by Penny Jordan
‘But who owns the house now?’ Christy questioned him, feeling the faint beginnings of excitement stir inside her; her imagination had been captured by what he had told her and she was as eager as a small child to know more.
There was a brief silence, and then Simon told her, almost reluctantly it seemed to her. ‘I do.’
She felt a momentary start of surprise. Six years ago he had told her quite vehemently that the idea of a permanent settled base, of owning a home and all that it entailed, was an anathema to him. Now it seemed he had changed his mind. She shrugged aside a small dart of pain. Why should she care what he did? Everyone changed with time; hadn’t she done so herself?
As the silence grew Christy felt almost as though he expected her to make some comment, but what could she say? To say anything at all would be to admit to him how much she remembered of what he had once said. It was foolish to feel that he was almost disappointed when she didn’t comment, but when she asked him if there were any records appertaining to the house he answered her easily enough.
‘Some yes, but as I said earlier, the original house was destroyed—probably by a hurricane—and the one that was built on the same site was erected in eighteen eighty by an English cavalryman who had served with Wellington and who bought the island from the Crown because his doctors had advised that to benefit his health he should live somewhere with a hot climate. He was injured in battle apparently, and the island remained in the hands of that family until the time of the Boer War, when both sons were killed. One of the daughters married the son of an English industrialist but by that time the island was no longer a source of wealth. More recently there had been plans to try and develop it as a tourist base complete with marina but the problem of the surrounding reef still remains, so that is now in abeyance.’
* * *
It was dark when they landed in St Lucia. Christy went through the immigration formalities almost numb with sleep. She had still not recovered from the shock of waking up to find she had been sleeping with her head on Simon’s shoulder, and his casual acceptance of their intimacy had not reassured her. She had dropped off during the film he had told her, when she had questioned why he had not woken her up, and it seemed pointless waking her.
‘Now I know what you’re like first thing in the morning,’ he teased her as they waited for their luggage. ‘Quite a cross-patch.’
She wanted to ignore him. She felt tired and irritable, annoyed with herself and with him. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she asked him curtly. ‘That you’ve changed your mind about wanting me as your assistant?’
His eyebrows rose. ‘My goodness, you are prickly, aren’t you? Nice to know you can be human, and that you don’t always keep every emotion rigidly under control.’
He made her sound ridiculously inhibited and she longed to have the quick turn of mind to make some clever retort, but her body ached for sleep; her eyes felt gritty, and she herself felt grubby and travel-worn.
She had a quite ridiculous desire to burst into tears when Simon told her that they had to drive all the way across the island, ‘and I warn you the roads are none too good.’
He hadn’t lied, but at least the bumpiness of their journey in an ancient American car that was their taxi kept her awake, and by the time they eventually reached Casties she was feeling much more alert.
His ketch, he told her, was not moored in the main harbour but in a small marina a mile or so away.
‘It’s part of a new complex, and I’ve booked us both into the hotel for tonight—it will take us most of tomorrow to get the stuff we need together, if I know the islanders, and it will give you a chance to get over any jet lag.’
Silently digesting the ‘you’, Christy wondered wryly how he managed to stay so alert and awake. Perhaps because he was used to the long flight; perhaps because he simply had more endurance. He had always struck her as a tough character; a man who responded to all of life’s challenges, and it occurred to her now to wonder what his earlier life had been to give him that hard edge of determination that said he would let nothing stand in the way of his goals.
Stop wondering, she warned herself. You’re not going to get involved—remember?
The marina was bordered by a new stretch of road, wide enough to include a parking square. In contrast with Castries it was well lit; strings of gaily coloured lanterns illuminating the jetties. Christy could see the gleam of water between the crush of expensive, white-painted hulls. People, most of them obviously holidaymakers, strolled in the square. On the landward side she could see an arcade of shops which seemed to include a couple of restaurants.
‘All this is owned by the hotel,’ Simon told her. ‘Quite a financial undertaking, but it seems to be paying off.’
One particular group caught Christy’s eye. Half a dozen or so people were grouped together under one of the elegant Victorian street lights, most of them male, but it was the girl with them that caught Christy’s attention as their taxi stopped. Small, and blonde, she was laughing up at one of her male companions, her face clear beneath the illumination of the lamp. She was as perfect and pretty as a china doll, Christy thought, watching her; her tight white jeans and clinging top revealing a model slim figure, her blonde hair cascading softly on to her shoulders. She was the epitome of what she, Christy, had always secretly wanted to be, and she grimaced ruefully to herself, comparing what she privately considered her almost Amazonian build to the fragility of that possessed by the blonde-haired girl. She had long ago come to terms with her own looks; their gypsy-like wildness no longer made her feel uncomfortable, indeed she was almost able to derive a certain wry amusement from other people’s reaction to them. It was a nuisance at times convincing some men that her nature did not match her looks, but she was unable to compress a small pang of envy as she watched the other girl.
Simon got out of the taxi and opened her door for her, paying off their driver and yanking out their bags.
‘It’s only a few yards from here to the hotel, and I thought you might like to see Stormsurf before we go up there.’
He had barely finished speaking when the blonde girl suddenly detached herself from her friends, and called out excitedly, ‘Simon!’
She had, Christy noted unworthily, an extremely shrill voice, almost unpleasantly so, but she had no time to formulate any other thoughts because, totally unexpectedly, she was in Simon’s arms, her indignant struggles quelled by their hard pressure, his eyes grimly warning as he spun her round so that his back was towards the interested crowd. ‘Don’t say a word,’ he told her. ‘Just play along with me, okay?’
She couldn’t have spoken even if she had wanted to, for the very good reason that Simon’s mouth was covering her own. It had been six years since she had last felt the touch of those firm male lips, and although she had been kissed many times since with varying degrees of skill, she was alarmed to discover that memories were no match for the real thing. She kept her mouth firmly closed, refusing to relax into Simon’s embrace, but not fighting him either. Her eyes remained open and she met the fierce glitter of his, wondering if his anger was because she refused to respond or because he had felt the kiss to be necessary.
Why should he want her to respond? she asked herself, fighting against the sensations aroused by the pressure of Simon’s hand low down on her spine. He was forcing her against his body, his mouth moving over hers with what to any onlooker would seem to be total sensuality.
Perhaps she was wrong to fight him, Christy thought. Perhaps by doing so she was simply showing him that she feared she still might be vulnerable. His muttered, ‘Relax, for God’s sake and try and look as though you’re enjoying it,’ reinforced her thoughts. A tiny dart of anger leapt along her nerve endings. Who was he to assume he could use her like a feelingless pawn in whatever game he was now playing? So he wanted to be seen in a passionate clinch with her did he?
Consciously she let her body relax, moving lazily against the hard outline of his, her arms, which had be
en trapped between them, lifting to close round him, her lips parting as she let her head fall back under the pressure of his kiss.
The small shudder that racked her as the sudden fierce demand of his mouth increased wasn’t entirely fabricated. ‘Careful,’ she warned herself, ‘very, very careful.’
‘Simon.’
It was the childishly high feminine voice, underlined with jealousy, that brought the kiss to an end, but before he lifted his head, she managed to murmur softly against his mouth, ‘I hope that was satisfactory.’
She knew he had heard her. His eyes glittered molten gold over her face before he released her, and turned to the intruder.
‘Heavens, she makes me look like Goliath,’ was Christy’s first thought quickly followed by the knowledge that the childish exterior and manner was simply a pose. Venom flashed bitterly from the blonde’s blue eyes as they made a dismissive tour of Christy’s face and person.
‘Simon, darling, where have you been?’
No attempt to include her in the conversation, Christy noted. She must have a skin like hide. She doubted that she could have intruded so positively on a man who was very plainly with another woman.
‘London,’ Simon replied easily, adding, ‘Mary-Lou, let me introduce you to an old friend of mine, Christy.’
So she had been right in suspecting a faintly American accent Christy thought, noting the girl’s forename. Although she suspected they were of a similar age, the disparaging glance with which she dismissed Christy, suggested that out of everything Simon had said when introducing her, all she had heard was the adjective ‘old’. She was very clever, Christy thought, wryly admiring her technique, she had to give her that. She doubted in the same circumstances if she could have been as positive.
‘You missed my birthday party.’ A provocative pout accompanied the words, and Christy had an illuminating vision of that same pout at forty, and men fifty. Perhaps it was better not to look like a pretty little doll after all.
‘My apologies, but it couldn’t be avoided.’
Another pout, plus a sidelong glance through lashes Christy suspected were never naturally that seductively dark colour.
‘Never mind, you can make it up to me by taking me out to dinner tomorrow night.’
‘Sorry, Mary-Lou, that’s impossible. Christy and I sail for St Paul’s tomorrow.’
Now mere was no disguising the hostility in her eyes.
‘Really?’ A sharply bitter laugh splintered the silence that suddenly seemed to have fallen. Christy felt something akin to sympathy for her. Simon was hardly letting her down lightly, and by now they had gathered a rather interested audience in the group Mary-Lou had been with when they arrived.
‘How very romantic,’ she said brittley to Christy. ‘I do hope you’re not sea-sick.’
Watching her flounce angrily back to join her friends, Christy felt both tired and angry.
Before Simon could speak she said through gritted teeth. ‘The next time you want to get rid of an unwanted admirer, please don’t involve me.’ Her eyes flashed bitterly as she added unwisely. ‘You’ve changed, Simon, you never used to need help in that direction.’
She heard him swear and stepped back automatically. ‘I don’t know what you’re thinking,’ he told her curtly, ‘but I never have been and never intend to be involved with Mary Lou. Unfortunately, however, she’s extremely persistent—when politeness fails other, more draconian measures sometimes have to be used. Her father is one of the major shareholders in the hotel and marina complex, and unfortunately she’s grown up under the illusion that the combination of his wealth and her looks is irresistible. She might be in with more of a chance if she wasn’t so eager to open her mouth,’ he added sardonically, ‘and besides,’ he looked at Christy and smiled, and she felt the warmth of it curl all the way down to her toes, ‘sugary blonde, little-girl prettiness never did a thing for me—you should know that.’
It must be because she was tired that she had to fight so hard against the pull he was exerting over her senses, Christy thought wearily.
‘Pity you didn’t tell me that before we left,’ she came back smartly. ‘I could have bought a blonde wig.’ The moment the words were out she wished them unsaid, glad of the darkness to hide her angry flush of colour as she realised that she had unwittingly indicated that their relationship could be anything but strictly that of employer and employee, and Simon, damn him, although he was saying nothing, was far too astute to have missed it.
‘I doubt that either of us is in the mood to look at Stormsurf now,’ was all he said. ‘You’re practically falling asleep on your feet. Let’s get up to the hotel and get some sleep.’
CHAPTER FOUR
‘LIKE it?’ They were down at the marina, standing on one of the piers, looking down at the graceful lines of Simon’s ketch. Christy had done some sailing in her teens and knew enough about boats to recognise the power and elegance of this one.
‘When I can, I like to use sail, but she has an excellent sea-going engine, which we’ll need for some of our work. We can only dive at certain times, and they won’t always correspond with favourable winds. Want to have a look round?’
Christy nodded her head, and followed him down the steps on to the gently rolling deck.
Simon took her first through the controls, slowly explaining each one. ‘There could be times when you’ll have to take control up here, but I’ll make sure you get some experience of handling her first. Everything’s pretty simple and straightforward.’ He turned back towards the companionway and Christy followed him. Below deck the ketch had a surprisingly roomy main salon which Simon explained could double as an extra bedroom.
‘We won’t need it this trip. She’s built to sleep eight with ease. There are two double cabins with a bathroom in between besides the ones we’re using and of course the galley. Come and have a look.’
The galley was efficiently equipped; there shouldn’t be too many problems preparing food in there, Christy decided, noting the small freezer and the generous storage space.
‘This is my cabin.’ Simon pushed open a door, and Christy glanced briefly round the small tidy room. ‘You could have had your pick, but there’s nothing to choose between them, and my stuff was already stored in here.’ He closed the door and opened another one, ‘Bathroom.’
Once again it was well equipped with a shower as well as a bath.
‘And this will be your cabin.’ It was an exact replica of his own but on the other side of the ketch. ‘There isn’t a lock on the door,’ he told her drily, ‘but we can always get one should you feel it necessary.’
He was deliberately trying to goad her, Christy was sure. Giving him a level look she said calmly. ‘Why on earth should I? You’re quite safe, Simon,’ she added crisply. ‘Unlike Mary-Lou, I don’t need the message reinforcing, I got it loud and clear the first time round. I know quite well that you don’t desire me, and…’
She wasn’t allowed to get as far as telling him that any lack of desire was mutual because he was staring at her, frowning slightly as he folded his arms and leaned back against the door, effectively cutting off any means of escape. With both of them in it the tiny cabin was almost claustrophobic. He was playing with her, Christy was sure. Why? Had it occurred to him that she might still harbour some remnants of that teenage adoration? Was he intent on making it clear that he felt nothing towards her? If so…
‘Now where I wonder did you get that idea?’ He said it so quietly, and she was so engrossed in her own train of thought that his words took several seconds to penetrate.
‘I never said I didn’t desire you, Christy,’ he told her softly. ‘I simply said I didn’t want to marry you.’
His words came as too much of a shock for her to dissemble. ‘But you rejected me,’ she reminded him. ‘When I came to your room…’
‘Dear God, Christy, that wasn’t rejection.’ He took hold of her arms and stared down at her. ‘How much have you grown up in six years? Not a goo
d deal if you still think that.’ He looked grim and angry, and she felt her own anger stir. Why should what had happened so long ago have any relevance now?
‘Of course I desired you.’ He said it flatly. ‘But you made it plain that you wanted marriage. You came to my room prepared to barter your virginity for my wedding ring, and that was what I rejected.’
His words were almost a verbal blow even though they were delivered without heat, and humiliatingly, Christy could see that in his eyes her actions must have seemed to be some sort of trade off. She had wanted him to marry her, of course; had hoped that once he had made love to her he would want to marry her; but she had never intended using her virginity as a lever. She opened her mouth to tell him as much and then changed her mind. What was the point?
‘Where will you store the diving equipment?’ she asked instead.
Simon let her change the subject without comment, showing her the storage areas in the main salon.
‘There’s an excellent place just off the marina where they stock all the latest stuff. Scuba and deep-sea diving are all the rage here at the moment, so we won’t have any trouble getting everything we need.’ He glanced at his watch.
‘In fact we’d better get over there now. It’s a four-hour sail to St Paul’s and I’d like to be there before dusk.
‘St Paul’s is a very small island, and the intensity of the currents off the reef are dependent to some extent on the winds. Any day now they should start to change, and once they do that will be our only chance to dive, so I want to be ready.’
‘And the rest of the time?’
He shrugged. ‘I’ve done some notes, I’d like them typing up…You could talk to Pierre the gardener—he’s the one I learned the legend from originally…I wouldn’t mind some sketches of how you think the original house might have looked…Perhaps even a few rough sketches of how you imagine Kit and Isabella…I always find it helps me to have something concrete to look at when I’m writing. Obviously we’re not going to be able to find out what either of them looked like but Jeremy told me that the powerfully vivid verbal portraits Miles was able to draw of his main characters was thanks to you.’
