Diamond Fire

by Anne Mather

  ‘Will she?’ He took a couple of steps nearer to her, and all at once she was aware of her own vulnerability in the face of this tall, daunting stranger. ‘You tell me. When will she be back?’

  Camilla swallowed. ‘Well—I don’t know exactly, of course. La…later today, I suppose.’

  ‘Later today?’ He was barely an arm’s length from her now, and, although she kept telling herself that he had no reason to suspect her of any wrong-doing, his attitude was so strange that she inwardly retreated.

  ‘I…don’t you expect her back at any time?’ she stammered, resisting the impulse to raise her hands in front of her. For God’s sake, what had she said? He was acting as if she herself were responsible for Virginia’s absence.

  There was a pregnant silence while she fought the urge to put some space between them, and he studied her face with those dark, disturbing eyes. And then, almost dismissively, he told her, ‘Considering that Virginia disappeared almost a week ago, I should say it was highly unlikely that I’d expect her back today, wouldn’t you?’

  * * *

  The room she had been shown to was unlike any room Camilla had occupied before. As a fairly successful solicitor, working in Lincoln’s Inn in London, she had used her fairly generous salary to travel all over Europe, and on one occasion she and a friend had even ventured as far as Sri Lanka for a holiday. But no hotel room had ever compared with the luxury of this apartment in Alessandro Conti’s house, and, although she didn’t want to be, she was impressed.

  And why not? she thought ruefully, after the incredibly fat Polynesian woman, who had originally admitted her to the house, had left her alone. She might consider herself moderately sophisticated, but she wasn’t used to split-level rooms, with velvet carpets on the upper level and polished floors strewn with expensive Chinese rugs on the lower. She wasn’t used to beds the size of a small football field, or ceilings with curved fanlights, angled so that there was no danger of being dazzled by the sun.

  Not that the sun was a problem right now, she had to admit. On the contrary, darkness had fallen with an unexpected swiftness, and, although she was sure that the view from the veranda outside the room would be equally spectacular as what she had found within, the velvety blackness outside her windows was almost opaque. But she could hear the ocean murmuring somewhere beyond the terrace, and in spite of the unexpectedness of all that had happened she couldn’t prevent a prickling sense of excitement.

  After all, she was here, on Oahu, just a few miles from the world-famous Waikiki Beach which Rupert Brooke had described so evocatively all those years ago. She had never been so far from home before, and, although Virginia’s disappearance was worrying, Camilla wouldn’t have been human if she hadn’t felt some stirring sense of communion with her surroundings. Hawaii was one of those places that everyone dreamed of visiting at some time in their lives, and from what she had seen of it so far it lived up to every one of her expectations.

  Which was more than could be said for her host, she admitted unwillingly. Alessandro Conti had proved to be the exact antithesis of the impression Virginia had created in her letter, and it wasn’t easy to ally what Virginia had written with the man she had met. Oh, she knew appearances meant little. In her work she had had to learn to distinguish between a clever lie and an un-clever truth, and sometimes the most unlikely story proved that life was often stranger than fiction. And she had no reason to disbelieve the things Virginia had told her. Nothing Alessandro Conti had said had given her any real reason to doubt his culpability. On the contrary, she was quite prepared to believe he could be violent on occasion, and there had been a moment during their conversation when she had felt threatened. Yet, for all that, she was uneasy with the situation, and it wasn’t just because Virginia wasn’t here.

  But where was she? she wondered, turning to view her two suitcases, placed side by side on a long cushioned ottoman at the foot of the enormous bed. She was here, as Virginia had requested—no, begged—but Virginia, and her small daughter, had apparently run away.

  It didn’t make sense. Why would Virginia invite her here and then disappear? Why would she imply that she was virtually kept a prisoner, and then leave the island without telling anyone where she was going? And why take Maria with her? The little girl’s father was obviously worried sick about his daughter. That much she had gathered. As to his feelings about Virginia’s disappearance, they were less easy to interpret. She thought he was worried about his wife, but there was something else, something he wasn’t saying, but which his words were telling her. Perhaps Virginia was right. Perhaps he did regret marrying her. Perhaps if she had attended the wedding she would not be so perplexed now.

  But she had been in Italy when Virginia had married Alessandro Conti, and in any case after they’d left the private girls’ school they had both attended their lives had diverged. For one thing, Camilla had only attended the expensive boarding-school because her godmother had paid for her to do so when her own parents were killed. Mr and Mrs Richards had died in a climbing accident in Switzerland when Camilla was ten, and, although for a while her godmother had found it amusing to play nursemaid to her orphaned god-daughter, eventually the inconvenience of having to make arrangements for baby-sitters every time she had wanted to go out had begun to pall. In consequence, at the age of thirteen Camilla had been despatched to Queen Catherine’s, and she had remained there for the next five years.

  Virginia’s circumstances at that time had not been unlike her own, and she supposed that was why the two of them had become such friends. Virginia’s mother—her father was never talked about—was one of those brittle women who spent their lives relying on other people to support them. Camilla supposed Virginia’s mother had had some money once, but that had long since been squandered on expensive clothes and other luxuries that outwardly showed she could hold her own among the social élite with whom she claimed parity. Virginia’s school fees, like Camilla’s own, had been paid by some long-suffering older relative, but by the time Virginia left school her mother was in real financial difficulties.

  In consequence, Virginia had been expected to recoup the family fortunes by marrying well, and, although Camilla would have hated such a responsibility, Virginia had seemed perfectly resigned to her fate.

  That it hadn’t happened as swiftly as her mother could have hoped had been made apparent when Camilla met her friend for lunch, about a year after leaving Queen Catherine’s. By this time Camilla had been anticipating her second year at university, and although it was a struggle financially she was determined to get her degree. Although she’d still occasionally seen her godmother, and would be eternally grateful to her for being there when she’d needed her, she’d had no intention of sponging on her again. With her grant, and the additional cash she earned by working at a fast-food restaurant in the evenings, she had been keeping her head above water—just—and, if her life hadn’t exactly been glamorous, at least it was satisfying.

  Virginia, meanwhile, had changed from the rather free and easy teenager she had been at school. Camilla hadn’t wanted to believe it, but already her friend was beginning to speak like her mother, and there was a sharpness to her personality that had not been there before. In addition to which the differences in their lifestyles had created a gulf between them, and, while Camilla was interested in what her friend had been doing, Virginia had a totally different set of values.

  Of course, Camilla had made excuses for her. She knew it couldn’t be easy living the kind of brittle existence that her friend’s mother found so appealing. Virginia wasn’t like that, not really; at least, Camilla had never thought so. And if she did seem self-centred now, it was probably just a front. It was Virginia’s way of handling a difficult situation.

  It was another two years before they had met again, and then only by chance in Bond Street. By this time, Camilla had achieved her hard-won degree in law, and was having an equally hard struggle in finding some firm of solicitors willing to give her a chance to ge
t her articles. Until she had spent at least two years working as an articled clerk in a solicitor’s office she could not begin to call herself a lawyer, and, in those days of high inflation and unemployment, it wasn’t easy.

  Virginia, however, had been jubilant. She’d insisted they went into a nearby wine-bar that she knew, and over champagne cocktails, which Camilla had paid for, she told her friend that she was getting married. A certain wealthy Argentinian polo-player was her constant escort, and both she and her mother were planning a Christmas wedding.

  Camilla had been suitably enthusiastic, although the prospect of her friend’s marrying some South American playboy just because he was incredibly wealthy had filled her with unease. Virginia might appear to be on top of the world, but there was a distinct edge to her brilliance, and Camilla hadn’t been able to help noticing she seldom looked her in the eye for more than a few seconds. And she was so thin, almost unfashionably so, if that were possible. And talking of a glittering future about which she hadn’t seemed convinced.

  Of course, there was nothing Camilla could have said to dissuade her, and nor did she try. She was rapidly coming to the conclusion that the Virginia she had known at Queen Catherine’s might not have been the real Virginia at all, and although she blamed the girl’s mother it wasn’t really all her fault.

  However, Virginia’s Christmas wedding had not materialised. A month later the wealthy Argentinian polo-player had eloped with an American model, and although Camilla was not involved she’d felt tremendous sympathy. She guessed how humiliated Virginia must have felt, and wished there was something she could do.

  But there wasn’t. She knew no one who might remotely meet Virginia’s demands so far as a husband was concerned, and the idea that her friend might realise the futility of the life she was leading, and find some other way to assuage her needs, was no longer even a possibility.

  And then, nine months later, out of the blue, Camilla had received an invitation to Virginia’s wedding. Not to the Argentinian playboy, of course. He had long since married his American model, and was presently in the process of adapting to fatherhood. No, Virginia’s husband-to-be was an American businessman, Alessandro Conti, and after the wedding they were to live at his luxurious estate in Hawaii.

  It had sounded like a dream come true, Camilla had to admit, except that she herself knew nothing about this American businessman. He was not someone whose face had appeared in the British tabloid press, and Camilla had assumed that was because he was not considered sufficiently newsworthy to warrant the kind of gossip status accorded more photogenically viable personalities. She supposed that was where she had first got the idea that Alessandro Conti must be some kind of Howard Hughes figure: wealthy perhaps, but too old to enjoy camera notoriety.

  The fact that she now knew how wrong she had been didn’t alter the fact that Virginia had married this man, probably without knowing very much about him beyond the fact that he could keep her—and her mother—in the manner to which they had both become accustomed.

  However, her chance to see Virginia’s proposed husband for herself had not materialised either. The precipitate arrival of Virginia’s wedding invitation had coincided with her own annual holiday, and by the time she had returned to London the wedding was over, and Virginia departed for pastures new. An interview with her mother, brought about by the fact that Camilla had not known where to send the handmade lace tablecloth she had brought back from Italy as a wedding present, had elicited an address in Oahu, but apart from a hurried note of thanks they had shared no further communication. For six years!

  And then, just like the invitation to her wedding, Virginia’s letter had arrived without warning, sent on to Camilla’s present employer by one of the clerks in the office where she’d used to work. Evidently, Virginia had listened to some of what Camilla had told her, and although she had not remembered her address she had remembered where she worked.

  Which was just as well, Camilla thought now. She had moved twice since those early days at Farquahar and Cummings, and there was every possibility that a letter sent to her previous address would have gone astray. Or perhaps it would have been better if it had, she reflected with some cynicism. At least then she would not have had to read Virginia’s impassioned prose, or flown out to Hawaii at the drop of a hat with the distinct impression that she was on a mission of mercy.

  For Virginia had said some pretty damning things about this husband of hers in her letter. For one thing, she had implied that he was mistreating her, and Camilla had been half afraid she would come here to find her friend covered in bruises. The marriage had been a mistake, Virginia had stated passionately, the words she had used bringing her thin, agitated face to mind. Alex—she had called her husband Alex—didn’t care about her; she doubted he ever had, and she was going mad with no one to talk to. Could Camilla come to Oahu? She knew it was an imposition, but she had no one else. Her mother had apparently been taken ill some time ago, and was presently being cared for in a nursing-home in Surrey, and Virginia couldn’t burden her with her troubles. Please come, she had pleaded. For old times’ sake. She would be forever grateful.

  But now Camilla was here, and Virginia wasn’t. For some reason—some final humiliation, perhaps—she had abandoned all hope of deliverance and run away, taking her daughter—Alessandro Conti’s daughter—with her. Camilla thought it was probably just as well she had taken the child with her. Otherwise, given what Virginia had told her about him, she might well have suspected her husband of being involved in her disappearance. After all, Alessandro Conti, by his own admission, had known nothing of the letter Virginia had sent to England, and so far as he was concerned there was no one who might question her absence. The servants were obviously devoted to their master, probably because he paid them well to be so, Camilla decided uncharitably. They wouldn’t raise a finger to help their mistress. Indeed, there seemed a distinct lack of concern for Virginia’s safety from everyone, including her husband. They wanted her—and the child—back again. But not, apparently, because of any great affection for her.

  Camilla shook her head. It was hopelessly confusing, and she was finding it increasingly difficult to hold at bay the headache that had been plaguing her ever since Mama Lu, if that really was her name, had admitted her to the house. She wanted nothing so much as to lie down on the enormous bed and give way to the after-effects of prolonged jet lag, but instead she was supposed to wash and brush up, and join her host for supper. After convincing himself that Camilla really had no more idea of Virginia’s whereabouts than he had, Alessandro Conti had summoned the Polynesian woman again, and had had her show their guest to this apartment. Apparently he had decided that she should be offered their hospitality for tonight at least, and Camilla had been left alone, to unpack her suitcases and take a shower.

  Shaking her head a little bewilderedly now, Camilla picked up her handbag and rummaged about in the bottom for the strip of aspirin tablets she kept there for emergencies such as this. Breaking the foil, she popped two tablets in her mouth, and then looked about her for something to swallow them with. There was no obvious container for the purpose, and, realising she could get water from the tap, she walked into the adjoining bathroom Mama Lu had indicated.

  She stopped short then, momentarily stunned by its luxurious appointments. As well as a smoked-glass shower cabinet, there was an enormous sunken bath with whirlpool jets, and twin hand-basins of lime-green porcelain that matched the other fitments. Once again, there was a bulging skylight overhead, but right now the room was illuminated by long strips of light concealed above the smoked-glass mirrors that lined the walls.

  It was all a bit too much for her to cope with at the moment, and, collecting a smoked-glass tumbler from beside the array of bathroom accessories and cosmetics that were arranged in a hand-woven basket between the basins, she filled it from the tap and swallowed a mouthful of water along with the aspirin tablets. Then, setting the tumbler down again, she stood for a moment studying
her reflection in the mirror above the basin.

  She looked tired, she thought critically, but that wasn’t really surprising. Yesterday she had flown from London to Los Angeles, a journey of some ten hours, and this morning she had caught a delayed flight to Honolulu, which had added another five and a half hours to her travel time. That, combined with a ten-hour time change, made staying awake at any hour of the evening a distinct effort. After all—she glanced at her watch—her body-clock was still working, at least partially, on British time, and right now it was about five o’clock in the morning in London.

  The Polynesian housekeeper had told her that Mr Conti usually ate his evening meal at around nine o’clock, which gave her plenty of time to take a shower—or a bath, if she chose—and rest for a while before having to face him again.

  Which was just as well, she reflected, pulling the remaining pins out of her hair. The expensive perm she had had before leaving England had not tamed her hair, as she had hoped, and now it tumbled about her shoulders, an uncontrollable mass of crinkles. Of course, the sea air on the journey from the airport hadn’t helped. After reading about the sophistication of American cars she had expected the taxi to have air-conditioning, but if it had the driver had found no use for it. He had driven along with the windows wide open and the invading breeze had been as destructive as it had been welcome. What Alessandro Conti must have thought of her, she couldn’t imagine. Even her suit was crumpled, and, together with the lines of fatigue around her rather pale eyes, she looked altogether unprepossessing.

  She was simply not one of those women who looked good in any circumstances, she decided, turning away from the mirror. Her features were acceptable, it was true, but she needed make-up or she looked washed out. Another consequence of having such violently coloured hair, she thought impatiently. Still, in her own world, and her own time, she managed quite successfully, and there had been one or two men over the years who had seemed to find the combination of a mobile mouth and a bubbling sense of humour sufficient compensation. Not men like Alessandro Conti, she had to admit. But then, men like Alessandro Conti didn’t look for their women among career-minded individuals who didn’t regard sex as the be-all and end-all of existence, Camilla reminded herself defensively.