Bought for His Bed: Virgin Bought and Paid For / Bought for Her Baby / Sold to the Highest Bidder!

Chapter Four

FLEUR looked up into Luke’s tough, formidable face. What am I doing? she thought in panic.

But she said, ‘Very well, I’ll come. I just hope nothing goes wrong.’

‘Nothing can,’ he said with supreme self-confidence, and glanced at the watch on one lean tanned wrist. ‘Can you be ready to have a look at some clothes in half an hour or so?’

‘I—yes.’ Of course she could be ready! She had nothing else to do. But she was hugely reluctant.

She spent most of that half-hour wondering why on earth she’d agreed to this crazy idea. A sense of obligation carried to extremes, she decided, feeling another flick of panic. Yet Luke had taken her in and cared for her, and although he hadn’t done any of the actual work, he’d assumed responsibility for her when she was incapable.

The least she could do was help him out in turn.

Susi came to escort her to one of the other bedrooms. A selection of clothing was already waiting on racks, along with a woman dressed in a very up-market version of a pareu.

And Luke.

Did he expect her to parade in front of him like a model? Her whole being cringed at the prospect. She opened her mouth to ask him what he was doing there, only to bite back the words when she met his level, intimidating gaze.

He said easily, ‘Thank you, Susi.’ He waited for the housekeeper to leave before introducing her to the other woman, then said, ‘I’ll leave you to try the clothes on.’

Relieved, Fleur nodded.

Once he’d gone the boutique owner surveyed her with professional expertise. ‘He had the size right. And the colours—clear and warm to complement your astonishing skin and hair. He’s got a good eye, that boy.’

‘Boy?’

The older woman grinned. ‘I’ve known him since he was running around in a faded old lavalava with the other children. He might be almost thirty, but to me he’ll always be a wild kid. Now, let’s see what you like most.’

Given her head, Fleur would have chosen the muted colours she’d always worn, but as she’d tried on the clothes in crisp, clear hues, she realised that Luke had been right; the warm, peachy shades brought her skin and eyes alive, and the crisp peridot-greens turned her eyes into jewels.

Fleur and the saleswoman had a slight, polite tussle over the number of clothes to be purchased. ‘This is enough,’ Fleur said firmly, indicating the small pile she’d settled on.

However much they suited her, she wouldn’t need more than a fraction of the outfits carefully hung on a separate rack. There were no prices anywhere, but she recognised some labels, and the finishing and materials told her they didn’t come from the cheap range.

And then there were the extras—the underclothes and shoes and hats—things she’d only ever wear once or twice.

The older woman said doubtfully, ‘You’ll need more than that. The tropics are pretty tough on clothes.’

‘I can manage,’ Fleur said firmly.

The woman nodded. ‘OK, your decision. Now, can I make a suggestion? Your hair is glorious, but the style isn’t doing it justice. I have a friend who cuts like a genius, and she could come and do it for you now if you want her to. As a favour to Luke.’

Tactfully phrased, but the woman had meant, Your hair looks awful.

Most of the time Fleur kept it tied behind her head in an easy-to-deal-with ponytail, and simply chopped the ends off when it got too long.

She hesitated, and the woman said gently, ‘In a sense, Luke is Pacific royalty. He’s no snob—he’s so completely confident in himself that he doesn’t give a damn for image—but you’ll be judged against pretty high standards. And—forgive me if I’m speaking out of turn here—you’re not like his usual…friends.’ She hesitated a second before the final word, leaving it hanging in the air.

Fleur said as easily as she could, ‘You’re right, of course. Yes, if she can come this afternoon that would be great.’

The woman looked as though she wanted to say more, but a knock at the door heralded Susi, who said that Luke wanted to see Fleur.

In his high-tech office, Luke said calmly, ‘We need to talk.’

Heart jumping, she said, ‘OK, but I’ve made an appointment to have my hair cut here in a couple of hours.’

‘Good,’ he said, his gaze lingering on the bright fall in a sensual assessment that tightened Fleur’s skin. ‘Make sure she doesn’t take too much off. Do you ride?’

The abrupt change from frank male appreciation to a tone of courteous enquiry made Fleur blink. ‘Yes, although it’s been years since I’ve been on a horse.’

‘It’s like swimming; you never forget. Do you feel up to it yet?’

‘I’d love to,’ she said, her spirits lifting.

He smiled. ‘Change into trousers and I’ll collect you in ten minutes. Make sure you wear a hat that won’t fall off.’

Half an hour later Fleur drew in a deep breath and gazed around. They were riding through a papaya plantation, the big oval fruit hanging in green clusters against the trunks. It was hot, but the horses were acclimatised; Fleur had noticed only a faint sheen of sweat on her mount’s chestnut withers, and the mare had plenty more action in her.

‘Tell me about yourself,’ Luke said. ‘Where did you grow up?’

‘Waiora, a little town on a tiny harbour on Northland’s west coast.’

He nodded. ‘What career did you take up?’

‘I spent a year at university in Auckland.’

He was wearing an old pair of riding trousers that clung to his heavily muscled thighs like a second skin, and a blue shirt, rolled up to reveal strong forearms tanned the colour of teak. Fleur’s heart had performed a couple of erratic orbits when she’d seen him swing up onto a big black gelding after he’d tossed her into the saddle, his hands strong about her waist.

Neither heart nor body had recovered from those seconds of close contact. She still felt oddly giddy, and it was no use telling herself that it was due to dehydration. It had been years since she’d felt so good, so vital and filled with inner exultation.

He looked down at her, checking on her confidence and her riding ability, she suspected. Fortunately the mare was a darling.

‘What degree?’ he asked.

‘Arts. I wanted to do a history degree.’ She amended that to, ‘I’ll finish it one day.’

His brows lifted. ‘I see. Did your mother’s illness interrupt your studies?’

She swallowed. ‘Yes. When she couldn’t look after herself I went back home to care for her.’

‘Tough. Was there anyone to help you?’

‘No. My parents were divorced when I was ten.’

‘Are you in contact with your father?’

‘No,’ she said briefly, then wondered if she should have perhaps prevaricated a bit on this point. After all, she didn’t really know anything about Luke, except what she’d read in newspapers and magazines. For all she knew he could be a white slaver.

She flicked a glance sideways, noting the uncompromising line of his profile, angular and severe. He didn’t look like a white slaver. He looked like a man with the world at his feet, a man totally confident in himself—a man born to authority.

A man who knew a lot about women and who took his impact on them for granted. She’d seen his name linked with more than half a dozen, all glamorous, all moving in the sort of circles that got even the paparazzi excited. And then there was Gabrielle, a model and already in love with him.

So in spite of telling her that he was attracted to her, he certainly wouldn’t find Fleur Lyttelton from Waiora, New Zealand, in the least fascinating.

Even if he did, she’d want him to be interested in more than just her body. Though that would be terrifying enough, because her knowledge of men was practically nonexistent. Her year at university had been spent studying and worrying about her mother’s increasing ill-health, not living it up socially.

She was still a virgin, for heaven’s sake—for all she knew the only twenty-three-year-old virgin in the Pacific Basin!

Anyway, it was too late now for second thoughts, she thought uncomfortably. She’d agreed to this charade and she had to go through with it.

Hurriedly she said, ‘My father forced me to choose between him and my mother. He lives in Australia now.’

‘Some men don’t deserve families.’

‘Some women, too.’ The male half of the world weren’t the only offenders when it came to marital and parental matters. After all, although she was inexperienced she read newspapers and watched television.

She said, ‘Tell me what I need to know about you.’

Shrugging, Luke guided his mount up a small slope to stop under a huge old tree, dark-foliaged and heavy of boughs. Behind them the vivid green mountains clawed at the sky, and when she turned her horse to face the view, she caught her breath.

Spread out before them lay a panorama of pure, sun-drenched colour—the bold, bright green of plantations, the softer, more silvery shades of the palm forests by the shore, and the brilliant turquoise of the lagoon bordered by the slashing white line of the reef. And beyond that the blazing, intense emerald of the Pacific as far as she could see, curved around the island like a protective embrace.

Yet there was danger in its limitless expanse.

‘I was born here twenty-nine years ago,’ Luke told her, not looking at her. ‘I expect to die here.’

That simple sentence, said evenly and without emotion, summed up Luke Chapman, revealing perhaps more of him than perhaps he’d be comfortable with. Although he was a man of the world, his roots lay in this exquisitely beautiful place with its lush fertility and its dangers, the untamed sea and sky where cyclones could beat in from a sky of blazing sapphire, leaving behind destruction and death.

His love for Fala’isi was there in his tone, in his crystalline gaze as he looked down on it from their vantage halfway between the mountains and the sea.

He said, ‘I ran wild here until my parents sent me to school in New Zealand and to university in England and America. My degree was a business one, but I was more interested in the scope of the Internet than going into conventional business, so I’ve made my career in that.’

Fleur nodded. The company he’d started in his early twenties to provide an Internet service had grown exponentially. Unlike most entrepreneurs he’d kept control of it, and was now one of the most powerful players in information technology.

He went on, ‘However, this is my real life’s work—Fala’isi and its people. My father isn’t ready to give up his position as head of the family corporation, and I’m not eager to take it on yet, but that’s what I’ll end up doing.’

Rather daringly she asked, ‘Do you want to do that?’

‘Wanting doesn’t come into it.’ Keeping his gaze fixed on the panorama in front of them, he explained in a level, judicious voice, ‘I could probably flag it away if my father wasn’t also paramount chief. That’s a hereditary position—not in that the oldest son or daughter inherits, but the chieftainship is the prerogative of one family. In Fala’isi that’s my family. We’re the last link with the ancient chiefs of the island, and although our position is more ceremonial than anything else, it’s still important. If either of my sisters were interested I might be able to evade the responsibility, but they’re not.’

‘I’m surprised women would be considered for the position,’ Fleur said without thinking.

‘Why? Women held—still hold—very high prestige in Polynesian societies. In New Zealand the late Maori Queen was chosen for the position by her people.’

Feeling foolish, she responded, ‘I know, and you’re right of course. It’s just that we—well, I suppose I thought society here would be more rigid than at home.’

‘We’ve always been fairly cosmopolitan,’ he said, then changed the subject by pointing out his house, sprawling in its several acres of gardens on a low hill above the lagoon. He added casually, ‘Fala’isi is the link between the great prehistoric sailing routes from east to west and north to south. For centuries my ancestors traded and fought and explored along those routes. We islanders pride ourselves on being open to new ideas.’

Although his voice was perfectly level, for some reason the words sounded like a veiled warning. Fleur looked up sharply, met eyes as translucent as polar seas, and felt that odd clutch of response in her stomach, so close to fear it could have been mistaken for it if it hadn’t been accompanied by an erotic charge of physical awareness.

All her senses sharpened by Luke’s presence, her skin tightening under the impact of his scrutiny, she felt the breath of the breeze as acutely as though she’d been standing in a gale.

‘We’d better be getting back,’ he said curtly, as though he regretted letting her see even that small bit of his inner thoughts.

Nodding, Fleur turned her mount and pretended to admire the scenery as they rode down towards the house. So this, she thought dazedly, was what sexual attraction was all about. She didn’t even know him, yet she’d trusted him when he’d suggested this charade. Had that been because she felt sorry for the girl Luke didn’t want, or was it because she was clutching at any straw to stay here in paradise with a man she wanted?

That thought made her feel sick. Was she being a total idiot? Through her lashes she saw him ahead, riding his big gelding with the ease and grace of a man who had spent a lot of time on horseback.

Did he make love with the same cool mastery? Colour burned through her skin, and she had to force herself to concentrate. She was utterly sure her mother hadn’t had this dangerous attraction in mind when she’d organised a holiday on Fala’isi for her daughter.

He halted his horse and waited for her to catch up. ‘We can ride back along the beach if you like,’ he said, then frowned. ‘Although you look as though you’ve caught a bit of sun. Do you want some sunscreen?’

‘No, thanks, I’m slathered in the stuff, and I’d love to ride along the beach.’

‘No mad galloping,’ he said with a hint of irony.

‘I’ve never been into mad,’ she told him with perfect truth. ‘I was always the one who waited to make sure it was safe before I did anything.’

Even as she said the words she knew their truth—and realised how far she’d strayed from that sensible, if too cautious, attitude.

Luke reached into his shirt pocket and tossed her a tube. ‘Sunscreen first.’

Resigned, because he clearly wasn’t planning to go anywhere until she’d put more on, she caught it neatly and unscrewed the top. It was warm, mostly from the sun, she told herself sturdily as she smoothed it into her skin. Certainly not from his body…

The thought sent another erotic little shiver through her. Keeping her eyes studiously on the tube, she recapped it and held it out to him. His fingers closed around hers; her mount moved at an involuntary signal from its rider.

‘Steady,’ she crooned to her horse, and the mare settled.

Luke didn’t release her. ‘Listen,’ he said beneath his breath.

Like a carillon of exquisite purity, a bird sang from somewhere close by.

Enchanted, she listened until the song wound down in a cascade of notes, keeping her eyes on the sight of her hand enclosed in Luke’s big, lean tanned one. Time stood still; her breath locked in her throat. She thought dazedly that the sun stopped and no sound of the waves on the reef came to her ears. Even the wild thunder of her heart eased in the haunting, melancholy sweetness of the song. Luke’s touch seared through her like the sweetest of daggers, setting off fires in a million unsuspected pleasure points.

Then the notes died away, and she dragged in a breath and pulled, and immediately he let her go.

‘That was—superb,’ she half said, half whispered. ‘It sounded a bit like a kokako—or a tui when it stops mimicking.’

Luke set his horse in motion. ‘A tikau, native to the island, although I believe it’s a distant relative of the kokako. It’s a bird of the high mountains and the forest—it rarely comes this close to the sea.’ He nodded at a gully to one side. ‘It must have lost its way and found some shelter there. I’ll have traps set tonight.’

She gazed at him in horror. ‘Why?’ she demanded.

He gave her a narrow, somewhat cynical smile. ‘Because there are predators here—rats, dogs. The bird needs to be taken back to the mountains. It will die here.’

‘Oh, I see.’

He indicated a track leading downwards. ‘The sea is that way,’ he said.

Fleur followed, conscious that something had changed. Gone was the camaraderie of a few minutes ago, replaced by a barrier that hurt her in some obscure way.

The ride along the beach should have been wonderful but although they didn’t gallop they cantered, and she suspected that was so he didn’t have to talk to her.

Back at the house he said courteously, ‘I suggest you have a rest after lunch. Our guests will start arriving at seven.’

‘I’ll be ready,’ she said brightly.

The hairdresser arrived with an assistant. ‘Our cosmetics specialist,’ she said, and made horrified clucking noises as she examined Fleur’s chopped tresses. ‘My friend suggested you might like to see a sample of our range.’

‘I can’t afford any cosmetics,’ Fleur said firmly.

The two women looked a little startled, but the hairdresser said, ‘We’ll give you a free consultation—that is our policy. What you decide to do afterwards is entirely up to you.’

Fleur protested, but both women assured her that whether or not she bought anything was irrelevant.

‘So that is settled,’ the hairdresser said when Fleur gave in. ‘Now, about your hair…’