card. Then, picking up the bell beside her, she gave it a peremptory ring.
‘Are you checking in?’
Rachel started. The molasses-dark voice was speaking to her now, and she swallowed convulsively before turning in his direction.
‘I—oh, yes.’ What it had to do with him she couldn’t imagine, but she wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. She licked her lips. ‘Are you?’
His smile was wide, but faintly ironic, and the explanation was clear when Rosa piped up again.
‘Mr Brody owns the hotel,’ she said, her voice full of amused disdain. Then, as a young West Indian man appeared, she held out the key card towards him. ‘Toby, will show you to your room, Ms Claiborne.’ Another practised smile. ‘I hope you enjoy your stay.’
‘Claiborne?’
Before Rachel could move away, the man—Matt Brody—spoke. He’d come to stand beside her at the reception desk, and she was suddenly aware of the heat of his body and the clean male scent of his skin. He was taller than she was, easily six feet three or four, she estimated, and it was quite a novelty to meet a man who made her feel small.
But what was more unsettling was the fact that she was so aware of him. Of every little thing about him, actually, and that was definitely a new experience for her. A new experience, and one she didn’t quite know how to handle. She’d never considered herself odd in any way because she was still a virgin at thirty. But suddenly the ramifications of her inexperience were beating a frantic path to her door.
But she wasn’t here to learn about her own inadequacies, she chided herself. Or to observe his appearance—she drew the line at ‘admire’—she added, as he crossed his arms over his midriff and regarded her with keen, assessing eyes. Green eyes, she saw, not dark as she’d first imagined, with long straight lashes that any woman would have died for.
‘Your name’s Claiborne?’
He repeated the question, and Rachel had to drag her eyes away from his fascinating tattoo to acknowledge his enquiry. ‘Um—that’s right,’ she said. And then, with more daring than she’d given herself credit for, ‘Does the name mean something to you?’
He seemed to hesitate. His dark brows drew together and the green of his irises deepened so that Rachel understood why she’d originally mistaken their colour. ‘Perhaps,’ he said at last. ‘I have—heard of it. It’s not a common name.’
‘No, it’s not.’
Rachel concentrated on not pursing her lips, but she was tempted to ask where he’d heard of it before. Would he be truthful? She doubted it. But she wondered what he’d say if she told him that Sara Claiborne was her mother.
‘Anyway,’ he added, apparently indifferent to her ambivalence, ‘I hope you find your accommodation satisfactory.’ He nodded towards the young man who was waiting patiently beside her suitcase. ‘If there’s anything else you need, just pick up the phone. I’m sure either the housekeeper or whoever’s on Reception will be able to help you.’
‘Thank you.’
The polite words almost stuck in her throat, but Rachel wasn’t about to air her grievances in public. Despite the adrenalin that was still pumping through her veins, she couldn’t deny she was weary.
It had been a long flight to Jamaica, and an unusually stressful final leg on the inter-island turboprop that had brought her from Montego Bay. The small plane had seemed to hit every air pocket over the Caribbean, and Rachel’s legs had felt decidedly shaky when she’d stepped down onto the tarmac at St Antoine airport.
She would be glad to shed her clothes and take a long cool shower. And then maybe Room Service, if the hotel provided such a thing. She was enchanted by the island; she loved the individuality of the hotel. But Matt—Matthew—Brody’s presence was a definite complication.
And it certainly didn’t help her case to know that she was aware of him in a totally inappropriate way.
Now, forcing a thin smile, she left the reception desk to accompany the young man, Toby, across the foyer to the stairs. But she was fairly sure at least two pairs of eyes watched their progress, and she had to suppress the urge to swing her hips to show them that she didn’t care.
Or was she being paranoid? And conceited? Matt Brody had given her no reason to believe he had found anything interesting about her. Only her name had struck a chord with him. And if what she suspected was true that was hardly surprising.
As she’d anticipated earlier, the rooms on the upper landing overlooked the foyer below. But inside they were light and airy, with a balcony opening off the outer wall that overlooked the gardens at the back of the hotel.
After assuring himself that she had everything she needed, Toby departed and Rachel took a few moments to explore her domain. The room wasn’t large, but it was comfortable, with a large colonial-style bed, and a writing table and two armchairs.
There were chairs on the balcony, too, protected from the balcony next door by a trellis of flowering vines. Below, a kidney-shaped swimming pool dozed in the afternoon sun. The pool area was deserted at present, except for a couple of children who were playing tag around the striped umbrellas that provided shade from the blistering heat.
In other circumstances Rachel would have been enchanted. Objectively, the island was everything she could have hoped it would be. But, like all paradises, there had to be a serpent, and despite his fascination Matt Brody certainly fitted the bill.
Fascination?
Where the hell had that come from? Rachel was appalled at the way her mind had latched onto the word. Had she forgotten why she was here, or were her hormones playing tricks on her? For heaven’s sake, this was not the time to find a man could be both dangerous and sexy.
The bathroom was functional, but efficient. Rachel took a long cooling shower and then dressed in the men’s boxers and strappy vest she usually wore to bed. She was glad to shed the fine woollen pants and navy blazer she’d worn to travel from London; February in St Antoine was much different from February back home.
An examination of the hotel information assured her that she could order room service if she wanted. She wasn’t particularly hungry—it was already midnight back in England, and normally she’d have been tucked up in bed by now—but if she didn’t have something she’d be starving by the time it came to breakfast.
A green salad and ice-cream seemed innocuous enough, and while she waited she went out onto the balcony. It was dark outside, but the gardens were illuminated, casting shadows everywhere. The air was exotic, velvety-soft, and scented with a dozen unfamiliar fragrances. Rachel rested her hands on the rail and breathed deeply, trying to inhale the memory into her lungs.
She’d forgotten she was only wearing the boxer shorts and tight-fitting vest. As she raised her arms above her head her breasts moved freely beneath the cloth. She felt curiously free and elemental. The night air moved like a sensual finger against her skin.
And then she saw him. Well, she was almost sure that it was Matt Brody, standing in the shadow of one of the sunshades, his head turned upward towards her balcony.
She recoiled immediately, pulling down her hands and stepping back out of sight. Dear God, had he seen her? Well, of course he had. But what was he doing out there anyway? Surely he didn’t live at the hotel.
A tap at her door had her panicking again. But then she remembered Room Service, and hastily pulled on a cotton wrapper over her vest and shorts. It was a young man she hadn’t seen before, his eyes dark and admiring as they travelled over the curling dampness of her hair and the curving shape of her figure, barely concealed by the thin wrap.
‘Enjoy your supper, Ms Claiborne,’ he said, accepting the tip she offered with easy approval. And Rachel recognised how differently she’d reacted to two almost equally attractive men.
She ate all the salad