by Mary Lyons
'Yes, I should think. . . Hold on a moment,' she added, her eyes widening in startled surprise as she saw Luke striding across the kitchen towards her. 'What on earth are you doing here—slumming?' she demanded, her gaze sweeping over his tall figure clothed in an elegant, white evening-jacket.
Luke halted in front of her, his mouth tight with fury. 'I have been trying, for the last hour and a half, to make an extremely important call to New York,'-he thundered. 'I don't mind waiting while other guests are on the phone, but I'm damned if I'm going to stand patiently by while you and your boyfriend arrange a cosy date together!'
'How dare you listen in to my private conversation?' Samantha gasped, her voice high and shrill with rage.
'With the utmost reluctance, I can assure you!' he grated. 'Now—get off that phone. Right this minute!'
'I certainly will not!' she retorted fiercely. 'I shall talk as long as I like, and. . . what do you think you're doing?' she cried as he seized the receiver from her hand.
'Good evening—er—Gerald. I don't think we've met,' he murmured, easily fending off Samantha's attempts to grab hold of the phone.
'Who's that? And what in the hell's going on. . .?' Gerald demanded, clearly confused by the strange male voice and the shrieks of rage in the background as Samantha, after a long and trying day, finally lost all control.
'There's nothing to worry about, Gerald. It's only my wife. . . demonstrating that she has a temper to match the colour of her hair!' Luke's sardonic laugh was cut short by a grunt of pain as Samantha brought her stiletto heel firmly down on to his foot.
'What do you mean, "your wife?' Gerald shouted down the line, but he failed to obtain an answer, hearing only the confusing sounds of a melee in the background, before the call was abruptly terminated and he was left with only the dialling tone in his ear.
Arms and legs flailing wildly, it Wasn't until Betty's shocked face swam into view that Samantha began to try and pull herself together. Unfortunately, she had left it just a little too late. Sobering up fast from the all-consuming rage which had possessed her a few seconds before, she glanced down with dismay at the smashed crockery littering the kitchen floor, and then turned to look at her husband.
'Oh, my God. . .!' she breathed, her green eyes widening with horror as she gazed at the sight of his tall, elegantly dressed figure completely drenched—head to foot—in lime syllabub. Had she really picked up the bowl and thrown the contents all over him? 'You. . . you look like a s-snowman!' she gasped, unable to prevent herself from giving way to a peal of hysterical laughter at Luke's expression of outraged incredulity, as he grabbed a cloth and began to vigorously wipe the cream from his face and hair.
'I'll teach you to laugh at me—you redheaded devil!' he bellowed.
As she ruefully conceded to herself later, Samantha was late off the mark. By the time she divined her husband's intentions, and began backing nervously away, it was far too late. Moving swiftly forward, Luke grabbed hold of her arm and swung her hard up against his body, thereby quickly and efficiently transferring at least half of the syllabub mixture on to her own dress, which was inadequately protected by a small apron tied around her waist,
'What's wrong, sweetheart? Lost your sense of humour, have you?' he grated as she shrieked at the disgusting sensation of cold, clammy dessert trickling down inside the low-cut neckline of her dress.
'Let me go,' she begged hoarsely. Twisting and struggling to escape from the hard arms tightening like bands of steel about her slim figure, there was nothing she could do as he lowered his dark head, his mouth possessing her lips with scorching heat and passion.
'I don't want to be a killjoy—but I hope you two young people realise that it's almost time to serve dinner?'
Betty's dry voice broke through the mists in Samantha's brain, and must have simultaneously affected Luke as she felt his arms grow slack, and heard the rasping sound as he cursed violently beneath his breath.
Opening her dazed eyes, she focused on Luke's tanned, strained features, still covered with streaks of cream, and then looked down at her dress with mounting consternation. 'Oh, no! Look what you've done!' she cried.
'Just a small quid pro quo, sweetheart,' he drawled, his eyes gleaming with amusement as she began moaning helplessly to herself, desperately waving her hands in the air as she tried to think what to do.
'I suggest that, like myself, you'd better go and have a shower before changing your clothes,' he remarked blandly, putting out a hand to wipe some cream off her nose. 'Umm—delicious,' he grinned as he licked his finger. 'Almost—but not quite—as sweet and delicious as your lips!'
As exit lines went, it was a sure-fire winner! Samantha's stormy eyes followed the tall figure of her husband as he strode out of the kitchen, before she sank down on to a chair and buried her face in her hands.
'We'll clear up the mess, dear, and I've just told Penny to tell the guests they're welcome to a free drink on the house, since the meal will be just a little late,' Betty said quietly some minutes later, avoiding Samantha's eyes as she directed the girls to clean up the kitchen. 'Why not go and have a nice warm bath and get changed?' she added. 'There's actually plenty of time before dinner is served.'
Samantha sighed and rose wearily to her feet. 'Yes. I—I won't be too long,' she muttered, taking a deep breath and forcing herself to walk slowly out of the kitchen. Making her way through the back of the hotel, she held her head stiffly in the air and ignored the startled murmurs of the staff; acting as if it was a perfectly normal, everyday occurrence that her long evening dress should be covered, from shoulder to hem, with the cold, congealing remains of what had once been lime syllabub.
CHAPTER FIVE
Diving off the raft moored out in the middle of the bay, Samantha almost groaned with pleasure as she savoured the cool sea water on her heated skin. Swimming strongly and rhythmically towards one of the stone breakwaters which edged the small bay, she pulled herself up on to the warm, smooth concrete surface and sat down on the towel which she had left there earlier.
Lord—it was hot! The blistering heat was very unusual for this time of year, as was the steamy, sweltering level of humidity. The air was so close and still, without even a breath of air to cool one's skin—or one's temper, for that matter.
She gave a heavy sigh, grimacing as she tried in vain to banish the horrendous events of yesterday from her mind; the dismal fact that she had—once again—lost her temper and made an absolutely first-class fool of herself. Why couldn't she just ignore Luke? It was stupid to allow herself to be provoked so easily; and why on earth did she seem to be consumed by such a burning desire to wound and hurt him as much as possible, which only resulted in her feeling more confused and unhappy herself?
Wishing she could draw a permanent veil over last night's embarrassing incident, Samantha still didn't know where she'd found the strength to return to the kitchen. Shampooing the disgusting, gooey mess from her hair, getting dressed in a fresh dress and having to walk back down the steps into that hot, steamy inferno had taken every ounce of resolution that she possessed. But nothing—absolutely nothing—could have persuaded her to go up to the dining-room at the end of the meal.
'I can't do it, Betty,' she had wailed, her legs seeming to turn to water at the thought of having to face Luke once again.
'Relax. Calm down, honey,' Betty had said, taking her arm and steering her trembling figure towards a chair. 'It's obviously been a traumatic evening—so I'm going to pour us both a stiff brandy. I reckon we've earned it!'
'You certainly have,' Samantha agreed fervently. 'The dinner was really terrific. I simply don't know what I'd have done without your help.' She stared miserably down at the golden liquid in the glass which Betty placed in front of her. 'I'm really very sorry about. . . well, about everything that happened tonight. I don't know what came over me. . .' she sighed helplessly. 'If only Luke would get the hell out of my life!'
'That strikingly handsome man. . .? Is
he really your husband?'
Samantha nodded glumly. 'We've been separated for four years, during which time he has completely ignored my existence. And now he's suddenly reappeared on the scene. Not only is he busy playing the heavy husband, but he's also refusing to give me a divorce. I wish I knew what he's up to.'
'Maybe he's still in love with you?'
'What. . .?'
'Why not?' Betty smiled at the startled expression on Samantha's face. 'After all, you're a very beautiful girl, and he. . .' She hesitated, searching for the right words. 'Well, he did seem to be in quite an emotional, overwrought state.'
Samantha gave a short bark of grim, bitter laughter. 'Emotional? The man's a calculating machine, with nothing but ice in his veins! Running away from him was the best decision I've ever made.'
'Well, Hector and I reckon that it's a real shame for you to be living on this island, with just an old woman for company. I know you and Emily really care for each other,' Betty added quickly. 'But your aunt's done what she wanted to with her life—and enjoyed every minute, by all accounts. Don't you think it's time you stopped hiding here, on St Pauls, and spread your wings a little? Life in the big outside world isn't so terrible, you know.'
The younger girl stared at her with astonishment. 'Oh, come on, Betty. I've got all my gift shops on the islands, and a host of friends both here and in Antigua. Of course I'm not "hiding" from anyone or anything. What an extraordinary idea!'
'Is it? I reckon that you ought to have a good, hard think about that. And now, I also reckon it's time for you and me to hit the sack,' Betty said briskly. 'I'm all in, and you look exhausted. Believe me, honey, you'll feel much better after a good night's sleep.'
But she hadn't slept well. Not that Betty's extraordinary suggestion had disturbed her. Her life was full to overflowing at the moment and, in fact, a little peace and quiet would be very welcome. No, it was her husband who'd been the problem. Tossing and turning throughout the long night and early hours of the morning, there had been nothing she could do to banish the flickering images of Luke's hard, formidable presence as he stalked relentlessly through her dreams. Waking early, and feeling every bit as much of a wrung-out dishrag as she had the previous morning, Samantha had been cheered by Penny's news that not only was her brother, Marvin, prepared to act as chef at the hotel, but that he was willing to begin work straight away.
Unfortunately, that piece of good news was quickly followed by an abusive phone call from the owner of the Crow's Nest Hotel. She had tried to apologise, explaining just how desperate she had been. But her excuse hadn't seemed to cut much ice with Marvin's ex-employer, who now found himself in the same awkward position as she had experienced yesterday:'. . .and I don't even know how to open a can of beans!' he had raged, before slamming down the phone.
The rest of the morning hadn't been much better. There had been a cry for help from a manageress of one of her shops, passed on via the radio link with CAT, but there didn't seem to be anything she could do about it, since the phone lines had been out of action again. Not only had she spent ages trying to get a call through to her aunt, with absolutely no success, but she was also beginning to wonder if she had a case of galloping persecution-mania as she tried to keep well out of Luke and Corrine's way. Something that had proved to be extremely difficult to achieve.
Goodness knew what the couple were up to, but they had spent most of the morning walking around and through the hotel. Looking up at the outside of the building, examining the silk walls of the dining-room, and even venturing down into the bowels of the damp, dark kitchen—Luke and Corrine were everywhere! So, when she received a message from the housekeeper, she had sighed helplessly and given up the unequal struggle against malign fate.
'I'm told that you want to borrow a hairdryer,' Samantha said, as Corrine answered her tentative knock on the door of the American girl's bungalow. 'And I'd like to take this opportunity to. . . well, apologise for my behaviour yesterday,' she added, handing the dryer to the girl as she followed her into the large sitting-room.
'That's OK.' Corrine shrugged. 'I realised that your quarrel was with Mr Brandon and not with me.'
Samantha blinked, thrown completely off course by the girl's calm, dispassionate view of what must have been an embarrassing experience. 'Yes, well. . .I was very rude, and I wanted you to know just how sorry I am. . .'
Her voice trailed nervously away as Corrine continued to regard her with a composed, serene expression on her face. Didn't anything disturb this girl? she thought wildly. Even her clothes seemed to reflect her personality. Samantha had never seen her wearing anything other than tones of cream and beige, and again today Corrine was looking cool, elegant and extremely beautiful in an ivory-coloured sundress. Suddenly feeling overwhelmingly depressed in the presence of such perfection, she was just turning to leave when a hotel waiter arrived with a tray, and Corrine asked her to stay and have a cup of coffee.
'Well. . .' She hesitated. Maybe she ought to try and repair some of the damage she'd caused yesterday? 'Yes, OK, just a small one.'
'The island seems to be charming, and this is a wonderful position for a hotel,' Corrine said, handing her a cup. 'Mr Brandon tells me that you've lived here for some years.'
'Yes, that's right.'
'And you run it with your aunt, I believe?'
'Yes.'
'I was sorry to hear that your aunt is in hospital in Antigua, although Mr Brandon says that she's recovering well from her hip operation.'
Well, well—that really is interesting! Samantha thought, striving to maintain a bland expression on her face as her brain whirled into top gear. She could kick herself for not having noticed the fact before now: but ever since his arrival on the island, Luke had never once mentioned Aunt Emily. It wasn't surprising that she, herself, hadn't brought up the subject—the shock of his sudden appearance, and their violent confrontations had banished everything else from her mind. But since she hadn't mentioned her aunt's accident and hospitalisation, how did Luke and his girlfriend know all about it. . .? There was something very odd going on here— and what was all this 'Mr Brandon' business?
Trying not to make her scrutiny too obvious, she gazed about the room. There didn't seem to be any evidence of Luke's presence, but then, he wouldn't be interested in spending too much time in the sitting-room of the bungalow, would he? she thought grimly, casting a sour glance at the door which led to the large bedroom.
'Have you known my ex-husband for long?' she asked casually.
'Well, I've known of him for some time, of course,' Corrine replied. 'But I've only been working for him for the last two months.'
'Ah, I did wonder.. .I mean, you do refer to him rather formally, if I may say so.'
Corrine gave her a thin smile. 'It might, perhaps, save some time and speculation on your part, if I tell you that Mr Brandon and I have a purely business relationship.'
'Oh, yes?' Samantha murmured, her voice heavy with scepticism.
'I can assure you that I'm speaking the truth,' the other girl said coldly. 'Although. . .' She hesitated, a faint flush staining her cheeks. 'If you and your husband are about to have a divorce. . .' She gave a cool shrug of her shoulders. 'That does seem to leave the field wide open, doesn't it?'
'Does it?' Samantha gave a grim laugh. 'Oh, boy— are you in for a surprise! Surely you must have come across Adele Francis?'
Corrine looked at her with a puzzled frown. 'Adele Francis? Who's she?'
'One of his personal assistants. A very beautiful girl, who looks remarkably like you, in fact.'
The American girl shook her head. 'No. . . no, I don't think I know anyone of that name.'
'Well, if you fancy your chances with my ex-husband— and especially if you've got the sound of wedding bells ringing in your ears—then not only are you out of your mind, but I guess you'd better get yourself a pair of hobnail boots,' Samantha grated, banging her cup down on a nearby table. 'Because, if you are looking f
orward to connubial bliss with Luke, the first thing you'll have to do is to kick Adele Francis out of the marital bed!' she added harshly as she turned to go, her trembling figure bumping against a large portfolio, and dislodging the contents which spilled all over the floor.
'Oh, lord, I'm s-sorry,' she said, quickly bending down to gather up the drawings. 'I—I didn't realise you were an artist,' she added, looking down at a picture of the front of the hotel.
'I'm not. Strictly speaking, I'm an architect. These are just a few rough sketches—some ideas I had.'
'They're.. .they really are very good,' Samantha mused slowly, still kneeling as she examined the pictures more closely. 'I see you've widened the hotel entrance. It— well, it certainly makes the place look much more impressive.'
'And far more practical, as well,' Corrine said, sounding animated for the first time as she bent down to point out various aspects of the drawings. '.. .and I also thought that there was a need for wheelchair access at the side of the building, as well as making it easier to move baggage trolleys in and out of the hotel.'
'That's a brilliant idea,' Samantha murmured, before rising slowly to her feet. 'Look, I. . . well, I'm sorry if I've been sounding off like a first-class bitch. Luke and I. . .' She paused, swallowing against a sudden, hard lump in her throat as she turned to leave. 'I guess what I'm trying to say—rather badly—is that Luke and I were all washed up long before you came on the scene. There's no way you're to blame for what went wrong with our marriage.' She gave a helpless shrug. 'It was all pretty hopeless, anyway. . .'
'You're still in love with him, aren't you?' Corrine said quietly.
'You have to be kidding!' Samantha gave a harsh bark of laughter, a hectic flush spreading over her cheeks as she moved towards the door. 'How could I possibly be in love with a man like Luke? Someone who regards a wife as far less important than his business activities, or his partiality for cool blondes? Oh, boy—I'd really need to have my head examined, wouldn't I?'
