Bought for His Bed: Virgin Bought and Paid For / Bought for Her Baby / Sold to the Highest Bidder!
They discussed the final cut, both women vetoing Fleur’s sudden, defiant request for short hair.
‘Apart from it being a crime against whatever gene gave you that fabulous hair, it wouldn’t suit you,’ the hairdresser stated. ‘Your eyes and mouth and skin would vie for attention and that wouldn’t work at all well. What I suggest is we use that gentle curl and pull the hair back softly to suit your features. Here, I’ll show you.’
And Fleur had to agree that she was right.
Just as she had to marvel when she examined her reflection after being made up with cosmetics that smelt subtly of some exotic tropical flower. Somehow, without being obvious, her eyes seemed bigger and much greener, and the lashes she’d thought too pale were now darker and more defined without being spidery. She’d have loved to buy the products, but their quality warned her they’d be expensive.
‘They’re made on the island, using traditional recipes and scents,’ the assistant told her with pride. ‘My cousin is the manager. At first we sold only to tourists, but the business is expanding and now we sell to North America and Australia. Mr Chapman—Mr Luke—thinks that Asia will be our biggest market soon.’
‘You’ve done a wonderful job.’ Fleur smiled at them, and hoped fervently that they didn’t expect a tip. Fortunately, it seemed Fala’isi was like New Zealand, where tipping wasn’t done. ‘Thanks so much for everything.’
After the two women left Fleur stared at herself a moment more, before turning away from the mirror in embarrassment. It was foolish to be so charmed by what a skilful cosmetician and some truly wonderful products could do; she couldn’t afford them and that was that.
When she went to change her clothes, she stopped, astounded at the sight of rack upon rack of outfits. Everything she’d tried on that morning—not just the ones she’d chosen, but every outfit that had suited her—was there.
Frowning, she spread out the skirt of a silk chiffon evening dress in the softest apricot; it had looked divine, but she’d discarded it because she didn’t need more than one outfit for after dark.
She let the silk sift through her fingers, her frown deepening, then turned to the big chest of drawers. Biting her lip, she scrutinised the drawer full of subtly shimmering underwear. The owner of the boutique must have misunderstood.
Well, it would have to go. But halfway down the hall to find Luke she met Susi, carrying a bag of sophisticated blue and green that contained the cosmetics Fleur had just rejected.
‘Oh, no!’ Fleur stopped. ‘There’s been some mistake—I didn’t buy those.’
‘Mr Chapman says they are for you,’ the housekeeper said, her smile vanishing.
‘No,’ Fleur said, flustered yet determined. ‘I haven’t bought them.’
‘But—’
‘It’s all right, Susi.’
The sound of Luke Chapman’s cool, authoritative voice silenced both women. Fleur’s heart performed the now-familiar flip, then settled into a more rapid pace.
He held out his hand and the housekeeper gladly relinquished the bag. ‘Thanks,’ he said, and waited until she’d gone before saying with courtesy, ‘Come into my office.’
Fuming, Fleur went with him. Once inside she demanded, ‘Did you buy these?’
‘Yes.’ He held up a long-fingered hand and flicked a lock of hair back from her angry face. ‘Stop going off the deep end. You’re reinforcing a stereotype.’
‘That’s ridiculous!’ she retorted, incensed by her sharp, excited reaction to his nearness. ‘You don’t know anything about me, and anyway, I’ve never believed that hair colour had anything to do with temperament. My mother was a redhead and she had the most equable temperament of anyone I’ve ever known.’
‘Did she? I thought red hair was genetically linked to a hairtrigger temper.’
His amused tone told her she’d been distracted by an expert. She drew in a calming breath. ‘I didn’t buy these cosmetics, and I—’
‘Why?’
Distracted again, Fleur blinked. ‘What?’
‘Why didn’t you buy them?’ he asked patiently.
‘Because I don’t need them,’ she said, wincing at the note of defiance in her voice. She dragged in another breath and forced her voice into a tone that almost sounded reasonable. ‘And I don’t need the extra clothes that have miraculously found their way into my wardrobe.’
He shrugged. ‘I can afford them. And as you’re here because I asked you to stay, and you’re entering this charade for my sake, it’s up to me to bear the cost.’
‘It’s the principle of the thing,’ she said between her teeth, because she was going to lose this fight, she knew it, and behind the compelling mask of his face he was laughing at her silly little principles. In his world the amount of money the cosmetics and clothes represented was chicken feed, and he was making sure she understood that.
She felt that gulf between them—huge, uncrossable—and it hurt. Which scared her.
‘Besides, you need clothes,’ he said smoothly, as though paying for her clothes and cosmetics was a perfectly logical thing to do.
Perhaps in his world it was, but for services rendered, she thought waspishly. A shiver of anticipation ran through her at the thought of what those services might be.
Holding her riotous emotions in check, she said more calmly, ‘I don’t want the clothes and the cosmetics. I know you’re trying to be helpful, but I feel—’ She stopped again, searching for the right word.
‘Bought?’ Luke supplied helpfully.
Chapter Five
FLEUR flinched, her gaze flying to meet his. He didn’t look amused now; those angular features were set in a forbidding expression.
‘I suppose so,’ she muttered, because how idiotic was she being?
‘And you’re afraid I might demand to be recompensed?’ Luke asked in a level voice that didn’t hide a disturbing note beneath the cool disdain.
Flushing, she shook her head. ‘No!’ And, trying to grab some dignity from the situation, she gabbled, ‘I don’t like being dependent on you.’
‘Dependent?’ The word rang with irony. ‘I suspect that’s only part of it. Do you honestly think that I’d go to such an elaborate charade just to get you to stay in my house and—presumably—in my power?’
Put like that, her inchoate suspicions sounded ludicrous. He was experienced; he must know she found him sexually attractive. Hell, she blushed every time he came near her! But he didn’t need to be so unforgivably crude as to haul her feelings out into the light of day so he could make her feel stupid and embarrassed.
Proudly lifting her head, she said, ‘No, I don’t.’
He leaned back and inspected her, his smile arrogant. ‘Then what exactly is your problem?’
That infuriating heat scorching along her cheekbones, she set her jaw. ‘I’m not a charity case or a Cinderella. I don’t need all those clothes.’
‘Then don’t use them,’ he said, allowing a note of impatience in his voice.
‘That’s not the point. I know I agreed to this, but I’m thinking it’s not a good idea.’
‘You gave me your word,’ he said in a steely voice.
Fleur sent him a quick, startled glance, her spine tightening when she met narrowed eyes and saw his lips compress into a thin, hard line. He looked—dangerous and exceedingly intimidating.
She stiffened. ‘And now I’m reconsidering,’ she said indignantly. ‘I agreed to a—a charade, not a complete loss of autonomy!’
Luke’s shoulders lifted in that quick, essentially Gallic shrug. ‘I can’t, of course, force you to do it.’
His tone was cynical. The heat faded from her skin, leaving her somewhat shaky. He looked as though he’d expected her to do this—agree, then go back on it. And once again, she realised, she’d been steered away from the fact that he’d paid for the clothes and cosmetics she’d discarded. The fact that this time she’d done the steering didn’t appease her.
She said, ‘I won’t wear those clothes.’
‘Cutting off your nose to spite your face again?’ he said lightly, his smile not reaching those hard eyes. He’d clearly lost interest, and his final remark was tinged with irritation. ‘I don’t care what you do with them—they’re there if you need them. As are the cosmetics. If you want to appear au naturel, by all means do so.’ He let his gaze roam her indignant face and taut body, and drawled, ‘Well, perhaps not entirely. My male guests would probably be delighted if you decided to go completely buff, but I’d rather you didn’t.’
He held her gaze for several seconds more, and added with another faint, satirical smile, ‘Unless you want to do so for my sole delectation. But, whatever you do, keep the clothes and the cosmetics.’
She said fiercely, ‘I don’t want them—that’s what this is all about! I don’t need payment! And although I agreed to this charade, I can’t help wondering if it’s too close to lying. And lying, even in a good cause, is lying.’
His brows drew together. ‘If you really want to back out, that’s fine. I don’t want you compromising your principles.’
Balked, she stared at him. The silence thickened, gathered into a presence, and finally she made a gesture of surrender. ‘You’d make it easier for me if you threatened me,’ she finally muttered.
‘So you’d give in to threats?’ he drawled.
‘No, then I could summon up my righteous indignation and storm away and feel good about it. As it is, now I keep thinking about that girl who believes she’s going to be your wife. You’re probably right, the best way to deal with it and leave her pride intact is to just pretend we’re…’
‘Lovers,’ he said laconically when she came to an abrupt stop. ‘Or if that’s too much, would-be lovers. Or, even soon-will-be lovers. I don’t care.’ He held her gaze for several intense moments. ‘Let’s just take it as it goes, all right? Don’t imply anything, don’t lie, don’t do anything but blush enchantingly whenever I speak to you, and everyone will draw their own deductions without either of us saying a word.’
At the mention of her stupid blushes her cheeks reddened again, and she clapped her hands to them and said in deep mortification, ‘One of these days I’m going to learn to control this or die trying.’
‘Why? You blush beautifully. Anyway, I believe the tendency fades with more sophistication.’
All pretence at dignity gone, she glowered at him. ‘Thank you. You don’t have any women’s magazines around with pictures, do you, so I can see what Luke Chapman’s girlfriend would wear to an intimate dinner party for twenty?’
His smile widened into laughter. ‘No, you witch,’ he said. ‘Just wear what you like—something floaty and light and shortish will do. Tonight’s dinner is for a small trade delegation from Australia who are here to try and talk us into letting them prospect for minerals in the mountains, so prepare to be bored. All right?’
‘Yes, all right.’
But it wasn’t. He’d got his own way with almost indecent ease, and somehow managed to make her even more aware of him—and her own reactions to him—than before.
Luke Chapman was magnetic, and she was perilously close to thinking herself in love with him. Telling herself you couldn’t fall in love so quickly didn’t help; her brain knew that, but her body persisted in thrilling whenever she thought of him, and her heart was melting ominously fast.
However, she took his advice, choosing the silk chiffon in apricot, but ignored the cosmetics—until a glance in the mirror forced her to realise how naked her face looked with nothing but lipstick. At least cosmetics might camouflage her stupid blushes!
So she unearthed the make-up and did her best to follow the instructions she’d been given that afternoon. It took her a while, but in the end she inspected her reflection with something like relief. She looked all right.
‘Well, perhaps a bit better than all right,’ she told her reflection, sternly squelching an ignoble satisfaction.
After all, if the guests were connected to the mineral industry surely there wouldn’t be anyone to make her feel inferior? They’d be middle-aged men with weather-beaten faces.
Wrong. The first person to arrive was young and tall and gorgeous, with a mane of artfully cut and shaded blonde hair, and clearly she knew Luke very well, embracing him with delight.
Which didn’t bore him in the least. He might have avoided the full-blown kiss she was intent on pressing on his lips, but he did it without being obvious, and he kissed both cheeks and then held her at arm’s length and said something to her that made her laugh and blush and pat his cheek.
Only then did he introduce Fleur. The gorgeous blonde looked a little puzzled and said, ‘I thought you were married—oh, sorry, wrong woman!’
Presumably she meant the mysterious Janna.
At that moment Fleur was devoutly thankful to the woman who’d chosen the clothes for her and to Luke for making her accept the cosmetics. They were armour.
Armour she desperately needed, although Luke gave her unobtrusive but steady support as she negotiated the evening. She even enjoyed the dinner, although when it was over she couldn’t remember what she’d eaten.
That might have been because the man beside her, a mining magnate and the most important man in the delegation, turned out to be unexpectedly charming—a man with the soul of a poet when he spoke of the wild, hot, dusty Outback that had made his fortune.
When they’d all gone she said formally to Luke, ‘Thank you. You certainly know how to give a dinner party.’
‘You seemed to enjoy yourself. Perhaps I should tell you that your dinner partner is very happily married.’
He didn’t say it unpleasantly, but she felt a shock of outrage. ‘It’s not necessary,’ she returned with a bite. ‘He’s old enough to be my father.’
As a riposte it was a cliché, but it was all she could think of.
Luke lifted a black brow to devastating effect. ‘Is that important?’
Goaded, she snapped, ‘Possibly not to your blonde friend, but it is to me.’
‘I was jealous,’ he said with cool menace. ‘Were you?’
‘Jealous?’ She stared at him, then coloured and let her lashes fall. ‘Neither of us have any right to—to feel anything. Particularly not that,’ she said, turning to go.
He touched her bare shoulder and she froze. No, she thought confusedly, looking straight ahead. Tonight he wore a magnificent tropical dinner jacket that emphasised his masculine waist and the lean hips beneath it. It should have looked theatrical; Luke carried it off to perfection.
She tried frantically to haul her thoughts into some sort of order, but her eyes had fixated on the tanned column of his throat, and the arrogant jut of jaw, shaded slightly now by a faint show of beard—and his mouth…
Ah, God, how had she managed to keep her gaze from his mouth for so long?
His lips hardened, then tilted in a smile. ‘So why did we both feel it?’ he asked, his deep, slightly taunting voice reaching inside her and opening floodgates to release sensations that shook her down to her soul.
Fleur gulped. His hand tightened on her shoulder for a second, then relaxed.
‘You smell like the sea,’ he said quietly. ‘With a hint of frangipani. And when you smile, did you know you have a dimple in your left cheek? It’s infuriatingly elusive—it comes and vanishes so quickly it’s difficult to catch, but it lends something mischievous to your smile. Were you a mischievous child, Fleur?’
‘I don’t know,’ she croaked. Was there the faintest hint of an accent in the way he said her name? Dimly Fleur remembered his French great-grandmother.
She was having such difficulty concentrating, and all he was doing was talking to her, and resting his hand on her shoulder—well, no, he was sort of caressing it, stroking it as though it was infinitely delightful to his touch…
Tension knotted inside her, holding her in a grip of sensuous enchantment. If something didn’t end this delicious stand-off soon, the flames licking through her would consume her and she’d go up like a bonfire. Or do something drastic.
He lifted his hand, and she thought she might be able to breathe again if she stepped back, but she couldn’t move.
A lean forefinger came to rest on her cheek, just a bit above her mouth. ‘Here,’ he said gravely, except that a raw note ran beneath the word, wildly exciting her.
‘What?’
‘I think the dimple is just here.’ And he kissed the spot his finger had touched, his hand sliding across her shoulder in a gesture that shouldn’t have been at all carnal.
Her heart went into overdrive, beating high and rapid in her throat and ears, so that all she could hear was his voice as he went on thoughtfully, ‘Or perhaps it was here.’
And he kissed her again, this time a little closer to her mouth.
Desire, like a keen longing mixed with incandescent pleasure, rocketed through her. She stiffened, unconsciously raising her chin so that the kiss grazed the edge of her lips.
On a rough note Luke breathed her name as though it were some kind of talisman, and kissed her aching, eager mouth properly. His lips were firm and warm and compelling as they explored hers. Every thought driven from her head by a charge of pure, unadulterated excitement, Fleur groaned and went limp, and his arms came around her and pulled her into his lean, aroused body.
Stunned, she heard the odd noise she made when he lifted his mouth—part satisfaction, part plea—and she knew he understood it, too. He settled her back against him and kissed her again, and this time she opened her mouth for him, while skyrockets coloured her closed eyelids with the glittering desperation of hunger.
A reckless craving that was reciprocated in spades. She recognised it in the surge of power in his body, the deepening intensity of the kiss, and the burgeoning of his body.
She almost cried out with frustration when he lifted his head again. He took in a huge breath and said in a harsh, intense voice she didn’t associate with Luke Chapman, sophisticated man of the world, ‘That may well be the biggest mistake I’ve made.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed, feeling slightly sick but understanding perfectly.
‘Do you regret it?’
Was it her imagination, or did his arms tighten around her? ‘No,’ she said frankly, adding with even more honesty, ‘Although I probably will in the morning.’
‘You and me both.’ But he laughed quietly as he let her go.
Cold and desolate, Fleur hugged herself until she realised how she must look—pleading, hugely needy—and let her arms drop to her sides. The wildfire heat of a few seconds ago was fading fast, replaced by the chill of his rejection.
‘I didn’t intend this to happen,’ he said abruptly.
‘Neither did I,’ she said. ‘Is that normal?’
He closed his eyes for a second. ‘No,’ he said, when he opened them again. ‘Which is not to say it’s abnormal, either. Basically—and this is very basic—I think it’s a matter of genes.’
‘Genes?’ Oh, she knew that. And she knew why he was reminding her—so that she didn’t get any stupid ideas about falling in love with him!
His smile was tinged with satire. ‘I’m sure you’ve read science’s pronunciation on physical attraction. It’s nothing more than our two bodies realising that we’d make superb babies together.’
Colour rolled up into Fleur’s skin again. The thought of having Luke’s baby melted some hitherto inviolable part of her. Ignoring it, she said bleakly, ‘I know. Just nature making sure the species keeps going. Nothing important at all.’
His eyes narrowed. Flushing, she looked away—away from the colour that rode his striking cheekbones like a slash of war paint, away from the slightly swollen line of the lips that had taught her in a few short moments what ecstasy could be like, away from the crystalline eyes scanning her face as though she were some new specimen.
From outside came the sound of the tikau’s song, each clear cascade of notes echoing in the room.
Luke said something in the local language beneath his breath, and when she stared at him he said in his usual controlled voice, ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—I had no intention of touching you. I won’t do it again unless it’s in public.’
‘In public?’
‘To keep up the charade we’ll have to exchange an occasional significant glance. Possibly even a light—but restrained—caress now and then,’ he said, and when she stared at him in dismay, he gave a humourless smile and went on, ‘Don’t worry, I can control my baser urges when others are around. I’ve never considered overt displays of lust to be a spectator sport.’
His contemptuous dismissal of the passion she’d felt hurt ferociously, but she managed to produce a nod.
He said, ‘Are you all right for the picnic tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’ Or as right as she ever would be.
They were taking the mining people to an island that was the Chapman private holiday home. It was to be an informal occasion, with nothing more in mind than the establishing of contacts, some fishing for those who wanted to, and a swim in the lagoon, followed by lunch.
For Fleur it would be a sail into the unknown.
‘Hey, this is fabulous!’ The blonde woman who’d embraced Luke so heartily the night before stretched languorously on the white lounger and smiled up into a sky that was the bright, brazen blue of a sapphire. Turning her head to look directly at Fleur, she let an envious smile touch her lips and purred, ‘Lucky you.’
Fleur said, ‘It’s glorious, isn’t it?’
‘So is its owner,’ the woman, whose name was Prudence, said coolly. ‘You know, I wouldn’t have thought you were Luke’s type.’
‘The world’s full of surprises.’ Fleur managed a casual shrug and a light, coolly dismissive tone. Her companion’s forth-rightness startled her, but she knew instinctively that showing astonishment would be seen as a sign of weakness.
‘Where did you meet him?’
‘At a party,’ Fleur said vaguely.
Prudence sat up and began applying sunscreen in slow, voluptuous strokes. ‘I don’t blame you for being circumspect,’ she said, a note of malice tingeing her voice. ‘He hates publicity. And maybe you are his type—he does like redheads. Is your hair natural?’
The taunt hit home. ‘Every last little wave,’ Fleur said, before she had time to think. ‘Why? Did you think it was a wig?’
‘The colour,’ Prudence said shortly. ‘You remind me very much of one of his previous lovers—Jenny…no, Janna someone. She was pretty, a model who dabbled in acting. Lots of charm but not a brain in her pretty head. He soon got tired of her.’
The implication couldn’t have been more plain. Fleur closed her eyes, opening them a second later when the woman spoke again, this time in a totally different voice. ‘Hello, Luke. What a fabulous place.’
Fabulous, Fleur thought snidely, went out in the seventies, surely? Didn’t she know any other word? She watched Luke smile, and realised that Prudence had managed to irritate him. Now, how did she know that?
Just something about the quirk of his lips when he said, ‘I’m glad you like it.’ He looked across at Fleur, and his expression altered subtly. ‘How long is it since you put on sunscreen?’
‘About half an hour,’ she said. ‘It’s supposed to last two hours.’
‘The tropical sun is tough on skin as delicate as yours.’ He came over to sit beside her on the lounger. ‘Turn your back, and I’ll make sure it’s covered properly.’
‘Would you like me to go?’ the other woman enquired archly.
Luke raised his brows. ‘Why?’ he asked in a pleasant tone, holding his hand out to Fleur for the bottle of sunscreen.
Fleur gave it to him, relieved that he was on her side. He would, she thought, make a bad enemy. He could do more with a slight lift of his brows and a barely perceptible intonation in his deep voice than other men produced with open threats.
Prudence shrugged. ‘Oh, I just thought you might need some privacy.’
Luke let the silence last a heartbeat too long before saying, ‘No.’
And that was the end of that. Without trying to answer, the other woman waved languidly at someone down the beach before donning her sunglasses and lying back on her lounger. Suddenly cold, in spite of the heat of the sun, Fleur shivered while Luke applied sunscreen to Fleur’s back, his hands sweeping the lukewarm liquid across her skin.