Hideaway Heart

by Roumelia Lane

  "You seem to know all about the family," she said.

  He shrugged. "Information like that isn't difficult to come by."

  "I suppose not."

  She had wanted to survey the ocean unconcernedly, but the glare was too much. She was forced to raise a hand to her brow.

  He stretched and turned, taking her arm.

  "There should be some drinks on the sun deck, and shade," and then in tones lighter than she had heard before he asked, "What's wrong with employer knowing a little of employee?"

  "Nothing," Chris felt trembly and unsure of herself. Perhaps that was why she blurted foolishly, "Except that there's not much satisfaction in relating one's life story to a column of granite."

  His grip on her arm tightened imperceptibly. He allowed her a drawn smile.

  "Try me. I have been known to bend to a little feminine chatter!"

  It was a relief to get under the striped awnings, away from his touch. Her skin felt as though it had been burnt. After the clink of glasses and ice he handed her a long drink, accompanied by a penetrating woodsmoke gaze. She heard herself saying too quickly,

  "I went to school abroad mainly. My father was in the R.A.F. up to five years ago. My mother died and I left school to help him start up on his own when he left the R.A.F." She tossed a brief smile upwards. "That's it, I'm afraid."

  He hitched his trousers and stretched out opposite.

  "And what does helping Father consist of?"

  "Well, when he got jobs abroad I went with him. There was always a certain amount of paper work, living accommodation for the men to be arranged, instruments to be checked ... all that sort of thing."

  "So it's more or less just you and your father." He studied her. "What about the lighter side? Dancing and parties, young men?"

  Velvet-winged eyebrows came down in a puzzled frown.

  "I've never really thought about things like that. Dad and I have usually been busy, and..."

  "But surely..." He placed his drink down on the table with a tiny clap, flicking a quick glance towards the island and back at her. She heard the vexed sigh. "So you don't know all that much about life?"

  His emphasis on the last word made Chris turn pink, and she said down to the deck,

  "I haven't just stepped out of a convent, you know." And then to cover her confusion she parried lightly, "Well, that's the employee, what about the employer? I expect you've had a colourful life."

  He seemed thoughtful, but answered curtly,

  "Starting off in an orphanage wasn't exactly colourful."

  She looked up quickly.

  "Oh, I'm sorry. I..."

  "Why be sorry? I'm not. I've had something to aim for ever since I was old enough to think for myself. I decided the only things worth having around were the good solid material possessions... the kind that don't give out on one."

  "Like the Villa Tamerlane, the Barbary Cloud?"

  "That's right." He got to his feet "I'll get back to my office. If there's anything you want let Accrington know."

  Chris watched him go. So that was Boyd Wyatt. A man who had started out with nobody, and was determined to keep it that way. The rigid shoulders and arrogant bearing gave nothing away, so why should she feel a peculiar surge of pain in her throat? Was it because as he turned to disappear down a hatch a capricious breeze seeking vulnerability suddenly rumpled the crisp dark hair, that for a second he looked almost boyish ?

  CHAPTER THREE

  Chris finished her drink and stood up. Now might be the time to put that idea into practice. She walked along the deck. There was no sign of life. It looked as if everybody was sitting - or sleeping - the heat out below. She went to the side and looked over. The water was motionless and crystal clear. In the distance the odd boat moved lazily towards the horizon.

  No one, it seemed, was sufficiently interested in Cyrecano to come and take a closer look. She turned to give her attention to the island and the grey rock wall that looked uncannily close. They might only be yards away. Surely to get a view round the curve would mean only a matter of minutes to a fast swimmer and Chris had no doubt of her abilities there.

  If there were beaches, she could explore, maybe take a peep at the house and with luck get back before anyone missed her.

  Silently she made her way to the locker in the guest cabin and pulled out the first swimsuit. It was ice blue and looked about average size. There was a petalled swim-hat to match, and once changed in an adjoining cubicle Chris felt pleasantly excited at the prospect of a refreshing swim.

  Meeting no one on the return journey, she slipped silently over the side and down the white rope ladder. The water was cooler than she had expected. She swam around a little until her body had got used to it and then struck out for that tantalizing jut of rock that hid Cyrecano.

  Hardly had she taken half a dozen strokes than a familiar sound drifted over the water from the Barbary Cloud ... the determined click of a heel on the boat deck. Drat Boyd Wyatt! Why couldn't he make up his mind? He had said he was going to work in his office, yet here he was back again on the sun deck.

  Well, there was nothing for it now but to carry on. If she didn't stir up too much water he might not even notice.

  But that was too much to hope for.

  She heard a harsh voice rend the still air.

  "Accrington! What in hell...! What's Miss Dawnay doing out there?"

  There was a quick shuffling step in the distance and then,

  "Why, I don't rightly know, sir!"

  "Doesn't the fool girl know anything about currents?"

  "She'll be all right, sir . . . she's got her head screwed on tight."

  "She'll need to have with those underwater rocks!"

  Currents! Underwater rocks! Chris faltered a little. Were they the real reason for his concern, or was it because he feared she planned a meeting with Give Huston to put her own point of view first? Well, it was an idea.

  Chris had always felt that if she could just meet this man on the island and talk to him something could be worked out. She was also convinced that Boyd Wyatt had got so used to being enmeshed in business connivings that he preferred to forget the art of straight talk.

  That could explain the uneasiness in his voice. He didn't want to be proved wrong at this stage.

  Chris was amazed. She had done more thinking than swimming, yet here she was already at the point. She rounded the bend and floated a while. The view now was quite something. She saw a white beach merging into grassy slopes. To the right opposite the mountains were green wooded hills, and between the two was a clear stretch of open country. Here Chris could see the object of Boyd Wyatt's frustration, for sprawling across its middle was a grey-white house of unusual proportions. It looked more like a run-down country mansion than an island home.

  In her absorption Chris hadn't noticed how the swell had grown. It seemed best to exercise a dog-paddle while she turned to study the beach. There was a derelict jetty holding a small boat and . . . wasn't that a movement at the water's edge? Clive Huston? Since he was the only man on the island it must be. A heaven-sent opportunity, Chris thought, swimming swiftly, if he didn't mind talking to a dripping intermediary.

  Where there had been calm water a bank of green suddenly came bustling up from nowhere and spun her roughly forward. Before she had time to take a breath another was hard on its heels. She coughed and tried to ride with the force of the wave. It looked as if she was going to meet Clive Huston sooner than she expected.

  But no! The wave decided it wanted her out, not in. A force twenty times stronger than her own puny strokes lifted her like a blue cork. She was slewed out to sea with another thought ... a more sickening one this time. Perhaps she wasn't going to meet Clive Huston at all!

  Now she was coming back in again, this time in the direction of the jetty. Well, that was an improvement, and what was this ... a lull in the waves? The sea was so even and smooth now it was impossible to imagine those turbulent heart-stopping moments just seconds ago
. If it hadn't been for the salty burning in her throat where too much of the ghastly stuff had entered, and the heaviness of her limbs, she might have believed the whole thing had never happened.

  After a few seconds to regain her breath and strength she struck out bravely for the beach. Perhaps if she hadn't been so intrigued by the figure near the jetty ... up to his knees in water, his hands on his hips watching her . . . she might have seen the black mass rippling below the surface. But too late! As she struck out forcefully for the beach her right foot came into violent contact with solid rock.

  The sudden shock of searing pain made her cry out involuntarily. The swell that had a habit of whipping up from nowhere washed over her face. She floundered, the injured foot trailing numbly... and here was yet another rod of green, advancing with deadly precision. Chris watched it move in with the awful knowledge that she had no more strength left to combat its force.

  It felt like a ton of masonry pushing her down... down... towards the bottom. She spiralled up, struggling to the surface for air, and had a vague feeling that a rough hand had grasped her wrist. She opened her eyes. There was water everywhere. She closed them quickly, tried to shut out the singing in her ears ... a high-pitched sound accompanied by a black cloud that gradually floated down and enveloped her.

  The sand was soft beneath her, the sun warm on her face. Chris opened her eyes and stared into a pair of very blue ones set in incredibly thick gold lashes. The face was thin with a pinkish tan and a lop-sided smile. Clive Huston's voice had an eager warmth about it.

  "It's not the time of year for mermaids. Where did you come from?"

  Chris was glad the pain in her foot shut off any reply. She tried to raise herself to see what damage had been done and caught a glimpse of an upright figure striding in from the jetty. The arms that held her tightened and she heard his intake of breath.

  "What do you want?"

  Expressionless, Boyd Wyatt moved in and knelt down.

  "I saw the fool girl heading for the rocks. Thought I'd better come and investigate."

  Clive Huston shot him a sceptical look and then lowered a sympathetic gaze to Chris, who was pulling off her bathing cap.

  "You took a chance swimming in from the point. What boat are you from?"

  "It's . . . it's round the headland, it's the - er -" Chris floundered, feeling woodsmoke eyes trained hard on her.

  "A small craft I passed a few minutes ago," Boyd Wyatt drawled, not shifting his gaze. "With a bunch of amateurs aboard, by the look of it."

  All right, I've got the message! Chris dragged her eyes away in disgust and said jerkily,

  "We came further than we planned. The others, my friends, were having a doze below, but I was too hot. The water looked inviting and... well, I thought it would be nice to have a swim..."

  "It was very nearly your last." The brisk, matter-of-fact reply seemed to clinch the explanation, for Clive Huston nodded down with an understanding smile.

  "You weren't to know," he said soothingly.

  Boyd took the grazed and bleeding foot in both hands and turned it gently.

  "Does that hurt?" he asked.

  Chris grimaced. "No," she lied.

  "Of course it does, but it's the bone I'm getting at. Does it feel to be all in one piece?"

  "Yes, I think so. It's only the grazing that's painful."

  "And a bruised bone, I shouldn't wonder." He placed the foot down carefully and proceeded to undo his lightweight cardigan.

  Clive Huston shifted his kneeling position and drew Chris towards him, his tone slightly sarcastic.

  "Well, now that you've investigated you can get back to your sailing and spying, can't you?"

  "Certainly. And I suggest you get the girl off the beach and into some clothes."

  Ignoring Huston's hold, he threw the cardigan lightly around Chris and to her horror swept her up into his arms.

  "While I'm here I may as well offer my assistance. Which way is the house? To the left, isn't it?"

  "You've been here often enough," came the dry reply. "You should know your way blindfold."

  With narrowed eyes Clive Huston stretched and led the way.

  Chris felt stiff and awkward in the iron grip. She struggled politely.

  "It's all right, really ... I'm sure I can walk..and was ignored. She riveted her attention on the man in front. He was as tall as Boyd, but slender to the point of thinness. He wore a faded shirt and cotton slacks, both of which were soaking, probably from where he had pulled her out of the water.

  Boyd strode along almost at his heels, and staring straight ahead. She could feel the heat of his body through her wet swimsuit. His clothes were going to end up as soggy as the other man's. But it was his own fault. He hadn't even let her try the foot.

  The path rose on a slight incline and widened into something like a road. Ahead at the side of squat trees was an open gate and the house. Chris was amazed to see it was built entirely of wood and nowhere near as mansion-like as she had at first supposed but rather like a tall-roomed farmhouse set in neglected grounds. Even so the effect was pleasing.

  A track had been worn across a shaggy lawn and led to half a dozen steps that were flanked by a blaze of bougainvillea. Long windows and several doors were fronted by a flower-entwined veranda.

  Clive Huston led the way up the steps and beckoned the other man grudgingly.

  "You'd better come in here," he directed.

  It was a large room with several patterned carpets and some dark solid-looking furniture. Chris felt herself being deposited on a wide couch, and then Clive Huston was kneeling, examining the foot.

  "I think I've got some stuff that will ease the pain, but I don't know what I can give you to wear. I live here alone, you see. I'm Clive Huston, by the way."

  "Please don't bother, Mr. Huston. I'm sure if I just rest a while I'll be able to get back all right.''

  Chris swung herself round to stand up, annoyed to find the injured foot would not support her. She sank back in weary frustration.

  "But you mustn't try, really it's no bother."

  He lifted her foot gently on to the couch.

  "How's that, feeling better?"

  He would have ignored the other man completely, but Chris watched the pacing figure uneasily. As he turned to speak she saw his glance flick over the kneeling figure.

  "I suggest, Miss..."

  "Chris Dawnay," Chris muttered.

  ". . . Miss Dawnay, that you hang on here for a while. A boat is no place for a cripple. I'll inform your friends that there's no need for concern and pick up your clothes."

  "But I couldn't... you can't... I mean..." Chris fought desperately with her conscience.

  "Of course you must," Clive replied easily. "It's not just your foot, you know. The delayed shock is bound to leave you feeling ropy. You can rest here and . . . well..." grinning, he ran a hand through stranded hair, "stay just as long as you like."

  Boyd Wyatt had gone to stand at the door. He didn't turn as he spoke this time.

  "I think a rest would be advisable after your experience, Miss Dawnay. My name is Boyd Wyatt. You may have noticed my yacht out there, not far from yours... the Barbary Cloud. Is there anyone in particular I should ask for when I collect your clothes ?''

  Drat the man! Did he have to be so thorough? She hoped he would feel the furious glance she directed at his back and answered coolly,

  "Not really. I only met the people this morning. They invited me to go for a sail."

  "So," Clive pounced, "they're really only acquaintances. Are you holidaying alone?"

  "Yes. I'm staying on the island of Cathai," she mumbled.

  "Then it wouldn't really matter if you hung on here for a day or two, would it? I mean the people on the boat could let your hotel know, and I've got bags of room here. You could make it part of your holiday."

  "But, Mr. Huston," Chris coloured, aware of a raised eyebrow near the door, "we've only just met, and..."

  "So what? I'm as Eng
lish as you sound... and please call me Clive."

  He sat down to face her, the sky-blue eyes eager.

  "All right, Clive. I'd hate to be a nuisance..

  "But you're not," he added a little sheepishly. "The fact is, I'd welcome your company. I haven't seen or spoken to a soul in weeks. You'd like to see the island, wouldn't you, once the foot's okay? And there's a good beach for swimming, quite safe."

  "Well, if you're sure it's all right?"

  The figure at the door turned to say drily,

  "I'll leave you two to it, then. No point in my hanging around."

  "That's right." Clive looked up pointedly. "You needn't bother to come back up to the house. Just leave Miss Dawnay's things on the beach. I'll be down to collect them when I've attended to her foot."

  He looked at Chris sympathetically and frowned at Boyd's cardigan draped round her shoulders.

  "That thing can't be comfortable," he said. "I'll get you my bath robe."

  The man at the door strode off without a word.

  Clive returned with a blue and white bath robe and helped her into it.

  "Now where's that lotion? Won't be a jiff!"

  He left her again, whistling tunefully, and she heard him rummaging through drawers and cupboards in another room. Whatever was in the cream he applied it was certainly soothing. He pushed the bowl of water to one side that had been used to clean the abrasions and proceeded to bandage the foot with infinite care.

  Chris lay back on the cushions he had provided for her. She had never had quite this kind of attention from a man before . . . and such a good-looking one too. She looked at the thick whitish-blond hair smoothed over a finely shaped head, the silver-gilt fuzz growing down almost to the collar of his shirt. Stains of sea water were forming across the slender shoulders.

  "Clive, shouldn't you change your wet clothes?" she said tentatively.

  "I will, when I've finished this."

  Gently he tied a knot at the ankle and wiped away the surplus cream from above the bandage. For every one of his little kindnesses Chris hated herself more. As soon as it was decently possible she would tell him the truth - airstrip or no airstrip!