The expectant glint in his eye warned her not to overreact. 'To let me stay here while my bungalow is being repaired.'
‘I knew you'd see it my way.' If this hawk had had feathers he would have preened smugly. 'Now, let me show you where everything is.'
‘I'll find out for myself, thank you.' Pointedly Elizabeth walked over to the connecting door and waited for him to leave. 'Does this have a key?'
He looked regretful as he delighted in telling her, 'Unfortunately no. Do you sleep-walk?'
'Fortunately no. However, I do know judo,' she lied.
‘I’m surprised you didn’t try it out on me yesterday,' he said drily, walking slowly over to her.
‘I didn’t want to hurt you.'
'But you did anyway, judo or not.'
Her eyes fell automatically to his leg, a twinge of remembered shame leading her to ask, ‘Is it still hurting you?'
'You made me a little stiff for a while, but it passed.'
Elizabeth's eyes jerked up to his face as she blushed uncontrollably, furious with herself when his eyes registered puzzlement for a moment before they caught fire with laughter.
‘I didn’t mean that as a double entendre, Beth, although honesty forces me to admit it may have been a Freudian slip.' His teasing slipped between the cracks in her composure. ‘I thought that of the two of us I was supposed to be the lascivious rake, but you, ma belle, make me feel like an innocent, fumbling boy!'
Elizabeth made sure that the door slammed with satisfying force. Ma belle indeed! He needn’t think flattering her with false compliments was going to blind her to the fact that he was virtually holding her prisoner. Not that she wanted to escape just yet!
And as for fumbling boy...there had been nothing fumbling about his kiss yesterday, or the way he had touched her. He had seemed like a man very experienced in handling a woman's body. Perhaps he had been referring to her wanton over-reaction to him. Perhaps he was the one who needed the key to protect himself from unwanted advances!
Perhaps... Elizabeth was beginning to hate the word as much as Jack did!
The first thing that she did, after she had spent an age in the deliciously hot shower washing the man and the problems he created out of her hair, was to call Uncle Simon—having reversed the charges—and explain succinctly that J.J. Hawkwood had changed his plans and Serena Corvell had flown the coop. There was no point in worrying him with the truth of her crass ineptitude in getting caught, she told herself defensively.
Once he knew that he was the one paying for the call, Uncle Simon was correspondingly succinct in his disappointment.
'Oh, well, them's the breaks,' he said philosophically. 'Better luck next time.'
'Next time?' Elizabeth was appalled at the thought.
'We'll get another shot at him.'
‘I hope that's the royal "we",' said Elizabeth sourly.
'Now, darlin', don’t let one failure get you down. You did good.' Little did he know. 'Just relax and enjoy the rest of your stay.'
Fat chance of that! she thought acidly, when Uncle Simon went on to spoil his selfless advice by adding, 'But keep your ears tuned in case you pick up anything useful. If you get a chance, cultivate the brother and see how much he knows-'
‘I’m not Mata Hari, Simon!' snapped Elizabeth. She'd rather cultivate a rattlesnake!
'What?'
To her chagrin she realised she'd said it aloud and she rang off hurriedly, before his detective instincts were fully alerted.
She dried her hair and made her second call, to the St Clair estate, which turned out to be as fruitless as all her others had been. With a sigh she unfolded the map of the island that she had obtained from the tours and charters desk in the hotel foyer. It didn’t have the estate marked on it—another concession to the old man's obsession for privacy, she guessed—but a few casual enquiries among the staff had already elicited the information she needed and she had drawn several extra pencil lines on her map. The general area to the northwest of the island which she had been told to avoid was her ultimate goal.
She didn’t bother to unpack her suitcase. She didn’t think it was worth it for the time she was going to be spending here as a reluctant guest.
Wearing a breezy pink blouse, knee-length khaki shorts and sports shoes suitable for a vigorous walk, and having optimistically retrieved the necklace from the hotel bank, Elizabeth set out on her mission.
At first she followed the single, unsealed road that wound around the island's shoreline, little used by traffic since the only vehicles on the island seemed to be the electric buggies used by the hotel to transport guests to the various treks and water activities on the further beaches. She passed several other walkers and a few joggers taking advantage of the morning coolness to ply their virtuous fitness routines.