Hideaway Heart

by Roumelia Lane

  "There! How's that?" He stood back from his work, smiling.

  "It feels good." Chris looked up gratefully. "And I haven't thanked you for fishing me out of the water."

  "Oh, that's okay." He waved a hand. "You would have come in anyway. Luckily the pull there is strictly inland. I suppose you felt it. But the rocks can be a hazard." He collected the first-aid articles. "I'll go and change now, and then whip up that good old English remedy for all aches and pains... a cup of tea!"

  "Sounds fine." Chris forced a brightness she did not feel. Already a queasy faintness had taken over her body ... the aftermath of the pummelling waves. She sank back thankfully into the cushions once Clive had left the room.

  Whether she dozed or merely gave herself up to a light faint Chris couldn't be sure, but when she opened her eyes she sensed there had been some lapse of time. She stirred, saw a canvas hold-all at the side of the chair, and stretched-out trousered legs.

  Boyd Wyatt leaned forward to eye her keenly.

  "I was wondering if I would get a word with you alone. That was a damn-fool thing you did, swimming off like that." She didn't speak, and his gaze trailed down her bare legs and then over to the hold-all. "I don't think Accrington has forgotten anything. Where's Huston?"

  Chris drew the bath robe close.

  "He said something about making tea ..she began.

  Boyd nodded. "It's all right. The kitchen is at the back of the house." With a harsh twist at the mouth he eyed one by one the bath robe, cushions and neatly bandaged foot. "The fellow is more woman-hungry than I thought," he went on.

  "That's not fair!" Chris was roused. "Just because he's kind and friendly and hospitable..."

  "You're sold on the idea of staying, then?"

  "You should be pleased you've got what you wanted," she snapped.

  He allowed her a long look.

  "You wouldn't have made it back to the boat. You look terrible."

  "And now I'm here on the island with an excuse to stay, and your Clive Huston doesn't suspect a thing."

  "Your Clive, not mine. And why should he? Apart from the non-existent boat, it's all perfectly genuine, thanks to your suicidal swim. It nearly ruined everything letting him see us together down there.''

  "You needn't have come after me," she pointed out.

  There was a considerable pause before he replied,

  "I needn't but for the fact that I have a vested interest in you. I hope, by the way, you make a better job of clearing the airstrip."

  "If I don't it will be because Clive doesn't wish it."

  "You're here to change his views."

  "Of course. I'm just another of your adding machines, set to make the figures come out the Wyatt way.''

  The only movement she saw was a tiny muscle working at the side of his jaw. He thrust his hands deeply into his pockets and she added quietly,

  "You talk as if it were all so easy!''

  A woodsmoke scowl swept over her.

  "You're not doing too badly for a start."

  There was the clinking sound of crockery on a tray and then Clive breezed in.

  "I hope you can manage to eat a ..." He saw Boyd. "Did you have to come back ?" he growled.

  "It was no trouble." Boyd stood up and took out cigarettes negligently. "I presume you can put me up for the night?" As there was nothing but a blank silence he added, "I was thinking purely in the terms of convention, of course."

  "Now look here, Wyatt -"

  Chris stared. Since when had he been worried about convention?

  "So I'm a nuisance!" Testily Boyd swung a glance round the room. "Tomorrow if you like I'll send you a woman over from Cathai. This place looks as though it could do with a going over."

  Clive made an angry step forward,

  "I manage very nicely, thank you, and I can cope with whatever has to be done around here."

  "I think you'll find Miss Dawnay would prefer a third party."

  Without looking Chris knew a compulsive glance was being directed her way.

  "I... think it would be better," she faltered.

  Clive sighed and looked down at the contents of the tray.

  "I suppose you're right, Chris. I've been out of touch for so long I've forgotten what conventions are."

  To break the silence that seemed endless after that Chris asked lightly,

  "Why do you live all alone on an island, Clive?"

  Strange how the air in the room seemed to twist up like an invisible corkscrew. She felt rather than saw Clive tense. He rattled the tray with a nervous cheerfulness, and laughed jerkily.

  "It's a good question. Let's just say I enjoy the peace."

  And a perfectly good answer, Chris thought, feeling slightly breathless. Funny why she should feel that if he hadn't been holding the tray with both hands Clive would have been biting his nails.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Surprisingly the next few days were a haven of peace and contentment. The house on Cyrecano was like some sea-bound Shangri-La, splendidly aloof from all the troubles and clamour of the outside world.

  No wonder Boyd Wyatt had his eye on the island as the ideal site for another Hideaway Hotel, and little wonder either that Clive was just as adamant in keeping it to himself. That would explain the reason for his dislike of the Hideaway boss, although Boyd Wyatt wasn't exactly a lovable kind of man.

  Relaxing now in a long chair on the veranda, Chris watched the birds dip and swoop over a turquoise ocean, and thought back to the night he had stayed on the island. His insistence that Chris retire early ... He chose her room, saw to the making up of a bed, and practically ordered her not to go any further than the garden for the first couple of days.

  The situation might have been comic if it hadn't been laced with resentment. Resentment from Clive because this big bear of a man had whipped control of the situation clean out of his hands, resentment from Chris because . . . well, what else could she feel being carried everywhere in those iron arms ? And resentment from Boyd Wyatt probably because he had had the bad luck to be caught up in it at all.

  As for the woman from Cathai, he was as good as his word. She arrived with her own and Chris's suitcase, judging by the time it took, as soon as the Barbary Cloud could turn round and sail back.

  Eleni was a little bird-like woman with quick darting eyes and a nose that sniffed out the dust. She flew around the rooms like an alarmed bluebottle and in one day had turned each upside down sending gleaming polished furniture back on its feet. Her cooking was either very plain or traditionally Greek . . . one did have a choice, and though she spoke no English, she was adept at getting any message through simply by sticking at it long enough.

  Chris took to her immediately, and Clive had to admit that with the house running on such well-oiled wheels his own spare time had increased considerably. During the past days she had found Clive gentle and eager to please. He was cheerful in patches, and seemed to be slave to a kind of artistic nervousness that sent him striding off to work for long periods in a shed at the side of the house.

  She could hear him now, whistling tunefully and chipping away at something with his tools. She hadn't been in the shed, but Boyd had said he made ships' figureheads, so it must be wood he was carving. Chris wondered if he ever thought of his ex-fiancee. Certainly he never looked as though he were pining for her company, but then men were very good at hiding these things.

  Her thoughts drifted along these lines for some time until she realized that the chipping had ceased. The next moment Clive came on to the veranda, a drink in each hand. She noticed he never took anything stronger than iced lime or fruit juice, though there were several bottles of spirits in the cabinet.

  "How's it going?" With a grin he dropped down beside her and lowered a glass into her hand. "Is the injured mermaid in one piece again?"

  "All intact," Chris smiled. "And thank heaven I've got two feet instead of a flipper, otherwise I wouldn't have been able to wander around."

  She gazed over the unkemp
t lawns to the wild profusion of pink, yellow and white blossom, the scarlet weed-ridden flowers. "It must have been very beautiful once," she said.

  "It was . . . when my parents were alive. My father was English. He died when I was in my teens. My mother was Greek. She kept this place on its toes until she died three years ago. I guess I don't have the same incentive."

  "But you like living here?"

  He threw the drink back jerkily.

  "It has its compensations. For instance, I've just had shipped in a batch of fresh supplies, which means I needn't have contact with the outside world for three months or more."

  The blue eyes didn't quite reflect the jaunty cheerfulness of his voice, and Chris remarked perceptively,

  "You don't appear to be the hermit type to me, Clive."

  "Don't I?" He gave a strained laugh. "I can't say I bothered particularly to find my little niche in the world." He stared out to sea. "Oh, I've been around a bit, and to my father's home in England several times, but it's funny, I always end up back here on Cyrecano." His voice tightened and then he turned an eager gaze in her direction. "How about me showing you over the island today? If you think you can manage it. It means a lot of walking ..." with a rueful grin. "No transport, you see."

  "Just try and keep me away!" Chris laughed. "I'm tired of being immobilized. I feel as if I could jump one of your mountains. When do we go?"

  "As soon as you're ready," Clive grinned. "But hold on. Don't forget I'm just a staid old bachelor!"

  "Old?" She raised a humorous eyebrow. "I'd make a guess at twenty-five."

  "Twenty-six, actually." A warm blue glance fell on her face. "I'd put you at about nineteen."

  "Bang on," Chris smiled. "I'll see you back here in about ten minutes."

  She went to her room that faced on to the veranda, pondering over what to wear. The navy blue silk that Eleni had laid out for her a couple of days ago was looking slightly jaded, so it would probably be back to the white cotton again. She was both shocked and amazed to see the line-up that Eleni had dutifully hung in the big cream wardrobe.

  Not one of her own garments were there.

  Instead she saw tailored linens, billowing nylons and sundresses in the most gay up-to-the-minute materials. Below were several pairs of matching shoes and even a hat.

  Being a woman there was no quelling the flutter of excitement that such a sight brings, but mingling with the wonder of who had made such a perfect choice was a surge of anger.

  That Boyd Wyatt should go to such lengths to achieve his own ends!

  And why include just one of her own dresses . . . the navy blue silk? Perhaps as a contrast to his finery? She was tempted to dress as dowdily as possible just to spite him, but alas, it looked as if the white cotton had gone off for washing. That left the navy blue silk... and Clive would expect her to change.

  Half reluctantly, and half with a tiny thrill, she had to admit, Chris stepped into a crisp saffron cotton, with flouncing skirt and scalloped neckline. Adding the straw hat and sunglasses she felt just the girl she was supposed to portray... a holiday-maker out to enjoy her stay.

  Boyd Wyatt would be pleased ... but not for long. Looking at herself, Chris realized she would have to tell Clive the truth soon. Soon . . . That's what she kept telling herself, but the longer she left it the more difficult it became.

  Clive was waiting for her on the steps. He looked relaxed in pale blue denims and a white shirt. Seeing the pleasure in his eyes as she approached, Chris decided the deception had better continue for a little while at least.

  It took the whole of the afternoon to cover the tractable parts of the island. They moved through woods of oleander and grassy patches strewn with white and yellow daisies. The valleys were cool and black with trees, the slopes hot and hard in the heat. Velvety foxgloves jutted among the broom and bracken, and zigzag paths led to beaches where hermit crabs lazed, and prawns danced in the sunlight like ephemeral performers on a watery stage.

  When Clive wasn't pointing out items of interest he would ask Chris about herself. One of his questions proved to be a heart-stopper.

  "What part of England are you from ?"

  Chris stared hard at the landscape. What if she said Fernsea? Did Clive know that Boyd Wyatt had a home there too? She daren't risk him pondering on the coincidence or putting two and two together. She answered absently as though not giving it much thought.

  "The south coast... Isn't that a fig tree over there?"

  Clive nodded. "Everything's pretty wild." He looked at her with a smile. "Well, what do you think of the place?"

  "Swooningly beautiful!" Chris laughed, not a little relieved that he hadn't thought fit to pursue the subject of her whereabouts. His next question, however, showed he hadn't lost track. He kicked at a boulder.

  "What kind of work are you in? Not one of those racy do-it-yourself supermarkets, I hope?"

  "You're just not used to the commotion of twentieth-century living," Chris smiled, sidetracking.

  "I've had a fair whack at it. I went to art school over there and did a short spell in the army."

  "The army?" Chris didn't know why she said it so incredulously, but she immediately wished she hadn't. Clive's face tightened up. The blue eyes were frosty.

  "Yes, the army. What's so incredible about that?"

  "I... er . .. Why, nothing! It's a marvellous life!"

  How could she say that those long artistic fingers looked a little unsuited to the pulling of a rifle trigger, a grenade pin; that she just didn't see those thin ascetic features and sensitive mouth topping army serge?

  She felt as if he were reading her thoughts and not liking what he saw. With a peculiarly twisted smile he accused,

  "You don't see me as the rugged army type?''

  There was some sore point here that Chris had no desire to touch upon. She took his arm with a bright smile.

  "I see you whichever way you want me to see you, Clive."

  "Good." He relaxed and to her surprise turned an arm round her waist as they walked. The feeling of being drawn close wasn't exactly unpleasant, but Chris knew a floundering need to continue with some kind of conversation.

  "Why don't you like Boyd Wyatt?" she jerked.

  Clive looked at her and laughed.

  "So you've noticed it?" He shrugged. "He's got some harebrained scheme to flood Cyrecano with tourists. I'm not having any."

  "He can't do that, can he? I mean..

  "Well, it's not my island. But until Wyatt came along nobody was particularly interested in it."

  "Doesn't he like you being here?" Chris was asking questions that she knew the answers to, but it was the only way to get to know Clive's side.

  "Oh, I don't suppose he'd mind if I lived on the beach in a tent. It's the house. Apparently it's in the way of the only possible airstrip on the island."

  "Well, if you don't want to move he'll just have to forget it, won't he?" she offered lightly, releasing herself.

  "Any other man would, but not Boyd Wyatt. Once he gets his teeth into a thing he really knows how to hang on."

  "What about compensation?" Chris probed. "Surely he would have to pay you well to leave?"

  "All the money in the world wouldn't make me do that."

  So that was that, Chris thought. She might as well pack up and leave right now. Boyd Wyatt was just going to have to accept the fact that he couldn't put Cyrecano into his pocket along with his other possessions. As for the contract, well, she would have to tell her father something.

  They had. been following a winding path for some time and Chris noticed now it grew steeper with every step. She began to breathe a little quicker and Clive smiled, taking her hand.

  "The view from the top is well worth it," he assured her.

  "That could be a matter of opinion." Though she wouldn't have said anything for fear of offending Clive the view filled Chris with quiet horror. They had come to the end of the path and suddenly without warning the ground dropped away. Ninety feet or
more below the sea washed over black rocks bathing them in a continuous milky foam. This part of the island looked like the grey rock wall that Chris had seen from the Barbary Cloud. Dizzily she stepped back into Clive's arms.

  "Don't be frightened, Chris. You're perfectly safe with me." He stared down into the depths with a half smile. "I'm beginning to get quite used to it."

  "That's something I'll never do." She sidestepped from his arms, faint with the knowledge that the cliff edge was only inches from her toes. Clive's mood was difficult to assess, but Chris sensed a recklessness here. She felt it had something to do with his annoyance when she had shown surprise at his army career.

  "Clive, let's go down."

  "Okay," but Clive seemed in no hurry to move. He stood with a forced rigidness on the very edge staring out to sea like an Admiral viewing his fleet. Stumbling along the path, Chris had a feeling he was trying to prove something - but what? That he wasn't afraid? Well, for her money he'd passed the test, but when he drew alongside her on the path his face held none of the exhilaration of victory. Merely a dejected frown.

  Rambles over the island became a regular feature in the days that followed. The cliff episode was forgotten and thankfully conversation not much in evidence. When Clive wasn't chipping away in his workshop he would drop an arm around Chris and guide her to some flower-scented comer, seemingly content to lie with his head close to hers.

  Often they swam on the east beach where the water was as flat and as clear as glass ... and just as often Chris told herself it was dangerous to let things develop along these lines. She had noticed the way Clive looked at her these days, felt his lingering touch on her arm.

  To make matters worse, there was no chance of confessing the real reason for her being on the island since she had learned that Clive's boat was out of action. To admit such blatant deceit and then have to remain under the same roof would be an impossible situation. All Chris could do was encourage Clive to make the necessary repairs to the boat as soon as possible, without being obvious.