The Marriage Merger Read online

  India, realising that she’d won, laughed more with relief than amusement. ‘I have the feeling that meeting you will be a unique experience for him.’

  Bram leafed through the thick file of newspaper cuttings and magazine articles that in one way or another touched on the life of Flora Claibourne. Other than the dreary formal portrait used on the jacket of her book, which made her look ten years older that she was, and the broadsheet reviews, few concerned her as an individual.

  Mostly they included her as an add-on. She was a member of a well-known family whose loves and lives had always provided fodder for newspaper diarists. She didn’t appear to have had any affairs worth reporting, though. Unlike her mother, who was a tabloid editor’s dream.

  Peter Claibourne’s second wife had been a model. Tall, leggy and stunningly good-looking in those early photographs. She hadn’t stayed with Claibourne long. She hadn’t stayed with anyone long. She must be in her forties now, although cosmetic surgery and kind lighting made her appear closer to Flora’s age. Maybe that was why they had rarely been seen together much once Flora had grown out of photogenic babyhood. The myth of endless youth would not survive the comparison, and since her latest husband—formerly her personal trainer—was considerably younger than her, that illusion was a necessity.

  And Flora might prefer it that way too. It must be tough to be compared with your mother and found wanting.

  On those rare occasions on which she’d been forced to put on a long frock and makeup she looked ill at ease, as if desperate to escape and return to the safety of her books. She looked, he decided, like a virgin who didn’t quite know what her body was for.

  An innocent little fish just waiting for a cunningly tied fly to be drifted temptingly over the water? It seemed unlikely. She was twenty-six years old. There must be more to her than that.

  There was a long ring at the doorbell.

  He took one last look at the photograph. It was true that she was no Eve, but it was entirely possible she’d open up like a flower to the sun in response to a little attention. He wouldn’t be closing his eyes, though. He’d be watching her every minute of the day.

  Picking up the overnight bag that contained his passport, along with the essentials for coping with a long flight, he went to answer it.

  ‘Mr Gifford? Your car for the airport, sir.’

  Flora Claibourne barely looked up from the notes she was reading as he joined her in the rear of the limousine that was taking them to the airport. Just long enough to nod and say, ‘I’m sorry about dragging you away like this, Mr Gifford. I hope I haven’t inconvenienced you.’

  She was wearing a crumpled linen trouser suit in some indescribably drab colour, her hair an untidy bird’s nest inadequately secured with pins and combs. If she’d tried, he thought, she couldn’t have looked less appealing.

  He turned on a suitably low-wattage smile to match her cool businesslike manner. Maybe the sun would warm her up.

  ‘It’s Bram,’ he said. ‘And don’t apologise. A couple of weeks on a tropical island sounds a lot more attractive than following you around a department store.’

  ‘The whole purpose of this exercise is to demonstrate what it takes to run a department store,’ she pointed out, not bothering with a smile of any kind. Or a return invitation to use her given name.

  Prickly, as well as plain. God, he hated women who made no attempt to look attractive, instead challenging the male of the species to hunt for inner beauty and gain his true reward. He had news for her. The average male wasn’t interested in inner beauty. But it wasn’t his job to tell her that. His brief was to find out what was going on behind the scenes at Claibourne & Farraday.

  He didn’t think flattery would impress her much either, so he said, ‘If that were the case we’d both be wasting our time. You know nothing and since I’m a lawyer, not a shopkeeper, I’m not especially interested.’

  The smile hadn’t made any impression; maybe he could disarm her with frankness. Okay, so he wasn’t being totally frank. He was very interested in getting the Claibournes out and the Farradays in with the minimum amount of fuss. Legally.

  ‘At least this way I’ll be wasting my time in the sun.’

  She glanced at him again without raising her head, just a sideways look—a lift of lashes untroubled by mascara but long and dark enough without it. In any other woman he’d have taken it as the opening move in a game of flirtation, but Flora appeared to be totally oblivious of the effect such a look might provoke. Or maybe she was cleverer than he’d given her credit for. She must have learned something from her mother, even if she’d only absorbed it by osmosis.

  ‘Have you packed walking boots?’ she asked.

  No, she was oblivious, he decided.

  ‘Should I have?’

  She shrugged, as if it was of no particular concern to her whether he had or not. ‘I anticipate taking a trip into the interior. It might be rough going. Of course you don’t have to come with me.’ She reached up and pushed a comb more firmly into the bird’s nest. ‘I’m sure you’d be much happier staying at the beach.’

  Roughly translated, that meant, I’d be much happier if you stayed on the beach, he thought. She’d probably be a lot happier if he stayed at home. Well, it wasn’t his role in life to make her happy.

  ‘On the contrary, Miss Claibourne, I’m along for the ride. Wherever it goes. I’ll be most interested in everything you do.’

  She looked doubtful, but didn’t argue, returning to the handwritten notes in the file she was holding, suggesting without words that they were far more interesting that anything he might have to say.

  Again, in any other woman he would have assumed it was all part of the game and been amused, but it was clear that Flora Claibourne didn’t play games. She really didn’t care.

  Round one to her, then.

  His presence ignored, he opened his briefcase and extracted a brand-new hard-back book. Ashanti Gold, by Flora Claibourne.

  He, too, began to read.

  Flora didn’t miss his attempt to flatter, although why he would bother at all surprised her. Not that it mattered, because she wasn’t impressed. She’d seen all the moves before.

  He pushed long, elegant fingers through his shaggy mane of sun-streaked hair, taking it back from his forehead in an unconsciously graceful gesture.

  That one was a classic, she thought. And beautifully done, with not a hint of the self-conscious. He made it look like a gesture he’d used all his life—not one he’d practised in front of a mirror.

  She still wasn’t impressed. Bram Gifford might consider himself a world-class charmer, but it would take more than the purchase of her book, a faux interest in her subject, to turn her head. But she didn’t say anything.

  While he was pretending fascination with the history and uses of gold in West Africa he wasn’t attempting to engage her in conversation, which was just fine with her.

  With any luck he’d read all the way to Saraminda.

  Saraminda. The name had an exotic ring to it and the island didn’t disappoint, Flora decided, as the small inter-island plane banked steeply to line up with the floor of a tropical valley, offering them a breathtaking view of the mountainous landscape.

  The lower slopes were farmed on terraces painstakingly cut into the hills, but above the farms the foothills rose in wave after wave, until they soared into peaks densely thicketed with the dark green vegetation of a rainforest that until recently had hidden the ruins of a temple where a young woman had been buried with all the ceremony of a queen.

  Allegedly.

  She’d met Tipi Myan briefly at a reception given by the travel department at the store more than a year ago. He hadn’t been Minister of Antiquities then. He’d been running the country’s tourist authority.

  Call her cynical, but if she’d been in his shoes she might have been tempted to use that very tenuous acquaintance to ask the author of Ashanti Gold to write about his “lost princess”. It would provoke a lot more intere
st in his island than an article by some jobbing photo-journalist looking for a story to sell.

  It had been his good fortune that she’d been looking for an escape route at the time. One that had backfired on her. As Bram Gifford leaned across her to get a better look, his thick corn-coloured hair catching the sun, the small inner voice that warned her she was being used, grew louder.

  She was being used by everyone. All that had changed was her ability to see the game for what it was and ensure that she wasn’t hurt in the process.

  ‘We’re going up there?’ Bram asked, looking up at mountain peaks gold-misted in the dawn light before turning to her. He was, she thought, heart-meltingly handsome, with warm, toffee-brown eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled. ‘You aren’t bothered about snakes and spiders and creepy-crawlies?’

  For pity’s sake! Did she look like a bird-witted fool? Patronising cancelled out toffee-brown eyes—however crinkly their corners—every time.

  ‘In my experience they have more reason to be scared of me than I have of them,’ she replied matter-of-factly. She’d witnessed the most practised flirts at work, but she’d only been caught once. She was a quick learner, and it would take a lot more than ‘Me Tarzan, you Jane’ to impress her. ‘There are far more unpleasant things in this world than arthropoda,’ she added.

  Bram, who’d expected the usual shiver of horror, gave a mental nod in her direction. Not too many women of his acquaintance would have resisted the opportunity to squeal a little, just to boost his ‘big strong man’ quotient. Or used arthropoda in a sentence. But then he was the first to admit that he wasn’t interested in their IQ.

  Having neatly put him down, she wasn’t waiting for him to compliment her on her backbone either. He was getting the message, loud and clear, that she didn’t care what he thought.

  Instead she began gathering her personal possessions without any fuss, not taking the slightest bit of notice of him.

  In his experience this was usually a calculated ploy. Not noticing men had been raised to an art form by a certain type of woman. The kind who wanted to be noticed.

  He had to concede that she didn’t appear to be one of them, but he’d reserve judgement.

  Right now the early-morning sun, pouring in through the window, was lighting up her tortured hair and glinting off a dozen hairpins. Someone should do her a favour and throw them away, he thought. And those damned combs that she was forever replacing without seeming to notice what she was doing. As if reading his mind, she raised her hands to capture a loose strand of hair and anchor it in place.

  Then, as if sensing him watching her, she let her hands drop to her lap. ‘I’m so sorry, I wasn’t thinking. That’s so remiss of me. Are you concerned for your own safety, Mr Gifford?’

  This was the nearest they’d come to a conversation in the endless hours of flying. She was still sticking to his surname though, despite his request that she call him Bram. But at least it was a question: a mocking one, to be sure, but one that required an answer. A decided advance on the monosyllabic responses she’d stuck to throughout the long flight.

  Clearly a seasoned traveller, she’d eaten little, refused anything but water to drink and slept without fuss when she wasn’t working—although that hadn’t been often. And while they’d waited for their transfer to the Saraminda flight at Singapore she’d toured the shops, looking at everything but buying nothing. And saying even less.

  He’d used the time when she’d been sleeping to take a long hard look at Flora Claibourne. She might be clever, but she was a woman, and they all had their weak spots. If he was going to get her to open up to him, trust him, confide in him, he’d have to discover hers.

  Of the three Claibourne sisters she most favoured her father in looks. Not much of a start for a girl. On her, the nose only just missed being a disaster. But then all her features were larger than life. She had a full, generous mouth that might have been dangerous if she’d bothered to make the most of it. And eyes that, although a rather undistinguished shade of brown, were strikingly framed by long lashes and fine brows.

  It was a face full of character, he decided. Then had recalled his formidable grandmother ticking him off when, as a callow youth, he’d rather unkindly dismissed some girl as plain. ‘Her face may not be pretty, but it has character, Bram,’ she’d told him. ‘And she has lovely skin. That will last long after chocolate-box prettiness has lost its charm.’

  He hadn’t been convinced at the time. Still wasn’t. But he had to admit that Flora Claibourne had lovely skin too. In the clear, unforgiving light at thirty thousand feet it had seemed almost translucent, with just the faintest dusting of freckles that had been invisible in the grey London morning they’d left behind them. The kind of skin that without sun block would frazzle to a red, peeling crisp. He hoped she didn’t take her reverse vanity that far.

  He’d noticed, too, that asleep she lost the wary look that she disguised well beneath a faintly aggressive attitude. So what, exactly, was she wary of? Him? He hadn’t done anything to warrant wariness. Yet.

  Awake, she’d concentrated on work, and he’d known better than to push his company on her. Instead he’d read her book from cover to cover, which was why he now knew more than he’d ever wanted to know about the history of gold working in West Africa. That wasn’t a complaint. She had a lively style and could tell a story. It was just that he hadn’t anticipated reading it all in one go.

  To sum up, then, she was aggressively dowdy, wary and clever. In short, everything he disliked in a woman.

  She was also, having ignored his presence for most of the flight, now taking the opportunity to poke a little fun at him. She might not have the style of her sisters, but he was beginning to suspect that she wasn’t going to be the push-over he’d anticipated.

  A flicker of anticipation rippled through him. An unexpected charge of excitement. It was a long time since the outcome of the chase had seemed so uncertain. Or the stakes so high.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘WELL?’ she prompted, still waiting for his answer. ‘Are you scared?’

  ‘Of spiders? Absolutely terrified of the little beggars,’ he said, the long pause lending authenticity to his apparently reluctant confession. Acknowledging a weakness had, in his experience, never failed to bring out that innate protective instinct that was the birthright of every woman.

  Why spoil such a perfect opportunity to evoke her sympathy by telling the truth?

  Flora regarded him levelly for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to believe him. Then she said, ‘The plane has come to a stop, Mr Gifford.’ He still didn’t know what she thought. About anything. It was disconcerting, to say the least, and he turned away to peer out of the opposite window at quaint wooden airport buildings that were smothered with flowering climbers.

  ‘I do believe you’re right, Miss Claibourne,’ he replied, getting to his feet to retrieve their bags and jackets from the overhead locker.

  There was a bump as the door was opened and the aircraft was flooded with soft warm air, the smell of aircraft fuel mingling with the scent of the tropics. Musty, spicy, different.

  ‘This certainly beats London on a grey day in May,’ he said as they walked across the tarmac towards the terminal building.

  ‘There are no snakes in London,’ she said, automatically rescuing a comb and tucking it back in place. ‘Outside of the zoo. Or poisonous spiders.’ She knew he’d been lying. Or at least suspected as much.

  ‘There’s always a downside. You can’t have everything.’

  ‘No, you can’t, Mr Gifford.’ The customs officer waved them through with a smile. ‘You, for instance, can’t have Claibourne’s.’

  Taken by surprise at her unexpected mention of the dispute, he was still groping for an appropriate answer when a short slender man, formally attired in a long silk high-necked jacket and a traditional sarong that covered him to his ankles, approached Flora and bowed politely before extending his hand.

  ‘Mis
s Claibourne! What a pleasure to meet you again. And how kind of you to come so far to write about our small treasure.’

  ‘Not at all, Dr Myan. I’d seen reports in the press and I’m excited at the prospect of seeing what you’ve found for myself. May I introduce my colleague, Bram Gifford?’

  ‘Mr Gifford.’ He covered his surprise with a small bow. ‘Are you an expert in the same field as Miss Claibourne?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘By “colleague” Miss Claibourne was referring to other interests we have in common.’

  ‘Oh?’ Then, with a bland look that didn’t entirely hide a touch of pique, he drew his own conclusion as to what that might be. ‘Oh, I see. Well, I’m sure you’ll enjoy your stay, Mr Gifford. Maybe we can arrange some excursions for you while Miss Claibourne is working,’ he added. ‘Saraminda is a lovely country. Wonderfully peaceful,’ he stressed.

  ‘Peace and love. I’m all for it,’ he said.

  The flash of annoyance that had crossed Flora’s face at the man’s unspoken assumption that ‘colleague’ in this instance meant ‘lover’—and his implicit response—was the first unconsidered reaction he’d got from her. He didn’t give her a chance to clarify the situation.

  ‘But I’ll give the excursions a miss, thanks all the same. I’ll be sticking close to Flora.’ A man would hardly call his ‘colleague’ Miss Claibourne, now, would he? ‘Whatever she does.’

  Dr Myan said nothing, but his silence was eloquent. Did he fancy her himself? Bram wondered as he turned away and ushered Flora in the direction of a long black car with official numberplates, leaving him to follow in their wake with the porter.

  It seemed unlikely. She was six inches taller and didn’t dress to turn heads. Maybe it was her mind he admired. Or maybe he’d expected her undivided attention and was peeved that she wasn’t quite as single-mindedly interested in his affairs as he’d hoped.