Constantinou's Mistress (10 page)

And she was a good listener. Normally on flights Nick slept. But her obvious interest in what he had to say kept him awake, and it was with a little start of surprise that
he heard the announcement that they could fasten their seat belts in preparation for the landing.

‘It's conversation,' he told her. ‘Seems to cut the travel time in half.'

Lucy laughed. ‘I wouldn't know. The last time I went abroad was years ago, and even then it was to the Med. Not exactly the longest flight in the world. I've never been further afield.' She paused and then confided, ‘Dad was never a great believer in throwing money away on long-haul holidays.'

‘Is that why you're always such a sensible little thing?' Nick asked, knowing that his indulgent reference to her stature would make her hackles rise. It would also, he thought, reassure her that his motives were entirely innocent, despite his leading conversation earlier on. He could have kicked himself for falling into the trap of talking about her boyfriend.

Dammit, he had brought her over here to forget about him! But something inside him compelled him to elicit everything he could about the nice, unadventurous, stunningly dull Robert, as he liked to think of him.

‘I'm not sensible all of the time!' Lucy snapped obligingly, only realising that he had been pulling her leg when he shot her an amused, crooked smile, to which she responded with a sheepish smile of her own.

‘Why are you so provocative?' she asked sternly and he laughed.

‘I like to see you blush,' he admitted honestly. ‘Even the freckles on your nose look outraged.' He lightly traced the bridge of her nose with one finger and her breath caught in her throat.

‘That's wicked.' Her voice sounded shaky, at least to her own ears, and she hoped that he didn't notice.

‘I'm a wicked man,' Nick murmured, which sent her pulses into further overdrive.

‘In which case, I wonder why you didn't bring your date here with you to keep you company.'

‘Date? What date?' The frown he gave her was one of genuine puzzlement.

‘The leggy brunette who was waiting for you at your table when you bumped into Robert and me the other evening.'

‘Ah.
That
date. Hardly seemed fair considering this is work and Marcia has an allergic reaction to work. Besides, my cousin and I took her out for a meal. Hardly what I would call a date. In fact, I should not think that I will be seeing that particular leggy brunette again.'

‘Good heavens!' Lucy felt a treacherous rush of relief as they stood up to begin disembarking the luxurious plane. ‘Don't tell me she had the audacity to make a nuisance of herself!' This was more like it, she thought. He went out with glamorous models and she watched in seemingly amused cynicism from the outside.

She bent to retrieve her handbag from where it had slipped in the foot well and straightened to find herself staring at the broad, muscular expanse of his chest.

‘Actually,' he said softly, not moving an inch so that she was compelled to look up at him, ‘I came to the conclusion that Marcia is not my type after all.'

‘You surprise me,' Lucy said with a forced laugh and he continued to look at her with utter seriousness.

‘I hope so.' Three small words that crashed through her consciousness like boulders of lead. He could read the wariness on her face and continued, smiling, ‘I am a great believer in never being predictable.'

Which, Lucy thought, barely noticing the details of the airport, allowing herself to be whisked along, is why
you make the most unsuitable man in the world. Because, dull though it seems, predictability is the essence of a peaceful life.

And peaceful lives are for people who have no sense of adventure, a little voice whispered into her ear, a voice which Lucy resolutely ignored.

If the first leg of the trip had been quick and smooth, the second leg proved to be anything but. The airport was pleasant enough, and it was exciting to be surrounded by people of a different nationality, speaking with a different accent, but their connecting plane was delayed, and when it arrived it was so incredibly small that Lucy couldn't help but experience a slight twinge of apprehension.

‘Don't worry,' Nick instructed, placing a reassuring hand on the small of her back. ‘We won't end up in the ocean surrounded by our luggage and a hundred hungry barracuda.'

‘How do you know? It doesn't look as though it could walk the distance, never mind fly.'

He laughed, and in the gathering dusk glanced down at her fair head, fighting the urge to steady her nerves by wrapping his arms around her.

‘Trust me,' he told her.

And, quite ludicrously, she did, even though, when pressed, he admitted that he knew not the first thing about flying and would be at a complete loss should the rickety plane begin to spiral downwards.

There was just something about his bulk that made a mockery of her fears.

He seemed to know precisely what to do, where to go, and his massive self-assurance meant that he was treated like royalty for the entire duration of their trip, right down to when they boarded the boat that would
take them to the exclusive island which was the home of the Tradewinds Hotel.

It was dark by the time they eventually arrived. Too dark to appreciate the lush scenery, although there were enough strange noises to stir her imagination—the steady, rhythmic chirping of the crickets in the undergrowth, the occasional guttural sounds of the frogs and unidentifiable rustles as they covered the short walk from the car to the hotel that could have been any number of things.

And it was balmy, with the merest hint of a breeze blowing up from the sea, which was a black strip behind them as they approached the hotel. The coconut trees thickly lined the narrow road, and Lucy could not get enough of the view. Through the open window of the car she could hear the rustle of the leaves and see their dark silhouettes swaying gently.

‘The sand is as white and as fine as powder,' Nick said from next to her, looking with amusement as she drank in the little she could see, ‘the skies are bright blue and the sea is coral reefed so it is as calm and as blue as a swimming pool.'

Lucy reluctantly turned to look at him. ‘And you prefer to live in London?'

‘One can have a diet of paradise for only so long,' he told her wryly, ‘then it loses its charm. At least for me. There's the hotel.'

It wasn't quite what she was expecting. In her head she'd had images of a standard hotel, large and imposing and shrieking grandeur.

What she saw, bright under the floodlights at the front, was a low, sprawling Colonial-style ranch house, its impressive frontage overrun with flowers, the colours of
which promised to be even more extravagant in full sunshine than they appeared under the false lighting.

‘It coils in an S shape,' he was explaining next to her, ‘with gardens and pools within the inner areas. The restaurants are housed in separate thatched buildings towards the back. The intention behind this hotel was to create a feeling of a home away from home.'

‘Some home,' Lucy commented, raising her eyebrows ironically. ‘If my home ever resembles this I won't need to go anywhere on holiday.'

Nick smiled in reply.

‘Are we expected?' she asked, as the car drew to a leisurely stop outside the entrance to the hotel.

‘No. Working on the assumption that Rawlings may well have something to hide, I thought it best for us to surprise him with our little visit. That way there is no chance that anything could be accidentally misplaced.'

‘So…'

‘So…you and I are registered as Mr and Mrs Lewis and will be sharing one of the suites overlooking the beach.'

‘What?'

‘Little joke.' Still, he found the undiluted horror in her voice at his teasing piece of fiction a little irritating. Wanting her was beginning to have tentacles he had not predicted. Not only did he want to sleep with her for purely selfish reasons, but he also wanted her to want him. Not merely to be attracted to him but to crave him with a need that was greater than all logic and reason.

‘Oh, right,' Lucy said weakly, ‘very funny. Ha, ha.'

‘You and I are business partners checking in for a week's relaxation in order to work on some confidential data. Hence the individual rooms. I've booked both un
der your surname. Of course, tomorrow the fiction will no longer be necessary.'

‘Won't you be recognised?' Lucy whispered as their luggage was removed from the car and the porter who had appeared from out of the shadows asked them to follow him.

‘I doubt it very much. I have only been here twice in the space of nearly two years, both times with Gina. The truth is that so many celebrities use this particular retreat, the staff are virtually trained to pay no attention to faces.'

It was true. They were checked in with a stunning absence of curiosity. Nick barely seemed to notice his surroundings, but Lucy was very much aware of everything around her and it was an effort not to gawp. This sort of grand-scale luxury was the sort of thing taken for granted by the rich and the famous, but really so utterly out of her reach that she was acutely conscious of her lowly status in comparison.

The floors were all wooden, but the wood was rich with age, and huge, soft chairs in pale wooden frames dotted the open area. Behind the man checking them in was an imposing piece of whitish driftwood shaped like a twisted statue and rising up from a squat ceramic pot topped with pebbles. Fans whirred overhead, ensuring a constant supply of cool air so that the doors and windows could all remain open throughout the day.

‘We'll make our own way to our rooms,' Nick said, the minute the check-in was complete, and this statement was greeted with the faintest of nods.

‘You want Rudolph here to at least point out the restaurants?' the man asked, and when Nick shook his head he grinned broadly, revealing even white teeth. ‘Well,
just follow the smell of the food. Mabel is the best cook on all these islands.'

‘It's very quiet,' Lucy remarked, tripping along to keep pace with Nick, who strode ahead with their two bags, barely appearing to notice their weight.

He slowed and glanced at her. ‘There really aren't thousands of rooms,' he explained, ‘and the rooms are spacious enough and designed in such a way that privacy is guaranteed. Several actually lead out to their own private handmade rock pools if guests prefer to remain utterly on their own.'

They were walking along a broad veranda-style corridor, which was broken with small tables and clusters of wicker chairs and from which trailing flowers adorned the archways that led off to the rooms.

‘Here we are.' He turned through one of the arches into a small circular sitting area off which two rooms led. ‘Yours is that one.'

‘And yours?'

‘Right next door.' He opened the door to her room, allowing her to precede him, and then quietly shut it behind him.

The room was huge, to say the least, and very quiet, with just the background hum of the air-conditioning audible. The wooden floor was peppered with brightly coloured rugs and one side was fully occupied with a long sofa, the size of a single bed, and two chairs, positioned around a low square table. The bed itself was a four-poster, cleverly dressed with fine mosquito netting that lent it a dreamy, romantic look. Through an open door Lucy could glimpse a massive bathroom and changing room and from one side there were doors leading out to a small veranda, which was lit and promised
blissful peace to read a book in one of the chairs or lying in the hammock.

‘It's gorgeous, Nick.' She turned to him with a delighted smile and he grinned back at her. ‘What does it feel like to actually
own
this place?'

The question, the openly wry and admiring look in her brown eyes, the smiling curve of her mouth, invited a light-hearted reply in return, but oddly Nick found himself considering her question with unexpected seriousness.

Either the heat was getting to his head or the change in scenery had scrambled his ingrained passion for privacy.

He looked at her thoughtfully and for such a long time that Lucy's smile faltered.

‘You don't expect me to give you a serious answer, do you?' he drawled, leaning against the wall and crossing his feet at the ankles.

So tall, so dominant and so utterly compelling. Even more so, if that was possible, here in the tropics, where the olive tone of his skin and the fine film of perspiration made him exude a powerfully sexual aggressiveness that seemed to fill her nostrils.

She was shocked at the force of her physical response and camouflaged it under a light laugh.

‘Of course I do!'

‘In that case, I will tell you the truth. Owning this place is like owning all the other hotels. They are all luxurious, all the top of their range, and I feel absolutely nothing except the satisfaction I have of knowing that they are a profitable concern for me. They allow me to take risky adventures on the stock market and to invest in uncertainties, knowing that I cannot be financially ruined.' He pushed himself away from the wall and
strolled towards the doors leading out to the veranda, which he flung open so that he could walk out into the night air. He stood against the wooden railings, hands shoved into his pockets, and breathed deeply.

‘That sounds very cynical,' Lucy said from behind him and he turned around very slowly to look at her.

Against the brighter light of the room he could not see the details of her face, which was half shadowed. She was very still, though, and her eyes were on him. He could feel it.

‘Does it?'

‘You should be able to get so much enjoyment out of places like this…' She hesitated, wondering if it would hurt should she mention his wife. ‘Surely when Gina was alive you must both have loved being in your hotels…this one…'

Bitter laughter rose like bile to his throat. ‘You look hot. I hope you've brought sensible clothes with you. Cotton. Very cool against the skin. Do you want to have something to eat in one of the restaurants?'