the time they had been speaking, a thought had been hammering at the back of her mind—when would Gifford mention the baby? He might have ignored his existence this far, but he could not ignore it now. Yet she was damned if she would make things easier for him by referring to their son first.
‘The rental agency was supposed to lay on a box of start-up groceries, but they’ve forgotten. They’re sending one later, but I had nothing to eat last night and I’m starving.’
‘Edith does the cooking, and she’s out,’ Cass said flatly.
His brows had lifted in an upward slant of appeal, but she refused to respond. She was no longer the adoring escort who rushed to obey his every request. The days of being charmed stupid were over. And if he fainted dead away from hunger, tough!
‘It doesn’t have to be something cooked. Bread and butter will do. Or fruit. You must have some fruit? If there’s a packet of stale Cheezy Doodles or whatever lying around, I’ll take that,’ Gifford declared, with an air of stark desperation.
She shook her head. ‘Sorry.’
‘After travelling for damn near two days and crossing half the globe, I’m in no mood to be given the runaround,’ he rasped, his grey eyes glittering. ‘We both know the larder can’t be completely bare, so—’
‘How about scrambled eggs?’ Cass suggested stiffly.
Being too uncooperative was not a smart move. Like it or not, there could be times in the future when she might need his goodwill, so she must bank down her hostility and keep things civil between them. It would not be easy, but…
‘Scrambled eggs sounds great.’ He flicked her a dry look. ‘You aren’t planning to poison me?’
‘And risk the health authorities closing down the restaurant?’ Her smile was razor-thin. ‘Not worth it.’
‘You’ve forgotten something,’ Gifford said as she swung away.
She stopped and turned back. ‘What?’
‘You greeted me with “Good morning, sir” and now
it should be “Not worth it, sir”.’ A dark brow rose a fraction. ‘You must’ve heard of establishing good customer relations—or don’t you aim to win the employee of the month award?’
‘I’m not an employee, I’m a volunteer,’ Cass told him crisply.
‘Whatever your status, I am a customer,’ he responded. ‘Which entitles me to a little…courtesy.’
Her full mouth thinned. He was deliberately baiting her. Once she would have found his sardonic humour amusing, but not now. Now she felt tempted to tell him to go take a long walk off a short pier—or something far coarser—but instead she slitted her eyes at him.
‘In your dreams,’ she said.
His lips twitched. He had always liked her verve and had enjoyed the cut-and-thrust repartee which they had often shared.
‘Sassy as ever, I see.’
‘You better believe it,’ she responded, and stalked away.
In the kitchen, Cass swung into action, collecting eggs from the fridge, locating a pan, setting a tray. She had always imagined that when they did meet again—at her bidding, and at her choice of location—Gifford Tait would leave her cold, she reflected as she worked. Stonecold. Alas, it was not so. With his thickly lashed grey eyes, features which were a touch too strong to be described as handsome, and lean, muscular physique, he continued to be disruptively—and alarmingly—virile. He also had undeniable charisma.
Reaching for a whisk, she beat the eggs fiercely. Snap out of it, she ordered herself. The dynamic Mr Tait may possess more than his fair share of sex appeal, but when it comes to caring and sharing and common-or-garden decency he rates a whopping great minus. Any charisma is superficial.
Gifford had been unwell. What did that mean? she wondered. She shrugged. He had not wanted to tell her and she would not ask.
The eggs were scrambled, sprinkled with chopped herbs, and arranged on a plate with triangles of hot, buttered toast. Lifting the tray, Cass steered out through the saloon-style swing doors which separated the kitchen from the restaurant. When she drew near, she saw that her customer was tapping the pepper pot up and down on the table in a sombre distracted rhythm. He looked uncharacteristically tense, like a man with a lot on his mind. As well he might, she thought astringently.
At the pad of her rubber-soled thongs on the plank floor, he glanced round.
‘Quick service,’ he said, as though she had caught him unawares in his introspection and caught him out.
‘You’ll be writing a letter of commendation to the Tourist Board?’ she enquired.
‘And faxing copies to the Prime Minister and President of the Seychelles,’ he assured her, deadpan. As she served his food, a slow grin angled its way across his mouth. ‘Do you finish off by bobbing a curtsy?’
‘Don’t push it,’ Cass warned. ‘You may be getting a kick out of this, but I have my limits.’
‘A generous tip won’t persuade you to curtsy?’
‘I wouldn’t curtsy if you sank to your knees, clasped your hands together and begged.’ She tilted her head.
‘Or perhaps I might. Going to try it?’
‘Not my style,’ Gifford replied.
‘I thought not.’
He noticed that she had put down two cups and saucers. ‘You’re joining me?’
She nodded. They had to talk about the baby.
‘I’m ready for a break,’ she declared, thinking that what she really needed was a lie-down in a darkened room with cold compresses on her eyes and complete silence. ‘You don’t mind?’ she asked, a touch belligerently.
‘Be my guest,’ he said, and, lifting his knife and fork, he began to eat.
As Cass poured the rich, dark, steaming coffee, she studied him from beneath her lashes. She had not noticed it when she had been looking down, but sitting directly
across from him she saw that his face was leaner than she remembered and his high cheekbones were more sharply defined.
He had lost weight. Gifford also looked drawn—which could be due to jet-lag, or to the shock of being confronted by her and the knowledge that he must soon meet the child whom they had both created.
‘The restaurant may not open until noon, but everything seems remarkably organised,’ he said, indicating the surrounding tables which were neatly set with gleaming cutlery and sparkling glasses.
‘I was awoken at the crack of dawn, so I was able to
get a good start,’ Cass explained, and waited for him to ask about who had woken her up so early.
‘Monday is a busy day?’
‘Er—no. The busy days are Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, when we provide a buffet lunch for tour parties of around twenty or so. The rest of the time, it’s quiet The road outside is unmade and full of potholes—’
‘I noticed when I was in the taxi,’ he cut in, frowning, and briefly placed a hand on his thigh.
‘And the prospect of such a bumpy ride puts people off. We get a few holidaymakers wandering down from Club Sesel, and the occasional determined backpacker, but it’s the tour lunches which keep the place ticking over.’
‘What do the tours take in?’
‘They start off with a nature trail through the Vallee de Mai, which is an eerie and rather forbidding place, thick with palms, in the heart of Praslin. It’s a World Heritage site. Next they come here for lunch, and then they drive up to Anse Lazio, a beach on the