by Anne Mather
Rebecca coloured now. He had successfully reduced her small attempt at sarcasm to mere pettiness. With an inconsequent shrug of her shoulders, she said: ‘As you are a friend—a relative, almost—of my employer, your presence on the beach could hardly be termed an intrusion when I am merely Adele’s employee.’ She bit her lip. She had not meant to say Adele, it had just slipped out, but she was just as sure that he had noticed it.
Piers St. Clair frowned. ‘I care less and less for your explanations, mademoiselle,’ he commented dryly. ‘As I have said, I did not intend coming here. I should not have.’
With a flick of his fingers against his dark trousers, he turned and walked away along the beach, and Rebecca pressed her lips together unhappily. For all she was sure he would not mention this incident to Adele, nevertheless she felt a sense of shame that she should have behaved so rudely. After all, it was not his fault that she found him disturbingly attractive. No doubt he was used to women finding him so. It was just that some inner sense warned her about becoming involved with him, without taking into account the fact that he might not feel attracted to her. Sighing indecisively, she stepped forward into the water, allowing the small waves to ripple round her ankles. She would not allow thoughts of him to mar these moments of the day. This was the time when she shed all the petty restrictions Adele imposed and became a sun-worshipper.
The water was delicious, and it creamed over her shoulders delightfully. There was a sensuousness about warm water that compared with nothing she had ever known back in England. Occasionally, late in the evening, when Adele was fast asleep, she came and swam without her bikini, but although this beach was private she would not dare to do so in daylight. Piers St. Clair’s unexpected arrival was indicative of what could happen.
Later in the morning Adele received a telephone call, and when she put down the receiver her face was hard and angry. ‘That was Piers,’ she said shortly, as Rebecca turned from arranging some flowers in a huge urn in the hall. ‘He has postponed our dinner engagement.’
Rebecca swallowed hard, forcing her face to remain composed. ‘Oh! Has he?’ she murmured quietly. ‘Did—did he say why?’
Adele chewed her lower lip. ‘Something to do with his business here, I believe,’ she snapped moodily, her manner denoting the kind of day Rebecca might expect from now on. ‘In any event, he’s not coming! Damn him!’
Rebecca couldn’t help but feel relieved, even though a small core of anxiety inside her told her that his reasons for rejecting Adele’s invitation were not wholly impersonal. But she successfully hid her own feelings and managed to put all thoughts of Piers St. Clair to the back of her mind.
* * *
It was three days before she saw him again. Although Adele expected a telephone call daily, none came, and Rebecca was beginning to believe that he did not intend returning to the villa at all. When his business in Suva was over and he went to Lautoka the chances of seeing him were much less obvious and she told herself she was relieved.
Even so, she could not deny that his intervention in their lives had been a disrupting influence from which it would take time to dissociate themselves. Thus it was quite a shock for Rebecca when she encountered Piers St. Clair again.
She had gone shopping in Suva for Adele, and had completed her purchases and was idly wandering among the market stalls, when a stall selling oil of sandalwood attracted her. The oil was being sold in cut glass jars and was obviously intended to attract the eye of the tourist. The dark-skinned islander who was in charge of the stall sensed her interest at once as she stood, fingering a jar with probing curiosity, and he began to extol the virtues of the product with rolling eyes and extravagant hand gestures. Rebecca was smilingly shaking her head when she became aware that a man had come to stand slightly behind her and casually she glanced round.
Piers St. Clair inclined his head solemnly, his face dark and serious. ‘Bonjour, mademoiselle,’ he murmured smoothly.
‘Good morning.’ Rebecca managed a faint smile, and stood the glass jar back on the stall rather jerkily.
His eyes flickered to the oil and he said: ‘Are you going to buy it?’
Rebecca shook her head again. ‘No, I don’t think so. I—I—the glass jars caught my eye.’
‘As they were intended to do. Did you know that Fijians used to use this oil to anoint their bodies? It was very highly valued in that capacity. Nowadays, less so.’
Rebecca lifted her shoulders. ‘I like the fragrance.’
He raised his dark eyebrows, and then looked at the stall-holder with questioning eyes. ‘Cette essence,’ he said, indicating the jar Rebecca had put down. ‘Combien?’
Rebecca stared at him uncomfortably, and then before he could say anything she moved quickly away. She had the distinct feeling that he intended buying the oil for her, and she didn’t want that.
A ripple of apprehension running along her spine, she walked swiftly to the edge of the market area and waiting until the road was clear went quickly across. The noise of the traffic was deafening after the peace of the villa, and the sights and sounds of the city took some getting used to. As did the smell of dried copra that hung over the harbour on hot, humid days with intensity.
She had left the car parked in a side street. She knew the city area quite well, and had no fears for her safety among these big friendly people. From time to time she exchanged a greeting with a shopkeeper who was sitting outside his store, cross-legged in the sunshine. Many of these shopkeepers were Indians, and there was a variety of costume to be seen, from the calf-length sulus, worn by men and women alike, to the exotically draped sari, that seemed to enhance the femininity of all women, no matter what nationality. At this time of the year, too, Suva was thronged with tourists, and the tourist attractions did good business. Rebecca smiled to herself, as her surroundings temporarily banished all anxieties about Piers St. Clair, and she thought how lucky she was to live in such a paradise.
Reaching the car, she bent to unlock it, and then straightened to find the man she had been escaping from beside her. Containing her annoyance, she said: ‘Are you following me?’ in rather a tight little voice.
‘Yes,’ he said, almost negligently, and leaned against the car’s bonnet, his arms folded.
Today, in navy shorts, that drew attention to the brown muscular length of his legs, and a cream silk sweater that was unbuttoned almost to his waist, he looked somehow dark and alien, yet infinitely attractive. His thick dark hair was smooth against his head, and long sideburns darkened his cheekbones, while dark eyes surveyed her with enigmatic arrogance.
Rebecca, conscious of the formality of her uniform, was glad she had worn it. Somehow it added to the composure that seemed to be deserting her as it always did when he was around. Why did he persist in disturbing her in this way? Did it amuse him to make fun of her? Or was she a novelty to a man satiated by women of his own set? Whatever his reasons it could only spell disaster for her. Now she turned to him and said:
‘Exactly why are you following me, Monsieur St. Clair?’
He shrugged indolently. ‘To give you this,’ he said, offering her a parcel wrapped in coloured paper.
Rebecca did not take the parcel, but after putting her shopping bag into the car, put her hands behind her back. ‘Thank you, but I don’t want anything from you,’ she asserted jerkily. ‘Now—if you’ll excuse me—’
Piers St. Clair regarded her coolly. ‘What do you suppose is in the parcel?’ he queried sharply.
Rebecca coloured. ‘I’d rather not say.’
‘You think it is the flagon of sandalwood oil, don’t you?’ he demanded.
Rebecca felt terrible. ‘Well? What if I do?’
He toyed with the wrapping on the parcel. ‘And what if I tell you you dropped something in the market—something I found and re-wrapped in this rather—well—colourful paper?’
Rebecca’s eyes went immediately to her shopping bag. Without taking it out and checking over the contents she could not be ce
rtain she had everything she had bought. Pressing her lips together for a moment, she said: ‘I’m sure I didn’t drop anything, monsieur.’ She ran a hand over her hair, checking that the chignon was secure with nervous fingers. ‘I think you are deliberately baiting me, for some twisted reason of your own.’
He raised his dark eyebrows, and with a deft movement he allowed the parcel to unwind in his fingers until a container of talcum powder fell into his palm, free of the wrapping. Rebecca stared at the talcum powder with disbelieving eyes. It was the cologne-scented talc she had bought for Adele. Her eyes lifted to his, but still his were guarded, revealing nothing.
Rebecca swallowed hard, and then said: ‘That is mine?’
‘If you say so,’ he remarked lightly.
Rebecca took a deep breath. ‘I couldn’t have dropped it without hearing it fall.’
‘What? In the noise of the market area? Don’t you think so, mademoiselle?’
Rebecca sighed. ‘I’m not sure.’ She ran her tongue over her upper lip. ‘Perhaps you took it from my bag.’
He shook his head impatiently. ‘What have I done that you have such a low opinion of me?’ he questioned. ‘What has my inestimable sister-in-law been telling you?’
Rebecca opened the car door wider. ‘She has told me nothing, monsieur. Now, if you’ll excuse me—’
‘Don’t you want your talcum powder, mademoiselle?’
‘Oh—oh, yes, I suppose so.’ Rebecca almost snatched the container from his hands and thrust it into the back of the car with the rest of her shopping. ‘Now I must go. Adele—I mean Miss St. Cloud—will wonder why I’ve been so long.’
He gave a negligent lift of his shoulders and straightened from the car’s bonnet. ‘Very well, mademoiselle. If you insist.’
Rebecca got behind the steering wheel and then looked up at him almost appealingly. ‘I—I don’t understand you, monsieur.’
‘Non! I would agree with you there.’
Rebecca hesitated, biting her lip. ‘Are you—I mean—will you be coming to dinner before—before you leave?’
He regarded her with intense dark eyes. ‘Do you want me to?’ he asked softly.
Rebecca’s stomach contracted. ‘I—I—it’s nothing to do with me,’ she stammered.
‘Is it not?’ He shrugged. ‘Yes, I will come. I will ring Adele and arrange a time.’ His expression grew brooding. ‘And afterwards? Will you go for a drive with me?’
Rebecca’s eyes were wide and startled. ‘I—I—I am Adele’s employee. I cannot make arrangements like that. Besides,’ she fumbled for the ignition, ‘Adele would never agree.’
‘Adele need not know—need she?’ His eyes held hers.
Rebecca took a rather shaky breath. ‘I—I really think you—you are wasting your time, monsieur,’ she murmured unsteadily. ‘I—I am not like the—the women you know…’
‘I recognise that,’ he replied coolly. ‘I do have some perception.’
Rebecca shook her head helplessly. ‘I—I must go,’ she said. ‘Good—goodbye.’
‘Au revoir,’ he answered, and stepped back as she put the small saloon into gear, and drove rather erratically away.
Outside the city limits the road stretched straight for some distance, cutting between the blue waters of the Bay of Islands. It was unbelievably beautiful, but this morning Rebecca had no heart to appreciate it. She was sick and shaken, terrified at the knowledge that Piers St. Clair could exercise so much power over her. In his presence her antagonism just melted away and so might her resistance.
Even so, it was exhilarating to know that he found her attractive, and that awful traitorous part of her that responded to flattery wanted to take what he offered with both hands. But the sane part of her knew that anything he might offer would be dangerous to accept and in consequence she was torn both ways.
When she got back to the villa, Adele was resting on a lounger in the garden, shaded by a huge striped umbrella. She gave Rebecca a speculative stare, and then said: ‘You’ve been long enough. What have you been buying?’
Rebecca managed not to blush. ‘Just what you asked me to buy,’ she replied, kneeling down on the warm mosaic tiles and beginning to unpack her straw shopping bag. The talc which Piers had given her was on the top and she handed this first to Adele. Then she went on through her purchases, handing out stockings and make-up, hair rollers and hairnets, toilet articles and toothpaste. At the bottom of her bag was a container of cologne-scented talc, identical to the first she had given Adele.
Taking it out, she stared at it incredulously, and Adele, seeing her consternation, exclaimed: ‘For heaven’s sake, girl, what have you been thinking of? Buying two tins of talc!’
Rebecca coloured now and thrust the second container aside. ‘I—I bought it for myself,’ she said quickly.
‘But you don’t like that fragrance,’ said Adele impatiently. ‘There’s no need to pretend, Rebecca. I don’t mind having two tins. They’ll both get used in time.’ She bent and lifted the second container from where Rebecca had put it.
Rebecca bit her lip tightly. ‘Oh, but really…’ she began.
Adele sniffed. ‘But nothing, my girl. Go and put these things away, and then ask Rosa for some coffee.’
It was the following day before Piers St. Clair telephoned, and Rebecca spent the period between meeting him at the market and his eventual arrival for dinner in a strangely unreal sense of expectancy. She had pondered the riddle of the talc until she had realised that as her bag was made of interlaced straw it would have been quite easy for him to see what was in it. Even so, she speculated upon his perception which had instantly jumped to the conclusion she might place upon the parcel in his hand, and the subsequent trick he had played upon her. He must know her sex extremely well, she thought with a sinking heart, the incident adding to her awareness of him as a potentially dangerous man. He arranged with Adele that he should join her for dinner the following evening, and the next morning Adele insisted upon making one of her very infrequent excursions into Suva to visit her hairdresser. Rebecca was doubtful of the advisability of such an excursion on a day when Adele was bound to become over-stimulated anyway, but there was little she could do to prevent it. When Adele made up her mind, there was little anyone could do.
In the afternoon, while Adele rested, Rebecca pressed the gown she had chosen to wear that evening. Adele had been loath to allow Rosa to do it, so Rebecca had offered in order to avoid any further upheavals.
Rebecca herself was absorbed with her own thoughts, aware that she was mentally searching for reasons for being absent from the villa this evening. Not that Adele expected her to join them for dinner, indeed the question had never arisen, but somehow she wanted to put some distance between herself and her employer’s brother-in-law.
She helped Adele to change after her bath, and Adele preened herself for a few moments in front of her dressing-table mirror.
‘Quite nice,’ she conceded at last. ‘Don’t you think so, Rebecca?’
Rebecca managed a smile. ‘Very nice, Miss St. Cloud,’ she agreed, nodding. Then she bit her lip. ‘You will promise not to over-excite yourself this evening, won’t you, Miss St. Cloud? This—well—this has been quite an exhausting day for you, and naturally—’
Adele stared at her. ‘What are you talking about, girl? You’ll be here to keep an eye on me yourself, won’t you? Surely you know I expect you to join us?’
Rebecca’s cheeks burned. ‘Oh, no! No, Miss St. Cloud. I—I have—made other arrangements.’
‘What other arrangements?’ Adele’s voice was sharp.
Rebecca swallowed hard, searching her mind for excuses. ‘I—I thought I might go out. I—I—haven’t had many evenings off—’
‘And where would you go alone?’ snapped Adele. ‘You may have freedom of the island during the day, but after dark—that’s a different matter.’
‘You—you did say—I might use the car.’
‘I know that. But it just so happens th
at I require your services this evening. Now, snap out of that awkward mood and go and get yourself changed. I don’t expect you to eat dinner in your uniform.’
Rebecca stared at her employer unhappily. ‘I’d prefer to eat dinner in my room, Miss St. Cloud,’ she asserted clearly.
Adele’s eyes flickered. ‘Why? Because of Piers?’
‘What? No! No.’ Rebecca turned away, and in consequence did not see the narrowing of Adele’s eyes.
‘Well, it can’t be me,’ remarked the older woman mockingly. ‘You’ve had dinner with me plenty of times.’
Rebecca gathered her composure and turned back to her. ‘I would feel the same, no matter who your guest might be,’ she said tautly. ‘Besides, I can’t recall you showing such a desire for my company before.’ She frowned. ‘Why do you want me to join you for dinner?’
If Adele was surprised by this sudden show of confidence, she hid it admirably, and smiling slightly said: ‘Perhaps, as your days here are so uneventful, I felt sorry for you. And after all, it isn’t every day you get the chance to break bread with a millionaire!’
Rebecca’s nails dug into the palms of her hands. ‘Do I have a choice?’
Adele’s expression hardened. ‘No, miss, you do not! Now go and prepare yourself, or do you want to be responsible for my over-stimulation?’
Rebecca heaved a sigh, and with a helpless gesture left the room. In her own room she surveyed the contents of her wardrobe critically. What on earth was she going to wear? Short dresses were cooler, but somehow unsuitable in the islands when so many oriental styles were much more feminine. She drew out an all-white gown, trimmed with gold braid, its classic lines cut to ankle length. The bodice was swathed under her breasts, but otherwise it fell without fullness to her feet. With her colouring, and the tan she had acquired, it would look attractive, but did she want to look attractive? Surely she would be more sensible to wear a less arresting garment. She had no desire to arouse any further interest.
Thrusting the white gown aside, she pulled out a jungle-printed caftan. It, too, was long, but its lines were all-concealing, and the wide long sleeves hid the rounded contours of her arms.
