Passionate Protectors?

by Anne Mather

  He said lightly, ‘A man of strong will. Who managed to talk him round?’

  ‘My nanny,’ she said. ‘Our family doctor. My aunt Margaret.’ She shrugged. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t really matter. It was all a long time ago.’

  ‘Yet you’ve remembered it?’

  She thought, Oh, I remember more than that. The way he tried to remove every trace of my mother from the house, as if she’d never existed, or as if he’d demeaned himself by marrying a girl who was a foreigner and who’d worked as a cabaret singer. The way he tried to stifle my own interest in music.

  ‘Some things tend to stick.’ She made her voice dismissive. ‘Is that all you wanted to know?’

  ‘It’s not even a fraction of it,’ Ash drawled, pouring himself more coffee.

  ‘However, it’s all I’m prepared to say on the subject.’ She drew a breath. ‘Now, may I ask a question? What time will we reach St Hilaire?’

  ‘Early afternoon.’

  ‘I see.’ Chellie bit her lip. ‘And you’re quite sure I can’t reach the consul over the weekend?’

  ‘Don’t even try,’ he advised lazily. ‘Not if you want him on your side. Anyway, what’s the hurry?’

  ‘It clearly hasn’t occurred to you,’ Chellie said tautly, ‘that I might want to get on with the rest of my life.’

  ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘I wasn’t even aware you knew what form it was going to take.’ He leaned back in his seat, eyelids drooping as he studied her. ‘So, what do you have in mind?’

  ‘That,’ she said, ‘is none of your damned business.’

  ‘Wrong,’ he said. ‘According to the old saying, if you save someone’s skin, then they belong to you for evermore. So I have a vested interest in your future, songbird. Not to mention that pretty hide of yours,’ he added mockingly.

  Chellie set her jaw. ‘Until you get tired of playing Galahad, anyway,’ she said stonily.

  ‘I am not playing anything, Michelle.’ Ash sounded weary. ‘In fact, I’m bloody serious. So may we please stop fencing and start talking some sense?’

  She flushed. ‘Very well,’ she said constrictedly. ‘If we must.’

  ‘Where do you intend to go after St Hilaire? Home?’

  She hesitated. ‘I have no home—in that sense. But I’ll head for London, I suppose. I—know people there. There’ll be someone I can stay with while I sort myself out.’

  ‘My God,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t approve?’ She tilted her chin in challenge.

  ‘I’ve had nightmares I’ve enjoyed more,’ he said shortly.

  ‘I’ve been staying with you,’ Chellie objected. ‘And you’re a complete stranger.’

  ‘How odd you should think that,’ he said softly. ‘When I feel as if I’ve known you all my life.’

  Her throat tightened, making breathing difficult. The words seemed to hover in the air between them, but she couldn’t think of a single comeback, or even meet his gaze. So she busied herself instead with collecting up the used crockery.

  Eventually he spoke again. ‘Is someone else’s sofa your only scheme?’

  ‘At the moment. But please don’t concern yourself. I’d be going to friends, you know.’

  His brows lifted. ‘Are these the same friends that allowed you to run away with your con-man boyfriend?’

  She piled the dishes on to a tray. ‘I didn’t really tell them about Ramon. Certainly not what we were planning. I didn’t mention that to anyone.’

  ‘Why all the secrecy?’

  She thought, Because I was scared that word would somehow get back to my father and he’d find a way of stopping me. After all, he always had before…

  She shrugged. ‘Up to then my life had been an open book,’ she countered. ‘I enjoyed having something to hide for once.’ She paused. ‘Besides, Ramon never really wanted to meet my friends.’ She pulled a face. ‘He said that he only wanted to be with me, not other people.’

  ‘How sweet and caring of him,’ Ash drawled.

  ‘I thought so then,’ Chellie returned, carrying the tray into the galley. ‘But I won’t be so naïve in future. I’ll keep reminding myself that everyone has a hidden agenda.’

  ‘That doesn’t bode well for future relationships.’

  Chellie was uneasily aware that he’d followed her and was standing only a couple of feet away, arms folded, leaning against the worktop.

  ‘I’m not planning to have any.’ She shrugged a casual shoulder. ‘I intend to savour my independence.’

  ‘I hear the words, songbird,’ he said softly. ‘But I’m not convinced. That beautiful bottom lip of yours is much too soft and generous for such a hardline attitude. One day you’ll want to share your kisses—and your life.’

  ‘And set myself up for another disappointment?’ Her tone was suddenly ragged as she remembered last night—how she’d stared across at the door, her whole body aching with the consciousness of his presence on the other side of it. How she’d yearned—prayed for it to open. And how he’d left her, torn apart with longing and frustration and totally bereft.

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’

  There was an odd silence, then he said, ‘I didn’t realise that he’d got to you quite so deeply. I’m—sorry. But not all men are like Ramon. You’ll learn to trust again, Michelle. I promise you will.’

  ‘You should write a magazine column.’ She kept her tone light and mocking. ‘“Advice for the dumped-on”. As for promises,’ she added casually. ‘Just guarantee to get me to the consul on St Hilaire first thing on Monday morning and I’ll be completely happy.’

  ‘You think so?’ he asked with sudden harshness. ‘I say you’re wrong, Michelle. In fact, right now, I doubt if you’ll ever discover the true meaning of the word as long as you live.’

  And he walked away, leaving her standing there, staring after him in shocked silence.

  The road ran dizzyingly along the coast, allowing Chellie tantalising glimpses, through the clustering palm trees which fringed it, of silver beaches below and a sea shifting endlessly from shades of emerald to turquoise, through all the colours in between.

  Not that she had much opportunity to be entranced. She was more preoccupied with retaining her seat in the Jeep that was taking her—somewhere.

  The driver, Alphonse, was a cheerful soul with a wide grin, who whistled and hummed snatches of song while he drove.

  She’d asked him in English and French where exactly they were heading, but had been answered with only a smiling shrug and a ‘Not far,’ which told her nothing.

  She supposed the sensible course would have been to find out her eventual destination before getting into this boneshaking vehicle and being jolted over roads little better than cart tracks in places, while she clung, white-knuckled, to the side of the Jeep.

  But then, from what she’d seen so far, carts seemed to be the preferred form of transport.

  Besides, she’d been so relieved to find that Ash was not coming with her that all other considerations had paled into insignificance.

  Her last hours on board La Belle Rêve had not been easy. She had been at pains to keep out of Ash’s way. She’d felt too raw and confused to risk another confrontation so soon. And he had seemed equally keen to avoid her.

  Fortunately the approach to St Hilaire had provided a new focus, and she’d hung over the rail, scanning its high and rocky hinterland with genuine interest.

  Laurent had come to lean beside her with a sigh of quiet satisfaction. ‘Home at last.’ He pointed to the tallest peak. ‘That is L’Aiguille,’ he told her. ‘The Needle—our volcano. It is thanks to her and her little sisters around her, Les Epingles, that our island is so fertile and our crops grow so well.’

  ‘Volcano?’ Chellie repeated in a hollow voice. ‘Is it dangerous?’

  Laurent gave her a teasing glance. ‘It is not considered in a fatal phase,’ he said solemnly. ‘You may climb up to the crater and inspect it for yourself, if you wish.’

  She force
d a smile. ‘I think I’ll pass. Besides, I won’t really be around long enough for any sightseeing. I want to be on my way as soon as possible.’

  ‘As soon as possible?’ Laurent mused, and shook his head. ‘I don’t think we have a phrase for that in these islands.’

  She laughed, then became aware that Ash was watching and moved away, going down to her stateroom. She packed a few judiciously chosen items from the closet and drawers into her bag, then changed into a cream linen dress, ornamented down the front by large black buttons, and slid her feet into low-heeled black pumps.

  When she met the consul she needed to look like someone merely suffering from temporary financial embarrassment, she thought, rather than some pathetic waif or stray. And this outfit, by one of her own favourite designers, should do the trick.

  They anchored in the middle of St Hilaire’s surprisingly large harbour, and a launch arrived with promptitude to take them to shore.

  Chellie couldn’t help noticing that while Laurent was greeted with laughter and uproarious slaps on the back, Ash was treated with smiling respect, triggering all sorts of questions in her mind.

  Questions, as she reminded herself, which were never likely to be answered.

  As she stood hesitantly on the quayside, Laurent came over to her. ‘Mam’selle Chellie.’ He took her hand. ‘I wish you au revoir. I look forward to hearing that you have become a great singer when we meet again.’

  Unlikely on both counts, Chellie thought, as she smiled and murmured something non-committal.

  She looked around, noting how the low red-roofed houses clung to the steep hillside above her in charmingly haphazard fashion. Confronting her was a row of warehouses, brightly painted, and there were a number of stalls offering fruit, vegetables, pottery and woven baskets.

  ‘Your room’s all arranged.’ Ash appeared suddenly beside her, making her jump. ‘I’m sorry I can’t accompany you,’ he added, without the least sign of regret. ‘But I have things to do. Alphonse, here, will deliver you in perfect safety.’ He signalled, and a tall, rangy man climbed down from the Jeep and took Chellie’s bag for her.

  Ash added no further explanation, wished her a perfunctory goodbye, and turned away.

  And that, she told herself with a certain defiance as she got in the Jeep, was exactly—absolutely—what she wanted.

  I have to stop thinking about him, she told herself forcefully as they drove off. Or I’m going to go mad. We’ve said goodbye, and now I’m on my own, in charge of my own destiny. I need to concentrate on that. Focus on the rest of my life—and taking the next step towards it.

  She’d expected to be driven straight to some small hotel in St Hilaire itself, but the capital was long behind them now, and still the Jeep lurched on its precarious way.

  In spite of her attempt at positive thinking, there was a rawness deep inside her, and an odd sense of disorientation, not lessened by this unexpected journey.

  She could only imagine they were destined for some secluded tourist resort in an exclusive corner of the island, and while the idea of some rest and relaxation beckoned seductively, it wasn’t really convenient to be marooned so far from the hub of the capital. Especially, she thought broodingly, when she needed to present herself at the consular office first thing on Monday morning.

  Perhaps that consideration had slipped Ash’s mind, but she didn’t think so. He didn’t strike her as someone who forgot much. Or nothing, anyway, that he wanted to remember…

  But then what did she know? He’d revealed so little of himself during their brief time together that he was still a cross between an enigma and a chameleon. Always changing, she thought with a stifled sigh, like the restless sea beneath the cliffs.

  And paused, her hand flying in shock to her mouth as she too remembered something.

  My passport, she thought, horrified. Oh, God, he still has it.

  She turned to Alphonse. She said in French, ‘We must go back to the town. Find Monsieur Brennan. It is very important. A matter of life and death.’

  But Alphonse merely grinned at her, said something that was apparently meant to be soothing in some incomprehensible local patois, and drove on.

  She tried again. ‘No, you must turn round. I really need to go back.’

  For a moment she thought he was going to do as he asked, because he turned the wheel suddenly, swinging the Jeep across the road almost at a right angle and startling a small yelp from her.

  But, instead of completing the expected U-turn, he left the coast road altogether, taking a narrow dusty track that Chellie had not even noticed was there, and she found herself being driven downhill between tall hibiscus hedges.

  ‘Where are we?’ she demanded breathlessly, and Alphonse pointed ahead to a wooden archway, with the single word ‘Arcadie’ carved into its overhead timbers.

  I suppose that’s meant to convey something, Chellie thought with rising vexation. When am I going to start getting some straight answers round here?

  They seemed to be descending into a steep valley, plunging into a green tunnel where overhanging foliage almost blocked out the sun. Through the trees, she could just glimpse the lines of a tiled roof.

  Clinging on like grim death, as the Jeep lurched and bounced, she gasped out, ‘Is that the hotel—the place where you’re taking me?’

  Alphonse flashed her a grin. ‘Oui, mademoiselle. C’est Arcadie.’

  ‘But I won’t be able to stay there.’ She tried to speak clearly and concisely above the roar of the engine. ‘I’ll need my passport to register, and Mr Brennan has it. He forgot to give it to me and I have to get it back. Do you understand?’

  Alphonse nodded, still smiling, and drove on without slackening his pace by one iota.

  Nuts, Chellie told herself helplessly. He must be. I’m driving round with the local fruitcake.

  And if the building below was a hotel, it was a pretty small one, she thought, a frown creasing her brow. There could be supplementary cabins dotted round the grounds, but so far she hadn’t spotted any sign of them.

  Nor could she see any flash of blue water suggesting that Hotel Arcadie boasted a swimming pool, and that was a disappointment. St Hilaire might not be a leader in the Caribbean tourist industry, but surely whatever hotels it possessed should be expected to have the usual amenities.

  And, she realised, she’d been looking forward to a swim.

  In her old life in London, swimming had been one of her favourite forms of exercise—apart from dancing. In the pool near her home she’d swum in the early morning, pushing herself almost to the limit of exhaustion. Distancing herself from the devils of boredom and frustration that had plagued her so often.

  Here, she had other frustrations to work through—other demons to exorcise—and the prospect of stretching her limbs in cool water—restoring her body to fitness—had been irresistible.

  A cold shower wouldn’t be the same thing at all, she thought wryly. That was, of course, if the hotel was sophisticated enough to have bathrooms. She didn’t even know that for certain.

  But when they eventually emerged from the overhanging trees into full sunlight, and she was able to take her first proper look at Arcadie, she had to admit that she’d been unfair. Because it certainly lived up to its name.

  It was a gracious two-storey building, standing square and painted white, its roof tiled in faded terracotta. It was surrounded by well-kept lawns of coarse grass and flowerbeds that were a sheer riot of colour.

  A shady verandah encircled the ground floor, guarding long shuttered windows, and a balcony with a wooden balustrade surrounded the first floor.

  It was very still, only the harsh cry of a bird breaking the welcome silence as the Jeep stopped.

  Chellie saw that the main door was open, and an elderly man with grizzled hair stood waiting in the shade of the pillared portico.

  He came forward and opened the passenger door, lifting down Chellie’s bag and offering her a hand to assist her descent.

  ‘Madem
oiselle.’ He wore dark trousers and a pristine white linen coat, and his smile was grave and polite. ‘My name is Cornelius. Welcome to Arcadie.’

  Chellie got down stiffly, resisting the temptation to rub the bits that ached from that headlong journey. She felt hot and sticky, and was aware that the dress she’d worn to impress was creased and dusty.

  She took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry, but there’s been a mistake,’ she began, then whirled round, gasping, as the Jeep’s engine roared into life again and the vehicle took off in another swirl of dust, with a cheery backward wave from Alphonse.

  ‘Hell’s bells.’ Ridiculously, she tried to run after it. ‘Don’t go,’ she yelled. ‘Ne me quittez pas. You can’t leave me stranded here. You can’t…’

  ‘You must not disturb yourself, mademoiselle.’ Cornelius’s voice was soothing as he came to her side. He took her arm and began to urge her gently but firmly towards the door. ‘All is well, and you are quite safe. I will show you your room, then Rosalie, my wife, will make you some iced tea.’

  Chellie stared at him. ‘If you’re the owner, then there’s something you should know,’ she said, swallowing. ‘I’ve been brought here under false pretences. You see, I’ve no passport or money either, and I needed the driver to take me back to town so that I could sort something out.’

  ‘Neither are required, mademoiselle. And I am not the owner of Arcadie, merely an employee. Whereas you, of course, are an honoured guest.’

  They were inside now, in a spacious hall kept cool by the gentle movement of a ceiling fan. The walls were painted ivory, and the floor had been constructed from some wood the colour of warm honey.

  Apart from a carved wooden chest supporting a ceramic bowl heavy with blue and crimson flowers, the hall was empty. There was no sign of a reception desk, or any of the other paraphernalia of hotel life.

  Just a wide curving flight of stairs in the same honeyed wood—which she was being encouraged towards, she realised.