Not forgetful of what Zandra had said, that long ago this room had been a cell where a priest had lived, Debra felt a sense of disquiet, but she kept it to herself. She didn't want to be labelled by Zandra as another dotty spinster who looked under her bed at night in case a man was hiding there.
It was odd hearing on tape the voice of a man she had never met. Jack Salvador had a deep and deliberate voice and if she closed her eyes he seemed to be in the room with her. She had no idea what he looked like for his books never carried a picture of him on the back of the jacket. In his view it added a sense of suspense that his readers had to imagine the way he looked. He never went in for self-advertisement and didn't appear on television in order to promote his books. Nor did he give interviews to newspaper and magazine columnists.
He didn't need to do any of that, in Debra's opinion, for he was an enthralling writer and she had already written to Harrison Holt to inform him that he wasn't going to be disappointed by the new book. It wasn't only colourful and packed with detail, but it was romantic as well, as if Jack's feelings for Pauline had filtered into the story and added impact to the interludes of passion.
His own love story was ended ... he the man of intellect who had fallen beneath the spell of the showgirl whose attributes were physical rather than mental.
A tragic romance, doomed to last but a short while, its setting here on Lovelis Island as dramatic as anything Jack Salvador had portrayed in one of his novels in which he interweaved historical fact and fiction. It gave Debra a sense of satisfaction to be working on his book.
She didn't see a great deal of Mrs Salvador and her daughter, and this was something of a relief. They were a rather disquieting pair, and Debra preferred to take her meals with Nanny Rose rather than sit constrainedly at the oak table in the dining-room where the chairs were very upright, matching the formality that the matriarch insisted upon at the evening meal.
At the present time, Zandra had several of her theatrical friends staying at Abbeywitch, though they were absent most of the day, rehearsing a play at the Iseult Theatre on the mainland.
On Saturday afternoons Debra felt at liberty to go down to the cove, where she swam and lazed in the sun, disturbed by no one but the birds, securely aware that she couldn't be overlooked because of the guardian cliffs. They jutted in a brow above the beach, too high to shade the sands from the sun but making it impossible for the casual observer to gaze down on her, where she lay on her beach towel acquiring the tan that every town girl dreams of.
Debra had written to inform her mother that her stint as a private secretary on an island was turning out well, and that the house she was living in was built on high cliffs above the ocean. She had described little Dean to her mother, a grand little chap with his deep blue eyes and his infectious chuckle, too young to be aware that his young mother had lost her life in the glittering, churning sea which held such dark memories for Jack Salvador that he couldn't bring himself to come home until he could accept that he was never going to see Pauline again and hold her in his arms.
Pauline's death had been called an accident, but Debra wondered if a spiteful hand had pushed her into the sea while the dance music played. If she cried out the sound would be drowned by the music, and according to Nanny Rose the party on board the yacht had included Jack's mother. Family friends had gathered to celebrate Zandra's birthday, so Mrs Salvador had been persuaded to join the party, a lively one with not only dancing on deck but fireworks whizzing out over the ocean.
Down on the beach Debra would gaze at the water and wonder at the secret that the sea kept to itself. All that was left was a man's grief, and it would be a long time before the child of the marriage was old enough to ponder the mystery of his mother's death. By then the passage of time would have eroded the poignancy of it all, as the sea itself eroded the rocks along the shore and gradually turned them to sand.
After her swim Debra would stretch out and relax, lulled by the sound of the surf as it shuffled and foamed among the rocks. The sun-warmed air trapped the tang of the sea and the wafting scent of the ling and gorse that hung at the cliff edge, along with the white samphire and the figwort. The seagulls swooped, mewing like lost cats, their wings spread gracefully against the sky.
Debra had drifted off to sleep with the caress of the sun on her body, and it was her skin's awareness of shadow that awoke her. Her eyes fluttered open and she stretched her limbs with lazy indolence, which changed to sudden shock as her gaze focused on the figure which blocked out the sun by standing with long legs straddling her recumbent form.
There was a vibration in Debra's throat which felt like a scream that wouldn't emerge. This stranger had invaded the cove and every nerve and cell of her body was sending a signal of danger to her brain.
'This—this beach is private,' she managed to say.
'Then what are you doing on it?' he demanded.
'I have the right to be here.' The words jolted nervously from her throat. 'I work for the family who owns it.'
The eyes looking down at her swept her from neck to heel and in an attempt to conceal as much of herself as possible Debra made a cape of her hair, loosened from its knot after her swim so it could dry in the sun. As she did this the tall stranger narrowed his eyes until they were like slits of ebony.
'One of the maids, I presume?' His voice crackled with sarcasm. 'Does the lady of the house know that you lie down here without a stitch of clothing on?'
A wave of confusion and indignation swept over Debra. 'I'm Mr Jack Salvador's secretary—' And there she broke off with a gasp. It couldn't be, could it. . . the employer she had hoped to meet and impress with her efficiency in dealing with his book? If it was he, then how was she going to live down that he had found her shamelessly stretched out on his beach, with her clothes in a little mound beyond his firmly planted feet.
Damn, it looked as if her pleasant job was at an end!
'The secretary, eh?' Again he looked her over. 'The last time I was at Abbeywitch there was a fat little woman of fifty doing the typing, and I never caught her in your present predicament.'
'I thought for the moment—' Debra bit her lip. 'Who are you—are you a friend of Zandra Salvador's?'
'Do you think I look like an actor?'
The irony in his voice informed Debra that he had nothing to do with Zandra's theatrical friends, and she wondered if he might be the divorced husband whom Zandra had spoken of so contemptuously. But even as the thought occurred to her, she rejected it ... he didn't strike her as the kind of man who would fail to live up to a woman's exciting expectations.
On the contrary . . . from the moment Debra opened her eyes and saw him towering above her, she had been picking up from him the most unsettling vibrations.
'Who are you?' she repeated.
'I assure you I have every right to be here. I happen to be the owner of Abbeywitch,' he announced. 'You may have heard my stepmother speak of me—I'm Rodare Salvador.'
Debra caught her breath. She had assumed that Jack Salvador was the master of Abbeywitch and it came as quite a shock to hear this stranger announce that he was the master . . . and there was no denying the fact that he had a masterful air. He struck her speechless and all she could do for several seconds was stare up at him, a figure of confusion at his feet.
Her mouth worked, then the words came rather faintly. 'May I have my clothes, Mr Salvador, so I can get dressed?'
'By all means.' He picked up the bundle and dropped it down beside her and in a mocking way he turned his back and gazed out to sea while she hurriedly dressed. When he turned to face her, she was rewinding her hair into its coil.
He was copper-skinned and the Spanish ebony of his eyes were intent upon Debra, hitting the very centre of her nervous system and inducing two distinct feelings in her. She wanted to retreat hastily from him, and. she also wanted to stay and defend herself against what he was probably thinking, that she was a shameless hussy and what the devil was she doing in the employment of hi
s brother Jack. Secretaries who came to Abbeywitch should be comfortable bodies in their fifties who ate currant buns on the beach and knitted sweaters!
Debra agonised in silence, for she didn't want to lose her job and he had the power to dismiss her right now. Also he was partly Spanish and she had heard that Spaniards who saw foreign girls bathing in bikinis on their beaches had only one opinion of them . . . that they were there for the picking and weren't moral like Latin girls.
Oh lord, and he had come upon her without even a bikini to hide the more intimate parts of her figure!
He carried his cigarillo to his lips and drew on it, tall in a silky dark shirt worn with black doeskin trousers that hugged his long legs. There was strength and authority in every line of him; a kind of pantherish grace allied to the power and poise of a man accustomed to taking charge of a situation.
His face, Debra thought, was the kind which Yeats had written about: Hollow of cheek as though it drank the wind. And took a mess of shadows for its meat.
'I—I am off-duty,' she said, unable to bear his silence a moment longer.
'And do you always spend your off-duty time getting yourself an all-over tan?' he asked.
'The beach is sheltered.' Debra tilted her chin, as if attempting to pour her blush back where it couldn't be seen by him. 'I'm not an exhibitionist, but it's good to feel the sun and this is the first time I've worked in an oceanside house.'
'And do you enjoy your work?' Not by an inflection did his voice soften, it remained as coolly deep as those eyes in the coppery face. He looked as if he lived where the sun had bitten him to the bone.
'I like working at Abbey witch very much,' she replied.
'You find it excellent board and lodging, no doubt, with seaside facilities thrown in?' Cigar-illo smoke slid from his haughty Latin nose.
Debra drew herself up very straight and looked into the eyes whose ebony was so disconcerting. 'I can assure you, Mr Salvador, that I do my work thoroughly and earn my salary, and I naturally thought that I could use the beach—I didn't know it was your beach, of course, and that it was out of bounds to a mere employee. No doubt you would like me to leave Abbeywitch, so I'll go and pack my belongings—'
'You will stay exactly where you are, young woman!'
Debra obeyed him, though very much against her will. 'Haven't you finished telling me that all I appear to do is loll about on your beach, eat your food, and enjoy the comforts of your house?' Debra's eyes were green with temper. . . damned arrogant man! Standing in judgment on her ableness as a secretary just because he found her sunbathing, with her hair unbound from its tidy secretarial knot.
She touched a nervous hand to her knot; Rodare Salvador was looking at her hair as if recalling how she had caped herself with it when he had stood over her.
'My stepmother is usually the last woman in the world to be taken in by surface charm,' he said. 'How did you manage to persuade her that you were fit to be Jack's secretary? I'd have thought she'd have taken one look at you and sent you packing, as you're on the wrong side of fifty and have curves that haven't yet run together into a kind of doughnut. Tell me, what became of the other woman—wasn't her name Miss Tucker?'
'Miss Tucker said something that upset Mrs Salvador and she was fired.' Debra was all braced up to be fired herself, thinking how unfair it was that she and the former secretary should be given their notice, not because of inefficiency but because they had both managed to annoy a member of this high-and-mighty family. Secretaries weren't supposed to be seen or heard; the more they behaved like automatons the more they were appreciated.
'Do you happen to know what she said?' he asked curtly.
Debra hesitated. 'I—I think Miss Tucker made some reference to your brother's dead wife which Mrs Salvador took as an insult. She was dismissed in your brother's absence and several other secretaries were hired, and then fired, before I came to Abbey witch.'
'And for some reason you clicked with Lenora, eh?'
'Mrs Salvador seems quite satisfied with my work, and I've enjoyed being here—'
'You can't be more than nineteen or twenty,' he rapped at her.
'I'm twenty-four.'
His eyes raked up and down Debra's figure in the sleeveless lemon-coloured dress, and he seemed both perplexed and annoyed by her. Feeling the same about him, she spun on her heel, picked up her beach towel and bag and walked away. 'Good afternoon, Mr Salvador!'
She had almost reached the handrailed steps that led up the cliffside to the headland when strong hands caught her by the shoulders and swung her around as effortlessly as if she had been a walkie-talkie doll.
'You have a temper, young woman.'
'Isn't that allowed either?' Her reaction to being touched by him was a mixture of wanting to pull away and being afraid in case a struggle resulted and she was brought into contact with his body. In the opening of his shirt his chest and shoulders looked formidable; his skin was the sheen of copper ore.
'The people who work for my stepmother are usually subservient.' His eyes moved over her face which was devoid of make-up because she had been in the water before stretching out to enjoy the sun. There was a glitter beneath the heaviness of his eyelids and Debra felt the warmth stealing from his skin.
This was more disturbing than anything else had been, and dusk was filtering down over the sea-grey cliffs and the sea. 'It's getting late,' Debra spoke rather breathlessly. 'Perhaps I should go and pack—'
'Packing to leave Abbeywitch is the last thing you want to do, eh?'
'I—I'd sooner go than stay on thorns, never knowing when I might do something else that I shouldn't—you see, Mr Salvador, I wasn't told that you were in charge of things.'
'I'm very much in charge whenever I'm here. What are you called?'
Her eyes widened, for he was more utterly arrogant than anyone she had ever met. 'Dogs and cats are called—'
'Enough of that.' He gave her a shake. 'Tell me your name.'
She wanted to tell him to go and jump in the ocean, but somehow he compelled obedience, not merely because he was so much bigger than she was, but because of that inherent force that was stamped into his features and alive in his eyes. Debra told him her name.
'Well, Miss Hartway, I'm not going to order you off my property because of your indiscreet exposure of yourself, but I am going to advise you not to do it again.' His gaze held hers. 'The times we live in are strangely menacing, and young women are vulnerable, even if they do choose to shout the odds about their emancipation and their rights. Anyone could have come down those steps, don't you realise it?'
'I—I never thought—'
'And that is the fundamental difference between the sexes, men act upon a thought, but you females react to a situation. You had been in swimming, eh, and when you emerged from the water the sun felt good on your skin so you decided to let every bit of you feel it.'
She flushed, for something in his voice informed her that he hadn't been unappreciative of seeing every bit of her; and Zandra had implied that he was the kind of man who enjoyed women without getting his wings scorched. It was the women, Debra thought, who felt the flame when Senor Salvador got near them.
'How is the young Dean?' he abruptly asked. 'The child is flourishing?'
She nodded. 'He's a charming little boy; it's such a shame that he should be left motherless.'
Rodare Salvador inclined his head, thickly capped by hair of a blackness such as Debra had never seen before ... it was, she couldn't help thinking, almost wickedly black. 'Yes, as I indicated a few moments ago, young women can be at the mercy of many factors. You are fond of children, Miss Hartway?'
'I think they're quite nice, Mr Salvador, but I don't know a lot about them.'
'You have no brothers or sisters?'
She shook her head. 'No, I'm an only child; my father died when I was an infant.'
'I see.' His hands tightened a moment on her shoulders, and subjected to his touch Debra felt her heart quicken and she didn't want t
o feel this skin-tingling awareness of a man who had such a look of arrogance about him. He was too aware of his powers, as if he might brush people away like flies when they had served their purpose.
She wanted to draw away from him, and at the same time she didn't want to make it apparent that his closeness disturbed her, so she stood there as if unaware of his hands penetrating their warmth through the summery fabric of her dress.
'It's unusual to see a young English woman with a hairstyle like yours,' he said. 'It makes you look rather like a character from a Jane Austen novel.'
The remark startled her, but she quickly retaliated. 'There's more than a suggestion of Mr Darcy about you.'
'Indeed?' He arched a black eyebrow. 'You consider me a handsome snob, Miss Hartway?'
'I wouldn't call you handsome, Mr Salvador, but you're obviously a proud man who isn't very kind to people who bore you.'
'Do you also read the Tarot cards?' He spoke sardonically.
'You had my character weighed up in a few seconds, didn't you, Mr Salvador?'
'Touche.' His lip dented in what was no doubt his concession to a smile. 'So you are going to remain at Abbeywitch, eh? After leaping to the conclusion that I was going to send you packing?'
'Weren't you?' she fenced, flushing at the way he looked at her, as if he found her naively amusing.
'I don't interfere in my brother's business no more than he interferes in mine, so I wouldn't take it upon myself to dismiss his secretary. How do you like working for him?'
Debra stared at Rodare Salvador. 'Don't you know—?'
'Know what?'
'Your brother still hasn't come home.'
The ebony Latin eyes went narrow and the black brows drew together across the thrusting nose. 'But it's been weeks—you are telling me there's been no word from him, no indication that he's coming home? He has that child to consider! He has a duty to the living! What the devil has got into him?'
'Grief?' Debra murmured.
'Grief has to be overcome or it becomes a self-indulgence.' The strong, sun-darkened hands were abruptly withdrawn from Debra's shoulders. 'Come, the day is darkening and the tide is coming in, and I must speak with my stepmother.'
House of Storms Page 3