hurricane!

by Mary Lyons

  'Oh, no!' she groaned.

  Luke's blue eyes glinted with amusement at the sight of her horrified expression. 'Oh, yes! However, there's no need to panic,' he added, catching hold of her arm as she began hurrying past him towards the exit of the small, enclosed garden. 'The hotel staff have now stemmed the flood, and I've also had a few strong, well-chosen words with the kid's father. I don't reckon you'll be having any more trouble from young Zachary.'

  'I wish I could believe that,' she muttered, trying to concentrate upon the problem up at the plantation house, but finding herself mindlessly distracted by the warmth of his fingers as he began gently stroking her bare shoulder.

  'Maybe. . . maybe things might have turned out dif­ferently for us if we'd had a child. . .?' he murmured, sliding his other hand about her slim waist.

  'A—a child. . .?' She blinked at him in confusion.

  Luke nodded. 'Sure—why not? I'd like to have a boy— a son to follow me,' he said softly, drawing her closer to his tall figure.

  She could feel his breath on her cheek, the hard, firm, muscular strength of his body, and the pounding of his heartbeat through his thin cotton shirt. Struggling to control her bemused senses, she inhaled the musky, masculine scent of his cologne, shivering beneath the soft seduction of his hands, now moving slowly and sen­suously over her body. For one brief, crazy moment Samantha closed her eyes, forgetting reason and logic as she surrendered to an insidious, rising tide of ex­citement flowing like quicksilver through her veins; the aching need to surrender to the hard, male body pressed so firmly to her soft breasts and thighs.

  'L-Luke!' she gasped desperately.

  'Mmm. . .?' he muttered absently, lowering his dark head to press his lips to the wildly beating pulse at the base of her throat, before trailing his mouth down towards the burgeoning fullness of her breasts. As she lay helpless in his arms, the scorching touch of his hot lips on her bare flesh sent an electric shock zigzagging through her body, and gave her the necessary strength and resolution to quickly wriggle free of his embrace.

  'You. . . you can cut that out!' she croaked, breathing heavily as she tried to control the involuntary trembling* in her legs. 'I—I don't know what you think you're playing at, and. . . and what's with this sudden wish for a child, anyway?'

  'It's a perfectly normal desire, surely?'

  'If you want a son to follow you—don't look at me, buster!' she retorted quickly. 'One obsessive business­man in the family was one too many, as I found out to my cost!' Her voice was scathing. 'I can assure you that the last thing I want is a child. What I want is a divorce!'

  'No.'

  'What do you mean, "no"?' she hissed through clenched teeth.

  Luke's face was hard as granite. 'I mean exactly what I said: no—I will not give you a divorce.'

  'Why ever not?' she demanded with rising fury.

  'A better question might be: why should I?' He gave her a slow, cynical smile. 'Hasn't it occurred to you that I might prefer to remain as I am? After all, I have no desire to get married again, and. . .'

  'I'll just bet you haven't!' she fumed angrily. 'You wouldn't like anything to upset your smooth life-style, would you? This way, you can have all the fun you want—with cool blondes like Adele Francis, or dear Corrine—and no responsibility, you. . .you rat!'

  'Don't be so stupid!' he grated. 'Our marriage. . .'

  'Our marriage? Hah! That's a laugh,' she shouted furiously. 'I wasn't married to you—I found myself shackled to Brandon Phillips International. And if that isn't unholy wedlock, I don't know what is!'

  'That's absolute nonsense! I. . .'

  'Coo-ee. . . Are you there, Luke? I've sketched out a few ideas, and. . .'

  'Oh, great! That's all I need,' Samantha groaned, turning to scowl at Corrine as she walked confidently around the tall hedge of the garden, carrying a large drawing-pad in her hands.

  The American girl, looking cool and soignée, halted abruptly, and then took a hesitant step backwards, her grey eyes widening as she looked at the two rigidly angry figures who were both now staring at her with equal fer­ocity. Clearly, the sooner she could extricate herself from what appeared to be an unfortunate scene of some kind, the better.

  'This garden is—er—very unusual,' Corrine mur­mured, turning to look about her. 'However,' she paused, 'I can see that you're—er—busy at the moment, Luke. So if Miss Ward will excuse me. . .'

  Samantha gave an angry snort. 'Hasn't Luke told you the basic facts of life? It's not "Miss Ward"—I only wish it were! Unfortunately, I'm Mrs Luke Brandon— in perpetuity, according to this loathsome husband of mine!' she raged, pointing a shaking finger at Luke. 'However, he tells me that he wants a child, and since I'm definitely not available, maybe you'd like to vol­unteer for the job?' she added with a shrill, hysterical laugh, before taking to her heels and running swiftly back across the lawns to the plantation house.

  Upon entering the hotel, Samantha found all her problems fading into insignificance as she discovered that, once again, Thomas was incapable of doing any cooking.

  'OK—that's it! You're fired,' she told him as the chef sat slumped over the kitchen table, owlishly regarding her through bleary, drunken eyes. 'If you can't stay sober, then there's no room for you in this hotel.'

  'Your aunt. . . sh-she won't like it,' he hiccuped.

  'My aunt's in hospital, and I'm now running this hotel,' Samantha retorted angrily. 'I'll make up your money to the end of the week, and then Lester will take you home, right away.' She turned to the barman who was standing at the top of the kitchen stairs. 'If you'll get the truck out, I'll go along to the office and see to his wages. OK?'

  'Sure thing, Miss Ward,' Lester said, coming down and grasping hold of the chef's arm.

  'But what are we going to do?' Penny asked anxiously as she followed Samantha into the office.

  'I don't know,' Samantha muttered wearily, sitting down at the desk and burying her face in her hands for a moment. 'What about your brother, Marvin? He's a terrific cook. Didn't you say the other day that he was fed up with the management of the Crow's Nest Hotel, and wanted a change of scene?'

  Penny hesitated. 'Well. . .'

  'Look, why don't you take an hour off, and go and see your brother?' Samantha pushed a tired hand through her hair. 'I know it's rotten to try and pinch staff from other hotels, but quite frankly, Penny—I'm desperate! If Marvin could join us, it would be an ab­solute godsend.'

  'OK, I'll have a word with him,' the other girl said as Samantha began making up Thomas's wage packet.

  'Although I'm certain that even if he agrees to come, there's no way he could leave the Crow's Nest until tomorrow, at the earliest.'

  'I've already resigned myself to the fact that our poor, unfortunate guests will have to put up with the dubious pleasure of my cuisine.' Samantha gave her a wry, ironic grin. 'Let's hope and pray that it's only going to be for one day,' she added, handing an envelope to the other girl. 'You can give his wages to our late but unlamented chef. And while you're gone, I'll try and put together some ideas for lunch and dinner.'

  Over an hour later, Samantha was still trying to work out a well-balanced menu for dinner that night. She had already wasted far too much time, mostly spent in cursing her own stupidity at so easily surrendering—however briefly—to Luke's overwhelming, sensual magnetism. Despite the fact that he obviously did still find her at­tractive, he had completely ignored her existence for the past four years, so she certainly wasn't about to begin thinking of herself as a femme fatale! Why didn't he leave her alone? Especially when he must have his hands full with Corrine? As for his crazy suggestion that he wanted a child.. .well, she didn't believe that, not for one moment. Her husband was only interested in one thing—the business of making money. He must have been trying to wind her up. . .and unfortunately he had succeeded only too well!

  'Come on. Forget Luke—you've got to get this menu sorted out,' she muttered to herself as she leafed through a thick book of recipes. At
least the problem of lunch had been solved by a quick decision to have a barbecue down at the beach bar; but the evening meal was one to which the guests looked forward, and there was a real problem with adequate supplies of food. Since St Pauls was an island, and everything other than fruit and veg­etables had to be imported, it was beginning to look as if she was going to have to rely on what she had in the freezer—something she knew her aunt didn't like to do except in dire emergencies. She was just telling herself that the events of today definitely came under the heading of an emergency, when she suddenly remembered that Lester, the barman, had a cousin who was a fisherman. If she could lay her hands on some lobsters, there were lots of dishes she could prepare, she thought, jotting down some ideas on a pad of paper in front of her. How about having a cream of pumpkin soup to start the meal, with maybe lime syllabub and coconut pie for dessert. . .?

  A knock at the door disturbed her concentration, and her heart leapt into her mouth as she looked up to see Luke entering the room.

  'Ah, Samantha. . .'

  'Now what is it?' she demanded aggressively. 'I warn you that I'm definitely not in the mood for any more arguments.'

  'Frankly, neither am I,' he said quietly.

  'Oh. . .er. . . well, that's a relief!' She gave a shaky laugh, grateful for the protection of the large desk which hid her trembling hands from his view.

  Luke didn't appear to be in any hurry to break the silence that ensued, his broad-shouldered figure moving to lean casually up against the wall as he surveyed her from beneath his heavy eyelids.

  'There are a number of things we have to straighten out between us,' he said at last. 'No—not right now,' he added as she opened her mouth to protest. 'I know you're busy at the moment. But I'm sure you'll agree that we do need to talk—as calmly as possible!—ab
  'All I want to talk about is a divorce!' she snapped nervously.

  'I'm prepared to hear what you have to say,' he said quietly.

  Her eyes widened. 'Does that mean you've changed your mind?'

  Luke shrugged. 'We can discuss it all later. And there's the matter of Corrine. . .'

  'Yes, I—I'm sorry about that,' she said quickly. 'The fact is. . . well, I've got quite a lot of problems at the moment, and. . . and while I don't take back anything I said to you, personally—not one word!—I must admit that I was. . . I was quite unnecessarily rude to Corrine.'

  Luke raised a dark eyebrow. 'My dear Samantha— are you sure that you're feeling quite well?' he mur­mured sardonically.

  'OK, OK! You can cut out the wisecracks,' she re­torted huskily, aware of her face reddening beneath the mocking gaze from his lazy blue eyes. 'I've said I'm sorry, and if your girlfriend hasn't already begun packing her bags, I'm quite willing to offer her an apology.'

  'Good lord!'

  'Oh—shut up!' she snapped, before taking a deep breath and trying to hang on to her temper. 'Now, is there anything else you want? Because, I really am busy and. . .'

  'I need to make a phone call.'

  'To New York?'

  'Yes.'

  Samantha shrugged. 'Forget it,' she said dismissively as she began checking through the index of the large, thick cookery book for a recipe for lime syllabub.

  'I certainly will not "forget it"!' Luke said curtly, his lips tight with annoyance. 'This hotel, for some strange reason, doesn't appear to have any phones in the guest cottages, so will you please get me that number? At once!' he added, slapping a piece of paper down on the desk in front of her.

  'There's no point,' she retorted. 'The phone lines here are chronically bad at this time of day. Just getting through to Antigua could take me hours, and I can't afford to waste the time at the moment. However, if you want to try calling between five and seven o'clock this evening, you might get lucky,'

  'I've never heard such nonsense!' he rasped grimly.

  'Nonsense or not—it's a fact,' she snapped, putting out a hand to flick the piece of paper back across the desk towards him. 'We do have a radio link with CAT airlines on Antigua for news of incoming passengers— and for serious emergency messages, of course,' she ges­tured to a handset on the wall behind her, 'but that's it.'

  'What a totally ridiculous situation!'

  She shrugged. 'Like most islands in this part of the Caribbean, we have to make do with the local telephone service. And it's understandable if the various island governments prefer to spend their money on housing and creating new jobs, rather than laying new phone cables. Why should they pander to the whims of bloated foreign capitalists—such as a certain rich, New York business­man of my acquaintance?' she added nastily.

  'Thank you!' he ground out through clenched teeth, his cheeks flushed with anger.

  'Not at all,' Samantha murmured, giving him a sac­charine-sweet smile and suddenly realising, as a fast tide of adrenalin swept through her body, that she felt a whole lot better. Not only had she solved the problem of what to give the hotel guests for dinner tonight, but here was Luke, breathing hell, fire and brimstone—and not being able to do a damn thing about it. In fact, she didn't just feel better, she felt really great!

  'Have you any other queries?' she asked. 'I am very busy, you know.'

  'Yes, so I believe,' Luke drawled, his lips curving into a grim smile. 'I hear, via the hotel grapevine, that you've just sacked your chef.'

  'What nonsense,' she snapped, her heart sinking as she raised her chin and stared him straight in the eye. OK, so she was lying, but she must try and scotch this rumour as quickly as possible. Staffing problems could empty a hotel every bit as fast as a rampant, infectious disease. 'I think that you'll find our chef will be pro­ducing the usual excellent meal tonight.'

  'Hmm. . .' He looked at her from beneath his heavy eyelids for a moment, before his lips began to twitch with wry amusement. 'You've certainly changed during the past four years, Samantha,' he grinned mockingly. 'But I'm pleased to see that you're still a very bad liar.'

  Their eyes duelled, and she could feel her cheeks flushing as her heart began beating a rapid tattoo in her chest. 'Oh. . . go away!' she mumbled.

  'I particularly like the reference to "our chef'.' Luke gave a cruel laugh. 'I can hardly wait to discover if my wife's cooking has improved since the days when she could hardly boil an egg!'

  'Get out of here!' she shouted furiously, grabbing a silver paperweight and throwing it at the tall figure who was shaking with laughter.

  To her rage and chagrin he caught the missile in mid­air with infuriating ease. 'Good luck, sweetheart—to­night's meal will undoubtedly be one to remember!' he taunted, before striding towards the door, the sound of his sardonic laughter echoing down the corridor behind him.

  Remembering Luke's words, some eight hours later, Samantha brushed the damp hair from her brow and tried to concentrate on whipping up egg whites for the meringue topping to the coconut dessert.

  She'd show him! This dinner tonight was going to be a fantastic success, and then Luke would be sorry, she promised herself, knowing that her reaction was childish, but unable to banish the fury and resentment which still flowed through her veins. He should try running a hotel, she thought grimly. In fact, she'd swap jobs with him any day! Being in control of a large public company simply had to be kids' play, compared to all the traumas of her present occupation. She'd nearly gone mad at­tempting to expand recipes for six or eight into the correct quantities for all their guests. As far as she could see, hotel chefs required a Masters degree in mathematics before they even set foot in a kitchen!

  Wiping the sweat from her brow, and trying to ignore the uncomfortable fact that her evening dress was sticking to her damp, perspiring body, Samantha quickly spooned the meringue on to the cooked coconut mixture, and put the heavy tray of dishes into a cool oven. Fer­vently praying that tonight of all nights the generator wouldn't break down, she glanced across the kitchen to where Betty Finberg, ignoring the nervous tension in the kitchen, was calmly teaching two of the young kitchen girls h
ow to finely chop up an onion. What a marvellous friend and help the elderly American woman had been!

  Organising a barbecue lunch down at the beach bar had been relatively easy, and Lester's cousin had been able to provide all the lobsters she needed. But Samantha had become increasingly panic-stricken when she re­alised just what was involved in cooking a complicated three-course menu for all the hotel guests. Desperately appealed to for help, Betty had willingly volunteered her services, and had also come up with a marvellous recipe for Lobster Creole, served on a bed of rice.

  It had been a terrific scramble to get half the food prepared, and then dash off to the sugar mill to quickly change into a long evening dress, before returning to the damp, muggy kitchen to continue the final preparation of the meal. But everything seemed to be coming along smoothly, Samantha thought, quickly tasting the pumpkin soup simmering on the stove beside her, before glancing up at the large clock on the wall. Six-thirty— only an hour to go! Surely they'd never be ready on time? And she nearly yelped with dismay as she realised that she hadn't yet begun making the lime syllabub.

  Dashing about the room like one demented, she gathered up the necessary ingredients and had just fin­ished whipping the cream when she was distracted by the ringing of the telephone attached to the wall beside the stoves.

  'Yes. . . yes, who is it?' she said breathlessly, tipping sherry into the cream with one hand, while holding the receiver with another. 'Oh, Gerald. . .' she wailed. 'I really can't talk now. I'm frantically busy.'

  'I just wanted to say that I'm sailing the yacht over to St Pauls tomorrow, and maybe you'd like to come for a sail in the afternoon?'

  'Well, I don't know. . .' she muttered, tucking the phone under her chin as she added lime juice to the mixture in the large bowl.

  'I know that with your aunt away, you're run off your feet; but surely you'll be free after the guests have had their lunch?' he pressed.