"Did you.. er... fly in?" Chris began diffidently, wishing she were a million miles away. Every minute with this big morose man ought to have made her that bit more at ease. Instead the knots inside her were perpetually tightening. It ought to have helped that he was completely unaware of her presence, but it didn't.
He sat, one leg draped over the other, gazing down at the lights below, the dark suit sitting immaculately on the muscular frame. At her remark he flicked a glance over his coffee cup.
"I sailed in. Didn't you see the Barbary Cloud down in the harbour?"
The big luxury yacht? Yes, she'd seen it, but it hadn't occurred to her that it was his. He pointed now to where blocks of light bobbed on the glistening water.
"We'll take a run out to Cyrecano as soon as possible. You can get a closer look at the place."
He set the cup down with some deliberation and Chris thought, here it comes, the unpleasant bit. Whatever his plans were for landing her on the island she wouldn't be able to accept them.
"I'm not sure yet how we'll get you on," he was saying, thank heaven, "but you'll obviously need an excuse to stay on the island long enough to work on Huston."
"I wish you wouldn't keep putting it like that!" Chris placed her own cup down, irritation creeping into her voice. "This working on Clive Huston that you're so keen on... it won't be necessary. I'm sure when he knows the..."
"Miss Dawnay," he stood up and frowned out of the window as though the view had something to do with his ill humour, "let's get this sorted out once and for all and then we'll drop it.
You're here to work some romance into the life of one very obstinate young man - a job for which I am prepared to offer payment."
"The contract, of course," she murmured.
"Mention my name and you'll be stuck on the island till Doomsday. On the other hand if you play it my way you could be off in a month with Huston tagging nicely behind.''
"You may know everything about high-powered finance, Mr. Wyatt," Chris commented coolly, "but you know nothing at all of people's feelings. Surely your wife, or... fiancee..." she floundered, "will tell you that you can't just..."
"Fortunately I've never had time for such diversions." He did allow a glance to drop down the length of her before continuing. "But I'm not entirely unaware of what goes on in that field. Many a tough deal has been cracked by a woman."
"But I'm a stranger to Clive Huston. How can you expect me to go out there and..."
"Because," he shrugged, "by this time our friend should be ready to lap up some female company, and from what I saw you weren't doing too badly with the locals this afternoon."
"They weren't locals," Chris retorted. "Demetrius and his friends have their own boat. They left just before sundown, and I'm beginning to wish I'd gone with them!" She shot him a pleading look. "I'm never going to be able to go through with this, you know. I'm sure I'm the last person to work on anybody."
"I wouldn't say that." He studied her. "You could do it unconsciously with a young buck like Huston, especially if you get yourself up like you did today."
"Oh?" The sherry-brown eyes matched his for coolness. "I thought you didn't approve of that outfit?"
"My dear girl, it's not for me to approve or disapprove," he paced the floor, "but it's obvious you're going to make more headway with a civilized hair-style and decent clothes. Afterwards it won't matter if you want to go around looking half girl and half woman."
She saw him slip a derisive glance over the neat dress and replied defiantly, "Too bad that apart from that one this afternoon all my dresses are in-betweens!"
"Then we'll have to get you some new ones."
She watched him draw out a monogrammed cigarette case and light up a gold-tipped cigarette.
"Money solves all your problems, doesn't it?" she said coldly.
"Ninety per cent. The other ten, I'd say, are in hold-ups like this."
"Hold-ups? I hate to harp on it, but I've been here three days."
"And likely to be here another three. My work has piled up considerably. Are you any good at figures?"
"Passably."
"Since my secretary is likely to be occupied for some time with your father's affairs I shall expect you to make yourself useful here."
"My father?" She stared, puzzled, as he blew out a column of smoke. He looked at her.
"For the past couple of days we've been working at your house. One way and another he's got himself into a pretty fix business-wise."
Chris gulped. Boyd Wyatt at "Medway"? She tried to picture his great bulk in the tiny chintz living room, going over her father's books.
"But I don't understand. My father wouldn't tell you his troubles."
"We had to discuss the airstrip. It came out. Too bad he didn't see fit to plough the money back into the business instead of squandering it in favours."
Chris gulped again. She knew what he meant. There had been loans outside the firm, paid holidays for the men far in excess to regulations, gifts to cover illness. The trouble with Dad was he could never say no to a request for help . . . but who would help him now?
She levelled an over-bright gaze in Boyd Wyatt's direction.
"My father is a warm, generous man, and there's not many of those left in the business world today.''
"None, as far as I know," he replied succinctly. "Let's hope it's not catching. I've made him a small advance to keep his head above water.''
"You have?" Chris didn't know what to think, especially as there seemed to be a spark of humour battling with the steely lights as he queried, "Does the junior partner approve?"
"Well, yes. I think it's very generous of you." Was there humility in Boyd Wyatt's make-up after all ?
No, she mustn't be fooled. He was interested in one thing, an airstrip on Cyrecano . . . and he was no doubt well aware that in accepting the advance she had committed herself into seeing the job through.
Chris couldn't complain of monotonous days after that. Her time at the Villa Tamerlane was organized to the last second, thanks to Boyd Wyatt. She rose in the mornings and dressed with the assistance of Mitzou, a young Greek maid who had been assigned to her quarters out of the blue.
Breakfast was usually served on the terrace, and immediately afterwards thick batches of papers were waiting for attention. Sometimes they worked in the garden, sometimes in Boyd Wyatt's office at the side of the house. Most of the work was over Chris's head, and nowhere near what she had been used to doing for her father, but she completed an occasional page where she could, and at least the big scowling man didn't grumble. Which was something.
She noticed he planned his work to fit in with a certain amount of relaxation, and this too Chris found she was expected to take part in. He swam in the kidney-shaped bathing pool surrounded with hibiscus and oleander, smacked a mean tennis ball across green gravel courts, and walked with long strides through the acres of ground.
Whenever she could Chris kept a sheaf of papers tight under her arm. They were useful to refer to when the bouts of shyness attacked her, but this was rather awkward when slicing the water in the pool, or leaping for a tennis ball. In any case it was doubtful if he even knew she existed, except as stand-in for his secretary . . . and heaven help that poor man if this was his routine at the villa!
At the end of the week the work was cleared and Chris awoke one morning to receive a message from Mr. Wyatt. Mitzou, the shy sixteen-year-old, came in to draw the curtains. She curtsied and smiled hesitantly. Her English was an improvement on that of the other servants Chris had spoken to.
"Meester Wyatt would like for you to go to harbour. I am to tell you he waits on the Barbary Cloud."
Chris thanked Mitzou and dressed a little shakily. So this was it! Today she would see the island of Cyrecano. Her term of employment was really starting. The problem was, what to wear? ... not that it mattered with Boyd Wyatt. She slipped on a white cotton dress and knotted a copper chiffon scarf loosely around her throat. Her hair created another problem.
She had been determined to wear it clipped tight to her head, but had to admit grudgingly it suited her better down. She liked the shining smoothness on top, the way the thick waves nestled close to her ear.
Confound the man, she thought, surveying herself. Did he have to be right in everything ?
Breakfast this morning was a hurried affair. It seemed the whole household knew her presence was required at the harbour. There was no ignoring the general air of bustle that said the English Titan must not be kept waiting. Chris took a last gulp of coffee and hurried to collect her handbag, thinking wistfully now of the calm days before the man's arrival.
She had anticipated a long walk down to the harbour, so it was a pleasant surprise to find transport ready and waiting outside the villa gates. A stocky brown donkey waited patiently between the shafts of a gaily painted trap. A diminutive man with an outsize hat bade her step in. He swept his hat to his chest politely and they were off.
The donkey took the steep road to the harbour like a fly walking down a wall. Chris wasn't at all sure she could keep her eyes open. It was rather like holding tight before the whoosh down into the water on a switchback, only the water down there was the whole of the Aegean Sea. She held her breath. Incredibly the donkey moved at a comfortable walking pace the whole of the way. If the little man had ways and means of controlling the trap downhill he gave no sign, nor was Chris vitally interested in the science of good brakes. It was enough to arrive at her destination in one piece.
She stepped down to find Boyd Wyatt pacing the quay. He was dressed in immaculate slacks, white teeshirt and lightweight cardigan. In casual attire he looked younger somehow, probably no more than thirty-three or four, Chris thought) slightly shocked.
But the Methuselah scowl was clearly in evidence, the voice still harsh with impatience.
"Good heavens, child, do you have to take all day?''
"I wasn't aware there was any urgency," Chris replied, hating the authoritative grip on her arm.
"You'll learn with me there's always urgency. In my book a day's a day, and I never waste one."
He led her along the jetty and up the steps of the boat casting her a brief head-to-toe glance. "I wouldn't be where I am if I spent two hours over breakfast every morning."
Chris took the last step up. She looked around pointedly at the floating hotel of polished mahogany and gleaming rails.
"You must think it's all worth it," she commented.
The woodsmoke eyes didn't so much as blink as he stepped up beside her.
"Let's just say I've got nothing else to squander my money on."
There was no mistaking the implication in his tones. She felt her cheeks grow hot with anger at this obscure reference to her father's failings. Before she could reply an elderly man in naval uniform stepped smartly forward. Boyd Wyatt nodded.
"Show Miss Dawnay around, Accrington. See to her needs. I'll be in my office if you want me."
Without a backward glance he strode briskly away.
"'Morning, miss!"
The man touched his cap and let the nut-brown countenance drop into a grin. In the spanking uniform he looked rather like a wizened apple growing a new skin. He winked and beckoned.
"Just follow me and you'll be fine We're in for a scorcher today. My name's Accrington, as ye've heard. Don't ask me why nobody ever called me Dan, it's quicker and flips off the tongue nice and easy like, but Accrington it's always been and always will be, I guess..
He chatted on in a cordial manner, putting Chris immediately at ease. She soaked up his geniality. After the withering severity of Boyd Wyatt he was almost huggable.
"Them's the crew's quarters down there, and along here..."
He led her on a tour of the yacht, tempering the technical terms of port and aft and starboard with a lively wink. He pointed out items of extreme luxury and comfort with a wry humour that said he didn't hold with such things on a boat.
The Barbary Cloud was air-conditioned throughout. There was wall-to-wall carpeting, venetian blinds and deep armchairs. The baths and showers were full size and the cabins as large as any living room. A sun deck had foam rubber settees, rattan chairs and a small serving bar at the side.
She was led along carpeted passages and eventually a door was swung inwards. Accrington gave her a knowing look.
"People usually goes in here when they want to do titivating and such like,'' he grinned.
With a smile Chris stepped into the cabin and looked around. The carpet was dove grey, chairs a creamy yellow. At the far end stood several lockers and drawers. These were being opened and pulled out now for her benefit. She saw heavy seagoing sweaters, sailcloth jeans and at least half a dozen up-to-the-minute swimsuits and bathing trunks.
Chris handled them in amazement.
"Why, they're all brand new!" she exclaimed.
Accrington nodded and shrugged.
"The chief doesn't go in much for the social life, but he likes to feel anyone who comes aboard can be in the swim as it were." He chuckled at his own joke.
"Does he do much entertaining?" Chris asked, examining a black swimsuit with lightning stripes of flame shooting from the side.
"Only in the pursuance of business."
Naturally, Chris thought.
"Clients sometimes come aboard. The Barbary's a good place for business. They gets the atmosphere, I guess." He winked through the porthole at the azure sky and white winging birds.
"I suppose it can be inducing," Chris murmured, picking up one of the holiday brochures that were scattered around. "Hideaway Holidays ... it seems quite a big concern to handle."
"The chief's a pretty startling man," Accrington sloped a smile. "Gets the work done wherever he is. Has an office and all that paraphernalia even here, and a few good men posted out, o' course. Always has his head down. Sometimes he don't notice whether we're in the bay of Naples or rounding the Isle o'Wight."
"Strictly a business man," Chris nodded.
"Some men feels they have to push themselves, and I guess you could say Wyatt's one of 'em." The old man touched his cap. "I'll leave you to it, then, miss. I'll be up aft if you want me.'' He stepped out and closed the door softly behind him.
Chris dropped into a chair. She could feel the rhythm of the waves and knew they were under way. Her heart swayed a little. Today she would see the island of Cyrecano, and tomorrow... well, it couldn't be long before she must brace herself for a possible meeting with Clive Huston.
What was he really like?
She tried to conjure up in her mind the photograph she had seen. Didn't he have fair hair, a boyish face?
Try as she might to capture the image, the head always appeared dark and proud, the face severe and aquiline.
Why should she be thinking of Boyd Wyatt? Wondering what kind of a man he was? There was no mystery there. Money was the story of his life. He was strictly a business man with no diversions, but plenty of possessions. The Villa Tamerlane, the Barbary Cloud, a luxury flat in Fernsea, dozens of Hideaway Hotels and heaven knows what else that she didn't know about.
A man who couldn't put a foot wrong, and knew it.
Irritably Chris stood up and went to stare out of the porthole. Why was she wasting her thoughts on Boyd Wyatt? In a few weeks' time all this would be over, and back home she would forget that such a man existed.
No, it was Clive Huston she should be thinking of. She really must try and concentrate on Clive Huston.
"We're just coming up to Cyrecano now."
Chris jumped round from the rail where she had been watching the yacht scissor through a paper-green ocean that curled over white at the bows. She always seemed to be doing that lately, jumping... but perhaps that was because her employer never bothered to signal his arrival with a greeting, merely strode in with what he wanted to say.
Containing her annoyance, Chris gazed in the distance to where a lump rose out of the water. It looked a little like an upturned plant pot and was smaller than she had imagined. There were no
trees or grassy plains, just grey sawn-off mountains that seemed to drop down clear into the sea. The Barbary Cloud seemed to be making straight for the sheer rock face. After a few moments she knew why. The man at her side tossed a glance towards the headland.
"The house is on the south side. No sense in letting Huston know we're here."
"I wouldn't have thought there was enough room for an airstrip," she commented politely, feeling that something was expected of her.
"You wouldn't from this side. These mountains form a kind of chairback, if you like. There's a good deal of open country beyond."
The nose of the yacht was still aimed at the rock face. Chris didn't know why she shivered, for the sun was searing in its heat. She dragged her eyes away from the grey wall.
Boyd Wyatt dropped an arm negligently on the rail. She thought his gaze was rather searching and then he looked away.
"It's a reasonably safe anchorage at this side. We'll hang on for a while, you may get some ideas."
So they were going to anchor here for a while! Well, she might have an idea at that. Though she had no intention of voicing it.
She gazed up at the roof of blue sky, the endless ocean, and one tiny pockmarked island.
"Someone didn't clear up the papier-mâché."
She hadn't realized her musings could be heard until the man at her side turned a questioning brow.
"I'm sorry," she coloured slightly, "I was thinking. At school we always used to make land and islands out of papier-mâché. This one looks as if someone dropped a blob and forgot all about it!"
"Where did you go to school?"
He asked the question as if he expected a prompt reply. For that reason Chris had no intention of giving one.
"Is it important?" She stared across at Cyrecano and countered, "How does Clive Huston come to be on the island?"
"His mother was some kind of Greek heroine during the war." She felt him looking down at her. "She went there to recuperate from serious wounds. Huston has been left undisturbed since she died some years ago. His father was a British army officer. He was killed in Crete."
Hideaway Heart Page 3