Sweet Seduction

by Whitelaw, Stella

"I have some business arrangements to make in Bridgetown."

  "They can wait. You’re on Barbados now. Take your time. Nobody hurries unless there’s a hurricane on the way. Then, believe me, you move."

  "Thank you for the warning. How shall I know when a hurricane is coming?"

  "You’ll smell it in the air. It’s unmistakable; like rotting fruit, like fermenting alcohol, like dust from a century ago." Giles was mocking her now. He knew full well that she would not have the slightest idea of what a hurricane smelt like. The locals knew only too well.

  Kira suddenly felt insecure. Hurricanes were a foreign word. Everything was foreign. This man was born on the island, in a culture so different from hers. He had money, position. They had nothing in common.

  "My work comes first," she said boldly. "I’ve wasted enough time already."

  "I approve of the work ethic but you need nourishment like any machine. Besides, I might be able to help," he added.

  "I doubt it," said Kira, wishing she could turn smartly. There would be nothing dignified in hopping away on one foot.

  "Then we’ll have breakfast together. That’s settled."

  Giles steered her across the sand. There was nothing she could do about it.

  Five

  Giles gripped her arm and took her into the gardens of Sandy Lane, towards the open air restaurant. He stopped only to wash the sand off his bare feet at an ornamentally-tiled tap. Kira could not avert her eyes from the sight of the water splashing off his brown feet and straight toes.

  "What sort of work did you say you do? And what position do you hold in this company?"

  Kira thought quickly. What had she said on the plane in those suspended minutes? "Chief executive," she said. Now she would have to decide what a chief executive did. "I’m in charge of political and industrial research for the sugar industry. As a consultant." It came out in one long rush. She knew a lot about political research. Hadn’t she been doing research for Mr Connor for years?

  "Then you should know that the first rule for any executive is being in good health. You don’t look in good shape to me, and I’m not talking about your leg. You’ve had a long flight and you should give yourself at least a day to get over jet-lag." He pulled off the rag headband and ran his hand through his hair. Despite the cut-off jeans, he still had that air of arrogance and breeding.

  Kira felt herself wilt. She didn’t look in good shape. That’s all he had to say to her. It was enough to make any woman feel worse. She plucked at the hem on her T-shirt, dragging it down over her scar. She did not like being taken to pieces, dissected like a specimen.

  "Are you ready to serve breakfast?" he asked a waiter, choosing a table with a view of the ocean.

  "Yes, of course, Mr Earl. Good morning, Miss Reed. Do you wish to order or shall I bring a selection?" It was the same waiter who had brought the supper to her room.

  Kira felt she was just awakening from a dream of being bullied around by this tall, dominant man. The growing warmth of the morning and scent of the hibiscus, the shaded oleander, were making her relaxed and half asleep. Sun was streaking across the table, picking up glints on the silvery cutlery and the dew-washed flowers in the small vase. She could hear the sea, see the blue waves sparkling. Gardeners were silently rearranging pots of flowers and scooping up luckless leaves from the ground. Friendly little sparrows hopped on the tables, cheekily helping themselves to crumbs and sugar. She was jet-lagged, for sure.

  "Does everyone know you?"

  "Of course. It’s a small island and I’ve lived here all my life. My father, Reuben Earl, inherited Sugar Hill Plantation from his father, and he from his father before then. We’ve always grown sugar, long before Benjamin and Reuben became partners and started Reed & Earl." He stopped and stared at her. "Miss Reed? Did he call you Miss Reed?"

  She knew what he was thinking. "The telephone directory here has a whole page of Reeds," she said. It was the first thing she had done in her room last night, look up Benjamin’s address. It had been no surprise to find he lived at Fitt’s House. "And back in London, there are half a dozen pages devoted to Reed. It’s hardly a unique name."

  The breakfast selection arrived on a trolley which the waiter put by their table. It was like an illustration out of a colour magazine. Tea and coffee in silver pots, fruit of every kind, sliced in dishes and fresh in baskets, bread and rolls, cheese, cold meats and fish, honey, jam, marmalade, cereals and yogurt, juices. The choice was alerting her tastebuds. The waiter served Kira with tea and slices of paw-paw, mango and pineapple. Giles helped himself to coffee.

  "Would you or madam like some cooked eggs, fried, poached, scrambled?"

  "No, thank you. This is lovely."

  Giles ordered scrambled eggs and took a glass of blueberry juice. "It’s a pity you’re not into interior decorating. My home, Sugar Hill, has been neglected for years, ever since my father died and my mother became ill. Lace has no interest in anything except parties and dances."

  "Are there lots of parties and dances?"

  "All the time." He stopped abruptly, thinking perhaps she couldn’t dance. "But lots of other things go on. Cricket, fishing, sailing, and going to church. Going to church is one of the chief occupations of good Barbadians. There are more churches than shops."

  "And what do bad Barbadians do?" she grinned.

  "Fight, drink, pirate."

  "Are there real pirates?" She remembered her Early Bird taxi driver’s warning. "Sailing schooners?"

  "Oh yes, it’s almost respectable. They smuggle contraband and hijack a ship or two. If you want an introduction, I know quite a few."

  Kira began to laugh. This was unreal, having breakfast in the sunshine with a handsome man, talking about pirates. Any moment now she would wake up and find herself staggering to the narrow kitchen counter in her Pimlico flat, putting on the kettle, hugging her dressing gown round her for warmth.

  "That’s better," said Giles. "You are laughing. It makes you look quite different."

  Kira had made it plain that she did not like personal comments, so there was no mention of the dimple that appeared at the corner of her mouth. The waiter arrived with the scrambled eggs, forcing Giles to tear his eyes away from her face.

  "Want some?" He offered his plate across the table.

  Kira took a forkful. It was delicious, creamy and light, cooked to the moment of perfection and not a second more. "It’s a gift. Knowing how to cook scrambled eggs."

  "Lace makes mountains of yellow rubber," he said.

  "Don’t you have a cook?" She stopped, not wanting to probe. "Sugar Hill sounds like a big house."

  "Yes, we have some staff. Housekeeper-cook, general maid, gardener, but Lace comes in so late most mornings, she has to make her own breakfast. I insist on it. Dolores has enough to do looking after my mother."

  Trouble, thought Kira. This sister sounded like a problem. It would be interesting to meet her. But that would mean seeing Giles again and that was not on the agenda. Once this pleasant meal was over, she would make sure that their paths did not cross. Mr Connor’s letter of introduction could stay in her case.

  Kira watched the guests arriving for breakfast. The women were wearing fabulous beach outfits, matching hats and wraps and accessories. She had nothing so glamorous.

  "Shouldn’t you be wearing a shirt?" she said nervously. "All the men are wearing shirts."

  "Does my bare chest offend you? I’ll borrow a shirt from a waiter, if you like. I’m sure one of them would oblige."

  "No, I didn’t mean that. I thought we both look a bit casual. Everyone is so dressed up."

  "You wear what you like here. It’s what’s underneath that matters. Get yourself a sarong from one of the beach girls and you’ll have everything you need."

  "A sarong?"

  "A most useful garment. You can wear it, lay on it, even use it to dry yourself after a swim. They’ll show you how to put it on so it doesn’t fall off."

  "Sounds dangerous."

  "
Don’t look so alarmed. A knotted sarong is iron-clad safe, and I should know. In my youth, I’ve tried to get a fair number of them off their delectable wearers."

  Kira blushed. It was hopeless. The colour flooded her face. She did not know where to look. She pushed the newly-grown fringe out of her eyes. She did not know how to cope with this man. Her years in dusty, musty, tradition-bound Parliament and the ordinary, English-style courtship with Bruce had not prepared her for the maelstrom of emotion this islander was arousing in her.

  "Sorry, I’m a little jumpy. Ravages of London life," she explained. "It’s been hectic."

  Clearing out her desk had been hectic. Not that there was much left to clear. Her replacement – a stunning blonde temp – had merely dumped her stuff into boxes and put them into a cupboard.

  "I’m sorry but the electric kettle is mine," Kira had said, unplugging it. "You’ll have to get a new one."

  "No problem," the blonde had replied. "I’ll charge it to Mr Connor. Office expenses."

  "You need to slow down," said Giles, breaking into her thoughts. "A few weeks at Sandy Lane and you won’t recognise yourself."

  Kira did not say that she could not afford to stay at Sandy Lane more than a few days. But her morning walk had given her an idea. There were lots of small apartment buildings right on the coast, their gardens sloping down to the beach. A studio apartment was a tempting idea. She would enjoy shopping locally and eating sliced paw-paw on her own balcony, a drink and a book at her side.

  "So you have a sugar plantation and a sugar refining factory?" said Kira, changing the subject. "That’s very impressive. And an old house that needs restoring."

  "The plantation has belonged to the Earls for several generations. It’s in a lovely part of the island, rolling hills and fields. Very English-looking. But not far from the rugged East coast where the Atlantic rollers are so different from the placid West. You must go and see it. But don’t swim in the sea. It isn’t safe. Too rough and rocky."

  "Can I get a bus there?"

  "A bus is slow and bumpy. Goes all round the island, takes hours. Hire a Moke. Or better still, let me lend you a Moke. I have a spare vehicle. They are the only way to travel."

  Kira did not take up his offer. "And you refine your own sugar?"

  "We have a factory out past the airport. But it wouldn’t be working to full capacity if we only refined our own crop. We take in cane from a lot of smaller growers. The cane is brought in by lorry though the access road is poor. No money for a new road. It’s quite a problem for the small man to get his sugar ground."

  "No money for a road?" Giles did not look as if he had financial problems.

  "My father’s partner, Benjamin Reed, filtered off a lot of the firm’s capital in order to build a house called Fitt’s House, a pink castle with battlements and turrets, totally out of keeping with its rural surroundings. It was to impress his new bride. My father didn’t find out till long after that Benjamin had borrowed money from the firm. Meanwhile, my father had borrowed money from every bank to finance a new plant. They had a blazing row. And then there was the problem of Dolly. She was the real spanner in the works, little minx."

  Kira had not heard the name Dolly mentioned before. Who was she?

  "And how do you get along with Benjamin Reed now? Is he still your partner?"

  "I speak to him only when I have to. He’s not an easy man to work with." Giles slammed down his knife and fork abruptly. He pushed away the plate and lit up a small cigar. He poured himself half a cup of black coffee. His breakfast was obviously reaching its final stage. He looked at his watch.

  "I have to go," he said. His voice cooled unexpectedly. "I have an appointment. It’s been nice meeting you again. Have a good holiday."

  The polite phrases were dismissive. Kira did not know whether to be relieved or disappointed. So Giles Earl had decided he was wasting his time with a thin, jumpy woman who was mentally a mess. Well, it was what she wanted. She did not want to see him again.

  He scraped back the chair and stood up. The ragged jeans had dried, clung to his thighs. "Don’t walk in the cane fields," he said, signalling to the waiter.

  "Why not?"

  "Monkeys. Vicious little devils. The fields are over-run with monkeys." He touched the scar on his face. "This is what one did to me. Don’t take a chance. They bite. Growing sugar isn’t all sugar and spice. There’s monkeys, cane fires, hurricanes, the small growers’ problems, the shortfall in the Caribbean quota. Think of all that when you buy a packet of sugar lumps down at your local supermarket."

  Kira grasped the opportunity. She did know something about their problems. The trade delegation at Westminster had been concerned for the industry worldwide, and she had read many of the documents. Sugar consumption in the world was falling despite a growing population. They had to find alternative crops or sources of income.

  "Why not let me research this?" she said boldly. "There must be areas where accurate information would be useful. And I’d like to meet the President of the Sugar Growers’ Association.”

  His face darkened. A waiter appeared with a chit which Giles signed before answering. He had an account with the hotel.

  "He is the same Benjamin Reed. The man who has done more to ruin our sugar trade than anyone else on the island. We’ve been trying to oust him for years but he has many rock-solid supporters. He’s been here too long."

  The way he spoke made Kira shiver. She pulled herself together sharply. She, too, had reason to dislike, even hate, her grandfather. But Giles was not to know.

  "I’ll make up my own mind whether I want to see him or not," she said levelly. "He may be a big fish here but Barbados is only 21 miles around the coast and that makes it a pretty small pond."

  She didn’t care about the mixed-up speech. It conveyed her meaning.

  "So what does that make me?" he asked curiously.

  "A shark," she said.

  Six

  Giles looked amused. "Sharks can bite too. Think of those teeth."

  "I shall keep well away from any."

  Giles took a step towards her. He seemed to be tightly sprung with what might be unleashed anger, although she saw no reason for it. But when he put out his hand, it was only to tilt her chin with a finger. Then he brushed his thumb lightly down her slim neck to the hollow of her throat, touched a tendril of hair. It produced a sensation that left Kira powerless to move or speak.

  "Such pretty eyes," he said abruptly. "But a hard heart."

  With a curt nod, he dropped his hand and strode away towards the beach and the sea, back rigid as a ram-rod. Tissues of clouds fluttered in the now azure blue of the sky. Boats bobbed at anchor, sailing yachts loomed on the horizon like coloured rags.

  Kira watched his departing figure in a turmoil of emotion, waiting for the thudding of her pulse to calm down. She was relieved to see him go. Giles was too much of a threat. Yet her body longed for him to touch her again. She wanted to be touched by a man. She tried to suppress her wanton thoughts.

  It must be the sun, the jet-lag, the relaxing charm of a natural and beautiful island, she told herself. It was destroying her protective armour. But she knew that was not the complete truth. If she had met Giles Earl on a crowded Underground train on the coldest, dampest day in London, her reaction to him would have been exactly the same.

  "I could even sort of love him one day," she said half aloud, with a sudden amazing elation. A smile broke across her face. It was like a burst of sunshine on a wintery morning.

  The waiter, coming to clear the table, thought the smile was for him.

  "Have a nice day, Miss Reed," he said, beaming. "Don’t worry, be happy."

  Kira had a nice day. The unhurried pace of the island took hold of her, held her fast in its magic by the feet. She found the morning gone and all she had done was to make a couple of phone calls.

  Next to cricket, telephoning was the second most popular pastime on the island. Perhaps there was another, but it wasn’t logged. Lo
cal calls were free and this meant that half the population were on the phone to the other half most of the day. If a Barbadian home did not have a telephone, then the place of work provided one and here it was that waiters, shop assistants, hotel staff made their social calls. Everyone else had mobiles. No-one seemed to mind if it kept everyone else waiting.

  She discovered that bus fares were a uniform sum regardless of distance, and the buses into Bridgetown stopped right outside the drive of Sandy Lane. She would have no trouble getting round the island if she could get on one of the crowded vehicles.

  She ordered visiting cards – plain and simple – from a firm of local printers. They would be ready in twenty-four hours and she arranged to collect them the following day. She would be fit to face Bridgetown after a day of sunbathing, leisurely swims and an early night.

  Kira could not help noticing the British ways and traditions that had survived and blended so well with the distinctive Bajan character. British place names – Worthing, Hastings, Christchurch – but so different from the counter resorts at home. The three hundred years of British occupation had left an aura of old world courtesy and industry which was a surprise and delight to jaded visitors from abroad. Traces of elegant Colonial days were everywhere.

  It was the rainy season so Kira found that the beaches were not crowded. She could easily find a quiet, tranquil spot all to herself. She had only to walk northwards, away from the line of hotels whose guests did not seem to wander far from the pool.

  The beaches had a life of their own. The vendors trudged the sand, flat-footed, plying their various trades with infinite patience and good humour. Melon women carried trays of fruit on their heads.

  Kira was apprehensive when approached by a young man with a Western-style briefcase. He had a red rag tied round his arm. Was he selling insurance? He went down on his haunches on the sand beside her and opened the case. The base and lid was a display unit with coral necklaces and bracelets in every possible colour and size.

  "No charge to look, miss," said the young man. "My name is Moonshine. Today I have special bargains."