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of regret.

      ‘The grouper, I think,’ she answered, mentioning the name of the most popular fish in the area. ‘And melon, to begin with. I’m not very hungry.’

      Cole acknowledged her choice with a brief inclination of his head, and the waiter, who had evidently been keeping an interested eye on their table, came to take their order.

      Cole ordered the grouper, too, but with a salad starter. ‘And bring the lady another of those,’ he said, as Joanna set down her empty glass. ‘And I’ll have another bourbon.’

      Joanna arched her brows, half in protest, but the waiter was already sauntering away between the tables. Besides, the drink had been delicious, she conceded. And fairly innocuous, too, judging by the clearness of her head.

      There was silence between them for a while. Joanna could have broken it with some other audacious comment, but she realised she was in danger of alienating Cole completely, and that hadn’t been her intention at all.

      So, instead of sniping at him, she pretended an interest in their fellow guests, thanking the waiter for her drink when it came, without any further attempt to provoke her companion.

      And, as she had half expected, Cole was eventually forced to say something. She guessed he was not unaware that their lack of communication had been noticed by the people at the next table, and as he had been the one to cause their isolation he chose to be the one to end it.

      ‘Do you see much of Grace?’ he asked, in a voice that would have cracked ice, and Joanna turned her gaze from a bowl of exotic plants to look at him.

      ‘That depends,’ she said, moistening her lips with the tip of her tongue.

      ‘On what?’

      The question was wrung from him, and Joanna smiled. ‘On whether I’m working or not,’ she declared smoothly. ‘Grace is my agent. She’s only interested in when I’m going to finish my next painting.’

      ‘I’m sure that’s not true.’ Cole’s tone had lost some of its chilliness. ‘Grace always liked you. She considers you a friend.’

      ‘Mmm.’ Joanna stirred her drink with the straw. ‘Well, let’s say things have been a little strained between Grace and me, since we—broke up.’

      Cole frowned. ‘I don’t believe it. Hell, I’d have thought you and she had a deal in common.’

      ‘Would you?’ Joanna looked at him through her lashes. ‘You should know Grace won’t have a word said against your father.’

      Cole’s mouth thinned. ‘Unlike you, huh?’

      ‘I don’t have two sons whose livelihood is dependent on someone else’s goodwill,’ she countered lightly. ‘Your father can’t hurt me, Cole, and that must be a real source of aggravation to him.’

      ‘I doubt if he cares that much, one way or the other,’ retorted Cole bitterly. ‘But you always had to face him down, didn’t you? You’d never admit that sometimes he just might be right!’

      ‘Like when he accused Nathan of sleeping with your wife?’ she enquired tautly, and then, seeing the dark, tormented, expression her words had provoked, she quickly regressed. ‘Forget I said that. It doesn’t matter. He did us both a favour, didn’t he? Oh—here’s the waiter. Our table must be ready.’

       CHAPTER FOUR

      A FOUR-PIECE West Indian band was playing in the grill room, and Joanna was glad that the music negated any real obligation to talk while they were eating. Not that she ate a lot. The melon slid down smoothly enough, but the fish, which was served with a bouquet of vegetables, was rather more difficult to swallow. Instead, she turned to the wine Cole had ordered to accompany the meal, drinking several glasses of the chilled Californian Riesling.

      There was a small dance-floor beyond the tables, where those guests who had finished their meal indulged in a little after-dinner exertion. Joanna spent most of her time watching them, uncaring for once if Cole was looking at her. With her elbow propped on the edge of the table and her chin cupped in one slender hand, she was unaware of the dreamy expression that crossed her face as she watched the swaying couples. For a while, she was completely oblivious of her surroundings, and it took a definite effort to concentrate again when the waiter came to ask if they wanted a dessert.

      ‘Just coffee,’ said Cole, without consulting her, and Joanna pulled an indignant face.

      ‘I might have liked a dessert,’ she pouted, and although she suspected he was only acting Cole’s face softened.

      ‘Coffee first, like back home,’ he insisted wryly. ‘I don’t want to have to carry you out of here.’

      ‘Would you do that?’ she asked huskily, a feeling of heat sweeping over her, and although it wasn’t all that easy to focus on his lean face she thought his eyes darkened at her words.

      ‘If I have to,’ he answered. ‘Why? How do you feel?’

      ‘Muzzy,’ she admitted, emitting a rueful little laugh. ‘Maybe I do need that coffee, after all.’

      ‘You always were a cheap drunk,’ he said, but for once there was no malice in his tone, and Joanna knew an overwhelming urge to make him as aware of her as she was of him.

      Concentrating hard, she stretched out her hand and ran her fingers over his thigh. He jerked back automatically, but not before she had felt the instinctive tautening of muscle under her touch. From his groin to his knee, his leg stiffened defensively, and his lazy humour disappeared beneath a scowl of irritation.

      But when he would have pushed her hand away, she thwarted him with an appealing smile. ‘Dance with me,’ she invited, turning her hand into his, and letting her thumb drift against his palm. ‘Please, Cole. To show you’re not mad at me. For old times’ sake, as you said.’

      He wanted to refuse. The evidence of that was clear in his face. And he resented her for using his words against him. But something—the memory of why he had come here, perhaps, or a desire to prove he was in control of his own destiny, who knew?—made him hesitate long enough for her to draw him to his feet.

      ‘I don’t dance,’ he said, then, his voice clipped and harsh, ‘I think we should get out of here. You need some fresh air.’

      ‘Do I?’

      Joanna swayed, most convincingly, which wasn’t too surprising considering the wine had made her feel decidedly unsteady on her feet. But she could handle it, she told herself, not prepared to lose the advantage now.

      ‘Yes, you do,’ he muttered, as she continued to cling to his fingers. ‘Jo, what do you think you’re doing? This isn’t the way to the exit.’

      ‘I’ll leave after we’ve danced,’ declared Joanna firmly, tugging him after her. ‘We used to dance before. Don’t you remember?’

      ‘That wasn’t dancing,’ snapped Cole, but Joanna’s behaviour was attracting attention, and she could see he didn’t like it.

      ‘Whatever,’ she murmured, reaching the square of polished tiles, and turning into his arms. ‘Don’t be a spoil-sport, darling. Don’t you want to dance with me?’

      Cole scowled, but there was no turning back. Besides, the face she turned up to his was innocent of all deceit, the amber eyes pleading with him to give in.

      And he did. With a grim tightening of his lips, he gripped her waist, and held her away from him. Then, fixing his gaze on some distant point above her head, he began to move rather awkwardly in time to the music.

      Joanna caught her lower lip between her teeth, as a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Oh, lord, she gulped, trying to contain her mirth, she had forgotten what a hopeless dancer Cole was. He had never mastered any step, beyond the square dances he had learned in school, and only

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