A Wedding at Leopard Tree Lodge / Three Times A Bridesmaid…: A Wedding at Leopard Tree Lodge

‘Tell David that I want to see him.’

‘Yes, Rra.’

‘And see if you can find me a newspaper.’ He was going out of his mind with boredom.

‘The latest edition of the Mmegi should have arrived on the plane. I will go and fetch it for you.’

He’d been hoping for an abandoned copy of the Financial Times brought by a visitor, but that had probably been banned too and while it was possible that by this evening he would be desperate enough for anything, he hadn’t got to that point yet.

‘There’s no hurry.’

CHAPTER TWO

Luxurious surroundings will add to the bride and groom’s enjoyment of their special day.

—The Perfect Wedding by Serafina

March

JOSIE, despite her many misgivings, was impressed.

Leopard Tree Lodge had been all but invisible from the air as the small aircraft had circled over the river, skimming the trees to announce their arrival.

And the dirt runway on which they’d landed, leaving a plume of dust behind them, hadn’t exactly inspired confidence either. By the time they’d taxied to a halt, however, a muscular four-wheel drive was waiting to pick up both her and the cartons of wedding paraphernalia she’d brought with her. ‘Just a few extras…’ Marji had assured her. All the linens and paper goods had been sent on by Serafina before she had been taken ill.

The manager was waiting to greet her at the impressive main building. Circular, thatched, open-sided, it contained a lounge with a central fireplace that overlooked the river on one side. On the other, a lavish buffet where guests—kitted uniformly in safari gear and hung with cameras—helped themselves to breakfast that they carried out onto a shady, flower-decked terrace set above a swimming pool.

‘David Kebalakile, Miss Fowler. Welcome to Leopard Tree Lodge. I hope you had a good journey.’

‘Yes, thank you, Mr Kebalakile.’

It had felt endless, and she was exhausted, but she’d arrived in one piece. In her book that was as good as twenty-four hours and three planes, the last with only four seats and one engine, was going to get.

‘David, please. Let’s get these boxes into the office,’ he said, summoning a couple of staff members to deal with all the excess baggage that Marji had dumped on her, ‘and then I’ll show you to your tree house.’

Tree house?

Was that better than a tent? Or worse?

If you fell out of a tent at least you were at ground level, she thought, trying not to look down as she followed him across a sturdy timber walkway that wound through the trees a good ten feet from the ground.

Worse…

‘We’ve never held a wedding at the Lodge before,’ he said, ‘so this is a very special new venture for us. And we’re all very excited at the prospect of meeting Tal Newman. We love our football in Botswana.’

Oh, terrific.

This wasn’t the slick and well practised routine for the staff that it would have been in most places and, as if that wasn’t bad enough, it was the groom, rather than the bride, who was going to be the centre of attention.

The fact that the colour scheme for the wedding had been taken from the orange and pale blue strip of his football club should have warned her.

Presumably Crystal was used to it, but this was her big day and Josie vowed she’d be the star of this particular show even if it killed her.

‘Here we are,’ David said, stopping at a set of steps that led to a deck built among the tree tops, inviting her to go ahead of him.

Wow.

Double wow.

The deck was perched high above the promised oxbow lake but the only thing her substantial tree house—with its thatched roof and wide double doors—had in common with the tent she’d been dreading were canvas sidings which, as David enthusiastically demonstrated, could be looped up so that you could lie in the huge, romantically gauze-draped four-poster bed and watch the sun rising. If you were into that sort of thing.

‘Early mornings and evenings are the best times to watch the animals,’ he said. ‘They come to drink then, although there’s usually something to see whatever time of day or night it is.’ He crossed the deck and looked down. ‘There are still a few elephants, a family of warthogs.’

He turned, clearly expecting her to join him and exclaim with delight.

‘How lovely,’ she said, doing her best to be enthusiastic when all she really wanted to look at was the plumbing.

‘There are always birds. They are…’ He stopped. ‘I’m sorry. You’ve had a long journey and you must be very tired.’

It seemed that she was going to have to work on that one.

‘I’ll be fine when I’ve had a wake-up shower,’ she assured him. ‘Something to eat.’

‘Of course. I do hope you will find time to go out in a canoe, though. Or on one of our guided bush walks?’ He just couldn’t keep his enthusiasm in check.

‘I hope so, too,’ she said politely. Not.

She was a city girl. Dressing up in a silly hat and a jacket with every spare inch covered with pockets to go toddling off into the bush, where goodness knew what creepy-crawlies were lurking held absolutely no appeal.

‘Right, well, breakfast is being served in the dining area at the moment, or I can have something brought to you on a tray if you prefer? Our visitors usually choose to relax, soak up the peace, after such a long journey.’

‘A tray would be perfect, thank you.’

The peace would have to wait. She needed to take a close look at the facilities, see how they measured up to the plans in the file and check that everything on Serafina’s very long list of linens and accessories of every kind had arrived safely. But not before she’d sluiced twenty-four hours of travel out of her hair.

‘Just coffee and toast,’ she said, ‘and then, if you could spare me some time, I’d like to take a look around. Familiarise myself with the layout.’

‘Of course. I’m at your command. Come to the desk when you’re ready and if I’m not in my office someone will find me. In the meantime, just ring if you need anything.’

The minute he was gone, she took a closer look at her surroundings.

So far, they’d done more than live up to Marji’s billing. The bed was a huge wooden-framed super king with two individual mattresses, presumably for comfort in the heat. It still left plenty of room for a sofa, coffee tables and the desk on which she laid her briefcase beside a folder that no doubt contained all the details of what was on offer.

Those bush walks and canoe trips.

No, thanks.

Outside, there was the promised plunge pool with a couple of sturdy wooden deck loungers and a small thatched gazebo shading a day bed big enough for two. Somewhere to lie down when the excitement got too much? Or maybe make your own excitement when the peace needed shaking up—that was if you had someone to get excited with.

The final touch was a second shower that was open to the sky.

‘Oh, very “you Tarzan, me Jane”,’ she muttered.

To the front there were a couple of director’s chairs where you could sit and gaze across the oxbow lagoon where the family of elephants had the same idea about taking a shower.

All she needed now was the bubbly, she thought, smiling as a very small elephant rolled in the mud, while the adults used their trunks to fling water over their backs. Kids. They were all the same…

Looking around, she could see why Celebrity was so keen. People were crazy about animals and the photographs were going to be amazing. But, while the place had ‘honeymoon’ stamped all over it, she wasn’t so sure about the wedding.

It had required three aircraft to get her here and the possibilities for disaster were legion.

She shook her head, stretched out cramped limbs in the early morning sunshine. She’d worry about that when it happened and, after one last look around, took herself inside to shower away the effects of the endless journey, choosing the exquisitely fitted bathroom over the temptations of the louche outdoor shower.

She was here to work, not play.

Ten minutes later, having pampered herself with the delicious toiletries that matched the ‘luxury’ label, she wrapped herself in a snowy bathrobe and went in search of a hairdryer.

Searching through cupboards and drawers, all she found was a small torch. Not much use. But, while she had been in the bathroom, her breakfast tray had arrived and she gave up the search in favour of a caffeine fix. Not that David had taken her ‘just coffee and toast’ seriously.

In an effort to impress, or maybe understanding what she needed better than she did herself, he had added freshly squeezed orange juice, a dish of sliced fresh fruit, most of which she didn’t recognise, and a blueberry muffin, still warm from the oven.

She carried the tray out onto the deck, drank the juice, buttered a piece of toast, then poured a cup of coffee and stood it on the rail while she ruffled her fingers through her hair, enjoying the rare pleasure of drying it in the sun.

It was her short punk hairstyle as much as her background that had so scandalised people like Marji Hayes when Sylvie had first given her a job.

Young, unsure of herself, she’d used her hair, the eighteen-hole Doc Martens, scary make-up and nose stud as armour. A ‘don’t mess with me’ message when she was faced with the kind of hotels and wedding locations where she’d normally be only allowed in the back door.

As she’d gained confidence and people had got to know her, she’d learned that a smile got her further than a scowl, but by then the look had become part of her image. As Sylvie had pointed out, it was original. People knew her and if she’d switched to something more conventional she’d have had to start all over again.

Admittedly the hair was a little longer these days, an expensively maintained mane rather than sharp spikes, the nose stud a tiny amethyst, and her safety pin earrings bore the name Zandra Rhodes, who was to punk style what Coco Chanel had been to business chic. And her make-up, while still individual, still her, was no longer applied in a manner to scare the horses.

But while she could manage with a brush and some gel to kill the natural curl and hold up her hair, the bride, bridesmaids and any number of celebrities, male and female, would be up the oxbow lagoon without a paddle unless they had the full complement of driers, straighteners and every other gadget dear to the crimper’s heart.

Something to check with David, because if it wasn’t just an oversight in her room they’d have to be flown in and she fetched her laptop from her briefcase and added it to her ‘to do’ list.

She’d barely started before she got a ‘battery low’ warning.

Her search for a point into which she could plug it to recharge proved equally fruitless and that sent her in search of a telephone so that she could ring the desk and enquire how on earth she was supposed to work without an electrical connection.

But, while David had urged her to ‘ring’, she couldn’t find a telephone either. And, ominously, when she took out her mobile to try that, there was no signal.

Which was when she took a closer look at her room and finally got it. Fooled by the efficient plumbing and hot water, she had assumed that the fat white candles sitting in glass holders were all part of the romance of the wilderness. On closer inspection, she realised that they were the only light source and that the torch might prove very useful after all.

Wilderness. Animals. Peace. Silence. Back to nature.

This was hubris, she thought.

She had taken considerable pleasure in the fact that Marji Hayes had, through gritted teeth, been forced to come to her for help.

This was her punishment.

There had been no warning about the lack of these basic facilities in the planning notes and she had no doubt that Marji was equally in the dark, but she wasn’t about to gloat about the great Serafina March having overlooked something so basic. She, after all, was the poor sap who’d have to deal with it and, digging out the pre-computer age backup—a notebook and pen—she settled herself in the sun and began to make a list of problems.

Candlelight was the very least of them. Communication was going to be her biggest nightmare, she decided as she reached for the second slice of toast—there was nothing like anxiety to induce an attack of the munchies. As she groped for it there was a swish, a shriek and, before she could react, the plate had crashed to the deck.

She responded with the kind of girly shriek that she’d have mocked in anyone else before she saw the small black-faced monkey swing onto the branch above her.

‘Damn cheek!’ she declared as it sat there stuffing pieces of toast into its mouth. Then, as her heart returned to something like its normal rate, she reached for a sustaining swig of coffee. Which was when she discovered that it wasn’t just the monkey who had designs on her breakfast.

‘Is that coffee you’re drinking?’

Letting out the second startled expletive in as many minutes as she spilled hot coffee on her foot, she spun to her left, where the neighbouring tree house was half hidden in the thickly cloaked branches.

‘It was,’ she muttered, mopping her foot with the edge of her robe.

‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.’

The man’s voice was low, gravelly and rippled over her skin like a draught, setting up goose bumps.

‘Who are you?’ she demanded, peering through the leaves. ‘Where are you?’

‘Lower.’

She’d been peering across the gap between them at head height, expecting to see him leaning against the rail, looking out across the water to the reed-filled river beyond, doing his David Attenborough thing.

Dropping her gaze, she could just make out the body belonging to the voice stretched out on one of those low deck loungers.

She could only see tantalising bits of him. A long, sinewy bare foot, the edge of khaki shorts where they lay against a powerful thigh, thick dark hair, long enough to be stirred by a breeze coming off the river. And then, as the leaves stirred, parted for a moment, a pair of eyes that were focused on her so intently that for a moment she was thrown on the defensive. Ambushed by the fear waiting just beneath the surface to catch her off guard. The dread that one day someone would see through the carefully constructed shell of punk chic and recognise her for what she really was.

Not just a skivvy masquerading as a wedding planner but someone no one would let inside their fancy hotel, anywhere near their wedding, if they could see inside her head.

‘Coffee?’ he prompted.

She swallowed. Let out a slow careful breath.

Stupid…

No one knew, only Sylvie, and she would never tell. It was simply lack of sleep doing things to her head and, gathering herself, she managed to raise her cup in an ironic salute.

‘Yes, thanks.’

Without warning, his mouth widened in a smile that provoked an altogether different sensation. One which overrode the panicky fear that one day she’d be found out and sent a delicious ripple of warmth seeping through her limbs. A lust at first sight recognition that even at this distance set alarm bells ringing.

Definitely her cue to go inside, get dressed, get to work. She had no time to waste talking to a man who thought that all he had to do was smile to get her attention.

Even if it was true.

She didn’t do holiday flirtations. Didn’t do flirtations of any description.

‘Hold on,’ he called as she turned away, completely oblivious to, or maybe choosing to ignore her ‘not interested’ response to whatever he was offering. Which was about the same as any man with time on his hands and nothing but birds to look at. ‘Won’t you spare a cup for a man in distress?’

‘Distress?’

He didn’t sound distressed. Or look it. On the contrary, he had the appearance of a man totally in control of his world. Used to getting what he wanted. She met them every day. Wealthy, powerful men who paid for the weddings and parties that SDS Events organised. The kind of men who were used to the very best and demanded nothing less.

She groaned at falling for such an obvious ploy. It wouldn’t have happened if she’d had more than catnaps for the last twenty-four hours. But who could sleep on a plane?

‘The kitchen sent me some kind of ghastly herbal tea,’ he said, taking full advantage of her fatal hesitation.

‘There’s nothing wrong with herbal tea,’ she replied. ‘On the contrary. Camomile is excellent for the nerves. I thoroughly recommend it.’

She kept a supply in the office for distraught brides and their mothers. For herself when faced with the likes of Marji Hayes. Men who got under her skin with nothing more than a smile.

There was a pack in the bridal emergency kit she carried with her whenever she was working and she’d have one now but for the fact that if she were any calmer, she’d be asleep.

‘I’d be happy to swap,’ he offered.

Despite her determination not to be drawn into conversation, she laughed, as no doubt she was meant to.

‘No, you’re all right,’ she said. ‘I’m good.’

Then, refusing to allow a man to unsettle her with no more than a look—she was, she reminded herself, now a partner in a prestigious event company—she surrendered.

After all, she had a pot full of good coffee that she wasn’t going to drink. And unless he was part of the wedding party—and, as far as she knew, no one was arriving until tomorrow—he’d be gone by morning.

‘But if you’re desperate you’re welcome to come over and help yourself.’

‘Ah, there’s the rub,’ he said before she could take another step towards the safety of the interior, leaving him to take it or leave it while she got on with the job she’d come here to do. ‘The mind is willing enough, but the back just isn’t listening. I’d crawl over there on hot coals for a decent cup of coffee if it were physically possible, but as it is I’m at your mercy.’

‘You’re hurt?’ Stupid question. If he couldn’t make the short distance from his deck to hers there had to something seriously wrong. She would have rung for room service if there had been a bell. Since that option was denied her, she stuck her notebook in the pocket of her robe, picked up the coffee pot and said, ‘Hang on, I’ll be right there.’

His tree house was at the end of the bridge, the furthest from the main building. The one which, according to the plan she’d been given, had been allocated to Crystal and Tal as their bridal suite.

Definitely leaving tomorrow, then.

There was a handbell at the foot of the steps and she jangled it, called, ‘Hello,’ as she stepped up onto his deck.

Then, as she turned the corner and took the full impact of the man stretched out on the lounger—with not the slightest sign of injury to keep him there—she came to an abrupt halt.

Even from a distance it had been obvious that he was dangerously good-looking. Up close, he looked simply dangerous.

He had a weathered tan, the kind that couldn’t be replicated in a salon and never entirely faded, even in the dead of winter. And the strength of his chin was emphasized by a ‘shadow’ that had passed the designer stubble stage and was heading into beard territory.

She’d already experienced the smile from twenty metres but he wasn’t smiling now. On the contrary, his was a blatantly calculating look that took in every inch of her. From her damp hair, purple-streaked and standing on end where she’d been finger-drying it, her face bereft of anything but a hefty dose of moisturiser, to her bare feet, with a knowingness that warned her he was aware that she was naked beneath the robe.

Worse, the seductive curve of his lower lip sparked a heat deep within her and she knew that he was far more deadly than any of the wild animals that were the main attraction at Leopard Tree Lodge.

At least to any woman who didn’t have her heart firmly padlocked to her chest.

Resisting the urge to pull the robe closer about her and tighten the belt, betraying the effect he had on her, she walked swiftly across the deck and placed the coffee pot on the table beside him.

‘Emergency coffee delivery,’ she said, with every intention of turning around and leaving him to it.

Gideon had watched her walk towards him.

Until ten minutes ago, he would have sworn he wasn’t in the mood for company, particularly not the company of a woman high on getting her man to sign up for life—or at least until she was ready to settle for half his worldly goods. But then the tantalising scent of coffee had wafted towards him.

Even then he might have resisted if he hadn’t seen this extraordinary woman sitting on the deck, raking her fingers through her hair in the early morning sun.

If he had given the matter a second’s thought, he would have assumed anyone called Crystal to be one of those pneumatic blondes cloned to decorate the arms of men who were more interested in shape than substance when it came to women.

Not that he was immune. Shape did it for him every time.

But she wasn’t blonde. There was nothing obvious or predictable about her. Her hair was dramatically black and tipped with purple and her strong features were only prevented from overwhelming her face by a pair of large dark eyes. And while her shape was blurred by the bulky robe she was wearing, she was certainly on the skinny side; there were no artificially enhanced curves hidden even in that abundance of white towelling.

In fact she was so very far from what he would have expected that his interest had been unexpectedly aroused. Rather more than his interest if he was honest; a sure sign that his brain was under-occupied but it certainly took his mind off his back.

An effect that was amplified as she stepped up onto his deck and paused there for a moment.

Straight from the shower, her face bare of make-up, her hair a damp halo that hadn’t seen a comb, without sexy clothes or high heels, it had to be the fact that she was naked under that robe that momentarily squeezed the breath from his chest as she’d walked towards him.

‘You’re an angel, Miss Blaize,’ he said, collecting himself.

‘Not even close,’ she replied.

She’d worked hard to scrub the inner city from her voice, he judged, but it was still just discernible to someone with an ear for it.

‘On either count,’ she added. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint, but I’m plain Josie Fowler.’

She wasn’t the bride?

Nor was she exactly plain but what his mother would have described as ‘striking’. And up close he could see that those dark eyes were a deep shade of violet that exactly matched the highlights in her hair, the colour she’d painted both finger and toenails.

‘Who said I was disappointed, plain Josie Fowler?’ he said, ignoring the little leap of gratification that she wasn’t Crystal Blaize. It was her coffee he wanted, not her. ‘I asked if you’d share your coffee and here you are. That makes you an angel in my eyes.’

‘You’re easily satisfied…?’

On the contrary. According to more than one woman of his acquaintance, he was impossible to please—or maybe just impossible—but right now any company would be welcome. Even a big-eyed scarecrow with purple hair.

‘Gideon McGrath,’ he said in answer to the unvoiced question. Offering her his hand.

She hesitated for the barest moment before she stepped close enough to take it, but her hand matched her features. It was slightly too large for true femininity, leaving him with the feeling that her body hadn’t quite grown to match her extremities. But her grip was firm enough to convince him that, apart from the contact lenses—no one had eyes that colour—its owner was the real thing.

‘Forgive me for not getting up, but if I tried you’d have to pick me up off the deck.’

‘In that case, please don’t bother. One of us with a bad back is quite enough. Enjoy your coffee,’ she said, taking a clear step back.

‘Would you mind pouring it for me? It’s a bit of a stretch,’ he lied. But he didn’t want her to go.

‘Bad luck,’ she said, turning to the tray and bending to fill his cup. ‘Especially when you’re on holiday.’ Then, glancing back at him, ‘What on earth made you think I was Crystal Blaize?’

Her hair, drying quickly as the sun rose, began to settle in soft tendrils around her face. And he caught the gleam of a tiny purple stud in her nose.

Who was she? What was she? Part of the media circus surrounding the coming wedding?

‘One of the staff called you the “the wedding lady”?’ he replied, pitching his answer as a question.

‘Oh, right. Milk, sugar?’ she asked, but not bothering to explain. Then, looking over the tray, ‘Actually, that would be just milk or milk. There doesn’t appear to be any sugar.’ She sighed as she straightened. ‘I was assured that this place was the last word in luxury and to be sure it looks beautiful…’

‘But?’

‘There’s no power point or hairdryer in my room, no sugar on your tray and no telephone to call the desk and tell them about it, despite the fact that David told me to ring for anything I needed. I can’t even get a signal on my mobile phone.’

‘You won’t. The whole point of Leopard Tree Lodge is to get away from the intrusion of modern life, not bring it with you,’ he said, totally ignoring the fact that he’d been fuming about the same thing just minutes before.

Well, obviously not the hairdryer. But he could surely do with a phone signal right now, if only to reassure himself that this was a one-off. That someone in marketing hadn’t decided that weddings were the way to go.

Since he was the one who’d laid out the ground rules before a single stone had been laid or piece of timber cut, however, he could hardly complain.

But it occurred to him that if ‘plain Josie Fowler’ was with the wedding party, she would be given free run of the communications facilities and, if he played his cards right, she’d be good for a lot more than coffee.

‘The electricity to heat the water is supplied by solar energy,’ he explained, ‘but it doesn’t run to electrical appliances.’

‘Once I’d clocked the candles, I managed to work that out for myself,’ she replied. ‘The escape from reality thing. Unfortunately, I’m here to work. If I was mad enough to come here for a holiday I’d probably feel quite differently.’

Clearly that prospect was as unlikely as a cold day in hell.

‘You don’t like it?’

‘I’d like it better if it was beside a quiet bay, with a soft white beach and the kind of sea rich people pay to swim in.’

‘This is supposed to be a work-free zone,’ he pointed out, more than a touch irritated by her lack of enthusiasm. He put all his heart and a lot more into building his hotels, his resorts, some of them in exactly the kind of location she described.

But this had been his first. He loved it and hated it in equal measure, but he had the right.

‘For others, maybe,’ she retaliated, putting her hand to the small of her back and stretching out her spine, ‘but for the next few days it’s going to be twenty-four/seven for me.’

‘Sore back?’ he asked.

‘Just a bit. Is it catching?’ she asked with a wry smile.

‘Not as far as I know.’

Maybe.

Her back hadn’t seized up—yet—but just how many of his guests arrived feeling as if they were screwed up into knots? Zahir had built a very profitable spa on the coast at Nadira, where most of his travellers chose to spend a couple of days after the rigours of the desert. Would that work here, too? Massage, pampering treatments, something totally back to nature…

There was plenty to keep the dedicated naturalist happy. Canoe trips, bush walks, birdwatching, but big game viewing was the big attraction and that was primarily a dawn and dusk event.

Not that he was interested, but it would be useful to mention the possibilities for expansion when it came to negotiations with potential buyers.

‘So, tell me, what’s the deal with the herbal tea and no sugar?’ she asked.

‘It’s a mystery,’ he lied. ‘Unless the ants have got into the stores.’

‘Ants?’

‘Big ones.’ He held thumb and forefinger apart to demonstrate just how big.

Her eyes widened a fraction. ‘You’re kidding?’

He said nothing. There were ants that big but the storeroom had been designed and constructed to keep them out.

She had, however, been rather dismissive of Leopard Tree Lodge. Worse, she was on a mission to disrupt it.

Protecting the unspoilt places where he built his resorts from pollution of every kind—including noise—had been high on his agenda from the outset. And, in his admittedly limited experience, weddings tended to be very noisy affairs.

Unfortunately, Celebrity would have a contract and wouldn’t hesitate to sue him and his company for every lost penny if he messed with their big day. And that would be small beer compared to compensation for distress to the bride, the groom, their families, the bridesmaids…

He was stuck with the wedding, so tormenting the woman he now realised was the wedding planner was about as good as it was going to get.