Honeymoon with the Boss Read online

  ‘Julia was different,’ he remembered after a moment. ‘She wasn’t needy or emotional, and she didn’t expect me to jump through hoops for her. We understood each other-or, at least, I thought we did,’ he amended. ‘I had no idea what Patrick meant to her, for instance. When she said that he was just a friend, I never questioned it. I thought she would be the perfect wife.’

  He paused, remembering. ‘I suppose the truth is that it wasn’t her I really wanted, but someone to go home to. Someone who would make me comfortable, who would be able to cope with any corporate entertaining and who wouldn’t make a fuss about the time I spent at work.’

  ‘It sounds to me as if you wanted a housekeeper, not a wife,’ said Imogen with a certain tartness. ‘Why didn’t you just hire someone?’

  ‘Because I don’t sleep with my employees.’ Tom’s voice was level, and Imogen flushed beneath her hat.

  Of course he would expect to sleep with his wife, but she didn’t really need to have that fact rammed down her throat. She didn’t need to imagine being that wife, making love with him every night, waking up with him every morning. Especially when it was never going to happen.

  ‘As one of your employees, that’s good to know,’ she said as crisply as she could.

  Tom slanted her a quick look. ‘It’s not just about sex,’ he said. ‘I wanted an equal, someone I could talk to, someone to support me-what was so wrong with that?’

  ‘That depends on what you were going to offer her in return.’

  ‘A lot of money,’ he said. ‘Security. Comfort. Trust. Respect. Honesty. Fidelity. When I make a promise, I keep it. I wouldn’t have taken wedding vows unless I was going to stick to them.’

  It wasn’t a bad deal, Imogen supposed. She knew people who had settled for less.

  He had offered Julia everything except love. Imogen wasn’t surprised that Julia had thought that she would marry him, but it wasn’t a surprise either that she hadn’t been able to go through with it.

  Tom might not think love mattered, but it did.

  ‘You don’t approve?’ He was watching her more closely than she realised.

  ‘It’s not up to me to approve or disapprove,’ said Imogen carefully. ‘It just wouldn’t be enough for me.’

  ‘What more do you want? Oh-love, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes, love,’ she said evenly, ignoring the dismissive note in his voice. ‘What good is respect or security or all that stuff if you’re not with someone who makes you feel…oh, I don’t know…’

  How could she explain to someone like Tom? ‘…like one of those dolphins we saw,’ she tried. ‘They looked so…so joyous leaping out of the water, didn’t they? As if they were exactly where they wanted to be, doing exactly what they wanted to do. That’s how it feels when you’re in love,’ she told him. ‘I’m not getting married until I feel that way again.’

  Tom shook his head, unconvinced. ‘You’re not being realistic, Imogen. You want everything to be perfect, but nothing ever is. Look at Coconut Island,’ he said, gesturing around him. ‘They said it was paradise, and it is-but there are still cockroaches and bats and who knows what else lurking in the undergrowth.’

  Imogen cast a nervous glance at the vegetation smothering the shore. She hadn’t thought about what else might be sharing the island with them and wished that Tom hadn’t put the idea into her head. What if there were snakes? Mentally resolving to stick to the beach at all times, she edged further out into the water.

  Tom was still talking about the need to adjust her ideas. ‘You’re holding on to a fantasy,’ he told her.

  ‘So I’ve been told,’ said Imogen with a slight edge. ‘Amanda thinks I ought to compromise, and go out with men who aren’t absolutely perfect, but I don’t want to do that. I’ve been in love. OK, it didn’t work out, but I’m not prepared to settle for anything less.’

  ‘You’re just setting yourself up for disappointment,’ he warned, and she put up her chin.

  ‘Well, we’ll have to agree to disagree, won’t we? It’s just as well we’re not thinking of getting married, isn’t it?’

  There was a tiny pause. In spite of himself, Tom’s mind flickered to Imogen’s warm, smooth body, to the feel of her hug and the laughter in her eyes. It might be nice to go home to that every night.

  But that would mean feeling unsettled the whole time. Imogen would want him to love her and make her feel like a bloody dolphin! Tom recoiled from the very thought. His whole life would slip out of control in no time. No, he couldn’t cope with that at all.

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘Just as well.’

  That first day set the pattern for the week. Walking round the island at the end of the afternoon became part of their routine. Imogen never got tired of the reef and was eager to get out there every morning. For the first couple of days, she sat down at her computer when they got back, but in the end Tom told her gruffly that there was little point in her being there and that she could do as she pleased.

  Imogen didn’t put up much of a protest, it had to be said. It was impossible to concentrate, anyway, and she hoped that eventually Tom would get the idea of not working as well and learn to relax instead.

  Not that there was much sign of that yet. Imogen had no idea what he was doing, but he seemed to spend hours at his laptop while she was on the beach. It was a shame that he was such a workaholic, she thought. He wasn’t having much of a holiday and, when they did spend time together, they were getting on surprisingly well. Sometimes he would bring her a drink, or join her for a swim, but he never stayed for long and always made an excuse to get back to his computer.

  Tom was not, in fact, doing nearly as much work as Imogen thought he was. Oh, he spent a lot of time sitting and looking at the screen but he was finding it increasingly hard to concentrate.

  Imogen was a constant distraction, and his mind had a disturbing tendency to drift towards her at inappropriate times and in frankly inappropriate ways. It made Tom very uneasy. He had never had this problem focusing before.

  The truth was that he was deeply tempted to succumb to this unexpected attraction, but how could it possibly work? When it came down it, Imogen was still his PA and it was hardly any time since he was supposed to be marrying Julia. She wasn’t going to believe him if he told her that he was fast becoming obsessed with her, was she?

  Of course, it was just a physical obsession, Tom reassured himself, and obviously well under his control. Which was just as well, given that Imogen was clinging to her ridiculous fantasy about love.

  No, it would never work. Besides, none of this would seem real when he got home, Tom would remind himself whenever he wavered from his decision. It was all too easy to get carried away by the seductive glitter of sunlight on the lagoon and the hot, starry nights. Back in his cool, well-ordered London life he would be very glad that he hadn’t made a move.

  In the meantime, he was doing his best to maintain some distance. It was a little easier once he had told Imogen that he didn’t expect her to work after all. Tom had been afraid that if she carried on sitting across the table from him she would realise just how little work he was actually doing.

  Otherwise, things were OK if they were doing something-snorkelling or swimming or walking or eating-but he avoided the beach as much as possible. When Imogen was just there, looking touchable, his hands would start to twitch alarmingly and he had to take himself off in case they reached for her of their own accord.

  The evenings were tricky too, but at least then it was dark. Together, they would sit and watch, mesmerised, while the sky softened and glowed and the sun sank towards the horizon and disappeared at last in an extravaganza of fiery colour. The sudden darkness brought a raucous chorus of insects and the bats, swooping and diving through the hot air.

  Tom was always achingly aware of Imogen beside him then. Every evening she showered and changed into a dress, and he could smell the soap and sunshine on her skin, and in the freshly washed hair that tumbled loose to her shoulders.


  But he could handle it. It was under control.

  ‘I don’t like the look of that.’ Imogen stopped in the shallows and pointed at the horizon, which was boiling with dark, dense, billowy clouds.

  It was very hot and even the water around her ankles felt warmer than usual. The circuit of the island involved more wading than walking, but it was already familiar. Imogen did a quick calculation. This was the fifth time they had done it, but the first time she had noticed clouds like that. They were a long way away, it was true, but there was something menacing about them, and she watched them uneasily.

  ‘I hope there’s not going to be a storm.’

  Tom eyed the horizon. ‘It’s looking pretty black,’ he agreed. ‘We might well get some rain.’

  ‘I don’t mind rain. It’s thunder and lightning that make me nervous.’ Imogen hugged her arms together. ‘I know it’s silly, but I hate storms.

  ‘When I was little, I went on a camping trip with my friend and her family,’ she said. ‘We were staying on a campsite by a river, and there was a terrific storm in the middle of the night. Thunder, lightning, torrential rain, wind…the full works. It was chaos,’ she remembered with a shudder. ‘There were tents blowing away, and people screaming and the river flooded…

  ‘I was only seven and I was terrified, although it turned out in the end that no one had been badly hurt or anything. But the tents were ruined and everything was such a mess that we went back early. When we got home, my mother had to tell me that my granny had died suddenly while I’d been away.’

  The memory still made Imogen sad. ‘She’d been living with us and I absolutely adored her. I was devastated, and I suppose it got all muddled up in my mind. I thought that the storm had somehow killed Granny, and the next time there was thunder and lightning I got absolutely hysterical.’

  Tom’s expression was hard to read and she trailed off, feeling foolish. ‘I told you it was silly,’ she apologised.

  ‘It’s difficult to get things that happen to us as kids into proper perspective,’ he said. ‘Even when we’re grown up and understand what really happened, we still feel it the way we did then. My mother died when I was five,’ he said abruptly. ‘I don’t remember much about her-it’s more of an impression than a specific memory-but I remember exactly the tweedy jacket my father was wearing when he came back from hospital to tell me. It felt rough when he hugged me, and I can still see those leather buttons. Even now I’ll sometimes catch a glimpse of someone wearing a jacket like that and I’ll feel a mixture of confusion and distress, just like I did then.’

  He had kept his account deliberately dispassionate, but Imogen felt tears sting her eyes at the thought of the small boy learning that his world had fallen apart.

  ‘How awful for you.’

  ‘I was all right.’ She was unsurprised when Tom brushed her sympathy aside and carried on splashing through the shallows.

  ‘I don’t think I really understood what my father meant,’ he said. ‘They hadn’t told me that she was ill, and I was just aware that nothing was happening as it should any more. I remember not understanding why the house was a mess or why we didn’t have meals at the proper times any more.

  ‘Of course, I can see now that my father was struggling to cope, and doing the best that he could. Tidying the house wouldn’t have been top of his order of priorities, but it bothered me at the time. That level of disorder still makes me uncomfortable,’ he added in a burst of confidence.

  No wonder being in control was so important to him, thought Imogen, wading through the warm water beside him. His mother’s death would have disrupted everything that he took for granted. As a small boy, he must have felt utterly powerless. She could see how building an orderly world that he could control would be a way of coping with the loss of the most important figure in his life.

  His distrust of emotions made more sense now. Tom might think that he was being realistic, but inside he was still the boy who had lost the woman he loved the most, and was afraid of feeling that bereft again. It was easy to see how a small child, unable to understand death, would think that he had been abandoned by his mother, would feel at some level that she wouldn’t have left him if he’d been good enough. That would certainly explain his drive to succeed, to prove again and again that he was good enough.

  And now Julia had abandoned him too. Imogen’s heart cracked for him, and she slid a glance under her lashes. She knew better than to say anything, but she felt desperately sorry for him. It wasn’t surprising that he was so wary of love. Falling in love would mean letting go of everything that had made him feel safe since he was a child.

  It was a shame, Imogen thought. If only Tom would take the risk, he could make some woman very happy. Behind that brusque exterior was a man who was strong and steady and fiercely intelligent, with an unexpectedly dry sense of humour. The more time she spent with him, the more she found herself liking him.

  And the more attractive she found him.

  Night after night, she would lie alone in the big bed and think about Tom on the sofa, just round the corner. In the darkness she would remember how he looked when he came out of the water, brushing his wet hair back from his forehead. His legs were long and lean, his chest broad and his shoulders powerful. Imogen’s mouth would dry at the memory.

  It was getting harder and harder to remember that she was supposed to be treating him like any other friend. She was reluctant to offer to rub sun cream into his back too often, not because she didn’t want to touch him, but because she wanted it too much. Tom often hesitated before accepting, and Imogen was convinced that he knew how much she loved the sensation of feeling the leashed power of his body beneath her hands, in spite of her best attempts to appear brisk and unconcerned. His skin was warm and sleek and matt and, when she felt his muscles flex at her touch, her stomach tightened and heat roiled through her.

  It was all she could do to stop her hands sliding all over him. She longed to explore all that solidity and strength, to touch her lips to the back of his neck and kiss her way down his spine and then turn him over and start all over again. Sometimes Imogen felt quite giddy with it, and snapping the lid back on the bottle and stepping back took such a heroic effort that she had to sit down and close her eyes.

  And remind herself of all the reasons why she had to keep her hands firmly to herself.

  It would be a huge mistake to forget how incompatible they were. She might understand now why Tom was so resistant to the idea of love, but that didn’t change the facts. She would be mad to even think about falling for a man who was incapable of loving her back. All he could ever offer was a physical relationship, and that wouldn’t be enough for her.

  Would it?

  ‘It’s hot tonight.’

  Dropping onto the wicker seat next to Tom’s, Imogen lifted the hair from her neck in a vain attempt to cool it and he got a whiff of shampoo. He couldn’t recognise the scent-limes, perhaps, and something else-but it was clean and fresh and innocently alluring, rather, he realised with something approaching dismay, like Imogen herself.

  She was wearing loose silky trousers tonight, but with a strappy top that left her arms and shoulders bare. Tom was sure that she hadn’t set out to look seductive, but all she had to do was sit there in her very ordinary clothes and he was wondering what it would be like to run his hands down those smooth arms, wondering how warm her skin would feel, how easily those tiny strips would slide from her shoulders…

  Swallowing, he got up to make her a drink. ‘I think we may be getting that rain soon,’ he said. When in doubt, stick to the weather.

  ‘Really?’ Imogen looked out at the lagoon with a frown. In the last flush of the sunset, it gleamed like burnished copper, its surface glassy and still.

  ‘It’s very close,’ he pointed out, ‘and those clouds were behind us, remember? Just because we can’t see them doesn’t mean they’re not there.’

  Imogen pulled a face. ‘Creepy thought.’ Not being able to see it only ma
de the gathering storm seem more menacing.

  Uneasily, she pulled her legs up so that she could hug her knees. ‘I think you must be right, though. It feels eerie tonight. It’s as if the whole island is holding its breath.’

  The air was suffocatingly hot and heavy. It seemed to wrap itself around them as Tom handed Imogen her drink and sat back down beside her.

  ‘Listen!’ he said, holding up a finger.

  Imogen cocked her head on one side. ‘I can’t hear anything.’

  ‘Exactly. Usually you can’t hear yourself think for the insects but there’s not a peep out of them tonight. It’s all quiet.’

  ‘So it is.’ In spite of the heat, she shivered. ‘No bats either. It’s uncanny.’

  The last stripe of scarlet along the horizon slipped away and the darkness swooped after it, swallowing up the last gleam of light in the sky. It felt more intense than usual, and Imogen was sure that she could feel the blackness boiling angrily up behind them.

  The silence was making her stomach churn, and she bit her lip and hugged her knees more tightly, unsure whether she longed for something to happen to break the suspense, or dreaded it.

  A lamp inside threw a dim yellow glow through the window onto the veranda. It was enough for Tom to see a pulse hammering in Imogen’s throat. Her whole body was rigid with tension, and he remembered what she had told him earlier about her fear of storms.

  ‘Come here,’ he said, and held out his hand.

  Imogen didn’t even hesitate. She took it gratefully, and the fear that had been jittering just below her skin steadied the moment his fingers closed firmly around hers. His clasp was warm and strong as he drew her down onto the seat close beside him. He didn’t tell her not to be frightened, but just put his arm around her and held her close against the hard security of his body.

  Her heart was booming and thudding, but now she didn’t know whether it was from fear or from a desperate, churning awareness of Tom’s nearness. He was so solid, so steady, so gloriously reassuring, that she wanted to burrow into him, but she made herself sit still, comforted by the strength of his arm.