Honeymoon Island Read online

  Honeymoon Island

  By

  Marjorie Lewty

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  HONEYMOON ISLAND

  When Guy Devereux proposed to her Lucie didn't really have any choice—but she made it clear that she was only marrying him under protest. But the marriage might have worked—if it hadn't been for Cynthia Blunt…

  Another book you will enjoy

  by

  MARJORIE LEWTY

  IN LOVE WITH THE MAN

  It was exciting enough going on a business trip to Japan, thought Pippa, even without the added attraction of going with Adrian Blake and perhaps getting to know him a little better. Only it wasn't easygoing Adrian who went on the trip after all, but the formidable Matt Vane…

  First published in Great Britain 1987

  by Mills & Boon Limited

  © Marjorie Lewty 1987

  Australian copyright 1987

  Philippine copyright 1987

  This edition 1987

  ISBN 0 263 75752 8

  CHAPTER ONE

  She ran up the stairs to her bedsitter on the top floor, stamping the snow from her black suede boots on to the worn lino, humming the latest pop tune as she went. A tallish girl, dark and rather beautiful, her raincoat belted in tightly round her slim waist, and a smile on her lips that seemed to announce to the world in general that it was a lovely day.

  The homegoing crowd trudging along the London street outside might well have questioned that. Actually it was a pig of a day. It had been snowing and sleeting on and off all day, and the London pavements were thick with slush that was now beginning to freeze. And, just to make things worse, a fog was coming down to accompany the dusk.

  But nothing could have dampened Lucie Martin's spirits just then. She had just come from a publisher's party to launch her very first children's book and under her arm she carried a parcel containing six complimentary copies. She couldn't wait to unpack it and gloat over them again.

  And to make everything specially nice, Peter Philips, who worked for her publisher and had been at the party, was following her home as soon as he could get away and they were going out for a celebration meal—Chinese style. What more, Lucie asked herself, putting her key in the lock, could any girl ask of life?

  Surprisingly, the door was on the latch. Her stomach jolted. Who? What? Burglars? Lucie hesitated only a second and then drew in a quick breath and threw open the door. Light poured out to meet her. The gas fire had been lit and before it, in a chair that looked much too small for him, sprawled a very large man in a dark-coloured business suit.

  'James!' squeaked Lucie. She dropped her parcel and tossed back her shining mane of silky dark hair as she propelled herself across the room. 'Oh, James darling, how lovely to see you! It's been ages—all of a month. This has made my day absolutely perfect!'

  Her half-brother enclosed her slim form in a bear-hug. 'Great to see you too, Sis. The good lady on the ground floor let me in.' He held her away and looked down into her small, radiant face. 'You're looking blooming. How's things?'

  'Things,' she said, 'are absolutely super.' She picked up the parcel and tore off the wrapping to disclose a neat double pile of slim books. 'Published today. Look!' She brandished one of the books before her brother's eyes. 'Caterpillars at Home. Written and illustrated by Lucie Martin.'

  James took the book and flicked through the glossy pages with their small, exquisite coloured drawings of many different varieties of caterpillar. 'Splendid, Sis, congratulations. You've done marvellously—all your dreams coming true. May I take one home for the girls?'

  'Of course. One for each of them—duly auto-graphed.' Suddenly Lucie became serious. 'Oh, James, you can't think what this means to me. Not just the excitement of having a book published, but it's sort of justified what I did three years ago when I walked out on Father and my old life of luxury.' She smiled at the extravagant term. 'I'm my own person now, independent, free to make my own decisions and choose my own way of life. And I can pay you back the money you lent me when I turned up on your doorstep that day. It seems a whole lifetime ago.'

  'I don't want—' James began, but Lucie stopped him.

  'You must let me pay it back, I insist, I can do it out of the advance on royalties and still have quite a bit over. They've accepted my second book—that's the hedgehog one—and I've packed in my job at the cafe to begin work on my next opus. My darling publishers have offered to pay me a small retainer while I work at it. I've got lots of ideas. I think it's going to be about tropical fish, they're such lovely colours. But enough about me.'

  She threw her raincoat over the back of a chair and smoothed her amber jersey dress over her hips with care. It was one of the items of clothing she had brought with her when she finally packed her bag at the house in Paris. She had lost weight, but it looked almost as good as new. One of the few useful things she had learned at her finishing school in Switzerland was how to wear clothes with flair. 'I want to hear all about you—and Angela, and my goddaughters. I haven't heard your news for ages. Can you stay for a meal? Peter Philips is coming round and we're going to eat Chinese, but I'd love it if you'd join us. You remember Peter—you met him last time you were here.'

  James regarded his young half-sister, fair thick brows raised over quizzical hazel eyes. 'Serious?'

  'Peter? Oh no, just good friends, as they say. We're both hooked on books and talk shop all the time. Peter wants to start his own agency, but it's the old, old story—no money. Can you stay?' she asked James again.

  'Sorry, I'd love to, Sis, but this is only a flying visit. I've got to get across to Euston for the next Birmingham train. It makes things—difficult—if I'm late.' A frown creased his wide brow. 'Angela gets—worried.'

  Lucie crossed the room to the little curtained-off kitchenette and switched on the kettle. 'Well, at least you can have a quick cup of coffee before you go out into the cold, cold snow.'

  Spooning instant coffee into two mugs, she thought that 'worried' was not quite the right word to apply to Angela. Pretty, spoilt Angela who had no idea of what it meant to run a company like James's. Who whined and pouted when he wasn't always available to take her out and fall in with her whims. And now the twins were at a weekly boarding school, and with a daily help and a lovely labour-saving house in Solihull, Angela would have far too much time on her hands.

  When she carried the coffee-mugs back to the fireside James was inspecting her book, turning over the pages with an approving smile. 'This is really good, Sis. The drawings of the caterpillars among the leaves and flowers are quite superb. You're a very gifted young woman—do you think you inherited it from your mother?'

  Lucie nodded, her face suddenly sad. 'I like to think so. I'm sure she would have got somewhere with her art—if she had lived. And if Father had been even half-way sympathetic about it,' she added bitterly. Lucie's mother had been Warren Martin's second wife. His first marriage, to James's mother, had ended in divorce. He was now well into his third—to a film starlet. Which had been one—but only one—of the reasons for Lucie leaving home three years ago, after a blazing row the memory of which still made her feel weak at the knees.

  James cupped his big hands round his coffee-mug, looking into the fire. 'Sympathy is not exactly one of our revered father's strong lines.'

  'Too true,' murmured Lucie. 'Perhaps it's the only luxury that millionaire tycoons can't afford. Which,' she added with a small grin, 'is why I avoid millionaire tycoons. Not that I encounter many these days.'

  James laughed,
but she thought she heard an uneasy note in his laughter. She knew her brother so well and could always tell when he was bothered about something.

  'What's up, Jimmy?' She reached over and touched his arm. 'Something's happened, hasn't it?' Her first thought was of Angela. She had a horrid feeling that James's marriage wasn't any too secure these days.

  But James was evidently not thinking of his own worries. He reached into his pocket and drew out a sealed envelope. 'This came today, enclosed in a letter to me. I've no idea what's in it, of course, but I thought you should have it straight away—which is why I came along here after my business meeting in the City, to give it to you personally.' He added with his endearingly shy smile, 'I thought you might be glad of a bit of support while you read it.'

  Lucie took the envelope and stared down at the words written in a flamboyant black handwriting that was all too familiar. 'Miss Lucie Martin, c/o James Martin. Please forward.'

  She put down her coffee-mug and met her brother's watchful eyes, the colour draining from her face. 'From Father?'

  'I'm afraid so,' James said wryly.

  Painfully, Lucie's mind slipped back more than three years, since she had parted so hurtfully from her father. She could still see his handsome face contorted with rage, hear his furious voice shouting, 'All right then, get out and stay out, you little bitch, if that's what you want, but don't come grovelling back to me when you're broke!'

  It hadn't been easy, coping, and without James's help she wouldn't have made it to where she was now. Certainly she wouldn't have grovelled—not to her father or anyone else—and after all the things she had said to him three years ago she hadn't expected to hear from him again. Why now, then? She ripped open the envelope with shaking fingers.

  'My dear Lucie,' her father had written, 'I am sending this to you via James as I have no idea where you are. Now and then James mentions that you are well, but I'm afraid that is all I know of you.

  'I can hardly believe it myself, but I'll be sixty-five in ten days, and the time has come to forget old grievances. Perhaps I was wrong, if so, be generous and give me a chance to say I'm sorry. I'm giving a small birthday party at the apartment here next week and I should dearly like my only daughter to be there. Hop on a plane and join me. If you're not too proud to accept, I enclose a banker's draft to cover the first-class return fare via Miami. It has to be a return— they won't let you in on a single, in case you fall for this idyllic spot and decide to stay and bring all your relations! This is a superb place, and the best time of the year—sun and sand and sea—well worth exchanging England for in January for a few days. Do come, it would mean a good deal to me. Your loving (please believe me) Father.

  'P.S. Don't worry about meeting Stephanie. She won't be here.'

  Her eyes went to the address at the top of the page: Villa Casuarina, Seven Mile Beach, Grand Cayman, British West Indies.

  She handed the letter to James without a word. He skimmed through it, frowning, while Lucie picked up her coffee-mug and wrapped her cold fingers round it. She felt confused and shaken to her very depths. Why did this have to happen, to churn up her life again when things were going along so smoothly and happily?

  James put down the letter. 'Well!' That seemed to be all he could think of to say.

  Lucie said, 'Did you know he was there—in the Cayman Islands? I thought you said he was in South America somewhere.'

  James nodded. 'He was. He moved to the Caymans four or five months ago. Most of his companies—including mine—are registered there, it's convenient for lots of reasons.' James managed one of his father's smaller companies, situated in the Midlands, which manufactured food containers. 'I've been trying to persuade him to put more capital into the business so that we can expand and go after exports more actively, but I can't get any firm commitment from him. I expect he's up to his eyes in some new take-over deal. You know what he's like.'

  'Yes,' said Lucie, 'I know.'

  There was a silence, then James said tentatively, 'Will you go, do you think?'

  'To a lush party on a millionaire's paradise island? Frankly, it's the last thing in the world I'd choose to do, just when I'm dying to start work on my next book. But—well—he is my father and it must have cost him a good deal to write what amounts to an apology.' She sighed. 'And I suppose part of it was my fault, a quarrel always has two sides to it.'

  She bit the end of her little finger thoughtfully for a moment or two and then said impulsively, 'OK then, James, I'll come with you.'

  Her brother shook his head. 'I'm not invited, Lucie.'

  'Not—' Lucie's brown eyes widened and her mouth fell open. 'Not invited? He wants his only daughter at his rotten party and he hasn't got the decency to invite his only son? Right then, he can jolly well do without said daughter!' Her lips pressed themselves together firmly.

  James's tolerant smile said that he was used to his young sister's quick temper where her loyalty to himself was concerned. 'Hold your horses, love! It's not quite like that. He knows very well that I couldn't take time off just now—I've got an important deal coming along which is pretty vital for the company, and of course he's informed about that. Anyway, I'll be out of circulation for a while. I'm off behind the Iron Curtain tomorrow. There may be some new markets opening up there.'

  'Oh,' said Lucie, and thought for a moment. 'OK, I take it back, then.'

  James waited, watching her face. 'Would you mind travelling on your own? You've kept your passport up to date, haven't you? Would you be nervous?'

  'Oh Lord, no, I'm used to it. Jet-baby, that was me in the bad old days.' Backwards and forwards from school to whatever part of the world Warren Martin's vast business empire took him at any given time when her holidays came along. He had her holidays planned down to the last detail. He chose her companions and her clothes and her activities. 'Now Mother's not here you like to have some weak female to boss around,' was one of the things she had flung at him on that last ghastly occasion. 'Well, I'm not going to be bossed around any longer, and I've certainly no intention of living the sort of life Mother had to lead. Or of marrying some financial wizard you've set your sights on for me!'

  Her memory of that final quarrel was still devastatingly clear in her mind. She could see her father's face, crimson with rage, his fists thumping the table. She could see, too, the dark arrogant face of the man he had wanted her to marry.

  Guy Devereux, son of an important merchant banker—the last man on earth she would marry. Guy Devereux. What a stupidly pretentious name! Just to think of him sent a shiver down her back as she remembered his mocking, sardonic face, his dark blue eyes glinting under winged brows— watching her. As she remembered what had happened that night after dinner, in the rose-garden of the Paris chateau—

  'I'm afraid I must be off now, love.' James's voice broke in on her disturbing memories. He was on his feet, fumbling with the sleeves of his thick overcoat. Lucie jumped up and helped him on with it. 'Let us know what you decide—about going out to Father. Ring Angela and tell her your plans. I shan't be available for a bit.'

  'I'll have to think about it,' she said. 'I'm really not terribly keen to go.'

  She scribbled loving messages in two of her books—one for Penny and one for Prue—and James tucked them in his overcoat pocket and gave it a pat.

  'Something to read on the plane tomorrow,' he grinned.

  'For the five-to-seven-year-olds? Watch it, or you'll be led away by men in white coats!'

  He was serious suddenly, his face curiously drawn. 'Truer than you think, my dear. Life has its problems.'

  James was on his way to the door and he wasn't going to enlarge on that, so it was no good asking. They hugged each other tightly and Lucie told him to have a good trip and called affectionate messages to everyone as the stairs creaked under his heavy downward tread.

  She went slowly back into the sitting-room, a wry little smile on her lips. Dear James, he was such a nice man. All her life she had gone to him with her troubles,
and he had never failed her. She wished she could help him now with whatever was bothering him, but if it were something to do with Angela he wouldn't tell her, he was much too loyal to the pretty wife he adored.

  She washed up the coffee-mugs and went across to the opposite side of the room to brush her hair and renew her make-up. Peter would be here soon, and she almost wished she hadn't promised to go out with him to celebrate. It was going to be difficult to recapture her earlier mood of euphoria. She sat down in front of the gas fire and picked up the letter from her father again.

  She was still frowning over it ten minutes later when she heard Peter's quick tread on the stairs outside and his rat-a-tat at the door. 'Come in, it's open,' she called.

  Peter breezed in, admitting a keen draught from the landing. He was a tall, thin man in his late twenties, with smooth fair hair and wide-awake eyes. He carried a bottle under one arm and an assortment of brown paper bags in the other hand, from which escaped the unmistakable aroma of Chinese cooking.

  'Hello again, Lucie darling. Here I am, complete with celebration meal. If it's OK with you I thought it'd be nicer to eat here, rather than brave the elements again. It's an absolutely foul evening. D'you mind a take-away?'

  'No, of course not. Good idea.' She took the bags across to the kitchenette and put plates to warm under the grill. 'How much do I owe you?' It was agreed that she and Peter shared all expenses when they went out together.

  'Came to eight-forty altogether. But I'm paying for the wine. My way of saying congrats, Lucie.'

  He took off his coat and hung it up behind the door and went over to the fire, rubbing his hands and looking appreciatively round the long, low room. 'This is cosy.'

  Over the years Lucie had managed to do all the usual things that make a bedsitter more like home: bright curtains and cushions, a handmade rug in front of the gas fire, pictures on the walls, her own drawings mingling with modern prints. At one end of the room a divan and a white melamine wardrobe-cum-dressing-table served as a bedroom. At the other a tiny kitchenette provided cooking facilities. The middle of the room was studio-lounge. Mostly studio; the lounge consisted of a couple of easy chairs.