Elizabeth had been sipping coffee in the shopping centre's open-air roof-top bar when the airport bus, which had obviously obeyed the speed limits that the Pantera and taxi had flagrantly ignored, pulled into the marina. She anxiously watched several of her fellow air-travellers escorted to a launch carrying the hotel logo, ready to spring into action if J.J. Hawkwood made an appearance, but there had been no sign of him and Elizabeth had forced herself to stay put, even though watching the launch leave had left her with a panicky feeling of being abandoned.
She filled in some of her idle time looking at the file that Uncle Simon had given her, thinking that the photograph of Hawkwood was a very poor one. His face was turned slightly off-centre, angled lighting throwing up shadows and lines on his face that hadn’t been apparent in the even lighting on board the plane. His face also looked fleshier, less aesthetic, and his right ear sported a discreet gold stud rather than the flashy ring. The shot of his alleged paramour, on the other hand, was excellent. Serena Corvell was a cool, beautiful blonde, and from the haughtily complacent expression on her face she knew it!
Elizabeth had assumed that the hotel launch would be back and forth all day, but when she had finally got fed up with watching the empty balcony on the top floor and made her way down to the harbour-master's office she discovered to her dismay that the trip to the Isle of Hawks took much longer than she had assumed and the launch wouldn’t be back again until after the New Caledonian 'siesta' that closed all the shops from eleven a.m. until three in the afternoon. The idea of having to wait one more minute, let alone an hour was more than Elizabeth could bear. There must be a boat-owner somewhere in the marina who would take her over to the island for the right price.
The answer, according to the three she had tried so far, was that the right price was beyond her pocket. Elizabeth was too prudent a businesswoman to look upon Uncle Simon's offer to pay her expenses as a licence for extravagance, and who knew how many wild-goose chases like today's she might have to embark on to keep tabs on the elusive Hawk?
She had just resigned herself to waiting out the siesta after all when her prey had swooped on her unsuspecting back.
'The bus driver does have instructions to come via the scenic route,' J.J. Hawkwood said drily, making her realise how long the silence had stretched.
'Yes, well... I like to be independent,' she reminded him.
'But now you are regretting that independence?' he guessed smoothly. 'Because this no doubt helpful young man has explained to you that, this being a privately owned island, he has to have official permission to land anyone on the Ile des Faucons—permission which he does not happen to have...'
'Yes, of course,' Elizabeth lied primly, throwing a brief, reproachful glance back at the guilty man on the boat whose unworthy hide she was saving. No wonder the prices she had been quoted were so exorbitant! 'I was just enquiring, that's all. Actually, I thought I'd just look around the shops while I waited for the hotel boat to come back-'
'Unnecessary, Miss Lamb. My own personal boat is leaving for the island in a few minutes. You will travel with us.'
Not can, not may, but will. Elizabeth's pride was pricked.
'Thank you, but I prefer to do some shopping—' she began testily.
'It's siesta. The shops are closed.' He picked up her largest bag, hefting its weight with an ease that hardly stirred the thick muscles of his upper arm. For some reason the demonstration of his strength made her more determined to impose her will on him.
'Put it down.'
'I beg your pardon?' The haughty English correctness was as infuriating as ever.
'My suitcase. Could you please let go of it? I can handle it myself.' She reached for it and he jerked it away.
'I'm sure you can. You're a very strapping young lady. But as a gentleman I insist on being allowed the honour of carrying it on board for you.'
Strapping?
Elizabeth felt a star-burst of anger mingle with a treacherous desire to laugh at his subtly provocative insult. He made her sound like a ten-foot-tall Amazon, bulging with muscles and threats to male dominance.
'Carrying it? Oh, is that what you're doing? I got the impression that you were holding it to ransom,' she said tartly. 'Your boat doesn’t fly the skull and crossbones, by any chance, does it?'
'You think I look like a pirate?' He tipped his head, smiling, probably flattered by the odious comparison.
'No,' she lied crushingly. 'But you're certainly behaving like one.'
'I'm told that's my principal charm,' he murmured.
'How depressing for you.'
'You think so?' The smile became thinner, less provocative, and Elizabeth knew that she had finally got under that thick skin.
'Pirates are notoriously cold-blooded, violent and amoral. Your other charms must be singularly unattractive if those are the ones that people associate you with.'
For an instant something hot and dangerous flashed in the grey eyes and Elizabeth inadvertently took a few steps back. Her mouth went dry when he matched her, pace for pace.
'Why all the hostility, Miss Lamb? You have resented me from the first moment we met on the plane. Why?' He spoke very quietly, and was all the more menacing for it.
'I—I'm sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,' she said awkwardly, knowing it was true. She had no right to judge him when she only had one side of the evidence.
She took off her sunglasses and looked at him with her chin high, so that he could see she was perfectly sincere. She had never deliberately set out to hurt anybody in her life—until this wretched man had crossed her path.