The Marriage Merger. Liz Fielding

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      ‘Breakfast, Flora?’ he prompted, when she didn’t seem to hear the hotel porter’s question.

      She frowned at him, irritated by the interruption or perhaps by the use of her name. ‘What?’ Then, registering his question, ‘Oh, no.’ She found a smile for the young man waiting anxiously to please her. ‘Just some tea. Thank you,’ she said, before returning to the photographs.

      It had been the interruption, then. Pity. For a minute there he’d thought he’d got her attention. Apparently that was reserved for hammered gold. Very old hammered gold.

      He picked up one of the large glossy prints, a photograph of a small, exquisitely chased cup. ‘Is this what all the fuss is about?’

      ‘It’s not a fuss.’ She took the photograph away from him, looked at it for a moment. ‘If the finds are genuine…’ She trailed off, distracted by a detail.

      ‘If?’ he prompted. She seemed taken aback by his question. ‘You said If the finds are genuine…’

      ‘Did I? I must be more careful not to do my thinking out loud. Dr Myan would be deeply offended at any suggestion of doubt.’

      ‘But?’

      She looked again at the photograph before returning it to the pile. ‘But I wouldn’t commit myself on the strength of some photographs. No matter how good. And not without seeing the site of the excavation.’

      ‘Why would you need to see it? You’re an expert in jewellery, not archaeology.’

      ‘They want my name on an article in a leading British newspaper. For that I need more than pretty pictures of treasure. I need background.’ She did some business with her hair, combing up loose strands and tucking them out of the way, then, ‘You stopped me from pushing that. Why?’

      The combs were a prop, he realised with a belated flash of insight. She used them as a defence mechanism, lifting her arms to fiddle with them, putting a barrier between them, cutting off eye contact. As if embarrassed that she’d questioned him so directly.

      She wasn’t anywhere near as cool as she would have him believe. In fact she was as nervous as a kitten.

      Of him?

      He’d done nothing to provoke such a reaction.

      ‘The subject appeared to make him uncomfortable,’ he said at last.

      ‘I wonder why?’

      For a moment it seemed that they were both having the same thought. That Dr Myan had something to hide. Then she retreated from their silent complicity, returning to the photographs like a snail ducking into its shell.

      ‘I just can’t believe I’m going to have to waste two days before I get a chance to look at this for myself,’ she declared, with sufficient vigour to suggest her nervousness had nothing to do with him. But he suspended judgement. Flora Claibourne was a lot more complex than he’d expected.

      ‘It doesn’t have to be a waste of time,’ he pointed out. ‘I’m sure there’s more to the island than a mysterious tomb. That beach looks inviting, for a start. I hope you packed a swimsuit along with your walking boots.’

      She looked up at him, then turned quickly away to look out across the garden. ‘It never occurred to me,’ she said. ‘But don’t let me stop you enjoying yourself.’ She opened her laptop, switched it on and plugged it into a telephone point.

      About to suggest that she’d be wiser putting her feet up, taking a nap, he thought better of it. Patronising her was not going to make him Mr Popularity, and so, leaving her to it, he went in search of his bag. It was set alongside Flora’s in a large, airy bedroom with a steeply pitched raftered ceiling.

      There was a total absence of clutter that he found pleasing. Just acres of dark, polished wooden floor broken only by blue and gold native rugs. There was nothing else to distract from the four-poster bed. Draped in sheer creamy cloth that stirred in the faint breeze, it was very picturesque. Very inviting.

      Somehow he didn’t think Flora would be amenable to taking his declared intention to stick close to her ‘…whatever she did…’ that literally, no matter what Dr Myan might be thinking. Retrieving his bag, he moved on to the next room, which was almost identical, with a luxurious bathroom and a large walk-in wardrobe. All it lacked was a warm and eager woman to share the long tropical nights with him.

      What he’d got was Flora.

      It was just as well that enjoyment was the last thing on his mind right now. He felt as if he’d been travelling for ever. He wanted a shower and then he wanted to sleep. That bed looked mighty inviting.

      But he knew that beating jet lag was best served by keeping local hours, and so, virtuously ignoring the siren lure of clean white linen, he took a long, cool, wake-up shower.

      Flora tapped in the password to her laptop, her eyes more interested in the back view of Bram Gifford disappearing in the direction of the bedrooms.

      What on earth was the man playing at? Okay, the Claibourne & Farraday thing wasn’t anyone’s business but their own, but he’d as good as implied that they were lovers. Tipi Myan had certainly thought so.

      What had she been playing at, doing nothing to correct that impression?

      She rubbed her hands over her face in an attempt to keep herself awake. At the time it had seemed too complicated to explain—at least that was what she’d told herself. Too complicated and none of Tipi Myan’s business.

      She frowned. Despite the man’s fawning welcome, it was clear that something had happened since she’d spoken to him on the phone and agreed to write the article.

      She found herself clenching the hand that Bram had taken in silent warning, reliving the moment when their minds had had but one single thought. It had made them—for a heartbeat—partners, allies, on the same side against the world.

      She rubbed her palm over her fist, as if to eradicate the memory of his touch. It had been too familiar. Everything about him was too familiar. As was her reaction to him. But then women always fell in love with the same man, over and over again. They never learned, so it was said.

      Perhaps she was smarter than most women. Or maybe her lesson had been harder taught. Because she’d put up her defences and now neither her famous name nor her money was sufficient inducement to tempt a man to look in her direction twice. And, if he did, it simply proved he had ulterior motives. A lose-lose situation for any man who bothered.

      Bram Gifford was different, though. He didn’t want her money: he had more than enough to last several lifetimes. Nor did he seek the cachet of her famous name. He had his own, right there between the Bram and the Gifford. He was a Farraday to his fingertips.

      He only wanted one thing from her. To discover her weaknesses and use them against her and her family.

      With her mind quite straight on that point, she reached for her keyboard, setting the search engine to hunt for any reference to Saraminda, hoping to find some clue as to what on earth was going on.

      Bram felt almost human. All he needed was coffee and food and he’d make it through the day.

      Probably.

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