Spell of the Island

by Hampson, Anne

  ‘What about Jeremy?’ she said.

  Remembering Louise’s near impatience with the child at bedtime—for clearly she was glad to be rid of him—Emma said quietly, ‘I don’t think you are really concerned with that aspect, are you, Louise?’ and before she could answer, Emma was adding in the same quiet tone of voice, ‘Once you’ve given the man a fortnight’s notice he’ll begin looking for a replacement—’

  ‘I can’t leave!’ cried her sister unhappily. ‘I’ve already told you I’m hoping for a change in Paul’s attitude towards me.’

  ‘Throwing yourself at him won’t bring about a change.’ Emma felt inclined to be callous, for she desperately wanted Louise to come home with her in a fortnight’s time. ‘He’s the kind of man who’ll naturally treat with utter contempt any woman who tries to gain his attention.’

  ‘You’re so knowledgeable!’ snapped Louise, and Emma did think just how she had changed. Was this what unrequited love did for you?

  I’ll take darned good care it never happens to me, declared Emma but to herself . . . and yet as she silently formed the sentence there arose before her the image of Paul Fanchette . . . debonair and handsome, confident, egotistical. . . .

  She set her teeth on remembering the scene of just a couple of hours ago, temper rising as she recalled her own reaction, the arousal of emotions she would rather not think about.

  Undoubtedly the man was a menace to women, and she was determined to keep him at a distance during her stay here in his home.

  Emma and Louise talked for some time without any headway being made as regards Emma’s practical solution to the problem. Louise was not giving up; she was in the depths of despair and yet, conversely, cherishing the optimistic hope that Paul Fanchette’s attitude towards her would change.

  ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll go to bed now,’ said Louise when they had drunk their coffee on the verandah of Louise’s sitting-room. ‘I feel awful at leaving you alone, but. . . . She tailed off on noticing her sister’s perceptive expression. ‘I really mean it,’ she insisted with an almost belligerent look.

  Emma shook her head, a gesture of impatience.

  ‘You’re going somewhere—I don’t know where—hoping that detestable man will see you—’

  ‘No, I am not!’

  ‘Why the glamorous getup?’ she wanted to know, again feeling a callous approach might just shake Louise back to her senses.

  ‘Don’t be crude, Emma! I always like to look nice for dinner! In fact, it was in your honour!’

  ‘An explanation but not a truthful one.’ Emma rose from her chair. ‘Obviously you don’t want me with you so I’ll say good night and go to my room—’

  ‘You make me feel rotten,’ complained Louise on the edge of tears. ‘You’ve come all this way to see me and—and this is how I treat you—’ She choked suddenly and bit her lip hard to hold back the tears. ‘I’m sorry, Emma, do please believe me!’

  Emma was standing, and she looked down at the unhappy girl. Something had to be done . . . and Emma had now made a firm decision. . . . To her surprise Emma saw her sister go into her bedroom and although she waited on the verandah for fully ten minutes the girl did not come out.

  Too upset so she had changed her mind, decided Emma and, herself, went in search of the man who was causing all the trouble. He was nowhere in the house, so she surmised he was in the garden, as his car was on the forecourt.

  The night was balmy, the sky, spangled with stars. The lagoon, lazy in the moonlight, shimmered away to where the reef rose like a miniature waterfall, making music, creating light and shade that lent an air of romance even without the swaying palms that lined the backshore. The swimming must be glorious, she mused as she wandered along one winding path and another, the dry wind rustling through a belt of tamarind trees and the spidery fronds of the palms. Her eyes searched; she was determined to talk with Paul Fanchette, and yet the thought of the encounter was causing her nerves to tense, her heart to beat a little overrate. As she continued to wander and search, she thought of the wealth and splendour of the chateau with its French furniture, its exquisite decor, its Persian carpets and rugs. Gold-plated fittings even in the guest bathroom, and she wondered what his was like. She had asked Louise about his line of business, learnt that he owned tea and sugarcane factories—was in fact the largest exporter on the island. Wealth as well as the supreme beneficence of Nature! And all it had done to him was inflate his ego and self-esteem, create vanity out of all proportion, unbelievable conceit and arrogance.

  How on earth Louise could have fallen in love with him Emma would never understand!—for a more detestable man she had never met.

  And as Emma decided this, the man under review came strolling along on the other side of a low hedge of hibiscus vines. His footsteps had been light; she was angered at being taken by surprise but managed to keep her voice steady as she said without hesitation, ‘Ah, Monsieur Fanchette—I’d like a few words with you.’

  ‘Yes.’ He stopped, head and shoulders above the neatly trimmed hedge. Emma was at an immediate disadvantage since she had to tilt her head, a circumstance that only served to increase her anger. ‘What about, might I ask?’

  She set her teeth at the arrogance and amusement in his voice.

  ‘We can’t talk over a hedge,’ was her stiff rejoinder.

  ‘There isn’t much at all one can do with a hedge between them.’ Mockery in his voice, and Emma’s teeth gritted together. She very much feared she would again attempt to hit out at the pompous creature!

  ‘The talk is serious.’ Quivered tones but the hope that he would not notice. ‘I have something important to request of you, Monsieur. Please afford me a few moments of your time and attention. . . .’ Her voice trailed to silence as he laughed.

  ‘So stiff,’ he commented. ‘An armour of self-defence which some women assume, yet invariably it’s a thin, ineffective cloak—’

  ‘Would you mind keeping your observations on women for another time and audience?’ broke in Emma frigidly. ‘What I have to say won’t take long, and then I can go to my room. I’m tired after the long flight.’

  He looked at her with an odd expression . . . almost as if he were intrigued by her manner.

  ‘Perhaps we can talk over a drink,’ he suggested and with long graceful strides made for the end of the dividing foliage and was soon coming towards her. She waited, legs weak, boneless. This place was lonely . . . and only minutes ago she had decided to keep her distance. His assurance, the sensuous twist of his mouth, the dark embers that seemed to glow in his eyes . . .

  Wanting to run, Emma half turned, then remembered what she had come out here for and remained where she was until he reached her side. ‘You look troubled,’ he observed, glancing down at her in the moonlight. ‘Are you not enjoying your holiday?’

  ‘I’ve only been here a few hours,’ she returned shortly.

  ‘A temper,’ he remarked with unexpected off-handedness. ‘Most women are similarly endowed, though they don’t always practice your control. In what way have I annoyed you?’ he ended and as she could scarcely say that his whole manner stuck in her gullet, she compromised by reminding him of his treatment of her a few hours previously.

  ‘It was disgraceful,’ she added, aware that she had not put much strength into her explanation, but she had no wish to antagonise him to a point where he would refuse the request she was about to make.

  ‘You weren’t noticeably averse at the time,’ he returned in taunting accents. ‘For myself, I thoroughly enjoyed the interlude . . . even though it was far too short.’

  She gasped at the audacity of him! Then glancing up, she realised he was playing with her, deriving exceeding amusement at her expense.

  She said in a glacier-cold tone of voice, ‘If we can talk at once, then—’

  ‘In the salon,’ he broke in firmly.

  She drew an exasperated breath which could not possibly escape his ears.

  ‘As you wish,’ she snapped,
‘but let us have no more delay!’

  Once in the luxurious apartment, and with a drink in her hand which she did not want but which had literally been forced upon her, Emma wasted no time in saying what was in her mind.

  ‘It’s about Louise, Monsieur Fanchette. I want you to let her leave—I really mean, I want you to dismiss her.’

  Silence. He was standing by the cocktail cabinet, a glass in his hand. When he spoke his voice was terse.

  ‘As I am not your sister’s employer, I have no authority to dismiss her.’

  ‘But you could if you so chose.’ Emma’s voice was coldly deliberate.

  ‘Jeremy needs a nanny.’

  ‘You can find a replacement.’ She sent him a direct glance. ‘You dislike my sister intensely; you’ve treated her abominably from the very first, so surely it will suit you to get her out of your house?’

  ‘I have no intention of interfering in matters which don’t concern me, Miss Carpenter.’ He took a sip of his brandy. ‘The matter is therefore closed.’ He was a different man now, a stern and determined person whose previous manner might never have existed. No amused mockery in those hard eyes, no sardonic twist of the sensuous lips. They were firmly pressed together and the jawline was taut.

  ‘Can you give me some explanation?’ inquired Emma, already frustrated by his implacability.

  ‘Explanation of what?’

  ‘Your wish to keep Louise here when you dislike her so much.’

  ‘She’s obviously exaggerated my—er—dislike.’

  ‘By your own admission you find her a bore.’

  ‘Because of her persistence in throwing herself at me.’ His mouth went tight. ‘She came here as an employee but did not know how to keep her place.’

  ‘You’re talking to her sister,’ seethed Emma, furious at his plain speaking. ‘Has it not occurred to you that I might be embarrassed?’

  He looked at her for a long moment, subjecting her to a keen and all-examining scrutiny.

  ‘You and she are not related, she told me.’

  ‘Can we keep to the point?’ she snapped. ‘I must tell you that our mother is greatly troubled because of Louise’s unhappiness. I came here to see what was wrong—’

  ‘Your sister has written to her mother about me?’

  ‘Naturally she’s told her of your treatment of her.’

  ‘But not the reason for that treatment, obviously. However, you know why I dislike her—’

  ‘Then release her!’ flashed Emma, fast losing both patience and temper. ‘Mother will be saved from further anxiety.’

  ‘I’m sorry for your mother. . . .’ He lifted a hand to hide a yawn, and Emma’s eyes glittered at the unnecessary action. ‘However, I fail to see why I should give myself the trouble of getting another nanny for my nephew when I can leave things as they are.’

  ‘And be uncomfortable?’

  His eyes opened wide.

  ‘It would seem it’s Miss Morris who is uncomfortable, not me.’

  A sigh escaped her. She had been so optimistic, assuming this man would be glad to listen to her, even though he had previously refused to let Louise go. But he was as adamant as ever; and judging by that implacable expression, Emma felt sure she would avail herself nothing by further argument. That his whole attitude was unreasonable was an undoubted fact, but obviously he was not intending to put himself to the trouble of finding a replacement for Louise.

  She said presently, ‘Is it possible for Louise to return to the Winnicks’ home rather than stay here?’

  He looked at her curiously.

  ‘Your sister’s talked to you, obviously, since you arrived here. She’s denounced me as a tyrant—’

  ‘And aren’t you a tyrant?’ she could not help asking.

  He looked at her in some amusement.

  ‘I am a stickler for efficiency. Your sister has neither the patience nor the experience to be a competent nanny. I have repeatedly had to admonish her for neglect—’

  ‘Then for heaven’s sake let her go!’ cried Emma in exasperation. ‘It’s the only logical thing to do!’

  ‘I’ve already said, she stays to work out her contract. After that—’ he spread a hand carelessly, ‘something can be arranged.’

  ‘But why not now?’

  Suddenly his eyes narrowed.

  ‘Miss Carpenter,’ he said coldly, ‘I have said all I intend saying on the subject. Please let it drop.’

  But Emma had to ask again if it were possible for Louise to return to the Winnicks’ home. He shook his head.

  ‘It happens to have been rented out,’ he explained briefly, and Emma bit her lip.

  She wanted to argue, to persist until he gave in—what a hope! This man never gave in! He was like some despot whose every word and command had to be obeyed!

  At last, admitting defeat, she rose from her chair. But Paul Fanchette halted her intended departure with the very logical statement, ‘If your sister is so unhappy then she herself could break the contract and leave her post.’ Something subtle in the words and Emma paused, irresolute for a long moment before phrasing a reply.

  ‘I think you know why she doesn’t, Monsieur Fanchette. Louise finds you . . . attractive. . . .’She trailed off, frowning, and her companion laughed in that special way that was hateful to her ears.

  ‘That was difficult for you, wasn’t it? Your reluctance stood out a mile.’

  ‘Just as your pomposity stands out a mile!’ she retorted from her place by the door. ‘Never have I met anyone so puffed up with his own importance. One day someone will bring you down to earth—and the sooner the better.’ She had a hand on the brass doorknob and she turned it. ‘I said I’d be here for two weeks but it won’t be anywhere near that long! I have no wish to accept your hospitality, Monsieur Fanchette, and I shall be leaving immediately I can arrange a flight!’ She flung wide the door, but again he halted her departure.

  ‘You said a few hours ago you were intending to stay at an hotel, but you changed your mind, and the reason is obvious: you would have had to give your sister an explanation which, of course,’ he added with amused mockery, ‘you were not inclined to do. And now you threaten to leave almost immediately, but again you will have to produce some reason.’ He stopped to look directly at her before resuming, ‘What reason do you have, Miss Carpenter?’

  She ground her teeth, temper blazing within her. Tense moments passed before she asked curiously, ‘Wouldn’t you be glad to see me go? I mean—’ She was suddenly embarrassed. ‘You dislike me as much as you dislike my sister, so—’

  ‘I haven’t expressed my dislike, nor have I given you any sign that it is as you say.’

  Nerves tensed; she felt she ought to be making a speedy escape but some force beyond her control kept her where she was. This man possessed an invincible power which, she felt sure, he could at will exert over anyone he chose . . . especially over women.

  ‘I don’t think I—I understand,’ she stammered, her eyes dilating as he proceeded slowly towards her, so confident that she would stay where she was. ‘I—don’t you d-dare touch m-me . . . !’ He was already touching her, holding her wrist, painlessly but firmly for all that.

  ‘Perhaps I can make you understand,’ he murmured, drawing her away from the door and deliberately kicking it shut with the toe of one immaculate, patent leather shoe. ‘Dislike you?’ His eyes seemed to kindle with desire as he added smoothly, ‘On the contrary, I find you enticingly attractive—very different from your sister who is so transparent.’ Another small pause during which Emma vaguely wondered why she wasn’t struggling for freedom or even threatening to scream. Instead, she merely attempted to avoid the lips that were coming down to fasten themselves to hers. But even as she averted her head, she felt a strong hand beneath her chin, and she was compelled to lift her face. His arms were about her slender frame, his mouth wide and sensuous, poised for the mastery of the victor. He was so sure of himself! And Emma felt weak and helpless . . . and already aware of ri
sing emotions. The kiss was lacking in any kind of respect, and the roving hands seemed to hold a spell under whose influence she was swiftly falling. He caressed her nape, tormenting with unendurable mastery and persistence, while his iron-hard body pressed to hers until she felt moulded to its shape. Tremors shuddered through her frame—glorious emotional experiences which awakened a fierce, reluctant longing and set her senses strumming with erotic intensity. One hand was clasping her body tightly, while the other was now in possession of a captured breast, flesh bared, though she did not know how or when he had slipped one thin strap from her shoulder. The moist mouth was mobile and demanding, compelling her to part her lips. The thrust of his tongue sent shudders of ecstasy through every nerve cell in her being and she heard her own reluctant murmur . . . a plea . . . for what . . . ?

  Her hands were resting on his shoulders; she wanted to touch his nape, spread her fingers into his hair, arch her body even closer so that she would be aware of his manhood. But a certain shyness mingled with the vague awareness that she ought not to have allowed herself to be in this position at all. But it was too late for protests and struggles as one hand slid right down over her thigh to curl itself around her lower curves, while the fingers of the other hand employed their experienced finesse in manipulating the nipple, coercing it to a hard bud of desire. The ache of longing spread into Emma’s loins as erotic sensations burst into life, setting her entire body on fire. Her breathing became erratic; she knew a dryness in her mouth and throat and swallowed convulsively. He had lifted the hem of her dress, and she felt him quiver as his roving hand caressed the silk of her flesh.

  ‘Yes,’ he breathed throatily, his mouth almost buried in her shoulder, ‘you’re very different from your sister. I have a mind to take you, and keep you for a while. Let’s go up to my room—you’re trembling,’ he murmured and laughed. ‘It’s nothing to the way you will feel in a few moments—’