‘There’s a radiophone on the island. You can call him from there tomorrow.’ At her surprised reaction some of his tension ebbed. ‘What did you expect? Thatched huts and camp-fires?’
She pretended disappointment. ‘Next you’ll tell me you live in an air-conditioned condominium on the beach-front.’
He laughed and the warm velvety sound rolled over her like waves lapping the sand. ‘Hardly. But Drummer Island isn’t all that primitive either.’
He headed for the public moorings and she followed, taking two steps to every long stride of his. ‘Was your island named after the drummer fish?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘I named it for the Thoreau quote.’
‘“If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music he hears”,’ she quoted softly.
‘Something of the sort.’ He seemed embarrassed to have her recognise the quotation. Was it because it gave her more of an insight into Harry himself than he wanted anyone to have?
He indicated a twenty-foot cruiser riding at anchor among the dozens of boats belonging to the Thursday Islanders. Boat travel was as commonplace here as cars were elsewhere. Placing her suitcase on the deck, he helped her to negotiate the small gangway. ‘Welcome aboard.’
She looked around with interest. She was standing on a covered rear deck on which was stacked fishing and scuba-diving gear. Opening off it was a compact cabin. Beyond that was a door, presumably leading to sleeping quarters. ‘It’s a lovely boat,’ she commented.
He favoured her with a dry look. ‘It’s reliable and seaworthy. You are lovely.’
She felt herself flush. He was merely correcting her imprecise description, but the warmth in his look generated an answering heat deep inside her. This would have to stop. The whole object of the exercise was to rid herself of any lingering teenage fantasies about him, not to start creating new ones.
As they headed out to sea she watched Thursday Island until it was a speck on the horizon. Harry turned the boat north-west, towards the Arafura Sea. ‘How far is it to Drummer Island?’ she asked.
‘About an hour from here.’
Dismay gripped her. It must be halfway to New Guinea. She’d assumed it was one of the nearby islands visible from Thursday Island.
A wave rocked them and she almost lost her balance, gripping Harry’s arm as he turned the vessel bow-on to the wave. Under the tanned skin his muscles felt reassuringly solid. It was tempting to put both arms around his waist and hang on but she resisted the urge. Transferring her grip to one of the handrails, she asked, ‘How many people live on the island?’
He gave her a mocking glance. ‘You’ll find out in an hour.’
Oh, no, surely she and Harry weren’t going to be the only inhabitants of the island? Why hadn’t she thought to ask before they left Thursday Island? Was it because she wanted to be alone with him?
Then she remembered his reference to the traditional owners with whom he shared the island. There must be an Aboriginal settlement of some kind there, so they wouldn’t be entirely alone. She should feel relieved, but the feeling was tinged with something very like regret.
The prospect of being alone with her didn’t seem to concern Harry. He seemed indifferent to her presence, making her wonder why he had suggested the trip. Her impatient sigh brought his head around. ‘You’ll see Drummer soon,’ he misinterpreted.
She strained her eyes but could see only endless blue where the sky met the Arafura Sea. A hundred yards away the waves were sliced by a dark dorsal fin, and she shivered. Much of life on the Barrier Reef was beautiful beyond words, but it could be deadly as well.
The sight of Harry steering the vessel through the treacherous waters with relaxed confidence reassured her. Yet he was as much a newcomer here as she was. Born and bred in Melbourne, one of Australia’s most populous cities, he had dreamed of living on an island in the tropics. He had been working towards his goal when they had first met.
She remembered the thrill of being taken into his confidence, seeing it as a sign of the romance about to blossom between them, when it was simply a gesture of friendship on his part. Still, she was generous enough to be glad that the royalties from her father’s story had helped him to achieve his dream. Her inherited share of the rights told her how valuable they were, enabling her to have a small measure of security. No wonder Harry felt so much in her father’s debt.
Her thoughts were interrupted when he gestured ahead of the boat. ‘Land, ho!’
Drummer Island rose as a low crescent-shaped mound out of the Arafura Sea. The reef ran along the south-east side from a sand-spit out to the eastern tip of the jungle-clad island, sheltering a series of beaches along a semicircular bay.
Harry steered a careful course through the coral which guarded the bay mouth, then they were through into the clearest water she had ever seen. She sighted a school of manta rays winging gracefully over the surface like giant birds. As he cut the engine Harry told her they were foraging for plankton, their staple diet.
‘It’s paradise,’ she said on a sigh. Ahead was a beach with sand as fine and white as talcum powder, fringed by giant granite boulders. The jungle reached almost to the water’s edge.
Along the sand-spit, a line of casuarinas and beach hibiscus grew above the high-water mark, while native orchids clung to the rocks. Pandanus palms, paperbarks and flame trees crowded the forest. There were even a few coconut palms, although she knew these must have been imported as they weren’t native to these islands.
Suddenly it didn’t matter how many women Harry had brought here before her. She was here now, sharing this Eden with him, and nothing else mattered.
He anchored the cruiser a short way out from the beach and they landed in a dinghy loaded with the supplies Harry had purchased in TI that morning.
After beaching the boat expertly Harry vaulted over the side into the ankle-deep water. When she started to follow he grasped her around the waist and lifted her over the side, setting her down lightly on the sand.
She could have sworn that his hands spanned her waist longer than was absolutely necessary, and she felt again a disturbing, almost electric sense of awareness. But he turned almost immediately and began stacking the supplies above the high-water mark.
‘I’ll come for these once you’re settled in,’ he said. ‘First I’ll show you Casa Blake.’
‘I want to see absolutely everything,’ she said, unable to contain the pleasure which bubbled in her voice. Whether it was due to Harry’s presence or the poetic beauty of his island, happiness overflowed inside her like a mineral spring.
‘Tomorrow,’ he assured her. ‘Darkness falls quickly in the islands, so we won’t have time tonight.’
He was right. Even as he led her along a path of crushed coral, the pearly dusk started to give way to velvet darkness. She quickened her steps.
In the grey light she glimpsed a coconut grove and fishing nets hung out to dry, then Harry led her past a shell fountain and through an arch to a palm-thatched dwelling. The dwelling blended so skilfully with its surroundings that it was barely visible until they reached it.
‘Like it?’
‘I feel as if I’ve walked on to a Tarzan film set.’
Built around a large stone fireplace, the house was spacious and airy. Blackwood posts supported a woven frond ceiling and seagrass matting softened the stone floor. The walls rose no more than waist high, with shutters which opened to the jungle beyond. Windows protected the house to seaward.
The furnishings were simple but inviting. Cane sofas and easy-chairs were arranged against a backdrop of shelves crammed with hundreds of books on every subject from philosophy to cookery. Her vision of the place as a South Pacific bachelor’s delight began to crumble. Judging from the well-thumbed state of the books, Harry read himself to sleep most nights.
He sensed her astonishment. ‘It isn’t what you expected for a globe-trotting journalist, is it?’
She sank on to a cane chair. ‘No, it isn’t. But you never struck me as any sort of Robinson Crusoe.’
‘Now you’ll have a new opinion of me, won’t you?’
Why should her opinion matter to him? It never had before. ‘Don’t you miss life in the fast lane?’ she asked.
He gave a careless shrug. ‘Everything I need is right here, especially now.’
She flashed him a curious look but he didn’t elaborate. Instead he picked up her case. ‘I’ll show you your room so you can freshen up while I get dinner ready.’
Her room was as pleasantly tropical as the rest of the house, with cane furniture and a low bed festooned with mosquito netting. Harry deposited her case on the bed and left her to change, after pointing out the shared bathroom across the hall.
Unpacking took little time, and she regarded her clothes with dismay. They had been chosen for sunbathing on deserted islands, not for her present situation. But they would have to do. The caftan she chose for dinner was intended to cover up a bikini. It was filmy, almost transparent, so she prayed for a low level of lighting. She was prepared to reveal as much on a public beach, so what was the difference?
Harry Blake was the difference, she conceded reluctantly. Telling herself that what she felt was a hangover from a teenage crush didn’t entirely convince her. Her body still reacted to his nearness in a way which brought the colour rushing to her face. She had been fighting the awareness all day and now she had to face facts. Part of her was still in love with him, no matter how much she tried to deny it.
Thrusting a brush through her heavy curtain of hair, she appraised her reflection thoughtfully. Was she really here to kick her ‘Harry habit’ or was she using this excuse to test deeper waters? Maybe this time…The words from the song drifted through her mind. Was she hoping that, this time, things would turn out differently?
The aroma of sizzling steak lured her out on to a stone-paved terrace where Harry was turning meat on an open-air grill.
A nearby table held salad ingredients, and she moved towards it. ‘Can I help?’
‘Go ahead. These will be ready in a few minutes.’
The darkness had reduced the island to an intimate circle of light which bathed them in its glow. The air vibrated with sounds, from the myriad insects homing in on the torches flickering high on bamboo poles to the sizzle of the roasting meat.
The sounds and aromas assaulted her senses which were already under siege from the sight of Harry at work. He had exchanged his moleskins for a pareu, a length of batik-printed cloth which wound around his waist like a sarong.
In the barbecue flames his upper body gleamed chestnut, every muscle as cleanly defined as a basrelief sculpture, inviting her touch to an almost painful degree.
Flustered, she concentrated on the salad, but her fingers felt awkward as she selected ingredients. Croutons and crumbled bacon were already to hand and Harry supplied a fresh egg, so she soon had a tempting Caesar salad.
He brought a plate of steaks to the table. ‘This looks good.’ He scooped a crouton out of the salad and she tapped the back of his hand with a spoon. With a yelp he pressed his hand to his mouth in mock suffering. Her insides clenched in protest. It was such a waste of a good kiss.
He touched a finger to the frown etching her forehead. ‘What’s this? It was only a crouton.’
Her eyes brightened as she dodged his touch. ‘“Manners maketh the man”, even on an island.’
His eyes danced. ‘I can see I need you here to keep me on the straight and narrow.’
A pang shot through her. ‘You don’t need anyone, Harry Blake. You told me so yourself, years ago.’
The night echoed with his sigh. ‘Yet you agreed to come anyway.’
‘I needed you, remember?’
‘To rescue you from Thornton.’ It sounded as if he was reminding himself. He gestured impatiently. ‘Are we going to talk or eat?’
Which was a neat way of changing the subject, she noticed. Picking up a plate, she added salad to the mammoth T-bone steak he’d given her, and sat down opposite him. The food occupied them for a while, then Harry cleared the plates away while she poured glasses of iced tea. It was as heady as wine in a setting where the very air was intoxicating. She inhaled appreciatively, filling her lungs with the scents of night-blooming jasmine and ornamental tobacco.
Harry tilted his chair back and cupped his hands behind his head. ‘Are you happy in the travel business, Lisa?’
‘Very. Having parents who’d travelled must have whetted my appetite. I loved doing the travel and tourism diploma so much that I’m now nearly through a Bachelor of business degree, majoring in tourism management.’
He whistled softly. ‘The lady has brains as well as beauty.’
‘That’s the second time you’ve called me beautiful since we got here,’ she commented.
‘Wrong. The first time, I said you were lovely,’ he corrected her. ‘In this light your eyes flash with black fire.’
Driven by restlessness, she stood up. ‘Why do you keep saying such things? It isn’t as if you mean them. You told me yourself that women are playthings to you.’
‘I said that?’
‘You know you did, when you told me I was wasting my time falling in love with you.’
‘Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind.’
She whirled on him. ‘It wasn’t kind to throw my feelings back in my face. It took me years to regain the confidence to enjoy going out with men.’
He swore under his breath. ‘It wasn’t my intention.’
‘While we’re throwing clichés around we both know which road is paved with good intentions.’ She hadn’t meant to have this out with him now but it came boiling to the surface unbidden. She swallowed hard. ‘It wasn’t until months after you left that another cliché occurred to me. The one about always hurting the one you love.’
He seemed to sense where she was heading. ‘Lisa, don’t.’
She was determined to say it. ‘I finally worked it out. You did care for me, didn’t you? You hurt me for my benefit, not your own.’
His fingers spread wide as his body language refuted her claim. ‘Lord, Lisa, if I’d known you felt this way I wouldn’t have suggested bringing you here.’
‘But you did suggest it, and I agreed because I must know how you really feel. Simon Fox is pressing me for a commitment and…damn you, you keep getting in the way.’
He heard the tears threading her voice and got to his feet. His hands were warm as they rested on her shoulders. ‘I didn’t know, Lisa, I swear. I wanted to help you, not start something which can’t do either of us any good.’
Her anger flared. ‘There you go again, telling me what’s best for me when you haven’t a clue what I need.’
His eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘You’re older and wiser now, are you?’
‘I think so.’
He inched closer until she felt his breath on her cheeks. ‘Is this what you want, Lisa?’
Breathing became a struggle. ‘Yes, Harry. Oh, yes.’
His shadow swallowed her and his mouth devoured the rest, driving the breath from her body with its power and passion. Her bones turned liquid until only his hold kept her upright. Her mind spun. This was where she had dreamed of being for so long. Her arms tightened around his bare shoulders and her fingers dug into the warm flesh of his back. Her moan of pleasure was a soft, animal sound.
Slowly he moved her away from him, his eyes ablaze with a peculiar light. ‘Would you say a kiss like that means something?’
She dragged her eyes to his face. What was he getting at? ‘It did to me,’ she said shakily. Then she understood the point he was making. ‘Oh, God, not again.’
The mockery in his smile seared her. ‘Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. That’s twice, Lisa. Your judgement is way off, as I just demonstrated.’
She wished the ground would swallow her up. ‘Why are you doing this?’
‘To show
you the dangers of reading too much into things. It’s still a mistake to get entangled with me. I thought you understood.’
She scrubbed her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘You’re a bastard, Harry.’
‘Shall I put it in writing?’
‘There’s no need. I doubt if I’ll forget again as long as I live.’ She had been reading too much into their situation, hoping that this time things would be different between them. She almost wished she had taken her chances with Tyler Thornton on the cruise. Whatever had made her think she would be safer with Harry Blake?
CHAPTER THREE
NIGHT on the island brought a profusion of strange sounds: the wailing of curlews on the beach, the chop-chop-chop of nightjars and the high-pitched squeals of fruit bats. The sounds made Lisa feel even more alien here.
For most of her life this fish-out-of-water feeling had tormented her. Buying her flat in Cairns had allayed it somewhat. For the first time there was somewhere she truly belonged. Now the feeling was back, thanks to Harry’s rejection.
Too restless to sleep, she pushed aside the mosquito netting festooning the bed, and padded barefoot to the windows occupying half of one wall. Palms flat against the sill, she stared out at the shadow-puppet jungle, the shapes eerie against a pearlescent sky. In one night Harry had shattered illusions she hadn’t acknowledged that she held. Subconsciously she had been waiting for his return, telling herself the only thing which had stood between them before was her youth and inexperience.
Now she faced the bitter truth. Harry was no white knight, and loving and leaving was his credo. She should have listened the first time. Then she would have accepted his invitation for what it was instead of letting her fantasies run away with her.
But no more. If he wanted the job of Dutch uncle it was his. No more fantasies. And no more kisses, either, she thought as her hand strayed to her mouth. It felt bruised—surely another illusion? A burning sensation rose inside her but she subdued it, telling herself he wasn’t worth it. Think of Simon, she commanded her mind. No sooner had she formed an image of Simon than dark fingers of thought ripped it away and substituted a tall, spare figure with a sloping shoulder and smouldering grey eyes.
Island of Dreams Page 3
