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In view of his parting shot, she’d been half tempted to go to her stateroom and stay there, not venturing back on deck at all. But that might suggest she was disturbed by what he’d said, and she couldn’t afford that. She had to appear indifferent, even relaxed, if that was possible.
So she’d simply collected her sunglasses, and the book she’d intended for the journey back to Paddington, and she was now struggling to lose herself in it. The reviews had been good, and it was by an author she liked, but the story was failing to hold her.
Real life seems to keep intruding, she told herself, endeavouring not to glance at the bridge, where Diaz, his shirt discarded, was seated at the controls, and thankful for the designer shades concealing the direction of her gaze.
What’s wrong with me? she demanded silently. I’ve seen plenty of men in less than he’s wearing. Come to that, I’ve seen him in far less too, only I was too young to appreciate it. Even if I’ve never been able to forget…But would the image of him emerging from the water like some dark sea god be the one she would take with her into the approaching wilderness?
Or would their encounters of a few months ago prove more potent in the end? Become the ones to be treasured?
Like the moment when she’d glanced across the crowded room at the sponsors’ party and seen him there, unchanged and unmistakable after nearly five years, chatting to the Apex chairman and his wife.
She’d never really expected to see him again, so the shock of it had held her breathless, motionless for a moment, captive to all kinds of contradictory emotions. Then, obeying an imperative she’d barely understood but had known she might regret, she’d murmured an excuse to the group around her and begun to make her way towards him.
Halfway across the room, she had almost turned back.
I don’t know what to say, she’d thought. Or even how I should behave. Surprised—that goes without saying. But should I be pleased to see him, or strictly casual? Just stopping for a quick word in passing on my way out to find a cab?
She had still been undecided when Sir John Blenkinsop had noticed her approach.
‘Ah, delightful,’ he said heartily. ‘Diaz, you must allow me to introduce you to our star—the lovely girl who keeps the ratings for Castle Pride sky-high. Rhianna, my dear, this is Diaz Penvarnon, a valued client of Apex Insurance.’
There was an instant’s silence, then Diaz said pleasantly, ‘Actually, Sir John, Miss Carlow and I have already met. And delightful is certainly the word.’ His eyes skimmed her, taking in the white brocade coat-dress, knee-length, its lapels designed to show a definite but discreet amount of cleavage. Then he took her nerveless hand in his and bent to kiss her cheek, his lips warm and firm as they brushed her face.
‘Rhianna,’ he said as he straightened. ‘It’s been a long time.’
Say something—anything…
‘It has indeed. Too long.’ Her numb lips managed to return his smile. ‘I suppose this is one of your flying visits to the UK? Is it business or pleasure this time?’
‘The usual mix,’ he said. ‘And my plans are fluid at the moment.’ He paused. ‘I’ve just come back from Polkernick.’
‘Of course,’ she said over-brightly, as guilt kicked in, reminding her of all the reasons she had to avoid him, and why she should have resisted this and every other temptation he represented to her. ‘How—how is everyone?’
His grin was rueful. ‘Wedding fever has risen to epidemic proportions,’ he returned. ‘If ever I tie the knot it’s going to be at a register office very early in the morning. Guest list limited to two witnesses.’
‘Oh, your bride will soon change your mind about that,’ said Sir John. ‘Women like these full-dress affairs, you know.’
Diaz said gently, ‘Then I shall just have to persuade her.’ He indicated the empty glass Rhianna was holding. ‘May I get you another drink?’
‘Yes, you look after her, my boy.’ Sir John turned to his wife. ‘Marjorie, my dear, I see Clement Jackson has arrived. He’s bound to want a word, so shall we leave these two to catch up with each other?’
Rhianna stood, clawed by a mixture of excitement and uncertainty, as she waited for Diaz to return with the dry white wine she’d requested. I shouldn’t be doing this, she whispered inwardly. I should be making an excuse and easing myself out. But I can’t—I can’t…
‘Apparently Lord Byron said he woke up one morning and found himself famous,’ Diaz remarked, as he handed her the glass. ‘Was it like that for you?’
