The Duke's Proposal

Jemima had her very own stalker, she thought with savage irony.

She gave herself a mental shake. This was stupid. Besides, she hated being so sorry for herself. It made her feel a wimp.

She stood up, looking for kitchen roll to blot her streaming eyes.

And again the phone burst into shrill life.

She jumped so hard that she knocked over the kitchen roll. While she was retrieving it the answering programme kicked in. Izzy’s lovely laughing voice, and then…

‘Welcome home, Jemima,’ said a voice she knew.

She stopped dead. Her hand stilled on the paper roll. Suddenly the self-pitying eyes were dry. Dry as her mouth.

‘Pick up. I know you’re there.’

Slowly she straightened and put the kitchen roll back on the fitment very precisely. Her throat hurt. She swallowed, looking at the telephone. She did not move.

The voice got impatient. ‘Come on, pick up. Don’t be stupid. I saw you put the lights on.’

Could he see her? The kitchen window was three feet away. Slowly Jemima backed to the door and out into the windowless corridor. She could hear her own breathing.

The voice pursued her. ‘Pick up, Jemima. We need to talk. You know we do. Come on, pick up. You owe me that.’ It sounded so reasonable, put like that.

Only she knew it wasn’t reasonable. And neither was Basil any more.

She backed up against the wall. Her hands were slippery with sweat.

Think! she told herself.

‘I bloody made you, you bitch,’ he spat, fury overcoming that spurious reason at last.

Jemima blocked it out.

He must have been waiting outside, she thought feverishly. Or he might have followed her. She hadn’t seen him when she’d left her interview with Madame. But then half the time she didn’t see him. He would just step out of the crowd, smiling except for those mad, angry eyes.

And he would say…

He would say…

‘You are mine.’

Just as he was saying it now.

The flat had never felt so empty. Jemima looked round and took a decision.

I have got to get out of here.

It was actually surprisingly easy. She had a ticket for New York in her bag which she didn’t need any more. And one of the great things about first class air tickets is that they are as transferable as it gets.

All she had to do was get out of the building without the watcher following her. What she needed was a veil, thought Jemima dryly. Or, failing that, a crash helmet.

A crash helmet…

The pizza delivery guy was so intrigued he would probably have lent her his helmet and jacket anyway. But the fistful of notes certainly helped. She parked his bike in front of the all-night pharmacy and waited to hand over the key. She called a cab while she was waiting. It arrived as he came strolling down the road.

‘Thanks,’ she said.

‘Hey, no sweat. Pleased I could help.’

She had told him it was boyfriend trouble. Clearly dazzled, he had not doubted her for a moment. It was going to be all round the pub this weekend, thought Jemima.

She did not care. She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. ‘My hero.’

He beamed. And held the door of the taxi cab open for her with a gallant flourish.

‘Good luck.’

‘Thank you,’ said Jemima with feeling. ‘I can do with it. I really can.’

And she could. Change the flight? The booking clerk was helpfulness personified. Yes, certainly, no problem. Where did she want to go?

‘Ah.’

For a moment Jemima’s mind went completely blank. Wildly, she scanned the posters behind the desk. They all looked like the sort of photographs she was used to starring in, only without the high fashion.

She shrugged. Oh, well, if you’d been everywhere, what else could you expect? This was an escape, after all, not a proper holiday.

She played the eeny-meeny game in her head, and it landed on silver sand and palm trees beside an improbably jade sea.

She nodded to the poster. ‘There.’

‘The Caribbean? Yes, madam. Which island?’

On the point of saying she didn’t care, Jemima stopped. From somewhere out of the well of memory a name surfaced.

‘Is there somewhere called Pentecost Island?’ The moment she said it she felt a tingle, as if this was somehow meant. She stood up straighter. ‘Do you go there?’

The clerk smiled. ‘We can get you there, Ms Dare. Via Barbados. First class again?’

And that was how easy it was.

No one in the world would know where she was. So not even Basil could bribe or bully or spy on anyone to tell him.

Alone in the bathroom in the first class lounge, Jemima studied herself in the mirror as narrowly as Basil had used to study her. She looked fine. Tired under the harsh lighting, but as well as anyone else would look on this overnight flight. She had beaten Basil!

‘Gotcha!’ she said, punching the air.

She almost skipped onto to the plane.

Her euphoria lasted through the night, through the long, dull early-morning wait at Barbados airport, through the trip on the far from first class local island hopper. It lasted right up to the moment she disembarked at Pentecost.

The airport was small. Shiny and modern, and clean as a new machine, but tiny. Jemima had never seen an airport like it. Once through passport control, she found a concourse that would just about take a row of plastic chairs and a small coffee stall.

She stared round blankly.

‘Toy Town Airport,’ she said aloud.

The coffee stall boasted a steaming urn and some delicious slices of home-made cake. And a friendly woman as wide as the stall.

‘We’re not a big place,’ she agreed.

Jemima jumped and blushed. Damn, she had got to stop talking to herself. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—’

But the woman was not in the least offended. ‘Small and proud of it,’ she beamed, serving Jemima with a generous wodge of banana bread.

Jemima bit into it with pleasure. She had been too tired to eat on the plane. This warm spicy-smelling stuff was ambrosial.

‘I guess I’ve got used to airport malls,’ she said ruefully, licking her fingers. ‘Oh, well, I’ll have to go shopping in town. But there must be a tourist desk somewhere around?’

The woman shook her head placidly. ‘No call for it. The tourists all know where they’re going before they get to Pentecost.’

‘Oh.’

The friendly coffee-seller looked Jemima up and down assessingly. Jemima could have groaned aloud. She knew what the woman was seeing and it wasn’t very impressive: the cheap jeans had been a great disguise when she’d wanted to look like a pizza delivery person, but they hadn’t survived the flights too well. And the tee shirt, with its glitter logo that had been amusing in metropolitan London, now looked simply slutty. Add to that a too tired, too pale face, and red hair scragged back in two disintegrating plaits and you had a pretty unimpressive picture. Not a desirable import at all, thought Jemima wryly.

She had forgotten her luggage. The little island hopper planes didn’t have any seating differential, but the gold and silver identity label on her swag bag gave her away. It just screamed ‘First class’.

The woman’s eyes lingered on it. She gave a small nod. ‘You’ll be for Pirate’s Point.’

Jemima followed her eyes and looked down at the label. ‘W-will I?’

The woman waved a hand at one of the few posters on the single advertising hoarding. And there it was, sandwiched between a notice about prohibited foodstuffs and an out-of-date cinema schedule, a photograph she recognised. Turquoise sea, palm trees, surf topped with white like soft meringue.

It clicked into place like the last piece of a jigsaw.

Abby’s friend! The mysterious N, who had sent her a postcard but wasn’t a danger to her marriage because he had known her when she wore braces on her teeth. That was where Jemima had heard of Pentecost Island before.

Pirate’s Point Casino. All the holiday you’ll ever need.

Jemima went over to look at it.

‘“Luxury development, gardens, beaches, international cuisine. And the chance to win your fortune. Everything you need in one complex,”’ she read.

It sounded exactly what Jemima would have paid good money to avoid. She turned back to the coffee-seller.

‘Well, I was hoping to stay in town. See a bit of local life,’ she said tactfully. ‘Would it be difficult to get a room?’

The woman shook her head decisively. ‘All town places fill up this time of year.’

Jemima’s heart sank.

‘You talk to Mr Derringer out at Pirate’s Point,’ the woman said comfortably. ‘He’ll take you in. Big place like that, with the casino and all, they bound to have a room.’

Jemima smiled wryly. The casino! That was hardly the escape she had imagined. A load of tired New Yorkers, who didn’t like the desert or the weather in Atlantic City, playing slot machines.

‘A casino is not quite what I had in mind…’

A trolley of medical supplies and baby powder rolled out from the customs area. The man in charge of it applied the brakes and leaned his arm on top of the boxes.

‘There’s the place in town,’ he offered.

‘That’s for those kids who crew on the boats,’ said the coffee-seller loftily. ‘Not a young lady.’ And her eyes skimmed the silver and gold label again.

He was less impressed by the first-class trappings. ‘Well, now, that may be true. But beggars can’t be choosers.’

The woman was not listening. She was looking over Jemima’s shoulder, and a big grin grew from ear to ear.

‘You lucky. Here’s the man to help you,’ she said. ‘Hi, Niall.’

Behind them, an unmistakably English voice said lazily, ‘Hi, Violet. How’s it going?’

English!

Basil!

Jemima spun round, heart thundering so hard she felt that it would tear her in two.

She half threw her bag away, ready to defend herself. Basil had once seized her arm and held it agonisingly high behind her back until she had agreed to do some stunt that he was insisting on. Logically, she did not think he would do that again in public. But logic did not have much to do with her feelings about Basil. She took a step back, half turning away, gathering herself to fight back…

But it wasn’t Basil. It was a man she hadn’t seen before.

If she had seen him she wouldn’t have forgotten him.

He was tall, with a lazy grin and denim shorts that looked as if they were probably illegal. Apart from the shorts he was wearing nothing but some disgraceful flip-flops and a tan that the male models she knew would kill for. But it was not the spectacular tan or even the outrageous gear that hit her between the eyes. It was his face.

This was a face that would stick in the memory. Not because he was particularly handsome. He wasn’t. His nose was crooked and much too big, and the high, haughty cheekbones were far too prominent. But it had intensity and a fierce intelligence. Oh, yes, definitely unforgettable.

And just now his eyebrows were as high as they could go.

‘Hey, up,’ he said. ‘Oh, boy, have you got a bad conscience.’

Jemima stared at him, bemused. ‘What?’

‘You look as if you think you’re going to be arrested,’ said Haughty Cheekbones. ‘Put your bag down. Look. No handcuffs.’ He sounded amused.

Jemima lowered her bag, feeling rather a fool. It irritated her profoundly. But, for all that, he still took her breath away. He looked like one of those Renaissance princes. Probably one who had people locked up on the whim of the moment, she thought, hanging on to her irritation for all she was worth.

In fact, that was why you wouldn’t forget that face, thought Jemima, trying her calm her galloping pulse. It was too much of everything—too dark, too shuttered, too impatient. And—she looked for the first time at the wide, sensual mouth and swallowed hard—much, much too passionate.

Violet of the coffee stall could clearly take all that passion in her stride.

‘We fine,’ she interceded placidly. ‘But lady here just got off the plane. Nowhere to stay.’ She patted Jemima proprietorially on the shoulder. ‘You take her back to Al’s place.’

Jemima’s pulse had returned to normal. Well, nearly. But this sounded as if Violet was sending her off to the slave market.

‘Al’s place?’ she echoed.

The Renaissance prince cast her a sardonic glance and she felt her cheeks heat. Damn, did the man read minds as well?

‘Local name,’ said Violet carelessly, all but ignoring Jemima in her determination to convince Haughty Cheekbones. ‘You going to take her back with you?’

He clearly didn’t like it. That voluptuous mouth tightened. ‘You’re a fixer, Violet.’ He didn’t say anything to Jemima at all.

Jemima found her voice. Now she saw he wasn’t Basil she wasn’t afraid of him, she told herself fiercely. Passionate or not, he was just a man—and a stranger. She could handle strangers. Even relaxed, nearly naked strangers, with hair-roughened chests and a mean streak.

‘No need,’ she said crisply, avoiding his eyes. ‘I came on spec and it clearly wasn’t a good idea. I’ll just stay here and take the next plane out.’

‘Can’t do that,’ said the Englishman, relaxed to the point of boredom. ‘There isn’t another flight until tomorrow.’

Damned Toy Town island, fumed Jemima silently. Aloud, she said brightly, ‘Then I’ll find somewhere to stay in town.’

He shrugged. ‘Fat chance. There are only three hotels, and they’ll all be full if you haven’t booked.’

She met his eyes. He looked back with total indifference.

Jemima told herself that she wasn’t vain and she didn’t expect every man in the world to fall at her feet. But it was a long time since a man had looked at her with such total absence of interest. At her? Through her! It made her feel cold and just a little afraid.

I’m never going to be afraid of a man again.

It was all she needed to put some steel into her backbone. She stuck up her chin and said, with a very good imitation of friendliness, ‘Then I won’t waste my time. I’ll sleep here.’

‘In the airport?’ Even Mr Indifference was taken aback.

‘Yes.’

‘Do that a lot, do you?’

Actually, she had never done it before. But her sister was an experienced traveller, and Jemima had been listening to Izzy’s stories of missed connections and jaunty improvisation all her life. In comparison with Izzy’s hair-raising experiences, sleeping in a clean and peaceful airport didn’t seem too difficult. Even for a spoilt model girl, thought Jemima dryly.

She tilted her chin. ‘You got a problem with that?’

He shrugged again. ‘Not me. But they have a strong vagrancy law here. They’ll probably throw you in jail.’

Jemima tried to stay cool, but her assumed friendliness slipped a bit.

‘Then that will solve the problem of where I spend the night, won’t it?’ she said sweetly.

Too sweetly. This time when he looked at her it was not with indifference. It was with undisguised temper.

She glared back.

Reluctantly, it seemed, his lips twitched. ‘Okay, you’ve made your point.’ Suddenly, there was an unexpected undertone of laughter. ‘You don’t want to go to Al’s. I see that. But I don’t think you’ve got an alternative, at least for tonight. Tell her, Violet.’

The coffee-seller nodded vigorously. ‘Listen to the man.’

‘So neither of us has much choice,’ said the Englishman dispassionately. ‘I’ll give you a lift out to Pirate’s Point. Al will give you a room for the night. You can get a taxi back tomorrow morning and take the first flight out. How’s that for compromise?’

Jemima bowed to the inevitable. It didn’t make her like him any more.

‘Oh—okay, then.’

His dark eyes glinted with real amusement. ‘No need to go overboard with the gratitude,’ he said dryly.

It was a rebuke. Jemima did not like that either.

‘Thank you,’ she said between her teeth.

‘You’re welcome.’

He turned away. ‘Violet, have you seen—?’

But at that moment the doors to the arrivals area opened again and a tall black man in a startling white uniform came through. He came over, smiling widely.

‘Hi, Niall. Al conned you into coming to pick the stuff up, did he? We were waiting for him at the gates. You got the pick-up?’

Niall shook his head. ‘The Range Rover.’

‘Oh, well, bring it round. We got three pallets to load.’

Niall said to Jemima, ‘Where’s your stuff?’

She gestured at the swag bag, sitting squashily in front of the coffee stall.

His eyebrows flew up. ‘That all?’

‘Yes,’ she said, bristling.

‘You travel light!’

Her hackles rose. ‘Hey, what do you need for a holiday in the Caribbean?’

She repressed the thought that all the gear she had was for Europe in February. She had intended to pick up a bikini and some shorts at the airport. But she was not admitting that to Haughty Cheekbones.

The Englishman looked sardonic. ‘A hotel room would have been good. Or do you make a habit of sleeping where you fall?’

On the brink of denying it, Jemima caught herself. It was the perfect alibi, after all. Just in case Basil did, by some fluke, manage to track her to Pentecost. She could let everyone think she was a student backpacker, floating from island to island. So if Basil turned up asking for an international model they could all say, On Pentecost? Nah!

So she tilted her head back to meet his disparaging glance.

‘I go where the wind blows me,’ she said naughtily. ‘Does that worry you?’

For a moment his eyes were as dark and fierce as any Renaissance potentate offended by a minion. Then he seemed to remember who and where he was. He gave a crack of laughter.

‘You really know how to get under a man’s skin, don’t you?’ he said ruefully. ‘How you live is nothing to do with me, thank God. Come along, then, wind-rider. Let’s get you stashed before I start loading.’ He whipped her bag off the floor and onto his shoulder as if it weighed nothing and raised a hand to the coffee stall. ‘See you, Violet.’

‘You’ll like Pirate’s Point,’ Violet told Jemima. ‘Enjoy.’ And, to him, ‘Bye, Niall. Come back soon.’

The two men strode ahead out of the main doors, talking. Ignored, Jemima set her teeth and followed.

Outside the air-conditioned building the hot, still air was like walking into a wall of toasted marshmallow. It also smelled of plane fuel. Jemima stopped dead, gagging.

The man called Niall stopped, looking over his shoulder. ‘You okay?’

‘I’m fine.’

And she was. After the icy rain of London, the heat seemed to reach out and hug her. She drew a deep, deep breath and caught up with him as the man in uniform peeled off towards some high steel gates.

Niall opened the passenger door of a big Range Rover and tossed her bag up into it.

‘You’ll have to sit with your feet on it,’ he said practically. ‘The back seat is reserved for loo rolls and coffee this trip.’

He adjusted the back seats to lie flat while Jemima scrambled up into the vehicle. Then he swung round into the driver’s seat and set the thing in drive just as the gates began to swing open. He drove, she saw, with more precision than one would expect from his careless manner. He shot the vehicle through the gates before they were even half open and not a scrap of paint was scratched. Then he parked meticulously beside the waiting boxes.

‘You’re good at this, aren’t you?’ she said involuntarily.

‘Running errands and an unlicensed taxi service?’ he mocked. ‘Oh, sure.’

She looked at the small tower of goods. ‘Can I help?’

‘Load up, you mean? No, thanks. I do better on my own. Get my own rhythm going.’ He gave her a sudden smile. He was startlingly sexy when he smiled. A Renaissance prince eyeing up a possible favourite. ‘But thanks for the offer.’

He got out of the vehicle. Just as well. Jemima could feel the heat in her face all over again. She took herself firmly to task, watching as he started to load up rapidly.

He was right, she thought. He did do better than he would have done with her amateur assistance. He was very fast, not a movement wasted.

She frowned. The semi-naked beach bum and the precision driver with a scientific loading method did not seem to sit together very comfortably. Was he hiding something?

At once she laughed at herself. Just because you’re on the run, that doesn’t mean everyone in the world has a secret!

But, even so, as she watched the muscles in his arms bunch and release, bunch and release, she thought, He doesn’t try to look like a muscle man, but there’s a lot of latent power there. I wouldn’t like to cross him.

Now, that really was ludicrous. Especially as she had already promised herself that she was never going to be afraid of a man again. Far better to stop fantasising about that surprising strength and concentrate on what she was going to call herself. If she was serious about leaving supermodel Jemima Dare in her box for a week, she’d better think up a name and fast.

It was not until they were belting down a stretch of newly surfaced road that he said, ‘You’d better tell me your name. I’m Niall.’

‘So I gathered,’ said Jemima, a touch acidly. And went on, without so much as an infinitesimal pause, ‘Jay Jay Cooper.’

It would have passed any lie detector test, she thought complacently. Cooper was her mother’s name. Jay Jay was what the family called her.

He nodded gravely. ‘Welcome to Pentecost, Jay Jay. Have you been in the Caribbean long?’

Jemima thought about the last time, in November. It had been a shoot for the Belinda project. They had all put up at a palatial villa on a private island. She had had a mountain of luggage, had never emerged from her suite without a full hair and make-up job, and had given interviews to the international gossip journalists every spare moment when she wasn’t actually working on the shoot.

She bit back a smile. ‘Off and on,’ she said airily.

‘Work or pleasure?’

‘This time it’s pleasure.’

He nodded. ‘So what do you do when you’re not bumming around on pleasure trips?’

She hadn’t prepared for that one and had to think quickly. ‘Nothing very interesting. Bit of this. Bit of that.’

He sent her a look that was part mockery, part suspicion. ‘What sort of this and that?’

‘Oh, I’ve waitressed,’ she said truthfully. Well, she had—when she was at school.

It was not enough. He was still waiting.

She thought wildly and borrowed from Izzy’s chequered career yet again. ‘Cruise ship hospitality. Typing and filing. Anything that pays the rent, basically.’

‘All to fund your travel habit?’

‘I suppose so.’

He nodded. ‘Me too.’

‘What?’

This time the look he gave he was different. Slower. Deeper. Also more thoughtful. Appraising, somehow. As if he was taking her in properly at last. And not trusting her an inch.

Jemima shifted in her seat, suddenly uneasy. He could not have disturbed her more if he had actually reached out and touched her.

But all he said was, ‘I’m a natural-born hobo too.’

She bridled at the too. Then reminded herself that was what she wanted him to think. Or did she? She couldn’t really care less what a beach bum thought about her, could she?

She was still pondering that one when he said, ‘I’ve been travelling the world for over fifteen years now. We’ve probably been to some of the same places.’

That brought her up sharp.

‘Um—probably,’ said Jemima in a hollow voice.

‘We must compare notes.’

‘Er—yes.’

‘Tonight, say? We’re going to be eating in the same place, after all. Why don’t I see you in the bar and we can eat together?’

‘Great.’ Jemima’s enthusiasm was so forced that it was amazing he did not notice it, she thought.

But he didn’t. ‘It’s a date,’ he said cheerfully.

Jemima could have screamed. So much for lying low and being her own woman! She had not been on this Toy Town island for more than a couple of hours and already she’d got a date she didn’t want with a man she didn’t like. A man, moreover, who had the hard, dissecting look of a Renaissance ruler who wouldn’t brook being lied to. Tonight, she thought furiously, was going to be hard work.