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.
‘Miss 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.
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