The Marriage Merger Read online

  If that was the case, the ride in from the airport should have reassured him. She spent the journey bombarding the man with questions about the items that had been found—keen to know when she could go up into the mountains to visit the site where they had been excavated, eager to take photographs for the article she was writing.

  ‘You wish to see the tomb?’ he enquired. ‘But why? There’s nothing there.’

  ‘Even so, I think I should see it.’

  ‘It’s a difficult journey, Miss Claibourne. Hard even for a man,’ he said, which Bram thought was probably a mistake. ‘A long walk up into the mountains. Besides, it isn’t necessary,’ he reiterated. ‘The treasure is all at the museum.’

  ‘But you asked if I wanted to see it,’ she reminded him. ‘And I do need to look at the excavations, perhaps link decoration of the tomb with the designs of the jewellery.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ His expression was that of deep regret. ‘It is not possible.’

  ‘Not possible?’ she asked. ‘Why?’

  Maybe Saramindan women didn’t ask questions. Dr Myan clearly assumed his word would be sufficient. He wasn’t prepared to offer explanations and for a moment floundered. ‘The tremor…there was more damage than we first thought. We cannot take the risk,’ he said, like a man clutching at passing straws.

  ‘Are you taking steps to stabilise the structure?’ Bram asked.

  ‘Plans are being made. Engineers are being consulted,’ he said carefully, as if weighing every word before uttering it. Flora glared at him for giving Tipi Myan a chance to evade her persistent questions. ‘And we will restore everything so that visitors will see it as it should be seen. When it’s safe. We are already making plans to build a lodge nearby for visitors, in traditional style, so that when they have seen the tomb they will be able to enjoy the ambience of a tropical forest in complete comfort.’

  ‘If the climb up there doesn’t kill them,’ Flora muttered.

  ‘You’re going for the eco-tourist market?’ Bram asked.

  ‘We have many beautiful flowers, butterflies—’

  Flora had had enough. ‘That is very interesting, Dr Myan, but I must have photographs of the tomb for my article,’ she persisted.

  Bram reached out and took her hand to distract her. She turned to him with a frown. He said nothing, but she got the message just the same. She wasn’t going to get anywhere by pestering Dr Myan. She retrieved her hand without fuss and let the subject drop.

  ‘Ah, we have arrived.’ And, having delivered them safely to a new luxury resort complex, the man excused himself with almost indecent haste, claiming an urgent appointment. ‘I will return after the holiday. Rest, enjoy yourselves. This is a charming resort.’

  ‘Holiday? What holiday?’

  ‘It is a religious feast day tomorrow.’

  ‘Holiday,’ she repeated with disgust, when he’d gone. ‘I’ve flown halfway round the world to see a tomb that is apparently out of bounds and now I’m told to sit and twiddle my thumbs while everything stops for a holiday. What on earth am I going to do tomorrow?’ she demanded.

  Bram could think of a dozen things. However, since she was clearly outraged at having travelled so far to the see all the riches of Saraminda only to be kept waiting, he thought it wiser not to suggest sun-bathing or sightseeing as an alternative.

  Instead he dealt with the formalities at Reception before they were led through the gardens to a traditional bungalow set in a garden that ran down to the beach.

  Built of local timber and beautifully thatched, with a wide veranda facing the sea to catch the breeze, the single-storey, self-contained cottage offered the perfect image of a tropical holiday paradise.

  He hadn’t realised an academic author warranted such red carpet treatment. Of course it was just possible that the tourist authority wanted Flora Claibourne to see what was on offer, hoping she’d go home and tell her equally wealthy friends.

  They were, he thought, doomed to disappointment. Beyond a request that the air conditioner be turned off, Flora appeared as oblivious to her surroundings as she was to her appearance. She was far more interested in the photographs that Tipi Myan had left with her—none of them of the tomb—than in the simple luxury of their accommodation.

  Of course it was always possible that Claibourne & Farraday had booked the accommodation when they’d organised his ticket. Maybe that was why they had one of the larger bungalows with two bedrooms, since the Minister of Antiquities had quite obviously not been expecting him. Hadn’t been particularly pleased to see him. Maybe Dr Myan thought he’d distract the lady from her work.

  He needn’t have worried. Bram thought he’d never seen anyone so focused.

  ‘Breakfast, Flora?’ he prompted, when she didn’t seem to hear the hotel porter’s question.

  She frowned at him, irritated by the interruption or perhaps by the use of her name. ‘What?’ Then, registering his question, ‘Oh, no.’ She found a smile for the young man waiting anxiously to please her. ‘Just some tea. Thank you,’ she said, before returning to the photographs.

  It had been the interruption, then. Pity. For a minute there he’d thought he’d got her attention. Apparently that was reserved for hammered gold. Very old hammered gold.

  He picked up one of the large glossy prints, a photograph of a small, exquisitely chased cup. ‘Is this what all the fuss is about?’

  ‘It’s not a fuss.’ She took the photograph away from him, looked at it for a moment. ‘If the finds are genuine…’ She trailed off, distracted by a detail.

  ‘If?’ he prompted. She seemed taken aback by his question. ‘You said If the finds are genuine…’

  ‘Did I? I must be more careful not to do my thinking out loud. Dr Myan would be deeply offended at any suggestion of doubt.’

  ‘But?’

  She looked again at the photograph before returning it to the pile. ‘But I wouldn’t commit myself on the strength of some photographs. No matter how good. And not without seeing the site of the excavation.’

  ‘Why would you need to see it? You’re an expert in jewellery, not archaeology.’

  ‘They want my name on an article in a leading British newspaper. For that I need more than pretty pictures of treasure. I need background.’ She did some business with her hair, combing up loose strands and tucking them out of the way, then, ‘You stopped me from pushing that. Why?’

  The combs were a prop, he realised with a belated flash of insight. She used them as a defence mechanism, lifting her arms to fiddle with them, putting a barrier between them, cutting off eye contact. As if embarrassed that she’d questioned him so directly.

  She wasn’t anywhere near as cool as she would have him believe. In fact she was as nervous as a kitten.

  Of him?

  He’d done nothing to provoke such a reaction.

  ‘The subject appeared to make him uncomfortable,’ he said at last.

  ‘I wonder why?’

  For a moment it seemed that they were both having the same thought. That Dr Myan had something to hide. Then she retreated from their silent complicity, returning to the photographs like a snail ducking into its shell.

  ‘I just can’t believe I’m going to have to waste two days before I get a chance to look at this for myself,’ she declared, with sufficient vigour to suggest her nervousness had nothing to do with him. But he suspended judgement. Flora Claibourne was a lot more complex than he’d expected.

  ‘It doesn’t have to be a waste of time,’ he pointed out. ‘I’m sure there’s more to the island than a mysterious tomb. That beach looks inviting, for a start. I hope you packed a swimsuit along with your walking boots.’

  She looked up at him, then turned quickly away to look out across the garden. ‘It never occurred to me,’ she said. ‘But don’t let me stop you enjoying yourself.’ She opened her laptop, switched it on and plugged it into a telephone point.

  About to suggest that she’d be wiser putting her feet up, taking a nap, he thought b
etter of it. Patronising her was not going to make him Mr Popularity, and so, leaving her to it, he went in search of his bag. It was set alongside Flora’s in a large, airy bedroom with a steeply pitched raftered ceiling.

  There was a total absence of clutter that he found pleasing. Just acres of dark, polished wooden floor broken only by blue and gold native rugs. There was nothing else to distract from the four-poster bed. Draped in sheer creamy cloth that stirred in the faint breeze, it was very picturesque. Very inviting.

  Somehow he didn’t think Flora would be amenable to taking his declared intention to stick close to her ‘…whatever she did…’ that literally, no matter what Dr Myan might be thinking. Retrieving his bag, he moved on to the next room, which was almost identical, with a luxurious bathroom and a large walk-in wardrobe. All it lacked was a warm and eager woman to share the long tropical nights with him.

  What he’d got was Flora.

  It was just as well that enjoyment was the last thing on his mind right now. He felt as if he’d been travelling for ever. He wanted a shower and then he wanted to sleep. That bed looked mighty inviting.

  But he knew that beating jet lag was best served by keeping local hours, and so, virtuously ignoring the siren lure of clean white linen, he took a long, cool, wake-up shower.

  Flora tapped in the password to her laptop, her eyes more interested in the back view of Bram Gifford disappearing in the direction of the bedrooms.

  What on earth was the man playing at? Okay, the Claibourne & Farraday thing wasn’t anyone’s business but their own, but he’d as good as implied that they were lovers. Tipi Myan had certainly thought so.

  What had she been playing at, doing nothing to correct that impression?

  She rubbed her hands over her face in an attempt to keep herself awake. At the time it had seemed too complicated to explain—at least that was what she’d told herself. Too complicated and none of Tipi Myan’s business.

  She frowned. Despite the man’s fawning welcome, it was clear that something had happened since she’d spoken to him on the phone and agreed to write the article.

  She found herself clenching the hand that Bram had taken in silent warning, reliving the moment when their minds had had but one single thought. It had made them—for a heartbeat—partners, allies, on the same side against the world.

  She rubbed her palm over her fist, as if to eradicate the memory of his touch. It had been too familiar. Everything about him was too familiar. As was her reaction to him. But then women always fell in love with the same man, over and over again. They never learned, so it was said.

  Perhaps she was smarter than most women. Or maybe her lesson had been harder taught. Because she’d put up her defences and now neither her famous name nor her money was sufficient inducement to tempt a man to look in her direction twice. And, if he did, it simply proved he had ulterior motives. A lose-lose situation for any man who bothered.

  Bram Gifford was different, though. He didn’t want her money: he had more than enough to last several lifetimes. Nor did he seek the cachet of her famous name. He had his own, right there between the Bram and the Gifford. He was a Farraday to his fingertips.

  He only wanted one thing from her. To discover her weaknesses and use them against her and her family.

  With her mind quite straight on that point, she reached for her keyboard, setting the search engine to hunt for any reference to Saraminda, hoping to find some clue as to what on earth was going on.

  Bram felt almost human. All he needed was coffee and food and he’d make it through the day.

  Probably.

  He dressed quickly in a pair of comfortable shorts and a faded T-shirt that had been washed duster-soft. Then he padded barefoot out onto the veranda and stretched out on a cane armchair, where the waiter found him when he brought him a light breakfast.

  He signed the chit and thanked the young man, who continued to hover a little anxiously. ‘Sir,’ he said. ‘Sir—madam is sleeping.’

  She’d finally wound down and gone for a nap, had she? He was relieved to hear it. She must have been running on empty. He’d done that in the past, just kept going, his body clock all over the place, his brain running on pure adrenalin. There was always a payback.

  ‘Don’t worry. She’ll have tea later.’

  ‘No, sir. Madam sleeps in her chair.’ He crossed his arms and lowered his head on them in a mime to show exactly how she’d gone to sleep, with her head on her arms at the desk.

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Not so good. He’d done that too, and he knew from experience that when she woke it would be with muscles screaming and her neck in urgent need of an osteopath. ‘I’ll take care of it.’

  He walked along the veranda to the living room and paused in the doorway, grinning despite himself. She must have crashed out over the keyboard not long after he’d left her. The laptop was switched on. It was still connected to the Internet: her head was pressed against the keyboard and the screen was going crazy.

  He touched her shoulder lightly. She didn’t stir. He gave it a little shake. She grumbled and turned her head away from him so that he could see the imprint of the keys at her temple. And carried on sleeping.

  Her mind, after running almost continually for twenty-four hours, had finally shut down on her.

  He didn’t blame it.

  He closed the Internet connection, switched off the laptop and then addressed the problem of getting her to bed. She was tall, and far from stick-thin. Beneath the shapeless suit she had an old-fashioned quantity of figure which was made for body-hugging dresses and high-cut one-piece bathing suits.

  The downside of that was the risk of putting his own back in traction if he wasn’t very careful how he lifted her.

  But he couldn’t leave her slumped in the chair. She’d wake with every muscle screaming in protest.

  Or course if she woke up in his arms it wouldn’t be just the muscles that screamed.

  He shifted his attention to her ear, stroking the tips of his fingers over the warm outer edge in a manner guaranteed to wake all but the soundest of sleepers. No earrings, just tiny gold studs, he noticed. She wore no jewellery of any kind. Wasn’t that odd in a woman whose life apparently revolved around the stuff?

  All that stirred was a comb, which slipped from its tenuous mooring.

  He caught it and stuffed it in his pocket. Then, telling himself he’d undoubtedly be sorry for this later, he bent down and, with one arm beneath her knees and the other round her waist, picked her up.

  Her head rolled against his shoulder, combs and pins falling in a noisy shower so that her hair began to fall in loose skeins around her shoulders, catching the light. It was a lot longer than he’d realised.

  Why?

  Hair was sensuous, almost erotic stuff. Man-bait.

  Why would a woman who cared so little about her appearance cling to something that she didn’t use to enhance her appearance? Hair that appeared to cause her endless bother?

  Why, when on the surface she appeared such a straightforward, uncomplicated woman, were there so many curious contradictions?

  Shifting her dead weight so that he took some of the strain against his chest, he took a cautious step, biting back a harsh expletive as one of his bare feet found the upturned teeth of a comb.

  Flora didn’t stir. She was dead to the world. Out of it.

  As he carried her into her bedroom he began to wish he’d succumbed to temptation and hit the sack himself.

  But it didn’t last for ever and he finally put her down on the bed as gently as he could. He wasn’t sure why he was bothering. She probably wouldn’t have woken up if he’d just dropped her on it. And she wouldn’t thank him for his trouble anyway.

  She’d just look at him with those wary eyes that gave away nothing, absolutely nothing, and tell him he shouldn’t have bothered.

  What was it with her anyway? He wasn’t a monster. Women usually liked him. He had a lot of friends who were women. And a lot of ex-girlfriends who would be h
appy to see him in hell, he acknowledged. The ones who’d banked on something more permanent.

  Maybe Flora was saving time by cutting out the fun bit in between and going straight for the second option.

  He’d already decided that she was clever.

  He took off her shoes. She had long, narrow feet. Elegant, he thought, although the blue nail polish came as something of a surprise. What kind of woman painted her toenails when no one was going to see them? And didn’t paint her fingernails, which they would?

  What kind of woman kept long, difficult hair, and then stuffed it up in an untidy bird’s nest on top of her head?

  One with pretty feet. And a pair of very classy ankles.

  He put her shoes beside the bed and set about removing her jacket. It was already creased beyond any remedy other than a very hot iron, which proved the linen was the genuine article. No surprise there. But she’d sleep more comfortably without it, in the jersey silk tank she was wearing beneath it.

  He sat on the bed and pulled her up into a sitting position. She slumped against him like an exhausted child, her face squashed against his neck. She’d probably kill him if she woke up now, he thought. But he eased off the jacket and dropped it on the floor and didn’t rush to let her go.

  If he was going to die, he might as well do something worth dying for. And, with her head still resting against his shoulder, he carefully removed all the pins and combs from her hair.

  It descended, heavy and dark, the colour of bittersweet chocolate, over his hands and down her back. He shook it loose, spreading its astonishing silky length through his fingers before he laid her gently back against the pillow and stood back.

  Not exactly Sleeping Beauty, but a lot closer than he would ever have imagined when he’d joined her in the back seat of that limousine in the grey chill of a London morning.

  It seemed pointless, after such intimacy, to be coy about taking off her trousers. He accomplished that final kindness without difficulty, scarcely pausing to notice that her knickers were not of the plain, functional kind, but were expensive, French, black. And fitted like a second skin.