The Hawk and the Lamb

by Susan Napier

  'Why doesn’t that surprise me?' murmured Elizabeth. No wonder he had taken his corporation from strength to strength. He had a determination, a will to win that was more evident with each passing moment, whether it be an argument, a woman, or a company.

  That made him a possessive man. What if he found out that Elizabeth was here as the agent of someone who wished to take one of his possessions away from him— his mistress?

  To Elizabeth's intense relief her disturbing thoughts weren’t given time to ripen into fears. Serena Corvell's pretence of indifference had lasted only as long as it took for her to realise that her behaviour had thrown the field wide open to a woman whom she had formerly regarded as no competition at all. She got up and strolled con­fidently across the deck to tease Jack into giving her a turn at the wheel, began talking to him in a low voice that made it clear that Elizabeth's presence was superfluous.

  Instead of trying to intrude where she obviously wasn’t wanted Elizabeth retreated to the cabin to fetch her camera and casually took a few shots of the retreating mainland, the white sandy beaches curving into a sea that was now cobalt-blue under a totally cloudless sky. Just like the brochures, she thought wryly as she swiv­elled the lens and focused carefully on the couple at the wheel.

  Serena Corvell had tied an expensive silk scarf over her sleek blonde head, leaving her flawless face exposed as she leaned closer to hear something of what Jack said. Their faces were nearly touching in profile as Elizabeth clicked the shutter. She felt strangely breathless as she framed another shot, and then another, nervous ex­citement running through her veins. Serena was laughing now, and Jack briefly put his hand over hers as it shifted on the wheel.

  As Elizabeth clicked the shutter again Jack Hawkwood looked casually back at her, the movement undoubtedly blurring what would have been a perfect shot. The smile on his face died abruptly and Elizabeth jerkily turned and took a blind snap of the empty sea. She cursed herself for the betraying swiftness of her move. It would have been less suspicious to just take the shot. Sure enough, when she lowered her camera she could see out of the corner of her eye that he was still looking at her with that hawkish gaze.

  A few seconds later he left Serena at the wheel and was offering to take a photograph of Elizabeth for her 'holiday album'.

  'Oh, no, really—I prefer to take photos rather than be in them,' she stammered, clutching the camera tightly. 'I—I don’t photograph very well, you see-'

  'I can see your problem,' Serena's malicious sym­pathy floated across the deck. "The camera doesn’t flatter the fuller figure, does it? Leave her alone, Jack, you're embarrassing the poor girl.'

  So, not only was she fat, she wasn’t even a woman. Elizabeth found herself doing a slow burn at the un­necessary spite of the other woman's words. As if

  Elizabeth would ever be a threat to a sophisticated woman like Serena, for goodness' sake! It was temper, rather than bravery, that prompted her to delay Jack's return to his mistress's side.

  'There's a private estate on the island, isn’t there, as well as your hotel?'

  His hesitation was so slight that she thought she must have imagined it.

  'The St Clair estate, yes. What makes you ask?'

  'Is it far away from the hotel?' She tried to make her question casual, eyes avoiding his so that he wouldn’t see the avidness of her interest.

  'Nothing on the island is far from the hotel,' he said drily. 'It's only a few kilometres across.'

  Was he being evasive? Or was it her over-active im­agination? 'Someone mentioned that the house is worth a look, that it's like a transplanted French chateau...' Uncle Miles and Uncle Seymour had been very eloquent about the graceful villa in which old Monsieur St Clair resided—when they had exhausted the topic of the priceless book collection which had been the reason for their visit a few months before.

  'It's very impressive.'

  She took the unenthusiastic reply as uninterest. 'I'll be sure and go and see it, then...'

  'I'm afraid that's not possible.'

  Against her will her eyes darted anxiously to his. 'Not possible? Why not?'

  'The estate is out of bounds to hotel guests.'

  'Out of bounds, but why?'

  'It's a private home, not a tourist attraction. Monsieur St Clair doesn’t care for casual visitors.'

  Elizabeth was tempted to tell him that she wasn’t a casual visitor but she bit her tongue and turned away, pretending to be absorbed by the sight of seabirds skimming the calm wake of the yacht. Discretion must be her watchword, at least until she had had a chance to speak to Monsieur St Clair himself.

  Unconsciously she touched the white shirt where it lay concealingly across the heavy, wrought-gold necklace, feeling again the faint chill of the shock she had ex­perienced when Uncle Miles told her the unfortunate aftermath of their buying trip to the St Clair estate. She had known that Uncle Seymour was becoming prone to bouts of increasing eccentricity in old age, but she hadn’t realised that his magpie tendencies had developed into something more serious until Uncle Miles had shown her the evidence.

  Uncle Seymour might not have actually stolen the necklace personally, but he had certainly kept it in the guilty knowledge that it was someone else's property. Monsieur Alain St Clair's to be exact.

  The two crates of books which had been shipped to Lamb's Tales from the St Clair estate had contained, for the most part, the brothers' legitimate and documented purchases. But when Uncle Seymour had unpacked them he had found there were also three valuable first editions apparently included by mistake and an apparently worthless book that had contained, within its hollowed-out pages, the necklace that Elizabeth was now wearing. An antique necklace that was breathtakingly beautiful and obviously extremely valuable. Stamped on to the ornately carved clasp was an unmistakable mark of ownership—the St Clair family crest.

  Instead of doing the proper thing and immediately rectifying the mistake Uncle Seymour had tucked away his find in the old roll-topped desk in his room. Uncle Miles had been shattered when, one evening two months later, he had stumbled upon his brother possessively ad­miring his treasured hoard. Uncle Seymour had been truculent, stubbornly refusing to accede that he had done anything wrong or to perceive any negative reper­cussions to their business reputation if his actions were made public. He had insisted that he was just 'minding' the books and necklace until their return was requested.

  Uncle Miles had worried about the problem for several weeks as he tried without success to contact Monsieur St Clair personally by phone and by letter. The estate staff were brusque and uncommunicative and his letters remained unanswered. It was only when the strain got too much for him that Uncle Miles had reluctantly con­fided in Elizabeth and asked for her active help in re­turning the valuable items to their reclusive owner.

  'Oh, Monsieur St Clair is still living there, then. He's quite old, isn’t he? Is he still in good health?' she asked Jack now.

  'Why do you ask?'

  'Oh, no reason—I'd heard he was a recluse.'

  Every reason in the world. If by any chance the old man was ill and died before Elizabeth got to him then a delicate situation would become extremely dangerous.

  On the other hand an illness might explain the reason why there had been no apparent hue and cry about the disappearance of some highly valuable possessions. If the police were not yet involved Elizabeth knew that there was a good chance that she could extricate Uncle Seymour from the folly of his age without any shameful publicity or embarrassing legal red tape. If Monsieur St Clair was old and not in the best of health himself he might be better able to appreciate Elizabeth's plea for forgiveness for her uncle's temporary moral lapse.

  Jack Hawkwood was looking at her with that unsettlingly thoughtful gaze again.

  'If by recluse you mean does he value his privacy-yes, he does. Very highly. Hotel guests are expressly warned against trespassing. If they do, and are caught, their booking can be terminated forthwith and they will not be welcome ba
ck on the island again.'

  'A little drastic, isn’t it?' Elizabeth said faintly, ap­palled at the realisation that she wasn’t going to be able to just walk up and knock on the door, as she had naively assumed she would do.

  'But very effective.'

  It was a very blunt statement, one that told her that she would get no more information on the subject out of Jack Hawkwood.

  Not that he had told her anything positively helpful. He might be proving a push-over where getting evidence of his involvement with Serena Corvell was concerned, but for the rest she was very definitely on her own!

  CHAPTER FIVE

  AS ELIZABETH depressed the shutter-release two things happened simultaneously.

  A slim, darkly tanned redhead wearing a string bikini draped herself across the viewfinder, totally obscuring Elizabeth's target, and the sun-lounger from which Elizabeth had been precariously leaning in order to get a better shot tipped over.

  Picking herself up off the silky white sand, Elizabeth swore under her breath as she smoothed down her loose multi-coloured beach shirt and checked her camera for damage. She righted the sun-lounger, shaking out the huge royal-blue hotel towel before she spread it back on the lounger and sat down again, smiling half-heartedly at the chuckles and amused gibes of the guests in the immediate vicinity. Damn J.J. Hawkwood!

  She glared at the subject of her frustration, who was lying further along the beach. The redhead was kneeling provocatively beside him, laughing down into his lazily responsive face, ignoring the discontented expression of Serena Corvell sitting under a sun-umbrella beside him.

  The unfaithful wife of Uncle Simon's suffering client was evidently not having the holiday of her dreams. Well, nor was Elizabeth, and she was meanly glad that someone was sharing her disenchantment with this island paradise.

  The hotel complex was unlike any Elizabeth had ever seen, a low sprawl of sinfully luxurious bungalows, each sub-divided into two separate suites, and interconnected by paths of crushed shells winding among luxuriant hib­iscus, poinsettias and oleander shrubs. The main building, a graceful three-storey structure directly over­looking the curving beach of powder-fine white sand, housed three restaurants, the extensive sports facilities, casino, nightclub and numerous bars. A huge swimming-pool competed with the tranquil turquoise waters of the bay to lure the guests into taking full advantage of the balmy New Caledonia weather.

  Elizabeth had been at one of the most fabulous hotels in the world for three days and she still hadn’t found time to enjoy herself! If anything her anxieties had in­creased. Although she had placed the necklace, cleverly sealed in festive paper, in the hotel safe, she had not managed to persuade the hotel telephonist to connect her with the St Clair estate. Off-limits to guests evidently also extended to phone calls.

  Her surveillance was also proving a disappointment. From the time that Jack took a morning jog along the beach while Serena breakfasted on the veranda of his bungalow until three or four in the morning when the casino finally closed, the pair were constantly on the move, but they actually seemed to spend little time alone together. Elizabeth was beginning to despair of getting any more 'compromising' photographs than those she had taken on the boat coming over.

  She took one now, just for the hell of it. She had a feeling that she could walk up and snap the camera right under their noses and neither Jack nor Serena would pay a blind bit of notice. Their lives were far too self-involved.

  Perhaps the lovely Serena was coming to the same conclusion that Elizabeth had reached through the ob­jective magnification of her long lens: that J.J. Hawkwood's excessive sociability with his guests was in the nature of a flashy conjuring trick. In fact, for all his affability, there was a reserve, a wariness about him that drew a definite line between the public and private man, over which few presumed to step.

  Certainly, she had discovered to the detriment of her nerves, under that lazy exterior he had fearsome stores of energy to burn.

  Sure enough, he wasn’t content to lie on the beach for long. A few minutes later he was walking off into the palm trees that lined the beach, hand in hand with the luscious redhead!

  At first Elizabeth couldn’t believe her eyes. She looked from Serena Corvell's stiff face to the man retreating along the sand. A number of other women on the beach were also openly studying his form.

  Elizabeth grudgingly had to admit it was superb. Unlike his thickly furred chest his back was a tapering sweep of smooth bare skin, from wide shoulders to lean hips. His legs were long, slender yet powerful as they flexed with each easy stride. Sprinter's legs and a swim­mer's chest—an awesome combination. Stripped to dark blue racing-style swimming-trunks, Jack was impress­ively male.

  But not perfect, Elizabeth saw with a jolt, for down one hair-roughened thigh was a curving scar which reached from hip-joint to knee. The flaw only served to emphasise the perfection of the rest of him.

  Ten minutes later, crouched awkwardly behind the massive roots of a banyan tree overlooking a small beach that was scarcely large enough to merit the name, she admitted to herself that she had exceeded her orders by following Jack Hawkwood and his bikini-clad friend, but the woman in her was outraged by his behaviour.

  She raised her camera, propping it against one of the gnarled roots. Get on with it! she silently urged as she squinted grimly through the lens. All she needed was a kiss and then she would leave them to their sordid games. Getting a shot of Jack being unfaithful to the woman he was being unfaithful to his wife with was worth com­promising her conscience for. If nothing else such a photograph might help bring poor Serena Corvell to her senses!

  A cheesecake shot of a half-naked woman standing alone on a beach wasn’t what she wanted. Elizabeth lowered the camera, wondering where the other half of her composition had gone. She found him, all too quickly—sprinting up the sand towards the stand of trees where she was hiding. The expression on his face was as hard as the rest of him. In contrast the woman he had left was laughing as she turned to jog off along the beach, back in the direction of the hotel. Elizabeth turned and ran.

  She didn’t know whether she had been rumbled or not but she wasn’t waiting around to find out. The sandy soil of the island didn’t support a thick undergrowth, and Elizabeth knew that she wasn’t going to get much cover from the slender-trunked gums and pine trees, so concealment depended on putting as much distance be­tween herself and Jack as quickly as possible. She could hear him behind her, gaining on her. It wasn’t coinci­dence. He might not know who he was after but he was certainly in full pursuit.

  Hopelessly disorientated by panic, she stumbled on as fast as she could in her slip-on sandals, hoping for a miracle, knowing that she was being foolish, knowing that he must now be able to see her quite clearly as she darted around the trees.

  She screamed softly when she felt the tug on the flut­tering tail of her beach-shirt and wrenched away, losing her balance and her shoes simultaneously. She fell, dropping the camera and hearing him hit the ground with an 'oomph' behind her, her momentum carrying her forward, sprawling thankfully out of his reach. She scrabbled desperately along on her hands and knees, preparing to spring to her feet again when she felt a warm iron manacle clamp on her ankle and yank the support from under her. With a soft cry she fell face-first into the sandy soil. She panted and kicked, but to no avail. He flipped her neatly on to her back and literally climbed up her body until he was pressing her down with the weight of his full length, his menacing face a murmur away from hers.

  'Well, well, well,' he drawled as she squirmed beneath him, his breath feathering hot and spicy across her angry face. 'If it isn’t the lonesome dove. Voyeurism, Beth, is that how you get your kicks...?' There was no surprise in his voice, only a grim triumph. So he had known who he was chasing.

  'I don’t know what you're talking about!' she panted, trying to summon an innocent outrage. 'How dare you? Get off me!'

  Her muslin shirt was transparently thin, and under­neath all she wore was a
plain black maillot. They might as well both be naked for all the protection their beach attire afforded. Elizabeth could feel every muscle in his body, hot and hard and damp from the fever of the chase. Her breasts were painfully crushed by his thick chest and she could feel every breath he took as if it were her own.

  Suddenly Elizabeth was very aware of the stillness around them, the soft whisper of the sea, the sandy ground abrading the back of her legs, the snug fit of his hips as they straddled hers.

  'Get off!'

  This time her gasp was more of a plea than a demand, but of course he didn’t move. He just lay there, his grey eyes enjoying her obvious helplessness.

  In a last-ditch effort to assert herself Elizabeth reached out and grabbed the neat pony-tail at the back of his head and pulled sharply. The jolt should have brought tears to his eyes but to her horror he didn’t even flinch, the corded muscles of his neck hardly registering the sudden extra tension. Instead he smiled faintly and as she jerked her hand away the thin black band that had held his hair in place came with it. His hair loosened across his braced shoulders, slipping caressingly through her retreating fingers like fine, dark silk. A strand fell forward, teasing her parted lips, the feathered tip ad­hering just inside the moist corner of her mouth.

  Elizabeth froze, her eyes dilating with renewed shock as he delicately reached inside her mouth with his blunt fingers to extract the intimate intrusion, brushing the dampened strands tauntingly across her vividly flushed cheek before tucking them safely behind his ear.

  'Do you like the way I taste, Beth?'

  His mocking murmur was barely discernible through her excruciating embarrassment.

  'Get off...please!'

  She almost choked on the final word but to her sur­prise he politely obliged, rolling sideways. When she knelt and tried to get to her feet she discovered the limits of his concession—she was now held by her wrist. He sat up at right-angles to her, one leg drawn up casually to support the arm holding her captive, the other stretched out in front of him. Her ankle still tingled from the power of his grasp and now her wrist began to pulse uncom­fortably against the palm of his hand.