Free Sweet Seduction by Stella Whitelaw

again so soon, confused by his rugged looks and masculine assurance. It was easier to nod briefly and let him call over a waiter. She tried to stay cool and calm. There was no way he would get the slightest inkling of how she was feeling.
     
     

Eight
     
    "Planter’s Punch for my guest," Giles said, without asking her. "They make a good one here. It’s a mixture of rum, green limes, a dash of Angostura bitters, cracked ice, nutmeg, mint. One of sour, two of sweet, three of strong, four of weak; that’s the recipe, they say.”
    Kira listened to his voice knowing that she could listen to it forever. It had a warm and magnetic quality and his eyes never left her face. He signed the chit for the drink without looking at it. She could become addicted to this man and this life, she thought. Perhaps she would become a beachcomber, sell necklaces like Moonshine and live off rum and free breadfruit. Forget about becoming influential, about Bruce and his new woman, and the baby of their hot and writhing flesh . . .
    Giles seemed to have forgotten about their abrupt parting that morning and was choosing to ignore her chilly silence. But the rum was creeping its insidious way into her veins, making he r relax into a pleasant warmth.
    "The decoration is a little over-the-top," he went on, referring to the harvest of sliced mango, pawpaw, glossy red cherries and fancy straw in her long glass.
    "But the drink is wonderful," she could not stop herself saying.
    "I like the dress," he said. "Very Twenties, and brings out the red in your hair. Did you know that your hair is an enchanting mixture of colours? A painter’s palette gone wild." He put out a hand as if to take hold of a lock, but Kira jerked back. He changed the direction of his hand and called over the wait er, indicating his empty glass.
    Kira was annoyed at her reaction. She should be taking pleasure from being in the company of the handsomest man in the room. She was well aware of the envious glances the other women cast in his direction and the fire of their desire.
    "Is Sandy Lane Hotel your second home?" she said, passing over his compliment on her hair and dress.
    "It’s my third home. I have a beach house built on the estate here. Sugar Hill is a great house, one of the last plantation houses. It’s too big for me to live in, even when Lace is there. I like the simplicity of the beach house. It’s quite beautiful, so peaceful and undemanding."
    "Does Lace like the house?"
    "She likes Sugar Hill but does nothing to help keep it together. She has never worked in her life; a lazy bitch, if you’ll excuse the language. Her life is one long round of parties and dancing and buying clothes."
    "How nice," Kira murmured, thinking of her long hours at the House of Commons and her small flat in Pimlico, everything so compact that she could prepare a meal in her kitchen without taking more than three paces. "But what about your mother? She lives at Sugar Hill?"
    "No, she’s in a nursing home. She’s in bed most of the time. It’s MS. She needs constant care. There’s little that can be done for her."
    "How very sad."
    "Perhaps you’d like to come and visit her, and then see Sugar Hill," he said, over the top of his glass. "It’s worth a visit. Stately home and all that. Very colonial."
    Kira wanted to refuse, but if his mother was so ill it would be very impolite and cruel.
    "Thank you, but not just yet. I’ve allowed myself twenty-fours to get over my jet-lag and now it’s back to work."
    "Very commendable. But you could take a lunch break. It gets very hot. We could drive to Sugar Hill in less than twenty minutes."
    "I don’t know. I have masses to do."
    He inclined his head as if to acknowledge her tight working schedule and dropped the subject. He was looking at her again with a disturbing look that was playing havoc with her senses. She forced herself to sit still though she longed to turn away, run to somewhere safe, miles and miles.
    "Are you sure we haven’t