Honeymoon Island Page 5

  Guy Devereux smiled at the company round the table. 'I always do,' he said quietly.

  Lucie sank into her chair beside Peter. Her knees were shaking. She tried, and failed, to look away from Guy Devereux, so that she wouldn't see whether or not he was fixing his piercing blue gaze on her personally before he turned and walked away.

  He was, and something in his eyes made her cringe all through her body. Don't be idiotic, she told herself. The man can't harm you in any way.

  But as she watched him walk across the deck, so tall and formidable, and disappear behind the overhanging greenery, she felt a tightening in her stomach that was very like panic.

  CHAPTER THREE

  'Tired, poppet?' Warren Martin parked the car and wrapped his arm around Lucie as they walked up the path to the villa, nestling under the coconut palms, ghostly white in the starlight.

  'Mm, just a bit.' The breeze was cool on her hot forehead, and the lapping of the waves mingled lazily with the chirping of myriad night insects. It could have been a perfect evening if that man Devereux hadn't been at the party to spoil it.

  Her father pushed open the door and switched on the lights. 'A pity we hadn't room to put Peter up at the villa here. He looked a bit gloomy to have to leave you.'

  Yes, Peter had indeed looked gloomy when they parted. Never mind, she would make it up to him tomorrow. They would have a lovely day together.

  Blossom had left a flask of coffee and a plate of sandwiches on the low table in the living-room, and Lucie sank into a chair and unscrewed the top from the flask. 'Coffee, Father?'

  He was taking a bottle of whisky out of the drinks cupboard, but now he put it back again. 'Maybe I'd better opt for coffee,' he said ruefully. He came across the room and sat in the chair opposite. 'I probably overdid the wine at supper somewhat. I need a clear head if I'm to get up early in the morning to go diving with Steve.'

  'Do you have to go diving?' queried Lucie. 'You look a bit tired.'

  Warren Martin laughed heartily. 'Me, tired? You should know me better than that. I've never allowed myself more than four hours' sleep a night and I've got along very well on it. No, I'll be rarin' to go in the morning. The diving's great on the wall at Brac. When you go deep you're in another world, you forget all your worries.' For a moment a shadow passed over his face and then he was laughing again. 'And anyway, I can't let old Steve Maddox down. He's dead keen to sample the diving on Cayman Brac and it's the last chance he'll get. The Maddoxes are going home to Houston the day after tomorrow.'

  'I'm sorry about that,' said Lucie. 'I'd have liked to know Dorothy better. She seemed a nice person. Oh well, about getting up early, you know best.'

  Her father's eyes twinkled. 'I never thought I'd hear you say that again, poppet. I thought you'd given me up as a bad job.' He paused. 'But I never stopped hoping that one day we'd make up our differences, that you'd come back. And now here you are, a poised young woman, a successful author with a brilliant career ahead of you.'

  'I hope so.' She raised crossed fingers.

  Her father took the cup of coffee she handed him and leaned back in his easy chair. 'This is like old times, isn't it? Remember how we used to sit and talk when you were on holiday from school?'

  'Yes, we did, didn't we?' He had never known the rebellion that had been gathering strength inside her then. He had been so satisfied that his word was law and that she was happy to do as he wanted. It wasn't until she left school and the clash about her wish to study art surfaced that things had gone really wrong.

  He sighed heavily now. 'I was a selfish brute, Lucie, I know that now. I've found out the hard way, but I hope it isn't too late. I can't tell you how much it means to me to have you here. You won't want to rush away again, will you?'

  'We thought—about a week, if that's OK with you. Peter has only a week's holiday owing to him, and I'm very busy working on my new book.'

  'When are you planning to get married?'

  'Oh, not yet,' Lucie said hastily. 'We've not been engaged long.'

  He nodded in a satisfied way. 'Doesn't do to rush into these things. That was the mistake I made with Stephanie. God, that was a dead loss—in more ways than one. She married me for what she could get out of me and made my life hell until I called it a day. Once she'd got a massive settlement at the time of the divorce she married a Brazilian bandleader. Yes, it was a bad time.' His face was grim as he remembered.

  'I'm sorry,' Lucie said. She was sorry—sorry for her father's loneliness, for the egotism that had made good relationships impossible. But he had changed, she was more and more certain of that.

  'All my own fault,' he said gruffly. 'I should have let you go your own way about art school. But I hated the idea of you looking like one of those scruffy art students and marching about waving banners.'

  Lucie giggled. 'I'm sure I never would. All I wanted to do was paint.'

  'Yes,' her father mused. 'I was wrong about that.

  Wrong about trying to get you and Guy Devereux together, too. I felt afterwards that if I hadn't tried so hard, if I'd left it to him to make the running, you might have made a go of it, the two of you.' He watched her closely. 'Don't you think so?'

  Lucie shook her head. 'Never! No way. Guy Devereux's the last man in the world I'd ever have wanted to marry.' She was surprised at the vehemence of her own voice. It would have been better to laugh it off now, given the new feeling of understanding between her and her father.

  Warren Martin looked thoughtful. 'You never really had time to get to know him, did you? He's a splendid chap, one of the best. And you know, he's never forgotten you. He was here the other day and he was asking me about you when he saw your picture over there.'

  There didn't seem any answer to that, so Lucie was silent. Thank heaven for Peter, she thought. If she had arrived here free and unattached her father might well have started his matchmaking ploys again.

  'Ah well, it's all water under the bridge now.' Warren Martin pulled himself to his feet. 'Bed for you, little girl, you look whacked. We shouldn't have stayed so late at The Waves' Edge, but everyone seemed to be having a good time.'

  'Oh, they were. It was a lovely party.' After Guy Devereux left Lucie had resolutely entered into the spirit of the evening. She had danced with her father, with Peter, with the men guests. She had laughed and talked and drunk far more than she usually did, but now she was suddenly so tired that her eyelids were drooping. 'Yes, bed would be a good idea.' She yawned. 'Are you coming up?'

  'Soon,' he said. 'Just one or two bits and pieces to clear up first.' He gestured towards the big rolltop desk in the corner of the room.

  Lucie's smile was affectionate. 'You'll never learn to take it easy, will you?'

  'Plenty of time to take it easy later on.' He pointed downwards significantly.

  'Don't,' she pleaded. 'You've got lots and lots of time still.'

  'Yes, of course, only a joke. Now, you go along, poppet, and have a lovely long sleep, and I'll see you when we get back from our dive tomorrow. Don't be surprised if you hear me go out again tonight—I usually take a stroll by the sea before I turn in.'

  Then he did something he hadn't done for years. He put his arms round her and kissed her. She kissed him back and felt a quick pang as she noticed the way the skin of his cheek was falling into the loose folds of age. 'Good night, Father dear, it's lovely to be here with you,' she said softly, and took herself upstairs to fall asleep almost immediately, with the swish of the waves in her ears and the feeling of contentment that comes from the knowledge that a bitter quarrel has been happily made up.

  She wakened to a light tap on the door and the sight of Blossom's wide smiling face appearing round it. 'Good morning, miss.' The maid came into the room and drew the curtains back. 'Good morning,' Lucie yawned and pulled herself up in the bed. 'Goodness, I have slept! What time is it?'

  'Twelve o'clock, Miss Martin. I'll be leaving soon—I work mornings and evenings here—and I thought you'd like breakfast before I go. I've
brought you a tray up.'

  She went to the landing and came back with a laden tray and placed it on Lucie's knees. 'There you are then, miss, I hope it's what you like. And a gentleman called about nine o'clock. He said not to wake you. He left a note for you.' Blossom fished in the capacious pocket of her overall and pulled out an envelope. 'Well, I'll be going then, miss, if there isn't anything more.'

  'No, nothing, Blossom, and thank you for bringing my breakfast. It looks lovely.' The aroma of coffee and the sight of crisp rolls and butter and a selection of preserves was making Lucie's mouth water.

  When Blossom had gone she poured out coffee and drank a whole cup before she opened Peter's note. Poor old Peter, he must have been up early. She hoped he hadn't been too bored wandering around by himself while she slept.

  She had to read the note through twice before it began to make any sense at all.

  'My dear Lucie,' Peter had scrawled, 'Forgive me, but something has come up unexpectedly, which means that I have to go back to London immediately, catching an early flight. You've made it up with your father, so my useful role here is over. I hoped you might fall for me, but if you had we'd have made love long before this, book or no book, as I think you'll agree. And I saw your face when you were dancing with Devereux last night and that told me the lot. We'll meet again as friends when you come back to London, I very much hope. Yours as always, Peter.'

  Very slowly she refolded the note and replaced it in the envelope. She drank a second cup of coffee, but her appetite had gone. Peter was right, of course, she didn't love him; all her plans had been selfish ones.

  She showered and dressed, feeling upset and guilty. But as she walked out into the sunshine and down to the edge of the crystal-clear water and felt the light breeze on her face, she began to cheer up. Peter wasn't heart-broken, he wasn't the type. He would find another girl who would really care for him and not put her own wishes and ambitions first. Really, he was well rid of her, she thought wryly.

  As for the bit about seeing her face when she was dancing with Guy Devereux—that was a joke. What Peter had taken for passion had been just that—but it had been the passion of anger, not of love. Peter could hardly have been more mistaken. If—when— they met again as friends she would tell him that, and they might even laugh about it together.

  For the best part of an hour she sat on the warm white sand at the edge of the water, hugging her knees, absently watching the black snorkel tubes bobbing up and down like cormorants, and the tiny bodies of the water-skiers, far out beyond the reef, where the colour of the sea darkened, leaning back on their ropes behind the buzzing speedboats. Until at last she noticed that she seemed to have Seven Mile Beach almost to herself and realised that everyone had gone back to their villas and condos and hotels for lunch and siesta, and that she herself was hungry.

  Realised, too, as she made her way indoors again, that her principal feeling was one of relief, and gratitude to Peter for seeing the truth about their relationship and taking matters into his own hands.

  Except for the coffee, the breakfast-tray that Blossom had prepared was untouched. Lucie made more coffee in the immaculate small kitchen, found cheese and fruit to add to the tray and carried it into the living-room. Here she made a very hearty lunch and then lay back in an easy chair in front of the open window to wait for her father's return. He had said that his appointment was for four o'clock. He hadn't said what time he expected to get back to the villa, but she was quite content to wait.

  The fan whirred gently on the ceiling and the canopy over the verandah kept the heat of the sun from the room. It was very quiet, except for the cries of a group of children playing on the sands and the lazy splash of the waves and the occasional squawk of sea-birds. Lucie closed her eyes and began to picture her next book.

  It was a coincidence that she should have thought of tropical fish. Now she had her models right here in the lagoon. There were so many of them, with such wonderful names—angelfish, butterfly fish, squirrel fish, grunts—she remembered those from the last holiday she had spent here. The colours would be a real joy to paint—yellow and blue and red and black, striped and plain. And the coral! Fabulous colours and shapes! Lucie closed her eyes and began to drift away into a dreamy state, half awake, half asleep, seeing the whole book gradually taking shape in her mind's eye.

  'Lucie!

  She started, blinking herself awake at the sound of a deep voice from behind her chair. Not her father's voice, certainly. Turning her head, she saw the tall figure of Guy Devereux standing in the doorway and felt that familiar tweak of something like fear in the pit of her stomach.

  'I apologise for walking in like this, there was no answer to my knock.' He wasn't smiling, and his thick-lashed blue eyes were fixed on her face in the way that always made her feel weak at the knees.

  She jumped up, putting a hand on the back of the chair to steady herself. 'You've come to see my father? I'm afraid he's not here at present.'

  'I see. When he didn't turn up for our appointment I thought perhaps there'd been a misunderstanding, so I came along to see if we could have our consultation here.'

  'I'm sorry,' she said flatly, 'I can't help you.'

  'Do you know where he is?' He shot the question at her as if—she thought resentfully—she were in the witness box.

  'He flew to Cayman Brac early this morning with friends, that's all I can tell you.' Now go away, she willed him. Just turn round and walk out.

  But he didn't move, and they stood there looking at each other in silence across the width of the room. This is ridiculous, Lucie thought, I can't very well make him go, and I'm certainly not going to ask him to stay.

  The sound of the telephone cut through the silence. Lucie went across to the desk in the corner of the room and lifted the receiver, her back to Guy Devereux. Surely he would take the hint now and go away. He could hardly stay and listen to what must be a personal conversation.

  'Hello—hello—is that Miss Lucie Martin?'

  'Yes,' said Lucie, not recognising the voice.

  'This is Steven Maddox, ringing from Cayman Brac. Miss Martin, is your fiancé there with you?'

  'No. No, he isn't here at present.' What on earth did Steve Maddox want with Peter?

  'Well, is there anyone else with you? Are you alone?'

  She glanced over her shoulder. Guy Devereux was still standing in the doorway, damn him. 'No, I'm not alone. Mr Devereux is here at the moment,' she said coldly. 'Is there a message from my father? Can I—?'

  'Would you ask Mr Devereux to speak to me?'

  Suddenly she was aware of the strain in Steve Maddox's voice. Something was wrong. Dumbly she held out the receiver to Guy and he came quickly across the room and took it from her.

  She sank back into her chair, watching his face as he listened, trying to make out words from the other end of the line, but it was merely a faint unrecognisable mutter.

  Finally Guy said in an odd voice, 'Yes, I'll deal with it. I'll be here until you get back.'

  He replaced the receiver and came and stood in front of Lucie's chair, looking down at her silently.

  Her fingers dug into the soft velvet arms of the chair. 'Something's wrong,' she said. 'My father?'

  He pulled up a small chair and sat down beside her so that their heads were on a level. 'There's been a diving accident,' he said.

  She didn't have to ask, she saw it in his face, but she said flatly, 'He's dead, isn't he?'

  'I'm sorry,' Guy said, and leaned towards her, covering her hand strongly with his.

  Afterwards she wondered why she didn't resent his touch and pull away. But at the time all she thought was how glad she was that she had come, that she and her father had had this little time to heal their wounds together.

  She shivered, and Guy got up and poured out a glass of brandy. 'Thank you,' she said. 'I just feel— cold.'

  He nodded. 'I know. Shock.' He went away and came back with her white woollen jacket and draped it over her shoulders. Sh
e clutched it round her with one hand and held the brandy with the other. Her teeth chattered against the glass as she drank.

  She coughed as the spirit stung her throat, and he took the empty glass from her and said, 'Stick your arms in the sleeves.' One at a time he lifted her arms and eased them into the sleeves of the jacket, as if she were a three-year-old.

  She said, 'I'm all right now. What did Steve say?'

  'Not very much. He was diving with your father and he checked all the gear carefully before they went down, as diving-partners always do. He thinks—at a guess—that it must have been a sudden thing, a stroke perhaps, or a coronary.'

  She nodded and they were both silent. Then she said, 'What must I do?'

  'Where's your fiancé? He'll take over for you, I'm sure.'

  She shook her head. 'Peter's gone. He had to go back to England. He flew out early this morning.' She passed a hand distractedly across her forehead. 'James—I must get James.'

  'James?'

  'My brother. I must let him know what's happened.'

  'Of course. You can contact him?'

  'Yes, he's in Birmingham.' She stopped. 'Oh heavens, no, he isn't!' Suddenly everything seemed impossibly difficult. 'He's in Europe—he said behind the Iron Curtain, but I don't know where. I'll have to telephone his office in Birmingham and see if they can get in touch with him.'

  There was a moment or two of silence, then Guy said, 'Look, suppose you leave everything to me— until your brother can get here? For a start I'll phone his Birmingham office if you'll give me the number.'

  She bit her lip. She had thought this man hard, unfeeling, and here he was offering help just when she most needed it. 'Thank you,' she said, 'you're being very kind.' She gave him the number and he jotted it down in a notebook. She had a stupid idea of apologising to him for being so rude last night, but before she could think of any way of doing it there was a knock on the door and Dorothy Maddox came into the room, her plump pink face the picture of sympathy under its crown of wavy white hair.