Bay of Rainbows

by Dana James

  BAY OF RAINBOWS

  BAY OF RAINBOWS

  Dana James

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available

  This eBook edition published by AudioGO Ltd, Bath, 2012.

  Published by arrangement with the Author

  Epub ISBN 9781471307522

  U.K. Hardcover ISBN 978 1 405 64076 3

  U.K. Softcover ISBN 978 1 405 64077 0

  Copyright © 1993 by Dana James

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  All rights reserved.

  Jacket Illustration © AudioGO Ltd

  CHAPTER ONE

  Outside in the April sunshine the temperature was over seventy degrees, but Polly felt chilled as she looked with rising desperation towards the window. Out there lay freedom.

  In the streaked and dusty glass she glimpsed her reflection and saw a drawn elfin face and green eyes huge with anxiety. Her dark curly hair, cut short for convenience rather than fashion, clung like damp feathers to her forehead and temples. This couldn’t be happening. Not to her.

  Gleaming like a huge silver bird, a passenger jet approached the runway which pointed like a finger out into the sparkling sapphire waters of Gibraltar Bay. Engines roaring, it swooped in to land, braking hard as its wheels touched the wide runway which was crossed halfway along by the single road connecting the British colony to the Spanish mainland.

  This was the fourth plane Polly had heard arrive since she had been literally dragged from the boat, marched along the marina, and bundled into the white-painted Customs building.

  ‘Try to see the situation from my point of view, Miss Levington.’ On the far side of the desk the shirt-sleeved Customs officer leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette, blowing a thin plume of smoke towards the cracked and yellowing ceiling.

  Stockily built, with unshockable brown eyes and black hair liberally laced with grey, he spoke in a tone of weary cynicism. ‘Do you seriously expect me to believe you knew nothing about it?’

  His colleague, sitting on the far side of the room taking written notes of the questions and answers, looked up as he too waited for her answer.

  Polly stiffened her spine. ‘Yes, I can,’ she retorted crisply. ‘Because that’s the truth.’

  ‘Mr Kemp didn’t tell you what was in the box?’

  ‘Yes, he did. He said it contained engine components. That’s what was on the label. I had no reason to believe it was anything else.’

  ‘You didn’t think it strange that he would be prepared to go to Marseilles to deliver these engine parts? After all, your destination was the Greek islands. That’s quite a detour.’

  Polly shrugged. ‘I did wonder. But Clive—Mr Kemp—said it was a rule of the sea to help another boat in distress. Besides, he was sure we’d quickly make up the time once we got out to sea. Look, you’ve asked me these questions several times already. What else can I say? I’ve told you the truth, exactly as it happened. I’ll admit I may have been naïve . . .’

  They both knew that was the understatement of the decade, though her small, defiantly tilted chin challenged him to say so out loud. ‘But that’s hardly a crime.’

  The Customs officer’s eyes narrowed. ‘No. However, smuggling heroin most definitely is.’

  ‘But I wouldn’t—I didn’t—’ Polly cried, then broke off, fastening her lower lip between her teeth to stop herself venting her frustration and growing fear on the man opposite. He was only doing his job. It was Clive who had got her into this mess. The next time she saw him, she would give him such a tongue-lashing that his ears would ring for a week!

  But when would she see him? Where was he? They had been hustled off the boat separately, and her inquisitor had simply ignored her demands to have Clive brought in so that he could confirm she had had no knowledge of what was going on. Instead he had relentlessly bombarded her with the same questions.

  Polly took a deep breath, proud of the way her voice emerged, calm and steady, even though her heartbeat thundered in her ears. ‘If you think this constant repetition will force me to confess to something I didn’t do, you couldn’t be more wrong. I’ve told you everything I know.’

  She deliberately turned her head to gaze out of the window once more. Clive Kemp’s suggestion that she join him on a cruise across the Mediterranean had seemed the perfect antidote to a long hard winter, a series of temping jobs which had been more demanding than usual, and the unpleasantness of her break-up with Giles.

  The trip had also offered temporary escape from her mother’s pointed reminiscences that when she was Polly’s age she had already been married two years and was preparing for the birth of her first child.

  But what had started out as a dream come true had, within hours of their leaving England, turned into a nightmare.

  ‘Ask Clive,’ Polly repeated for what felt like the hundredth time. ‘He’ll confirm everything I’ve said.’

  The Customs officer tilted his head to one side, observing her through eyes slitted against the smoke. ‘Ask him to incriminate himself? Is it likely he’ll do that, Miss Levington?’ he enquired reasonably.

  She gritted her teeth. ‘He’ll have to. Because what I’ve told you is the truth.’

  A telephone on the wide, scarred desk buzzed. Lifting the receiver, the Customs officer drew heavily on his cigarette. ‘He has arrived? I’ll come at once.’ He hung up.

  ‘Is that Clive?’ Polly asked quickly. She might as well have saved her breath. And from the sudden change in her inquisitor’s manner, she realised that it couldn’t possibly be. Clive Kemp was not the kind of man to inspire such respectful, obedient haste.

  Crushing the cigarette stub in an overflowing ashtray, the officer pushed his chair back and stood up. ‘Please excuse me.’

  ‘How much longer do you intend to keep me here?’ Polly pleaded. ‘Surely I have a right to know that at least?’

  Reaching the door, he paused and turned. ‘Perhaps you would like a cup of coffee. I will have one sent in.’ Glancing at his colleague, he made a brief movement with his head, indicating that he too should leave.

  The door closed behind them and Polly was left alone once more.

  She bit her lip, fighting the fear that threatened to overwhelm her. Why had they rushed off like that? Why wouldn’t the officer in charge tell her what was happening? Who had arrived? Did it have anything to do with her being held here? What was going on?

  She had told him over and over again the sequence of events on the boat. He had been consistently polite, but he didn’t believe her.

  She had not been intimidated or threatened in any way. But nor had she been allowed to use the telephone or leave the office, except for one visit to the toilet down the corridor accompanied by a sour-faced secretary who weighed at least twelve stone and insisted she leave the door ajar.

  She was completely innocent, but how could she prove it? Clive could clear her, but would he? And would they believe him?

  She shuddered, and the knot in her stomach tightened.

  The first time Clive had mentioned the trip she had laughed, thinking he was kidding. But he had insisted the invitation was genuine.

  What finally decided her to accept was his ready agreement to her one condition, that a shipboard romance was definitely off limits. Having just painfully disentangled herself from one relationship, she had no intention of getting involved in another for a very long time.

  Another thought surfaced from the chaos in her mind—and stuck, looming larger and more unnerving by the moment. No one outside t
his building knew she was here. There was no one ringing lawyers on her behalf, no one working to get her out. No one to stop them keeping her here for as long as they wanted.

  Polly’s skin crawled and she shivered violently. She hated this feeling of helplessness, of no longer being in control of her own life.

  Standing up, she walked from one side of the window to the other, her movements stiff and her legs trembly from the accumulated tension in her muscles.

  When she and Clive had arrived that morning, the air had been crystal-clear, the view razor-sharp, colours vivid and bright. But now, the lowering sun was a huge orange ball and across the bay the hills behind Algeciras were purple-shadowed.

  What would happen next? Would they put her in a cell for the night? Her mind sheered away from images she didn’t want to dwell on.

  She hadn’t been allowed to bring anything off the boat except her patchwork leather shoulder-bag which had been thoroughly searched first. One of the officers had advised her to take a sweater. With the temperature touching seventy, twenty degrees higher than in London, it had seemed a ridiculous suggestion. But, too shaken by what was happening to argue, she had picked up her Aran cardigan.

  Clive had insisted she wear it, together with a waterproof jacket, on the flight over. But his warning that Mediterranean springs were dangerously unpredictable was evidently just one more lie among all the others he had told her.

  Turning from the window, Polly picked her bag up and opened it on the desk. It no longer contained her passport, which the Customs officer had immediately confiscated. Pushing aside her purse and the wallet of traveller’s cheques, she took out a comb, a packet of moist clean-up squares and a wad of tissues.

  Her self-confidence might have taken a battering, but that was no reason to forfeit the personal standards her parents had instilled into her since childhood.

  As she wiped her face with one of the astringent-soaked squares, Polly’s hand grew still. Her parents. How would they react when the news reached them?

  ‘Sure you know what you’re doing, Poll?’ Her father had eyed her over his gold-rimmed half-glasses. He hadn’t been seriously doubtful. He trusted her judgement. He was simply checking that she had considered all the angles before reaching her decision to go.

  And she had. She was a strong swimmer, a good cook, and she had received Clive’s assurance that their relationship would remain strictly platonic. All likely problem areas had been covered.

  How could she possibly have foreseen a situation like this?

  While accepting that the trip was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, her mother had been less happy about it. However, as her dearest wish was for Polly to follow her two sisters’ example and ‘settle down’, that was not surprising.

  But I’m not my sisters. Polly dried her face. Feeling much refreshed, she crumpled the tissues with the empty packet into a tight ball and tossed the lot into the waste basket. I’m me. And I want to live my own life my own way.

  Well, you’ve certainly got off to a cracking start, mocked a small ironic voice inside her.

  Raking the comb through cropped curls that gleamed like polished mahogany, Polly tried to stifle her doubts and the nagging feeling that somehow she should have known there would be strings attached to Clive’s offer no matter how much he protested otherwise.

  Behind her the door opened. She glanced round, expecting to see the secretary with her promised cup of coffee.

  Towering head and shoulders above the Customs officer, who stood aside to let him pass, the man strode in, his face as dark and threatening as an impending storm.

  Polly jerked as though she had been slapped. With every nerve tingling she lowered her hand, barely feeling the comb bite into her palm as her grip tightened.

  As their eyes met, his narrowed fractionally. But the impression that he had been caught off guard was so fleeting that Polly was sure she must have imagined it.

  The Customs officer closed the door softly, almost reverently, leaving her and the newcomer alone.

  She had recognised him instantly, though she had seen him in the flesh only once before and that had been across a crowded ballroom.

  As usual he had been accompanied by a beautiful woman. Her arm linked through his, publicly staking her claim, the woman had gazed adoringly up at him, and with ill-concealed triumph at everyone else.

  Was he the cause of all that fuss on the phone?

  ‘Good evening.’ Though deep and resonant, the man’s voice had a chilling softness. His blue-grey eyes were as cold as a Siberian winter, and Polly felt as though she had been impaled by twin icicles.

  His head lifted fractionally, his nostrils flaring, and she knew he had scented the astringent lotion.

  ‘For someone who’s just attempted something incredibly stupid, you’ve got nerve, I will say that,’ he observed, his gaze flickering to the comb in her white-knuckled fingers.

  Polly thrust it back into her bag, embarrassed at being caught doing things more properly done in a ladies’ cloakroom, and furious at her own embarrassment. It wasn’t vanity that had prompted her to freshen herself up. She was clinging desperately to normality and self-respect.

  His eyes returned, colder than ever, to meet hers. ‘Or perhaps you simply lack the intelligence or imagination to recognise just how much trouble you’re in.’

  Dumbstruck at this insult, Polly could only stare at him.

  The newcomer moved behind the desk as if he had every right simply to walk in and take over. And as he pushed aside some papers to make room for his briefcase he did indeed exude a powerful air of authority.

  Taking out a sheaf of documents, he laid them on the desk top. ‘Right, let’s see what can be salvaged from this mess.’ He glanced up. ‘By the way, my name is—’

  ‘I know who you are, Mr Bryce.’ Polly found her tongue at last and spoke with all the frosty dignity she could muster. ‘What I don’t understand is what you’re doing here, or why you find it necessary to be so rude.’

  If he expected her to fawn the way the Customs officer had done he was going to be disappointed. Hell would freeze first!

  His eyes narrowed again. ‘Where have I seen you before?’

  Trying to pretend he had mistaken her for someone else was obviously not going to work. In any case, Polly remembered the occasion all too clearly.

  ‘We happened to be in the same place at the same time a couple of months ago,’ she replied, terse and offhand. But inside she was cringing at the memory of that appalling evening at the Grand Hotel.

  She hadn’t wanted to go at all. But the company she was temping for was a subsidiary of Bryce International and her boss had left her in no doubt that everyone was expected to attend. Which meant Giles would be there.

  The terrible things he’d said still haunted her. He had used words as weapons to slash and destroy her self-esteem. Every time she imagined coming face to face with him her stomach knotted. She had tried desperately to think of a reason for not going which her boss would accept. There wasn’t one.

  Knowing nothing of her problems with Giles, the other girls in the office hadn’t been able to understand her reluctance.

  Their anticipation had been at fever pitch for days. Discussions about what they should wear had been interspersed with sexy gossip concerning the star of the occasion, Nathan Bryce.

  Against her will Polly had found herself curious about the subject of such intense speculation. Of course she had heard of him—it was impossible for anyone interested in sailing not to know who he was. And she had seen his picture in trade papers and yachting magazines, usually alongside an article extolling his brilliance, not only as a prizewinning designer in the highly competitive world of trans-ocean racing, but also as a respected if demanding skipper.

  Though her practical knowledge of sailing was non-existent she loved reading about boats and watching them race. And her one trip across the bay on a six-berth Swedish cruiser-racer owned by a visiting friend of her father’s was a treasu
red memory.

  As he mounted the dais to receive his award, Nathan Bryce had been taller than she expected, and startlingly handsome in a beautifully tailored suit. The crisp white shirt was a stark contrast to his weatherbeaten tan and dark hair that curled, thick and in need of a cut, on his collar.

  There was something about him that set him apart from the other men in the room. He radiated power, yet he wasn’t loud. His gestures were brief and controlled. His humour was dry and delivered deadpan. Yet such was the force of his personality that every eye was fixed on him. Even the sound of a pin dropping would have been a gross intrusion.

  As flashbulbs popped and he paid tribute to everyone involved in building the sleek yacht which had won the award his eyes roamed the room.

  Just for a second it seemed to Polly that they met and lingered on hers. But at that same moment Giles had lurched through the crowd to her side and draped a possessive arm around her shoulders, muttering through a cloud of whisky fumes that they had to talk.

  Recoiling, Polly twisted away from him. ‘There’s nothing to talk about, Giles.’ She managed to keep her voice quiet and level, though every nerve was screaming. ‘You said it all. Our . . . relationship, such as it was, is over, finished.’

  He gripped her arm. ‘Listen, I—’

  She pulled free. ‘Please, Giles, don’t.’ She could feel her colour mounting and sensed nudges and stares.

  He glared at her for a moment, his small eyes hot with a weak man’s rage. Then his face crumpled in anguish. ‘You took what you could get and now you’re moving on, is that it?’ he demanded, making no effort to lower his voice. He looked and sounded ready to burst into tears.

  She was too stunned to move. She couldn’t believe he was actually doing this.

  ‘I suppose you’ve already got your eye on some other poor sucker. Men have a name for girls like you, and it’s not flattering—’

  Alerted to the commotion, one of the stewards arrived and gently but firmly piloted Giles away.

  Heart pounding as she burned with embarrassment, Polly saw Giles glance back over his shoulder and wink.