by Anne Hampson
‘Engaged? She’s the one—the girl who—’
‘Yes. We were madly in love once.’ His voice was harsh, grating on Clare’s ears. ‘She married someone else, and now she’s widowed.’
A quivering hand went to Clare’s cheek. Widowed . . . And she was here, on Flamingo Cay. Did she know that Luke was living here? It seemed likely. . . .
‘How long has she been widowed?’ she asked, her eyes on the girl who was still scanning the people sitting in the lounge.
‘About six months.’ He too was watching the girl, and his tone had an absent ring as he answered Clare’s question. ‘Perhaps a little less.’
‘That’s not long.’ It seemed that he had not heard because he made no reply, and after a moment Clare added quietly, ‘Did she know you were living here? I mean—you haven’t always lived here—’ She stopped and began again. ‘You weren’t living here when you were engaged, were you?’
‘No.’
‘How long ago was it that you and she were engaged?’ The girl had stopped; a waiter came to her, indicating a table and after a slight hesitation she accepted the chair he had pulled out for her. How beautiful and poised. Every head had turned as she walked down the middle of the lounge and even now, when she was seated, people were looking at her.
‘How long?’ Luke sounded impatient, she thought, and he did not even look at her as he replied, ‘Six years. She’s not changed a bit.’ He was talking to himself, a vacant air about him.
Clare picked up her glass, a terrible weight dragging at her heart. Stella was so devastatingly lovely, exquisite in her feminine perfection. And yet, if Luke had wanted to take up with her again he would have been in touch with her before now, since he obviously had known that she was a widow.
‘Are—are you going to speak to her?’ she could not help asking, placing her glass down on the table without putting it to her lips.
‘Not at the moment.’ His attention came back to Clare and he smiled, obviously having forgotten what they were talking about before his mind was diverted by the unexpected appearance of his old flame. ‘Drink up and we’ll go in to dinner.’
She took up her glass, much of the weight lifting from her heart. She had been so sure that Luke would want to talk to Stella but, judging from his expression at this moment, he did not appear to have the least interest in talking to her.
Phil was not at the table and a short while after they had been seated a waiter came with the message that he was busy and would probably have his meal in his office. Clare did not know whether to be glad or sorry. It was always a pleasure to have the evening meal with her brother . . . but it was an even greater pleasure to be dining alone with Luke.
They chose Bahamian food, fish—grouper for Clare and bone-fish for Luke—topping the list as a natural choice, being the specialité de la maison, cooked as it always was, native style in a variety of intriguing ways. A fruity white wine went well with both and after having coffee at the table they got up to leave, Luke suggesting they go along to the Clipper Inn and have a planter’s punch. All the time they were eating Clare’s eyes had scanned the tables but there was no sign of Mrs Wesley. She must be having dinner in her room, Clare decided, wondering if Luke had been thinking of her and concluding—as she had done—that Stella was dining in her room.
Over drinks in the Clipper Inn Luke talked some more about the development of the island and as she listened Clare realised more and more that there was something idyllic in his plan. He was intent on creating a little piece of paradise on one of the Out Islands and she felt proud that she was to play such an active part in that creation. Her mind buzzed with ideas for colour schemes, materials, furnishings, ornaments and so much more. Luke began talking about the outside, the smooth lawns, the flower beds, the flood-lit tennis courts set in a palm grove with exotic flowers trailing along the border wall. The golf-course of one hotel was to be between a lake and the sea, and dotted with palms and other exotic trees.
‘It all sounds so exciting that I can’t wait to see it finished!’ she declared, her eyes aglow with enthusiasm. ‘How long will it be before I’m actually able to begin?’
‘The inside, you mean? About six or seven months. But you’ve a lot to do before then,’ he warned. ‘Everything must be here, on this island, ready to be put in place once the builders are out.’
‘I know.’ She paused, hesitant about her next question even while knowing it had to be asked. ‘The expenses, Luke . . . Shall I have to come to you for every cent? It would be easier if—’
‘I shall place a sum of money at your disposal,’ he interrupted quietly. ‘You’ll be able to sign cheques when necessary. I’ll give you a list of some of the best places in Miami to buy such things as drapes and rugs and furniture. You’ll be buying wholesale at places that cater exclusively to hotels.’ He talked for a few more minutes before suggesting they take a stroll. Clare looked at him, desiring nothing more than to be with him in the romantic setting of the beach, and the secluded little groves that lay so temptingly behind it, the palm trees along their borders waving their spidery fronds against the deep purple sky of a Bahamian night. But she was reluctant at the same time, aware of what would happen, aware of the temptation Luke would put in her way. It was not that he wanted to seduce her—on the contrary. He did, though, want to make her forget, open her arms to the future instead of clinging to the past. As she had told him several times, he did not understand. Until she had met Luke it had been easy to keep faith, and although she no longer resented the power Luke had to make her forget, she was by no means sure she wanted to forget totally. So it was better to keep to her resolve and avoid temptation. She turned to him and said she was too tired.
‘Another time,’ she promised. ‘It’s very late, anyway.’
‘Half past ten,’ he said, glancing at his watch. ‘It’s early, child, not late.’ His glance was both shrewd and sardonic. ‘Scared again. I’ll not take any more,’ he went on imperiously. ‘You’ll come outside with me.’
‘Luke—’ Her face was strained. ‘I’d rather not, if you don’t mind.’
‘I do mind! I intend to wear you down, Clare, so you might just as well give in now.’
‘I don’t understand you,’ she sighed. ‘I know I’ve said it before—’
‘Several times, and no doubt you will again.’ His deep male voice held an odd inflection as he added, ‘You’ll understand well enough in time—when I’m ready to explain.’
‘Can’t you explain now?’ she pleaded, then blushed hotly, for she saw by his changed expression that he knew she was asking him to say he loved her.
Yes, she was asking him to say he loved her even though at the back of her mind she realised that it would cast her into wild confusion, simply because she had not reached the point where, should he ask her to marry him, she could gladly say yes. She cast him a speculative glance and guessed without any doubt at all that he knew she was not ready, hence his words, ‘. . . when I am ready to explain.’ It meant of course that as soon as he could be sure of the answer he wanted, he would tell her he loved her and ask her to marry him.
‘Shall we go outside?’ he suggested, changing the subject. ‘I’m not intending to accept a refusal, Clare,’ he warned. ‘Let’s go.’
So persevering in his object, and patient . . . sometimes! She hoped he would never get the idea that she was playing hard to get.
He had risen; his stern regard was a challenge and she got up from her chair, following meekly when he led the way from the bar to the sun terrace and then into the hotel grounds. The fountains played in the moonlight—silver rain tinted with rose and green and gold from the lamps fixed to the drooping branches of the casuarina trees. There was no sound other than their cascading music and the mysterious, rhythmic beat of a goombay drum drifting across from some place in the far distance—a native village, perhaps. All was magic, with the high argent moon shedding its gentle light on the grounds of the hotel, on the low hills behind and the dark e
xpanse of sea in front, painting the tiny wavelets with silver.
Luke reached for her hand, a sort of arrogant possessiveness in the action. Clare glanced up at him, at that handsome profile, and her heart was light. She loved him so what else mattered in the whole wide world? Why was she keeping him in suspense, often exasperating him with her capriciousness? She might lose him if she went on like this much longer, she thought, fear ripping through her so that she wanted to blurt out the words that would bring her indecision to an end. But instead she said casually, ‘Are we going far, Luke? My sandals are high-heeled, you know.’
‘Then you can take them off when we reach the shore. You’ll like the sand between your toes.’ And when they had passed through the gap in the hibiscus hedge he told her to lift one foot so that he could take off the sandal for her. His cool fingers curled round her ankle, sending delicious ripples along her spine. The contact of his flesh was always an exciting experience, no matter where he touched her.
‘The other one.’ She obeyed, lifting her right foot.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured shyly, her slender seductive body swaying against him as she regained her balance. He caught her to him, dropping the shoes, and his mouth covered hers in a long and passionate kiss. One hand caressed her curves through the lace of her dress, persisting until the hardness of desire was wakened as the nipple shaped itself between his finger and thumb. Her breath seemed to stop for one ecstatic moment that transported her to the heights of bliss, every nerve and cell of her being set on fire by the exploration of his other hand as it progressed with slow deliberation towards her thigh. A body-twisting spasm shot through her and the blood pounded in her temples.
‘Luke . . .’ His name rose from the depths of her throat like a sob behind tears. ‘Please—’ The rest was stemmed by his full, sensuous mouth enclosing hers with brutal force as all his primitive instincts quickened, brought to full vigour by the warmth of her pliant body straining against his male hardness. Her arms were around him, inside his jacket; she felt the leanness of his frame, knew the undiluted ecstasy of his heart throbbing in wild disorder against her breast.
‘Clare,’ he groaned, crushing her mouth even as the name escaped his lips. The heady tang of sandalwood after-shave, the faintly pungent smell of freshly-laundered linen stirred Clare’s senses equally as much as the musky male odour that had assailed her nostrils from the start.
For a long long time their bodies swayed in unison as, wrapped in the magic of their own ecstatic world they were carried to the heights of heaven by the intensity of their erotic emotions. But at last Luke drew away, a low laugh escaping from lips that were warm from her kisses.
‘I wonder if you know just what you do to me?’ His hands gripped her waist, warm and tender and possessive. ‘You have no inhibitions at times like this . . . but what will you be like tomorrow when in the cold light of day you review your conduct of tonight?’ Serious the tone and carrying a distinct note of anxiety not unmingled with a trace of anger. ‘Shall I find my maid reluctant again as memories warp her judgement?’
Clare, her body still limp from his love-making, had no desire to talk of such things. On the contrary, she was ready and willing for him to make love to her again. But as she looked up into his finely-chiselled features she knew for sure that he was no longer in a reciprocal mood. He had won again but was wondering what tomorrow would bring. It was natural that he should, natural too that he considered her not only to be obstinate but inconsistent as well, love for him carrying her away from memories at one moment, and love for a man who was dead bringing her back the next.
‘Have patience with me, Luke,’ she pleaded, pressing her face into his shirt and uttering a long-drawn-out sigh that was almost a sob. ‘It’s all so new, and it’s happened so unexpectedly—’
‘It was bound to happen one day,’ he broke in hardily. ‘If it hadn’t been me it would certainly have been someone else.’
She did not agree, for she was convinced that if she had not met Luke then no other man would ever have attracted her. He was something special in every way, a man in a million, and as she dwelt on the fact that he had chosen her from all other women, she declared it to be a miracle.
Another shuddering sigh issued from her lips as she felt him stir with impatience. Had he expected that tonight he would break down her defences completely, win from her lips a confession of love, making it easy for him to declare his love and then ask her to marry him? Usually it was the man who first declared his love but this situation was different. It was understandable that he was holding back until he could be sure of her answer being what he desired. No man wants the humiliation of a refusal to his proposal of marriage—especially a man with Luke Mortimer’s pride and arrogance.
She spoke, softly and pleadingly, asking again to be given time. ‘Don’t be angry,’ she begged when with an abrupt, exasperated movement he put her from him, his hands hardening around her flesh as he did so. He looked almost savage and she sensed that nothing would give him greater satisfaction than to beat her—to knock some sense into her, as he had once put it. Instead, he spoke harshly to her, telling her it was time they went back to the hotel.
‘I’ve got to be up early in the morning,’ he snapped as a final sentence, before total silence fell between them. A curt goodnight was all Luke said by way of breaking that silence and Clare, tears welling up in her eyes, turned and went into the hotel without being able to answer him.
Chapter Six
There had been a sudden thunderstorm and the earth and atmosphere were fresh with rain. Clare, who invariably spent part of her lunch hour in the gardens, strolled along paths of newly-washed gravel towards the copse of bamboo palms beside which was a little rustic seat. It was wet still, even though the sun was in the sky again and everything was drying out under its heat. She walked on, then stopped to watch a tiny humming-bird hovering over a flower, searching for nectar. She was depressed, and there was a persistent little pulsing of pain in her temples, the result of anxiety because of the change that had come over Luke last night. He had been almost hostile towards her, and it certainly did not help to know that it was all her own fault. He would become so impatient with her in the end that he would probably decide to abandon his attempts and let her continue to live on her memories. If only he could understand the nerve-twisting agony of her indecision, then perhaps he would have patience, give her time. But she suspected that, the way he was feeling at present, his impatience stemmed mainly from desire for her.
She sighed and walked on, her eyes on the shore where a bronzed young giant was playing beach ball with two young children, a boy and a girl. Their laughter rang out and a yearning awoke within Clare’s heart. To have a family, reaping all the pleasures that it could give, to gain the status of a mother. Was there any need for all that to be lost to her? For the entire morning she had found Luke’s manner preying on her mind, creating fear . . . fear that he would lose interest in her.
She would have to surrender, she had concluded, not only because of his indomitable determination to break her to his will, but because of her own feelings, the love she had for him, the way he drew her both physically and mentally. They had much in common in every way—a love of beauty and of peace, an idealism which could be both exciting and fulfilling, were they to continue through life doing things together in the way they were to do things on his newly-acquired little island, Windward Cay, one of the hundreds of Out Islands scattered like leaves over the sparkling, emerald-green waters of the Atlantic Ocean.
Still strolling on, Clare found herself by the gap in the hedge and stood for a moment, undecided as to whether she had time for a short walk along the beach. She decided against it and turned to retrace her steps back to the hotel, her mind still absorbed by her problem. But it was becoming less troublesome with every hour that passed, because her mind was almost made up— Her thoughts braked as she heard her name called by Mary, who had relieved her during the lunch hour. ‘You’re wanted on t
he phone, Clare,’ she said from a short distance, ‘Mr Mortimer.’
Luke . . . What did he want at this time of the day? Clare’s legs became like jelly as the conviction swept through her that he was calling to tell her he did not want her services after all. He had had enough of her; he had decided to get someone else. She found herself trying to run but was held back by a dragging weight and the sensation of fatigue brought on by her heart hammering with wild intensity against her ribs. She was breathing hard by the time she reached the phone, fear mounting out of all proportion as her conviction was strengthened, and when she picked up the receiver she waited in an agony of suspense for the words she felt sure would come.
‘Hello, Clare. Feeling any better this morning?’ His tone suggested a hint of mocking amusement as he added, before giving her time to speak, ‘You sound breathless. It’s gratifying to know that you come running at my command.’
‘You—!’ She had sagged with relief at his first words, but now she stiffened, anger bringing bright spots of colour to cheeks that had been pearl-white. ‘What an opinion you have of yourself! I’ve not been running. Sorry to disappoint you!’
‘You don’t sound sorry,’ he laughed. ‘What made you breathless then—anxiety in case I had rung to say I was casting you off?’
Gasping at his perception she had nothing to say in answer to the question, so she changed the subject, managing to sound casual as she asked him why he had rung.
‘To stop you worrying,’ he replied, taking her off balance. ‘I’m not thinking of throwing in the towel any more than you are of telling me, once and for all, to go to the devil.’ So cool the voice but tinged with ironic humour not unmingled with censure. ‘I knew you’d be worrying, because you’re an idiot, and I did have a mind to phone you earlier, but decided it would do you no harm to be left in suspense for a while. It might prove to be effective.’
Clare held the receiver from her, staring at it and wondering whether to hang up on Luke or reveal just what was in her heart. She did neither, but merely made an objection to being called an idiot. ‘If that’s what you think,’ she continued tartly, ‘then why are you wanting me to help you?’