LITMIR.BIZ

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you change your mind?’

      Heaven alone knows, Bryn Wallis thought drily; I can feel in my bones that I’m going to regret this! He said, however, and smiled crookedly, ‘I’m desperate.’

      Three weeks later Fleur walked along a sandy beach that fringed a turquoise bay between steep, wooded headlands to her tiny bungalow on Hedge Island.

      There were three accommodation bungalows set wide apart next to the beach. The largest was inhabited by Bryn Wallis and his son, and a slightly larger version of her own was currently occupied by the only other live-in restaurant staff, Julene and Eric Philips, who were taking a break from sailing around the world to earn some money.

      Julene was assistant chef although that was another job description worthy of a broad interpretation. And Eric, who was a giant of a man with bleached blond hair that made you think of a Viking reincarnated, was very much a jack-of-all-trades, who could turn his hand to just about anything—bar keeping the books. In contrast to his wife, he said very little. All other staff were locals who lived on the island.

      Although her bungalow was the essence of simplicity with a palm-thatch roof and similar windows that you propped open, it was sturdily built, and had its own modern bathroom. It also afforded her absolute privacy and the veranda, complete with hammock, had stunning views over the bay.

      In fact she often felt like a castaway not on a desert island but in a tropical paradise. There was the beach and some coral reefs at the mouth of the bay which were wonderful to snorkel over and also protected the bay. There were the headlands, covered in bush and studded with tall, dark green hoop pines and grey boulders, and she loved to watch the fish hawks and brahminy kites that soared from their nests through the sky with their high, clear whistles. There were cockatoos and rosellas, pigeons and plovers and often, at night, the mournful cry of curlews.

      Behind the beach and around the buildings that fitted in with the landscape so well, a riot of colour had been created. Bougainvillaea, in many shades, the yellow trumpet flowers of the allamanda creeper, frangipani and hibiscus as well as native grevilleas, bottle brush and melaleucas, coral trees and impatiens.

      All of it appealed not only to her senses but suited her mood and her simple needs of the moment. Not only that, she reflected and rubbed her neck wearily as she walked up the steps, the beauty of Clam Cove formed her retreat from the impossible demands of Bryn Wallis.

      She poured herself a cool drink and slipped into the hammock. He was every bit as bad as he’d painted himself—sarcastic, arrogant, impatient and volatile. Added to all that, she’d divined that, although he loved to cook, not far beneath the surface there were times when he not only loathed to cook for the public but he loathed having to share his bit of tropical paradise with them.

      So why, she wondered not for the first time, was he doing it?

      But Bryn Wallis was a mystery in many respects. His son, Tom, six, was a delightful bundle of energy and mischief as well as extremely bright, and she and Tom had formed an instant rapport because he was wild to learn about computers and have someone to play computer games with. But, while it was patently obvious that Tom didn’t have a mother around, there was no explanation of what might have happened to her. Tom never spoke of her.

      Fleur had found out that they’d lived on Hedge Island for some time and that the restaurant was only open during the cooler winter months. Although other people lived on the island, the population was small and, although people came to the island all year round, it was the winter influx of southern visitors, visitors escaping the rigours of colder winters down south for the still balmy warmth of the north, that made it viable.

      All in all, she thought, Bryn Wallis came across as a man who had decided to opt out of the rat race, but the reason for it was another matter. There was no sign at Clam Cove, which was the name of his restaurant as well as his little slice of paradise, that he’d ever been anything else but a beachcomber who loved to dive, swim, fish, cook when the mood was on him, and turn his hand to building bungalows and making some exquisite pieces of wooden furniture.

      Although she did wonder sometimes if he was a writer because of something Tom had said, and because, some nights when she couldn’t sleep, often the early hours of the morning she’d noticed a lamp on in the main bungalow.

      He was also a man of decided opinions and causes. In two and a half weeks she’d heard him declaim scathingly on the iniquities of longline fishing and the declining albatross and dolphin population and conversely on the protection of crocodiles to the extent that the creatures could now be found in Cairns, their nearest coastal city, itself. She’d been subjected to his vehemence on genetic food engineering and discovered that he had a thing about women who wore artificial nails.

      It had amused her to think that was probably the only thing he approved of about her.

      As for the restaurant itself, it had soaring palm-thatch ceilings, was open-sided with roll-down clear plastic blinds in case of inclement weather, and was built over the beach. It featured his pieces of furniture, some wonderful pottery urns planted with flowering plants and creepers, as well as nautical and beachcomber memorabilia hung from the rafters.

      There was no separate cooking area. The chef operated from a raised, counter-enclosed area where Bryn did a lot of his cooking on rotisserie spits and grids over charcoal fires. On starry, moonlit nights with the water lapping close by it was especially exotic and romantic.

      One mystery she had solved, though, was why he might not be on the marriage market.

      The deputy manager of the resort on the other side of the island was a woman, Stella Sinclair, a very attractive brunette in her early thirties. Although she blended in with the tropical ambience of the island well, Fleur had detected a sharp brain and consummate businesswoman in Stella Sinclair. And Julene, who was something of a character, had let slip to Fleur that, although on account of Tom it was never alluded to at Clam Cove, the rest of the island well knew that Stella was Bryn Wallis’s lover.

      But the most puzzling aspect of all about the man, Fleur reflected, was his deep and instant antipathy to her. Yes, no one around him got a smooth ride when the restaurant was busy and things went wrong even if they were not the culprit. But they put up with it because at other times he could be charming, funny, kind even and irresistible. His son adored him and he seemed to have a natural way with the boy.

      They were often to be seen working together, which meant that Tom fetched and carried tools for Bryn as he did some woodwork. They were often to be heard having long, serious conversations about anything and everything then breaking up into laughter or song. And Tom cherished the growing menagerie of little animals Bryn carved for him.

      Not so with her, however. He had a subtle way of needling her, he was a genius at innuendo and the kind of double entendre that might float over other heads but found their mark with her unerringly like well-placed arrows intended to wound. There was an undoubted and barely veiled hostility in all his dealings with her even though, so far, she’d not retaliated in kind. Why? she wondered, staring out to sea unseeingly.

      In the two and a half weeks since she’d started working for him she’d gone out of her way not to put a foot wrong. She’d ‘turned her hand’ to everything that was requested of her, including all the things he himself had mentioned bar cricket. But she’d more than compensated for that by spending as much time with Tom as she could when Bryn wasn’t able to. This had been no hardship. Tom was a real character and exceptionally articulate for his age.

      And she’d gone out of her way, when helping out in the restaurant, to attract as little attention as possible. She’d scraped her hair back, worn no make-up and a dowdy, voluminous dress she’d had the forethought to purchase before arriving on the island. Not only that, but to date she hadn’t set foot beyond Clam Cove.

      Also, while she’d been meticulous as a waitress or the receptionist, she’d also been at pains not to allow her natural sense of fun or anything that could be termed joie de vivre, come-hitherness or whatever it was Helen of Troy might have possessed, to show through.

      True, there had still been some speculative glances but to say that she

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