ISLAND QUEST
BY
MARINA OLIVER
Ros Farleigh needs to find her half-brother. Tim Preston, nineteen and on his own for the first time as he works his way round the Mediterranean, playing the drums in hotel bands, vanished three months earlier leaving his precious drums behind.
Always a regular correspondent, his last letter was full of mysterious hints of danger, surprises, and secrets. His last few postcards from Majorca had been marked, indicating isolated coves and unidentified buildings.
Ros is staying at the Castilla hotel from which Tim vanished, where she encounters Lorenzo y Carreira, dark, arrogantly Spanish, talented guitarist, and too handsome for his own good.
Sparks fly. Tim had mentioned going sailing with Lorenzo, and he might be able to help.
Ros begins to learn some puzzling facts.
Island Quest
By Marina Oliver
Copyright © 2012 Marina Oliver
Smashwords Edition
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Cover Design by Debbie Oliver
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotes for use in reviews.
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First print edition published under the pseudonym Bridget Thorn 2002 by Ulverscroft.
See details of other books by Marina Oliver at http:/www.marina-oliver.net
AUTHOR NOTE
Majorca is very different from the sister island, Minorca. I have enjoyed holidays in both. I hope you will enjoy both the novels set in these enchanting islands.
ISLAND QUEST
BY MARINA OLIVER
Chapter 1
Ros wondered, as the threaded her way through Palma's traffic, whether she'd have been wiser to hire a taxi. Then at last she was free of the town, driving along a narrow, winding road, the sea on her left and orchards full of fluffy pink almond blossom on her right. There were orange, lemon and grapefruit trees, but apart from the almonds the most intriguing sight was the olive groves. Ancient gnarled and twisted trunks of an almost opaque grey-green promised mystery and age-old wisdom, and she had a wild urge to lose herself in their misty depths.
Her reverie was broken as she saw the sign for the Castilla. She turned off the main road and began a steep descent towards the sea. A belt of trees, mainly pines, hid the hotel from view. Then she reached the end of the trees and Ros gasped at the magnificent view before her. To the left several small chalets were scattered on the side of the hill, partly concealed by the trees but all with a view of the bay. To the right, above a series of terraced gardens set with small arbours, overlooking a circular swimming pool right on the edge of the cliffs, was the main part of the hotel, a long, low, white-painted and green-shuttered building. In front of it was a wide terrace, double doors opening onto it from the whole length of the building. A few people sat at small tables drinking apertifs, others were sitting on the balconies.
She brought the car to a halt under a large portico at the side of the hotel and already a uniformed porter was opening her door. She'd arrived, and was eager to start, to get on with what had brought her to Majorca. When a problem needed solving she preferred to do it as soon as possible, and this was the biggest problem she had ever been presented with in her five and twenty years. She had only three weeks, and ached to get on with the task of finding her kid brother.
The porter lifted her cases out of the car, but before he could place them on the trolley a low, sleek sports car swept down the drive, and the wing caught one case and sent it flying. The locks burst, and Ros watched in fury as her clothes spilled out all over the paved drive.
She bent down to retrieve them, angrily thrusting them back into the case while she silently cursed the clumsy oaf who'd caused the damage. If any of her dresses were ruined he'd pay for them!
'Madam, we will see to that. Oh dear, I do apologise,' the porter gabbled. Then Ros found her elbow gripped firmly, and she was pulled to her feet. She turned sharply and found herself staring up into dark, almost black eyes, deep set in a bronzed, handsome and aquiline face that was undoubtedly Spanish. Too handsome, and doesn't he know it, was her first thought, and she tried to shake off his hand.
'Let me go! Who the devil do you think you are?' she asked curtly.
He was standing close beside her and she had to tilt her head back to look up at him, for she came only to his shoulder. Narrow-hipped but broad shouldered, he was casually but expensively dressed in tight narrow black jeans which emphasised his lean but muscular limbs. His hair, black, thick and long, covered his ears and curled crisply into the nape of his neck.
'Just Satan's little brother,' he replied calmly, and Ros gave an involuntary choke of laughter. 'I am Lorenzo y Carreira, at your service. I must apologise, and if anything is damaged I will replace it. Welcome to Majorca.'
He grinned, revealing brilliantly white even teeth between well shaped, elegantly curved lips. Lips which could no doubt subdue any woman foolish enough to be taken in by his charm. Ros snatched at her errant thoughts. His eyes were glinting at her in amusement and she felt confused, then suddenly resentful. He seemed to have read her wayward mind. He was dangerous. This was a man who would be unscrupulous in using his undoubted sexual attractiveness to gain his own way. But apart from his superior male attitude, the name was one she recognised. Tim had mentioned him briefly in that last disturbing letter.
She shivered but forced herself to reply coolly. It would be foolish to quarrel with someone who might be able to help her. He might know what had happened to Tim.
'I'm Ros Farleigh. I'll send you the bills. Thank you, Senor Carreira.'
Ros picked up her small carry-on bag and took a step away from him, but he swiftly detained her by again putting a hand on her arm.
'The porter will see to them, Miss Farleigh. Number six, Juan,' he told the man. 'Come,' he ordered, 'allow me to buy you a drink. To settle your nerves,' he added before she could refuse.
*
Ros, struggling to fight down her renewed antagonism at his assumption that she would meekly do as he ordered, nonetheless went with him, observing him through narrowed eyes. Just what was it about this man that so inevitably drew sparks from her? Was it his masculine assertiveness, the air of complete self possession, and what she knew with an inner conviction was his complacent knowledge of his own sexual allure? His crisp white shirt was open-necked, and it permitted a glimpse of curled black hair on his chest, and the gleam of a gold chain and small gold cross just caressing the top few hairs. The typical Latin lover, she thought contemptuously. Well, she was proof against his practised charms.
He led her to a table on the terrace and a waiter hovered for their order. 'I apologise again,' he said as they sat down. 'I was in too much of a hurry, though the porter should not have left your cases on the ground.'
She tried to be civil. 'Are you staying here?' Tim hadn't said.
He glanced at her, but she could not interpret his expression. Was it scornful, calculating, or – and the thought startled her – simply wary?
'I work here. I play the guitar,' he answered briefly.
She noticed his long fingers, slender and sensitive, and nodded.
An entertainer. That accounted for his air of superiority. All those silly little girls hanging about the stage while he performed, sighing, casting admiring, languishing glances at him, feeding their dreams of holiday romance with the handsome Spanish guitarist.
It might also account for Tim's mention of him, for her brother had been an aspiring musician. Had been? She chastised herself furiously. Was! Tim was still alive. There was no reason to believe otherwise. Nothing apart from that last letter, and the complete silence for more than three months. He must still be alive somewhere. If she ceased to believe that she might just as well give up this otherwise foolish exploit and go back home.
'Is there entertainment in the hotel every night?' she asked, determinedly disciplining her unruly thoughts. She must discover more about the place where Tim had last worked, where she herself was going to start her attempt to trace him.
'We play four days now at the Castilla, but the dancers, Maria and Pedro, go to other hotels on their free nights. They need the extra money, they are saving to get married. They are young and foolish,' he added, and Ros glanced at him, intrigued by his tone.
Had it been bitter or disapproving? Was it to do with the dancers, or was there a personal reason for it? It was hard to tell and he was looking straight ahead. Was marriage always a risk, something most people deplored or were wary of?
She grinned wryly. Most people, but not her own mother, who at that very moment was preparing to marry for the fifth time, despite four spectacular failures.
Hastily she dismissed thoughts of her frivolous parent and found herself curious to know if her companion had been hurt in some way to cause that tone. But if he had it would have been a fitting and just retribution for such a sexually arrogant man, she told herself waspishly.
'Have you been to Majorca before?' he asked into the silence.
'I came here once years ago with my mother. There are many more hotels now,' she added, recalling the coastline, hotels strung all along the western arm of the bay.
'I'm surprised you come alone,' he said brusquely.
'I have my own reasons,' she said repressively. Ros swallowed her annoyance. She needed to discover a little more before she told this man her real objective. For all she knew he might be involved in Tim's disappearance.
'Can you speak Spanish?' he asked. 'Not many tourists bother.'
'It is not so excellent as your English, Senor, but I've spoken it all my life, as my maternal grandmother was Spanish, from Andalucia, and I lived in California where we always had Mexican maids,' Ros replied in rapid and faultless Spanish. She had the satisfaction of seeing Lorenzo's eyebrows raised slightly, and then felt absurdly piqued when instead of congratulating her he merely nodded. Angrily she chastised herself. Why should he be complimentary? His own English was faultless, idiomatic and without a trace of accent. And why should she care?
'You should have no problems with it,' he said coolly. 'At least you'll be able to discourage amorous males who like to prey on solitary girls. If you want to, that is.'
'I'll certainly do that!' Ros answered in as controlled a voice as she could contrive. The insufferable man! Who did he think he was to give her advice? How dare he talk to her in so patronising a manner?
He flicked a grin at her and she was disconcerted. Had he read her thoughts so accurately? Well, she'd intended him to, she reminded herself in angry confusion.
'I've had considerable experience of travelling on my own,' she informed him, thinking of the many times she'd stayed in hotels alone. She'd met plenty of persistent men, and been able to cool their ardours.
To her renewed fury he cast her an amused sidelong glance. 'Oh, we Spanish could easily extend your experience, or remedy the lack of it. That would be my pleasure, yours too, I promise,' he said softly.
Impotent anger warred with a desire to giggle. He was so unsubtle, so blatant. She wondered how often women were taken in by him. She stole a glance at him. His lips were curved gently and there were fascinating laughter lines at the corners of his eyes, deepening as he smiled. Quite often, she decided. He was devastatingly attractive. She missed his next words, and had to ask him to repeat them.
'Can't you believe me? You're a beautiful woman, and Spanish men are hot-blooded. You are on your own, unprotected. If you find you need help in repulsing overeager Casanovas I am at your service.'
'I have no wish to get involved in tawdry holiday romances,' Ros stated flatly and hunched her shoulder, turning away from him and pretending she did not hear his next remark.
*
A holiday romance was not remotely likely. Apart from the real purpose of her visit she'd finished with romance two years before when Larry had died so tragically. She wanted no man in her life again for a very long time. If she ever fell in love again it would have to be as it had been with Larry, a lifelong commitment. She was not like her feckless mother, who fell in and out of marriages with no more thought than she would have given to choosing new clothes.
She tried to banish gloomy thoughts by staring at the scenery. In front of her the bay spread out. It was a wide, magnificent bay where spring sunshine gleamed on the rippling waves, and dozens of fabulously luxurious yachts were anchored almost at the foot of the huge cathedral which dominated both town and harbour.
Tim had sent two identical postcards of the bay, the yachts prominent. Was that deliberate, or had it been simple forgetfulness?
Already the sun was setting and sending shafts of orange fire across the water, illuminating with a warm glowing radiance the brightly painted buildings that stretched all along the narrow shore line.
Was Tim on this beautiful island still? She had studied all the postcards he'd sent, searching for clues. The last few had been marked, with small crosses or dots, faint but discernible, but he had not said why. She had to find these places and try to discover their significance.
Tim hadn't told her much, he'd only been at this hotel for a few weeks before he vanished. The opportunity to snatch time from her business had come unexpectedly, when one major client had decided to postpone work for a month. Arrangements had been completed so hurriedly she had not even seen the brochure, and knew only it was a large luxury hotel.
Suddenly she yawned. 'I'm so sorry. The last few days have been incredibly busy. I need an early night. What time is dinner?' she asked, glancing at her watch.
'We start at eight, and the restaurant's open until midnight. You don't have an American accent,' he added suddenly. 'Yet you lived in California.'
'My mother is English, and I spent the first few years of my life there, and went to college there. We lived in the States only while my mother was married to an American. What about you? Where did you learn your excellent English? Were you born on the island?'
'I was born in Madrid, but I had an English nurse and was at school in England.'
Which gave him a more privileged background than most people, Ros thought, intrigued. 'Have you been here – at the Castilla for long?'
'A few months only.'
So he might not have known Tim well, if her brother had vanished the full three months ago. Yet Tim had mentioned him.
'Do the members of the band change very often? Or are you engaged for the whole season?'
'In Majorca the season is the whole year round. It depends,' he said, and Ros frowned slightly. That did not help at all. She could see she would have to begin asking more direct questions. If there was anything sinister about Tim's disappearance she had to take the risk she would not make matters worse for him.
'Thank you for the drink, Senor. I ought to go and check in now.'
He escorted her to the foyer, introduced her to the desk clerk, and took her key. 'I'll show you the way.'
They went through the hotel foyer and the wide doorway onto the steps outside. The entrance was brightly lit and several people were approaching, chatting noisily. They smiled at Lorenzo, calling greetings and looking curiously at Ros. He smiled and spoke a word to one or two of them, then
took her arm in a firm, warm grip. She tensed, but decided she would feel foolish making a scene in front of other guests. She permitted him to lead the way across the wide space where cars could turn, and along a path near the cliff top running in front of the first row of chalets. Number six was the last but one of the row.
The daylight had not quite gone but the gardens were illuminated with many small lights set low, almost on the ground, and Ros could see her way clearly and read the numbers on the chalets. There were wide windows next to the doors and small ones of hammered glass in the sides. The chalets appeared rather large for just a bedroom and bathroom,
Lorenzo released her arm outside number six chalet, calmly opened the door and followed her in.
Her cases had been placed neatly on a rack and the clothes from the burst one hung in a closet. She would inspect them later, tomorrow, for damage. The white lace coverlet on one of the large beds was turned back, and Ros wanted to fall right into that inviting bed. There were cool white tiles on the floor and deep comfortable looking red leather armchairs set either side of a low walnut table near the window. She'd better not sit down, or she might miss dinner altogether. Drawn close across the window were long white curtains, patterned with huge red flowers, and a modern painting in vivid reds and greens dominated the wall opposite the bed.
'Please may I have my key!'
He looked down at her, his expression brooding. 'Why are you so much on the defensive?' he queried softly. 'Do you hate men?'
Ros turned away suddenly, her hands trembling in his. 'I've no time for pandering to cheap Romeos!' she flared, her voice unsteady.
'I'm really quite expensive,' he murmured softly, and Ros struggled to suppress a sudden bubble of hysterical laughter.
She felt too weary from the constant sparring to bother finding an answer. 'Please go, Senor Carreira, I must change.'
'I'll call for you in an hour, and show you the way to the restaurant,' was his only reply.
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