White Lies (3 page)

'Lovely,' Pascal said faintly.

'Oh,' she said, remembering, 'if that fits in with your father's schedule, that is,' she amended.

'Do what you like.' He paused, his mouth set in lines of barelv concealed triumph. 'Your time's your own. He's ill.'

'Ill!
' The news brought her up sharp. 'Oh, dear. Poor man.'

Pascal's sky-blue eyes seemed to cloud briefly and then his expression became sunny again. Sunny...with clouds imminent, she thought apprehensively, because there was a reserve about the man's manner which she couldn't quite understand. And why the triumph?

'He's quite sick,' he drawled with a mystifying relish.

'I see,' she said slowly. 'What a shame! I was so looking forward to meeting him today.' She put a hand to her head because it was still buzzing from the effects of the journey and she couldn't think clearly. 'I'm awfully sorry,' she said sympathetically.

'How kind. I'll tell him. You look a little tired. You'd better sit down,' Pascal said soothingly, taking her arm. 'Come right under here, next to me. You'll burn that tender skin if you don't take proper cover. You don't want to go home red-raw, do you?'

'Er...no.' Uncertainly she allowed herself to be drawn down to the soft, warm sand.

'Drink?' he asked politely, shifting into the full glare of the sun so that she could take all the shade.

'Thanks. I'd love one. Something fruity and cold, please.'

'Certainly. Simon will be along in a while, I expect.'

The worries were crowding back into her mind. 'How ill?' she asked anxiously, slipping off her shoes and wriggling her bare pink toes.

He gave the scuffed, much repaired condition of her shoes a detailed scrutiny and then looked sideways to meet her troubled gaze. 'Too ill for you,' he said softly.

She frowned. Either her imagination was running riot or he'd just been rude. 'I am very sorry to hear that,' she said sincerely, ignoring his lapse. 'Anything serious?'

'There's always hope,' Pascal said with a grave expression.

'That ill?' Mandy soberly sifted sand through her toes. 'It sounds as if he won't be able to see me for a while,' she said a little tremulously.

'If at all,' agreed Pascal placidly.

'No!' Her hand fluttered to her mouth, his words throwing her into total confusion. And then she put aside her own needs and thought of the poor man, fighting some dreadful illness. 'That's terrible!' she exclaimed in sympathy.

'Isn't it?' Pascal's eyes filled with silvery lights. 'Father will be deeply touched by your concern.'

She bristled at the slicing edge of sarcasm. 'I meant what I said,' she said huffily. 'You think I'm mouthing platitudes, but of course I'm sorry! I feel sympathy for anyone who's ill.'

Pascal's gold-tipped lashes swept down to veil his eyes. 'How nice. Life has made my cynical.'

'That's a shame.' But suddenly she wasn't thinking about Pascal at all—or even his father. Her own troubles were looming too large. 'It's left me with a bit of a problem,' she said slowly. 'My air ticket has to be used by the eighteenth of February. That's less than two weeks away. And your father only paid for my accommodation at Anse La Verdure till that date. What shall I do? I can't possibly afford to stay any longer—'

'Shame,' he echoed insincerely.

Mandy stiffened and flushed at his mocking tone. He wasn't exactly being helpful. Quite at a loss, she stared at the sand between them, watching a tiny crab laboriously hauling itself out of a hole and dumping a clawful of sand onto a small heap at the entrance. She sighed, identifying with the crab's efforts. She'd been fighting her way out of holes for years. She looked closer. Or was the crab
digging
that hole for itself to shelter from the burning sun?

She lifted appealing eyes to Pascal's amused face. 'I don't know what to do,' she confided.

'Have that drink,' he suggested, either unaware of her distress or completely indifferent to it. A brief lift of his hand in the air seemed sufficient to bring Simon running, the young man's bare feet kicking up small flurries of sand as he hurried over.

There was an exchange of friendly conversation in the strange local patois she'd heard several times already, before Simon went off convulsed with laughter at some teasing remark. For a moment Pascal looked rather nice—the sort of man she could confide in, who'd share a laugh and be jolly when life became tough—and she was glad that he wasn't too cynical to be nice to Simon.

Emboldened, she reached out and touched his arm. 'You will help me, won't you?' she said persuasively.

'Of course,' he said smoothly, giving the lie to the message in his frosty blue eyes. 'I'll give you the best advice I can,' he assured her.

'Please do!' she said fervently. 'I've no idea how to proceed.'

The lips smiled, the eyes didn't. 'I think,' he said, with a regretful sigh, 'that all you can do under the circumstances is to enjoy your holiday here at my father's expense, go home on the eighteenth, and hope that he'll arrange for you to come over again some time in the future.' He creaked the smile a little further but the dimples didn't appear.

Her pulses hammered like small drums. He wanted to get rid of her, she felt sure. But why? Trying to be generous, she decided that she might be posing a problem under the circumstances. It was more than likely that his father had left a backlog of work at his office. She knew from her days as an office worker that difficulties arose when a key member of staff was ill.

Maybe Pascal was involved in trying to lighten the load for his father's firm—and she was just another problem that they wanted to shelve for the time being. There might be more pressing cases to deal with.. .like defending those clients charged with crimes, she thought vaguely. But her case was important too! No one knew how desperately she needed Pascal's father. It was only fair to make that clear.

'You're right. What you suggest would be the sensible thing to do,' she agreed reasonably, startled by the genuine and delighted grin that lit Pascal's face. She smiled back ruefully, knowing that she'd blow his hopes of clearing her file from the in-tray. 'However...and I can guess that this won't be what you want...' she said sympathetically, 'I'm afraid I couldn't possibly do what you suggest. I have to stay, somehow.'

He gave her a sharp look. 'Why?' he asked tightly.

She smiled gently at his determination to protect his father from extra worry. 'I'm too close to my dream. To walk away from it, to risk losing the chance I've been given, fills me with horror. I can't give up on this.'

'You'd be wasting your time,' said Pascal coldly.

She noticed that the tiny pile of sand between them was much larger now. The crab had laboriously excavated a home for itself, grain by grain. It seemed like an omen and she gave a sigh of satisfaction.

'I don't think so. Your father may be my saviour,' she said huskily. 'When I knew what he might be offering, I was over the moon. It's everything I've always wanted. To be honest, I'd have surfed across the Atlantic to come here, knowing what might transpire! I appreciate that you won't understand what this means to me—'

'On the contrary, I do.' Pascal impatiently swept a hand through the mass of silky gold hair that haloed his head. 'In my time I've seen plenty of women like you passing my father's way,' he said shortly. 'Bright-eyed, hungry, hoping their lives will be radically changed.'

She beamed in delight. From what Pascal was saying it seemed that his father specialised in missing-person or lost-daughter cases. 'Your father's quite a guy,' she said in admiration.

'His reputation on the island is second to none,' agreed Pascal cynically.

Mandy decided that if Monsieur St Honore had such a good track record there was all the more reason for her to stay. She clasped her hands together tightly, her hopes rekindled.

'If you have had experience of women like me before, then you'll know how desperate I am,' she said, her face impassioned as she strove to engage Pascal's emotions. 'I
have
to hang around here. I've got to wait till your father's better. He can make my life perfect.' She smiled dreamily. 'It would be a new kind of life entirely. With someone for me to love, someone to love me...'

'My God!' he muttered.

She flinched, but she lifted her chin, determined not to be crushed by his look of revulsion at her sentimentality. Love wasn't nauseating and Pascal was missing a lot if he thought it was.

'I know I'm hoping for a lot—'

'Dream on,' he said scathingly.

'I will,' she said firmly. 'And my dreams will come true. I am a romantic, but I don't apologise for that. I don't care what you think—what anyone thinks!' she added, defending her beliefs. 'Ever since I saw your father's advert I've been so excited—dancing on air, half- scared, half-thrilled. And I don't care who knows it. It's been a long time since I've felt so happy.'

He grunted, unmoved by her happiness. 'Pity you're going to be disappointed.' And Pascal lay back on the sand and closed his eyes in dismissal. 'He won't be well enough to see you before the eighteenth.'

Mandy frowned with irritation. He was being difficult. 'In that case I'll have to get a job,' she said, with more conviction than she felt.

'You won't be able to,' he muttered irritably, not even bothering to open his eyes and talk to her properly. 'You'll never get a work permit. Jobs go to St Lucians. So, if you haven't any funds, how do you think you'll manage?'

Mandy didn't waver. She'd shift the ground from under him even if it meant doing it grain by grain! She grinned at the image and felt a bit better
¹
. 'Well, do me a favour and save me from selling my body in the open market-place,' she said jokingly. 'I'm sure you can help me if you put your mind to it.'

His eyes opened and pinned her with a baleful look. 'Are you suggesting I finance you myself?' he asked coldly.

'No!' She checked her exasperation. 'Look, your father must have someone who's deputising for him now he's ill. Couldn't I talk to that person? I appreciate you must have a thousand and one things to do and I don't want to be a nuisance, so if you'd just tell me where his office is I'll go there in the morning and make my own arrangements,' she finished briskly.

'That could be difficult. He doesn't have an office.' He smirked at her surprise.

'Well, wherever your father usually sees his clients,' she persisted sweetly, wondering why he was being so obstructive.

'In bed?' murmured Pascal, lifting a wicked eyebrow.

Her eyes flickered. 'Yes, in bed! Why not?' she countered pleasantly, calling his bluff. What a ridiculous remark to make!

Pascal let his gaze drift insolently over her body and she wished that she hadn't made the joke. It was perfectly obvious that he was thinking lustful thoughts because his eyes had become drowsy and his expression was smouldering. Surely he
must
have realised that she was being sarcastic?

'You come to the point with astonishing bluntness. The very idea fills me with horror. I think we can try to ensure your relationship never gets that far,' he said levelly.

She heard the threat that edged his voice and read the message in his eyes. Goose-bumps rose on her arms. He was totally hostile to her. Why?

'Your sense of humour's deserted you! And so have your manners. You ought to be helping me,' she said impatiently. 'If your father should learn how—'

'Don't threaten me!' he snapped. 'You're not seeing him, so get that into your head!'

His hostility was out in the open now. Mandy fumed. 'There's no need to be rude!' she said stiffly. 'Arrange a meeting with one of your father's colleagues for me. I'm sure you've been asked to give me what help you can—'

Pascal interrupted her with a disparaging snort. 'Yes! Unfortunately for you, however,' he said coldly, 'I'd rather help a snake find a vein in my leg than do anything that would assist either you or him.'

'What?' she gasped.

'You're on your own,' he growled. 'Don't expect anything from me. To be frank, Mrs Cook, if I had my way I'd feed the two of you a hefty dose of rat poison.'

M
ANDY
gaped like a floundering fish. 'I don't know why you're being so insulting!' she cried in astonishment. 'You talk as though you hate your father, and that's your prerogative—but how—why—can you hate me? Why are you being so unpleasant? Is it because my clothes are cheap and out of fashion and I can't afford decent shoes?' she suggested, stung by his look of contempt. 'Because I don't wear make-up or go to a swish hairdresser?'

'I don't care what you wear—' he began.

'Then why keep staring at me?'

He seemed surprised, as if that was news to him. And then he drew in an irritated breath. 'I despise you because of what you
do
,' he growled. 'Dammit! I need a drink. Where the hell is Simon?' He scanned the far end of the beach.

Mandy was silent for a moment, a frown jerking her dark brows together. He knew about her work, then. What was wrong with being a postmistress?

She saw that Pascal was looking at her hands, which had been unconsciously plucking at the hem of her dress and screwing it into a rag—a certain give-away of her chaotic feelings. Miserably she smoothed the crumpled cotton over her exposed white thighs and clasped her hands firmly in her lap.

'Look, I do my job to the best of my ability.' That seemed to make his mouth curl even more. Baffled, she sighed and gave up. 'Think what you like,' she said impatiently. 'I'm determined to wait for your father—if only to commiserate with him! Poor man! I hope I never have a son like you—'

'The very thought makes me go cold!' he bit out.

Mandy was struck dumb by his savage reaction. 'Something's bugging you! Tell me what it is!' she demanded.

'Are you that insensitive that you don't know? You're the problem. You and my father!' he snarled, his teeth almost tearing at the words. 'Be in no doubt as to how I feel. I hold my father and you in contempt. I refuse to lie down and let him grind his heel in my neck! I will not help women who want to use him for their own mercenary means! Got that?'