To Play With Fire

by Flora Kidd

  Looking up from furling the mainsail round the boom and tying it with a strip of terylene, Tory saw that beyond the jetty, half hidden by the drooping fronds of the palms, was a building of grey stone which extended parallel to the beach. It seemed to consist of a solid wall on which a wooden structure with wide windows had been built.

  'I'd no idea there was a building,' she exclaimed to Denzil as he came to help her finish tying up the sail. 'It isn't noticeable from the water.'

  'That's the idea,' he replied. 'That building is the dining pavilion of the hotel which is Pete de Freitas's pride and joy. The bedrooms are in single cottages, twenty of them scattered about the island, built in traditional West Indian style, solid and comfortable yet unobtrusive. When everything is ship-shape we'll go ashore to see Pete. He has a cottage on that point of land over there. Did you enjoy the sail?'

  'Yes, it was lovely. I like your boat too, not too small and not too bigjust right for one person, I suppose.'

  'But actually fitted out for two, or hadn't you noticed?' he remarked dryly. 'You're a good crew, Victoria. Quick and neat, and you don't answer back.'

  'I wouldn't be too sure about the not answering back, if I were you,' she retorted. 'I was on my best behaviour in front of your passengers, so don't get too rough with your orders, skipper. If you swear at me I'll swear right back!'

  'Tut, tut,' he scoffed, leaning his arms on the boom and grinning at her. 'What would your professor say?'

  The sail over the blue sea under the hot sun seemed to have liberated her. Mischief sprang up, and reaching over she snatched his cap from his head and sent it flying through the air like a frisbee to land with a tiny splash on the water.

  'You little devil,' he murmured threateningly, and ducked under the boom to grab her and lift her up in his arms. 'In you go to rescue it before it sinks!'

  He stepped down from the cabin roof on to the side-deck and lifted her high above the wire lifelines which, strung between steel stanchions, ran round the boat about two feet higher than the deck. Kicking her legs and pummelling at his shoulders, Tory tried to free herself when she realised he had every intention of dropping her into the water.

  'No, Denzil, please! Don't drop me in. I promise I'll get it for you, only let me dive. I couldn't bear to be dropped. There might be sharks.'

  'Not a chance,' he retorted, and raised her up again.

  'No ... no —.!' Tory's voice rose to a screech which was cut off suddenly as instead of dropping her into the water he closed her mouth with his own in a hard kiss. Her legs were lowered so she could stand and he put his freed arm around her to hold closely.

  Effectively silenced, Tory found she no longer wanted to struggle. Through the thinness of the pyjama jacket she felt the hardness of his chest bruising the softness of her breasts, sending sharp stabbing sensations through her so that she went dizzy with a new desire

  o

  to press closer to him, to relax the control of her mind over her body, to float on the sea of passion his touch aroused.

  'Mister 'Allam, is dis your 'at?'

  The voice was boyish and had a warm throaty chuckle. Through the haze of sensuousness which was enveloping her, making her reckless about what happened next, Tory felt Denzil stiffen. He took his mouth from hers and his hand on the back of her neck pushed her face into his warm shoulder as he spoke to someone behind her.

  'It is, Billy. Throw it into the cockpit, will you? I'll see you later with a reward for rescuing it. Right now, I'm busy.'

  'You sure is, Mister Allam, I can see dat. You sure is.'

  The chuckling voice was followed by the creak of oars in rowlocks and the splashing sound of oarblades slicing through water.

  'You coming ashore?' Billy asked from a little further away.

  later. I'll give you a shout when I want you to come for us,' replied Denzil.

  'Okay, boss.'

  The creaking and splashing sounds drifted away. Tory moved, pushing her head back against his hand, and looked up to encounter narrowed black-lashed gleaming eyes.

  'Well, Victoria, what now? Shall we go below to continue what you've started in more privacy and comfort?' he asked.

  'I haven't started anything. It was you with your taunts about Magnus,' she protested, trying to free herself only to find that she was caught in a circle by his arms.

  'You didn't have to throw my hat in the water,' he murmured.

  'And you didn't have to kiss me,' she retorted.

  'What other way is there to stop a woman from howling like a banshee?' he mocked. 'You didn't have to kiss me back. I'm only human, after all, a very susceptible male, and when a desirable woman like you kisses me as you've just done I see it as an open invitation to make love to her.'

  His voice softened and his hands moved to her waist. She felt the roughness of them against her smooth skin under the loose pyjama jacket, sliding upwards as he bent his head, his glance on her mouth, his lips parting slightly.

  'It wasn't an invitation,' she mumbled desperately, leaning back, away from him, her limbs weak and full of a longing to lie down. 'I don't want you to make love to me because I don't love you and you don't love me, so will you please take your hands off me?'

  'Whom do you love, then? The professor?' he scoffed, his hands back at her waist, holding her lightly as he slanted a glance down at her. 'Poor little Victoria, bursting with love for a man who's frozen from the neck down ...'

  'He isn't!'

  'Has he ever kissed you?'

  'Yes ... but ...' She stopped, realising she had just been about to give herself away. 'He's shy, diffident.'

  'So nothing happened,' he jeered. 'No wonder you react the way you do when you're really kissed. You're just longing to give and he doesn't want you.'

  'Because something doesn't happen the first time you kiss a person it doesn't prove anything, any more than if something does happen,' she countered furiously. 'Love isn't all physical.'

  'But a large percentage of it is, and should be,' Denzil retorted. 'For a scientist you're not very good at deducing from the results of your experiments, are you? And how anyone like you can waste your time on a

  man who doesn't care for you, I can't understand. You're a fool, Victoria, and heading for a fall.'

  'Well, it's my business, isn't it?' she retorted shakily. 'And I can't think why you concern yourself with it.'

  'No, I don't suppose you can,' he said with a sigh, removing his hands at last from her waist and turning away. 'Get your hat and sunglasses and your swimming things if you've brought them. I'll call Billy back.'

  Down in the cabin Tory took off the pyjama jacket and put on her sleeveless striped top. She rolled her bikini in a towel, trying to ignore the fact that her fingers were shaking as a result of the tumult of her feelings. Once again a confrontation with Denzil had led to an explosion of passion which had been ex-, pressed by physical contact, and she was disturbed by the fact that beneath the surface of all their meetings a utual sexual attraction lay like a land-mine hidden beneath pleasant countryside, awaiting only the lightest touch to erupt and wreak devastation.

  It must be the heat, she decided in an attempt to assert her control over herself. Hadn't she read somewhere that the tropical sun at noon had a relaxing effect on the inhibitions, causing men and women to discard the usual controls and express their most violent feelings in word and deed?

  No, that explanation wouldn't do either, because it presumed that she and Denzil felt violently and passionately about each other, and she didn't want to admit that he aroused in her a fiery turbulence which she was afraid might be the hate that is so akin to love.

  Hair smooth beneath her hat, sunglasses in place to hide any betraying expression there might be in her eyes, her white shorts crisp and neat, showing off the tan of her long legs, her striped top taut and smooth against breasts and waist, she went on deck looking cool and self-assured.

  As she stepped over the side of the yacht into the

  small rowing di
nghy and took her place on the thwart in the bow, she heard Denzil introducing her to the teenage boy who was sitting on the middle thwart hold- ing the oars. '

  'This is Victoria, Billy,' he drawled casually as he stepped down into the stern of the dinghy.

  The boy gave her a brief shy glance over his shoulder and nodded. Turning back to face Denzil, who was now sitting, he said,

  'She your wife?'

  'Not yet.'

  'Going to be?'

  'Maybe.'

  Over the boy's shaven bullet head Victoria glared at Denzil, but he wasn't looking at her, and belatedly she remembered the sunglasses so the whole effect was lost, which infuriated her more. She stared at Bill's back and thought how thin he was; the bones showed white through his bare chocolate-brown skin as he pulled on the oars, moving forwards and backwards with graceful rhythm to send the wooden boat skimming across the smooth shimmering water towards the long snout of green-topped, white-edged land which formed the northern shore of the lagoon.

  When the dinghy nudged against a small stone jetty, a large man in a flower-patterned shirt and white cotton pants who had been waiting for their arrival reached down to help Tory ashore.

  'Hello there,' he boomed. 'That was a fine bit of entertainment you and Denzil put on for the locals. Better than going to the movies, Mandy says. We were watching you through the binoculars. I'm Pete de Freitas.'

  'Her name is Victoria,' said Denzil coolly as he came to stand beside them. 'And you have to watch what you say to her, because she has a tendency to react like the

  heroine of a Victorian novel. She works for Magnus Jarrold at the Gardens. Is Mandy up at the house?' 'Yes, getting your favourite drink ready.'

  'Good, I want a word with her.'

  Denzil strode away up the jetty while Tory and Pete moved along at a more leisurely pace.

  'Welcome to Tequila, Victoria,' said Pete, whose mixed island heritage was revealed in his aquiline features, swarthy skin and pale eyes which blazed like blue flames in the darkness of his face.

  'Thank you, but I prefer to be called Tory,' she replied. 'Denzil uses my full name to torment me.'

  'Is that so?' said the large Tian with a chuckle. 'Now I wonder why he would want to torment someone as pretty as you are? Has he told you anything about this island and how long it's taken me to develop it as a holiday resort?'

  'No. I haven't come into contact with him very often, and I've only come today because he said he needed someone to crew for him on the boat.'

  His crackle of laughter was scornful.

  'And you fell for that? He doesn't need anyone to crew for him. He can handle that boat alone. He asked you to come for some other reason, and I wouldn't mind guessing that it was because he wanted female company, the prettier the better, make no mistake about that. And Mandy, she's my wife, is going to be glad he's brought you. There's nothing she likes more than a visit from a youngster like you. She'll pester you to death with questions about England, your family, your work—especially your work when she hears you're with Doc Jarrold.'

  'Is she from Airouna too?' asked Tory. They were walking over the soft sand, now, floundering a little as their feet slipped on its dryness.

  'Yes, she is, a mixture like the rest of us with a drop

  of real Carib blood mixed in with the African, English and Portuguese blood. We were married three years ago when she came back from the States after nursing there for nearly twenty years.' Pete's laugh shook his massive body. 'Neither of us ever expected to find someone we'd like to marry so late, but as soon as we met—' snap, that was it.'

  Mandy was tall and brown-skinned. She moved about with a slow rhythmic walk and hummed a tune as she set long glasses full of fruit punch on a round table set between four loungers on the verandah of the thatched but she and Pete called home.

  She was wearing a red-flowered dress which flattered her full-breasted, majestic figure, and had an air of sophistication which she had probably acquired during her years in a big American city. She was about ten years younger than Pete, forty to his fifty, Tory guessed, and she talked in a slow drawl, her speech scattered with American idioms and dry humorous remarks.

  As Pete had predicted, Mandy was full of questions and listened to Tory's answers with an interest that flattered, but it wasn't until they were having lunch in the big airy room behind the verandah, helping themselves from wooden bowls of marinated seafood, breadfruit souffle and sliced peppers and tomatoes, that she mentioned Magnus Jarrold.

  'Pete and I have always wanted him to come over to see Tequila,' said Mandy, guiding Tory over to a corner of the room where some wicker armchairs were arranged. 'When Pete took over the island about ten years ago it was nothing but a fly-ridden swamp surrounded by beautiful beaches. He saw its possibilities, and by planting it with coconut palms and sea-grape trees, slowly reclaimed it from the mosquitoes. It was literally a desert island. Everything had to be provided —power, Water, roads, a dock, communication,

  housing. Now it's a dream come true—Pete's dream of a holiday resort where nice quiet people who work hard for their livings can unwind and relax.'

  'It's amazing,' said Tory. 'And I'm sure Magnus would be interested to see what plants can achieve, but I'm surprised he's never talked about it to me.'

  'Perhaps he doesn't look much beyond his own work,' replied Mandy shrewdly. 'He's always struck me as being one of those absent-minded professor types only interested in his own back yard.'

  Tory subdued an urgent desire to defend Magnus and glanced across the room, where Denzil and Pete were leaning against the table, forking up food from their plates and talking seriously.

  'Have you met Dr Jarrold?' she asked Mandy.

  'No, I've only heard of him from Pete and friends of mine in Port Anne. I used to go to school with his wife, Rita Ribiera. It's my belief that Magnus Jarrold was given the job of Director of the Gardens because her father is a big name in the island. What's the news on Rita these days, by the way?'

  The casual query chilled Tory's blood in the same way that Denzil's whispered question about Magnus's wife had chilled her the night before. Again she glanced at him, but he was talking to Pete and seemed to have no interest in herself or Mandy. Yet she could not help suspecting that the 'word' he had been so keen to have with Mandy had concerned Rita Jarrold, and had resulted in Mandy's question.

  'What sort of news do you mean?' she asked as casually as she could, forking up some more of the delicious morsels of shrimp and lobster meat from her plate.

  'About her health. You know she's in some fancy medical clinic in the States, taking treatment for suspected cancer of the throat? The last I heard she was

  making good progress and was expected home soon. I gather she hasn't returned yet.'

  'No, she hasn't returned,' repeated Tory faintly, and leaned against the back of her chair. The food on her plate looked suddenly nauseous and she could tell by the taut feel of her skin that her face had gone pale.

  'It developed while they were living in England,' Mandy went on in her deep lazy voice. 'The illness, I mean. That's why they came back to Airouna. It was thought that the English climate was making Rita ill when she kept getting sore throats and hoarseness, but after a few months back in the Caribbean it was realised, when her throat didn't seem any better, that the problem was more severe. Such a pity too, because she had a lovely singing voice.'

  'Oh, I didn't know,' said Tory, finding that her own throat was dry and that her voice came out croakily. Mandy looked up and eyed her shrewdly, then rose to her feet.

  'I'll get you another drink, honey,' she said in her languid way.

  Alone, Tory picked at the remains of her food, hearing Pete's fat chuckle against the background of soft music coming from a tape deck. Rita Jarrold was alive; not very well it was true, but still alive, and would be returning to her home and husband on Airouna soon.

  Her initial reaction was to think that Magnus had deceived her deliberately by withholding all informati
on about his wife. Then her intelligence took over. No, Magnus was not to blame. She had deceived herself, wilfully, had been blinded to reality by her infatuation for him.

  Mandy returned with a glass of fruit punch and this time it seemed to Tory that the rum content of the drink had been increased, but it eased her throat and she was able to finish her food and go to the table her-

  self to select a succulent mango as dessert. No more mention was made of Rita Jarrold, and when they all returned to the verandah to lounge in the sea-cooled shade during the hottest part of the day, conversation dwindled away as they all slept or seemed to sleep.

  The informal but much-needed siesta over, Tory went with Mandy to swim in the lagoon. She had expected Denzil to join them, but he went with Pete to the hotel area to meet some guests who were interested in chartering a yacht.

  'You like Denzil?' Mandy enquired as they made their way back from the beach to the house.

  'I hardly know him,' replied Tory evasively.

  'Ho, hum,' laughed Mandy, and the swing of her elegant body as she entered the house seemed to express her scorn of the answer. 'You hardly know him, yet you and he kiss like lovers. I know because I watched you through the binoculars. I was surprised. I didn't know English people could be so demonstrative or so passionate.'

  'Oh, we have our moments,' Tory returned lightly. 'And that was one of them?' Mandy turned to eye her curiously.

  'No, that was a mistake.' Tory was suddenly angry because Denzil had put her in such a position. 'Oh, Denzil is a tormenting devil! Every time we meet he goes out of his way to tease me.'

  'About Dr Jarrold?' queried Mandy, and Tory flashed her a wary glance.

  'He told you how I feel about Magnus, didn't he?' she accused furiously. 'That was why he came ahead to talk to you before you met me. Oh, it's none of his business and he had no right to tell you. I ... I hate him for interfering!'

  She knew she was behaving badly, yet she was unable to control herself because the shock of learning that

  Rita Jarrold was alive, delayed by the siesta and the swim, was now having its way with her, making her want to vent her anguish and frustration on the person who had thought it necessary for her to face up to reality—Denzil.