The Island Legacy

by Ruth Saberton

  Max’s lip curled. Somehow he didn’t think so. He was tired of pretty, empty heads and gold-diggers who were so obvious that they might as well be approaching him with sifting pans and pickaxes. He liked sex and he enjoyed the chase, but anything else soon bored him. As far as Max was concerned there was no greater turn-on than a business deal and a challenge.

  Which was what it looked as though he was about to get now.

  “Another drink, Mr Reynard? Or maybe some lunch? We’ve got mussels on today and a lovely monkfish special.” A waitress was hovering at Max’s elbow, balancing a tray in one hand and proffering a laminated menu with the other. Her heavy false eyelashes were fluttering so much that she was in danger of doing her lids an injury, Max thought.

  “Mineral water, thanks angel,” he replied, treating her to a slow and white-toothed smile. He was amused to see her blush in response. She was pretty enough, in a plump and freckled way, and she had a Cornish accent that reminded him of a character from Poldark. She couldn’t have been more than twenty though, which made him feel bloody ancient. He might be kicking his heels while Jamie Penwellyn sorted out his shit, but a guy had to draw the line somewhere. All the same, Max was no use at sitting still: he was much happier when he was flat out with a deal or even helping to carry out some of the renovations. There was a lot to be said for actually getting your hands dirty. Max might be the boss but that didn’t mean he couldn’t point a wall or lay bricks with the best of them. His father had seen to that.

  “Nothing stronger?” Flutter, flutter went the eyelashes. Max almost felt his hair blow in the breeze.

  He shook his head. “I don’t drink. Mineral water’s fine.”

  Not drinking was a choice that lots of people found hard to understand. They either assumed he was a recovering alcoholic (he wasn’t) or thought he was a control freak (possibly), and they usually tried their hardest to persuade him that just one wouldn’t hurt. Max found it tiresome. He’d enjoyed drinking in the past but he liked having a clear head and clear judgement even more – and when he’d unexpectedly found himself in charge of Reynard Developments these qualities had been invaluable. You didn’t drag a company out of imminent receivership and into enormous profit by spending your time drinking.

  A concept Jamie Penwellyn hadn’t grasped…

  As the waitress fetched his drink, her peachy little ass sashaying across the terrace, Max reflected that if Malcom Reynard could have seen him now, drinking designer water and lolling around in the afternoon sun on the deck of a boutique hotel, he’d have had a fit. His father had been working class to his marrow and a firm believer that real men got on with real jobs. He wouldn’t have been impressed with the smart suits and flash cars, being the kind of person who preferred to roll up his sleeves and get on with the job in hand. Reynard Developments had been his pride and joy; Max just wished he’d lived to see what it had become. In Max’s hands the business had certainly prospered. It had grown from a small building company in South London to one of the UK’s premier developers boasting an impressive portfolio. Max hoped that wherever Mal was now he was proud and not spinning in his grave, clutching his copy of the Socialist Worker and ranting over his son’s capitalist ways. He’d never know now, of course, but Max suspected that his workaholic personality would be a psychiatrist’s wet dream. If studying hard and winning a scholarship to public school hadn’t been enough to make his father proud, it was hard to imagine what would have pleased Malcom Reynard. Sometimes Max had even had the impression that his father was embarrassed about his son’s public school education, which was a peculiar inverted snobbery.

  The waitress returned with his drink and, sensing his introspective mood, didn’t pause to flirt – which Max was thankful for. Reaching into his holdall, he drew out a battered sketchpad and the pouch that contained his charcoals. Then, with his eyes narrowed, he began to sketch the castle. It was a view Max never tired of; already the pad was nearly filled with drawings of it from all perspectives. He loved to sketch, although it was something of an indulgence these days. More often than not his artistic leanings were channelled towards plans for buildings and renovations. Studying architectural plans had taught him technicality, but drawing from the heart gave him peace.

  The castle bloomed on the cartridge paper, rising from the white background just as it rose from the sea; it transformed the space with its magic and possibilities. As he sketched Max was filled with determination. He had to have the island. He had to. There was no doubt in his mind that it was meant to be his. Jamie Penwellyn had gloated about his inheritance all the way through school, never missing the chance to look down his nose at scholarship boys. After all, what did brains matter when you would one day be bequeathed your own castle? Working-class oiks like Max were to be sneered at.

  Or rather, they had been back then. Twenty years on Jamie had sung a very different song when he’d arrived at Reynard’s London offices deep in debt and with an interesting proposition. Max had enjoyed watching his old schoolmate sweat as he’d sat at his big leather-topped desk listening to Jamie choke out what it was he wanted. Jamie’s puffy face and pallor spoke volumes about the life of excess that had led him to this point, and Max despised him for squandering all of his opportunities. Never mind the proverbial silver spoon; Jamie Penwellyn had been born with the entire cutlery set wedged in his mouth. Although Jamie’s parents had passed on, leaving him an investment portfolio as well as their pretty Georgian manor house, he’d even managed to let these assets slip through his pudgy fingers.

  He was utterly pathetic, Max thought scornfully. Still, it never hurt to hear what people had to say – and in his experience the more desperate they were the more useful they could be.

  “Max, old man, I need a bit of a favour,” Jamie had said, once they’d exchanged pleasantries. He’d run a finger around his shirt collar and flicked a pink tongue over his lips while Max had remained silent. It was a favourite tactic of Max’s, to let the other party do all the talking and dig themselves in as deep as they wished while he waited to see exactly which move to make. Business was a game of chess to Max – and he’d had a feeling that this one could literally end with him taking the castle. He’d been looking forward to checkmating his old tormentor.

  Max had narrowed his eyes. “I’m not sure I follow.”

  Jamie had shifted on his seat as Max regarded him with a cool grey gaze. “The thing is, I’m in a bit of a spot.”

  “A spot? What kind of spot?”

  Jamie had cleared his throat. “Some of my investments haven’t performed quite as expected and I’ve had to liquidate quite a few assets to keep things afloat. I even had to sell the house and Ma and Pa’s things. Lucy was very upset but what’s a man to do?”

  So he’d flogged the family silver then, thought Max, and now there was nothing left. No surprises there. In the past, whenever Jamie Penwellyn had managed to get his hands on any funds the money had soon gone down his neck or up his nose – so why would he be any different now? He even looked the same: weak-chinned and sandy-haired and with the petulant expression Max recalled only too well from school. Thank God Max had been strong and sporty and more than a match for Jamie and his cronies.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Max had said evenly. “They’ve been tough times recently. We’re pulling through now though. Globally the markets are doing well; they definitely seem to be in recovery.”

  “They are, they are.” Jamie was nodding like the Churchill dog.

  If I told him the earth was flat right now he’d agree, Max had thought, and in spite of himself his interest was piqued. Desperate people sometimes made offers that were unexpected. Unexpected and lucrative.

  “Something that’s definitely on the up is Cornwall. Everyone wants a piece of the place,” Jamie had declared, as though this would be a surprise to Max. Perhaps Jamie was unaware that Reynard Developments had already bought several plum spots in that county already. “Which is where we might be able to help one another out – scra
tch each other’s backs, if you like?”

  Max had steepled his fingers under his chin. Although he hadn’t allowed his face to show any emotion, a knot of excitement had tightened in his belly.

  “Really? In what respect?”

  “My uncle owns an island off the coast of St Pirran, with a castle on it? You visited once when you came to stay with us that Michaelmas break? Remember?”

  Of course Max remembered. It was hard not to, since Jamie had spent most of their schooldays boasting that he was to inherit the lot. When Max had visited that one weekend, the beauty of the place had taken his breath away. It was certainly nothing like Croydon. In the years since, Cornwall had remained in Max’s mind as somewhere that seemed enchanted. Of course, it was doubly enchanted now, thanks to the influx of celebrity chefs that had sent house prices skyrocketing. So far as Max could tell, property values looked set to continue on an upwards trajectory for some time yet, and there was money to be made by investing now. His company had recently purchased several buildings in St Pirran, one of which Max had renovated as a holiday home. He loved watersports and hiking the rugged cliff path, and he worked bloody hard too, so he reckoned it was the least he deserved.

  “So I was wondering whether you’d be interested in a potential project?” Jamie was asking, his braying tones breaking into Max’s thoughts. “You put up some collateral now as surety and when I inherit I give Reynard Developments first refusal on the place and a guaranteed price.”

  Max hadn’t even twitched an eyelash. “What on earth makes you think Reynard Developments would be interested in a ruin?”

  “A run-down castle, not a ruin. It’s still inhabited. My uncle and a bunch of hangers-on live there,” Jamie had corrected him swiftly.

  What a charming way to talk about his sister, Max had thought. Having spent some time in St Pirran lately, he knew that Lucy Penwellyn was run ragged caring for her sick uncle as well as managing the tea room, maintaining the castle and manning the visitor centre on the island when the need arose. A team of dedicated local volunteers helped her, but the bulk of the work and responsibility fell to Lucy. On the few occasions when Max had seen her, scuttling along the High Street with a shopping basket in one hand and a spaniel’s lead in the other, she’d looked ready to drop.

  “There must be hundreds of people who’d kill for a luxury apartment in a castle on a private Cornish island. You could develop it and make a fortune,” Jamie had pressed, leaning forward. His blue eyes were bright with zeal. “If you pay me a sum upfront as a guarantee I’ll make sure that when I inherit you can buy the island and the castle at an agreed sum. We can get it all drawn up and legal if you’d rather.”

  Max would certainly rather. He could throw the castle further than he trusted Jamie Penwellyn. “Saying we were interested, which I’m not necessarily saying, why would you want to do that?”

  “It’s simple: I need the funds. Bloody embarrassing but true. Besides, the old place costs thousands a week just to maintain. It’s a millstone to me and I’d be glad to see the back of it.”

  A millstone he didn’t even own yet, Max had thought wryly.

  “And you’re certain you’re inheriting?”

  “Nobody else to leave it to. Lucy’s bloody useless, Uncle Adric buggered off years ago and died in the States, and the only other relative is some bint living God only knows where. So I’m the only male heir. Don’t worry about Uncle Armand leaving it to a cats’ home or something either. The old man wouldn’t do that. He’s been banging on about family lately – a bit bloody ironic really, since he didn’t talk to his brothers for years and only saw Lucy and me in passing when we were kids. He won’t let the place go out of the family.”

  Max was amused at the irony here. “But you would?”

  “For the right sum. Let’s face it, the place is a liability unless somebody with a tonne of cash buys it.” Jamie had held out his hand across the desk. “For the right sum I’ll sell it to you. I’d want a share of the profits and a small apartment too, but you’ll more than double your money. I promise.”

  He didn’t need to promise; Max’s sharp mind was already doing the maths and his artist’s imagination was picturing the castle fully restored and offering sumptuous apartments with breathtaking views. Jamie was wrong. Max wouldn’t double his money: he’d quadruple it. How could he not reach out and shake his ex-classmate’s hand?

  So, deeply in debt to Max now, Jamie had promised that the island and castle would be sold to Reynard’s just as soon as the old man snuffed it and the legalities were in place.

  Max’s pencil scored a groove in the paper as he recalled their agreement. Jamie had been so certain that he was the heir, and Max hadn’t hesitated to strike a deal. Developing the castle was going to make him wealthier than he’d ever imagined – already he had buyers lined up for apartments in the luxury renovation. But it was about more than that to Max. Owning Pirran Island would be proof that he’d made it in life. From council house to castle – it would be a big V-sign to Jamie Penwellyn and his kind.

  Was this some sort of class revenge? Max wasn’t sure. Would his father be cheering him on or horrified that he’d embraced capitalism so wholeheartedly? All he knew was that the castle was going to be his and that nobody was going to get in his way, least of all some random Penwellyn relative. He’d poured too much time and money into this project to let it go now. Whoever she was, she had better step aside.

  “All I know is that she’s definitely a niece,” Cally the PA had said, placing her hand on Max’s leg and moving one of her red-tipped fingers slowly up his thigh.

  “I thought Lucy was the only niece?” he’d asked, linking his fingers with hers in an attempt to halt that teasing digit.

  “Not according to David. There were three brothers and for some reason they all fell out. The youngest brother lived abroad for years, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him here. It’s his daughter Armand’s left everything to.”

  Her hand had slipped out of his and crept higher up his leg – which to all intents and purposes had ended the conversation and led to something far more interesting. A little bit of extra digging had revealed that the estate was in huge debt, the heir to it all was some kind of dropout, and the massive death duties would wipe out anything left in the pot. There was no way some flower child could possibly afford the upkeep on the place. Max had felt much better knowing this. It was only a matter of time before she sold to him, and in the meantime he’d have some fun making Jamie Penwellyn squirm as he paid back his loan.

  Who said revenge wasn’t sweet?

  So, all he needed to do was sit back and enjoy his stay in St Pirran. Then, once this niece realised that her inheritance was actually a bottomless money pit, he’d make her an offer she couldn’t refuse. It might even work out in his favour, Max reflected. He’d offer her a couple of million less than Jamie had been demanding and she’d be bound to accept because it would seem like a lottery win to her. Then he’d own the castle without having to give Jamie the apartment and settlement that had been part of their original agreement. It was a win-win situation.

  Max smiled. This unknown niece inheriting was turning out to be the best thing that could have happened.

  And for now? Well, he’d just enjoy some much-deserved rest here in Cornwall. That wouldn’t be such a hardship, not when there was blue water and sunshine – not to mention pretty girls like the cute redhead over there who was checking him out. With her lush curves, golden tan and flame-red hair she was exactly Max’s type. Catching her eye and raising a questioning eyebrow, he was rewarded by a rose-petal blush. Yes, Cornwall in the summer. What wasn’t to like?

  Gathering his bag and his sketchpad, Max decided it was time to find a sunny spot where he could spend the afternoon drawing up some more plans for what would soon become Reynard Developments’ greatest venture.

  Chapter 6

  It was far too early to turn up at the castle, Ness had decided as she’d guided the hire car through S
t Pirran’s warren of narrow streets. Nobody was expecting her until tomorrow morning when, accompanied by David Brown, the family’s solicitor, she was due to meet her newly discovered cousins and hear her uncle’s will being read. Until then she was on free time and perfectly at liberty to wander around the town and explore like any other tourist. There were certainly enough of them here today, licking melting ice creams and stepping out in front of her bonnet as though being on holiday afforded them some kind of magical protection from being squashed flat. It was with relief that she’d finally headed into the car park of the Island View Hotel.

  She’d do her best to avoid driving through the town in future, Ness had thought as she’d pulled into a space and killed the engine. At least she could leave the hire car to be collected. She wouldn’t have any further need of it, having booked into the hotel for two nights. In theory perhaps she could have stayed at the castle instead: it was technically hers (even if Ness was finding it even harder to grasp this concept now that she’d actually seen the castle). Nevertheless, it had seemed unwise to presume that she’d be welcome. There were people who already lived there, and to just turn up would be insensitive. She had no idea how things were going to unfold, and while she got the lie of the land it seemed wise to stay in neutral territory.

  And what neutral territory it was too. Perched on the headland overlooking the bay, the hotel had an unrivalled view over the water and boasted a large terrace that wrapped itself around the building. As she climbed a steep flight of steps towards the reception area, Ness saw that the terrace was filled with people seated under huge calico umbrellas. Those nearest her were sipping white wine and tucking into towering buckets of mussels. One man was busy making a charcoal drawing of the scene in front of him, his fingers flying over the creamy paper of his sketchpad as he narrowed his eyes and regarded the horizon. Ness, pausing to get her breath back after climbing the steps, couldn’t help but notice him. He was one of those men who drew the eye instantly. It wasn’t just because of his physique (lean, yet broad-shouldered); there was something about his intensity as he gazed across the bay, assessing the scene. His dark hair fell over his forehead every now and again, and he pushed it away with an impatient hand as though furious with anything that might get in the way of his sketching. He must be an artist, Ness thought with a pang. Addy had behaved exactly like this. When her father had been painting, which admittedly had happened less and less as the years had gone by, he’d locked himself into whatever room served as a studio and refused to emerge until the piece was finished. This man’s all-consuming concentration was very familiar – and when he glanced up and caught her staring, Ness pretended to be busy adjusting the handle of her case. He was extremely attractive, with those piercing grey eyes and sharp cheekbones; he must get women gawping at him all the time. Perhaps he’d assume she was doing the same. When he raised a quizzical eyebrow she felt her cheeks start to glow. He really did think she was checking him out! How embarrassing! For a second Ness considered walking over and explaining that she’d only been staring because he reminded her of her father, but how rude and odd would that sound? When she finally felt brave enough to look up again he’d returned his attention to his sketching. Relieved, Ness was able to reach the reception desk without making an idiot of herself.