Page 9 of Another Lucky Number (Lucky Number #2)

Chapter Eight

A while later, I find myself sitting on my balcony terrace, nursing a large medicinal gin and tonic from the minibar.

I’m dressed in what I hope is an outfit sophisticated enough for a date with a multi-millionaire: a sleek printed wrap dress and pretty black high-heeled sandals, accessorised with a small clutch and some tasteful gold jewellery.

Cat and Amber have joined me for a ‘pre-date briefing session’, which essentially involves Amber tossing innuendos at me from all angles, and Cat offering the more helpful, supportive advice.

‘Where are you meeting him?’ Cat asks.

‘In the cocktail bar. Apparently, we’ll head to dinner from there.’ I stare into my drink apprehensively. ‘He didn’t even ask me to confirm. Guess he’s willing to see if I turn up.’

‘How exciting. I wonder which restaurant he’ll choose. Maybe the fine-dining one. That seems his kind of thing.’

‘Doesn’t really matter, does it?’ Amber snorts. ‘He owns them all. Won’t have to put his hand in his pocket.’

‘Right, I’d better go.’ I down the last of my drink, then we get up and make our way to the door. ‘I’ll see you girls later. Don’t have too much fun without me. ’

We go our separate ways, my heels click-clacking along the tiled floor, body jangling with nerves.

What the hell am I doing? This man is perfect.

So far out of my league it’s not funny. He lives a life I – even with my lottery win of several-hundred-thousand-pounds – can only dream of.

Ugh . I need to get hold of myself or I’ll end up in a gibbering mess.

On reaching the terrace cocktail bar, I glance around anxiously for Sébastien. I’m on such high alert that I almost go into cardiac arrest when he suddenly appears behind me.

‘Emma, bonsoir .’

I slowly turn to face him, my heart hammering in my chest. He looks devastatingly handsome: his hair damp from the shower, eyes crinkling in that appealing slightly-older-man kind of way.

He’s wearing an expensive looking suit, open at the collar, no tie, as well as the same heady fragrance from the evening before, which conjures up all sorts of desires within me.

‘ Bonsoir , Sébastien.’ I murmur, as he kisses me on each cheek, setting them alight.

‘So glad you could join me,’ he says. ‘You look trés jolie . Now, we are not stopping here. The car is waiting.’

‘The car?’

‘ Mais, oui . You did not think I was going to take you to a restaurant you have already paid for? No, we are going somewhere a little more special.’

‘I think the resort’s pretty special.’

‘Of course.’ He gives another sparkling smile. ‘But tonight, you will have an authentic experience at the finest independent restaurant in the Bahamas.’

He leads me outside to a huge black Rolls Royce, opens the back door and ushers me inside. Then he gets in beside me and the chauffer drives off.

‘I’ll have you there in ten minutes, Monsieur Dumont,’ the driver says to Sébastien, making eye contact with him through the rear-view mirror.

‘ Merci bien , Lyndon,’ Sébastien replies and sits back, looking relaxed – the complete opposite to me.

We sit in silence while the car passes the resort security post, exits the grounds and joins the main road.

With the light of the day quickly fading, I don’t get as good a view of the palm tree-lined coast as I’d hoped, but as we pass more built-up areas, I am able to make out a curious mix of luxury accommodation interspersed with dilapidated buildings in desperate need of repair.

I’m also surprised by the number of monstrous American-style trucks and pick-ups that pass us.

It’s certainly all very interesting to take in (and a good distraction from my nerves).

Sébastien seems to sense that I’m uneasy and engages me in light, easy conversation, mainly asking my thoughts on the Bahamas and the resort so far.

As we talk, my nerves settle and I find myself enjoying the conversation, even occasionally stealing glances at him.

He looks so sexy and masculine, the sharp contours of his face accentuated in the half-light, and I can’t help imagining what it would be like to be kissed by him.

‘You mentioned last night that you’re mainly here for work,’ I say. ‘Is this a regular trip for you? To check everything’s running as it should be?’

‘Yes and no.’ Sébastien shrugs in a non-committal way. ‘I trust my team. But I do like to be present at times to offer my support and connect with our guests.’

‘Makes sense. Great you can make a holiday of it too and get some down time.’

‘ Absolument , yes.’ He smiles at me, and instead of the slithering feeling from the last few hours, my insides dance with excitement.

‘Though in my line of business there is little opportunity for proper “down time”, as you call it. I will have meetings every day, but I know I must also recharge to be able to give the best support my resort teams. ’

I nod, impressed by Sébastien’s work ethic and commitment to his people. This just makes him all the more appealing.

After a short drive, Lyndon pulls into a narrow road and stops in front of what looks like the entrance to a large estate.

A few moments later, the gates open and we cruise inside and along a winding driveway to a small roundabout of sorts outside a tastefully-lit salmon pink building with a tiled roof.

Lyndon pulls up outside the front of it and gets out of the driving seat to open my door for me, while Sébastien lets himself out of the other side.

Sébastien then thanks Lyndon and he drives off.

‘ S’il te plait .’ Sébastien extends a hand, ushering me towards the main door of the building while following close behind. ‘This is West Bay Estate, Emma. Do you enjoy seafood?’

‘I do.’ I try to hide the nervousness from my voice.

‘ Bien . Then we should have an enjoyable evening.’

‘Good evening, Monsieur Dumont… ma’am,’ the ma?tre d’ welcomes us as we enter a reception area just inside the door. ‘It is good to see you again.’

‘ Bonsoir , Kavashti.’ Sébastien greets the man. ‘It has been too long.’

Kavashti shows us to our table in a large air-conditioned dining room with beautifully laid tables, and I find myself wondering how many women Sébastien has brought here.

Am I the latest in a very long line of casual flings he has wined and dined?

The staff never seeing the same beautifully made-up face twice?

Once we’re seated, there’s a flurry of activity.

We’re served water and chilled champagne, and the menus are explained to us.

Sébastien laughs and jokes with each staff member as they come across to greet him, one after the next.

It’s clear that he’s a VIP here – and a very popular one at that.

Even the chef delivers some canapé-style snacks personally.

I watch in awe as he charms every person he talks to, remembering personal details about them, giving them his undivided attention.

It’s easy to see why he’s so successful in business. He’s a natural born leader.

With my attraction to Sébastien growing, I will his adoring fans to leave us in peace so I can have him to myself, and eventually, my wish is granted. Our starter – a beautifully presented seafood platter – is served and the staff melt away, shifting their focus to their other clientele.

‘ Alors , Emma…’ Sébastien’s thick French accent makes my name sound way more exotic than it is. ‘What do you think of this place?’ His exquisite dark eyes meet mine.

‘It’s… great.’ I feel myself redden. ‘I’d love to see the gardens in the daylight. They look very well kept.’

‘Ah, yes. The gardens. They are… très romantique .’

Heat creeps up my neck and I break eye contact, biting my lip coyly. It’s an almost perfect moment with a seemingly perfect man.

So, why doesn’t it feel right?

Frowning at this unwelcome thought, I try to push it aside.

Of course it feels right. How could this not feel right?

I’m a single woman – on holiday, enjoying the company of a very eligible bachelor.

Sure, it’ll be short-lived. We’ll have our fun then go our separate ways, and Sébastien will no doubt return within weeks or months, with his next paradise island fling.

But there’s no harm in that if there are no expectations beyond this trip.

I re-focus my attention on Sébastien, attempting to fully immerse myself in our conversation, but I can’t shake the feeling of discomfort that’s plaguing me. Between courses, I excuse myself to the ladies.

‘ What’s wrong with you? ’ I demand of my reflection in the mirror.

Maybe I’m still jet-lagged. Or maybe it’s because I feel like I’m not worthy of a man so incredible. He is on another level with his money and charisma and superhuman hunkiness. The reality is that it’s probably a bit of both, and I need to get myself in check.

Running the cold tap, I plunge my wrists under the flow of water in a bid to calm myself down: one of the few helpful nuggets of advice (among all the useless overbearing ones) I’ve received from my mother over the years.

It works quicker than I expect, creating a soothing sensation through my body.

This is fine. Everything is fine . I need to relax and enjoy myself.

‘ ?a va , Emma? Is everything all right?’ Sébastien asks when I return to the table. ‘You look a little… how do you say… queasy ?’

I realise he’s right. I may feel calmer but there’s a clawing sick feeling in my gut.

‘I’m OK… I think. Probably still jet-lagged or dehydrated or something. Not used to this climate.’

On hearing this, Sébastien tops up my water glass and signals for me to drink from it.

‘Perhaps a break from eating would also help,’ he suggests, once I’ve sunk a few mouthfuls. ‘Lacherra, hold the main course, please. We will take a short walk in the gardens.’

‘Yes, Monsieur Dumont.’ Lacherra – our server – swoops across and accompanies us to a door that appears to exit the property at the rear.

I allow Sébastien to lead me outside onto a large terrace and along a path, which I can’t help thinking could be made more of at night with some creative outdoor lighting. Despite having a brightly lit building full of people behind us, it feels very intimate.

As we weave our way around the gardens, I focus on breathing deeply, devouring the fresh air while enjoying what I can make out of the tropical trees and plants, which look almost eerie, but in a good way.

After a few minutes of continually checking that I’m not going to pass out, and me eventually confirming that I’m feeling better, Sébastien stops me and points to the sky.

‘ Regarde , Emma.’

I look up and see hundreds of twinkling stars winking back at us. Under the cloak of darkness, interrupted only by the light from the restaurant’s windows, it’s a moment bursting with romance.

‘ Wow … that’s so beautiful.’ I glance up at him, jittering with nervous anticipation.

He must sense my eyes on him, because he turns his gorgeous face towards mine, our lips now just inches apart. ‘It is very beautiful, though not quite as beautiful as—’

‘ Stop! ’ I suddenly blurt out. ‘Don’t say it.’