by Nancy Loyan
She smiled, lips trembling.
“You belong on this boat,” he said.
“It’s quite a boat.”
“Just a fun toy, that’s all.” He winked.
Like me? She rubbed her arms.
“You really should apply more sunscreen. Your pale skin is already beginning to burn and the sun can be brutal out here,” he said. “If you need some help applying it, I’d be happy to oblige.”
“Right. I could see where that would lead,” she mumbled and rolled her eyes.
“And you wouldn’t regret it.” He grabbed a nearby tube of sunscreen.
She reached out and he placed it in her hand, lightly brushing her fingers.
“I can do this … alone,” she said, removing the cap and squeezing the protective lotion in her palm, the coconut scent overly sweet.
She slathered on the cream, knowing he was watching her with a grin plastered on his face and too many ideas in his head.
“Damn, Victoria, do you have to be so sexy?”
She looked at him, as she smoothed the lotion over her firm thighs. “That’s why you asked me away this weekend, isn’t it?”
He shook his head. “You have me pegged all wrong. Though I admit I’d enjoy having sex with you, I find your mind just as tantalizing than your body.”
“I find that hard to imagine.”
“It’s the truth. The purpose of this weekend escape isn’t getting laid,” he said in a serious tone. “But getting to know each other better.”
She put the cap back on the lotion and set it down, her gaze still fixed on Daemon.
“I’d really like to know more about you, your education, career and your reasons for returning to the Islands.”
Part of her was impressed with his sincerity and curiosity, yet another part was a bit frightened of revealing too much. When you give too much of yourself to a person, you lose a part of yourself.
“So, we have a couple of hours before getting to La Digue. Tell me about yourself, Miss Montcherry.”
She hesitated before speaking. “I’m sure my life isn’t as adventuresome as yours.”
“This isn’t a contest. Just let me get to know you.”
“Let’s see. I spent my childhood in the Islands and attended the local schools from Creche to Polytechnic. After, I went to college in the States on scholarship and earned an MBA from Wharton.”
“I knew you were a beauty with brains. Go on.”
“I worked for several top financial firms as a stockbroker and bond trader. Various promotions took me around the world; Hong Kong, Singapore, Johannesburg, New York City.”
“And Seychelles?”“I came back by choice after having left my job in New York.”
“Why?”
She wrung her hands together, wondering what to say and how to say it. “I needed to escape life in New York and in the States.”
He chuckled. “You make it sound as if you had committed some sort of crime. Insider trading? Embezzling?”
“Nothing like that.”
Daemon reached into a cooler set nearby and removed two bottles of Seybrew, popped off the caps and handed one to her. She accepted the cool bottle with trembling fingers, taking a sip before speaking.
“On my last job, my office had been in the World Trade Center. On the morning of 9-11, I had an early breakfast meeting off-site with a good client. I was en-route to my office when the sky fell in. My world fell in.
“As I was walking in the direction of the Center, people were fleeing in the opposite direction. They were caked in soot, some in tattered clothes and bleeding, some like zombies with glazed eyes, many screaming hysterically. The air was filled with a choking chalky dust. I looked for familiar faces but couldn’t see any, not that I would have recognized anyone anyway. I had no idea what happened. It was so strange and so surreal.
“I found out from a policeman that two planes had deliberately hit the World Trade Center and exploded. One building had collapsed and the other on the verge. My office had been in the North Tower, on the floor that imploded on impact.” Tears formed in her eyes and she took a swig of beer.
“My office was obliterated, my co-workers dead. The gravity of the situation didn’t hit until I saw the news later and learned what happened,” she continued. “Evan, my fiancée, his office was in the South Tower. He was blown apart. Dead.” She cried, muffling whimpers with her hands drawn up to her mouth. It was the first time she ever made this revelation to anyone. She had kept the memories locked up in her mind as if they would just be forgotten in time. Time had passed, though, and they were as fresh as yesterday.
Daemon moved toward her, enveloping her in his arms, holding her close, rocking her gently, in time with the swaying of the yacht. “I’m so sorry.”
“It was so awful. Why was I spared when everyone else died?”
“Right place, right time?” Daemon whispered, blinking back his own tragic memories and swallowing hard.
“Or some other reason?” She glanced up at him.
“Maybe. Maybe that reason is here and now?”
She squeezed her eyes shut. Why did have to say that? Why did he have to look at her with eyes full of promise? Why?
She opened her eyes, swiping away the tears. “The company offered me a promotion at a branch office in Jersey. I accepted but was just going through the motions. My heart wasn’t in the work anymore. My heart was no longer in Manhattan. It was time to trade one island for another. It was time to come home.”
“I’m glad you came home,” he said, kissing her atop her head and holding her tight. “Your heart belongs here with those who love you.”
Love? She didn’t expect to hear that word from him. Didn’t want to hear it from him. He was just saying it to be kind and consoling. He didn’t love her. She didn’t love him. Love had no future in their relationship.
After disembarking on the pier in La Digue, Daemon hired an oxcart and driver. On an island where automobiles were banned, it was the favored mode of transportation.
Bicycles could be rented but offered little room for baggage and lacked the quaint charm of man and beast. The young driver, his head in moppy dreadlocks, loaded their overnight bags in the back of his wooden paneled cart. As Daemon chatted with the driver, Victoria went forward to greet the ox, his massive dark head and jutting horns in contrast to his sweet disposition. She petted him on his broad snout.
Once seated on bench in the cart, Victoria gazed over at Daemon. His expression was so peaceful and his love for the Islands seemed to radiate from him like sunbeams. As the ox ambled on and the cart slowly jolted along the dirt road, Victoria felt the serenity of the island. Without automobiles with their horns blasting and impatient drivers, the unhurried pace of nature prevailed. Leafy arches of ancient trees shaded the road from the sun’s late morning glare. The driver pointed out places of interest along the road. The swaying palms of L’Union Estate, an old coconut plantation and its timber-framed buildings took them back in time. The Founder’s Cemetery with its toppled granite headstones were a reminder of the islands’ 1700’s French discovery and settlement. A pen of land tortoises located behind the official residence of the President of Seychelles caught Victoria’s interest. The sight of two massive tortoises in the throes of mating was a rare sight, the male humping the female, his grunts and groans resounding in the air. Daemon nudged her with a wicked grin plastered on his face.
“Hey, he’s two-hundred years old and can still get it on,” he said and chuckled.
“So can she.”
“Gives hope that we can have a fun future growing old together, doesn’t it?”
She forced a smile in response. From experience, whenever a man spoke of a future together it seemed the relationship had been destined to fail. Her track record was more “love ‘em and leave ‘em,” with her being the one left. She didn’t pin much hope on the future as far as her love life was concerned. Better to live for the moment.
They passed quaint timbered hom
es with rusted tin roofs, a shipyard with takamaka wood schooners and fishing boats in different phases of construction and repair, and headed toward the scenic beaches of the Indian Ocean.
Instead of turning into the famous tourist beaches, Daemon directed the driver to follow a narrow dirt path into a dense palm forest where the birds squawked and a fine mist settled in the humid air. The scent of orchids and hibiscus tickled the nostrils. Victoria inhaled the beauty of the place.
As they reached a clearing, she saw it. The massive tri-level building perched on a granite boulder overlooking the ocean. Constructed of slabs of shimmering island granite and timber, it featured a myriad of windows and a layer of decks. As they approached, she observed the infinity edged swimming pool and hot tub, seeming to blend with the turquoise of the ocean. A short distance from the property a bright yellow helicopter was set upon a concrete pad. She considered it odd, that for all its beauty, the property was empty. No tourists frolicked in the pool or sipped drinks at tables on the decks. An eerie quiet, except for the ocean waves crashing against the rocks, permeated the place.
“Is this a brand new resort?” she asked, looking at Daemon.
“It’s not a resort,” he answered with a smile. “It’s my nature reserve, my home, my escape from the world.”
“Your home?” She choked on the words. This wasn’t a home. It was larger than most tourist hotels.
“I built it a couple of years ago, when I decided to make the Islands my permanent home. I chose La Digue because it’s my favorite island in the Seychelles chain. I guess you can call me a Digueois, an island hillbilly.” He chuckled. “I prefer my private life out of the “fast lane” of Mah’e.”
The driver drew the oxcart to a stop. Daemon jumped from the cart and held out a hand for Victoria and helped her down. As the driver unloaded their bags, Daemon said to him, pointing, “There’s water and some grain in the shed for your ox and a refrigerator with beverages and food for you as well.”
“Thank you,” the driver replied, a grateful smile on his dark face.
Victoria noticed how Daemon slipped the driver a wad of Rupees, an amount higher than most drivers were paid.
A young Indian man in Bermuda shorts and polo shirt appeared from the big house, and grabbed the bags without a word.
“That’s Raj, my house man. He’s shy,” Daemon said to Victoria as she stood stunned by the surroundings and the service.
He took her hand and led her toward the teak stairs leading up to the big house. Victoria trembled at the luxury surrounding her. Though she knew Daemon was heir to the world’s largest resort chain, his wealth hadn’t hit her until this moment. She had known many wealthy people but none struck her as hard as Daemon. Unlike other men in his position he was seemingly unpretentious and empathetic, respected by everyone, he had a sense of ethics regarding the environment and business. He was as refreshing as the tropical breezes. He unsettled her.
“I’ll show you to your room where you can freshen up. After lunch, we can bicycle down to Anse Source D’Argent, my favorite beach,” he said.
Of course, it was her favorite, too. Sometimes looking at Daemon was like looking into a mirror, a mirror into her own heart and soul. Deep within they had much in common, though on the surface there were differences. The differences were what made her uneasy.
The interior of the home reflected the tropical splendor found on the island. Fine rattan furnished the rooms with leaf and flower design upholstery and batik throw pillows. Locally hand-thrown Les Mammelles pottery vessels and Figaro hand carved bowls and vases were overflowing with gardenia, vanilla orchids and canna lilies. Their sweet fragrance perfumed the rooms. Grass cloth adorned some of the walls while others were of exposed timber. Colorful Michael Adam’s island paintings were framed and displayed. Bamboo shades framed large open windows while overhead fans circulated the air. A macaw fluffed its blue, red and yellow feathers as it perched on a stand near an ornate iron cage.
“That’s Captain Cook,” Daemon said. “He’s my rescue bird and is aptly named because of his sometimes salty language.”
Daemon led her down a wide hall, opening a door into an open set of rooms. From the doorway, an unobstructed view of the ocean led to a private terrace. Waves crashed on the rocks below. A sitting room, bedroom and ceramic-tiled bath created the suite. Victoria admired the antique sari cloth upholstery and bedclothes. A filmy mosquito net surrounded the bed, mostly for effect as the island experienced few of the nasty insects. Open windows, French doors and overhead fans created cool breezes.
“Though the home is air conditioned, I prefer the sounds and touch of nature,” Daemon explained. “If you prefer, you may close up your suite and turn on the thermostat.”
“I prefer nature, too.” Another thing they had in common. “After all, I grew up without air conditioning.”
“I’ll leave you alone to rest. Lunch will be served in an hour and than we can journey down to the beach for some sun and fun.” He winked before exiting and closing the door behind.
She sat on the bed, contemplating the suite. She could easily adapt to this place and had to wash the thought out of her mind.
Chapter 8
Anse Source D’Argent was by far Victoria’s favorite beach in the entire Seychelles Island chain. There was something about the massive gray granite boulders that tumbled down from the mountainside, smoothly sculpted by weather and time. They jutted up from the white sand beach like sentinels keeping watch over sunbathers and swimmers and creating private coves for intimate encounters. Palm trees jutted up from the natural stone sculptures and swayed over the beach, softening the environment.
Victoria scanned the sandy shore. Tourists chattered in Italian, French and German. Tiny Speedos barely covered potbellies on the men. Women in all shapes and sizes were topless. On one corner of the beach, near precariously balanced boulders, a fashion shoot was taking place. Scantily clothed models posed for enthusiastic photographers, while assistants maneuvered foil umbrellas, redirecting the strong sunlight.
“You know, you could easily be a part of that shoot,” Daemon said, pulling his polo over his head.
Victoria met his gaze but couldn’t keep her eyes from wandering to his tanned and sculpted chest and abs. And the scar. The scar that snaked its way across his torso and disappeared into the waistband of his shorts. His heroism, the medal. What price had he paid? She had to admit that the boxer-style swim shorts were more attractive than tight, skimpy Speedos. After all, wasn’t what was in the shorts that mattered? The thought made her color rise.
Daemon stood staring at her with a quizzical look on his face. Adjusting the halter strap of her one-piece suit and securing the short matching pareo at her waist, she walked into the surf. The water was the warmest she had ever felt, next to a bath. As she walked into the water, sand led to crushed shell and seaweed. The water, though was like silk against her skin. She turned to face the beach and watched Daemon come toward her.
“You know, you should never turn your back on the ocean,” he warned, splashing water as he joined her.
“I guess I’ve been away so long, I forgot.” Standing waist-deep, she scooped up handfuls of water and splashed him, watching the droplets glisten on his chest and arms. In the sunlight, the droplets sparkled like crystals.
“Now you asked for it.” He laughed, drawing her up in his arms and wading out deeper into the ocean.
Instead of protesting, she looped her arms about his neck, holding tight as the water skimmed the bottom of her suit. Without warning, he lifted her up. She released her hold on him just as he heaved her out into the water. Warm salt water engulfed her and she buoyed to the surface. She wiped water from her face and slicked back her drenched hair.
“That wasn’t fair,” she protested.
“It was fun, though. You had to get wet sometime.” A mischievous grin plastered on his face. “I suppose there are other ways of getting you wet, though.”
The grin and the sparkle
in his eyes gave her a warm tingle, even when immersed in the tepid water. The man was impossible.
She splashed water on him. “What you really need is a cold shower.”
He winked. “Not on your life.”
He trudged through the deep water toward her. Facing her, he drew her into an intimate embrace, molding her against him, balancing her in the water’s gentle current.
His hand on her backside drew her against his male hardness. Even the warm temperature of the water had little effect on his determined anatomy. She groaned softly into his chest as she tingled at his touch.
“The ocean isn’t the safest place,” he whispered, lifting her up and into his arms, her form masking the prominent bulge in his shorts.
He carried her into shallow water and down the beach where he lowered her foot first in the powdery sand. She looked up at the serious expression on his face.
“This isn’t really the best time and place,” he said.
“For what, pray tell?” As if she didn’t know what was on his mind. It was on hers.
“When we make love it’s going to be in privacy and in a real bed.”
She noted the confidence in his voice. The thought of them entwined in a bed was sounding inevitable and disconcerting.
That evening they dined at Daemon’s home on bourzwa, red snapper, stuffed with prawns and jasmine rice. Seated on a deck overlooking the ocean, a red dusk colored the sky, outlining the silhouette of a schooner anchored in the surf. As the tide rolled in, frothy waves crashed against the rocks below, the noise thundering, the effect lulling. Victoria raised her glass of French Chardonnay and sipped. The cool liquid slid down her throat. She closed her eyes to savor the quenching respite from the steamy night air. Opening her eyes, she drank in the beauty of the waves, water, and sky.
“The view of the ocean is stunning from here,” she said.
“Yes, but what a chameleon the ocean can be; one moment serene and gentle, the next turbulent and temperamental.”