"But I thought it was Paula and Clive Huston?"
"Tush! A cold porridge affair. No, my dear, Boyd's the man for her. Oh, yes, the urbane business-man air is all very well, but it doesn't fool me! I don't need my glasses on to know what's going on!"
"I didn't know that Miss Fry and Mr. Wyatt knew each other," said Chris.
"My dear! How could you miss it! They were in all the glossy magazines . . . theatre engagements, dinner parties."
"I just don't seem to get time to ... get round to the glossy magazines." With a wooden smile Chris rose. "If you'll excuse me, Mrs. Lovell, I have some things to do."
For the rest of the afternoon Chris lay stretched on her bed staring at the primrose ceiling. What did it matter to her if Boyd knew Paula, or that he wanted her for himself, not Clive? No doubt he had found it convenient to spin a yarn about going to Beirut on business when his sole objective had been a reunion with Paula.
Of course it was nothing to him to include all and sundry in his games, but while he indulged in pursuits of the heart her father teetered on the verge of bankruptcy, and she...
Well Chris knew why she was here. Boyd was a man and all men needed their entertainment . . . and of course he wouldn't be blind to the possibility of Paula being as jealous as the next woman.
Abruptly Chris turned and dug clenched fists into the pillow. That day on Cyrecano she had thought that knowing Boyd Wyatt was rather like being inside a barrel that balanced on the edge of a steep hill. Well, it had long since made its rocky descent. It was inevitable she should be picking herself up, examining the bruises.
But bruises were only superficial. One soon got over them... or so Chris told herself more than once as the Barbary Cloud sailed into Cathai harbour.
CHAPTER SIX
The scene at the Villa Tamerlane was one of flurry and confusion as the guests got ready to depart. Someone had lost a red leather travelling case from a set of eight, and someone else had misplaced a valuable gold watch. A priceless art treasure was knocked over and shattered in the search, and one of the servants was accused of stealing because she had picked up the watch at the foot of the stairs.
Eventually things were smoothed out, apologies were made and the red leather travelling case turned up inside its bigger brother. The party left amidst a murmur of polite goodbyes and the gentle revving of car engines. Mrs. Lovell's chubby hand was the last to disappear as the fleet of taxis snaked out of the drive towards the airport.
Though Chris had said her goodbyes beside Boyd in the drive she took care not to prolong the position. She saw his outstretched arm waiting to assist her up the steps, but she hurried on ahead, ignoring the cryptic lift of his eyebrows.
Her father was in his room packing. He looked at his daughter with affection.
"Well, Chris, it's me back to work again too. I've lazed around long enough at this end."
"Dad," Chris took a bundle of his shirts from a drawer, "it's going to make things, difficult, isn't it? I mean, we still haven't got the contract."
Mr. Dawnay looked relaxed.
"It's all right, Chris, Boyd has been working on it. He's made us a fair proposition. We can carry on for some time yet."
Her fingers tightened on the shirts.
"What you mean is that Boyd has lent you money to bridge the gap!'' she accused.
Her father went to drop an arm around her shoulders.
"Now, Chris, you know these things as well as I do. The Cyrecano job will set us clear for months. We can afford to take the loan. Boyd is a business man, he knows the score."
"But we seem to be becoming more and more dependent on him..." she sighed.
"No, we're not. Once the contract comes through it will be just you and me again, just like it was before. Boyd has no wish to interfere in that.''
Once the contract comes through...
Taking over the packing of her father's things, Chris began to wish she had never heard the word, or come out to Cathai in the first place. There was no contract then and there was no contract now, nor was there ever likely to be.
Clive needed time to readjust himself to the outside world, and Chris knew that deep down inside he still loved Paula. It was more than likely he would retire further into himself when he learned about her and Boyd, so what chance was there of him leaving the island?
As for Boyd, he was far too engrossed in other matters to give the contract a thought. She knew from Howes that he had spent all his time since arriving back at the villa in making enquiries into Paula's whereabouts. And hadn't he mentioned to Chris in Beirut that he had never given the airstrip a thought... and she had been under the impression that...
Chris closed her eyes for a second as she zipped up the travelling bag. Well, if Mr. Boyd Wyatt had any more ideas for taking her along as bait he was going to be considerably disappointed!
After a sleepless night Chris rose next morning with a resounding headache. Though she would have preferred to stay in her darkened room she bathed and dressed as usual and put on her gayest smile for her father's last day. They spent the morning in the tiny town of Poladras and just after lunch the taxi came to drive him to the airport.
Bronzed and smiling, he opened the car door to step in and hugged his daughter.
"Well, goodbye, Chris m'dear. Take care of yourself."
"Don't worry about a thing." Boyd, who had come out of his office at the sound of the car, shook the older man by the hand, and dropped an arm lightly around Chris's shoulders.
Together they waved the car off. When it was out of sight Chris turned away quickly, but there was no avoiding Boyd this time. He matched his strides to her near-running steps with a lazy determination. When they were almost to the steps of the villa she managed,
"If you can advise me on a suitable hotel I'll... pack my things."
"What are you talking about?"
She stopped to gaze coldly upwards.
"Boyd, isn't it time we stopped the game? We both know there isn't going to be any contract.''
"Oh, we know that, do we?" He took her by the shoulders. "And what else do we, or rather, you, know while we're about it?"
"Well," Chris stood firm, "I know I can't go back to England yet because there's Clive . . . and if you won't take me to Cyrecano, then I'll..."
"I see. Of course, Clive. The guy with the built-in charm." His voice had the rasp of steel against steel. He dropped his hands as if they were lead weights and thrust them roughly into his pockets. "And while you're pandering to lover-boy your father can go to hell, I suppose?"
"You know that's not true! This whole idea was crazy from the start. But there will be other contracts ... and don't worry, my father and I will repay you every penny."
"I'll need more than just your word for that.''
"What do you mean?" She looked up at him sharply. "Because we owe you money you're going to hold it over us ?"
He frowned and lowered his gaze thoughtfully and then with an intake of breath he rasped,
"You're darned right I am! You forget I lent your firm a sum of money until such time as you procure the contract. Well, I suggest you try and put a little enthusiasm into doing just that!"
"Very well." Chris's face, pale to begin with, was now drained of colour. Her head throbbed in a crazy rhythm of pain as she choked, "A truly businesslike gesture from the king of business men! I can see now how you got where you are!"
He grabbed her. "Now listen, Chris..."
"Oh, don't worry," she remained immobile in his arms, "I'll carry on with the fiasco, but I may as well tell you here and now, I'm well aware that your interest is not altogether in the contract."
"Oh, you are?" For a moment the eyes boring down into hers held a light that was somehow reminiscent of that night in Beirut, and then he sneered, "And Huston wouldn't like it, I suppose?"
"I'm sure he wouldn't." Chris couldn't bear to think what effect the news of Boyd and Paula would have on Clive in his already low state.
"I ought t
o go to him.. ." she said half to herself.
"I think not." Boyd paced.
"But you don't understand..."
"I understand one thing. Cyrecano is no place for you. Huston will have to get by."
"Until you've got what you want, I suppose?"
"That's right. I've located the Fry girl." The Fry girl, indeed! "Who knows, you might still do what you came out here to do." His tone was cutting.
"Or you might." She stared up defiantly. For a moment he looked hard at her and then swung away.
"Why do women have to be so damned complicated?" he growled.
"They're not. At least I'm not. All I want is to go to Clive and..."
"Save it. We've got work to do. Paula Fry is staying with a family on the other side of the island, and you and I are driving out there right now."
"But why me?" Chris went rigid. "I'm sure you can manage very well on your own.''
"Well, I'm not. Is there anything you want to collect before we go?"
"Not a thing."
He took her arm firmly. "Then let's go."
The drive took them through some of the more arid parts of the island. Yellow hills and dusty roads were only occasionally relieved by a clump of olives or a tract of wood. Boyd sat at the wheel of the hired car, big and morose and entirely oblivious to the rattle and jolt of the rickety machine. The glare of the skeletal landscape only served to increase the turmoil going on above Chris's eyes, for the headache had become a crescendo of searing pains that travelled across her temples and down to the base of her neck.
She gritted her teeth, closed her eyes to shut out the molten light. The island was by no means large, so it couldn't be far to this village. Her thoughts drifted on to Paula Fry. What was she like? Had Clive captured her likeness in the figurehead? If so she must be a very beautiful woman ... as lovely as the photograph Chris had seen on the cabinet. A woman of adventure too, judging by her occupation. Though many women did it these days it still took a lot of courage to venture alone in foreign lands.
The car started to bounce and jolt like a wild thing. With her eyes closed Chris couldn't see ahead, but if her guess was right there were more potholes than road. With the awful feeling that her head was about to be shaken off her shoulders she held it tight between two hands.
"What's wrong?"
Her eyes flew open as the car lumbered to a stop. Boyd turned to gaze at her keenly. With dust on her face, hair spiked around her ears, and eyes that felt red-hot in their sockets, Chris didn't feel much like being looked at ... not by Boyd. She turned away and pushed a hand across her brow.
"Just a headache. Will it be long before we get to this village?"
"Long enough. Why didn't you say you were feeling rough? We'd better turn off."
"No, really! A headache's nothing. Let's carry on."
He pushed the car into gear and edged it slowly along the road. After a few minutes he turned off on to a track that led into the hills. The road was smoother now and Chris was lulled into a drowsy trance. She never really came to until her door opened and Boyd was saying,
"Can you walk?"
"Of course I can." She forced a wan smile. "It's only a headache."
He helped her from her seat, muttering an oath under his breath.
"I ought to be shot, putting you through it like that!"
The village was a handful of houses and a church, all so glaringly white that Chris could only yearn for her sunglasses left in her room at the villa. Groups of villagers looked on curiously until Boyd, holding Chris's arm, spoke a few sentences in Greek. They nodded vigorously and, smiling, pointed the way with work-worn hands. An elderly woman in full skirt and shawl walked in front and opened the door of her house with a welcoming bow.
Chris almost fell inside. Another moment in the sun's glare and she would have been reduced to a heap on the floor. The people on the island seemed to have a mania for white, but inside its effect was of a cool clinical restfulness. Chris saw white-painted alcoves and deep-set windows. Just below the ceiling a shelf followed the shape of the room and here pure white walls provided the perfect backing for a row of gaily decorated plates. The most amazing and inviting amenity to Chris's weary mind was a kind of railed-off balcony at the end of the room where an open window blew blissfully cool over a heap of pillows and cushions.
Boyd looked down at her.
"You'll be all right here for a while. Sleep if you can." He took a phial out of his pocket and put three tablets in her hand. "Take these with water just before you put your head down, they're good for relieving pain." As Chris stared down at them he added, "I found them in the car's first-aid kit... just a form of aspirin."
The old lady brought a bowl of water and a towel, and as he turned to the door Chris asked,
"What will you do?"
He shrugged with half a smile.
"Probably sit in on the local gossip. Don't worry, I'll be around."
The water was cool on Chris's burning face, and she towelled it briefly, her only concern to sink amongst the cushions. She took the three tablets and then lay staring out on to a white-walled courtyard and a strip of vivid blue sky. She thought she heard the sound of the sea in the distance. There were voices of children not far from the window; somewhere a dog barked.
It seemed as though she had only dozed for a few seconds, but when she opened her eyes the strip of blue sky had darkened to a deep violet. The pains in her head had gone, but she was bathed in perspiration. As she sat up the old lady nodded and went to the door. A few moments later Boyd strode in; he smiled briefly. "How goes it?"
"Much better." She ran a self-conscious finger through tousled hair. He came to the rail and looked at her closely, touched her forehead.
"You've a slight temperature, by the look of it. Probably the tablets. Better stay put."
"But isn't it getting late?"
"No matter. I'm not taking you on like that. I'll get the old lady to bring you some sleeping gear, then we'll see about something to eat."
After a delicious sponge-down in lukewarm water Chris stepped into a voluminous nightgown. She felt better than she had done all day. Boyd came in with a tray just as she was settling back amongst the cushions. Her feeling of shyness melted away as the smell of food reminded her how hungry she was. They ate in silence, neither worrying about the gathering shadows. It was only later when the lamps were lit that Chris noticed the state of Boyd's attire. His slacks had damp stains above the knees, and the once-immaculate shirt was streaked with earth. He caught her looking and smiled wryly.
"Sorry. I haven't had time to clean up."
"What happened?" she asked.
"Nothing much. Just a youngster making it necessary to go for a quick paddle.''
Chris sat forward, and Boyd put up a hand. "Nothing heroic. There's a tract of water not far from here. The child was floating face downwards, so I hauled him out and gave him the kiss of life,"
"Is he all right?"
"Never better."
Chris put her glass down on the tray and gazed to where Boyd sat in a chair.
"It's rather a wonderful thing to save a child's life," she said quietly.
He shrugged. "The reflexes act quicker when the emotions are unfettered. These Greeks are an excitable lot. Instead of acting the family went entirely to pieces."
"Understandable, I think. They must have been glad you were around today." She watched as he finished his drink. "I suspect you are too?"
Boyd got to his feet with a dark smile.
"Well, there's an old Arab saying, 'A house without children is a house without light.' Let's just say I go along with that."
"I haven't heard that before, but I think I do too."
There was a silence and then she asked, "What was his name... this boy this afternoon?"
"Andreas Spilotokynos. Youngest but one of a series of nine."
Chris hugged her knees. "Nine children! I've always wished I were part of a large rumbustious family."
&nb
sp; He paused before picking up the tray,
"You might be some day. Let's hope they won't be saddled with a name like Spilotokynos!"
Silence draped like a blanket over the oblique remark. A lamp spluttered. He walked to the door and turned. "Goodnight, Chris."
She looked at him through the rails of the balcony. "Goodnight, Boyd."
It was a pleasant surprise that next morning to find her clothes washed and ironed and draped neatly over the back of a chair. The day was crisp and clear and after her sojourn in bed Chris knew an eagerness to be out of doors. Fresh in the lavender dress, hair smoothed, she stepped out into the sunshine.
The village was barely awake. Only a solitary child played in the dust. A dog still slept under a tree. Chris was about to go for a walk along the road when Boyd stepped out of a house and strolled towards her. A smiling glance dropped over her.
"For an invalid you look pretty good," he commented.
"I feel good. A hundred per cent cure, I'd say. I see you've been laundered and dry-cleaned too."
He quirked down at the knife-edge slacks and smooth shirt.
"They've done a good job,'' he agreed.
Standing there in the haze of early morning Chris felt the lightness in her heart dwindle down to an unbearable ache. She hated herself for being so acutely conscious of a wide-shouldered physique, crisp dark hair, and penetrating woodsmoke eyes.
"How soon do we start for Miss Fry's village?" she asked, looking down at her shoes.
"Of course, you're in a hurry to get moving."
She looked up at him. "Aren't you?" she asked.
After a few moments he said,
"You remember junior who fell in the water?"
"Andreas?"
He nodded. "There was a slight celebration last night. His folks want us to be godparents to their youngest."
"Godparents ? Today? In church?"
"That's right. Put in their own words, they would consider it a great honour."
"What did you tell them?"
"I said I would ask you.''
The sherry-brown eyes were deeply serious as she looked up to him.
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