by Nancy Loyan
“Not lost. Found.”
Bessye met her gaze. “You or golden opportunity?”
“I’m not doing anything wrong. The Seychelles government encourages private investment, especially in the tourism market.”
“Ah, so you are willing to sell out your own homeland and people for Rupees. You are willing to sell your soul and the spirits of your ancestors for money. Larzen i bon, me i-tro ser.”
Money is good but it is too expensive.
The heat and the conversation in her mother’s house were stifling. Victoria rented a taxi and headed to the north side of Mah’e into Victoria, her namesake capital and only town in the Seychelles Island chain. Overlooking a natural harbor, protected by the inner islands of Ste. Anne and Ile au Cerf, it was a picture postcard island town. Definitely not a city. The nearest big city, Nairobi, was an ocean away.
She peered out of the taxi window at the landmark Clock Tower at Albert Street and Independence Avenue and past the pastel painted Indian-owned stores lining the streets. The British colonial influence was still prevalent, though the nation had won its independence in 1976. Her destination was the colorful Sir Selwyn Clarke Market.
In Mah’e, resources were limited. On an island, everything must be imported. Only fruit, fish and tea were plentiful as evident in the local market.
After paying the driver, Victoria entered under the archway and wandered about the market, taking in the scents and sounds of a life she had left behind. Spices wrinkled her nose and the mixture of French and Kreol spoken was like an ancient tune rediscovered.
Vendors hawked everything from paw paw, breadfruit, bananas, to exotic spices like saffron and vanilla pods, and colorful batik fabric. She passed the fresh fish stalls. Mackerel, job fish, tuna, parrot fish and octopus glistened in the strong daylight. The pungent aroma of salt fish lingered in the air. She fingered jars of fiery chutney and pickled chilies. Deeper inside the market, she passed stalls displaying local crafts like baskets and pottery, rows of colorful vegetable stalls with eggplant and palm heart, and the meat stalls with crates of squawking chickens. Snowy white cattle egrets perched above, observing the raucous activity below and awaiting handouts.
The giant supermarkets in the States couldn’t compare to the colorful animated atmosphere of the island market. Though they offered a wider selection and convenience, the personal selling and pride had been absent.
In coming home, Victoria knew the transition would be difficult. So much that she had taken for granted in the United States and Europe had yet to exist in the Seychelles. The simpler way of life, though, was an oddly refreshing and welcome change.
Part of her reason for returning was to escape the treadmill of metropolitan life. After all she had experienced in New York City, she sought an escape and a link to her past. Seeking solitude and what she had left behind were as much her mission as seeking profit.
She picked up a large pineapple and sniffed its sweetness. Though grown on the island, it was an expensive delicacy. Her mother would probably appreciate it. As she paid the vendor, a voice from behind startled her. Though it was in accented Kreol, she recognized the speaker and it gave her pause.
She turned to be met by the sparkling amber gaze of Daemon Wells. Attired in khaki shorts and yellow polo, he was still a sight to behold. The sun glinted off
the gold in his sandy hair and his tan as he towered over the locals like a golden statue. A broad smile dimpled his face and chin. Victoria rolled her eyes. Hadn’t she come to the Seychelles to avoid devastatingly handsome and tempting men?
“Mademoiselle Montcherry, we meet again,” he said in an overly cheerful voice.
“So we have,” she answered.
“Islands are like small towns, you can’t run and hide.”
“Unfortunately,” she mumbled.
“Shopping?”
“Reliving memories more than anything.” She swiped a hand across her dewy forehead. “I keep forgetting how close we are to the Equator.”
“Perhaps I can interest you in a cool drink?”
“Ginger ale?” She tilted her head.
“Or something stronger?”
“I really don’t know if that’s a good idea.”“Why not?” he asked. “If you choose to live on an island, you should get to know all of its inhabitants.”
She sighed, thinking. The temperature was too hot for strolling the market. Only her mother awaited her back home. Her old friends were only interested in discussing men and children. Sore subjects. At least Daemon Wells appeared to be intelligent and interesting. He was also easy on the eyes. There could be worse ways to pass some time.
“Okay. There are some cafes here in town,” she said.
“I was thinking of a location with a view.”
Victoria surveyed the bustling market. “Is there a helicopter hiding somewhere?”
Daemon chuckled. “Sorry, not that kind of view. And after your last experience …”
“I’m grounded?”
“Afraid so. My car’s in the car park down the street.”
For being a helicopter pilot, Daemon had a fancy set of wheels. On an island filled with over-priced used cars, his bright yellow Jaguar convertible stood out like a bee on black velvet. He drove like a native, taking the hairpin curves like an Andretti. Victoria didn’t know whether to grab for the dash or her blowing hair. The high rate of speed and lack of guardrails on the mountainous roads overlooking the ocean made her stomach churn. Did the man have to drive as if he were piloting a damn helicopter?
She wondered whatever possessed her to agree to accompany a near stranger in the first place. Had she lost her wits since leaving the States?
The car turned into the entrance of one of the island’s most exclusive resorts, The Shangri La. Renowned for its clientele of reclusive movie stars, rock musicians and political dignitaries, it had a reputation around the world for pampering at a price. Not the sort of place for a helicopter pilot to frequent.
The resort resembled something you’d find in Palm Beach, not in the middle of the Indian Ocean. The stucco and stone walls and red clay tile roof of the main building was of colonial Indian design. The curve of the archways, metal railings and mosaic tile along with the lush landscaping of towering palms and lacy ferns lent it exotic flair. Daemon drove under the porte-cochere and parked.
He hopped out the car and walked over to the passenger door, opening it. He held out his hand and Victoria grasped it, alighting from the car. For a moment she felt special, as if Daemon could change the atmosphere.
A Hindi doorman attired in crisp white tunic and slacks with a turban wrapped about his head, approached. Daemon tossed the car keys and the man caught them with a nod and a smile.
“I didn’t know pilots had so much clout,” Victoria said, surprised, as she followed Daemon into the open lobby.
“Apparently, you just don’t know pilots,” Daemon replied with a wink.
She definitely didn’t know anything about Daemon Wells. As they strolled through the lobby with its ornately carved reception desk, fine rattan furnishings with silk cushions and pillows, scattered Indian rugs, brass and ceramic objects d’art, swirling ceiling fans, mosaic tiled floor and squawking parrots, the resort staff stood at attention. Each uniformed man and woman nodded and smiled in acknowledgement. She had dated some very wealthy men who were not treated in as high regard. Why was Daemon treated like a dignitary?
Daemon led her through the main lobby and into an attached dining room. The hostess smiled, and without a word, grabbed two menus, and escorted them to a round table set outside on a private railed balcony with an unobstructed view of the ocean.
Victoria had never been to this side, the exclusive side, of Beau Vallon beach. Though mid-day, this stretch of beach was deserted with glistening sand and crystal waves undulating to shore. Not one person was sunbathing or strolling or participating in water sports and no raucous laughter or animated voices to interrupt. Funny, she had to return to the Islands t
o be treated to quiet privilege. Yet, her mother was still hired help. A sense of guilt washed over her. Daemon pulled out a chair and after she sat, he chose a chair across from her.
“I prefer the seclusion of this spot, away from all the tourists and their noise. To really experience the Seychelles, one must be immersed in the beauty of nature,”
Daemon said, a distant look in his eyes.
“You not only speak like a native, you think like one.” Victoria met his gaze.
“Sometimes I think one has to experience the world in order to appreciate a place like this. Life, especially in the States, is so hurried and stressful in comparison to the solace found here. Don’t you agree?” Daemon asked.
Victoria squirmed in her seat, uncomfortable with the topic of conversation. On one hand, she had to agree. After all, slowing down was part of her reason for returning home. Yet, here she was planning to commercialize on it. The tug between doing right for herself and doing right for her fellow natives was strong. She came home to prove herself as a success both personally and professionally. Was she willing to pay the price for it was another story?
“There is a lot to be said for both ways of life,” she decided to answer.
“So tell me, what made you return home?”
She smiled. “I agreed to a drink, not an interrogation.”
“Okay.” He raised his hand and an elegant Hindi woman in a sapphire sari appeared at their table. Turning to Victoria, Daemon asked, “What would you like to drink?”
“A Seybrew.”
The waitress wrinkled her brow as the request. Of course, it would seem strange to order an ordinary island brewed beer in a five-star resort. The local beer was just another one of those strange things Victoria had missed while away.
“I … I’ll have the same,” Daemon added as the waitress shook her head upon leaving.
Victoria shrugged. “What can I say? I had a taste for a beer.”
“No problem. You just keep adding to your mystery.” Daemon folded his hands on the tabletop.
“My mystery? I’d say you’re the mystery … a pilot with a penchant for the finer things in life.”
“I have connections.”
“Is that how you ended up in the Seychelles working for Paradise Helicopters?”
Daemon chuckled. “I own Paradise Helicopters.”
“I see.” Now it made sense … the Jaguar matching his craft … the money and the connections.
“I was in the Army Reserves and piloted Black Hawks in Afghanistan,” he added.
“Sounds dangerous. I remember reading about a helicopter being shot down near Kabul, the crew injured and trapped behind enemy lines. Another pilot risked his life by swooping in, under heavy enemy fire, to rescue the crew and lift them to safety. His craft was hit and he was injured yet still managed to get them to base camp. It was a really big deal. His triumph was all over the media.”
Daemon grinned. “I was presented the Congressional Medal of Honor for that crazy feat.”
“You? You were the pilot?” She stared at him, finding it hard to imagine this calm, unaffected man being a national combat hero.
He nodded. “I was just doing my job and have the scars to prove it.”
“The Seychelles are far removed from combat.”
“My sentiments exactly. I came here to recover and never looked back.”
The waitress brought the beer, uncapped, with two crystal glasses. Foregoing the glass, Daemon eagerly took a swig.
Victoria poured her brew in a glass and sipped, contemplating Daemon. There was so much she didn’t know about him and his mystery intrigued her. She had the suspicion he possessed more secrets not easily divulged. She had her own secrets locked away deep inside her mind, heart and soul.
“So, how is the helicopter business?” she asked.
“It has its up and downs … just kidding. Seriously, it’s a steady business with steady income. I have several Jet Rangers and two pilots in addition to myself.
Between ferrying tourists, government officials and executives we’re busy enough.”
He was animated when he spoke, the exuberance of youth in his voice, the wisdom of age in his eyes and expressive movement in his actions. She found him as fascinating to observe as to listen.
When the waitress returned for food orders, Victoria ignored her, so engrossed was she in Daemon’s stories about being a pilot on the Islands.
“The usual?” the waitress asked, turning toward Daemon.
He nodded. “And the same for the lady.”
After the waitress left, he said, “I hope you don’t object but I thought you might like the specialty of the house as well.”
“And what might that be?” Victoria asked.
“We’ll start with the Millionaire’s Salad and dine on the best octopus coconut curry in the Islands, and finish off with fresh island fruit and imported French cheese.”
“Sounds indulgent for lunch. And I thought I only agreed to a drink.” She smiled. Actually, she was starving, having skipped breakfast this morning. Since arriving home she had been existing on steamed and broiled fish. The island specialty salad of shredded heart of palm with lime and oil and the famous curry would be a welcome change. Was the man a mind reader as well?
“You’ve traveled the world, haven’t you yet learned to live dangerously?” he asked with a grin.
“I did get into your helicopter and I dislike heights,” she said, avoiding his potent gaze, a gaze that was dangerous to a single woman who had sworn off relationships.
The lunch was delectable and Victoria finished off each course, savoring every morsel. She hadn’t realized how much she had missed authentic island fare. In Europe and the States she had eaten far too many beef and chicken dishes and tasteless iceberg lettuce salads.
When the bill arrived, she reached for her purse. Before she could object, Daemon signed the bill of fare. He apparently frequented the island’s most expensive restaurant in order to have his own account.
If there was one thing she was learning about, it was the operation of resorts and restaurants. She had been researching the hospitality business in order to become educated in the field so as to operate her own in the future. Eden Resorts, LLC, owner of the Shangri La and other exclusive resorts around the world, had a flawless reputation. They were the world leader in luxury accommodation and dining, setting the industry standard. If she ever hoped to succeed in owning and operating resorts, theirs was an example to follow. Lunch had been more than an entertainment with a new friend, it had been part of her research. Daemon needn’t know.
“Thank you for the exquisite lunch and entertaining company, Mr. Wells,” she said, politely, not wanting to lead him into thinking this would be the start of some island fling.
“Call me Daemon, and the pleasure has been all mine.” He stood and pulled out her chair.
She rose, standing so close to him she could feel his body heat and smell his spicy aftershave. He was one of the few men who towered over her. He was also one of the few men who unnerved her and she had to move away.
“Would you like a tour of the resort?” he asked.
She thought the question strange coming from the owner of a helicopter service and stared at him.
“I thought you might like to check out the resort for future reference. After all, you are buying up property on the island and, I assume, planning on some tourist
development,” he said, in a serious tone she found disconcerting.
Her legs went weak and for a moment she thought she’d faint. How did he know? She had just closed her third land acquisition deal that very morning. No one was told of her true plans.
“Mr. Wells, why would you be interested in my business affairs?”
“Well … you were surveying land from my craft the other day.”
He was clearly hedging. “There are many wonderful resorts on the Islands if I need to do research and I really don’t need a guide.” She glanced at her wristwatc
h, though she hadn’t any pressing plans. “I really do need to get back to Victoria.”
“You are sure?”
“Quite.” She turned and walked briskly toward the lobby and exit, him following. Touring the resort of her dreams with a man who made her heart flutter and mind wonder was out of the question. Daemon had a magnetic effect and an intimate understanding of her that she found frightening. The sooner she returned to Victoria and left him and his fancy car, the better.
The conversation in the Jag as they returned to Victoria had been light and minimal. Part of it was due to the rustling wind and difficulty in hearing and the other was by choice. She wasn’t interested in revealing any more about herself than necessary to a man who had such strong perception and intuition. When she returned home to the Seychelles she had promised herself that she’d leave all of her experiences and memories of her time in Europe and the States behind. Especially her memories of the States. She was going to start over on her own terms with no encumbrances to question her or hold her back.
In Victoria, Mah’e, she asked Daemon to let her off on Albert Street.
“I can drive you home, it would be easier,” he offered.
The last thing she needed was for him to know where she lived. “Thanks, but I have some business to attend to here first,” she lied.
“Can we do this again?” he asked with a sparkling and hopeful smile.
She smiled back, exiting his car in silence and waved. Better to be silent than to make promises only to be broken.
Chapter 3
Victoria set her overnight bag near the front door of her mother’s home. Her plan called for a quick trip to the island of Praslin to see and negotiate on some property. She also welcomed the solace the smaller, more secluded island would bring. She relished the time away from her mother’s inquisitive eyes, her friends’ small talk and the chance of encountering Daemon Wells. In a short time, the taxi would be arriving to whisk her off to the airport and a fifteen-minute airplane charter flight to a more remote paradise.
