Spell of the Island

by Hampson, Anne

  ‘How do you do, Miss Carpenter?’ he said, subjecting her to the keenest scrutiny she had ever known. His dark eyes seemed to take in everything about her face before travelling downwards . . . to rest for one interested moment on the firm outline of her breasts. She coloured delicately, was aware of her sister’s narrowed gaze and made a supreme effort to compose herself. ‘You had a good flight?’ The suave voice was finely-timbred and low.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ murmured Emma, vitally conscious of the cool strength of the hand which still held hers.

  ‘Welcome to the chateau,’ said the suave voice, while the eyes seemed to have locked themselves to Emma’s. ‘I hope you have an enjoyable holiday.’ He paused, releasing her hand. ‘How long shall you be staying?’

  So formal! There was a formidable rigidity about him that made Emma wonder if he ever unbent.

  ‘About a fortnight,’ answered Emma, ‘or perhaps a little longer.’ She had at first suggested to her mother that she should spend only a week here, leaving herself some further holidays but after a discussion it was decided that Emma should stay at least a fortnight. The fare was expensive so it was not logical to have a mere seven days on the lovely island.

  ‘You haven’t been to this part of the world before?’ His eyes had moved. And he was staring out to the lagoon again, just as if he had had enough of the two girls, thought Emma.

  ‘No, this is my first visit abroad in fact.’

  ‘I’ll not keep you,’ he said after a pause during which he gave Emma his attention again, his eyes roving her figure and his mouth curving in a sort of mocking amusement when he saw he was embarrassing her.

  A womaniser! No doubt about it, decided Emma. And yet, why hadn’t he given Louise some attention? ‘Miss Morris, take your sister to her room.’ The order was brusquely spoken, and the look he gave her was one of cool indifference.

  ‘What do you think of him?’ Louise wanted to know once they were in the lovely mauve and cream room Emma was to have.

  ‘A strange man . . .’

  ‘With striking looks.’

  ‘He’s certainly handsome despite the austere features and hard eyes.’ Emma paused momentarily. ‘How are you getting on with him, Louise?’

  Silence, with Louise staring hard at her sister,

  ‘I expect Mother’s told you how I feel—and that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’

  Emma nodded her head, rather glad that Louise had made the intelligent guess as to the reason for her coming out to the island.

  ‘Yes , it is. Mother’s dreadfully troubled about you, Louise. You shouldn’t have let her know just how unhappy you are.’ Emma’s tone was critical and Louise pouted. She’s changed, discovered Emma in astonishment.

  ‘I couldn’t help it; I was feeling as low as could be when I sent those letters.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ suggested Emma lifting her suitcase on to the bed, ‘you ought to explain.’

  Louise looked at her from where she stood with her back to the high, wide window behind which was a balcony dripping with exotic flowers growing in earthenware pots.

  ‘He’s awful with me,’ began Louise when Emma interrupted her.

  ‘I have gathered that. But there must be more to it. Why should this Monsieur Fanchette take such a strong dislike to you?’

  ‘You feel there’s a good reason?’

  Emma shrugged and threw back the lid of the case.

  ‘It’s not normal for someone to act as he does without reason.’ She lifted a lapis blue evening dress from its tissue paper and laid it on the bed.

  ‘What reason did you have in mind, Emma?’ inquired Louise, and Emma started in surprise, turning to her questioningly.

  ‘That’s a strange thing to ask,’ was all she could find to say.

  ‘I can tell by your manner that you feel instinctively that Paul must have a good reason for the way he treats me.’

  ‘Paul?’

  It was Louise’s turn to shrug impatiently. She looked sulky, observed Emma with an inward sigh. Just what was the matter? She had been sent to find out; she had hoped to be able to do something positive—though for the life of her she could not figure out what—in order to be able to reassure her mother on her return.

  ‘I don’t call him Paul to his face—I’d never dare! But I naturally always think of him as Paul.’

  ‘You do?’ in some surprise. ‘I don’t think I would—not if I were in your position.’ Another dress was shaken from its soft wrapping, and now Emma put them both in the wardrobe. The other one was a lovely creation of citrus green with rather sexy tight-fitting bodice and full flared skirt. The neckline was rather low, but along with the antique silver necklace which was her mother’s twenty-first birthday present to her, it looked a million dollars!—or so one of Emma’s boyfriends had said. Somehow, Emma did not think she would wear it while she was here.

  ‘A servant?’ from Louise shortly. She turned and looked out at the lovely gardens where fountains played and bright tropical fish swam in the pool below. ‘I don’t consider myself as a servant. A nanny’s job is different. Nannies usually eat with the parents of the child, I did when I was with the Winnicks.’

  ‘This man is different, then?’

  ‘You know very well he is! He treats me like dirt!’

  Emma turned from her unpacking and stared at her sister’s back.

  ‘Are you sure you’ve done nothing to offend him?’ she inquired tentatively, and Louise swung around, anger in her big, blue eyes.

  ‘What makes you ask a question like that?’ she demanded.

  There was a short silence before Emma spoke. She was extremely perplexed, and a little frustrated as well. There was something deep here, but she knew for sure she would get nothing out of her sister.

  ‘It occurred to me, that’s all,’ she returned and went on with her unpacking.

  Louise glanced at her watch.

  ‘I’ll have to go and pick up Jeremy from school,’ she sighed. ‘Are you coming with me? It’s only about twenty minutes there and back in the car.’

  Emma shook her head.

  ‘I’ll finish this if you don’t mind. And then I’d like to take a bath and change my clothes.’

  ‘All right.’ Louise moved to the door. ‘I’ll see you later,’ she added and went out.

  Emma stared at the closed door for fully thirty seconds, her thoughts on the conversation they had just had. And then with a sigh of impatience, she hurried through her unpacking, and as she went to the dressing-room to put away the suitcase, her eyes wandered to the window. It looked so peaceful out there that she postponed the bath and decided on a stroll in the garden.

  Once out in the grounds she realised that Monsieur Fanchette had his own private beach. But she left that exploration for another time and wandered along a secluded path instead. And suddenly she found herself almost face-to-face with the owner of the chateau.

  He was coming towards her as she took a bend in the path, and quite illogically she wanted to turn and run from him. But of course she did nothing of the kind, and soon he had stopped, fully blocking the path. Emma felt as if her legs were made of rubber, and she frowned in sheer annoyance, for she did think she was behaving like a shy schoolgirl who has suddenly become aware that she has a crush on someone.

  Colour was sweeping into her face, and her long, curling lashes were lowered, sending exquisite shadows onto her hot cheeks. She was deeply affected by the man but hoped she did not show it.

  ‘So we meet again,’ he remarked with a sort of satirical amusement. ‘Where is your sister?’

  ‘Gone for Jeremy,’ briefly and with a side-stepping attempt to pass him. To her amazement he moved at the same time and again her escape route was blocked. He was close, towering above her, his dark eyes kindling in a way that set the nerves tingling in her veins. It was so quiet here, and lonely—quite a distance from the chateau.

  ‘You didn’t go with her,’ he commented unnecessarily. ‘Decided to take a stroll instead
, eh?’ The accented voice almost held a sneer, and Emma frowned in puzzlement. ‘Did you happen to see me taking a walk?’

  ‘You—! No, what do you mean?’ There was only one meaning, she thought, and now it was anger that set her cheeks on fire.

  ‘It seems that there are two of you—but you’re a little different, more to my taste—’ Without giving Emma the slightest sign of what he intended, he had caught her wrist, jerked her to him, lifted her chin and his lips were imprisoning hers in a long and passionate kiss. ‘Satisfied?’ he inquired imperturbably when at length he held her from him. She was shaking, not only with fury but also with the effects of that kiss.

  It had affected her so greatly that she had almost reciprocated!

  ‘Leave go of me!’ she blazed, having the greatest difficulty in not kicking his shin. ‘You—you—scoundrel!’ She could think of a stronger word, but to her intense relief she managed not to utter it. ‘What’s the idea, molesting me—a stranger!’

  He released her but continued to block her path.

  ‘Stranger or old acquaintance—women are all the same.’ His voice and eyes held contempt. ‘Your sister’s rather more of a bore than the rest, though. She’s determined to keep trying.’

  ‘My sister?’ echoed Emma, for the moment diverted. ‘You mean—she—she runs—’ Abruptly she stopped, but her companion finished the sentence for her.

  ‘. . . after me? All the time,’ he added through his teeth. And then as if the idea had just occurred to him, ‘Perhaps you can do something—give her some advice—’

  ‘What kind of advice?’ cut in Emma, recalling her impression that something subtle underlay the words of Louise’s letters. She was attracted to this man . . . and despite her unhappiness she could not bear to leave his house.

  ‘You have me there,’ was his surprising admission, and now he appeared to be amused. ‘The girl’s mad for a man—’

  ‘What a thing to say!’ Emma’s fists were tight; he glanced down at them and for a long, tense moment the very air around them seemed to be electrically charged.

  ‘Anger . . . I find you attractive when you’re like this—’

  ‘Shut up!’ she fumed, glowering at him. ‘What an opinion you have of yourself—believing every woman you meet is running after you!’ Her dark eyes raked his entire length in contempt. ‘For me—I’d not have you if you were the last man on earth!’

  He laughed in sheer amusement. Looking up at him, Emma caught her breath. The man was too darned attractive by far! No man should possess this kind of superlative good looks!

  ‘If I were the last man on earth,’ he said, laughter still in his eyes, ‘you wouldn’t stand a chance.’

  She gasped at his audacity, not realising that he was finding her diverting, and he was thoroughly enjoying this little sparring match with her.

  ‘Your ego certainly needs deflating!’ she snapped. Then added for good measure, ‘I’d love to be the one to do it.’

  The dark eyes were dancing as they looked down into hers. And once again she was taken by surprise, jerked to his hard body and kissed with almost brutal passion. His mouth was warm and moist, possessive, masterful, demanding reciprocation. Emma fought valiantly, but the man’s powerful attraction had already made itself felt, affecting her from the very moment she had set eyes on him. She felt the deliberate thrust of his tongue and opened her mouth, shuddering with near rapture at the roughness against her flesh. His hands were not idle, either; he stroked her cheek, gently letting his long, brown fingers slide downwards to caress her shoulder beneath the open neckline of her blouse. And only when his warm, strong hand enclosed her breast did she cast off the languour of submission and try to push him away. He was expecting such a move, he’d learned from experience, she thought with a sort of growing bitterness. And she was held in a hawser-strong grip while he again took his fill of her lips. The hand on her breast hurt a little, by its strength, but the quiver that passed through her was one of pleasure. Again he knew what to expect. A low laugh escaped him, triumphant and contemptuous. He held her away at last and, looking into her dreamy eyes, said with mocking satire, ‘Yes, you’re all the same, following the pattern.’ He released her and was suddenly suppressing a yawn, an action that ignited a fury so strong that she did no more than lift a hand to slap his face. But before that satisfaction could be achieved her wrist was caught, and she uttered a little cry of pain.

  ‘You—brute!’ she blazed, struggling like a wildcat to gain her freedom. ‘I hate you—and I’m not staying here another moment! I’ll go to an hotel!’ She looked down at the wrist he had at last released; the bruise made her see red, and again she lifted her hand. But this time she dropped it swiftly because of the expression on his face.

  ‘Yes,’ he said slowly as he watched the action, ‘you are very wise. I’d have given you something to remember if you’d made your target.’

  She knew just what he meant and turned away. This time he allowed her to pass, and she moved quickly, his low laugh like the sound of a rasp in her ears.

  Chapter Two

  Emma very naturally refrained from telling Louise what had happened, and this meant that she, Emma, could not go out and find an hotel. Fury mingled with humiliation, for she was sure she could have struggled and escaped before he managed to excite her, arouse her emotions to the point where she was submitting. Obviously he was aware of his power over women; they were all the same, he said. They followed a pattern.

  And because of it, he was bored with them. . . .

  But one day he would find one who did not bore him and then, she surmised, he would marry. And surprisingly, as she thought about it, she found herself believing that he would be faithful! Incredible as it seemed—yes—when he had found the one, it would be the end of philandering for him.

  ‘You’re very quiet,’ observed her sister, and Emma glanced up from her plate. It was dinnertime and they were eating in the little sitting-room which had been allocated to Louise. Jeremy had had his tea and been put to bed. Noticing Louise’s impatience with the child, Emma, feeling sorry for the little boy who was only five and a half, went into his bedroom and read him a story. A bright, intelligent child, he listened attentively, eyes sparkling and hands sometimes clutching the bedcover.

  ‘That was great!’ he said when at length she closed the book after promising to read him another story tomorrow night. ‘I like stories about pirates!’

  Louise had gone to her room, and when she emerged and joined Emma she looked as glamorous as if she were dining out and going to a show afterwards. Emma opened her mouth to express her surprise but closed it again.

  It was plain that Louise was looking her best just in case she should come into contact with Paul Fanchette.

  Emma had decided on a cotton dress, flowered on a background of pale blue. The neck was low—in fact the bodice was held up only by shoulder straps—since the dress was really designed as a sundress. Emma had washed her hair and it glowed—softly brown and deep auburn tinted.

  ‘Quiet?’ she repeated, looking at Louise across the table. ‘I was thinking of your boss, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Don’t refer to him as my boss!’ flashed Louise sharply. ‘The Winnicks are my employers!’

  ‘Sorry.’ Emma counted ten. ‘There’s no need to be so shirty with me, though.’

  ‘You don’t understand. . . .’ Louise choked on her food, and her lower lip quivered. ‘You don’t understand anything.’

  ‘Then help me to understand,’ invited Emma encouragingly. ‘You know how troubled Mother is, and she’ll be expecting some kind of reassurance when I get back home.’

  ‘He hates me!’ was all Louise vouchsafed in answer to that, and Emma drew an exasperated breath.

  ‘What has caused this—well—rift between you and Monsieur Fanchette?’

  There was a long pause before her sister spoke.

  ‘He disliked me from the very first—’

  ‘You haven’t answered my question,�
� persisted Emma, half-inclined to reveal what she knew.

  But the next moment, and after a further period of hesitation, Louise said quiveringly, ‘I’ve fallen madly in love with him, Emma, and I’m being crucified by his treatment of me.’

  Emma swallowed to moisten the dryness in her throat. She had not supposed it was as bad as this. She had suspected no more than a crush, an emotional experience resulting from the superlative attractions of the Mauritian. But as she stared at Louise, noting the despairing droop to the lovely mouth, the dark misery in the blue eyes, Emma was left in no doubt at all that her sister was genuinely in love with the man who treated her with contempt, believing she was running after him . . . which she had been doing, thought Emma with a heavy frown.

  ‘The best thing you can do is leave here,’ decided Emma at length. ‘This situation can’t possibly continue. Besides, when Jeremy’s parents come back you wouldn’t be seeing Monsieur Fanchette anyway—at least, not very often.’

  Louise stared mistily at her, having pushed her plate away.

  ‘I just keep on hoping he’ll change,’ she admitted, a sob in her voice. ‘Miracles do happen, and you hear of men disliking women and later falling wildly in love with them.’

  ‘It doesn’t happen very often. In any case, this man’s an experienced womaniser who seems always to have had women running after him; it’s made him regard himself as something very special—’

  ‘He is something special.’ Louise made the interruption, because she couldn’t help it, but she coloured up immediately the words were spoken.

  ‘I suppose I have to agree,’ returned Emma, but grudgingly. ‘Nevertheless, he’s a nasty piece of work, with a head the size of a balloon and an inflated opinion of himself in general. He’s plainly of the opinion that every woman he meets wants him to make love to her—craves his caresses, in fact. Well, Louise, he just isn’t worth a thought, so you’ll be wise to write him off and come back home with me.’ Already Louise was shaking her head.