained onto his face, swamped his sleeve, was flowing in fast bubbly rivulets down his suit.
‘Away,’ the man rasped.
Jess looked blankly at him through the downpour. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Hold the’bloody bottle away!’ he bellowed.
‘Oh...yes.’
She straightened up the magnum, which meant the champagne hit the roof of the lift like a geyser and showered down onto the two of them. Though only for a moment for, with a violent oath, the man leapt forward, grabbed hold of the neck and directed the torrent down and into a corner. There it gushed for a couple more seconds before diminishing into a harmless dribble.
‘For God’s sake!’ he rasped, glaring at her.
His eyes proved to be an astonishing pale blue, fringed with thick black lashes. They were beautiful eyes, the kind of eyes about which poets waxed lyrical and whose soft gaze would reduce maidenly hearts to marshmallow—though right now they blazed with the hard flame of anger.
‘I’m very sorry,’ Jess said. ‘Everything happened so fast, I was taken by surprise.’
‘But why did it happen?’ her victim demanded, swiping hanks of dripping jet-black hair back from his brow.
‘I’ve no idea,’ she replied, and stopped.
A giggle had bubbled up in her throat. He looked so furious and bedraggled that, all of a sudden, his plight took on a comical air and she was stricken by an acute urge to laugh. Or was it nerves? Whatever, if the last couple of minutes had been videoed and shown on prime-time ‘Candid Camera’ TV, audiences worldwide would be in tucks.
‘Don’t risk it,’ he warned, showing himself to be disconcertingly alert.
Jess gulped down the giggle. He was in no mood to join her in mutual mirth. Indeed, if her lips as much as twitched she would be inviting mayhem.
‘The bottle was secure when I took it out of the box half an hour ago,’ she continued, now resolutely straight-faced, ‘and all I’ve done is come here.’
Pulling a white handkerchief out of his pocket, the man began to mop his face and hair. ‘You ran?’ he asked, and answered his own question. ‘Yes, when you barged into the lift and damn near knocked everyone flying, you were bright red and panting.’
Jess’s lips tightened. He exaggerated. There had been no danger of her knocking into anyone. Nor did she appreciate his ‘bright red’ comment, which made her sound like a beetroot. To be wearing grungy clothes was disadvantage enough without him downgrading her appearance.
‘I have an appointment and am short of time,’ she said, in a taut justification.
‘So you jogged and bounced up the champagne?’ His lip curled. ‘Great!’
The lift was slowing for the sixteenth floor. When the doors opened should she make a quick exit? Jess wondered. Escape might be the coward’s way out, yet it was tempting in that it would save her from more embarrassment and the risk of further condemnation. But, though the lift had dallied on the point of stopping, it suddenly speeded up again. Floor sixteen had come and gone.
With a disgusted look at his now sodden handkerchief, the man pushed it gingerly back into his pocket. ‘Pity the cork didn’t pop when the lift was full, then you could’ve drenched en masse and really had a chuckle,’ he said, in a low, gravelly voice which, she registered, contained a trace of an American accent.
‘I didn’t do it on purpose,’ Jess protested.
‘You just didn’t think?’
She glowered. Must he be so accusing and patronising—and so right?
‘No,’ she was forced to agree.
Again the lift reduced speed, dawdled tantalisingly around the seventeenth floor and went at full lick again.
‘Do you suppose we might break down?’ she asked, in sudden alarm.
Enduring his company now was bad enough, but to be trapped with him—maybe for hours!—would be a real bed of nails.
‘It wouldn’t surprise me. Nothing would surprise me,’ the man said, as though she might have been tinkering with the lift’s motor and was responsible for its malfunction. ‘But if we’re marooned I shan’t be a happy bunny, especially as I also have an appointment and—’ looking down at his suit, he spread his hands in a curt gesture of impatience ‘—I’m wet through.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Jess said again.
‘I should damn well think you are!’
She bridled. She resented being bawled out quite so thoroughly.
‘Tell me, are you always this tetchy?’ she enquired.
‘When I’m doused in champagne from head to foot, pretty much.’
‘It was an accident,’ she defended.
He arched a brow. ‘The hand of fate?’
‘Yes.’ Putting down the bottle, Jess rooted around in her sports bag and found a tissue. ‘Let me soak up the worst.’
In grim silence, her victim held out his arm and she began to blot at his sleeve. All of a sudden, she halted. The tissue she was using was the one she had used to wipe her fingers and now a streak of pale lemon mayonnaise smeared the fine navy cloth.
The man raised his eyes as if appealing to the heavens to grant him forbearance. ‘Why don’t I strip off all my clothes and you can jump up and down on top of them,’ he suggested, ‘and perhaps kick them around the floor for a while?’
Jess gave a strained smile. She wanted to kick herself—and him. ‘It won’t stain,’ she vowed, finding a wad of new tissues and frantically scrubbing, and to her huge relief the mayonnaise disappeared.
As he stood erect and cautious, she mopped the wet from his shoulders and started to dab at his chest. Her pulse rate quickened. She might be performing a practical chore for a hostile stranger, yet it was difficult to ignore the muscled physique beneath his clothes. It was also difficult not to imagine what he would look like if he did strip naked. Lithe, honey-skinned and of Greek god proportions.
‘No more,’ the man instructed, taking a sudden step backwards.
Jess looked at him. He wanted her to stop, but why? Surely he had not recognised her rising tension and—oh, horror—sensed her vivid imaginings?
Don’t be silly, she told herself, he’s not a mind reader. It must be a case of him being affected by the physical contact, too. Even if her face had been red and might still be a little pink, she was not too hard on the eye. Indeed, her combination of blonde gamine looks, tall, slim figure and long legs had been known to make men go weak at the knees.
Jess was smugly congratulating herself on having unsettled him, when she realised that the damp tissues had begun to break up and were leaving tiny white flecks over his jacket. She groaned. Why, when he had confirmed her assessment of him as not suffering fools, must she play the clown with her every move?
‘I should never’ve got up this morning,’ she muttered.
‘It would have made my life one heck of a sight easier,’ the man agreed stingingly.
‘The bits’ll come off,’ she said, refolding the tissues to a dry patch.
He raised a long-fingered hand. ‘Leave it,’ he ordered.
‘But—’
‘Would you do me a favour and keep away from me? Well away.’
She stuffed the tissues back into the sports bag. So much for trying to help—and so much for her sex appeal. The only way to make his knees weaken would be to hit them with a mallet!
The lift was stopping and when Jess looked at the panel the light showed that, in her do-gooder confusion, the slow-pause-start procedure at the two previous floors had passed unnoticed and they had reached their destination. Heaven be praised.
‘I’ll pay for your suit to be cleaned,’ she said, delving in amongst her swimming gear to find her purse.
‘Thanks for the offer, but there’s no need.’
‘I’d like to pay.’
The man hoisted a brow. ‘With what—notes which glue themselves to the hand or dye the skin bright purple or give off that fragrant aroma of swimming pool which I’ve detected? If you don’t mind, I’ll pass.’
Her temper flared. The yellow flecks burned in her hazel eyes. Where pure unvarnished sarcasm was concerned, he ranked as a Grand Master.
‘I do mind,’ she began to insist, but he ignored her.
‘I’ve enjoyed spending time with you. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Indeed, my only regret is that we shall never meet again,’ he said, his tone as dry as dust, and as the doors slid aside he stepped out onto the wide pale-carpeted corridor and strode away.
Jess stuck out her tongue at his broad back. It might have been a juvenile yah-boo response, yet it felt immensely satisfying.
She frowned down at the note which she held in her hand. Her instinct was to chase after him and thrust it stubbornly into his pocket—why should he be allowed to dictate everything?—but after a moment she returned it to her purse. She had no wish to be ordered to keep away again and, in any case, once she embarked on a full-time painting career she was going to need all available cash.
Her eyes went to the champagne-spattered walls and patch of soggy carpet. The lift required attention. Walking out to drop the empty bottle into a convenient waste bin, she looked up and down the corridor. The stranger had disappeared off to the right, but in the distance on the left two women in overalls were chatting beside a vacuum cleaner. She alerted them to the state of the lift and asked for directions to the ladies’ room.
Jess washed her hands, coloured her lips with ‘Rosy Amber’ and brushed her hair. Whether it was due to being sprinkled with champagne or because of the chlorine she could not decide, but her corn-blonde urchin cut felt like fuse wire.
She checked her wristwatch. Damn. She was now almost ten minutes late and had still to locate the required suite of offices.
After consulting the cleaning women, who had become busy in the lift, she trekked off down what seemed like miles of corridors until she reached glass swing doors emblazoned with the gold-etched words ‘Warwick Group’. Both the reception area and the secretary’s room to where she was directed were elegantly decorated with neutral cream walls and carpet, offset by richly coloured curtains and upholstery in dark green and magenta. Solid walnut desks and bookshelves gave a feel of bygone years, while the only contemporary note was struck by a cool white computer.
‘I’m Jessica Pallister from Citadel Security and I have an appointment with Sir Peter Warwick,’ she informed the secretary, who was a bustling middle-aged brunette.
‘I’ll tell him you’re here,’ the woman said, with a smile, and disappeared through a connecting door. ‘He’s not quite ready and asks if you would kindly wait a few minutes,’ she reported, coming back. ‘Please, take a seat. I must collect a fax,’ she continued, hurrying towards the outer door. ‘Do excuse me.’
Grateful that her lack of punctuality had been of no consequence, Jess sat down. As she waited, she recapped on the few facts which Kevin had been given about the job. It seemed that Sir Peter had received a note which threatened the safety of an associate who was involved in the construction of a hotel which the Warwick Group were building in Mauritius. A female relative of the person was also at risk and they wished to discuss the employment of two bodyguards, one a woman, initially for a period of three months.
‘All the guys are tied up today, but this is just an exploratory talk,’ her brother had said, ‘so we can decide who goes with you later.’
‘If I go,’ she had pointed out.
Working on an island in the middle of the Indian Ocean would put her way beyond Roscoe Dunbar’s reach, Jess reflected, which was a plus. But, on the minus side, whilst blue skies, swaying palms and silver-white beaches had a glamorous spin and were fine on holiday, as a three-month working environment they could become repetitive. Boring. Dull. Yet the bottom line was that after almost five years of shooting off here, there and everywhere on the spur of the moment she had had enough.
She frowned down at her ankle-booted feet. She wanted to stay home, pick up the threads with old friends and concentrate on her painting. This morning she had been all set to announce the decision which, although reached on the spur of the moment, had been building for a long time and cut loose, but Kevin had had his say first. And because she had idolised him from being a tiny girl—as she idolised her other two brothers, Jess thought wryly—she had fallen in with his wishes and agreed to consider the job. Though only consider.
All of a sudden, she tilted her head. The secretary could not have closed the connecting door properly for it had sprung open and through the gap she could hear voices. A trio of male voices. Two of them were low and indecipherable, but the third was plummily, youthfully strident and rang out.
‘I believe it’s for real and I insist we take precautions, for our protection as well as yours,’ the voice said. ‘But don’t fret, you’re not going to be landed with two hulking brutes of ex-boxers, because one of them is a woman.’
Jess sat straighter. They were discussing security. One of the other men spoke earnestly and in what could be recognised as objection, then the ringing voice intruded.
‘Ease up, Lorcan. I’m sure your idea of an Amazon who splits bricks with her bare hands and has hairs sprouting from her chin is way off the mark,’ it said, and its owner guffawed.
Her hazel eyes burned. Whoever Lorcan was, he had a vivid and insulting imagination!
More indecipherable conversation followed, with the third man joining in, and again the strident voice sounded.
‘Let’s bring Miss Pallister through and—’
‘You have this all fixed?’ the objector demanded, his voice lifting in protest, but the connecting door had already been swung open and a baby-faced young man was strolling out.
With gelled fair hair slicked back from his brow and wearing a pearl-grey designer suit, grey shirt, white tie and white leather shoes, he had the self-satisfied air of someone who considered himself to be a cool dude.
Jess rose from her chair. ‘Hello.’
Taking a deep drag on the cheroot which he held between two fingers, the young man looked her up and down.
‘Gerard Warwick, delighted to meet you,’ he murmured, with a smile which was a touch too smooth, a touch too intimate, and, hooking an arm around her shoulders, he steered her with him into the adjoining office. ‘See, Lorcan,’ he said triumphantly, and indicated a portly, silver-haired man in his sixties, who was seated behind a leather-topped desk. ‘My father, Sir Peter.’
‘Good afternoon,’ Jess said, smiling, and when the business tycoon came round to greet her she shook his hand and introduced herself.
Her smile and introduction were automatic. All she could focus on was the fact that Lorcan, the man whom she had just passed and who had also risen to his feet, was the man from the lift. Though she ought to have guessed, she thought sourly. That ‘hairs on her chin’ remark could only have come from him!
CHAPTER TWO
SIR PETER thanked her for responding to his call at such short notice, which allowed Jess to apologise for her casual appearance.
‘You look charming, my dear,’ he declared, with a benign and patently sincere smile. ‘May I introduce Lorcan Hunter?’ he continued. ‘Lorcan is a highly esteemed and much sought-after architect, and we’re fortunate that he’s building us the most magnificent hotel village in Mauritius.’
She held out her hand. ‘Good afternoon.’
After a millisecond’s hesitation, when she wondered if he might refuse, her erstwhile victim shook it. His grip was firm and brief. It had occurred to her that it might also be sticky, but it was not. He, too, appeared to have diverted into a bathroom, for his dark hair was neatly combed and no tissue speckles marred the navy pinstriped splendour of his suit. In fact, the only visible evidence of the champagne fiasco was the slightly marinated appearance of his right sleeve.
‘You’re a bodyguard?’ he said, as if not sure whether to howl with derision or bang his head hard against the wall.
‘I am.’
‘Amazing, isn’t it? One false move and you’re mincemeat. Isn’t that right?’ enquired Gerard, and gave another loud guffaw.
Jess’s teeth ground together. Whenever she revealed her occupation it invariably evoked a chorus of amused astonishment and puerile jokes, in particular from men. Because she was young and blonde and shapely they seemed to regard her as a comic-cuts Killer Bimbo, and she had grown tired of it.
‘I’m meaner than I look,’ she said crisply.
Lorcan Hunter fixed her with piercing blue eyes. ‘That I do not doubt. You’re a whizz at the unexpected attack?’ he enquired.
‘I have my moments,’ she replied, silently defying him to tell his companions about their earlier meeting, which would be embarrassing and could damage her credibility.
‘You make grown men cower?’
‘From time to time.’
‘And put your life and limb at risk?’
She recalled his fury in the lift. ‘It can happen, though I always emerge intact,’ she said, gazing steadily back.
‘How about damage control?’
Her chin firmed. ‘I do my best.’
As if sensing something hidden beneath their byplay and resenting it, Gerard placed his hand on her arm. ‘Let’s sit down,’ he said, drawing her with him onto a small upright sofa, while his father returned behind the desk and Lorcan Hunter sat in a wing chair.
At the rub of the young man’s thigh against hers, Jess eased away. She did not care for his touchy-feely familiarity nor for the pungent reek of his cheroot, which smelled like a fusion of burnt treacle, drains and sweat-soaked socks.
‘To bring you up to speed, Miss Pallister,’ Sir Peter said, passing her a sheet of paper, ‘this arrived in the post this mourning.’
Made up from stuck-on printed words which had been cut from a newspaper, the note read:
So you think you can outwit me. Big mistake. Your hotel in Mauritius will never be completed. If Hunter returns to the island, he and his precious brunette are doomed to disappear.
‘Do you have any idea who might’ve sent this?’ Jess enquired. ‘And why?’
Sir Peter hesitated. ‘No. The envelope bore a London postmark, but that doesn’t mean anything.’
‘Come on, Pa,’ Gerard protested. ‘Charles Sohan is responsible.’
‘You mean Charles Sohan of the Sohan hotel chain?’ she asked.
‘The same. He and my father are rivals.’
Cosmopolitan and commercially shrewd, Charles Sohan owned luxury hotels all over the world. She had stayed in the New York Sohan once when she had been guarding an Arabian princess, Jess remembered, and been most impressed. Her brow crinkled. Whilst her only knowledge of the hotelier came from the media, to her it seemed unlikely that if he wished to launch an attack he would do so in such a petty, melodramatic and hackneyed way.
‘But sending something like this is so amateurish. It’s not Charles’s style at all,’ Sir Peter protested, echoing her thoughts.
‘The note is a hoax dreamed up by some airhead who wants to cause trouble,’ Lorcan Hunter declared, ‘and isn’t worth bothering about.’ Ice-cool blue eyes met hers. “The last thing I need is a couple of bodyguards lurking in the background.’
Jess gave a narrow smile. ‘You’re mistaken, Mr Hunter,’ she said. ‘We do not lurk. We blend seamlessly and unobtrusively into a client’s habitat.’
‘Not into mine,’ he rapped.
She moved her shoulders. ‘So be it.’
She had decided that if there was a snag she would refuse the assignment and there was one crucial snag—him. Three months in his company were unlikely to be dull, yet they would be intensely trying on the nerves. Everyone else she had looked after had been grateful—a shadow crossed her face: sometimes too grateful—and she was damned if she would be an unwelcome guest.
Gerard shone a soothing, slightly oily smile. ‘We’re only thinking of your safety,’ he told him.
‘I realise that, but I would’ve appreciated it if you’d consulted me before bringing Miss Pallister here today,’ the architect said, and gave a noticeably irritated tweak at his damp sleeve. ‘It would’ve saved a lot of hassle.’
‘No hassle. It’s been my pleasure,’ Jess said sweetly, and received a stony glare in reply. She turned to Gerard. ‘Have you notified the police?’
He shook his head. ‘Any danger would be on Mauritius.’
‘Even so, if you believe the threat is genuine—’
‘It isn’t,’ Lorcan interjected.
‘It could be,’ stated Gerard. ‘Yes, Pa?’
His father shifted uneasily in his chair. ‘I can’t decide, but whoever composed the note knows about Lorcan working on the hotel and his personal arrangements—’
‘And if there’s doubt it pays to be cautious, though we don’t need to bother the police at this stage,’ the young man declared‘, taking over the proceedings again. ’“Precious brunette” seems an unusual phrase. Has Sohan ever described Harriet like that?’
‘Yes, he has,’ Lorcan replied. ‘She went with me to his office once and now when we meet it’s how he refers to her. But we meet in public, so any number of people could’ve overheard.’
Sir Peter frowned. ‘I can understand your not wishing to be guarded, but you wouldn’t want to take even the slightest risk of Harriet getting hurt.’
A nerve pulsed in his temple. ‘Good grief, no,’ he said sharply.
Presumably the ‘precious’ Harriet who was to accompany him to Mauritius was his wife, Jess mused—or perhaps a live-in lover. A man like Lorcan Hunter would have his pick of women, so the brunette was bound to be some svelte beauty who dressed in style—she glanced down at her tunic and leggings—whatever the occasion. And whose face never flushed bright red, even if she ran the marathon in the Olympics.
‘Harriet is—Mrs Hunter?’ she enquired, thinking that she hated the woman already.
‘Sorry? No. The reference is to my daughter.’ The nerve throbbed again in his temple. ‘I’m a widower.’
‘So, to be on the safe side, you need someone to watch over her,’ Sir Peter said. ‘And Gerard thought that if it was a young lady no one would suspect her presence.’ He smiled at Jess. ‘People will believe you’re an au pair or perhaps Lorcan’s girlfriend.’
‘No, thanks,’ the architect said brusquely.
Jess’s spine stiffened. She had been about to object to the second description herself, but she saw no reason for him to be so anti!
‘OK, we forget the whole idea of bodyguards,’ Gerard declared, with a careless wave of his cheroot. He smiled at her through clouds of cloying smoke. ‘Sorry you’ve had a wasted journey.’
‘It isn’t a problem,’ she replied, thinking that for someone who, minutes ago, had been insisting on taking precautions he had undergone a swift change of mind. Yet perhaps Lorcan Hunter was getting a long way up his nose, too?
‘We won’t forget it,’ Sir Peter declared, suddenly sitting up straight and taking charge. ‘I’m willing to accept that you prefer to take care of yourself, Lorcan, but I still believe we should consider protection for Harriet. It’s another week until you return to Mauritius so there’s no need to make a final decision until then, but I’d like her and Miss Pallister to meet. To see if they get along together, if needs be. Do you have any experience of four-year-olds?’ he asked her.
She shook her head. Two of her brothers had children, but they were still only babies. ‘None.’
‘Harriet is four and a quarter,’ Lorcan said, and grinned. ‘She considers the quarter is of the utmost importance.’
Jess stared. It was the first time he had smiled and it transformed him. His blue eyes had warmed and sparkled, and attractive little dents had appeared in his cheeks. When he relaxed, he was handsome. Her gaze fixed on his mouth. Several years ago, she had illustrated book jackets and Lorcan Hunter had the mouth of a hero. His upper lip was thin and sculpted, the lower sensually full. It was a mouth which any artist would drool over. A mouth which ought to be cast in bronze.
‘Do you have an hour or two to spare?’ Sir Peter enquired. ‘Do you have the rest of the afternoon free, Miss Pallister?’ he said, and Jess realised, with a start, that he was talking to her.
She sprang back to attention. ‘Um—yes,’ she replied.
The businessman spoke to Lorcan. ‘Then perhaps they could meet this afternoon? You mentioned how you’d brought Harriet up to London with you today to see your folks, so it would seem the perfect opportunity.’
A beat went by before he nodded. ‘Whatever you wish.’
Jess frowned. Instead of concocting some polite excuse, turning down the assignment and walking away, she had allowed herself to be drawn in. Though only for the next couple of hours. The architect’s hesitation had made it plain that he had agreed to the meeting to oblige his paymaster and was merely going through the motions. And if she went through the motions, too, it would burnish the name of Citadel Security and could persuade Sir Peter to use them should his company require a bodyguard—or hotel guards or mobile patrols or closed circuit TV systems—at some time in the future. Which would delight her brothers.
‘You said you didn’t tell your parents about the threat, Lorcan, and we don’t want to alarm them or Harriet unnecessarily,’ the older man went on, ‘but I’m sure you can come up with a reason for the introduction.’ Rising to his feet, he held out his hand. ‘Thank you for your time and your trouble, Miss Pallister. We’ll be in touch with your office to advise them of what action we decide to take, in a few days.’
Ten minutes later, Jess was seated beside Lorcan Hunter in his black Alfa Romeo coupé heading out of Central London and north towards Hampstead Garden Suburb where, he had told her, his parents lived in a small private retirement community.
‘So,’ she said, ‘what role do you wish me to play in this charade?’
He shot her a look. ‘Charade?’ he repeated cautiously.
‘I’m well aware that we’re engaged in an exercise in futility because you intend to veto the bodyguard idea, come hell or high water. Yes?’
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘I see no need for one.’
‘Your choice,’ she said. ‘So, who am I supposed to be?’
He frowned, thinking. ‘Before I formed my own company I was with an international design firm called the Dowling Partnership, working first here and then in the States—’
‘Which explains the American twang,’ Jess cut in.
‘I lived there for several years.’
‘It’s a super country.’
He nodded. ‘It has a lot going for it. How about we say you were a colleague at Dowling’s London office?’ he went on. ‘We met by chance in the street today and you said you’d like to meet Harriet?’
‘OK, but—’
‘But, what?’ he enquired, when she paused.
‘Whilst you may consider your daughter to be the best thing since hole-in-the-wall cash dispensers, the only reason a single woman would show such an interest in her would be because she’s interested in you.’ Jess offered him a sunny smile. ‘A bizarre concept, I know, but such are the foibles of human nature.’
‘You’re good at the smartarse comment, Miss Pallister,’ he remarked, ‘but do you have a better idea?’
‘No. I was just pointing out—’
‘Then we’ll stick with it.’
‘Yes, sir. If we’re supposed to be one-time colleagues you ought to call me Jess. Short for Jessica,’ she told him.
‘And it’s Lorcan,’ he said, a mite reluctantly.
She angled him a look. ‘Lorc for short?’
‘Only if you’re a dear, dear friend,’ he said grittily.
‘But I don’t fit into that category?’
‘Not quite.’
‘You don’t believe Charles Sohan has any connection with the note?’ she asked as they skirted the grassy area of Regent’s Park and sped up past Lord’s cricket ground.
‘None. Granted, he and Sir Peter are in competition, and Sohan was eager for me to build him a flagship hotel in Mauritius, but—’
‘Why Mauritius?’ Jess interrupted.
‘Because he originally comes from the island. Around seventy per cent of the population are of Indian extraction, mainly descended from labourers who went there to work in the sugar plantations.’
‘And the other thirty per cent?’
‘Creoles, Franco-Mauritians and Chinese. When Charles Sohan discovered I’d been engaged to design a hotel complex for the Warwick Group, he immediately offered to double my fee,’ Lorcan continued, ‘and later to treble it. I refused. Although I’d barely started, it wouldn’t have been ethical to pull out.’
‘Mr Sohan was annoyed?’
‘Hopping mad. Apparently he’d been on the point of contracting me himself and he swore that Sir Peter must’ve found out and sneaked in first. But he’s not the type to seek revenge and, besides, he has a soft spot for Harriet.’
‘Sir Peter believes that although the note threatens you and your daughter it’s intended to hit at him,’ Jess said, ‘but it could also be hitting against you. Is there anyone you know who might bear a grudge?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t have any enemies—or, at least, none that I’m aware of. But the note is mischief-making,’ he dismissed.
‘It was still sent for a reason. You may not have enemies as such, but there could be people you’ve annoyed,’ she continued, and skewered him with a look. ‘For example, people whom you’ve shouted at or blamed for something which was beyond their control.’
His fingers tightened around the steering wheel. ‘OK, OK, I lost my cool in the lift. But when Gerard rang this morning to say there’d been a death threat against Harriet and me he made it sound so imminent, so serious that it scared the—it wound me up,’ he adjusted, ‘which was no doubt what the guy intended.’ Drawing the coupé to a halt at traffic lights, he turned to face her. ‘I reacted with less grace than I should’ve done. Will you forgive me?’
‘You aren’t going to grovel?’ Jess enquired, for his apology had been clipped.
‘I never grovel to anyone,’ he replied. ‘However, in this instance I do acknowledge that I was less tolerant than I should’ve been. So?’
She made him wait for a long moment. ‘I forgive you, Lorcan.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Now you can see the funny side?’
The green light shone and he accelerated away from the junction. ‘Don’t push it, Jess,’ he said.
‘Why would Gerard want to wind you up?’ she enquired as they motored along. ‘In my work I’ve shared all kinds of confidences with all kinds of people and I can be trusted,’ she told him. ‘I won’t blab.’
He subjected her to a discerning look, then nodded, accepting her assurance. ‘The guy’d enjoy winding me up because he resents my friendship with his father, plus he feels he should’ve been consulted about the designing of the hotel.’
‘Gerard is an architect, too?’ she said, in surprise.
‘No. He started to study architecture, but thanks to dabbling in drugs he got himself thrown out of college halfway through the course. He claims he would’ve sailed through his finals with flying colours, though whether that’s true is anyone’s guess.’
‘Your guess is no?’
‘My guess is that the guy has difficulty walking and chewing gum at the same time,’ he said succinctly. ‘However, this doesn’t stop him from thinking he should be running the show in Mauritius and not me. When he visited the site a month ago, he made that abundantly clear.’
‘Sir Peter let him run the show earlier,’ Jess observed. ‘Most of the time.’
‘That’s because he’s his only child and his weak spot. Sir Peter’s wife disappeared with some local heart-throb when Gerard was a few months old, so there’s always been just the two of them. I understand that when he was a kid he gave him everything he wanted and by the time it dawned that he could be raising a monster he was halfway there.’
‘Is Gerard still on drugs?’
He shook his head. ‘After the trouble with the college his father halved his allowance, which persuaded him to kick the habit, though now there’re rumours he gets his highs from gambling, plus he’s a heavy drinker. And he runs around with a very flaky crowd. But Sir Peter’s involving him more and more in the business in the hope that he’ll develop a taste for hard graft and take over when he retires.’
‘Gerard doesn’t come over as the hard graft type,’ Jess said.
‘Anything but. You don’t come over as a bodyguard,’ Lorcan remarked, and slid her a look. ‘Shouldn’t they have hair-trigger reflexes?’
‘My reflexes are excellent,’ she protested. ‘All right, when the champagne exploded—’
‘You screwed up.’
‘Well, maybe, but—’
‘There’s no “maybe” about it. You made a total, full-blown, unmitigated mess of things.’
Jess glared. There was a gleam in his blue eyes which said he was deliberately riling her—and enjoying himself.
‘The reason I wasn’t as alert as I should’ve been was that today nothing’s gone right,’ she informed him huffily. ‘So I was distracted, and a little slower off the mark and—’
‘You’re premenstrual?’ Lorcan suggested, when she sought around for another excuse. ‘I believe there’re some excellent remedies for PMT on the market.’
‘I am not premenstrual and that is so sexist! But maybe the reason you lost your cool earlier is because you’re in the throes of the male menopause?’ she said, in a feisty tit-for-tat.
‘Who’s being sexist now? Though I’m only thirty-seven.’
‘Fast approaching forty, which makes you ripe for it. And I was off duty,’ Jess completed, with an air of ‘so there!’.
‘When you’re on duty, you have your wits about you and are the mistress of any situation?’
Her jaw jutted. ‘I do. I am. Though you’ll never experience it.’
‘Alas and alack,’ he drawled, and turned off the main road and into a quiet tree-lined avenue.
Ahead on the left, a pair of wide wrought-iron gates stood open. Swinging the Alfa Romeo through them, he drove onto a cobbled courtyard which was edged by half a dozen cottage-style houses, each with its own flower-filled front garden. To one side stood a row of garages fronted by a parking bay and here he stopped.
‘Daddy!’ a child’s voice shouted as they climbed out of the car, and Jess saw a little girl with long chestnut curls skipping across the courtyard.
She had big blue eyes and dimpled cheeks which were a straight steal from her father, but was small-boned and delicately built. Wearing a white lace party dress and with a white satin bow tied in her hair, she looked like a miniature angel.
Jess had been on the far side of the coupé, but as she came round the child stopped skipping, stood on one leg and studied her. Her gaze was steely and suspicious. Another inherited trait, she thought wryly.
‘Who are you?’ the little girl demanded.
‘This is Miss Pallister,’ Lorcan said.
‘Jess,’ she amended, ‘and you must be Harriet.’
‘S’right,’ the child agreed, pouting.
He bent to swing her up into his arms. ‘Got a kiss for your daddy?’
The pout vanished. ‘Lots and lots,’ she declared, and began to cover his face with energetic kisses.
Watching on, Jess felt a softening around her heart. There was something poignant about a man bringing up a small child on his own and, whilst Lorcan Hunter seemed the last person to inspire her sympathy, she could not help feeling sorry for him. Sorry that he had lost his wife. Sorry he was a single parent with its accompanying strains and stresses—though perhaps, by now, he had a second Mrs Hunter lined up?
As the kisses ended, Lorcan set his daughter down on her feet and indicated one of the houses. They were walking along the garden path when an old lady in a lilac two-piece and with her fly-away white hair caught back into a bun appeared in the doorway.
‘I thought I saw a visitor and what a lovely surprise,’ she said, in a soft Irish accent. She smiled at Jess. ‘I’m Peg Hunter.’
Smiling back, Jess gave her name. Unlike her son and granddaughter, Peg Hunter displayed an easy warmth and instant friendliness. She also confirmed her hunch that a part of Lorcan’s ancestry was derived from the Celtic.
‘Do come in,’ the old lady entreated, leading the way into a cosy, rather cluttered living room where a spare, distinguished-looking old man was sitting on a sofa reading a newspaper. ‘We have a guest, Bob,’ she told him.
‘This is Jess Pallister who used to work with me long ago at Dowlings,’ Lorcan said, introducing her. ‘We bumped into each other just now and I’ve brought her to see Harriet.’
His father greeted her with a smiling hello and everyone sat down.
‘When me and Grandma went shopping I had three ice-creams,’ Harriet announced, leaning against Lorcan’s knees.
As she had idolised her brothers, so Jess recognised that the little girl idolised her father. And as she had not cared for it when her brothers had brought a strange female into the house, so Harriet’s gimlet-eyed looks along the sofa showed that she had serious doubts about her presence.
‘Three?’ Lorcan protested. ‘Ma, that’s ridiculous. So many times I’ve—’
‘How about making us a cup of tea?’ his father suggested.
‘Right away,’ Peg said. She was halfway to the kitchen when she stopped and turned. ‘You asked me to buy Harriet a new dress; do you like it?’
Lorcan frowned at the white lace extravaganza. ‘Very nice.’
His reply had been tempered and Jess understood why. The dress was fussy and twee and Shirley Temple. Just the kind of dress which would appeal to an elderly lady, but murder to wash and iron.
‘I didn’t want it,’ piped up Harriet. ‘I wanted the blue dress.’
‘But, sweetheart, the shop didn’t have a blue one in your size,’ her grandmother said, ‘and this is almost the same.’
The little girl stamped her foot. ‘Don’t care. I don’t like this one.’ Squeezing up her face, she forced out a couple of tears. ‘I don’t like white.’
Replace ‘angel’ with ‘Hell’s angel’, Jess thought. Though what else could you expect when you considered her genes?
‘Don’t cry, sweetheart,’ Peg appealed, looking as if she might cry herself.
‘I hate white! White is stinky!’
‘So we’ll make it blue,’ Jess said.
As if clicked off by a switch, the temper tantrum stopped.
‘How?’ demanded Harriet.
Standing up, she held out her hand. ‘If you come with me to your daddy’s car where I left my bag, I’ll show you.’
‘You need the key,’ Lorcan said, lifting a hip and reaching into his pocket. ‘Here you are.’
When they returned a few minutes later, Harriet was wearing a pair of swimming goggles. They were blue-tinted goggles.
‘My dress is blue now,’ she declared, smiling down at the skirt. ‘And you’re blue, Daddy. And Grandma. And Grandpa. And—’
As the little girl lifted a cushion, turned pages in a book, peered out of the window and happily pronounced everything blue, her grandmother served tea and home-made sponge cake.
‘Where do you live, Jess?’ Peg enquired pleasantly.
‘In Wimbledon.’
‘You live alone?’
‘Yes, in a small flat. Though my family are nearby so someone’s always calling round.’
‘Have you ever been married?’ the old lady asked.
‘No. I was almost engaged once, but I’ve travelled a lot over the past few years and separations aren’t conducive to long-term relationships,’ she said ruefully.
‘How about a boyfriend now?’
She shook her head.
‘So you’re fancy-free, just like my son is fancy-free,’ Peg said, her smile swinging between the two of them. ‘Isn’t that nice?’
At the other end of the sofa, Lorcan’s grim-faced silence accompanied by a swift gulp of his tea indicated that he was becoming impatient. Jess grinned. As he had riled her and enjoyed himself, so she recognised a chance to have some fun at his expense.
‘It was wonderful to meet up after all this time,’ she declared. ‘Wasn’t it, Lorcan?’
A line cut between his brows. ‘Yes,’ he replied guardedly.
‘He’s such a friendly, easygoing kind of a guy.’ Putting down her teacup, she stretched out a hand and squeezed his knee. ‘A poppet.’
For a moment, he seemed about to choke.
‘There’s always been a rapport between us,’ Jess carried on blithely, and shot him a look, pleased by the fire she saw in his eyes. ‘A strong one.’
‘So you’ll be meeting again?’ Peg enquired.
‘That’s up to your son,’ she murmured, lowering her gaze and acting coy.
Very deliberately—and as if she might be the carrier of the Black Death or some other lethal and highly contagious disease—Lorcan took hold of her wrist and lifted her hand from his knee. He stood up.
‘Time I took Jess home,’ he declared.
‘Already?’ his mother protested.
‘I’m afraid so,’ she said, taking her cue and rising too. Enough was enough. It would be foolish to overdo things and have him complaining to Sir Peter about her behaviour. ‘Thanks for the tea, but I must go.’
Harriet came to stand in front of her. ‘Do you want these?’ she asked, her eyes bright and anxious behind the goggles.
‘No, you can keep them.’
‘Forever?’
‘For ever and ever,’ Jess assured her.
The child gave her a solemn look. ‘Thank you.’
Goodbyes were exchanged, Peg expressed the hope that Jess would come again soon, and they took their leave.
‘Boy, you’re really something,’ Lorcan muttered as he unlocked the car.
Jess made innocent eyes at him across the roof. ‘I was only adding a little colour.’
‘By calling me poppet?’
‘You’d have preferred dearest heart?’
‘I’d have preferred it if you’d kept your lip buttoned. OK, my mother was grilling you and I apologise for that, but there was no need to give her the wrong idea.’
‘The moment she saw me she had the wrong idea. I did warn you.’
‘Maybe,’ he conceded, ‘but now she’ll be asking about you for months, because she liked you!’
‘I’m a likeable person.’
‘Then how come you manage to annoy the hell out of me?’ Lorcan enquired.
‘It’s a gift,’ she replied airily, and climbed into the car. ‘Please don’t bother to drive me home,’ Jess said as he swung the coupé out onto the road. ‘I can easily take the Underground, so if you’d just run me to the nearest station. It’ll be much quicker than driving back through the city and I only have a short walk at the other end.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Certain.’
‘Thanks, I’ll do that,’ he said. ‘It means I can relieve my folks of Harriet and get her home and in bed at a reasonable time.’
‘Home is where?’
‘West Sussex, and the journey takes around an hour and a half depending on the traffic.’
‘You obviously don’t have a girlfriend,’ she remarked as they turned back onto the main road.
‘No. Much to my mother’s dismay. But as you travel, so I’ve moved around in the two years since my wife died, and what with that and caring for Harriet I haven’t had the opportunity to embark on a relationship.’
A tightness had entered his voice and when she looked at his profile she saw the nerve pulsing in his temple.
‘Nor the inclination?’ she asked.
‘I have my share of raging hormones,’ Lorcan said drily, ‘so I guess I’d be open to a torrid affair with no strings attached. But as far as anything serious goes—no. I’m not interested in commitment. Thanks for sidetracking Harriet about the dress,’ he went on. ‘She can be a little witch at times. And thank you for the goggles. How much did they cost?’
‘I don’t remember, but put them towards the dry-cleaning of your suit.’
He gave a cryptic smile. ‘Will do. I’m also grateful for your cooperation in the charade,’ he said as they reached the Underground station. ‘Correction, fifty per cent grateful.’ Drawing into the kerb, he halted. ‘You don’t mind missing out on the Mauritius job?’
She shook her head. ‘On the contrary, it suits me fine.’
‘It does?’ he asked, sounding suddenly uncertain.
‘My dear Mr Hunter, the last thing I need is three months lurking around you,’ Jess said, and climbed out of the car and walked away.
CHAPTER THREE
AS FAST as suitcases tumbled off the carousel in the arrivals hall at the Sir Seewoosagur Ramgoolam international airport, the jovial Creole porter hauled them back onto it again. The simultaneous arrival of two jumbo jets, combined with slow Passport Control which delayed the claiming of luggage, meant that the circling belt was vastly overloaded.
Jess watched as a heap of miscellaneous Styrofoam parcels jiggled by. Because they had travelled club class their cases were supposed to have been taken off first, yet although Lorcan had all of his stacked on a trolley her two had yet to arrive.
‘When can we go?’ Harriet asked plaintively.
‘Just as soon as the rest of the bags come through,’ Lorcan replied, in a voice of sore-tried patience.
‘If they came through,’ Jess said.
After the twelve-hour flight with an in-transit stop in the Seychelles, all three of them were weary. It had been an early morning departure and a daytime journey, and no one had slept.
Jess circled a look around. A crowded arrivals hall seemed an unlikely place for villains to strike, but she was being paid to be on the alert—and she refused to screw up this time. Her brow creased. Though who or what she was on the alert for she did not know. His daughter’s ever listening presence had prevented her from asking the architect why, when the job had been cancelled as expected, there had been a last-minute request for her services.
‘We’d better make enquiries,’ Lorcan said, when most of the cases had been claimed and fresh items were no longer appearing.
Jess wiped a slick of moisture from her brow. Outside the rain was sheeting down and the atmosphere in the hall was as hot and humid as a sauna.
‘I suppose so,’ she acknowledged.
At a desk on the back wall, an Indian clerk checked the baggage slips stapled to her ticket, made a phone call and reported the damning news that all goods from their plane had been cleared.
‘Oh, no!’ she groaned.
‘Now you must fill in this form and the airline will put the tracing procedure into operation. Most bags are retrieved within a few days,’ the clerk told her, with a comforting smile, ‘but until then you may buy immediate needs and claim the cost against the allowance.’
By the time they emerged through Customs, the afternoon had slithered into early evening and the airport concourse was almost deserted. A four-wheel drive was parked at the entrance under cover from the rain, with a young man half-asleep inside it.
‘Mr Hunter?’ he called, rousing himself when he saw them.
He was waiting to deliver the Jeep Cherokee which Lorcan had hired, and after paperwork was completed and the luggage loaded they climbed inside.
‘Would you like me to navigate?’ Jess asked, eyeing the map of the island which the car hire representative had handed to her.
Lorcan started the engine. ‘No need, thanks. The house is just a few miles from the hotel site, so I know my way.’
‘My daddy’s been here before,’ Harriet said importantly, from where she was buckled into the rear seat. ‘Three times. When he came my grandma and grandpa looked after me. And Senga. Senga was my nanny, but she’s gone back to Scotland to get married. And now you’re going to look after me.’
Jess darted a glance at her chauffeur. The supposed reason for her presence was just one of a whole raft of questions which she needed to ask and matters which they had to discuss. Soonest.
She smiled at the child. ‘And Naseem,’ she said, referring to the local woman whom Lorcan had told her he had employed as a housekeeper-cum-childminder.
‘S’right,’ Harriet agreed, and smiled back.
The little girl’s original suspicion had gone and she was prepared to be friendly. This could be thanks to the goggles, which had been brought with other treasured possessions in her haversack and which continued to cast a spell, or, more realistically, Jess thought, it was because Harriet had marked her down as paid help. When her status had been unsure she had threatened—who was this strange lady with her daddy?—but now she had become acceptable. Her thought train jumped track. What was the threat which she had been recruited to deflect?
When they first left the airport Jess kept a discreet check to see that no particular vehicle appeared to be trailing them, but after a few miles she gave up. They were almost the only people out on the road. Besides, the relentless tropical rain would deter ninety-nine per cent of kidnappers, she reasoned—and she would take her chance with the remainder. Her gaze went to the strong hands which so deftly controlled the steering wheel and down to the gear-changing flex of a muscled thigh. Though it would take a determined gang to remove his beloved daughter when the well-built Lorcan Hunter was around.
She peered out through the window. The continuous driving rain had made it impossible to see anything of the island when their plane had landed, and now all she could make out were rolling fields where sugar cane had been harvested and the occasional blurred outline of a sharp, rugged mountain. Mauritius was grey, washed of colour, wet.
What was she doing here? Jess wondered. As her luggage seemed to have remained at home, wouldn’t she have done better to have stayed home, too?
‘Sorry, Kev, I’m not interested,’ she had said yesterday morning, when her brother had rung to announce that the Warwick Group had performed an eleventh-hour about-turn and wished to use her. Yet within minutes she had allowed him to talk her into it.
The windscreen-wipers moved in a rhythmic swish-swish. Why had she agreed? Was it a case of old habits dying hard—though she had insisted that this was her very last assignment—or because she had recognised that a stay in the sun did have its uses? Tropical island pictures were perennially popular and during her residence she would be able to build up a portfolio of local scenes. A hopefully saleable and lucrative portfolio.
Jess sighed. Whatever the reason, she had committed herself to joining forces with a man who was iron-willed and bolshie. And a man who, whilst he must have sanctioned her employment, still resented it.
Lorcan Hunter’s resentment was subtle. From meeting her at the airport, he had acted the civilised adult and been polite, amiable and—yes—at times even charming. Yet although they had chatted together and laughed she had been aware of a tightness within him. A basic irritation. He did not want her here disrupting his life and, whilst her presence might be necessary and he was currently co-operating, she sensed there would be battles ahead.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Lorcan said, all of a sudden.
Jolted from her musing, she shot him a startled look. ‘Sorry?’
‘I’m sure your cases will turn up soon.’
‘Oh... yes,’ Jess agreed, thinking that if she was destined to do battle with him she would survive. He might be a cussed individual, but she could be tough-minded, too.
‘Even if you do seem to be accident-prone,’ he added.
Recognising a reference to the champagne debacle, she flashed a synthetic smile. ‘It only happens when I’m with you.’
‘You’ll have a change of clothes in your hand luggage to tide you over?’
Visualising the sports bag which she had brought, she shook her head. ‘No.’
‘But if you’re travelling long haul it’s common sense to carry a spare set. I do. I have.’
‘Don’t you ever get just the teeniest weeniest bit sick of always being right?’ Jess enquired sweetly.
Lorcan’s mouth quirked. ‘Nope.’
‘Amazing. Even if I’d thought about it, which I didn’t,’ she said, ‘there wouldn’t have been room for spare clothes because my bag is full of painting gear.’
‘You must’ve brought one heck of an amount.’
‘Enough sketchpads, brushes, water colours, pencils, pens and inks to last me for three months.’
His brows lifted. ‘Sounds like you’re keen.’
‘I am.’ She looked down at the white-on-white long-sleeved body which she wore, her slim-fitting black skirt, her black-stockinged legs. ‘But I’m even keener to find a dress shop.’
Because she had felt like a slob at their first meeting, Jess had been determined to be elegant the second time around. The previous evening, she had applied a face pack, waxed her legs and colour co-ordinated her finger and toenails with ‘Pearl Sirocco’ lacquer. And that morning she had swept into the airport with her hair blow-dried into a silky blonde cap and teased into wisps across her brow, her face painstakingly made up and clad in a smart black suit with a sculpted high-necked jacket and high heels.
Her efforts might have been a touch over the top, but they were worthwhile. Lorcan Hunter had looked, done a double take, and looked again. He had seemed bewitched, until he had remembered that La Stupenda was the pesky bodyguard. But after he had brought himself to heel other admiring male glances had swung her way. Glances which, satisfyingly, she knew he had noticed.
However, her elegance had its drawbacks. At the airport, she had been one of a chic minority amongst the ubiquitous jeans and anoraks, and now... Jess shifted and felt her back sticking clammily to the seat. Before they’d landed, Lorcan had shed his sweater to reveal a short-sleeved navy shirt which, worn with stone-coloured cotton chinos, conceded to the climate. She had removed her jacket, but the tight white body, hip-hugging skirt and nylon stockings meant that despite the Cherokee’s air-conditioning she was bathed in steam heat.
The white body was clinging to her damp skin, outlining the high curve of her breasts and—she abruptly realised—drawing her chauffeur’s attention. Jess sat very still. The stroke of his eyes seemed as tactile as the stroke of fingers and she felt her nipples pinch and tighten. She gulped in a breath. He was arousing her with just a look. How could he do that?
‘Is the house which you’ve rented near a town? Close to shops?’ she rattled off. ‘Because I’d like to buy a change of clothes as soon as I can tomorrow.’
‘No, it’s on the outskirts of a small fishing village,’ Lorcan said, frowning as though being bewitched by her again had been an irritating—and curious—lapse. ‘There are a few shops, though I’m afraid I couldn’t say what they are. But until you get fixed up you can wear one of my shirts and a pair of shorts. They’ll be far too big, but you can hoist up the shorts with a belt.’
Jess shot him a glance. The offer of his clothes seemed surprisingly free and easy.
‘You’re trying to impress me with your kindness,’ she said.
‘Wait until you see my gear,’ he responded. ‘It’s nothing special and I may keep the best for myself and restrict you to the rag-bag end.’
‘Gee, thanks.’
‘Are we nearly there?’ Harriet asked as they turned off the metalled road and onto a muddy track.
‘Soon. In about ten minutes, fishface,’ Lorcan told her. ‘The house is an old colonial bungalow,’ he continued, negotiating the Jeep through a deep water-filled pothole. ‘It backs onto fields and is close to the beach and a short walk from the village.’
‘I’m going to go to playschool in the village,’ Harriet said. She hesitated, and when Jess turned she saw that her lower lip was trembling. ‘I don’t think I’ll like it.’
‘It’ll be fun,’ she said encouragingly.
‘You’ll love it,’ Lorcan declared.
‘I might not,’ the little girl said, and put her thumb in her mouth and sucked earnestly.
A couple of miles later, the dirt track smoothed into a surfaced road again and shapes of buildings began to appear through the curtain of rain. Jess peered out. She saw flat-roofed breeze-block houses with ramshackle gardens where large cacti were strung with sodden washing, a Chinese restaurant, a jarring glass and chrome space-ago-style bar and a row of shops. The shops were shuttered, but so far as she could tell there was no dedicated clothing store.
A long bend took them out of the village. To the right, through casuarina trees, were glimpses of a grey swelling sea, while on the left woebegone goats munched in a water-logged meadow. At the end of the meadow was a lane. Turning into it, Lorcan sped up past more affluent houses until they reached two stately dripping palms which stood like sentinels at the entrance to a gravelled drive.
‘This is it,’ he said.
Beyond a circular lawn stood a wide double-fronted wooden bungalow with an all-round veranda. Painted Wedgwood blue, it had white window shutters and a pretty white decorative valence edging the roof. Even in the rain, which had slackened into a steady drizzle, it was a gracious building and would, Jess decided, be an ideal subject for a water colour.
Lorcan drew to a stop beside the short flight of steps which led up to the white-glossed front door. ‘Naseem promised to leave the keys under the plant pot,’ he said, indicating a terracotta tub which spilled with crimson bougainvillea.
‘She isn’t here?’ she asked.
‘No. I agreed she need only come in in the mornings until we arrived. Though as from tomorrow it’s all day.’
‘Naseem doesn’t live in?’ she said, frowning. ‘I realise you didn’t actually say, but—well, I assumed she did.’
‘Does it make a difference?’ he enquired.
Jess unbuckled her seat belt. ‘None.’
The bungalow had spacious lofty rooms, tall, slim windows and ceiling fans. A wide central hall divided it into two distinct areas, with what Lorcan showed her and Harriet were the living room, a study and eat-in kitchen to one side, while three bedrooms lay on the other.
‘I thought this could be yours,’ he said, opening the door onto a square room which overlooked the rain-sleeked greenery of a fenced and private back garden. ‘I’m opposite and Harriet is next to me.’
With white voile curtains, white cotton-twist rugs on the highly polished floorboards and a big old-fashioned wardrobe and dresser, the bedroom was simple but comfortable. Off it was an up-to-date yet period-flavour bathroom which included a glassed-in shower cubicle, huge claw-footed bath tub and basin with gleaming brass taps.
‘Fine,’ she agreed.
‘I don’t like this house,’ Harriet announced belligerently as they went back into the hall. ‘There’s no proper carpet and the furniture’s all old and stinky. Wommie doesn’t like it, either.’
‘The house is lovely,’ Lorcan said, his voice gentle. ‘You’ll think so in the morning after you’ve had a good night’s sleep.’
‘I’ll think it’s horrid!’
‘Who’s Wommie?’ Jess asked.
Pushing out her chin and her stomach, Harriet looked defiant. A pint-sized warrior. ‘My friend.’
‘Her pretend friend,’ Lorcan said, with a weary roll of his eyes. ‘How about a bowl of cornflakes before you go to bed?’ he asked his daughter. ‘I arranged for Naseem to buy some specially.’
The little girl nodded. Her rebellion seemed to have used up her last ounce of energy and all of a sudden she was exhausted.

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