acquaintance of Ms Porter.’
And once he’d convinced her a trip into the mountains wasn’t feasible, he’d talk to the receptionist. She came from a village close by the border, so she might have heard something that would explain the elemental warning running down his spine like a cold finger.
The younger man grinned. ‘That Ms Porter, she’s pretty—skinny, though. Don’t know why you Europeans like skinny women.’ He shook his head over the weird tastes of western men, then added, ‘She’s nice—she smiles and talks to you when you carry her bags.’
She wasn’t smiling when Guy stopped just outside the door to the entry lobby; she was talking so intently she hadn’t noticed him arrive.
Recalling a fairy tale his English nanny had read to him, he thought, Hair black as coal, skin white as snow, lips red as roses…
Up close, she wasn’t beautiful, but with a mouth that fuelled erotic dreams, who cared? His body certainly didn’t; it was at full alert.
Yet in spite of that mouth and the high, small breasts and slim waist beneath the sarong, Lauren Porter was all poised control, even though she wasn’t getting what she wanted.
Time to bring on the cockroaches, Guy decided ironically, and stepped inside out of the sun.
CHAPTER ONE
LAUREN frowned. ‘Do you mean it’s impossible to get to this village?’
The receptionist hesitated before saying cautiously, ‘It is not impossible, ma’am, but it is difficult.’
‘Why?’
Anxious brown eyes avoided Lauren’s in a respectful manner. ‘The road is too dangerous, ma’am.’
On Sant’Rosa the word road was used loosely; the memory of the minibus juddering violently sent a reminiscent twinge through Lauren’s body. And that was on the road from the airport to the resort.
The prospect of tackling an even worse route wasn’t pleasant. So what, she thought grimly, was new? Nothing about this side trip had been easy.
Not for the first time, she wished she hadn’t promised to check out Paige’s favourite charity. In London it had seemed simple, a mere matter of breaking her journey to a New Zealand holiday with a couple of days on a tropical island.
Ha! Her flight to Singapore had been delayed so she’d missed the connection, and as she hadn’t got to Sant’Rosa until after midnight she’d had to wait for the early-morning plane to the South Coast.
After only a couple of hours’ sleep, her head was aching, her eyes were gritty, and her smile was hurting her lips. And now this! She pushed a stray strand of damp black hair back from her cheek. ‘What about public transport?’
Still avoiding her gaze, the receptionist stopped shuffling papers to adjust the scarlet hibiscus behind one ear. ‘Ma’am, there is nothing suitable for you.’
‘I’m perfectly happy to go on the local bus,’ Lauren said crisply.
The woman looked harried. ‘It is not suitable,’ she repeated. ‘And that village is very alone—apart.’
The village had set up an export venture that involved a factory, so it couldn’t be too isolated. A steely note running through her words, Lauren persisted, ‘In that case, where can I hire a car?’
From behind a hard masculine voice drawled, ‘You can’t. There are no car-hire firms on the South Coast.’
Lauren stiffened, every sense sounding alarms. The new arrival’s voice—deep, subtly infused with irony—oozed male confidence.
Slowly she turned. Although tall, she had to look up to meet half-closed topaz eyes between lashes as dark as her most forbidden desire. Her stomach—normally an obedient organ not given to independent action—lurched, then dropped into free fall.
Inanely she repeated, ‘No car-hire firms?’
‘Lady, the closest car-hire firm is in the capital, and that, as you already know, is an hour’s flight away over a mountain range.’
He infused the word lady with a slow, purring sexuality that fanned over her skin like the warm breath of a lover. And where did that thought come from? Clutching her tattered dignity around her, she asked crisply, ‘Then how can I get to this village?’
Because she couldn’t pronounce the name she thrust out the slip of paper Paige had given her.
His expression altered in some subtle way as he examined it, but his tone didn’t change. ‘I doubt if you can. The last rains brought down half a mountain onto the road.’
‘Surely they’ve fixed it.’
One dark brow—his left, she noticed—lifted in sardonic amusement. ‘The locals walk it, and as you may have noticed, Sant’Rosa hasn’t yet flung itself headlong into tourism. It’s still trying to get over a civil war.’
‘I know that.’ Someone should tell him that the purpose of designer stubble was to emphasise boldly chiselled features, not blur them. And his black hair needed cutting.
A second glance convinced her that the shadow across his jaws and cheeks wasn’t for effect—this man hadn’t shaved because he didn’t care what people thought of him. From the corner of her eye she catalogued the rest of his assets, admitting reluctantly that the overlong black hair had been well cut, and stubble couldn’t hide strong bones and a mouth that combined sculpted beauty with a suggestion of ruthlessness.
An elusive flash of memory teased her brain. Somewhere she had seen him…or someone who looked like him?
Startled, she pinned a brief, dismissive curve to her lips. Of course she didn’t recognise him! An unkempt expatriate on an island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean was as far out of her ken as an alien. The men she met as a junior executive wore suits and strove for worldliness. This beachcomber, clad in an old black T-shirt and trousers, looked as though neither the word sophistication nor the concept existed for him.
She took a deep breath and spoke clearly and carefully. ‘Can I fly in? Ms Musi—’ she indicated the receptionist, who was gazing at the newcomer as though he’d saved her from a shark ‘—tells me that the local public transport isn’t suitable.’
‘She’s right.’
‘Why?’
His eyes glinted. ‘Would you be happy to travel on the back of an elderly, bullet-holed truck with no shelter from the sun and no seats?’
‘If I had to,’ she said curtly.
‘And cockroaches.’ No malice coloured the words as he said, ‘Big, black ones. If you go to sleep they chew your toenails.’
Hoping he couldn’t see her skin crawl, she snapped, ‘I can cope with the local fauna.’
‘I doubt it,’ he drawled. ‘If you’re really determined to get there, you could try walking.’ He inspected her without haste before adding gravely, ‘But if you go like that you’d better invest in some sunscreen.’
Who was this sarcastic newcomer with mocking eyes and far too much presence? The manager? Hardly, but it was typical of this trip into the wilds of the Pacific Ocean that she should be confronted by a scruffy dead-beat with an attitude—and a bewildering, raw sex appeal that set every treacherous nerve in her body jangling into awareness.
Her composure evaporating under the impact of his lazily appreciative smile, Lauren stiffened. All right, so the pretty sarong in her favourite shade of crimson revealed an uncomfortable amount of white skin, but she wasn’t an idiot! Forcing her voice into its usual confident tone, she asked, ‘How long would that take me?’
‘It depends how fast you walk. Don’t stop for long or leeches will bite you. Do you know how to take a leech off your skin? Remove the small end first—’
The