“You bet!” she promised him softly. “The worst bitch you’ve ever come across if you’re trying to put something over on me.”
He smiled suddenly. “Aren’t we getting just a little bit carried away here? I didn’t come to pick up the pieces of an old argument right where we left off. And I probably did save your life.”
“Okay. Thank you for saving my life. Now, will you please get the hell out of my house? Maybe I can’t throw you off the island, but I know damned well I have the right to throw you out of here!”
“Miss Carlyle, you need me.”
“I do?”
He shrugged. “Well, if you do decide to try to throw me off the island, you’ll have to hope someone else is around the next time you’re in trouble.”
“I thanked you, didn’t I? Of course, it would have been helpful to know just who was attacking me, but then, you’re not a cop anymore. You couldn’t possibly have been expected to nab the attacker as well as save my life.”
“Okay, the next time you’re about to fracture your skull, I’ll consider you expendable in the pursuit of justice.”
“Will you please get the hell out?”
“Nice. I should just leave you to the next ski-masked attacker who crawls into your bathroom.”
“Look at it my way. I haven’t seen you in years. The next thing I know, my bathroom is filled with strange men.”
“Strange men?”
“I consider you very strange.”
“Maybe you’d better consider me dangerous, instead,” he warned her suddenly, softly, a thoughtful look in his eyes as he studied her.
“Maybe I should,” she murmured, agreeing. “Damn it! I just want to know exactly what you’re doing here.”
“All right. Fine. Tell me, do you know exactly who all your guests are?”
“You know how the island is run. My father is gone, so yes, of course, I meet all my guests.”
“I didn’t ask you that. I asked if you knew who they were.”
“I’m not a cop. People don’t have to fill out their life histories on arrival. I don’t have dossiers on everyone who sets foot on Seafire Isle.”
“I didn’t think so.”
He sounded so damned self-satisfied.
“You do, of course? Have dossiers on my guests?”
“Yes.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Well, I don’t exactly have dossiers. But I imagine I know a great deal more about them than you do.”
“All right, who’s on my island?”
“You really have no idea?”
“I really have no idea.”
He stared at her, then smiled suddenly, cocking his head. He turned away from her, heading toward the door.
“Where are you going?”
“Out.”
“Out?”
He paused, looking back. “You wanted me out, right?”
“Damn it! That was before—”
“I’ll see you at cocktail hour, Sam.”
“Damn you, you didn’t answer my question!”
“I didn’t, did I? But then you haven’t been particularly cooperative either, have you?”
“Cooperative! Are you insane?”
“See you later, Sam. Maybe we can exchange some information then. Go in and close that window in your bedroom. Unless you want to take the chance of having a few more strange men enter.”
“Damn you, Adam!”
“Sam, pay attention. Make sure you close and lock that window. And when you leave your cottage from now on, make damned sure that you lock it carefully. You need an alarm system, actually.”
“This is an island! We’ve never needed any kind of alarm system!”
“Maybe you never did before.”
“Adam, this is ridiculous! What we’ve had has always been sufficient. Normal hotels don’t have alarm systems in every room.”
He arched a brow. “Yeah, well, a lot of your big guys have some kind of video surveillance. That’s beside the point now. You should think about moving into the main house for a while, maybe. For your own protection. Yancy lives in the main house, right? And Jacques?”
“I don’t want to move into the main house. I’m quite comfortable where I am—”
“With strange men in your bathroom?”
“Damn you, Adam, you have no right to do this! Talk to me, tell me—”
“Sam—”
“You know, Adam, that’s the basic problem with you. You always want something for nothing. You don’t seem to have the concept of give and take down yet.”
“Sam, so far, you haven’t given me a damn thing.”
“Son of a bitch! I always gave you everything.”
“Wrong, Sam. You never gave me a chance to give you anything before—”
“What?”
“You never gave me a chance to give you anything—”
“Like what?”
“Like explanations! So this time, you’re just going to have to ask and ask damned politely when you want something. I didn’t give, is that it? I went through one hell of a wringer.”
“Adam—”
“You took a hell of a lot more than you ever seemed to know, Miss Carlyle,” he interrupted.
“Damn you, Adam!”
But he walked away and the door closed firmly behind him.
4
T he bar in the main house where the guests gathered before dinner was old-fashioned, very Victorian and very comfortable. There was a huge double-sided fireplace running the length of the far wall; it connected with the dining room. The hardwood floor was covered with numerous thick Persian carpets in shades of burgundy and mauve; the bar itself was carved oak; and high-backed, brocade-upholstered chairs and love seats were set about at intimate angles. Beyond the velvet over linen drapes, wicker chairs with similar upholstery lined the porch.
When Sam came into the bar via the porch, Yancy was just setting out crystal bowls filled with nuts. Sam didn’t speak to her at first; she went behind the mahogany bar to uncork a bottle of her favorite Chablis. She poured herself a glass and stared at Yancy, who was watching her with condemning eyes in return.
“Go easy on that. You’re not a good drinker, Sam Carlyle. Especially not with wine.”
“Excuse me, are you my keeper?”
“No, I’m not,” Yancy assured her. Like Jem, though, Yancy had grown up with Sam. They were best friends. They had laughed together, matured together, weathered all their losses together, survived together. Sam and Yancy were almost exactly the same age; they’d been born a month apart. Sam had always considered Yancy to be one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen. She was Sam’s height, with black hair she kept cropped almost to her skull, olive eyes, and skin the color of pure honey. Her father had been a Creole sailor, her mother, Katie, had been from Trinidad, and she had been the first chef Sam’s father had hired when old Jimmy had passed away. Jimmy had been in his nineties, still ruling the kitchen, when he had suddenly expired while making gumbo. They had all mourned him deeply—they had by that time rather come to believe that he would live forever. But then Katie had arrived with Yancy, and Sam, three at the time, had quickly come to understand that Jimmy had lived a long, fruitful and happy life, and that it was okay to love Katie, as well. In addition, Sam had found herself thrilled to have another little girl to play with, so Yancy had become the sister she’d never had, and Katie, who was patient and gentle, had certainly done well in the mother department. Years later, when Katie had died of heart failure, they had both felt as if they had lost a mother. In the same way, Yancy had shared every bit of pain, anger, frustration and loss when Sam’s father had disappeared without a trace.
“I simply love a sip of good wine,” Sam told Yancy defensively.
“Careful. It might love you back a bit too much. And I think that you’ve had more than a sip already.”
“Yancy!”
“Oh, don’t worry. No one else will be able to tell. I simply know you.”
“Ya
ncy, damn it—”
“Don’t you go yelling at me. I didn’t tell him to walk back into your life.”
Sam poured the wine, set the cork in the bottle and walked around the bar. She headed to the set of chairs directly before the fire, leaving her glass on the counter. Yancy came over and sat down beside her. Sam stretched her hand out. Yancy took her fingers and squeezed them.
Sam had to smile. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. He just took me by surprise. But, Yancy, that’s not the worst of it! You wouldn’t believe…” She hesitated, wondering how much she should say. Then she remembered that she was talking to Yancy. “Yancy, someone just attacked me in my bathroom.”
“What?” Yancy nearly shrieked.
“Sh, sh!” Sam said. “You’ll have everyone checking out.”
“Well, girl, they should be checking out if that’s what’s going on. Who attacked you? Not—oh, I don’t believe it!”
“No, no, Adam didn’t attack me. He stopped the man who did.”
“Out of the past and straight to the rescue,” Yancy murmured. “But who…?”
“I don’t know.”
“How can you not know?”
“He was wearing a ski mask.”
“A ski mask!”
“Sh!”
“No one is here. You were attacked by a man wearing a ski mask—on a Caribbean island?”
Sam nodded, turning around to make sure that Yancy was right and that they hadn’t been joined as yet. “I was in the tub when this guy appeared, dressed all in black, trying to drug me, I think.”
“You think,” Yancy murmured skeptically.
“Yancy, he had some kind of a cloth in his hands.”
“Black?”
“Right. Damn it, Yancy, this is serious.”
“I’m sorry. So tell me—”
“He was definitely trying to drug me. I can still recall the awful scent of the cloth. I was nearly knocked out, but then the guy in the ski mask was pulled away—”
“Adam?”
“Yes.”
Yancy was quiet for a minute. Then she shrugged. “Well, he is useful,” she said.
“Yancy…”
“Okay, so did you try to breathe wine because of the attack, or because of Adam?”
“Yancy!”
“Ah, because of Adam,” Yancy said.
“Yancy….”
“He did save you, right?”
“Yes, he did.”
“And you said thank you.”
“More or less.”
“Sam!”
“Yancy, you’re missing the point.”
“I’m not missing the point. There’s a dangerous whacko running around the island. We don’t want everyone to check out of the hotel, but neither do we want anyone else attacked by the whacko.”
“It’s strange, but I don’t think this particular whacko is a danger to the general public.”
“Now you’re losing me.”
“I don’t think our guests are in danger.”
“Why not?”
“The whacko is one of our guests,” she said, evading a direct answer to the question. She didn’t want to admit that she was relying on Adam’s judgment.
“My, my, my. What is the world coming to? Imagine. We’re letting the riffraff onto Seafire Isle.”
“Yancy, it isn’t funny.”
“Of course it’s not funny. You could have been…hurt. Or worse. Maybe we should call the mainland police.”
“I—I decided not to.”
Yancy arched a brow. “Did Adam suggest that you not do so?”
“Not exactly. He pointed out that it might not do me much good, and that I might wind up in greater danger.”
Yancy lifted her hands and let them fall back on the armrests of the chair. “Why?”
Sam didn’t answer her. She frowned suddenly. “Yancy, where’s the baby?”
Yancy smiled. “Upstairs. Lillie Wie is staying overnight because of the dinner party. She and Brian are napping right alongside each other.”
“Oh!” Sam said, leaning back into the chair with relief. Brian was six months old—and the love of all their lives. He had his father’s blue eyes and toffee brown hair, and the most winning smile known to man. Lillie was one of the day maids. There were four of them altogether; they came in the morning from Freeport and usually left with the mail boat in the afternoon, along with the two grounds keepers. Sam hadn’t been quite twenty-two when her father had disappeared, but between herself, Jem Fisher and Yancy, they had divided the duties on the island in a manner that had worked well right from the very beginning. Jem supervised maintenance, tennis, golf, lawn care, pool and beach care, and any repairs that became necessary. There were only two tennis courts, and the golf course was only nine holes. There was also only one pool, so Jem didn’t find his responsibilities overwhelming. Jem’s younger cousin, Matt, had taken a job with them during the last year, as well, acting as lifeguard, scuba instructor and jack-of-all-trades, but he only came over on weekends, when his college schedule allowed.
Yancy managed the main house, the reservations, the kitchen and the household staff. Sam was dive mistress, scuba instructor, social director and official hostess. It all fell together well. Yancy had always loved the house, which worked out well, because now she usually had the baby at her side, no matter what task she was up to.
“Were you afraid somebody might be after the baby?” Yancy asked her.
“I guess not. I’m just…unnerved,” Sam told her. “Is dinner all set up?”
“All set and ready to go,” Yancy said. “Jacques has everything in control.”
Jacques Roustand was the only other live-in employee on the island. He’d been their chef since Yancy’s mother had passed away eight years ago. He’d found himself in a sad position at first, of course, but he’d been so different and so entirely unique that Yancy herself had been the first to fully accept him. He was in his mid-thirties now, and appeared almost a caricature of the typical French chef, down to a slim, twirling mustache he had worn continuously ever since his arrival. He wasn’t exactly French, for though he had attended school in Paris, he had been born and bred a Louisiana Creole. Sam was convinced that it was more his mother’s influence than the French school that had made him a great chef. He never ran out of different ways to prepare crawfish, shrimp, Florida lobster or any creature they pulled from the sea. His dishes were colorful, exotic and could always be prepared for each individual guest in either a spicy or mild manner. She, Jem and Yancy all considered him invaluable—and any one of them was customarily willing to drop anything he or she was about to do when Jacques called. If he wanted garlic chopped, they chopped. Glasses filled, they filled them. Silver polished, they polished. Sam had once told Jem that she might own the island, but Jacques indisputably ruled it.
“Good evening, ladies!”
They both jumped up, turning to greet their first arrival for the evening.
It was Avery Smith, an elderly gentleman visiting the island on his own. He was tall and very slim, with a full head of iron-gray hair and iron-gray eyes to match. He was intelligent and charming. And wealthy, Sam assumed, judging by his impeccable clothing. He was very fond of Versace, elegant gold cuff links and silver-handled canes. He never appeared for dinner in less than a complete tux.
“Mr. Smith,” Yancy said. “Good evening to you. Would you like your customary brandy, sir?”
“I would indeed, my dear young woman.”
As Yancy went to get his drink, he smiled at Sam. “I wish I were just a few years younger. I would love to join one of your dive parties. I could hear the children laughing—so excited!—when they returned this afternoon.”
“I hope they didn’t disturb you,” Yancy said, giving him a snifter of brandy. “I tried to make sure I gave you and the Walkers cottages far enough apart.”
He sipped his brandy, waving a hand her way. “I like the sound of laughter.” He smiled again at Sam. “They say you are very, very goo
d, like a fish in the water and charming with your tales atop it.”
“Thank you. I enjoy the water very much.”
“Every day?”
“Every day.”
Brad and Darlene Walker chose that moment to come scampering in, both asking Yancy politely for soda.
“Play you in backgammon, Sam?” Brad queried hopefully.
“Later, okay? Play your sister for now.”
Darlene groaned. “He cheats.”
“I do not!”
“Where are the parents of these little hellions?” demanded Liam Hinnerman, entering the room in a handsome tweed suit, Jerry North, small, fragile and lovely at his side.
“Liam!” Jerry murmured.
“Where are your charming parents?” Liam said.
“Oh, they’re coming along!” Brad said cheerfully, sliding into one of the big chairs that encircled an antique gaming table. “I’m red,” he told his sister.
“Yancy, I’d just love a Bloody Mary,” Jerry said, smiling graciously.
“And I’d kill for Scotch on the rocks,” Liam muttered, still eyeing the children balefully.
A deep, masculine voice suddenly spoke out. “Let’s get the man a Scotch before he decides to kill!”
Sam swung around. Adam had come into the room. He smiled at Hinnerman, walking around behind the bar himself, something the guests were more than welcome to do if they chose. He set a tall glass and a short one on the antique bar.
“Um—hello,” Jerry said, blue eyes wide as she stared at Adam.
Liam Hinnerman stared blankly at him.
“Hi,” Adam replied pleasantly to the two of them.
“You haven’t all met as yet,” Sam heard herself say smoothly. “Jerry North, Adam O’Connor. Adam, Jerry. Liam Hinnerman, Adam. Adam, Liam.”
The three exchanged greetings, both Liam and Jerry staring at Adam.
“Sam,” Adam murmured, “this must be your wine here, huh?”
“Thanks ever so much,” she murmured, coming for it. Their fingers brushed as she took the glass, and he smiled mockingly. She drew away quickly, retreating across the room, seeing Avery Smith by the fireplace. He was watching Adam, as well.
“Oh, Adam, this is Mr. Avery Smith. Avery—”
“Yes, yes. Mr. Adam O’Connor,” Smith said, stepping forward with graceful dexterity to shake Adam’s hand. “How do you do, sir? A pleasure.”
Eyes of Fire Page 6
