Holly looked up. He was tall, fair-haired, almost too thin with skin slightly red from the sun. Early thirties possibly, with an anxious half-smile, and a mole above his top lip. The blue eyes held a degree of uncertainty. Holly liked him straight off. ‘Yes.’
He rubbed two long fingers across his brow. ‘I heard you speaking English. I wonder, would you mind if I joined you?’ The accent was upper-class English. ‘If you’re on your own, that is.’ He looked slightly nervous.
Holly decided he was probably lonely and waved her hand at a spare chair. ‘Please do.’
The man sat down, beckoned to a waiter and ordered a Phoenix beer for himself. ‘Bit early but what the hell! Have you ordered?’
‘Just a sandwich.’
‘May I buy you a drink?’
She considered for a moment. Her internal clock was ticking away at a perfectly acceptable drinks time. ‘Only if I get the next one.’
‘Righto. What would you like?’
Holly said she’d have a glass of dry white wine.
The stranger also asked for a toasted sandwich. With the waiter gone, he smiled shyly. ‘Justin. Justin Parker. That’s me. I hope you don’t mind. One gets awfully fed up with eating alone.’
‘I know what you mean. My name is Holly Jones.’
He glanced around the almost empty terrace. ‘Are you staying here?’
She nodded. ‘Just arrived. You?’
‘Yes. Been here nearly a week. I’ve never seen so many honeymooners. When you came in on your own and I heard you speaking English . . . well . . . I hope you don’t think I’m trying to pick you up.’
Holly couldn’t tell. If he was, he was doing a damned good job of disguising it, but she’d been the recipient of some classic attempts. She decided on a little verbal insurance. ‘If I thought that, you wouldn’t be sitting here now.’
He blinked at her bluntness but merely asked, ‘Are you here on holiday?’
‘No. I’m a journalist. I’m working.’
‘Oh dear! What a terrible assignment.’ Another shy smile. ‘I suppose someone has to do it.’
Holly laughed, warming to him. ‘It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. You spend a lot of time on your own.’
‘I thought journalists and photographers travelled together.’
‘Sometimes, but on this occasion I am it, or should I say, both.’ She did not add that one of the field work requirements for Out of Focus was that all the journalists had to be handy with a camera. Quinn had a theory that words and visuals needed a single mind to coordinate the two and achieve a balanced blending. ‘You can always pick it,’ he’d said, ‘when two egos try to tell one story.’
Holly wasn’t sure he was right. There had been some stunning results from various marriages of artistic endeavours, though she had to admit that more often than not, either the words let the pictures down or vice versa.
Justin was asking, ‘Are you from Australia or South Africa?’
‘Australia.’
‘Forgive me. It’s your accent. You don’t sound terribly Australian.’
‘Is the operative word there terribly?’
‘Oh no. I didn’t mean . . . Well, yes, I suppose I did mean . . . It’s just that some people from Down Under are a bit hard to understand.’
He appeared to be getting flustered. Holly changed the subject. ‘You’re English.’
‘Yes. From Bath. Well, Claverton actually.’
‘Just outside, is it?’
‘Yes.’ His face brightened. ‘Do you know it?’
‘Lucky guess.’ She smiled. ‘Are you on holiday?’
He hesitated before answering. ‘Sort of. I’ve always wanted to come here.’ Another hesitation, as though he were reluctant to say more. Eventually he did. ‘Um, actually, I’m looking for dodo eggs.’
Holly’s eyebrows raised in interest.
‘Yes, I know what you’re thinking. But even part of an egg would do.’
‘Are you an anthropologist or something?’
‘Um, biologist actually.’
Holly was instinctively working again. This bloke could make an interesting addendum to the story she’d been sent to cover. Just the kind of offbeat activity Out of Focus liked to print – dedicated biologist hot on the trail of dodo eggs.
Their drinks arrived. ‘Cheers!’ Justin raised his condensation-covered glass. ‘Aahh. Wonderful. Great beer. How’s the wine?’
Holly sipped her drink. ‘Just like home.’
‘Then they’ve given you South African wine.’ He peered at the bar chit. ‘Charged for French, though. You have to watch that.’ But he made no attempt to recall the waiter.
Holly liked that. She hated men who made a fuss, usually for effect. Dennis had done rather a lot of that she remembered. He’d have upbraided the waiter for cheating them and demanded either a refund or a glass of French wine. All in a very loud voice so that those around him would know he was a man to be reckoned with.
‘What kind of article are you doing?’
It was Holly’s turn to hesitate. Before making contact with Connor Maguire and establishing just how willing he would be in cooperating with the story, she probably shouldn’t say anything to a stranger. ‘Just the usual touristy thing.’
Justin had noticed the slight reticence on her part. His eyes flickered briefly, surprise perhaps at her need to think about it. He nodded, only asking, ‘Are you a travel writer?’
‘If the brief calls for it.’
‘Bit of an all-rounder then?’
‘Yes. You could say that.’
There it was again. A glimmer of something. Gone as quickly as it came. ‘You don’t give much away, do you?’ He flashed a quick, lopsided smile.
‘Nothing to give away,’ Holly countered lightly. ‘I’m writing a travel piece – beaches, resorts, restaurants, arts and crafts, the usual.’
‘I’m being nosy. Sorry. Bad habit.’ He shrugged apologetically.
Holly smiled in acceptance and changed the subject. ‘How long are you staying here?’
‘My visa runs out in three weeks. They’d only give me a month. I just hope it’s long enough.’
‘You can get it renewed though.’ She told him where.
‘Really! They didn’t mention that when I arrived.’ His eyes widened suddenly. ‘Wow!’ he breathed.
Realising that he was staring intently over her shoulder, Holly turned. Coming towards them was the most strikingly beautiful Chinese girl she’d ever seen. Like a model on a catwalk, head slightly to one side, looking neither left nor right, a small smile on her lips. She walked almost in slow motion, with a languid grace, knowing that every eye in the place was on her. Every eye but one. Holly was more interested in the man behind her. Photographs didn’t do him justice. Tall, dark and handsome never even came close. He was better looking than a man had any right to be. And he carried himself with unconscious ease. Connor Maguire in person nearly took her breath away.
‘Wow’s right,’ she muttered. Covering this man’s activities was her job. Looking at him was a bonus.
‘I do apologise.’ Justin was blushing. ‘She’s beautiful, isn’t she?’
‘Very,’ Holly agreed. And as hard and cold as pack ice. Instinct told her that the exquisite exterior of the Chinese girl did not reveal all. Her smile was too set, her eyes too calculating. Arrogance radiated from the way she held herself. Realising that an intrusion had to be the last thing Connor Maguire would expect, and that she might benefit from catching him off-guard, Holly rose from the table. ‘Will you excuse me a moment, Justin? I must say hello to her companion.’
The beautiful twosome had just been seated when Holly approached. ‘Pardon me, but are you Connor Maguire?’
He dragged his gaze lazily away from the Chinese girl. ‘Who wants to know?’
‘Holly Jones. You know my father, I believe. Quinn Longford-Jones.’
Dark eyes narrowed. ‘So what do you want?’ He made it plain enough. She was about as welcome as a swarm of angry bee
s.
Holly ignored his obvious reluctance. ‘I’ve been sent to cover your search –’
‘No publicity,’ he snapped.
Committed, she pressed on. ‘The organisation who might benefit want –’
‘I said, no publicity.’
‘Unfortunately –’
‘You’re the unfortunate one, Miss Jones. You’ve come a long way for nothing. Now, if you’ll excuse us.’
Holly stood her ground. The Chinese girl was watching her with amusement, which irritated the hell out of her. ‘I don’t like this any more than you, Mr Maguire, but unfortunately I don’t get to choose my assignments. You can cooperate or you needn’t bother, but one way or the other, the story will be written. Take your pick.’ She turned without waiting for a response, bright pink spots of indignation and embarrassment burning hotly on her cheeks.
The toasted sandwiches had arrived and provided a welcome diversion. Justin correctly guessed she was angry and wisely held his tongue. All he said was, ‘Food’s good.’
Holly attacked her snack as though it was responsible for Maguire’s arrogant dismissal. A refusal to cooperate was standard fare for any journalist who covered the rich and famous, so how had this bloody man raised her hackles without even trying? She was aware of Justin’s glances and grateful for his silence. Downing the last drop of the now warm wine, Holly thanked him for his company and left, saying that she had to make a phone call. She deliberately avoided walking past Maguire’s table.
It was only when she was passing through the foyer that she realised Justin had been left with the bill. In her room she called Quinn, forgetting the time difference of six hours. It was eleven fifteen in the morning in Mauritius, five fifteen in the afternoon in Sydney. Her father, however, was still at his desk.
‘Hi Big Shot! How’s Mauritius?’
‘Give me a break, I’ve only just got here.’ She sank onto the bed, rubbing fingers at the tension headache which was developing.
‘Met up with Maguire yet?’
‘That’s why I’m calling. He’s not interested.’
‘Make him interested, sweetheart. That’s your job.’
‘Thanks, Quinn. I knew I could rely on you.’
‘So what do you want from me? A lever?’
‘That might help.’ Her father usually had one or two up his sleeve.
‘Couple of free ads for one of his companies.’
‘Not good enough.’
‘A feature article on the AIDS research program over and above the one we’re writing about him. He knows the score – he’s newsworthy but readers are a little jaded when it comes to AIDS research. Maguire might jump at the chance to get them some publicity.’
‘That might do it.’
‘Okay, see what you can do. By the way, what do you think of him?’
Holly minced no words. ‘He’s an arrogant asshole.’
Her father’s chuckle came down the line. ‘Knew you’d like him, sweetheart.’
Talking to Quinn was calming her down. Maguire was simply a problem. Problems could be solved. She hadn’t liked him much before and their brief meeting had changed nothing. To hell with him, Holly thought, remembering Justin and his rather strange mission. ‘Could you use a piece about a biologist looking for dodo eggs?’ she asked, knowing her father would probably say yes. It was just bizarre enough to be right up his street.
Quinn did not disappoint. ‘Yeah! Great stuff! Is he famous?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Be better if he were. Is he a bit dippy?’
‘Seems normal enough.’
‘What’s he after dodo eggs for? DNA testing or something? Find out, it might be interesting. Listen, I’ve had a thought. See what you can dig up about Robert Surcouf – you know, the pirate king. Late eighteenth century, I think. Try to tie it in with Maguire’s treasure. You must keep on the Maguire story. You can do it, I know you can. Okay, must go. Got two calls waiting. Talk to you soon. Bye.’
The connection was broken, leaving Holly with the familiar feeling that she’d only said half the things she’d meant to while her father’s nimble mind leapt effortlessly from one subject to the next – a sure sign that he did not actually wish to hear what it was that he suspected she wanted to say. When it suited him, Quinn tended to talk at you, rather than to you. It was a tactic that worked well for him, and despite the fact that she was very used to it, one that inevitably left her feeling she’d been outsmarted.
Holly went back to The Badamier to offer Connor Maguire a carrot for his cooperation. He’d gone, and so had Justin. She decided to walk along the beach and suss out the exclusive Royal Palm. If Maguire wasn’t there she could always leave a message.
Holly was about to find out the hard way that walking from one small inlet to another needed the agility of a mountain goat. True, the jumble of black volcanic basalt round the point wasn’t high, but it seemed to go on forever and there wasn’t a flat surface to be seen. It would have been quicker and easier to walk the long way round, along the road.
The foyer of the Royal Palm was so plush, so exquisitely furnished and decorated that Holly felt out of place, fearing she’d be asked to pay for simply drawing breath.
‘I believe you have a Mr Connor Maguire staying here.’
The receptionist turned to her computer screen and paused. ‘What name again please?’
‘Maguire. Connor Maguire.’
‘We have no guest by that name,’ she said, without touching the keyboard.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, madam.’
Surprised, Holly rock-hopped back to the Merville. She’d have bet on Maguire staying at the Royal Palm. Perhaps he was. It was a big hotel. The receptionist hadn’t actually looked him up and she could hardly remember the names of all the guests. It was probably hotel policy not to pass out information of that nature. She’d telephone later, act like she knew he was there. Now what? She checked her watch. Half-past twelve. ‘Sod it.’ The tropical blue water of the lagoon looked so inviting. ‘Swim time.’
A neatly folded message was waiting with her room key in reception.
‘A Mr Maguire will call you in the morning.’
Well! A change of heart perhaps? An apology? Not his style. No point in speculating, just have to wait and see. There was nothing she could do until he called. She changed into a swimsuit, collected up a towel, sunglasses, sunscreen and book, and took herself off to the beach, satisfyingly convinced that Maguire must have remembered his manners.
‘Miss Longford-Jones. It’s Connor Maguire.’
She ruled out an apology, his voice held no trace of one. ‘Jones will do just fine.’
‘I’m prepared to speak to you.’
She bit back a sarcastic response. ‘Where are you staying? The Royal Palm, I suppose.’
‘Why on earth would you assume that?’ He sounded quite taken aback. ‘I’m renting a room with a private family.’
It was Holly’s turn to be startled. If not the island’s premier hotel, she’d have expected four stars at least. ‘Where?’
‘Just down the road in Grand Baie. Why don’t we meet for lunch?’
‘Suits me. Where do you suggest?’
‘Sunset Cafe. It’s on the new boulevard where the deep sea fishing boats berth.’
‘I’ll find it.’
They arranged a time and said goodbye. Holly hung up wondering what had caused Maguire’s change of heart.
Despite having a Grand Baie address, the Merville was not actually inside the bay itself but just outside the mouth. To reach the main shopping area required a twenty-minute walk along the congested and narrow Royal Road. The footpath came and went, mainly the latter, and self-preservation took on new meaning as Holly ducked backwards off the road into yet another hedge to avoid being swatted by a passing bus. However, the weather was balmy, exotic flowers bloomed in profusion, spicy food aromas filled the air and fellow pedestrians called a friendly ‘bonjour’ as they passed.
/>
The centre of Grand Baie was designed for tourists. Holly spent the morning wandering through the curio, craft and clothing shops. There was an amazing variety of goods for sale but by far and away the most interesting find for Holly was the Model Ship Gallery, where the manager took her into the workshop itself. For nearly an hour she observed, enchanted, as old sailing ships, like the Bounty, were re-created in miniature, bringing alive every tiny detail under the dexterous fingers of the model builders. Finally, after glancing at her watch and promising to return later, she reluctantly left to meet Connor Maguire.
He was there already and automatically rose to his feet as she approached. ‘Miss Jones. A woman who is punctual. A rare treat.’
‘A man who is early. Even rarer. Please call me Holly.’
‘Connor.’ He indicated a chair. ‘Please.’
Holly sat down and got straight to the point. ‘Yesterday your refusal to speak with me bordered on hostile. Today you invite me to lunch. What changed your mind?’
Dark eyes probed hers as if he were seeking confirmation or reassurance. Holly stared back, waiting. He seemed wary, almost distant. She did not anticipate his apology.
‘It was rude of me. I’m sorry.’
Holly relaxed and leaned forward. ‘I’m used to it. It goes with the territory. But thanks anyway.’
His eyes softened a little. ‘You don’t look tough enough to be a journalist.’
‘I didn’t know it was a prerequisite but I’m tougher than I look.’
He smiled at that, then grew serious again. ‘Do you know much about me?’
The question took her by surprise. ‘Only what I’ve read.’
He pulled a face. ‘Then my behaviour yesterday must have confirmed your impression.’
‘What impression would that be?’
He didn’t answer but looked down at his hands and said, ‘I really don’t want the publicity this time. Not on a personal level.’
‘Oh come on! Everything you do attracts publicity, invited or otherwise. If you don’t want it, try doing something ordinary.’
Holly noticed how thick his lashes were. She leaned back, watching him until he looked up. At close range, what she had taken as perfection had minor flaws. One eye was set ever so slightly higher than the other. There was a tiny scar above the left eyebrow and another on his chin. She remembered reading something about a ski-boat accident, which might account for them. His two front teeth overlapped fractionally, but when he smiled at her any dental flaw was completely overridden by the sudden appearance of dimples on both cheeks. ‘Ordinary?’ he quizzed, amused.
The Forgotten Sea Page 6