So far she had not succeeded.
There seemed nothing for it at the moment but to go along with the languorous days and Clive's company... which Chris had to admit was proving a little heady.
She turned in his arms now as the record-player beat out a sentimental ballad, her heart catching at his handsome good looks. It was early afternoon, and they had been pruning some of the heavier blossoms along the veranda. Suddenly Clive had expressed a desire for music, and had whirled Chris laughingly into his arms.
Now he held her close.
She ought to have been alarmed at the fierce intensity of his gaze, instead she felt curiously drawn by it. His lips were perilously close to hers...
Neither of them were prepared for the sharp footstep on the veranda. The caustic voice slicing through the music,
"If I'm interrupting anything just let me know!" Sourly Boyd Wyatt allowed his glance to roam over the two of them. "My men are here to do some geological tests."
Clive didn't slacken his hold.
"Well, what the devil do you want me to do about it?" he demanded.
"I suppose it's too much to ask you to put us up for a few days?"
"You've got a nerve! And you're right. It is too much to ask."
Boyd shrugged, "Suit yourself. We'll operate from the Barbary Cloud, but you'll have to put up with us during the day.'' He turned and clicked away.
"Of all the goddamned . . .!" Clive dropped his arms and strode off. Chris sent him a sympathetic glance. She heard the shed door slam shut.
Really! It was too much, this cool high-handedness of Boyd Wyatt's. Nobody could blame Clive for blowing his top. Chris knew she would have felt exactly the same had she been in his position. Breathing quickly, she hurried out and along the path.
The men had scattered out and were studying various parts of the plateau. Boyd had some sort of chart spread out over a rock. He was studying it closely. He looked up as Chris approached, watched her walk towards him, and then lowered his gaze to the chart.
"It's no use - all this, you know." She waved a hand. Her voice shook a little.
"Why is that?"
"Because Clive will never leave Cyrecano. And quite honestly I don't blame him."
He slanted her an obscure glance.
"Changed sides ?" he sneered.
"I'm on neither side. It's just that I can see that Clive wants to be left in peace and you can't.''
"I suppose it is only Clive who wants to be left in peace?"
"What do you mean?"
"The pretty scene I intruded upon just now. You were terrific."
Chris coloured slightly.
"I . . . thought that was what you wanted, Clive and me to become friends ?''
"Certainly. With an airstrip at the end of it."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Wyatt." Chris looked away. "It won't work out. Not until you realize you're going about it all wrong."
"And how would you go about it?"
Some of the men were coming up to test new ground and Boyd took her arm roughly, adding, "Let's walk. You were saying?"
"Well, I wouldn't be such a brute to Clive, for a start."
"Does it bother you?"
"I can see there's no reasoning with the kind of mood you're in today!'' she snapped.
She broke free, her annoyance making her stumble over the uneven ground. Boyd gripped her elbow.
"Take your time. I don't want to have to carry you up to the house again."
"The same goes for me, double!" She turned to stare over the plateau. "I can't understand you coming here today, bringing these men. Surely you know my father's team must carry out geological tests ?"
He looked away.
"This is just a preliminary survey. It's important to keep things moving."
They walked in the direction of the beach and with a tight smile he allowed a mocking glance to roam over the apple-green linen.
"A good choice. Green's your colour."
Dropping her eyes to the dress, Chris replied primly,
"It was very kind of you to get one of your maids to purchase these things, Mr. Wyatt, but I really must have my own clothes."
"I chose the dresses," he said. At her surprised glance he added, "The tourist trade in Cathai warrants a first-class fashion house. It wasn't difficult. I took one of your dresses along."
The navy blue silk! So it had merely been used as a guide to her dress size and included in the new batch afterwards. Chris drew on her lower lip. Must she always think the worst of Boyd Wyatt? Yes, she told herself firmly. Life was definitely more comfortable that way. And he had bought the dresses to dazzle Clive, hadn't he ?
He was still studying her.
"If they all look as good as this I guess I didn't do too badly," he drawled.
"Do you do anything badly?"
"Some things." He gave her a long look and then stared ahead. "Your father sends his love."
"Oh, I've been longing to know how he is!" Chris looked up eagerly.
"Riding high," Boyd informed her, "since we found someone to look in on him once in a while."
"What do you mean?" Chris stopped.
"It seems," he said with a look of "heaven forbid," "some men can't get along without the feminine touch around the house. Your father turned out to be one of them."
"You're trying to say he got himself into a hopeless muddle?" Chris looked up, alarmed. "I knew he would! I wanted to get someone in, but he insisted he could manage..."
She was poised as if ready to fly to him until Boyd touched her arm.
"Relax. It's all taken care of. Fernsea contains some very efficient dailies. The one Howes, my secretary, has engaged is probably making a better job of it than you did." He undid the flap of his shirt pocket and handed her a letter. "No doubt he's telling you all about it in this."
Chris took the letter quickly. She slit the top and read avidly, unaware of the curve of her throat against the skyline. The sun weaving burnished gold into the thick coils of hair.
It was a short letter, for Chris knew only too well her father's reluctance to put pen to paper; even so there was no shortage of praise for Howes, who it seemed was acting under Boyd's orders to assist where he could until Chris returned. He stated he was in robust health and all raring to go once the contract was under way.
She folded the letter thoughtfully.
Dad was fine, better in fact than he had been for a long time, and it seemed a lot of it was due to Boyd.
She looked hard at the tanned, austere features now. Perhaps she had been wrong. There had to be a charitable line somewhere.
Sherry-brown eyes raised in gratitude, she quavered,
"You've done quite a lot for Dad."
If she had felt in that moment a new warmth towards him, it vanished like a pricked bubble at his next words.
"We have a deal, Miss Dawnay, remember?" He turned away as though the liquid brown eyes were too much. "I knew you wouldn't be able to give it your fullest attention with domestic problems in the background."
Amazed at her own hurt, Chris swallowed and then fired back,
"I'm not likely to forget what we agreed on, Mr. Wyatt. Your airstrip for my father's neck, wasn't it?"
"Now wait a minute!" He swung her round to face him, his eyes like grey flint. "I don't mind being referred to as a column of granite, but I won't have you making those kind of comparisons, do you hear?"
Chris couldn't look at the face so close to her own now. She winced at the iron grip.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean . . . intend it to sound like that. I was trying to . . . well, I ought to be thanking you for all you've done for us."
"And I ought to be . .." His eyes compelled her to look at him. When she did she had the feeling that the grim, taciturn features had softened imperceptibly.
This wouldn't do. It wouldn't do at all! Being with Boyd Wyatt was beginning to feel like . . . well, rather like being inside a barrel that teetered on the edge of a steep hill.
She broke
away and turned towards the house.
"I... ought to be getting back to Clive."
"Naturally." She heard an intake of breath and then it escaped slowly. "Rim along, child. We've all got work to do."
Chris couldn't explain why she should want to seek out Clive at that particular moment, but it could be his presence would prove a calming antidote .against the all-powerful Boyd Wyatt.
He didn't appear to be in the house. Chris guessed he must still be in his workshop. The double doors were firmly closed. Chris hesitated; she had never been invited inside. Perhaps Clive didn't like intruders in his artistic domain. Possibly her trepidation stemmed from intuition, for when she stepped inside she heard Clive swear softly in irritation.
It took some time to get used to the interior after the white-hot sunlight, but she was just in time to see him drape a cover over a large bulky object.
"What do you want?"
She could see he was struggling to be polite and fidgeting considerably as her eyes roved over the mass of gymnastic equipment that filled one side of the shed. No wonder Clive had such a superb body. True, it was inclined to thinness, but with all this equipment designed for building muscles ...
Realizing at last that it was rude to stare, Chris tore her gaze away.
"I'm sorry, Clive." She smiled apologetically. "Don't let me interrupt you. I just thought..."
As she spoke the cover flung on in haste slipped. Its own weight pulled it to the ground, bringing a gasp of surprise to Chris's lips.
"Why, Clive! It's..: beautiful!"
She stared up at the superb figure of a woman carved for the figurehead of a ship. Soulful eyes gazed skywards from a face of flower-like beauty, while hair in abundance cascaded in thick strands to naked shoulders. The body was arched, the breasts rounded and uplifted and skilfully draped. Chris could do nothing but stare. She wandered around the bench, her face turned upwards in pure delight.
"It's absolutely beautiful!"
Clive's mouth drooped a pleased smile.
"It's passable," he admitted.
"But why this, Clive?" Chris turned to face him, lifting her shoulders. "I don't know much about these things, but it seems to me your work is wasted ploughing the high seas."
"But don't you think there's something rather adventurous about figureheads?" He sent an intense gaze over his work. "They're still pretty much in demand, you know, on boys' training ships, and the record-breakers."
"I'm sure they are." Chris smiled, thinking that to gaze on such breathtaking beauty was an adventure in itself. "But have you never thought of doing other things like... well, busts and statuettes and things ?"
Clive didn't answer, merely shrugged and led Chris outside. The sun was very bright, and that could have accounted for the tiny frown playing over one fair eyebrow, but Chris had the feeling it was because she had said the wrong thing. Strange why Clive should feel the need to banish such talents to the waves.
They walked across the garden and met one of the geological team coming out of the house. He saw them and strolled over.
"Oh, there you are! The chief sent me along with an invitation to come aboard the Barbary tonight for drinks." He sent an uncomfortable smile towards Clive. "He thought you might welcome a little masculine company!"
To Chris's surprise Clive nodded pleasantly.
"How do we dress ?" he asked.
The man grinned again. "Rod Banks has a birthday.
We thought we'd put on a bit of a show."
"Okay. What time?"
"There'll be a boat to collect you about seven."
"Fine.'' Clive smiled and the man went on his way. He led Chris into the house, grinning wryly. "If you can't lick 'em! ... At least it'll make a change from Wyatt bamboozling at this end. But if he's trying the soft touch he's in for a disappointment."
Chris went off to her room pondering over Clive's words. Boyd Wyatt wasn't the type to stoop to wheedling, and wasn't he employing her for that side of it anyway? No, the invitation was more than likely his way of "keeping things moving" although how he expected any progress to be made with his continued interference was beyond comprehension.
The Barbary Cloud was gay with lights and music as the small power boat pulled alongside later that evening. Accrington hovered above to help Chris aboard.
"Evening, Miss Dawnay." He saluted smartly at Clive. They were led below to the stateroom which resembled a small banqueting hall with its ruby red carpeting and flashing chandeliers. A long bar held food of every description and lounge-suited men, glasses in hands, were dotted around in groups. Chris's heart gave an inexplicable jolt at the sight of Boyd, tremendous in roll-collared dinner jacket and dark trousers.
He turned from the men he had been speaking to and came forward, flicking an appraising glance over Chris and nodding to the dinner-suited Clive.
"What will you two have to drink?" Suavely he led them to the bar where Chris had a long glass placed in her hand. Clive's was small and looked much stronger than the fruit juices she had seen him drinking, but he threw it back good-naturedly and was soon in deep conversation with two men at the bar. Boyd turned, training a woodsmoke gleam her way.
"Simmering down a little?" he enquired lazily.
If he meant this afternoon, Chris could have pointed out that she hadn't been the only one to reach boiling point. But she didn't reply, merely held on tightly to her glass.
He let his glance drop over the white lace dress, flicked it up again over the bare arms and shoulders to the tiny studded ear-rings and soft amber eyes. She saw just a hint of white teeth as he commented humorously,
"Beats me why the less there is to a woman's dress, the pricier it becomes," and then with a slight tightening of the mouth, "Pity this one has to be wasted on me!"
Thankfully Chris was drawn into the men's conversation just at that moment. She turned, feigning a bright interest, anything to escape being paired off with Boyd Wyatt.
After a while he drifted off to the other side of the room.
They dined from a long polished table ablaze with crystal glass and silverware. Chris sat between Clive and Rod Banks, the birthday man. Though middle-aged he was in high spirits and kept his neighbours amused with charming anecdotes of his geological travels and experiences. The music continued to play muted and soothing in the background, and coffee was served near deep armchairs.
Clive looked boyish and carefree and seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the change from his island home. In fact the evening was going so well that Chris had no warning of the upheaval soon to take place.
"I've been trying to figure out all evening what's so familiar about that face. Now I've got it.''
It was the genial Rod Banks who tapped Clive on the shoulder. Chris sensed rather than saw Clive stiffen.
"Aren't you Mickey Huston's boy ?" he went on.
"That's right."
"I knew I had it!" Rod grinned, pleased with himself. "The unveiling ceremony, wasn't it? In London a few months back. I know the papers were full of it at the time." He cocked a glance upwards. "That's where I got the face."
"That's right," Clive nodded, stonily unaware that he was repeating himself.
"Major Mick Huston and Sappho Papadakis, two of the greatest undercover workers of the war," Rod informed Chris. "She was your mother, wasn't she, Clive? A great little woman. I read the book, you know, and saw the film. For sheer guts their story takes some beating." He nodded nostalgically into his drink. "Major Mick Huston, everybody's fighting man. Too bad we don't breed 'em like that nowadays." He sighed and looked up cheerfully. "How about some more drinks?' And then to Clive, "Say, what are you doing tucked away on this island anyway?"
"Minding my own damned business!"
White-faced, Clive clapped his glass on the table and swayed out of the room.
Chris felt as dumbfounded as Rod looked. He turned to her.
"Did I say something wrong?" he asked perplexedly.
"I ... I don't know." Chris stared
down the room. "I've never seen Clive act like that before."
Rod looked beside himself with concern. He placed his glass down next to Clive's.
"Perhaps I had better go and offer some kind of apology."
For what? Chris wondered. As far as she could make out the older man hadn't said anything offensive. She laid a hand on his arm reassuringly.
"I shouldn't worry, Rod. Leave it. He'll probably be back in a few minutes."
Rod nodded dubiously. They were joined by Everett Lloyd, the man who had brought the invitation up to the house. He was curious to know if a root of the exotic island blossom could be transplanted successfully. The three of them talked on this subject for several minutes and then Chris excused herself and went up on deck.
The air was like a veil of heat, flicked apart now and then by cool fingers of breeze. Chris walked the length of the boat, searching for a slim dark shape. She could hear the gentle lap-lap as the waves caressed the Barbary Cloud, the occasional flutter of a bird seeking sanctuary for the night.
White stars had been sprayed across the bowl of midnight-blue sky, and looming up on the left was the black shape of Cyrecano. Chris stopped for a while at the rail, unable to tear herself from the night. Probably Clive had gone back below again. She could join him in a few minutes. She closed her eyes and drew in a breath. It seemed at that moment as though the sea too inhaled the perfume of Cyrecano's blossom.
And then a hand dropped lightly on her arm. Chris jerked her eyes open.
"Clive! I've been looking for you. What hap..." But instead of meeting a pair of mild blue eyes Chris's gaze crashed head-on with smouldering woodsmoke. She wondered a little breathlessly if the sea's reflection had something to do with their fiery glow.
Boyd twisted a smile.
"Sorry to disappoint you. I thought you'd want to know that Huston asked to be taken back." He looked at her keenly. "Did you two quarrel?"
"No. We were talking to Rod Banks. Something he said seemed to upset Clive." She looked towards the island. "Why didn't you tell me he was going back? I ought to have gone with him."
"The mood he was in didn't exactly welcome company. I thought you were best out of it."
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