White Lies - SARA WOOD

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Somewhere on the beach below was the man who might change her life. And as she hurried after the white-clad Simon her whole body almost bounced with joy till the thick brown rope of her plait bounced too in sympathy.

      ‘Where is he?’ At the bottom of the steps she paused to search the beach expectantly. Yet there was no one remotely like a solicitor in sight. ‘I’m looking for a guy in a bowler hat and pinstriped suit with a briefcase,’ she said with a chuckle. ‘I suppose I’ve got that wrong!’

      Simon grinned back at her. ‘No suits here! Only sand and sea, sun and tanned people. Everybody having a good time.’

      Mandy beamed merrily at all the friendly faces nearby and was rewarded with a battery of smiles in return. ‘It’s going to be so lovely staying at this hotel!’ she sighed. ‘I expected people to be standoffish. But they all look as happy as I feel.’

      ‘Sure they do. This is paradise,’ said Simon. He paused, then gave a satisfied exclamation. ‘I see him! You follow me, lady!’

      Excitedly Mandy strode after his eye-searing, white-clad figure, barely controlling her urge to skip. Her pulses, however, were galloping along in leaps and bounds because all her hopes and dreams were bound up in this moment. Even admiring the dazzling blue sky, the translucent sea and the ‘desert island’ beach with its leaning palms and sultry, tropical atmosphere came second to her long-term goal. Beaches she could enjoy later. The unbelievable view to the mountains from her balcony could be drooled over some other time. This was her future, after all.

      Preoccupied by her thoughts, she stumbled on a ridge of sand. Seeing Simon’s curious glance, she grinned and said, ‘It’s OK. I feel wobbly. I’m just nervous as a kitten about this meeting!’

      Simon’s step faltered. ‘Monsieur St Honoré is—’ He stopped, seemingly unable—or unwilling—to continue.

      Mandy’s joy faded a little. There seemed to be a kind of warning in Simon’s silence. Feeling a little alarmed, she stopped and touched his arm. ‘What is it?’ she asked uncertainly. ‘What’s worrying you? He is here, isn’t he?’ Frantically she searched up and down the shoreline, her heart sinking. ‘There isn’t anyone with clothes on,’ she said in wry disappointment, ‘let alone a suit!’

      ‘Monsieur St Honoré, he don’t wear a suit often. Or many clothes much,’ explained Simon.

      ‘Not...wear...!’ Her eyes widened. ‘Where is he?’

      ‘There!’ Simon seemed embarrassed but she didn’t have time to question him further because he added hastily, ‘Monsieur St Honoré!’

      He lay sprawled beneath the waving fronds of a nearby palm tree, sunlight and palm shadows contriving to slash his lithe form with gold and black. A sleeping tiger. A rather magnificent animal, the torso sculpted with firm muscle, the tanned body beautifully taut and lean. And he wasn’t wearing much—only a pair of brief green bathing shorts, low on the narrow hips.

      This was Monsieur St Honoré? A lawyer? Mandy put a hand to her mouth to stop her gasp of disbelief and tried to gather her wits. ‘Simon, I think you’ve made a mistake—’ she began in a hushed and urgent whisper.

      ‘No mistake,’ he replied, sounding hurt. ‘This is him.’

      For Simon’s sake she gave the man another once-over. He looked thirtyish, his flaxen hair sun-streaked and with no hint of grey. It was untidy too, the thick, springing curls tousled and damp as though he’d recently been for a swim. Her uncertain gaze took in his thick, honeycoloured brows and his strong bone structure, highlighted by the sun where it hit the prominent cheekbones and firm jawline.

      OK, she thought. Solicitors came in all shapes and sizes. But... tousled? Rakish? Mandy now understood Simon’s unstated warning. He looked the kind of man who’d bite.

      ‘This is Monsieur St Honoré? You’re absolutely sure?’ she persisted in a whisper.

      ‘Definitely,’ the young man answered. ‘This, Monsieur St Honoré. That—’ and he pointed out to sea ‘—his boat.’

      ‘Oh! Thanks,’ she said absently, riveted by the sight of the boat.

      Simon left her gaping at the sleek motor yacht lying a short distance off shore. Its size and elegant lines screamed money. She shaded her eyes against the glare from the sea and watched its launch being drawn up out of the water by an on-board crane.

      ‘Wow!’ she breathed. A crane on a boat! Even more astonishing was the sea-level bathing deck at the stern, where a couple of St Lucians in white shorts and shirts were setting up a barbecue—a barbecue! ‘Now that is money! How the rich do live!’ she marvelled.

      The gold letters on the stern proclaimed the boat to be named St Honoré, confirming Simon’s claim. Confounded, Mandy followed the line of the mooring rope. It extended all the way to the beach where its end had been coiled a couple of times around a palm tree. The one that shaded the sleeping tiger.

      Mandy moved closer, eyeing the teak-coloured body admiringly. It was too good a sight to ignore. His flat, muscle-defined stomach tensed slightly and she took a startled pace back, thinking for a crazy moment that he was aware of her presence despite the resolutely closed eyelids. Embarrassment made her pink and hot. Nice women didn’t ogle men’s bodies in public!

      Then something dawned on her. He didn’t look ready to conduct any business at all. There was just him and the sand and the palm tree. No briefcase, no shoes, no clothes, no towel. She swayed slightly and realised that the sun was beating down on her head. Cautiously she ducked under the shady palm and wondered what to do.

      There had been some mistake. Her stomach turned over with the intense disappointment. Someone had got his wires crossed. Her soft eyes glazed over as she gloomily reviewed her situation and battled with the fear of failure.

      Perhaps her hopes had been raised unnecessarily. All along she’d tried not to expect too much, just in case she was disappointed. But how could you not get excited at the prospect of finding a blood relative when you’d longed for family all your life?

      And... maybe she’d be asked to pay back the cost of the ticket! Appalled, she lifted her eyes to the heavens. ‘Oh, Lord!’ she groaned aloud, swamped with misery. ‘If this doesn’t work out, I could be on the streets!’

      Something shimmered at her feet, making her look down quickly. The man had stirred and stretched, sunlight bouncing off the planes and curves of his body and the wide bracelet of his gold watch. As she watched, holding her breath, the heavy fringe of golden lashes fluttered. So did her pulses and her stomach. And then she found herself pinned by the bluest and most compelling pair of eyes she’d ever seen.

      ‘Hi,’ said their owner lazily, bringing up an arm behind his head. And then the tiger stretched again, flexing and tensing a battery of shifting muscles in the process. Mandy half expected him to purr.

      She cleared her throat. ‘Hi.’ And cleared it again because she’d sounded as if she was suffering from bronchitis. ‘I was looking for Monsieur Vincente St Honoré...’ She paused and took a deep breath, her mouth trembling. Better get it over with. ‘I don’t think I’ve got the right man, have I?’ she asked sadly.

      He smiled. Not much, just enough to make the firm, male mouth quirk in a disconcertingly attractive curve. He’ll bite! she reminded herself hastily.

      ‘Expecting someone older?’ he murmured.

      For a moment she was taken aback by his silky, fascinating accent. And then, seeing his amused eyes on her, she found her voice again. ‘Well, yes...’

      ‘My father.’

      ‘Oh! Mystery explained!’ she said huskily. ‘I thought there had been a mistake. I’m so believed!’

      ‘I bet.’

      Mandy risked a friendly smile and tried to place the accent. French, presumably. Herbert, the man who’d driven the minibus from the airport, had said the British and French had fought endlessly

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