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Trust Luke to have a boringly logical explanation for his dangerous taste in drinks. ‘Lost opportunity there, Luke,’ she chided wheezingly. ‘You should have hinted at a shadowed past...that you may have acquired your liking for Russian vodka in Moscow, but the circumstances are not something you’re at liberty to discuss.’
‘You mean I should lie?’
‘I said may, didn’t I? It’s not lying, exactly. It’s weaving a romantic tale around the truth to make it a bit more interesting.’ She sniffed. It was a mistake. The potent fumes lingering in her throat expanded into her nasal passages and made her eyes water furiously again. She abandoned the ridiculous argument over semantics and mopped at the brimming tears before remembering that she had applied a bold amount of mascara to her dark-brown-dyed eyelashes to make them look thicker and longer. ‘Oh, no!’ She raised her face to his. ‘Has my mascara run?’
‘Yes.’ There was a trace of malice in his inspection.
‘You look like a racoon.’ She scowled at him and he tagged on hurriedly, ‘A very pretty racoon, of course.’
She was torn between laughter and offended dignity. ‘Oh, nice save, Mr Suave. Very debonair!’ She slid off her stool. ‘Since I haven’t got my instant-repair kit with me I’d better take a face-saving stroll back to the chalet.’
Luke rose, sliding a discreet tip across the polished wood of the bar. ‘I’ll come with you. After all, it was my vodka that did the damage ... and I wouldn’t like anyone to take a swipe at you in the dark, mistaking you for a pretty, noxious pest.’
Rosalind groaned. ‘You pick up the art of stinging banter awfully fast for a beginner. I hope I’m not unleashing a monster on the unsuspecting women of the world!’
‘Perish the thought, Dr Frankenstein,’ he murmured in her ear as they turned onto the crushed-shell pathway that branched off under the palms towards their small grouping of chalets.
When they reached her chalet she lingered on the doorstep, relaxed in the certainty that her escort wasn’t suddenly going to turn into an over-amorous octopus. If there was any pouncing to be done she suspected she was the one who would have to do it!
Smiling at the thought, she ordered him to call for her the next morning, so they could plan out their day over breakfast at the elegant little coffee-bar on the balcony of the hotel’s marine sports pavilion.
‘But-’
‘But what?’ she said impatiently as she opened the door. ‘You don’t eat breakfast?’ She turned to look at him, standing at the bottom of the wooden steps. ‘Or did Erina make you a more attractive offer? Were you planning on having breakfast in bed, maybe?’
She couldn’t see, because his face was shadowed by the night, but she would have bet that he was blushing as he growled, ‘Of course not. I just wondered why it had to be so early, that’s all.’
‘You’ll see.’ She grinned and turned to trundle upstairs to the bedroom, uttering a shriek of horrified mirth as she saw her black-ringed eyes in the bathroom mirror. Rosalind Racoon indeed! Ah, well, tomorrow she would get her revenge...
She scrubbed her face till it was pink and shiny and fell into bed, drifting off to sleep to the hushed sounds of the sea and the tropical night breeze whispering in the palms outside her window.
CHAPTER FIVE
ROSALIND woke to a furious thunderstorm.
No, not thunder. It was definitely a man-made racket, she decided as she opened her eyes to a room awash with light. Someone was hammering at the front door of the chalet.
Rosalind sat bolt upright and immediately fell back on the pillows, groaning, but it was too late—her stomach had already been set in unsteady motion. Waves of nausea washed over her and she closed her eyes, swallowing frantically, trying to think calming thoughts, but it was difficult to concentrate with the thumping going on downstairs, the sound vibrating through the wooden walls of the chalet. She held off for a few more miserable seconds but then had to make a heart-pounding dive for the bathroom.
She only just made it. She slumped to her knees by the toilet bowl, retching violently, feeling the sweat break out all over her tortured body. Even when she could bring up no more she still retched. She flushed the toilet and moaned as the churning of the water triggered a fresh bout. Death seemed a very attractive alternative.
The thumping had stopped and suddenly she became aware of a questioning voice echoing inside the chalet.
‘Uh... Rosalind? I’m here! Are you ready to go?’
Luke! She lurched to her feet. She could hear the footfalls crossing the polished wood floor below. His next call was stronger as it came floating up the narrow stairway.
‘Rosalind? Are you still up there?’
In a panic, Rosalind realised that if he came up the stairs he would find her in the nude. She preferred to sleep without the rumble of the air-conditioner and it was too hot to wear anything in bed but the flimsy sheets. She tried to call out but her voice emerged from her burning, bile-coated throat as a dry croak. She grabbed the green hotel robe hanging on a brass hook on the wall and wrapped it around her, her fingers fumbling with the tie as she staggered towards the door.
‘Rosalind? I can hear you moving around; I know you’re awake. Please, won’t you answer me?’
‘Yes, yes, I’m here.’ She hurried down to meet him, moving as fast as she dared, a supportive hand sliding along the wall to give her stomach the illusion of stability. As she had feared, he had already started up the stairs and they met on the small landing.
Luke looked insufferably fit and healthy in white trousers and a rather vivid island-print shirt, the jewel-bright colours stamped on a red background—a garment which at any other time she would have coveted. As it was, its vibrancy made her stomach wince and she quickly shifted her gaze. His damp hair was neatly combed back, his recently shaven jaw was smooth and glossy and the crisp, clean tang of a citrus-based cologne preceded him.
In contrast Rosalind felt grubby and smelly and desperate for a shower, and when Luke froze in his tracks she knew that she looked exactly the way she felt. She glared at him, wishing she had long, abundant curls to hide behind, rather than the perky, short, nakedly revealing cut that she ordinarily loved.
