Sweet Seduction

by Whitelaw, Stella

"Harrison Ford?"

  "Harrison who?"

  "If I’m to take on your research, then I won’t have time for the tourist track," said Kira resolutely.

  "You can’t come to Barbados and ignore its beauty and history. You’re allowed some time off. You might as well be working in some dreary industrial town. Did you know that the first King Charles was at his wits’ end to decide whose grant was valid to this land? He might have saved his head if he had come to live here himself."

  "It must have taken months at sea to get here. What a horrendous voyage."

  "The sailors survived and Barbados became another Little England."

  Kira wondered if one of those sailors had founded Giles’s family, or perhaps an aristocratic English gentleman, one of the deported political rivals, came to make his fortune growing tobacco and cotton. Sugar had not become a crop until a long time later.

  She did not ask about his family roots. A Barbadian beauty might have captured the heart of a male Earl sometime in the past. The only hint of colour in his skin was his deep, healthy tan but his dark hair had a crisp thickness that might once have been tight curls in a distant ancestor. Then she remembered the photograph of Reuben Giles and that his hair had been a blond thatch.

  Giles dropped her at the end of the driveway to Sandy Lane. Golfers were coming off the course, pleased with the day’s game, ready for a swim and a drink.

  "I’ll leave you here. I want to reach Speightstown before everything shuts down. You could come with me."

  "No, thank you," said Kira, getting out of the car. "Thank you for the guided tour of your factory and the cold drink. It was most interesting."

  "And the kiss? Are you going to thank me for that? Was it interesting too?" His face was brooding, voice dead-pan.

  "I didn’t realise I was supposed to thank you for kissing me," said Kira. "It’s not normally expected, is it? Or does a kiss come under the heading of hospitality?"

  "Part of the tourist promotion scene. Always make the visitor feel at home."

  Giles sped off with a burst of acceleration, scattering home-going cyclists from the fields with uncharacteristic carelessness. Kira did not understand what had upset him. He had seemed a controlled driver of the powerful car and showed courtesy to all users, even hens and dogs asleep in the middle of the road got polite treatment.

  Perhaps she had failed him in some way. If he had been expecting a quick holiday affair, then he was going to be disappointed.

  She wandered onto the shimmering white sand, long shadowed now, and waded into the sea to wash away the stickiness and heat of the day. The skirt of her sundress wrapped itself round her legs but she did not care. People wore anything in the sea. Her dress could be mistaken for a sarong. She lay on her back in the lapping waves, gazing up at the cloudless sky, her eyes half closed against the setting sun, the cool water easing her burning shoulders.

  The sea was turning to liquid silver from the rays of the sun. On shore, the noisy birds were roosting in the casuarinas trees; the branches alive with birds fluttering and socialising, telling the world about their busy day. Birdsong had taken over from the rustling wind and the birds had become living trees.

  Kira dined alone in the restaurant, not eating much, then strolled for a while in the darkened gardens of the hotel, enjoying the music from a steel band and watching the dancers on the patio. She envied the couples dancing closely, obviously in love, some cheek-to-cheek. It was a wonderful place for a honeymoon.

  She had dreamed of a honeymoon with Bruce, somewhere warm and romantic. Bruce and his new woman would be married by now. He would want their baby to be born within a legal marriage. Kira waited for the usual quiver of rage and surge of anguish but it did not come. She had drained her strength with overpowering jealousy and hatred, but where was it tonight? For the first time, she faced the thought of their baby without emotion.

  That night she slept well. She did not fall asleep with tortured thoughts of Bruce. Instead she curled against the pillow and remembered another kiss, a bold demanding kiss from a muscle-hard man, hot and sweaty from a day’s work.

  The meeting of the Sugar Growers’ Association was being held at Fitt’s House at nine o’clock before it got too hot. Meeting Benjamin Reed for the first time was going to be an unknown quantity. Kira was not sure how she would react. And she was nervous. She was breakfasting on her balcony and her hand shook as she stirred her tea.

  She dressed with extra care, deciding on a simple white cotton suit with a pale blue silk shirt. She fastened the belt from the suit round her slender waist, slipped on high-heeled sandals and sunglasses, put the new business cards in her bag.

  "Research Consultant, here I come," she said with confidence to the mirror. But something was wrong. Her hair was in its usual tidy style. She took out the grips and let her hair fall onto her shoulders. Not so efficient, but much more glamorous. Mr Connor would have disapproved if she had arrived at the Commons looking so outrageously flamboyant.

  She drove the mini-Moke to Fitt’s House, following Giles’s directions. The open-sided yellow Moke was a noisy vehicle, with a gear change that sounded like a battering ram in reverse. But at least the through breeze made it cool.

  She drove slowly along the driveway, taking in afresh the strange architecture of the house, the unreal stone statues dominating the veranda and balcony. The trees were laden with blossom, strewing flowers and fruit over the untidy lawns and unkempt edges. A new and younger gardener might be able to cope better than the present one.

  Other cars were already parked in the semi-circular forecourt in front of the sweeping steps that led to the front door. Giles’s white Mercedes was there. On the back seat was a round basket full of different kinds of melon and sweet corn, as if he had been early to the market.

  She brushed aside overhanging branches, flowers shedding petals on her shoulders. Her tidy mind longed to take a broom and sweep up the debris of petals and leaves and scattering of sand that littered the veranda on either side of the front door.

  She went up the steps cautiously, remembering the high heels. The scent from the pots of rioting flowers and hanging ferns was not enough to quell her apprehension now that she was actually here and about to meet her grandfather. She conjured a picture of her mother, bent over a sewing machine, working far into the night. She was here to avenge her mother and her mother’s death. The thought was enough to drain some of the tan from her cheeks.

  An elderly Barbadian woman showed her into a big cool room running the whole width of the back of the house. Her immediate impression was of furniture. So much furniture filled the room. Wall-to-wall heavy antique furniture; Victorian, Colonial, Edwardian. The dark polished wood of the long central table seemed to take light from the windows into its veneer. Every surface had a vase, statue or ornament of silver on it. It was like going into a sale room at Christies before the auction of treasures from a stately home.

  Giles unfolded himself from the marble fireplace and came over to her. He was in a pale grey suit, with a shoestring tie laced loosely under the collar of a dark brown shirt. His highly polished boots reflected the gold from the old watch-chain slung across his waistcoat.

  He took her hand and pressed it lightly to his lips, his dark eyes smiling.

  "Barbados agrees with you," he said in a low voice. "You are looking relaxed and the tan is coming along nicely, slow and even."

  "Thank you, Dr Giles," she said mockingly. "I appreciate your concern. When am I going to meet Benjamin Reed, the chairman?"

  "In a moment. Here comes everyone. Once they meet you, they’ll want to make you a permanent feature of the association." He bent towards her and Kira jerked back but he was only brushing a petal from her shoulder.

  A group of men came over, smiling. Giles made the introductions. Their names did not register. She was listening for her grandfather’s name, searching the weathered faces.

  "May I introduce Benjamin Reed, chairman of the Sugar Growers’ Association, my fath
er’s partner and now my partner." Giles’s voice gave nothing away. It was deferential but restrained in any warmth. Kira tensed. She felt something stir inside her that had been dormant for many years, a reaching out for family. She turned to face her grandfather, the man who had contributed to her mother’s death.

  She masked her face to begin a polite greeting but instead she did not know what to say. The words trailed into the air.

  "Mr Reed," she began again. The elderly man took her hand in his and the skin was thin and papery. "So, is this the gardener’s day off?"

  Benjamin Reed chuckled. "The poor old soul’s a bit past it, you know. And I don’t trust him up those ladders. He spends more time talking to young women over the wall than getting on with his work. I’ll have to get someone younger."

  "It seems a pity for such a pretty garden to be neglected."

  Benjamin Reed took her arm and led her towards a sideboard and a selection of iced drinks. "I can’t tell you how pleased I am to see you. I hoped we would meet again. I thought we had a lot in common."

  "We have," said Kira simply. "We have."

  Seventeen

  Benjamin Reed straightened his back. Fate had been kind to lead this delightful young woman into his life again.

  "Miss Reed," he said, taking in the burnished hair and the plain white suit and blue shirt. "So we share more than the same surname. We share an interest in breadfruit and Bajan cooking. I trust you have recovered from your morning’s shopping in Bridgetown."

  The unexpected kindness chipped straight through Kira’s defences. Her face lit up and she smiled, showing off the tiny dimple at the corner of her mouth.

  Benjamin put on his wire-rimmed glasses and, in focus, he saw that her green eyes were pools of sadness and the faintly glossy lips were vulnerable with hurt and an appealing sensual softness. He was also immediately alerted to Giles’s indifferent interest in Miss Reed.

  "Yes," said Kira. "Thank you again for the lovely lunch at the Brown Sugar and taking the trouble to describe all the dishes to me."

  "It was a pleasure. It’s been a long time since I had the company of a young woman for lunch."

  "So you two have already met," said Giles. "I didn’t know."

  "We met over or under my inept pruning of a breadfruit tree and Miss Reed’s expert dodging. And yesterday I was able to offer Miss Reed a seat at my table. The Brown Sugar was packed, as usual."

  "We did not get as far as exchanging names," Kira said.

  "Miss Reed thought I was the gardener here," Benjamin said. "Not a surprising mistake, since I was halfway up a tree."

  "Or halfway down a tree," Kira added.

  Benjamin grinned and a look of same wavelength amusement flashed between them. "Shall we start the meeting, gentlemen? Time is money and we have a very full agenda. Miss Reed, perhaps you would care to sit at my side and then I can explain any points to you. Gentlemen, I should like to introduce Miss Kira Reed from London, who has agreed to undertake some independent research for Giles Earl on the transport problems of small growers."

  Giles pulled out a chair for Kira, and sat down the other side of her. "You say time is money, Ben, yet you’re letting your plantation deteriorate for lack of investing funds in new machinery and crop care. When did you last ride round your cane fields? They are going to rack and ruin for want of attention and money spent on them."

  "When I want it, I’ll ask for your advice about my plantation," said Benjamin Reed curtly, shuffling a pile of papers. "This is not the time or place."

  "The factory would go the same way if I didn’t fight you for every dollar. The slave days are over, Ben. We must adopt new technology if we are going to survive in the market."

  Kira stared at her lap. She could feel the antagonism flaring between the two men and it was not rivalry over a lunch at the Brown Sugar. This was long-seated hatred and more than simply about disagreement in the running of a sugar factory. Something must have happened in the past to root such strong feelings.

  "Gentlemen, please," a man said, clearing his throat. "We’re wasting time."

  "What does it matter about my fields?" said Benjamin, suddenly sounding weary. "Who’s going to care about the Reed Plantation when I’m gone?"

  His bitterness and despair came plainly through his words. Kira paled, her fingers gripping the heavy carving on the arms of her chair.

  "You should have taken my father’s advice," Giles could not resist saying.

  "And look where it got him," said Benjamin sharply. "A nice view from St John’s Church, 800 feet above the Atlantic. Only Reuben can’t appreciate the view from where he is."

  There was a shocked gasp from the meeting around the table. Giles’ knuckles were clenched white. Kira saw a muscle twitch at the corner of his mouth as if he could barely contain his anger. Kira searched for something to say to cool the situation. She racked her brain for a safe subject.

  "Do you have no family, Mr Reed?" she asked quickly. "I thought this was an island of big families."

  She knew she was deliberately opening a wound but she wanted to know what Benjamin would say about her mother, Tamara. She wanted a clue about how he felt, all these years later.

  He stiffened. "No family, Miss Reed. I never had any children."

  Her contempt grew. He was denying the existence of his daughter. Kira wanted to stand up and shout at him: "But I’m here! I exist! I’m your daughter’s daughter."

  But she controlled her anger, focusing her gaze on the window and the cluttered garden outside. It was a jungle of flowers and shrubs, full of noisy birds and lizards sunning themselves on the hot stones. More animal statues glared between the fragrant blossoms. One had a frangipani bloom rakishly placed over an ear, morning glory climbing up sturdy stone limbs.

  Kira’s heart sank. This was not going to work. She was not going to be able to confront Benjamin Reed with her accusations. She had planned for years what she would say to her grandfather, to confront him with his despicable treatment of her mother. Now she saw that she could not do it.

  She actually liked the old man and, despite his public denial of any family, he was not the monstrous person she had been imagining since childhood. She reminded herself of the unanswered letters, the pleas for help, the long hours her mother had worked in order to keep a shabby home together. Why had Benjamin refused to help them? She could not understand it.

  "I’m sorry," said Kira. The choice was still hers. She could announce her identity here and now and shame him in front of his friends and colleagues, reveal him for the cruel and heartless father he had been. It would atone in a small way for her mother’s suffering.

  But it would mean the end of everything good that was beginning. She liked Barbados, felt happy on the island, wanted to do the research to prove to herself that she could. She even dared to like Giles Earl, excited by the danger.

  Or she could say nothing. There was something about Benjamin Reed that made her want to befriend the old man and find out why he had acted so badly. Kira agonised over the decision. She was being seduced by the sunshine and a crazy garden full of grotesque stone animals.

  "Don’t be upset, Kira," said Giles. "Ben and I always fight like this. It wouldn’t be normal if we didn’t."

  "Let’s start the meeting," said Benjamin gruffly. "Minutes of the last meeting, Mr Howard, please."

  "If I can read my notes," said a wizened man with thick pebble glasses. "I’m sorry I didn’t get round to circulating copies."

  Kira made her own discreet notes in a small notebook. It was so easy for her. She had been taking minutes for years, could almost do them on auto-pilot.

  It was a fascinating meeting. Sugar was no longer simply sparkling white grains to be avoided at all costs. It was the island’s life blood. There was a shortfall in this year’s quota.

  "No one factor contributed to the decline," said Giles.

  "What about all the cane fires?"

  "The late start of the crop."

  "And the hea
vy rains. We can’t control the weather but we can do something about the fires."

  "Twenty-seven per cent of our crop is damaged by fire," Benjamin told Kira in an aside.

  Kira was appalled. When Giles had mentioned monkeys and fires, she had thought of them as being irritations, not a major problem.

  "We need patrols, fire patrols."

  "And who would pay for them?"

  "We’d have to, the owners," said Benjamin. "More money down the drain. Patrols, bah! You might as well try to ban smoking or the import of matches."

  "I caught an arsonist last month," said Giles. "He came at me with a petrol can." He touched the back of his head tentatively. "Still feels tender."

  "Heavier penalties in the courts," said Mr Howard, who had apparently forgotten he was supposed to be taking the minutes. "It’s the only way."

  When they came to the item on the plight of small growers, Kira listened more intently. Her notes grew. She refused to look at Giles even though his deep, occasionally harsh, voice held her spellbound. She could listen to him forever. She willed herself not to look at him, not to betray by a single eyelash that he had any kind of hold over her.

  "There’s been a disastrously sharp drop in the production of sugar from small growers," said Giles. "Their gross output is thirty-two percent down. That’s bad news for all of us, especially those of us with big factories to keep running and a workforce to pay."

  "Bad news for the small grower too," Benjamin muttered.

  "No-one is denying that, but without our factories he’d never get his cane processed. It’s a sharp drop – one out of every three tons normally produced by the small man has gone."

  "Gone with the wind," said Benjamin, who had clearly lost interest. "Good book. Have you read it, my dear?"

  Kira could see that Giles was becoming irritated. Her grandfather was obviously not a man for meetings. He was itching to get away.

  "Not enough is being done to give them realistic help," Giles went on resolutely. "The main problem is transport. The centralisation of factories didn’t help them. How are they supposed to get their cane to the factories? Many live miles from any grinding facilities."