Island in the Sun

by Janice Horton

  Island in the Sun

  About the Author

  Janice Horton, also affectionately known as the backpacking housewife, writes romantic fiction with a dash of humour and a sense of adventure. Once her three children had grown up, Janice and her backpacking husband sold their empty nest in Scotland UK along with almost everything they owned and set off to travel the world. Since then they have been travelling full-time and have explored over 50 countries, living out of an apartment, a hut, or wherever they happen to find themselves.

  Twitter: @JaniceHorton

  Facebook: TheBackpackingHousewife

  Instagram: janicehortonwriter

  Pinterest: TheBackpackingHousewife

  Website: https://thebackpackinghousewife.com

  What the Readers say:

  ‘Who doesn't love an adventure? Especially when it's set in the Caribbean!’ Linn B Halton

  ‘Who doesn't dream about a vacation in the Caribbean?’ R is for Reviews

  ‘The author’s words will transport you to the beautifully sunny and warm Caribbean.’ Kate’s Book Spot

  ‘The author’s obvious knowledge and love of the Caribbean shines through.’ Best Chick Lit.com

  ‘You feel like you are living the story.’ Netgalley Reviewer.

  ‘Janice’s descriptive passages capture the very essence of the Caribbean.’ Carol E Wyer

  ‘I really enjoy Janice's writing style.’ Mandy Baggot

  Also by Janice Horton

  Romantic Adventure Novels

  The Backpacking Housewife

  Castaway in the Caribbean

  Reaching for the Stars

  Bagpipes and Bullshot

  Novellas

  Voodoo Romance Boxed Set

  How Do You Voodoo

  Voodoo Wedding

  Voodoo Child

  Non-Fiction

  How To Party Online

  Romantic Comedy

  Writing as Janey Travis

  I Need A Doctor

  Out of Print

  Beneath Apricot Skies

  When We First Love

  Copyright © Janice Horton 2019

  Janice Horton asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  This work is entirely a work of fiction. The names characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International Copyright Conventions.

  By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or any information storage or retrieval system, in any form or in any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or herein invented, without the express permission of Janice Horton.

  Dedication:

  For my bestie, Dina

  Island in the Sun

  Prologue

  A small group of people are gathered on the side of a hill. The church behind them is painted white in colonial style and has a tall spire pointing into a cloudless blue sky. There is a balmy breeze blowing in from the east, whipping up the minister’s white outer cassock, and causing the petals of the more delicate tropical flowers on the funeral casket to rise up and flutter about like fragrant butterflies.

  The mourners have their heads lowered in prayer. Beneath their wide brimmed hats, their shaded eyes are firmly closed, yet the view from this lofty vantage point is stunning; a sparkling blue-green sea for a full three hundred and sixty degrees around, and below, a white-sand palm-fringed beach is shimmering in the mid-morning heat. A mound of freshly dug earth is piled neatly to one side of the grave. As the casket of their beloved matriarch Katherine Rocha is lowered into the ground some of those gathered, like her loyal housekeeper and friend Grace, are now openly weeping.

  With a final farewell, Grace wipes away her tears and takes solace in remembering the good times, when Miss Kate had first arrived on this laid-back little island in the Caribbean Sea with her handsome husband Mr Ernest Rocha, and their sophisticated glamour and pizzazz. When they had taken on an army of workers from the village to fix up the old owner’s house and even put in a tennis court and a swimming pool and how everyone, from fisherman to fisherwife, had wanted to work for the rich and fabulous new owners of Pearl Island.

  When Miss Kate had let it be known that she was looking for a cook and a housekeeper, Grace had proudly secured both positions and some of her favourite memories were of cooking for the Rocha’s and their friends and visitors from America who had come over to stay on the island at one time or another. On these occasions, she would prepare elaborate dinners while Mr Ernest, dressed to the nines in his dapper style, served aperitifs on the porch and Miss Kate looked the belle of the ball in the latest chic designer gowns and fabulous jewellery. In those halcyon days, in the kitchen below the porch, Grace would sway her hips to the music wafting in through the open windows with the smoke from Mr Ernest’s Cuban cigars and the lively conversation, laughter, and heady perfume.

  Grace sighed. Those were the days before Mr Ernest was missing, his body never recovered. The days before poor Miss Kate was left bereft and grieving. The days before salvation came to the island in the form of Miss Kate’s little orphaned niece. Tears welled up once more in Grace’s eyes as she remembered her great affection for Isla.

  Isla – a name that means island – came to live on Pearl Island as a six-year-old after the death of her own parents in England. With her sweet heart-shaped face and her white blonde hair and bright blue eyes, Isla had grown up a happy and carefree island child, bringing joy and laughter to a deathly-quiet house and a heartbroken Miss Kate back from the brink of her terrible grief.

  But just a decade later, heartbreak had returned, when at sixteen-years-old, a rebellious and devilishly headstrong Isla, made the mistake of falling in love with Leo Fernandez, the son of notorious islander Jack Fernandez. She had been warned off seeing the sea-gypsy boy by her anxious aunt but Isla had steadfastly refused to listen and just as her aunt predicted and feared, a terrible incident led to eighteen-year-old Leo being arrested and Isla being despatched by her angry Aunt to a boarding school in the UK.

  Since that day, Miss Kate had refused to mention the girl’s name. However, a photograph of Isla, taken on her sixteenth birthday, has remained on Miss Kate’s bedside table to this very day. Now that Miss Kate was no longer here, Grace could only pray that what happened a decade ago, although serious enough to break her employer’s heart, had not given enough cause for Miss Kate to ever remove her niece, her only surviving relative, from her last Will and Testament and that Isla could return to Pearl Island to claim what was rightfully hers.

  Chapter One

  Isla – Present Day

  Isla hauled her suitcase up the path to her front door and noticed a dark-coloured car parked on the opposite side of the street. There was a man inside it and he was quite obviously watching her. Did she know him? No, she didn’t think so, because she didn’t know anyone in Edinburgh who drove a Bentley.

  Her pace quickened while her hand searched inside her jacket pocket for her key. What was he doing there? What did he want? In alarm, she wondered if burglars or people-traffickers, even rapists, were using expensive cars these days as some kind of decoy for their evil intentions. If so, then luckily she wasn’t easily fooled nor impressed.

  From across the street she heard the car door click open and then clunk heavily shut. She gripped the key in her hand and readied it to use as a weapon should she need to defend herself, although she doubted she had the energy for a fight. It had been a long da
y, her flight had been delayed, and she just wanted to come home to a hot bath and a glass of wine.

  Then she heard the man call out her name.

  ‘Isla Ashton?’ He used a tone of inflection, as if not actually calling her name but asking if it was her name.

  She turned on her heels to see him walking towards her. She quickly noticed he was smartly dressed and looked more like a private detective than an assailant.

  ‘Who are you?’ she demanded.

  ‘My name is Mark King. My legal office in Edinburgh has been charged with the task of informing you of the recent death of your aunt, Mrs Katherine Rocha.’

  Auntie Kate was dead?

  At the news, Isla wavered on her feet.

  Mark King, reaching out to her with his business card, caught her arm.

  ‘I’m really sorry, Miss Ashton. I can see this has come as something of a shock. Perhaps we should discuss this matter inside?’ He motioned towards the front door of her town house.

  Isla glanced over his card to note his name was embossed in gold lettering. She nodded as her throat felt too tight to speak and she attempted to open the door with a trembling hand. On her third attempt, Mark King offered to help. She handed over the key to him and he rattled it in the lock for a fraction of a second before pushing open the door. It was then she noticed that he was carrying something tucked under his arm, a parcel, wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string.

  He stood aside and she slid past him. Flicking on the hallway light, Isla looked around her.

  ‘Sorry about the mess,’ she said, and scooped up five days of post from the floor and rushed to clear magazines from the sofa so that he could sit down. But he was already in her kitchen, filling the kettle from the tap.

  While sipping tea, Mark King told her that her aunt had died of cancer. ‘Diagnosed two years ago, apparently, but she refused treatment.’

  Isla sighed. ‘I guess she wouldn’t leave the island.’

  ‘I couldn’t find a private number for you,’ he explained apologetically. ‘But I did leave messages at the number listed on your company website and I also sent an email. I’m sorry, but it has been a little difficult to track you down, Miss Ashton.’

  ‘I’ve been away on business and I gave my PA some time off. When is the funeral?’

  Mark King looked even more uncomfortable as he told her, ‘It is today. On the island.’ He retrieved the parcel he had been carrying and placed it on the coffee table in front of her.

  Isla stared at it. ‘What is that?’

  ‘Your aunt’s executors in Grand Cayman understand that it belongs to you. It’s not listed as part of her estate and she left specific instructions it be returned to you in the event of her death.’

  She put down her tea and pulled the wrapping off the parcel. She recognised the box beneath immediately and pressed her hands to her mouth to cover the smile that had begun to play on her lips.

  It was Aunt Kate’s jewellery box.

  Isla was suddenly struck with some of her happiest memories. Sneaking barefoot across the painted wooden porch into her aunt’s bedroom through doors left open to encourage a cooling breeze to blow in from the sea, to dance around in her aunt’s colourful batik sarongs.

  In her mind’s eye, she saw an ethereal image of herself as a small girl, draped in those wonderfully light gossamer fabrics, sitting at her aunt’s dressing table and playing dress-up with her vast collection of rubies and emeralds and diamonds and pearls.

  She also tried to hide her surprise that her aunt would have actually wanted her to have her jewellery after what had happened although, of course, it made perfect sense that she wouldn’t have wanted it all in the hands of the taxman or her lawyers.

  Her aunt’s jewellery would be worth an absolute fortune. Not that there had ever been any record of its worth or even its existence. It had never been valued or insured and there were certainly no receipts because none of it had ever actually been purchased. The pearls – perfectly formed and natural – had mostly been found a long time ago off the very island that Isla had once called home. The diamonds and other precious stones in the collection had without a doubt been either won or hustled by Isla’s infamous late Uncle Ernest Rocha, at high-stakes poker games during the 1970s, which is exactly how he had come to own a whole Caribbean island in the first place.

  ‘Yes, it came to me through my late parents and has been in the safekeeping of my aunt,’ Isla lied. Lying came surprisingly easy to her, probably because she herself had been lied to so convincingly.

  Mark King nodded and seemed satisfied.

  Isla allowed her fingers to reach out and wander over the familiar shimmering mother-of-pearl mosaic of starfish and seahorses and shells that decorated the box. It was beautiful. Just as beautiful as she remembered it.

  ‘Although, there doesn’t appear to be a key,’ Mark King pointed out.

  Isla raised an eyebrow. She recalled a cleverly hidden compartment that held a key beneath the beautifully carved façade. She stood up, offering him her hand for shaking, now that their business was concluded. ‘Thank you, Mr King. I appreciate you coming out here to deliver this box to me personally.’

  He took an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘Your aunt’s Last Will and Testament will be read in a few days’ time and as per her wishes you are required to attend.’ He placed the envelope straight into her hand. ‘This is a first-class air ticket. Your flight leaves tomorrow.’

  Isla vehemently shook her head. ‘No, I can’t possibly. Anyway, there’s little point. You see, my Aunt Kate and I had a big falling out, a long time ago, and we haven’t been in contact since. I really have no interest in going back there.’

  Mark King’s dark eyebrows rose up and disappeared under his thatch of dark hair.

  ‘But, Miss Ashton, I don’t think you fully understand. Estranged or not, I have been advised that you are about to inherit her estate in its entirety, and by that, I mean the island in the Caribbean Sea known as Isla de las Perlas and all the properties and the businesses thereon. You are absolutely required to go and attend the reading. I’m afraid it’s an obligation.’

  Chapter Two

  Isla de las Perlas, or Pearl Island, is situated in the eastern Caribbean Sea, an equal distance between the Cayman Islands and mainland Honduras. It is just two miles long and one and a half miles wide at its widest point. In days of old, around the time of the seventeenth and eighteen centuries, this then unnamed and mostly uninhabited island had functioned as a safe harbour for passing ships caught in bad weather or hurricanes while sailing into Port Royal on Roatan. It then became a tactical stronghold for pirates launching daring assaults on treasure-laden ships sailing from the mainland.

  Also around this time, it was rumoured that the infamous buccaneer, Captain Henry Morgan, had buried two hundred thousand pieces of eight on the island while being pursued by the Spanish fleet after sacking Porto Bello in what is now modern-day Panama. But by the end of the eighteenth century, abandoned and ignored by the rest of the world, someone searching for Captain Morgan’s treasure happened to discover natural pearls off its waters and the island immediately became a hub for pearl divers.

  The waters off Pearl Island were then plundered and pillaged over several decades, until it had been stripped of all its natural oyster beds and only one stoic pearl diver remained, an American prospector named Vernon Jones. With his hoard of perfect pearls, Mr Jones cleverly negotiated with the then government of Honduras to purchase the island for himself in 1934.

  He died in 1938, drowned by a rip tide while still searching for more pearls.

  His only son, who lived in Arizona USA at the time with his mother, later inherited Pearl Island, but he loathed to travel outside the US and didn’t even own a passport. In 1975, Vernon Jones Junior gambled away the deeds to Pearl Island in a poker game in Las Vegas.

  Even to this day, Pearl Island is excluded from many maps and has been described by Lonely Planet not just as the und
iscovered Caribbean but the undiscoverable. From the UK, for example, one had to first fly to the USA and from there head across the Caribbean Sea to the Cayman Islands, from where one had to brave either a short flight in a small charter plane or a long boat trip on an often choppy sea.

  Isla had travelled the boat route once before, and could loosely recall the experience of being tossed about on a swirling sea, even though she had only been six years old at the time. Her Aunt Kate, her mum’s only sister, had come to the UK to collect her when her parents had been killed in a car accident. Isla could remember arriving on the island too. Her memories though, were like snippets of old video mixed with feelings of fledgling excitement and anxiety.

  She recalled tipping back her head to gaze up at the strangest of trees; all tall and skinny and waving their green fronds into the highest and bluest of skies. She remembered her eyes being dazzled and her face being scorched by hot yellow sunshine. She remembered spinning around in a warm breeze scented with flowers and sea salt, and kicking off her best shoes to put her toes in powder-soft white sand and to run barefoot with other children on the island, which brought her thoughts back to Leo.

  Leo Fernandez was the most beautiful boy she had ever seen. He had golden skin and pale green almond shaped eyes and long golden hair, the longest she’d ever seen on a boy, and it grew out from his head in thick coils. Leo taught her to climb rocks and trees and to swim in the sea and to fish with a hand reel. Over the years, they had become inseparable friends.

  When Leo was sixteen and she was fourteen, he’d given her a necklace that he’d made himself out of fine fishing twine, into which he’d set two very tiny but perfectly round white pearls. He said he’d swam down and found them inside oyster shells on the reef. He’d slipped the necklace around her neck and asked her to be his girlfriend.