hurricane!

by Mary Lyons

  And it wasn't just their verbal sparring which had left her feeling so shattered. Samantha writhed with shame and self-disgust as she recalled her totally uninhibited response when she had found herself clasped in his arms. Admittedly, she hadn't welcomed his first, determined assault. But she hadn't exactly been screaming and shouting during his subsequent embrace, had she? Even now, her body still felt as if it was at a feverish tem­perature of white heat, throbbing with unconsummated pleasure and thwarted desire; her senses clamouring for release from the excitement engendered by the feel of his warm hands on her bare flesh, the erotic caress of his mouth and tongue on her breasts. . .

  No. . . I won't think about it— I won't!' she shouted up at the rafters, before hurriedly scrambling off the bed and dashing over to pull open the door of her wardrobe. She must. . . she really must get changed. Any minute now the staff would be starting to serve dinner in the hotel. Frantically, her trembling hands sorted through her few simple evening dresses, and after a moment's indecision she decided upon a plain black silk frock. The colour definitely reflected her mood, she thought gloomily as she sat down at her dressing-table, strug­gling to bring some sort of order to her dishevelled, curly hair.

  'You're going to have to get a grip on yourself—and fast!'—she told her reflection, pausing for a moment to stare at the hectic flush staining her pale cheeks, and the glittering shimmer in the depths of her emerald eyes. Oh, lord! Luke, as usual, had been quite right. She did. . . had. . . wanted him to make love to her. To her horror a deep tide of crimson flooded over her face as she recognised the ache deep in her stomach, acknowl­edged the reason why her legs felt like cotton wool, and her fingers were trembling so badly. She had been so certain, so confident, after all this time, that Luke's strong physical presence would no longer have the power to excite or disturb her. A heavy black lump of despair and misery seemed to settle on her heart as she realised just how wrong she had been.

  Tormented by the knowledge of her own weakness, she let her eyes slide away from the all-too-revealing image in the mirror. There was only one certain, sure answer to the problem. She must get away from the hotel, and the island, just as soon as she possibly could manage to do so. Samantha gave a heavy sigh and leaned back in her chair, massaging the tired muscles at the back of her neck. It was hopeless. She'd been sitting here in the office for the past hour, desperately trying to concentrate on the hotel's account with a wine merchant on the nearby island of St Barthelemy, but the figures simply didn't make any sense. She was just deciding that her inability to come to a correct balance was clearly due to Luke's unexpected appearance and her consequently distraught frame of mind, rather than the wine merchant's du­plicity, when there was a knock and Penny Bird popped her head around the door.

  'I thought I'd let you know that the girls are just serving the dessert,' Penny said, her cheerful smile fading as she looked closer at Samantha's weary figure. 'Are you all right?'

  'Yes, I'm fine—just a bit tired, that's all. How's it going?'

  'No problems, except that Thomas must have been well and truly hung-over this morning. I don't know what else he put into the chilled chicken and tomato con­somme, but he certainly overdid the garlic!' she laughed.

  Samantha groaned. 'Oh, no! Have there been many complaints?'

  'Luckily, no one seems to have noticed—and as all the guests had the soup, we might get away with it. However, the pork was a great success. There's no doubt that when he's sober, Thomas is a genius in the kitchen.'

  '"When" being the operative word. I don't know how my aunt managed to keep him away from the bottle, but I don't seem to be having much success,' Samantha said, sighing as she put the account books aside and rose to her feet.

  The other girl gazed at her with concern. 'You're looking a bit pale. Why don't you take the rest of the evening off? There's nothing that Lester and I can't handle between us.'

  'That's a kind offer, Penny, and I might well take you up on it later. However, I must go and chat to the guests, or Aunt Em will never forgive me.'

  Waiting until the girl had left the office, Samantha went into the adjoining small washroom to comb her hair. Penny was right—she did look awful, but she really couldn't put it off any longer. She was going to have to force herself to go into the dining-room, making the rounds of the tables and seeing that the hotel guests had no complaints. Bending forward to wash her hands, which were damp and clammy with tension, she would have given everything she possessed to be able to avoid 'the evening round' as her aunt called it. But when Aunt Emily had been carted off to hospital, it was one of the points about running the hotel on which she had been most emphatically insistent.

  'It's my home,' she had said firmly. 'And I always treat the hotel guests as if they were my own private visi­tors. So, whatever else you do, I want you to go around the dining-room at the end of dinner and make sure that everyone's enjoyed their meal.'

  It was normally no problem to comply with her aunt's request, since many of the guests were old friends, staying at the hotel year after year. Besides which, it was a perfect time, when the visitors were feeling relaxed and replete, to hear all their news: about their children's marriages and the birth of new grandchildren. While for those who were new to the island—and her aunt's somewhat ec­centric style of hotel management—it was equally useful to be able to deal with any minor queries or complaints before they became major problems.

  But not tonight! Dealing with the other guests was no problem, but she couldn't seem to be able to stop her legs shaking at the thought of having to face Luke and his girlfriend. It was all too reminiscent of those dreadful, business-orientated dinner parties which he had insisted on holding in that grim New York apartment, during the early days of their marriage. Young and gauche, she had been unable to cope with the superior conde­scension of his servants, and far too nervous and shy of the sophisticated men and women—every one of them high achievers—to try and participate in their brilliant and sparkling conversation. She shuddered at the memory of the many gaffes and faux pas which she had made and the patient, if increasingly exasperated tone in which Luke had pointed out her mistakes after his guests had left. Maybe if he had been more patient and understanding of the unfamiliar pressures she was under, matters might have turned out differently, but she doubted it. Not while his personal assistant, Adele Francis, had been around to see that any difficulty was magnified into a major disaster, Samantha recalled bit­terly. Adele, a cool, blonde career-girl, who might be Corrine van de Burgh's twin, had made quite sure that all Samantha's attempts to explain her problems to Luke had ended in abject failure. And with the discovery that Adele was not just his personal assistant, but was also having an affair with her husband, Samantha had fi­nally realised that her brief marriage was well and truly over.

  'Come on—snap out of it! You're twenty-three now, and perfectly well able to cope with the tough Mr Brandon, and his latest blonde girlfriend,' she told her reflection, but the eyes staring back at her belied the confident words. Luke was quite capable of saying or doing anything—and after that devastating confron­tation between them in the sugar mill. . . well, goodness knew what he might say or do.

  However, as much as she dreaded the forthcoming en­counter, she really couldn't stay hiding here in the washroom all night. If she didn't put in an appearance very soon, Penny would be back to see if she was all right. The fact that she was married to one of the guests would undoubtedly leak out, sooner or later; but she was feeling too tired and exhausted to face any expla­nations tonight. Besides, the staff in the hotel were at full stretch, and it was unfair of her to give them any more work to do. And, did she really want to give Luke the pleasure, and the satisfaction, of knowing that she was too disturbed by his unexpected arrival to be able to face him?

  It was that last question which finally gave her the necessary courage. Taking a deep breath and squaring her shoulders, Samantha walked determinedly out of the office and along the corridor towards the din
ing-room.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The long, rectangular dining-room was the crowning glory of the Hamilton Plantation Hotel. Conscious of the antiquity of the old plantation house, Aunt Emily had decided to recreate the atmosphere of an eighteenth-century English dining-room. The guests used knives and forks of solid silver, the glasses and decanters were of the finest crystal, and the use of electric light was com­pletely banned; the room was illuminated only by candles, set in silver candelabra on the polished ma­hogany tables. Even the waitresses continued the period theme, with their floor-length dresses of sprigged muslin over which they wore long aprons and mob caps of starched organdie.

  'Samantha, honey!' Mrs Finberg waved as she en­tered the room. 'That rum sauce with the tenderloin of pork was absolutely delicious,' the American woman said as Samantha approached the table. 'Hector says I must get hold of the recipe, by fair means or foul!'

  Samantha smiled down at the elderly couple. Betty and Hector Finberg had been coming to the hotel as long as she could remember, and were among her aunt's oldest friends.

  'Come off it, Betty! You know you're every bit as good a cook as Thomas—probably better, in fact,' she grinned. 'And you don't need my help to wheedle the recipe out of him—always provided he stays sober, that is.'

  'Oh, dear. Smashed again, is he?' Betty gave her a sympathetic smile. 'I don't suppose that's making your life any easier.'

  'You're dead right! However, I'm trying to keep that fact from both the other guests and Aunt Em,' she said in a lower tone of voice. 'In fact, I'm only telling you, because I have a dreadful premonition that I'm going to find myself stuck in the kitchen, having to take over the cooking if he goes seriously off the wagon. And then I'll need all the advice and help I can get!'

  'No problem,' the elderly woman assured her. 'I've never cooked for a hotel full of guests, so I guess it could be a lot of fun. By the way, how was Emily when you visited her today? Giving everyone hell?'

  'Need you ask. . .?' Samantha gave a rueful laugh, and, promising the elderly couple that she'd have a long talk with them tomorrow, she continued her circuit of the dining-room.

  On first entering the room, she had immediately spotted the elegantly dressed couple dining on their own, and although she had left them till last, she was eventu­ally forced to approach their table. Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, Samantha tried to stifle her envy of the blonde girl's glamorous silk creation, and her peaches and cream complexion and classical profile—so totally at variance with her own plain black dress, tum­bling red curls and freckles. Ignoring Luke, she asked his girlfriend if she had enjoyed the meal.

  'Yes, it was very nice,' the girl drawled with a marked lack of enthusiasm. 'However, I'm not quite sure. . .?' She peered down at her plate.

  'Corinne is puzzled about the identity of the main in­gredient in the dessert,' Luke's deep tones were heavy with sardonic amusement. 'But I'm sure you'll be able to enlighten us. . .?'

  Ha, ha! Very funny! Samantha's green eyes flashed with anger. What a rat-fink that man was! He knew per­fectly well what was in the pie—especially since it had always been one of his favourite desserts. It was obvious that Luke was just trying to get in a cheap dig at her expense—an embarrassing reminder of her foolish, mo­mentary weakness in his arms, earlier in the evening. How could she have been so abysmally stupid as to re­spond to his kiss in the way she had? She must have been temporarily out of her mind!

  '. . . And I believe that you also have an apology to make to Miss van de Burgh, hmm?'

  Oh, no, I don't! If Luke thought she was going to apologise to his oh-so-cool girlfriend for the trouble at the airport—he had another think coming! Turning towards him, Samantha seethed with an overpowering longing to pick up the girl's custard pie, and slam it hard up against his handsome, tanned face. And if there wasn't a room full of guests paying the earth for their food and accommodation, she wouldn't have a mo­ment's hesitation in doing so! However, under the cir­cumstances she was going to have to find a slightly more subtle method of retaliation.

  'I'm sure that Miss van de Burgh is a realistic and— er—sophisticated woman,' Samantha murmured smoothly. 'And she will therefore readily understand that many of our elderly guests—such as possibly you, Mr Brandon?—are apt to become a little jaded. . . if you know what I mean? So, on their arrival we like to give them a nice, big helping of Passion Fruit Pie. I'm told that. . .'

  'That's quite enough, Samantha!' Luke grated harshly.

  'Oh, dear, I was just getting to the really interesting bit!' she said, her lips curving into a broad, malicious smile.

  'Strange as it may seem, I think we can do without the "interesting bit",' he said grimly, although Samantha was astonished to see a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.

  'In that case, I'll leave you to enjoy the rest of the meal,' she murmured, trying not to grin as she noted the stunned expression on Corrine's face.

  Samantha turned quickly on her heel and made her way out of the dining-room, a puzzled frown creasing her forehead. It wasn't possible, of course, but for one moment it had seemed as if Luke had been struggling not to laugh. But it was so extraordinarily unlikely that he could appreciate a joke against himself, that she swiftly came to the conclusion she must have been mis­taken. A shared sense of humour hadn't been one of the features of their marriage. She had been far too much in awe of her husband to think of teasing him, and he had certainly never given her cause to think that he found life anything other than deadly serious. However, she didn't have time to speculate any further on the matter, as she was called to the reception desk by Penny, who needed someone to take over while she ran two of the waitresses back to their village.

  Half an hour later, having cashed a cheque for one of the guests, she was just sitting back and beginning to relax, appreciating the peace and quiet of the busy hotel, only disturbed by the quiet murmur of the guests having coffee and liqueurs in the bar, when the telephone rang.

  'Hello. Can I speak to Miss Ward, please?'

  'Gerald. . .!' Oh, lord—she'd promised to phone him, but thanks to Luke's unexpected appearance, she'd completely forgotten all about it. 'How are you? I. . .'

  'I'm fine, but where on earth have you been? I rang you late this afternoon, and the girl on reception said that you weren't in the hotel.'

  'I'm sorry, Gerald, but I didn't know you'd called. I was probably in the sugar mill, and. . .' A shadow fell over the register in front of her, and Samantha looked up to see Luke leaning casually against the desk. Scowling at him, she turned away and tried to concen­trate on what Gerald was saying.

  '. . .rang the sugar mill, but there was no reply. What's going on?'

  'Nothing. . .nothing is going on,' she muttered quickly, a hectic flush spreading over her face as she recalled exactly what she and Luke had been doing at the time of Gerald's phone call. 'I was—er—probably just having a shower when you rang.'

  'What. . .? I can't hear you. Why are you whispering?'

  'Well, I. . . Just a moment, Gerald.' She put her hand over the receiver and turned to Luke. 'Go away!' she hissed.

  'Why should I?'

  'Because I'm trying to have a private conversation— that's why!'

  'Ah!' He paused, raising a dark eyebrow. 'And that is the boyfriend, I take it?'

  'It's nothing to do with you who I'm talking to,' she retorted angrily, her fury increased by the fact that she knew her burning cheeks had already provided the answer to his question.

  Turning away, she lifted the receiver to her ear. 'Hello, Gerald. . .? Oh, no! We've been cut off. And it's all your fault!' she accused Luke bitterly. 'Why couldn't you mind your own damn business?'

  Luke continued to lean casually against the desk, a mocking smile on his lips. 'Well, darling, some of us elderly, jaded husbands—if you know what I mean. . .?' he murmured, giving her a wolfish leer, '. . . might just feel that our wives' boyfriends were definitely our business!'

  Samantha stared at hi
m in astonishment, completely stunned for a moment by the way he had picked up the gauntlet she had thrown down in the dining-room. Goodness! He certainly seemed to have changed from the grim, no-nonsense businessman of four years ago. And then her seething anger at what she regarded as his quite unwarranted interference in her affairs reasserted itself. What a nerve the man had! Arriving at this hotel with his girlfriend—those two separate bungalows didn't fool her, not for one minute!—and then having the im­pudence to think that he was in a position to object to her quite innocent friendship with Gerald. It was time she made her position quite clear. If she hadn't been in a hurry to get a divorce in the past, she was now quite firmly determined to sever all connection with her thoroughly detestable, and quite obnoxious 'ex'-husband.

  'I'm sure I don't need your say-so for a divorce, and I'm going to get some legal advice as soon as possible,' she snarled. 'In fact, now I come to think about it, I reckon I've got more than enough evidence to divorce you!

  'What in the hell do you mean? What evidence?' he demanded.

  'You know very well—so don't bother to try and play the innocent with me,' she retorted.

  'I'm not trying to play anything,' he grated with angry impatience. 'I simply don't know what you're talking about.'

  Samantha gave a snort of derision. 'Oh, yeah? What about your little playmate? Or are you going to try and pretend that Miss "Cool Corrine" is merely a figment of my overheated imagination?' she queried with acid contempt.

  'Corrine?' Luke frowned, his hooded blue eyes searching her face for a moment before he gave a short bark of sardonic amusement. 'Well, well. . .'

  'I couldn't care less about your girlfriend,' she as­sured him quickly.

  'No. . .?' he mocked, raising a dark, quizzical eyebrow. 'Unfortunately, I'm afraid that I'm not prepared to be quite so understanding about your boyfriend,' he drawled, his voice heavy with menace.