Chris looked down. It was true. Her father's load seemed to have lightened considerably since Boyd had taken over, but something within her wouldn't give him the satisfaction of admitting it. She met his gaze steadily.
"As you were saying, I'm still working for you."
He turned to stare out of the window. "This new tack around Huston..." he began.
"Yes?"
"My information is that his ex-girl-friend's last port of call was Beirut."
"Clive's fiancee? Paula?"
He turned and nodded. "Paula Fry. She travels around buying antique jewellery for a London firm. They haven't heard of her for some weeks, but it's my guess she's in the interior.''
"But I don't understand..."
"Don't you? Paula Fry and Huston were once engaged, so there must have been something pretty deep between them."
"But they broke it off."
"Why? Because he wouldn't budge from his island?"
"Perhaps Paula didn't want to... give up her job ?"
"Either reason, it's not enough to keep them apart. All it needs is a third party to help them over their differences."
"And you're going to be the third party?"
"Or you. You made a hit with Huston, so why shouldn't you with Miss Fry? All you have to do is to convince her that the ex-boy-friend will be happier away from Cyrecano."
"And back with her."
"Of course."
"But if no one has heard of her for some time how do you propose finding her ?''
Boyd shrugged. "She's probably bargaining in some remote village. It shouldn't be difficult to get a message through. We may even be able to persuade her to make the trip back in the Barbary."
Chris looked at him in distaste, making for the door.
"There's no end to the lengths you'll go to get what you want, is there?"
The Barbary Cloud took on the two Hideaway air pilots at a port on the Turkish coast, and from then on conversation was laced with aeronautical terms and flight behaviour of this aircraft or that. Frank Dawnay was happy t be amongst his own, and Boyd, it seemed, could talk on any subject.
To escape these technical discussions and Mrs. Lovell, who was having a hard time of it with the passive business men and their wives, Chris often wandered along the decks watching the birds dip and swoop in the wake of the ship. Sometimes the misty shape of an island or jut of land would appear in the distance, only to recede in a haze of turquoise and eggshell blue.
Accrington was always on hand to answer her questions, but she soon learned, much to her surprise, that his knowledge of the sea and ships was little more than her own. Once when he had been showing her around the stainless steel galley, he inadvertently referred to it as the kitchen, and immediately quipped that sea jargon took some getting the hang of.
"But, Accrington," Chris laughed, "I thought you were a man of the sea!"
"I am!" he grinned. "Or I will be when my landlubber days quit showing!" In answer to her puzzled look he tapped his chest. "When the old bellows gave out the chief offered me this job on the Barbary." He winked. "It don't take much to wear a smart uniform and lead the folks around spouting nautical terms."
Chris climbed the stairs back to the deck thoughtfully. When they were back at the rail she asked lightly,
"You used to work for Mr. Wyatt in Fernsea?''
Accrington nodded happily.
"I guess my office handyman days don't show none, eh?"
"Not a sign," Chris smiled. But something else was beginning to show. She looked out to sea with perplexity. There were times when Boyd's reputation for being a hard man went slightly haywire.
A short while later snowy mountains appeared and the sea darkened to a deep azure blue. A town showed in the distance and within half an hour they were off Beirut. The harbour wasn't large, but the quay seethed with people, many of whom swam out to the boats and boarded. There was the pungent odour of fish and spices mingling with a dozen undefinable perfumes.
The two pilots went off to pick up their planes and the guests left in a trickle of couples and foursomes, Mrs. Lovell's voice ringing above the drone of unexciting conversation. Howes went ashore with Frank Dawnay, both keen on the idea of visiting the museum, and Boyd took Chris's elbow towards a waiting taxi.
They cruised through the streets to a tall buff-coloured building with a lot of foreign names on the boards outside. Staring at them indifferently while she waited, Chris reviewed Boyd's plan in her mind. The more she thought of it the more she was bound to admit it was the best one for helping Clive. Who else better suited for the job of persuading him to lead his own life than the girl he had once loved enough to propose marriage?
Perhaps she had lost the argument once, but she might be willing to try again.
Boyd strode out of the building and nodded to the driver. He got in beside Chris.
"Well, the wheels are in motion. There's nothing we can do now but wait until Miss Fry is located."
"How long will that take?"
"Possibly two or three days."
"What on earth are we going to do for that length of time? Can't we go out and look for her?"
He flicked a glance over her.
"You wouldn't last half a day in the heat and conditions out there. And although things have quietened down for the moment, they may flare up again at any time. You'll stay near the boat all the time."
She raised her chin a little.
"Miss Fry obviously doesn't succumb too easily," she observed.
"Paula Fry is the unusual in a woman. She doesn't succumb to anything unless it suits her."
Chris found herself swallowing unnecessarily. Did Boyd know Paula? Judging by the tone of his voice he might almost be speaking from experience.
He turned to her with a dry twist at the mouth.
"It looks as if we'll have to make the best of being thrown together." And then casting an arm at the view, he added suavely, "Be my guest. Where would you like to go?"
Something inside Chris made the words come out drawn and cold.
"Are you sure you want to cool your heels that way?"
"Rather than let you stew while I work on board the Barbary, yes." He flung the unlighted cigarette away and scowled at his watch. "It's almost lunch time. Let's get back to the boat. Afterwards you can let me know what you would like to do first."
He leaned forward and rapped out a spate of foreign words to the driver, then turned sourly to Chris.
"Don't worry. We'll make it bearable until Miss Fry turns up."
Chris had to admit it was more than bearable. During the next three days she came to know Beirut infinitely well. It was a town made up of tiny shops and night clubs and steep hilly streets that led to villas and grand houses. Except for the shopkeepers and taxi drivers nearly every person seen was interesting - the Druze down from the hills, black-bearded and excitingly aquiline in his queerly-shaped turban, and a striding Turk who might have stepped straight out of a painting, with his deeply striped caftan and baggy trousers.
The women were beautiful and very few of them veiled. They wore dresses of deep purple, fiery scarlet and vivid greens. In these exotic surroundings Clive seemed a world away, and with Boyd at her side guiding her along the old arcaded streets it was difficult to think of Cyrecano at all. But Chris made a determined effort. If Paula didn't show up soon then it would be up to her to go back to Clive as she had promised.
Often her attempts to keep Clive fresh in her mind only ended up with him being compared with Boyd; how he had always been eager to hurry on ahead to a destination whereas Boyd never left her side. If she paused he would look for signs of tiredness, effects of the heat, and suggest a cool drink in the shade. Clive had never helped her along an awkward path, down a steep step. Boyd automatically assumed she would need assistance. He would take her arm easily, or placing his hands round her waist swing her lightly down beside him.
More than once on these occasions woodsmoke eyes came perilously close to sherry-br
own, and Chris found the picture of Clive she held in her mind became very blurred indeed ... dangerously so on afternoons like the one spent bathing from Blutansi beach.
Blutansi was popular with the Europeans. At the moment, with a complete absence of tourists, they had the place to themselves. Its beach was fringed with colourful sun umbrellas and changing-booths. The sun was hot as Chris emerged in a striped two-piece bathing suit, an extravagance her father had encouraged her in while here in Beirut. She met Boyd at the water's edge. His muscular frame was tanned to a deep mahogany, accentuated by the biscuit-coloured shorts.
Feeling inexplicably shy as he smiled an appraising glance over her, Chris ran into the water and was soon streaking out to sea. Boyd was ahead of her in a few minutes. She saw his powerful shoulders slice the water in an effortless crawl. He turned over with a humorous gleam.
"For a second I thought I was going to be beaten by the child."
Chris laughed, treading water.
"Such modesty! And where does a business tycoon find the time to learn to go like that?"
She hadn't realized just how close he was until muscular arms encircled her.
"I make a point of finding the time to do the things I want to do."
Chris couldn't look at him. She turned in his arms and with a shaky laugh headed for the shore. Lying on the hot sand, she had to admit that her shortage of breath was not entirely due to the swim. Boyd rubbed himself down with a towel and lit up a cigarette.
"Enjoying yourself?" he asked.
Chris lay to face the sun. She opened her eyes to look up at him.
"It's lovely, Boyd, but it's all wrong, isn't it?"
"Why?"
"Well, I didn't come out here to do this, did I ?"
Boyd looked down at her fingers scooping the sand.
"Still worrying about the airstrip?"
"I'm ashamed to say I've never given it a thought."
"Neither have I." He tossed a glance to where dark-eyed waiters served cooling drinks and the big hotel spread pale and opulent in the background. "Like to dance here tonight? There aren't many guests at the hotel just now, of course, but the locals still come here.''
Chris sat up on one elbow and studied the brown craggy features. She experienced a need to know more of this big vital man at her side.
"Boyd," she hesitated shyly as he opened one eye, "why have you never left Fernsea? I mean, isn't most of your kind of work done from London?"
"It is, but I always felt if I was going to be anything I should want it to be from Fernsea."
"Because of your orphanage days there?"
"If you like."
"How did you start?"
He sat up to meet her eyes.
"What's this, a request for my life story?"
She smiled.
"I know you like people to believe that you weren't born, but put up by a construction company!''
"It's true." With an amused gleam he drew on his cigarette and then because she waited expectantly he shrugged. "How did I start? As an office boy for Max Heron. I'd always been interested in property development. He showed me the ropes, and how to stick at it sixteen hours a day, six days a week. I swallowed law, accountancy and commerce, and inspected sites in my spare time. Later came Hideaway Hotels, and now I'm a millionaire, but I don't count it. I enjoy the creative aspect."
Chris trailed a finger in the sand.
"So there hasn't been much room in your life for ... other things?"
Before she could prevent it a firm hand had descended over hers. It guided her finger to draw circles in the sand.
"There's time," he drawled.
She showered and dressed that evening with a feeling that it was going to be different from any other she had known. The white dress swirled about her. Her hair, copper-tinted now from the sun, was swept back from the brow and temples and fell in deep soft waves to honey-gold shoulders.
She picked up her handbag, and with one last look at what she hoped was enough make-up... a dusting of powder, brush of lipstick... she walked carefully out to meet Boyd.
Clad in evening dress, he was waiting on the deck and turned to watch her with eyes peculiarly dark and glowing.
A car was on hand to take them to the Hotel Blutansi for dinner. Later a local orchestra struck up with music of a distinctly foot-tapping quality. Chris had never danced with Boyd before, and to have his arms about her, feel the perfect muscular rhythm of his body as he guided her between the other dancers, was a pulse-hammering experience.
When they had regained their table her mouth jerked a tremulous smile.
"So the business tycoons find time to dance too ?"
"You're only on the fringe of my talents," Boyd assured her.
She clutched drowningly for her wine glass.
"At this rate Hideaway Hotels will be going into liquidation!"
"They can keep going without me for a while. Let's take a walk."
A strange leaping fire in Boyd's eyes cabled a warning to Chris to go carefully, but the warning went unheeded. Wasn't her own heart thumping much too loud to hear anything but its own sweet music?
The terrace was deserted. The night air was warm and heady with the perfume of frangipani. Beyond the cluster of night-blooming shrubs was an expanse of black, edged with a grey curl of lace ... the sea. Its gentle rhythmic sigh of waves washing over sand made a perfect backing to the lyrical swell of her heart.
"Chris..."
She hadn't wanted to turn to Boyd. Something told her if she did she would be lost for ever. She could hear his breathing, as gently he turned her to face him. She hadn't meant to raise her eyes ... her lips ... It was as though some powerful inner force was communicating itself through his touch, piercing the very centre of her being, severing all resistance.
Weakly she leaned against him and in that moment his mouth came down hard upon her own. It brought with it a strength to his arms that brooked no argument, and crushed against him life hung suspended in a bitter-sweet ache that sent her lips straining after his kiss. It was only when his mouth brushed along her cheek, her throat, that Chris realized what was happening.
"Boyd, no!" Swaying with emotion, she pushed him away. "This can't be right... Aren't we losing track of the employer-employee bit?"
He drew her back into his arms. "What's worrying you?"
"Well, the expense of Dad and me . . . drifting along like this, we..."
"I'm taking care of everything."
"How can I let you do that?"
"No buts. I've gathered what your father means to you. There are ways and means of pulling him through."
"Like loaning him money? No, I won't allow it!"
"Won't you?" A fire had kindled behind tie wood-smoke eyes. His kiss stifled any reply.
News of Paula Fry came through the following afternoon. Boyd read the note during drinks with his guests on board the yacht. He invited Chris to go for a stroll and held up the message.
"It seems we're too late by about five days. Apparently some trouble blew up in the village where Miss Fry was making transactions, and she considered it prudent to withdraw." He tapped the note thoughtfully. "A wise choice, I'd say. These people can get very nasty if they're upset."
"Where is she now?" Chris asked.
"As far as the authorities know she headed for Cathai."
"Cathai?" Chris looked up. "Then she could be planning a visit to Clive."
"It's possible."
"Perhaps," Chris looked out to sea, "she's been, and their differences are insurmountable after all.''
"Let's not get carried away until we find out what's going on." He pocketed the note and turned. "Well, there's no point in hanging on here any longer. We may as well head back to Cathai."
While the Barbary Cloud was at sea Boyd worked in his office and Frank Dawnay went off for long discussions with Mr. Lovell. To pass the time Chris joined in the deck games with the ever-unbending city business men and their wives. A guffaw of laughter, the odd h
andclap might have meant that the bulldozing tactics of the ebullient Mrs. Lovell were beginning to pay off, but the games soon petered out.
After only three sessions everyone retired to the stateroom, the women to languish in the armchairs, and the men to pull on their cigars and indulge in the usual stock-market chit-chat.
Apart from their brief discussion concerning Paula Fry, Chris hadn't been alone with Boyd since they had danced at the Hotel Blutansi in Beirut. In his arms on that starlit terrace she had felt almost a part of him. Now it was like some distant misty dream that she could only yearn to re-live.
Of course Boyd was sensible. He knew it was just the wine and the tropical night that had gone to their heads. Occasionally he let a dark smiling glance slide over her which was probably meant to imply that business tycoons didn't really get much time for that sort of thing. But did they? Chris wondered. Especially after a chance conversation with Mrs. Lovell.
The big woman had happily given up all attempts to fire her colleagues into action when only three of them had turned up for a fishing contest. She flopped down beside Chris on the sun deck, a tall glass in her hand and the perpetual smile lighting chubby features.
"Oh, it's been such a marvellous holiday! I can't bear it to end."
Chris turned to smile. "Do you have to return to England soon?"
"Almost as soon as we arrive in Cathai, my dear. Graham has got some pressing business in Brighton and most of the others are straining to get back to their desks . . . and don't you know it?" She met Chris's glance and rasped a good-natured laugh. "You know, I don't suppose half of them have seen what's under their noses, but mention Paula Fry and I bet they'd sit up like a dog waiting for his dinner."
"Paula Fry?" Chris asked, feeling a cool wind brush by.
"Why, Paula and Boyd, of course! Everyone knows they went about together in London. But imagine Paula giving him a run like this!"
Chris sank lower into her seat, and Mrs. Lovell lay back with a romantic sigh and a flutter of heavily mascaraed lashes.
"Ah, the thrill of the chase! And what a man! But that's Boyd. He wants Paula, and when Boyd wants something he doesn't stop at hell and high water to get it."
Hideaway Heart Page 9
