He watched lazily as she applied the coconut-scented cream to her exposed skin, making her feel as if she was putting on an exhibition purely for his benefit—which she was, she admitted ruefully to herself, conscious of the forbidden pleasure of touching herself under his gaze.
Elizabeth allowed her fingers to linger caressingly over their task and instead of sunning herself in a pose that minimised her generous proportions she arched out contentedly, like a cat in the sun, and when she swam she didn’t come out as she had previously, with arms crossed protectively under her chest, but strolled up the beach with her hands swinging naturally at her sides and stood and patted herself dry with a brazen insouciance that made Jack groan and roll over on his stomach in a gesture more explicit than words.
Elizabeth knew that she was flirting with disaster by letting her guard down, but the shock in the lighthouse, followed by the woozy alcoholic counter-punch of the floral cocktail and the sensuously enervating effect of the blazing sun, warm sand and silky sea combined to invest the remainder of the day with a magic unreality that she gratefully accepted. Time slipped out of joint, aided by a very lazy, undemanding Jack Hawkwood who seemed as content as she to maintain a tacit truce.
He showed her how to snorkel and rescued her when she dived down to where the fish schooled so thickly that she got frighteningly lost in their abundance. He sat with her during the updated Amedée version of the traditional Melanesian 'bougna'—a feast of fish with taro and yams bathed in coconut milk and wrapped in banana leaves to cook on hot stones—and laughingly urged her on when she and some of the other guests were dragged up to perform in the equally traditional dance and song demonstration which followed.
Later, they drank coffee on the beach and watched while one of the attractive young dancers showed the many ways in which a pareau could be worn over a swimsuit, and Jack had insisted on buying one for her, teasing her when it fell off at her first attempt at tying it and coming to her aid with a deftness that made her fleetingly jealous.
By the end of the day, mellowed even further by a slight overdose of sun, Elizabeth didn’t turn a hair at the suggestion that she sail back with Jack rather than travel with the rest on the hydrofoil. She wanted to wring the last drop of pleasure from their unspoken truce.
A breeze had sprung up and with it a choppy sea, and the ride home was an exhilarating one, Elizabeth content, silently enjoying the sight of Jack exercising his mastery over the elements, his powerful legs braced against the deck, his shirtless torso glistening with spray as his muscles rippled at each pull and tug of the wheel.
The voyage ended all too soon, accompanied by an unpleasant shock that sobered Elizabeth suddenly and completely.
As he was handing her from the boat to the pier in front of the hotel, Jack casually let slip that he was lunching with his grandfather the next afternoon.
'Your grandfather?' Elizabeth's curiosity had mingled with a leap of hope that was strangely sour. His absence might give her the chance to make another assault on the fortress of St Clair! 'Does he live on the mainland?'
'My mother's father—and no, he l
ives right here on the Ile des Faucons. He's not in the best of health and I take my duty to him very seriously.'
‘Is your grandmother still alive?' Jack had already mentioned that his widowed mother had remarried some years before and was now living with her new family in Switzerland.
Jack crouched to check the knot on the mooring line. 'No, she was killed during the war and Grandpère was badly wounded. The family estate was literally devastated by fighting and most of their personal possessions were looted or destroyed. Fortunately the family's bankers were Swiss, so when Grandpère decided to abandon Europe along with his bad memories he had sufficient wealth to indulge his whim to recreate the beauty that the Germans had ransacked and destroyed.' He rose to his feet and turned to face Elizabeth, who was suddenly experiencing an awful presentiment of disaster.
'So actually the St Clair estate here is an almost perfect replica of the St Clair chateau near Lille as it was in its heyday—even down to its furnishings,' he finished.
Elizabeth couldn’t remember now what she had said to get away, but she hoped the reeling shock that had numbed her mind had also numbed her expression.
Jack Hawkwood could get her into the St Clair estate.
The thought had grown from a tiny fearful seed into a full-blown determination. If Alain St Clair was too ill to invite her into his well guarded citadel then Jack must be her invitation card.
‘I take my duty to him very seriously.' In other words Jack would probably take an extremely dim view of any perceived attempt to swindle a sick old man. What would his reaction be if he discovered that Elizabeth was carting around a chunk of his family's precious and—thanks to the Nazis—extremely rare personal heritage?
Somehow she didn’t think that it would be pleasant. He was already predisposed to distrust Elizabeth, and she couldn’t blame him. She needed time to smooth things over with his grandfather. If she could get him on her side then Jack would have to respect his wishes... and if she used Jack to get to his grandfather the old man might be more inclined to listen to a friend of his grandson's than the niece of two virtual strangers. There was a chance yet that the untidy ends of this unfortunate affair could all be wrapped up very quickly and neatly—providing she could think of a way to get Jack's unknowing co-operation...
‘I understand you want to challenge the house?'
Elizabeth nearly jumped out of her seat when the question purred in her ear. The sights and sounds of the casino faded in again, along with a shuddering awareness of the man standing just behind her, the hand he had placed on the velvet padding of her chair touching her back. Her bare back. The little black dress that she had hurriedly bought from the hotel's exclusive fashion boutique late this afternoon was as revealing as it was expensive—scooping almost to the dimples in the base of her spine at the back and deeply square across her breasts in front, baring more of their fullness than had her modest swimsuit.
She tilted her head to look at him, at an angle that she knew would give him a splendid view of her cleavage. 'What is the house limit?'
His eyes ignored the unsubtle invitation, his smile a thin slash in a face that was coolly unreadable as he looked at the untidy heap of chips in front of her.
'For you? The sky.' He nodded curtly to the croupier and the wheel began to spin. ‘I hope you're feeling lucky tonight, Beth.'
She made herself laugh softly at the hint of threat. 'Why? You're the one who could lose his shirt.'
She flicked a provocative finger at the pearl buttons on his white shirt, slightly amazed at her temerity. In black trousers and tie and a white jacket he almost looked like the archetypal conservative sophisticate until you noticed the reckless counterpoint of the sleeked-back hair and flash of gold in his ear.
‘I’m not playing and the house is well cushioned against the whims of high-rollers,' he murmured, the merest glint in his eyes suggesting that he wasn’t as cool as he seemed to be. 'Do you know how much you're staking here?'
'No more than I can afford to lose,' she said airily, unwilling to admit she didn’t and annoyed that his eyes still hadn’t wandered to her blatantly wicked dress. Was he blind? Why was it when you wanted a man to ogle you he wouldn’t? She picked up her fresh martini and defiantly tossed it off with one gulp.
'How many of those have you had?' He sounded vaguely disapproving. He who had practically plied her with drinks that very afternoon. Hypocrite!