White Lies Read Free

presence despite the resolutely closedeyelids. 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 Honore...' 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 relieved!'
    '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 over the island. Seven times British, seven times French.
    It seemed to her that the man's sexy accent was mixed with the slow-blues drawl of the Caribbean, and it reached into her stomach like warm, soothing cocoa. Mandy concealed the weakening effect of the richly flowing voice and got down to business.
    'I'm glad there's no mix-up,' she said in a rush. 'Mr Lacey told me Monsieur St Honore would contact me— and then the girl at the bar said Monsieur St Honore was waiting on the beach and then, when I saw you, well!' She laughed but he didn't smile in response and continued to gaze at her cynically. Her smile faded. 'I was sure something was wrong,' she said more soberly, 'and I didn't know what to do.'
    He jack-knifed his strong legs and stood up in a leisurely, languid way as if his joints had been oiled as comprehensively as his gleaming dark body. 'I'm Pascal.' Then he smiled and two dimples appeared in each cheek, utterly distracting her because they turned him from a rake into a charmer. 'You're Mandy Cook, I presume?'
    'Yes!'
    Everything was going to be all right! Overjoyed, Mandy took the offered hand enthusiastically. It was large and dry and strangely comforting, and it reminded her of her beloved Dave's hands so much that she