Authors: Anya Forest
Unbidden, Christie thought back to a time when she would have loved nothing better than to spar with a gorgeous stranger, her usual quick wit and sense of humour thriving on such exchanges. Automatically, Christie clamped down on her train of thought.
I came here to get away,
she told her herself.
New people, new experiences. Away from the city with such painful memories.
Her eyes focused on the bay and the ferry once more. Now it was moving across the bay, heading back to the mainland. Christie could not look at it without thinking of Blake, of their exchanges. He had been so—brazen. So sure of himself. And she had been reduced to something like a shy schoolgirl, stumbling over words and then caught in an outright lie over a telephone call.
She shivered as she remembered the brief touch of his hands on her hips.
Like I’d be up for that,
Christie thought.
But if he hadn’t steadied me, I’d have fallen over for sure…
Excuses flooded her mind. Rousing herself she explored the crib, dragging her pack into a bedroom and starting to unpack, wanting to get out, explore the settlement.
Impatient to find the hotel that she knew was a historic building, at least have a look around before she officially started work in a few days, Christie walked back down to the settlement. Murray, the manager, had made it clear Christie should call in anytime, make herself known, emphasised to her the informality of the island.
She found the hotel and although Murray was not there, she met several workmates who showed her around the rooms reached by a huge curved wooden staircase, the guest lounge with a magnificent sea view, the bar, café and restaurant. Unable to stop herself,
Christie walked to the front of the restaurant, to the imposing picture window looking down out over the bay. The sea glowed in the late afternoon sun and she saw the simple promenade stretching around the entire harbour. Entranced, Christie paused to appreciate the view, and as if realising, her workmates did not interrupt.
“Amazing isn’t it,” a girl who had introduced herself as Lisa said when Christie turned back to them.
“Yes,” Christie said simply. “But I’ll be working in reception, won’t I?”
“That’s what Murray mentioned,” Lisa said. “But we all help out in different areas; it’s a small hotel compared to others on the island but the restaurant and bar can get really busy.”
Later that day Christie returned to the crib, putting away the food she had purchased in the old but pristine kitchen before starting to look at a sheaf of pamphlets she had collected from the information centre. As she looked through information on the tours, the sights and the wildlife, an old enthusiasm stirred in Christie. The original unspoken emotion that had prompted her to enquire about work on the island reasserted itself and instinctively Christie knew she could enjoy her time here.
Before she could change her mind, realising it was already early evening, she shrugged into her red jacket and left the crib, intent on walking down to the settlement. She did not want to sit in the hotel restaurant—or the bar—by herself but was soon scanning a menu on display outside, intending to return to the crib with a takeaway meal. She pushed open the double doors of the bar, was met with a wave of warmth and the noise of several competing conversations. Being a Friday night, the bar was busy and Christie waited to order, not in a hurry and content to look around at the wall displays, local photos and memorabilia.
“Christie Mitchell? Christie!” Although the male voice was not familiar she spun around, thinking he could be one of the workmates she had met briefly today. She gave the stranger in front of her a polite smile, sure she did not know him. “Murray Cochrane,” he said, putting out his hand to shake hers, giving her a friendly grin. “Sorry I missed you this afternoon. Lisa said you called in.” He gestured to a group drinking around a table; Christie saw Lisa give her a wave of acknowledgment. “Come over on the ferry today did you? I heard the sailings were a bit lumpy.” Murray gave her a sympathetic look. “Rough,” he clarified, seeing the look on Christie’s face.
“Yes,” Christie said, her expression smoothing out as he explained what he meant.
“Bad luck,” said Murray with a smile. “Anyway, we should have a drink, now—not with that crowd—do you have time?” Murray kept talking as he steered Christie over to a small circular table, pausing as the previous occupants moved away, leaving it free. Christie realised Murray was completely direct and genuine, putting her at ease, chatting about the hotel and her role. Someone came over to take their drinks order almost immediately and then brought their drinks over to them. “The ultimate perk,” Murray said, grinning at her. “Table service on a Friday night.”
Christie found herself relaxing in Murray’s company; conscious he was her employer but still caught up in an animated discussion about the hotel and island. When Christie stood up to go she was laughing, her eyes sparkling at the punchline to Murray’s story about a mishap in the hotel kitchen. Still smiling, Christie moved over to the bar, suddenly conscious of how hungry she was, waiting to order her meal.
“Making friends, I see,” Blake’s words were deceptively light but Christie heard the steel in his tone, and hoped she was not blushing as she registered his nearness. Christie herself was tall, but realised with a shock that Blake towered over her. Now he was looking down at her, his piercing eyes unreadable, holding hers. Christie wrenched her gaze away as she realised she was being asked to order.
“Coward,” she heard Blake whisper softly, mocking her. Christie tried to focus on ordering her meal, reaching for her wallet, but still acutely aware of him. “We’ll have two blue cod meals.” Blake’s authoritative voice brooked no argument; shocked, Christie realised the barmaid was cancelling her order and replacing it with Blake’s. She pivoted to glare at him. “No.” She spoke bluntly. Christie turned back to the barmaid, covering her confusion, wanting to reinstate her own single takeaway meal.
“You don’t want the blue cod?” Blake deliberately misunderstood her. “You should try it, it’s a local speciality.” Christie’s usual poise and social confidence fled. She looked at the barmaid, who met her look expressively.
“Fine,” Blake said calmly, changing the order to include Christie’s original meal. “If you’re lucky you can try some of mine.” Desperate to regain some measure of control over the situation, Christie opened her wallet; at a gesture from Blake, the barmaid hastily waved away her attempt to pay. Christie turned immediately to Blake, opening her mouth to protest. She bit her tongue as she saw the unfathomable look on his face, his faintly questioning gaze. “Thank you,” she muttered ungraciously. He inclined his head slightly as the barmaid watched them both, fascinated.
“Why don’t you find us a table and I’ll get the drinks.” Christie tensed at Blake’s suggestion, reality swamping her. Here she was in a new place, knowing no one, having dinner with a complete stranger. Years of caution developed in a city environment made her wary now. “I’ll get the drinks,” she said, too quickly, ashamed even, as she heard the way the words came out of her mouth, clearly implying that she did not trust him.
Christie saw hurt and incredulity wash over Blake’s face; she realised he was controlling himself with difficulty, his jaw clenched. He turned to the barmaid. “Put the drinks for Little Red Riding Hood here on my tab.” He gave Christie a wry smile. “When you’re ready, the Big Bad Wolf will be sitting over there.” He gestured towards a corner table.
Utterly humiliated, Christie watched him walk away, before turning back to order drinks. The barmaid got her wine silently, had already placed a beer on the bar; Christie realised Blake must be a regular and his favourite brand known. Christie picked up the drinks, thanked the barmaid quietly. “You know, we don’t really get that sort of thing here.” Christie looked at the barmaid blankly. “Guys spiking drinks,” the barmaid continued, grinning at Christie. “Just good old fashioned drunken passes.” Christie smiled at the barmaid, unsure of how to respond. “And I have to say, there’d be a few of us on the island keen for a pass from that one.” The barmaid looked over to where Blake was sitting as she spoke.
Unbidden, Christie thought of the girl on the boat. Remembering what Murray had said earlier about the speed at which gossip travelled around the island, Christie said nothing as the barmaid moved off to serve another customer. Christie paused, holding the drinks, overwhelmed at the turn of events, a sense of unreality coming over her, disjointed thoughts tumbling through her mind.
I don’t even know him…It’s only been six weeks since Paul…I haven’t been on a date since…
On another level Christie was conscious of her casual attire, her jeans and woollen top, the practicality of her jacket not disguised by the flamboyant colour.
At the same time a traitorous whisper of longing snaked through her, fighting to be heard. She thought back to the barmaid’s words, more confused than ever. Christie glanced over to where Blake was sitting; he had pulled the chair away from the table to face the bar, his lithe, powerful body leaning back, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He had casually folded his arms as he waited; she saw his gaze was fixed on her, his face inscrutable.
Christie looked over quickly to where Lisa had been sitting; perhaps she could suggest to Blake that they join a group. As if reading her mind, Lisa caught her eye, gave her a conspiratorial grin and a discreet thumbs-up sign. Christie realised Lisa was encouraging her, assuming this meal with Blake was a romantic date, that Christie would be looking forward to it.
Biting her lip, trying to keep her face neutral, Christie walked over towards Blake, aware he was watching her. She heard a drunken wolf whistle from another table; saw Blake’s head whip around, his eyes narrowing as he singled out the whistler. As Christie approached, he straightened in his chair, realigning it with the table and then standing briefly to pull out Christie’s chair as she placed the drinks on the table. Christie sat down, smiling faintly, reflexively picked up her wine to sip at it.
“Christie.” Her eyes widened as she realised Blake already knew her name. “There are no secrets on the island,” he said, grinning at her, seeing her surprise. “So you were having a drink with Murray?” Blake said in a carefully neutral tone, only his tense grip on his drink betraying his emotion.
“Yes,” Christie said defensively. “I’m going to be working at the hotel,” she continued, as Blake’s face cleared. “Where’s…” her voice trailed off, wondering about the girl that had been with Blake on the ferry. He raised his eyebrows, waiting for her to finish. “Where’s your girlfriend?” Christie burst out. Blake looked at her, clearly taken aback. Christie realised he was genuinely at a loss, tried to make amends. “Your friend on the boat…I thought from what the barmaid said—”
“The barmaid?” He started laughing. “I travelled over on the ferry with someone from my friend’s work. Don’t tell me the island rumour mill has already gone into overdrive!” He grinned at her. “Well, I guess that’s it then.” He was deadpan now, giving her a mock serious look. “You’ve had a drink with Murray, I’ve travelled on the ferry with Shannon, sounds like we’re virtually engaged to other people.”
Christie flinched, averted her eyes. Blake’s eyes narrowed perceptively as he noticed Christie’s sudden loss of composure. “What is it?’ he said tersely. Christie took a deep breath, a sip of wine. “Nothing,” she said quietly, hoping he would not ask again. He was taken aback at the change in her demeanour as he leaned forward slightly, determined to get an answer, watching her intently. Blake thought back over what he had said, sifting through his comments, trying to pinpoint the problem. He realised Christie was now sitting up straighter, no longer almost shrinking back in her chair.
Blake started to ask again, insistently, when Christie spoke, clearly making an effort. “Murray warned me about the rumour mill,” Christie said, smiling at him uncertainly. “I guess things can get exaggerated. Where does Shannon work? Are you visiting your friend?” His face set at the obvious change of subject. He realised she clearly did not want to tell him the reason for her sudden reaction, and was annoyed at her reserve even as he told himself they barely knew each other.
Blake paused deliberately before answering her question, letting her know he saw through her ploy. Pain washed through Christie as she realised she had offended him, demonstrated her lack of trust yet again. Her breath caught as she watched him, intensely aware of his piercing eyes and dark good looks, the coiled strength evident as he sat opposite her, listening to him talk about his friend Tony’s tourism business on the island.
Christie started to ask another question, realising Blake had not actually talked about his own work, but he cut her off lightly. “Enough about me.” She looked up as the barmaid approached with their meals, looked at Blake as he asked the barmaid to bring them another round of drinks, tensing as he ordered a specific wine for her without asking what she would prefer.
“I prefer to choose my own wine,” she said firmly when the barmaid had left.
“Table service should be safe enough,” Blake said to Christie; she flushed, knowing he was teasing her, deliberately misunderstanding her again.
“I—” she began.
“Murray’s not the only one who can get table service around here,” he said, making Christie realise Blake must have been in the bar when she first sat down with Murray. She realised Blake’s cheeky irreverent attitude masked a sharp and highly perceptive mind, had noticed his abrupt—but adroit—way of ending her questions about him. She started her meal, looking up quickly as Blake placed a piece of fish on her plate. He grinned at her as she looked at him.