Sweet Seduction

by Whitelaw, Stella

  She thought about the two men at Fitt’s House that morning, the angry words that had flared between them. She could have taken sides, defending both of them. Both men had been tugging at her feelings. How could they argue so fiercely? What had happened all those years ago? It had been a strange day. She had discovered a grandfather she liked and wanted to keep in her life, and another man she dare not have or encourage. Yet she had to deny that family bond in order to keep Benjamin as a friend.

  This work is going to be good, she thought, and it’s real. I need to do something entirely different from the same old constituency problems and the tug-of-war political scene. She kept her eyes skimmed for the next sign of habitation. The wild and rugged landscape could not have been more of a contrast to the elegant and touristy St James’s Coast.

  "I needed to leave London and start doing something that would not remind me of Bruce and Penny and the baby," she said aloud, convincing herself. It was a relief to say the words, the names, and face the reality of the situation.

  In the distance, tucked against a hill, she saw the usual style wooden chattel house with steep roof and doll’s house windows. A woman was nursing a baby to her dark and swollen breast, a picture of happiness. It didn’t help. Kira felt a stab of envy at the cameo of maternal joy.

  She stopped the Moke in the yard and hung onto the wheel, fingers clenched. Skinny chickens scattered in all directions, wings flapping. A floppy puppy scratched lazily in the sunshine and went back to sleep. It was a hazy, lazy, peaceful picture.

  "Hello," said Kira, swinging her long legs out of the Moke. Her cotton skirt clung to her thighs. Her skin was sticky. "I’m Kira Reed. Giles Earl has asked me to come and talk to your husband about transport problems. Is he around?"

  The young woman’s face broke into smiles. Kira discovered her passport into any home on the island. She had only to mention Giles’s name and she was welcome anywhere.

  "From Mr Giles? Why, ma’am, that would be a pleasure. You sit here in the shade and I’ll go find Kingsley. He’s out in the fields."

  The young woman hoisted the baby onto her hip and, with another wide smile, set off down a path towards the lush sugar cane. It was some distance but she did not hurry, her walk a rhythmic sway from side to side. Her dusty brown feet splayed out, the bright cotton of her dress flattened against her swelling body. She was already expecting another baby.

  Kira sat in the shade of a gnarled old tree, letting the sugar-scented breeze lull her into a doze. She saw the magnificence of Giles’s height and his unyielding muscles. She remembered the way his hands had rested on her rounded hips, and the lazy confidence in his voice as he had teased her. Giles, she breathed, her eyes closed, let me feel the wall of your body again, soon, now. I can’t endure this tantalising delay . . . She hugged herself, aching with longing. The image of his strong face was robbing her of all thought.

  She jolted herself into consciousness, shaking her hair out of her eyes.

  "I’m an idiot, a fool," she told the shaggy puppy watching her curiously. He grinned hugely in agreement, panting.

  She knew what it was. The hangover from her grief over Bruce was making her long for comfort and love, for physical contact with someone who thought she was desirable. It was as simple as that. Giles obviously thought she was attractive so why not let him have his brief summer affair? Perhaps he had a tourist belt on which to notch up his conquests. Kira knew it was wanton but she didn’t care.

  Kingsley arrived along the path, a bulky young man with flashing teeth. But his grin soon faded as he poured out his troubles to Kira. His wife brought drinks of fresh pineapple juice and Kira accepted, knowing that to refuse would offend their hospitality. They were poor. They had hardly anything yet they were so happy. Kingsley could not stop touching his young wife, stroking her bare arm, tickling the baby, letting his hand rest easily on her knee.

  "Something’s got to be done," he said. "Before we all go bankrupt. I’d hate to try and sell this bit of land but we gotta eat."

  "What would you do?"

  "Get a job in a hotel, I suppose. I’m strong. I could be a porter or a gardener."

  "That doesn’t seem right. You’d have to move south, too."

  Kira wanted to give them something. But what did she have to give them? She could only put their problems in her report and hope that Giles could find the answer. She went silent with determination, his name and promises almost on her tongue.

  She had some English money in her purse and took out a brightly-minted pound coin, pressing it into the baby’s brown hand.

  "A lucky coin from England," she said, not believing it was lucky but not knowing what else to say.

  Kingsley and his wife thanked her and waved her off their land. As she drove away, with promises to return that she knew she would not keep, Kira felt a new sadness. What was happening to her? Barbados was weaving its promised spell, or was her true blood beginning to assert itself? She was here for a month or two, no longer. Giles’s fee and her conscience money from Mr Connor would last that long if she was careful.

  She had been planning to be back at the Commons in mid-October in time for the State Opening, either to resume her job with Percival Connor or find another MP to work for. Her flat in Pimlico was gathering dust. Kira realised she had nothing else to make her go back to England. Only her flat. She did not really want to work for Mr Connor again. He’d reached his sell-by date.

  It began to rain with an abruptness that was hard to believe. The clouds opened. Rain poured off palm leaves in sheets, splashing into the road, quickly turning the dust into rivulets, drumming on road bins. She drove for several miles in the downpour, her speed reduced to a crawl. She was nearing the East Coast and tried to peer through the overworked windscreen wipers for somewhere to stop and stay, or at least take shelter. She had forgotten the advice that the eastern coast was wild and barren. Not for nothing was it called the Highlands.

  Suddenly she glimpsed the sea ahead and rammed on the brakes. Great rollers thundered in from the Atlantic, breaking over outcrops of rock with powerful plumes of white spray. The long curving beach was deserted, the machineel trees swaying under the onslaught of rain, their leaves washed to a dark green gloss. There was not a hotel or any habitation in sight.

  "I think I’m lost," she said.

  She managed to turn the Moke in a clearing, with much grinding of gears. Gusts of rain were blowing in both sides of the open vehicle onto her bare arms and face. Soon she was drenched. The wind was whipping her skirt up and off her knees, bunching it round her hips. She clutched at the sodden material in her lap like a bundle of wet washing.

  Through the rain she caught sight of a line of workers hurrying from the fields using their straw hats and banana leaves for some protection. But their faded clothes were soaked. They balanced bundles of cane on their heads, too precious to drop and run. She called to them but they could not hear and disappeared into the mist.

  Now she could hardly see through the torrential rain, the road ahead a swirling mass of mist and water. She had never seen rain like it. Dreary swathes washed in from a low blank sky. English rain was merely April showers compared to this deluge.

  "Hey you there, sunny Barbados," she called out loud. "Where have you gone?"

  A tall stone building loomed sideways out of the mist, its strange beehive shape at first unrecognisable. Then Kira caught sight of four broken blades and realised that it must be one of the ruined sugar mills. Its pitted stone surface was overgrown with weeds, but it looked solid enough for temporary shelter. She wrenched the Moke off the road and drove erratically along the hidden track towards the shape of the mill.

  The yard was littered with rusty machinery, brown water running off the iron components. There were no houses. The disused mill was completely isolated.

  Kira made sure the handbrake was on firmly then, collecting her handbag, braved the onslaught and ran through the rain to the ruin, praying there would be an easy way inside. The heavy
mahogany door yielded at the first push and Kira staggered inside.

  At first she could not see, not only because of the gloom but because her lashes were stuck with water. She wiped her face with her hand and looked around. Her heart fell. She had picked a ruin all right. It was empty except for some derelict machinery and a stack of old canes, dry and withered. She sank down onto her knees on the dusty floor and cradled her head in her arms. Her body was stiff with driving but at least she would be out of the rain here and off the treacherous track. If she waited until the rain stopped, perhaps she would be able to move on. Surely it couldn’t rain like this for long?

  She thought of her case in the back of the Moke, but no way was she going outside again, not even for dry clothes. She had had the foresight to lock her notes away in her briefcase. She had no idea where she was. These roads were certainly not on Giles’s map.

  She peeled off her wet skirt and looked for somewhere to hang it up. A couple of nails in a beam were a convenient height and the drips were soon failing onto the dust, creating tiny craters. Her skirt hung like a wet ghost in the gloom; the only sound, apart from the lashing rain, was the dismal dripping onto the floor.

  Outside, the palm fronds rustled wildly, pounded by the rain, tossing wildly this way and that in the boisterous wind.

  Kira wrapped her arms across herself, standing back from the doorway, watching the relentless deluge. The sun was going down but there was no glorious sunset tonight. The heavily-laden clouds scurried across the sky liked winged creatures from Greek mythology. Kira shivered in her damp briefs and silk shirt as the temperature dropped.

  * * *

  Dolly shivered in the big Edwardian wrought-iron bed. She had on the same pristine white nightdress, resolving that she would wear it all night and never, ever take it off. She was cold despite the heat lingering from the day.

  It had been an exciting day in a strange way, with everyone watching her. Her father had beamed like a beacon. He saw all his financial problems being solved. The dowry from the groom had been generous and the cheque crackled in his pocket.

  But Dolly did not remember much of what had happened. Time passed in a white haze of voices and words, music, food and wine. There were people she did not know. She drank greedily of the wine, accepting every refill, hoping to dull the ache in the pit of her stomach with an overcoat of alcohol. Someone took the glass away.

  "You don’t want to drink too much wine, Mizz Dolly," the housekeeper said kindly, seeing the pallor of the girl’s skin and the fear lurking in her eyes. "You gonna be all right. He’s a good man."

  "Yes, a good man," Dolly repeated.

  She drew her knees up in the alien bed and hugged them. She wanted to go home. Her childhood bed was a rusty single with sagging mattress, but right now she wanted to be there more than anywhere else, curled into a tight ball. She felt like a wilting petal in the heat, all the life draining out of her body.

  A door opened. Someone was moving quietly about the room, knowing their way around. There was a rustle of clothes. She squeezed her eyes shut, obliterating the shape of the man approaching her, but shadows danced against her lids.

  Twenty

  What on earth was she doing here, marooned in a ruined mill with only mice and bats and goodness knows what else for company? Kira’s shivering deepened with thoughts of the thin-legged creepy-crawlies that might exist in the old stonework.

  A familiar sound disturbed the steady pattering of the rain. It was an engine, somewhere in the distance, climbing the hilly track in low gear.

  Kira hesitated. Should she run out and try to get a lift from the driver to some sort of habitation? She thought with longing of hot water, a bath and a cup of tea. She did not really fancy spending the whole night in the old mill.

  It was not easy to weigh up the advantages of a night in a hotel against the risk of cadging a lift from a stranger. There was less crime on Barbados than in England but Kira was still apprehensive. A sudden gust of wind blew rain in through the open doorway and Kira backed away, cowering from the blast of chilled air.

  "Kira? Kira, are you here?"

  Her name was buffeted away on the wind, like an eerie echo in the distance. The engine cut out. She held her breath. That voice, deep and resonant, could only belong to one man. A surge of panic and relief swept through her at the same time. Surely he would help, whatever he thought of her or believed?

  "Giles?" she said, realising he would not hear over the rain.

  "Kira! Where are you?" he shouted, the words swept away on gusts of wind.

  Now it was panic that hammered into her head. She wanted to see him and it was too late to run away. But she did not want him to go. He was dangerous, attractive, aggressively masculine, too exactly what she wanted. But she was frightened. No matter what she told herself or tried to prevent, this special man could melt all her resistance.

  "Hey, woman. Where are you? I know you’re here somewhere. That’s my yellow Moke you’ve parked in a ditch."

  Kira flared. She peered briefly into the rain-misted dusk, bristling with indignation.

  "I did not park in a ditch," she yelled back. "The Moke is in the yard and I took a lot of care. There’s not a scratch on it."

  Giles appeared through the rain, trench coat flapping against his legs, the collar turned up, hair plastered against his head. The rain dripped off his face, running down his neck.

  "I knew that would bring you out," he said with satisfaction. "Need any help?"

  "No, thank you," she said stubbornly. "I’m doing perfectly well on my own."

  "Managing perfectly well on your own, are you?" he drawled, taking in her bedraggled appearance. "A half-drowned rat would beat you on looks."

  "Thank you. That makes me feel a whole lot better."

  His eyes travelled down her long bare legs and the damp silk shirt clinging to the line of her lacy panties. A blush of embarrassment warmed her face. She tried to cover up, wrapping her arms across her breasts but the movement only lifted the hem of her shirt higher.

  Giles’s breath sharpened as he came into the mill, his tall figure blocking out the last of the fading light. He was looking at her with an appreciation that should have warmed her heart, but only served to alarm her.

  It was an electric moment. Kira stood still, unable to move, hardly daring to breathe. She could not take her eyes from his face. Squally fumes of rain-laced wind whipped across her skin. The chill was icy along her spine. She was afraid of her longing for him. She was also cold.

  "Why did you check out of Sandy Lane without telling me?" he asked, with more restraint than he had intended.

  Her departure had annoyed him. He had been surprised to find that she had checked out and it had taken him hours to track her route across the island that afternoon, as she criss-crossed St Lucy then took the road towards the East Coast. He realised she was asking for trouble when he lost track of her in the rain. He knew these roads in the north like the palm of his hand. He did not think she would find the track that led to the old mill.

  "Do I have to ask your permission to leave a hotel? I can go when I want to."

  That smudge of yellow appearing between the windscreen wipers was the sight he had been searching for desperately in the last hour. He was sure she was lost, the tropical rain blurring all landmarks.

  "Why didn’t you leave a message? This isn’t an island for wandering around on the off-chance of picking up a room. You need to book in advance. You should leave your next address with the hotel in case you break down. There’s no auto pick-up service waiting to tow you home."

  "I’d have found somewhere," she argued. "It was the sudden rain that threw me. It fell in sheets. I couldn’t see where I was and that map of yours is out of date. It’s got roads that don’t exist and others that aren’t on it."

  "So a place changes. I’m beginning to think this idea is a big mistake," said Giles, face set coldly. "I can’t keep coming out to rescue you. Go back to the beach, Kira, and get yourse
lf a nice body tan. Buy a few necklaces."

  Kira swung round, facing him, the colour burning in her cheeks.

  "Don’t patronise me. I haven’t broken down and I’m not lost. I’ve done a good day’s work. If it hadn’t been for the rain I’d be sipping a Mount Gay Flapper cocktail in a bar at River Bay right now."

  "The nearest hotel is at Bathsheba and that’s small, miles away, and you need to book in advance. We’ll scrub the whole idea."

  She was fast losing control. Kira hoped he could not see her conflicting emotions or guess at her confusion.

  "That’s ridiculous," she said. "No-one could get lost on an island this size, so there’s no need to fuss. As soon as the rain stops, I’ll be on my way and my first report will be in your office by tomorrow evening."

  It was a brave boast. She had no idea if she would be able to deliver a decent report so soon and she didn’t care. Anything to wipe that look off his face. Her eyes sought the hollow of his throat, burnt brown by the sun and harbouring a drop of rain like a quivering pearl.

  He was out of her reach. He stood like a statue, leaning an arm on the wall, blocking her view of the doorway. She could smell the tangy warmth of his aftershave and the cool freshness of the rain on his dark hair. She imagined burying her face in his wet skin, and the thought almost destroyed what was left of her composure.

  The moment lingered in the air, intangible and glittering with magic. He was looking into her eyes, delving into her soul. Kira held her breath. Could this be her life changing at last? Was fate going to be kind and deal her something wonderful – a man like Giles, strong, demanding, taking all from her but giving her love, a caring person, everything she had ever wanted?

  "I don’t think you are going anywhere," he said firmly.

  His voice was still clipped with sternness, but with one finger he was lifting a tendril of damp hair from her neck. It was a gesture so gentle and tender that Kira knew she was falling in love with him. She was weakening, stunned by the knowledge, not wanting to run into the arms of pain again but quite unable to stop herself from the headlong flight.