Thunder On The Reef
Sara Craven

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Endpage

CHAPTER ONE

SHE knew, of course, that she was being watched.

In normal circumstances, it wouldn’t have bothered her too much. She was accustomed, even hardened, to the effect her spectacular looks had on people. She’d even learned to live with the flash of cameras when she appeared in public, and the resulting pictures in glossy magazines. ‘Sir Edwin Gilmour’s lovely daughter.’

Macy’s mouth curled in self-derision. At one time that had seemed the only identity she possessed. But not any more. She was someone in her own right now, with a life—a career that had been almost a salvation.

And that was why she was here on Fortuna—to prove to Cameron and her father and the rest of the board at Gilmour-Denys that the nursery slopes of property negotiation were behind her, and she could handle deals even as tricky as the purchase of Thunder Cay promised to be.

And the last thing she needed was to be recognised at this stage in the game, she thought with irritation as she sipped her iced tea, and tried to ignore the prolonged and intense scrutiny she could feel being directed at her from the other side of Fortuna Town’s bustling Main Street.

Because any negotiations for Thunder Cay were to be strictly confidential. The unexpected tip-off Sir Edwin had received had made that clear. Any hint that the island might be on the market would bring other types of shark to those normally inhabiting Bahamian waters thronging around.

‘And we have to be first,’ he’d said with intensity. ‘Our syndicate wants that land, and I—I need this deal, Macy.’ For a moment there was a note of something like desperation in his voice. She’d stiffened in alarm, her eyes searching his face, questions teeming in her brain, but, after a moment, he’d continued more calmly, ‘I’d go myself, of course, but if I was spotted it would give the game away immediately. So it’s all down to you, my dear.’

She’d said, ‘No problem,’ with more confidence than she actually possessed.

The elaborate model for the hotel and leisure complex which would turn Thunder Cay into the Bahamas’ latest and most expensive resort had graced the penthouse office at Gilmour-Denys for a long time now.

Privately, Macy had termed it the Impossible Dream, because Boniface Hilliard, the reclusive millionaire who owned Thunder Cay, had always adamantly refused to sell. She’d been convinced he never would.

Yet in the last week, a whisper had reached Edwin Gilmour’s ears from some grapevine that the old man, a childless widower, was said to be ill, and prepared to discuss the disposal of some of his assets.

Thunder Cay wouldn’t be the only item up for grabs, Macy thought. There was the fortune he’d made from investment worldwide, and the mansion Trade Winds, overlooking the best beach on the south side of Fortuna itself.

But the bulk of his massive estate wasn’t her concern. All she had to do was convince his lawyer, Mr Ambrose Delancey, to recommend Gilmour-Denys’s bid for Thunder Cay to his client. For someone apparently prepared to negotiate, Mr Delancey had proved annoyingly elusive. She’d spent three fruitless days so far, trying to make an appointment with him.

Ostensibly, of course, she was a tourist, booked into Fortuna’s main hotel, using her mother’s maiden name Landin as an added precaution. She’d thought she’d be safe enough. Fortuna, after all, wasn’t one of the most fashionable islands of the Bahamas. It didn’t appeal to the jet-setters and generally well-heeled who thronged to New Providence and Paradise Islands, and there were no paparazzi eagerly face-spotting around the bars and cafes on Main Street, or the bustling harbour area.

On the whole, it was a man’s resort, a haven for the big-game fishermen who came to chase the bluefin tuna, the sailfish and the blue marlin by day, and enjoy a nightlife more lively than sophisticated when darkness fell.

Accordingly, Macy had deliberately played down her appearance, choosing a plain navy shift dress, with matching low-heeled leather sandals, as well as concealing her cloud of mahogany-coloured hair under a bandanna, and masking her slanting green eyes behind an oversized pair of sunglasses.

And yet, incredibly, it seemed she’d still been recognised. Damn and blast it, she thought with exasperation.

She ventured a swift, sideways glance across the busy road, searching between the slow-moving hurly burly of carts, street-vendors’ bicycles, and luridly hued taxis.

She saw him at once, lounging against an ancient pick-up, its rust spots held together by a virulent yellow paint-job. He was tall, with a shaggy mane of curling dark hair, the upper part of his face concealed behind sunglasses as unrevealing as her own, the lower hidden by designer stubble. But even from a distance she could see his teeth gleam in a smile of totally cynical appraisal.

The rest of him, Macy noted, bristling at the implications of that unashamed grin, was bronze skin interrupted by a sleeveless denim waist-coat, and matching trousers raggedly cut off at mid-thigh.

He was as disreputable as his tatty vehicle, she thought with contempt, averting her gaze. A later-day Bahamian pirate turned beach-bum. She supposed that, as a woman sitting alone at a pavement table, she was obvious prey for his kind. Nevertheless that prolonged, oddly intense observation made her feel uneasy—restless, almost unnerved.

Idiot, she thought, glancing at her watch, then signalling to the waiter, as she finished her tea. She was out of here anyway. It was time to find her way to the office of Ambrose Delancey, attorney-at-law.

As the bill was placed in front of her, a shadow fell across the table. A tanned hand dropped a scatter of loose change on to the folded slip in the saucer.

And a voice she’d never thought to hear again said laconically, ‘Have this on me, Macy.’

Shock mingled with disbelief paralysed her. Turned her dumb. The traffic noises, and the buzz of laughter and chatter around her faded into dizzying silence. All she could hear, echoing and re-echoing in her brain, were those few drawled words.

Turning her ordered world to sudden reeling chaos.

Her nails became claws, curling into the palms of her hands, scoring the soft flesh. But, as they did so, bringing her back to stark reality.

No wonder, she thought, swallowing back sudden nausea. No wonder she’d felt uneasy. Some undreamed of sixth sense must have been warning her.

She turned her head slowly. Looked up, with an assumption of calm enquiry.

He was standing over her, close enough to touch. She had to force herself not to shrink away. But it was imperative not to allow him any kind of ascendancy.

She said coolly, ‘Ross. What a surprise.’

‘You could say that.’ He sounded faintly amused, as he hitched a chair forward. ‘Mind if I join you?’

His presumption galled her. She said between her teeth, ‘Yes, I bloody well do mind,’ and he laughed.

‘Now that’s far more in character.’ He looked her over, a tingling top to toe assessment that missed nothing on the way, and made her cringe inside with anger, and a kind of unwilling excitement. ‘You’re looking good.’

‘I wish I could say the same for you,’ she said tersely. ‘I didn’t recognise you.’

‘Now I,’ he said softly, ‘would have known you anywhere. The beautiful Macy Gilmour. I hope I’ve got the label right.’

‘Absolutely.’ She pushed the coins back at him. ‘Save these for your next meal.’

‘Always the soul of generosity.’

‘A family trait,’ she said. ‘But maybe you don’t remember.’

‘By no means. I recall all the details of every transaction between us, Macy, my sweet, sexual as well as financial.’ His voice lingered on the words, deliberately creating all kinds of intimate images. Deliberately winding her up, she realised with vexation, feeling swift blood rise unbidden in her face,

‘Fortunately, I don’t,’ she said crisply, trying to take control of herself, and the situation. She couldn’t believe what was happening to her. For four years, she’d striven to dismiss Ross Bannister from her mind as completely as he’d disappeared from her life. Of all the people in the world, she thought despairingly. Of all the places in the world. And of all the lousy, stinking, rotten luck.

‘So, what brings you to Fortuna?’ Ross asked lazily, sitting down in spite of her denial.

‘I’m on holiday,’ she returned shortly. To her annoyance, the waiter whisked away the bill and the money before she could stop him, lifting a hand to Ross in obvious camaraderie as he did so.

Above the enigmatic shades, his brows lifted sardonically. ‘Are all the usual flesh pots fully booked? I wouldn’t have thought this was your scene, although there are some good beaches.’ He paused. ‘I won’t tell you to watch out for sharks. You’ve been mixing with them all your life.’

‘You,’ she said, ‘were the first.’ She reached for her bag, and got to her feet.

‘Going so soon?’ Ross rose too, with a courtesy so exaggerated it bordered on insolence. ‘But our reunion has hardly begun.’

‘Wrong,’ she said. Her mouth was dry, her heart was hammering. ‘It never started.’

He stroked his chin meditatively. ‘I hope the beard hasn’t put you off.’

‘By no means,’ she returned. ‘It looks wholly appropriate. Wasn’t there a pirate called Blackbeard?’

‘Indeed there was,’ he said. ‘He used to operate round Nassau way.’

‘What a pity you don’t do the same.’

‘I prefer to work on a smaller scale.’ She’d forgotten his smile. Forgotten too how heart-stoppingly handsome he was, in spite of the scruffy hair and stubble. In fact, there was a lot about Ross Bannister she’d have preferred to dismiss permanently from her mind.

‘You’re not very relaxed for a holidaymaker,’ he commented. ‘You seem constantly on edge.’

‘Do you wonder?’ She paused. ‘May I be frank?’

‘You always were,’ he murmured.

‘Thank you.’ She faced him squarely, chin up. ‘The fact is, Ross, I’d hoped you were out of my life forever. Meeting you again is like the worst kind of bad dream.’

‘Well, that is being frank. Unfortunately for you, it could also be a recurring dream,’ he said. ‘This is only a small island. We could bump into each other quite regularly.’

‘No.’ She said it so loudly and vehemently that people at neighbouring tables looked at them curiously.

‘Alternatively,’ Ross went on imperturbably, ‘you could always ask your hotel for a transfer to another island.’

If the choice were hers, that was exactly what she’d be doing, Macy thought angrily. Only she couldn’t cut and run. Not yet. She had business to attend to. An important deal to get off the ground. Her personal emotions couldn’t be allowed to interfere with that.

She said coolly, ‘Using the excuse that I’d been frightened by a rat, I suppose. But, no, I don’t think so. I like it here.’ She paused. ‘How much, this time, Ross, to get you out of my life?’

He said softly, ‘Forget it, Macy. There wouldn’t be room for all the noughts on the cheque.’ He slanted a brief smile at her. ‘See you around,’ he added, and walked away.

* * *

Macy walked too, back up the street, oblivious to the jostling of other pedestrians, as she stared unseeingly ahead of her. Her head was whirling, her thoughts going crazy.

It had been four long years since Ross Bannister had walked out on her. Four years in which to heal herself, and rebuild her shattered self-esteem. Find a new identity.

She thought she’d succeeded. But his sudden reappearance, just when she needed it least, had shaken her world to its foundations.

For the first time, she realised just how much her hard-won security and confidence depended on never being reminded of Ross. Certainly of never seeing him again.

Yet, like some evil genius, here he was.

Under the laws of probability, she wondered just what the chances were of them bumping into each other like this. Probably a million to one. It had to be the most appalling coincidence of the decade.

She cursed herself silently for not staying safely in the confines of the hotel until it was time to go to Mr Delancey’s office. If she hadn’t taken time out to explore, shop-gaze and have a drink at that particular pavement bar, Ross might never have seen her.

She was surprised that he’d recognised her at all. She wasn’t the girl he’d left behind four years before. And she was astonished that, after all that had passed between them, he should want to make contact with her again, however fleetingly.

He could have no conscience, she thought bitterly. No sense of shame.

And there was no guarantee this was the only time they’d run into each other.

‘This is only a small island...’

Had she imagined the note of warning in his voice? She didn’t think so.

She felt sick again. She could always call her father and ask his advice. Except that she knew what he’d say. He’d summon her back instantly, and hand the Thunder Cay negotiations to someone else.

And she didn’t want that. She’d fought hard for her place on the Gilmour-Denys team. At first work had been a form of therapy in the wake of Ross’s desertion. Lately, she’d become involved for the sake of the job itself.

Among other things, she’d taken over the administration of the charitable trusts left by her wealthy American mother. The bulk of Kathryn Landin’s considerable estate, bequeathed to Macy personally, would come to her in four years’ time, on her twenty-fifth birthday.

Up to now, her father had acted as her trustee and adviser, while she’d merely been a figurehead, following his direction. She’d gathered, wryly, that that was how he thought matters should continue.

But she had other ideas. She planned to manage the Landin bequest herself, alongside her career at Gilmour-Denys. She had no intention of being treated as a pretty ornament, to be produced at dinner parties and other social events. She had a sharp business acumen like her mother’s before her, and no emotional shock, however acute, was going to throw her off balance. She couldn’t afford to get hysterical just because an ex-lover had crossed her path.

But not just an ex-lover, said a sly voice in her head. Ross was your first, and only lover. The one you fell so hard for that you gave him your whole life.

Only that wasn’t what Ross wanted at all, she thought, inner pain slashing at her. He’d had very different plans for the future.

Don’t look back, she adjured herself. Look forward. Concentrate on the job in hand. Make the deal, and get out as fast as you can. The fact that you’ve seen him doesn’t have to affect your plans at all.

As she turned to hail a passing taxi, painted like a mauve and white zebra, she found the image of Ross, tanned and unkempt in his raggy denims, disturbingly entrenched in her mind. Looking, she thought, exactly like the drifter and layabout her father had accused him of being.

She supposed she should be glad her father had been right about him all along. At the same time, she couldn’t help wondering exactly what Ross had done with all that money.

The money her father had paid him to get out of her life forever.

* * *

Ambrose Delancey’s law offices were situated on the first floor of a pleasant white-painted building, in a square of similar buildings.

In the middle of the square was a fountain, surrounded by flower-beds, and surmounted by a statue of a man dressed in the elaborate style of the seventeenth century. A plaque announced that this was Bevis Hilliard, Fortuna’s first governor.

As a family, the Hilliards had clearly enjoyed power here from the first. The sale of Thunder Cay was the first chink in the wall of autocracy they’d built around themselves. A tacit acknowledgement, perhaps, that Boniface Hilliard was the last of his name.

There was a certain sadness about that, Macy thought, as she went into the office building.

She found herself in a small reception area, confronted by a girl with a smile as wide as the sky.

‘My name’s Landin,’ she introduced herself. ‘And I have an appointment with Mr Delancey.’

‘He’s expecting you, Miz Landin.’ The girl lifted a phone and spoke softly into it. ‘Will you take a seat for just one minute. May I get you some coffee, or a cold drink?’

Macy declined politely. She was feeling frankly nervous, and took several deep breaths to restore her equilibrium.

Then a buzzer sounded sharply, and she was shown through a door at the rear of the room into a large office. One wall was mostly window, shielded against the worst of the sun by slatted blinds. Two of the other walls were lined in books, and a display of green plants gave an impression of coolness as well as discreetly masking another door, presumably leading to further offices.

Ambrose Delancey was a tall black man, impeccably clad in a lightweight cream suit. He greeted Macy with reserved friendliness and a firm handshake.

‘What can I do for you, Miss Landin?’ he asked, offering her a black leather chair in front of his imposing desk.

‘I hope you can open negotiations for the sale of Thunder Cay to Gilmour-Denys,’ Macy returned coolly and crisply. ‘You’ve seen a copy of our proposal, and had time to consider it. We’d now like to hear your client’s response.’

Mr Delancey smiled reluctantly. ‘You don’t waste any time. But this is Fortuna, Miss Landin, and we take things at a slower pace here.’

‘So I’ve noticed,’ Macy said drily.

‘I’m not saying my client isn’t interested in your offer,’ Mr Delancey went on. ‘But there are certain—formalities he insists on, before any serious discussion takes place.’

‘What kind of formalities?’

He toyed absently with a pen. ‘The fact is, Miss Landin, Mr Hilliard wishes to meet you.’

‘To meet me?’ Macy was taken aback. ‘Why should he want that—at this stage?’

He shrugged. ‘Maybe he wants to assess the calibre of your company from you as its representative.’ He let that sink in, then continued, ‘I take it you have no objection?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘If that’s what it takes. Will you arrange a further meeting here?’

He shook his head. ‘Mr Hilliard’s state of health doesn’t permit that, so the interview will be at Trade Winds. I’ll contact you at your hotel as soon as the appointment’s been made. I trust that’s convenient.’

‘Perfectly,’ Macy returned. It seemed to her that Mr Delancey’s gaze had strayed a couple of times towards the door in the corner, and that she’d heard vague sounds of movement from behind it. Another client, she surmised, growing restive.

She got to her feet. ‘I realise how busy you are,’ she said pointedly. ‘I’ll wait to hear from you.’

Outside, in the baking afternoon heat, she drew a deep, shaky breath. What did they say about the best laid plans?

It seemed that, for good or ill, she was stuck here indefinitely.

She would have to wait with as much patience as she could muster for her summons to Trade Winds. Play the game on Fortuna terms. She wasn’t enamoured of the idea of being inspected by Boniface Hilliard, but there was no point in objecting. Softly, softly was the only approach.

Under different circumstances, of course, she could have shrugged off the inconvenience, even enjoyed her enforced break, especially as this was her first time in the Bahamas.

If, that was, it weren’t for Ross...

His presence on Fortuna made all the difference, of course. That was why she was so on edge, she thought.

‘This is only a small island.’ That was what he’d said. And ‘See you around.’

Macy tasted blood suddenly, and realised she had sunk her teeth deep into her bottom lip.

‘Not,’ she said under her breath, staring up at the merciless blue of the sky, ‘not if I see him first.’

CHAPTER TWO

MACY still felt restive as she showered and changed for dinner that evening.

She put on white silk trousers and a matching sleeveless, low-necked top, defining her slender waist with a favourite belt of broad silver links. Her hair she pinned up into a loose coil, and she hung silver hoops in her ears.

She looked like the ideal tourist, anticipating an evening of leisure and pleasure, she thought, grimacing at her reflection before turning away.

She’d spent a quiet afternoon in a sheltered corner of the hotel gardens, making herself think coolly and rationally about the best course to follow when she came face to face with Boniface Hilliard. How to make the best impression.

But in spite of everything, her thoughts kept turning compulsively back to Ross, although she knew she was a fool and worse than a fool to let him impinge even marginally on her consciousness.

She didn’t mention his presence when she left a message on her father’s answering machine about the latest development in the negotiations.

What Sir Edwin didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, she told herself defensively. She could imagine only too well how he’d react if he discovered Ross was within a thousand miles of her again.

But then they’d been oil and water from their first meeting, she recalled with an inward shudder. On almost every issue—personal, professional, and political—they’d been on opposite sides of a steadily widening gulf, with her, trapped between them, suspended over some bitter, bottomless pit of divided loyalties.

But she’d still hoped, with absurd optimism, that they might learn to get along for her sake.

But then I was very naïve in those days, she thought in self-derision. My father, of course, saw through Ross right away—realised he was simply on the make. Why couldn’t I have believed him instead of finding out the hard way?

In the thatched roof bar, adjoining the hotel dining-room, she chose a table overlooking the sea, and ordered a Margarita while she studied the menu.

Once again she knew she was the object of scrutiny, but this time no mental alarms were being sounded. She was simply encountering the usual speculative, semi-lustful attention that women on their own tended to be subjected to. And apart from closeting herself in her bungalow, or wearing a bag over her head, there wasn’t a great deal she could do except ignore it, and hope the hint would be taken.

The menu was heavily weighted towards seafood. Macy had noticed the huge conch shell displayed at the dining-room entrance, and conch was being offered cracked, frittered, as a salad or in the ever-popular chowder, along with grouper, snapper, and stewfish.

I wish I were going to be here to sample them all, she thought, wondering at the same time how long she was going to be kept dangling.

After due deliberation, she decided on asparagus tips in chive butter, baked in a pastry case, followed by lobster tails grilled with garlic and lemon juice, and accompanied by a bottle of crisp white wine.

As the waiter left, Macy realised uncomfortably that there’d been no relaxation in the attention she was attracting. In particular, she was being fixedly stared at by an overweight man with thinning red hair and the loudest sports shirt in the Western hemisphere, who was sitting at the bar with three male companions of similar age and build.

Macy delved into her bag and produced a paperback novel, using it as a barrier as she sipped her drink. Usually it worked. But not always, apparently.

An ingratiating voice said, ‘All on your own, sweetheart.’

The colours in his shirt were even more dazzling close at hand.

‘Yes.’ Macy kept her voice cool and level. ‘And that’s how I prefer it, thanks.’

‘Aw, come on, be friendly.’ The man put another Margarita down in front of her, then deposited himself in the opposite chair with his own beer. ‘Strangers in a foreign land, and all that.’

Macy’s lips tightened. She said quietly, with glacial emphasis, ‘Would you rejoin your friends, please? I didn’t ask you to join me, and I don’t want another drink.’

‘I’m under orders to bring you back with me,’ her unwanted companion said with a leer. ‘We’d like to buy you dinner, a few drinks, a few laughs—know what I mean?’

Only too well, she thought, her heart sinking.

Aloud, she said, ‘You’re beginning to annoy me. Would you please leave me alone?’

‘What’s the matter. Think we can’t afford you?’ He showed her a wallet, stuffed to the gills with Bahamian dollars.

‘Very impressive.’ Macy lifted her chin. ‘Now go away before I call the manager.’

He snorted. ‘Call who you like, girlie, and let them draw their own conclusions. Lookers like you don’t hang around on their own in bars for no reason.’

‘But the lady’s not by herself.’ Another voice, icily incisive, and all-too-familiar, cut into the confrontation. ‘She’s with me, and we’d both like you to leave.’

Macy’s lips parted in a gasp of astonished outrage as Ross bent, lightly brushing his lips across her cheek.

‘I’m sorry I’m late.’ His eyes smiled into hers, challenging her to deny him. ‘Has it caused problems?’

‘Nothing I couldn’t handle,’ she returned tautly, glaring back at him. This time her warning antennae had let her down badly.

‘So I noticed.’ He turned to Loud Shirt who was already making himself scarce, apologising volubly for any misunderstanding.

Ross watched him go, hands on hips, then turned back to Macy, who was struggling to regain her self-command. She could still feel the brief touch of his lips on her face as if she’d been branded there.

How dared he take advantage of the situation like that? she thought angrily. But she couldn’t tax him with it. The last thing she wanted Ross to know was that he still had the power to disturb her. Play it cool, she adjured herself, her stomach churning.

He was hardly recognisable as the man who’d accosted her that morning, she realised dazedly. The stubble had gone, his hair had been trimmed slightly, and instead of ragged denims he was wearing faultlessly cut grey trousers, fitting closely to his long legs, and a short sleeved, open-necked shirt, striped in charcoal and white. There was a thin platinum watch on his left wrist, too. He looked a combination of toughness and affluence.

Ross turned back to her. ‘You shouldn’t have any more trouble there,’ he said.

‘No,’ she acknowledged stiffly, adding a reluctant, ‘Thank you.’

His grin was sardonic. ‘I bet that hurt.’

She ignored that. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘This is a good restaurant. I like to eat.’

‘Oh.’ There was no real answer to that, she thought, nonplussed.

‘Also,’ he went on softly. ‘We have some unfinished business to conduct.’ He pulled up a chair and sat down, signalling the waiter to bring him a Bourbon and water.

Macy’s heart began to thud apprehensively. She said, ‘Rather an expensive place to do business, surely.’

‘Oh, I’ve been able to afford something better than hamburger joints for some time.’ The cool aquamarine gaze flickered over her, lingering openly and shamelessly on the thrust of her breasts against the white silk top.

Macey felt the breath catch in her throat, and the tremor of an almost forgotten weakness invade her stomach. She struggled to keep her voice level. ‘Of course. I was forgetting.’

‘No, darling,’ he said gently. ‘You haven’t forgotten a thing, and neither, I promise you, have I.’

Her uneasiness increased, and she was thankful to see the waiter approaching.

‘Your table’s ready, Miz Landin.’ He turned to her companion. ‘How yo’ doin’, Mister Ross. You dinin’ here tonight?’

‘Yes, with Miss—er—Landin here.’ Ross’s oblique glance dared her to object. ‘Just a steak, George, please. Medium rare with a side salad.’

When George had gone, Macy said thickly, ‘You have one hell of a nerve.’

‘Since childhood,’ he agreed. ‘But as I told your would-be admirer we were together, we can hardly eat in isolation.’ He paused. ‘Unless you’d prefer to join his party, after all. They look like a fun-loving bunch.’

Macy gave him a fulminating glance, and stalked ahead of him into the restaurant.

Their table, to her annoyance, was in a secluded corner, lit by a small lamp under a pretty glass shade. The centrepiece was orchids, cream edged with flame, swimming in a shallow bowl. Macy sat down, her lips compressed at the overt romanticism of it all, aware, also, of the resentful gaze of Loud Shirt and his friends a few tables away.

At least she’d been spared any further harassment from that quarter, she thought, but at what cost to her own peace of mind? Instead she had to dine with a man who’d rejected her love, and whose mercenary heartlessness was almost beyond belief.

‘So, why Miss Landin?’ Ross asked, as he took his seat. ‘Are you travelling incognito for some reason?’

Macy gave a shrug, trying to sound casual. ‘Not particularly. I like to use my mother’s name sometimes.’

‘I’m sure you do.’ There was an odd note in his voice which she found it impossible to decipher. But that was the least of her problems, she thought grimly.

Her appetite seemed to have deserted her, but to cancel dinner would give Ross some kind of psychological advantage, which she couldn’t allow. She had to convince him—and herself too—that his presence was a matter of indifference to her.

So, she’d eat this meal if it choked her. As well it might.

‘The chef’s name is Clyde,’ Ross said, watching her push her first course round her plate. ‘He’s a sensitive soul, and it’ll spoil his night if you send one of his specialities back to the kitchen.’

‘Oh.’ She gave him a hostile look and dug her fork into the puff pastry crust. To her annoyance, it melted in the mouth, and the asparagus tips were ambrosial.

‘I’d say this holiday of yours is long overdue,’ he went on. ‘You have that indoor look—very unhealthy.’

‘As a matter of fact,’ she offered curtly, ‘I’ve never felt better in my life.’

‘Then you should be extremely worried.’ Ross poured the wine. ‘For one thing, you’re like a cat on hot bricks.’

‘Is it really any wonder?’ She put down her fork. ‘I thought I’d made it clear you’re the last person in the world I ever wanted to meet again.’

He lifted his glass in a mock toast. ‘I apologise for my inconvenient existence.’ He paused, his glance speculative. ‘You sound incredibly bitter, Macy. They’re not all bad memories, surely.’

‘Not for you, perhaps,’ she snapped.

‘Or for you, my lovely hypocrite. ‘ A reminiscent smile played about the corners of his mouth. ‘We had our moments.’ He leaned forward, his eyes holding hers across the table. ‘Shall I jog your memory?’

‘No,’ she said hoarsely. ‘I don’t...’

‘That sexy French film we went to see,’ he said softly. ‘My God, you were so turned on, you practically dragged me back to the flat. We were undressing each other on the way up the stairs.’

‘Stop it,’ she hissed desperately.

‘And then there was that evening at the bistro round the corner,’ he went on relentlessly. ‘When the guitarist played all your favourite love songs, and a girl came round, selling roses.’

He touched the edge of one of the orchids with the tip of his finger.

She remembered the rose he’d bought her, crimson and long-stemmed. In bed that night he’d teased her nipples with its dusky velvet petals...

Her throat closed.

‘Enjoy your trip down memory lane,’ she said harshly. ‘It does nothing for me.’

‘No?’ His smiling gaze shifted again to the revealing outline of her breasts. ‘You don’t seem entirely unmoved, darling.’

‘You disgust me.’ She pushed her plate away.

‘Then I’ll try and control my baser urges for the rest of the meal, at least.’

He paused. ‘So—why Fortuna, Macy?’

Her heart jumped. She had not, she thought grimly, been expecting that. She swallowed. ‘Why not? I’ve been working very hard. As you say, I needed a break.’

‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘But unless you’re into big-game fishing, the island hasn’t a great deal to offer.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that.’ I’m after a different kind of game, she added silently. Mr Boniface Hilliard himself. She shrugged, allowing herself a negligent smile. ‘But maybe I’m just easily pleased.’

‘No,’ he said gently. ‘I don’t think so.’ He sat back giving her a reflective look over the top of his glass. ‘You haven’t told me yet what you do to earn this arduous crust of yours.’

Macy hesitated. The last thing she wanted was to mention her connection with Gilmour-Denys.

‘I’m involved with the Landin Trust now,’ she returned neutrally.

‘A heavy responsibility, indeed.’ His tone was ironic.

‘As you, with your fondness for money, would be the first to appreciate,’ she bit back, and saw his mouth tighten.

‘You’ve always found cash the answer to everything yourself, my pet. Let’s not forget that.’ He paused. ‘I hope it hasn’t been your only means of fulfilment over the past years.’

‘By no means,’ she said sharply, and he lifted an eyebrow.

‘Why, Macy,’ he drawled. ‘Are you telling me you’ve been unfaithful?’

‘I’m telling you nothing,’ she said.

‘You’re denying my right to know?’

‘You have no rights where I’m concerned,’ she said. ‘Not any more.’

He looked at her bare hands, clenched in front of her on the table. ‘You seem to be overlooking one salient fact, darling,’ he said. ‘Whether we like it or not, you and I are still legally married.’

‘That is a mere formality.’ Her voice shook. ‘Which I intend to dispense with shortly.

Ross was silent for a moment, toying with the stem of his wine glass. Then he said mildly, ‘Do I take it you’re here to ask me for a divorce?’

‘I’m not here to ask you for anything,’ she said. ‘I don’t need to. In another year, I can end our so-called marriage, even without your consent.’

‘How convenient,’ he said. ‘I’m only surprised you didn’t set the ball rolling long ago.’

She looked down at the table. ‘You forget, I didn’t know where to find you.’

‘Of course not. But I imagine Daddy’s tracker dogs would have managed it without too much trouble.’

Macy moved quickly, restively before she could stop herself, and his voice sharpened. ‘Unless, of course, you still haven’t told him. My God, Macy, is that it?’ His laugh held disbelief. ‘You’ve kept our marriage a secret all this time?’

She said tightly, ‘Who wants to make public a serious error of judgement?’

‘Touché,’ he said drily. ‘Clearly your next choice will be based on sound common sense and good fiscal principles. I wonder if I can make an educated guess at his identity.’

‘There’s no one. I simply want my legal freedom.’

His brows lifted sceptically. ‘You mean Daddy hasn’t been able to persuade you to make Cameron Denys a happy man at last. You amaze me.’

Macy bit her lip angrily, aware of a faint betraying flush. Cameron’s unswerving pursuit of her, with her father’s encouragement, had been a bone of contention between them particularly in the last year. ‘Don’t be snide about my father,’ she said curtly. ‘He managed to see through you without much difficulty.’

‘And I found him equally transparent. Not that it matters. I never gave a damn what he thought of me. The only opinion I cared about was yours.’

For a moment, she was very still.

She said, ‘That must be one of the most cynical statements I’ve ever heard. You—walked out of my life with a golden handshake of one hundred and fifty thousand pounds. That’s how much my—opinion mattered. That’s how much I was worth to you.’

Ross’s mouth twisted. ‘It seemed a pre-emptive offer,’ he said, ‘leaving no room for negotiation. You have to want to be rid of someone very badly to put up that kind of money.’

‘Or have a fairly accurate assessment of their level of greed.’ She waited for an explosion of anger, but none came.

Ross merely shrugged. ‘They say everyone has their price,’ he countered. ‘Why argue?’

For me, she thought in sudden, swift agony. You could have argued for me—fought for me—told my father to go to hell and take his insulting offer with him.

But you didn’t, Ross—you didn’t...

Aloud, ‘Why indeed?’ she said calmly. ‘As a matter of interest, would you have gone for less?’

‘Probably, in the circumstances.’ He sounded almost casual, she realised, pain slashing at her. ‘I hope you’re not expecting a refund, Macy.’

‘Certainly not,’ she retorted briskly. ‘It was money well spent.’

‘I’m glad you think so,’ he said evenly, signalling to the hovering George to bring their main courses. ‘If they ever have to open you up for surgery, darling, they’ll find a bank statement where your heart should be—and showing a credit balance.’

Macy digested that, smarting, while they were being served.

‘So—what did you do with your own credit balance?’ she asked, once they were alone again. ‘Waste it—gamble it away?’

He was silent for a moment. ‘I made good use of it,’ he said at last.

‘To further your career as a photographer?’ She despised herself for asking.

‘No.’

The flat monosyllable was uninviting, but she persisted. ‘Do you still take photographs?’

‘Yes, but I’m commissioned these days. Thanks to you, I don’t need to pursue the precarious freelance existence your father objected to so strenuously.’ He drank some wine. ‘I’m obliged to you.’

‘Don’t be.’ Her bitten lip felt raw. ‘All the same, I’m glad for you.’

‘Are you?’ He sounded sceptical. ‘Why?’

She put down her fork. ‘Because you were good,’ she said slowly. ‘I always thought you’d be in some wilderness, making a record of it before the bulldozers moved in and spoiled it. Just as—you always planned.’

She’d nearly said ‘we’, she realised with a pang. Because it had been a mutual and cherished dream, or so she’d thought. One of the many, she reminded herself, that had died when he’d walked out on her.

‘How flattering,’ he said softly, ‘that you do remember some things at least.’

‘Not really.’ The last lobster tail tasted like poisoned leather. ‘Someone who hurt me as you did isn’t easy to forget—however hard one may try.’

‘And I’m sure one has tried,’ he said courteously. His voice hardened. ‘Just what the hell did you expect, Macy? That I’d turn down the money? God knows it was an offer no one could refuse. Wasn’t that the whole point of it?’ He paused. ‘Or were you just testing me?’

She shook her head. ‘No, it was quite genuine. You’d have been a fool to walk away from it.’

A fool for love, as I was. I trusted you, Ross. Even when my father told me you were for sale, I didn’t believe him. Even when I saw the evidence with my own eyes...

‘That’s what I thought,’ he said. His smile didn’t reach his eyes, as he ran a hand over his chin. ‘When you saw me earlier, you thought I was down-and-out, looking for handouts, didn’t you, my sweet? Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m doing fine, which is why I’m so glad to be able to buy you dinner tonight. As a small thank-you for showing me the way—giving me my start in life.’

He shrugged. ‘As they say, I’d never have managed it without you.’

‘Think nothing of it.’ The night air was warm, but Macy felt deathly cold.

‘And now George is on his way to ask if you want dessert,’ Ross went on. ‘I recommend the Key lime pie.’

Macy shook her head. ‘Nothing more for me,’ she said. ‘I—I seem to have lost my appetite.’

‘Oh, don’t say that.’ There was mock concern in his voice. ‘You have to be able to keep up with Daddy, Cameron and the rest of the carnivores.’

‘How dare you say that?’ Macy, trembling, pushed her chair back. ‘You have no right. You’re not fit to—to...’

‘Lick their boots?’ Ross supplied silkily. ‘Quite right. There are whole gangs of far better qualified people hanging round Gilmour-Denys to do just that. But I never thought you’d be one of them, Macy. What a disappointment.’

‘Damn you.’ She got to her feet, her breasts rising and falling swiftly under the force of her tangled emotions. ‘Damn you to hell, Ross Bannister.’

‘Too late, darling. You already did that—four years ago.’ He rose too, and came round the table to where she stood. He took her by the shoulders, pulling her towards him. For one endless moment, she felt his mouth on hers, without gentleness, without mercy. An act of stark possession.

And somewhere, buried in the depths of her being, she felt a sharp, unbidden flicker of totally shameful response.

Then, just as suddenly, she was free, staring dazedly up into his cool, aquamarine eyes.

He said expressionlessly, ‘Goodnight, Macy. I’ll be seeing you.’

Shaking, totally oblivious to the interested stares from the adjoining tables, Macy watched him cross the restaurant, pause briefly to scribble his signature on the bill, then disappear out into the night.

CHAPTER THREE

MACY got back to the bungalow somehow. She slammed the door behind her, and stood, panting, her hands pressed against the woodwork as if she was somehow drawing strength from its solidity.

Her mouth felt ravaged. She could make no sense of anything that had happened that evening, but Ross’s kiss had burned itself into her consciousness forever.

She felt as if she was crumbling inside, the sane, rational core she’d come to depend on disintegrating. Meltdown.

Don’t be a fool, she thought, staring into the darkness. Ross sold you out in the worst possible way. Betrayed you totally. When he went, you had to drag yourself back from the abyss, and learn to live again. You were the one in hell, not him. Never forget that.

He’d actually thanked her for giving him his start in life, she recalled with stark incredulity. The sheer cruelty of it flayed her like a whip.

But that was all she’d ever been to Ross—a meal ticket—a step on the ladder.

Yet during those first dizzy months he’d made her believe she was everything in the world that he wanted. That she was necessary—even essential to him, like the air he breathed. And she’d accepted that precious valuation—gloried in it. Letting herself forget that no one was indispensable.

‘A freelance photographer?’ She could still hear her father’s voice, lifted in outraged astonishment. ‘Does that mean he’s not in any kind of regular employment?’

‘Well, in a way,’ Macy had returned defensively. ‘He earns fees from newspapers and magazines when he sells them picture spreads.’

‘And does that provide him with a living?’

‘Yes, because he’s good,’ Macy had said flatly. ‘He’s not rich by your standards, perhaps, but he will be one day. He wants to travel.’ Her eyes shone. ‘He wants to bring the forgotten places of the world to life—remind us all what we have to treasure, before we throw it all away...’

‘My dear child.’ Sir Edwin had looked pained. ‘Where did you meet this—er—freelance?’

‘At an exhibition.’ Her smile had almost hugged itself. ‘I stood back to get a better look at some pictures and trod on his foot. I thought I’d done permanent damage.’

She giggled, remembering her conscience stricken apologies.

‘Have I hurt you?’

‘Mortally.’ His face was solemn. ‘But if you had supper with me tonight, it might ease my final hours...’

‘Indeed—’ Her father’s unwontedly grave voice had brought her back to reality. ‘I see that I should have insisted on your accompanying me to the States. Then this unfortunate accident might have been prevented.’

Macy had laughed out loud. ‘But I didn’t want to avoid it,’ she’d objected. ‘I’m in love with Ross. We’re going to be married.’

After a moment, he said, ‘Don’t be silly, my pet. You only met him—what?—a fortnight ago. You hardly know him.’

Macy bit her lip. ‘Daddy, I know him better than I’ve ever known anyone in my life.’ Even you, she thought, but did not say it.

She’d never heard her father’s voice so harsh before. ‘Are you saying you’ve been intimate with this man?’

She knew what he meant, of course, but the use of the word in that context puzzled her. Yes, she’d been intimate with Ross, but in so many ways that had nothing to do with the wild, sweet, crazy passion they’d discovered together on the narrow, hard bed in his flat.

Because, to her, intimacy was also cooking meals together in the impossibly cramped kitchenette, sharing a shower, and the small piece of soap that they kept dropping, seeing Ross shave for the first time, or even watching him read, her own book forgotten, as she scanned, with mounting excitement the strongly moulded contours of his face, until he looked up, alerted in turn by her prolonged scrutiny...

‘Macy.’ Sir Edwin took hold of her by the shoulders, shook her. ‘Answer me.’

She pulled free and stepped back, startled by the sudden grey look in his face.

‘Yes, he’s my lover,’ she said quietly. ‘And he’s going to be my husband.’

‘My God,’ her father whispered. ‘Have you no shame? Is this all your upbringing—your education has taught you? To jump into bed at the first opportunity with some nobody—some ne’er do well?’

‘You’ve no right to say that,’ she flared back at him.

‘Very well, then. Who are his family? What is his background? These are questions any father is entitled to ask.’

‘I don’t know.’ She shook her head. ‘I suggest you ask him yourself.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Sir Edwin said grimly. ‘I shall.’

And even after that, I still hoped they might find some common ground for my sake, Macy thought now, pushing herself away from the door, and treading wearily across the living area to her bedroom. Instead, it had been a total disaster from beginning to end.

Because her father had been quite right. Ross was a stranger to her. She’d never really known him at all. And he was still an enigma even now, she thought, shivering, as she put on the lamp beside her bed.

Across the room, reflected in the long mirror, she saw again the image of a girl, dressed in white, pale-faced, her eyes wide with strain, her mouth bruised and swollen from a kiss. A stranger’s kiss...

Then, and only then, she burst into tears.

* * *

The bed was wide and cool, with the crisp fragrance of fresh linen. It was too warm for a quilt, or other form of covering, so she lay, naked, in the languid night air, staring into the shadows, waiting for him.

He was smiling when he came to her, easing himself on to the mattress beside her with a sigh of contentment and anticipation.

‘My love. My sweet love.’

The whispered words, signalling the commencement of their private, erotic ritual.

His hand touched her breast, cupping its scented warmth, while his fingers circled the rosy nipple, making her catch her breath in instant need.

He knew exactly what he was doing. He’d always known—from that first, overwhelming time together—as if his instincts matched hers, making the desires and yearnings of their bodies identical.

She lifted her hands to his face, running her fingers pleasurably along the faint and familiar roughness of his jawline, drawing his mouth down to hers.

Lips parted, they teased each other with the tips of their tongues, brushing, caressing, retreating, enjoying the excitement of passion deliberately held in abeyance.

She slid her hands to his shoulders, and down the length of his back, relishing the strength of bone, the play of muscle under her fingertips, making him groan softly in pleasure.

Sometimes the delight of touch, the warm liquid exploration of hands and mouths contented them for half an hour or more, but this time it would not be like that, she knew.

She could feel the urgency building in him, like an underground spring, forcing its way to the surface. She moved against him, brushing her nipples with his, kissing the hollow of his throat where the pulse raged, running her fingers through the damp chest hair, then down over his flat belly to the narrow male loins.

They came together, fitted together so harmoniously, that it seemed as if their bodies had been created for no other purpose. As if, indeed, they were each the perfect half of the other.

They rose and sank together in the moist, heated rhythms and patterns of their lovemaking, each movement revealing some new discovery, some uncharted plateau of delight to be explored.

She heard herself say his name, her voice blurred and drowsy with passion, her arms tightening to draw him even nearer, hold him within her, so that he would be absorbed into her very being at the moment of fulfilment.

But her arms closed on nothing, and no one. A scream rose in her throat, and her weighted eyelids flew open as her gaze frantically raked the moonlit room, and the stark emptiness of the bed beside her.

For a moment, she lay still, letting the frantic thud of her heart against her ribcage subside a little. Then she sat up slowly, pushing back her damp cloud of hair from her face, shivering a little as she disentangled the sheet from her sweat-slicked body.

A dream, she thought, swallowing. Another dream. That was all it was. But, oh, God, it was so vivid—so real. But then, they always were.

She drew her knees up to her chin, and sat for a while. Then she left the bed, and went into the shower, adjusting the controls so that tepid water cascaded over her head and down the whole length of her body, drenching her, cleansing her. Washing the demons away.

She wrapped herself in a bath sheet, hitching it up, sarong-style, then padded into the living area. She chose a can of fruit juice from the selection in the tiny refrigerated bar, and carried it out on to the terrace. She snapped the ring pull, and emptied a long, grateful mouthful of the cold juice down her dry throat.

The can was icy, pearled with moisture from the fridge, and she rested it against her forehead for a moment, letting its coolness counteract the aching heat above her eyes.

The moon swung above her like a great benign face. The air was like a warm blanket, carrying the scent of a thousand flowers, and she breathed it deeply, leaning back on the rattan lounger, listening to the distant play of the ocean on the beach.

She knew, of course, that it was impossible to control one’s dreams, but for all that she was bitterly ashamed of the sensual labyrinth her subconscious had drawn her into once more.

Particularly so when she’d just cried herself to sleep.

After Ross had left her, she’d been tormented for months with dreams like that—sensuous, arousing dreams, carrying her to the edge of consummation, then abandoning her there, solitary and sterile.

Wasn’t it bad enough that, unasked and unwanted, he’d invaded her waking hours once more? Surely, dear God, she could blot him out of the darkness—prevent him creating havoc in her sleep as well.

She didn’t need to be reminded of the joy they’d created together. She wanted to forget.

I’ve got to forget, she thought, with a little dry sob. Got to...

She was realistic enough to know that part of the problem was her self-imposed celibacy of the past four years. Although she had never been seriously tempted to break it, in spite of the attention and admiration that had been heaped on her, especially by her father’s business partner, Cameron Denys.

Cameron had asked her to be his wife countless times, she thought, with an inward sigh. He was wealthy, floridly good-looking, and not without charm, but she knew she would never have accepted his proposal, even if the guilty secret of her hidden marriage hadn’t stood in the way.

Maybe, one day, she might meet someone she could trust and care about enough to commit herself again. In the meantime, she supposed she could always try hypnotherapy.

She drank down the rest of her juice and sat up, wiping the faint stickiness from her lips with the back of her hand. Her mouth still felt faintly tender, she noticed, frowning.

But that, of course, was why she’d had the dream. It was all the fault of that merciless kiss Ross had inflicted on her. He’d wanted to punish her—and he’d succeeded. But why?

He was the betrayer, who’d vanished from her life with her father’s pay-off. Yet he’d spoken almost as if he blamed her for his own greed and weakness. As if meeting her again had resurrected some long-buried feelings of guilt which he was trying to exorcise.

If so, surely he would be as anxious to avoid her from now on as she was to keep away from him?

Yet, ‘I’ll be seeing you...’ His parting words had not been of separation.

It was as if he was out there, somewhere, in the velvet darkness, watching her again.

Macy shivered, and got determinedly to her feet. It was high time she went indoors, and tried to get some rest for what remained of the night. It could be a big day tomorrow. A day when she would need all her wits about her.

She felt the bath sheet slip a little, and as her hand moved to anchor it more firmly she was suddenly, crazily tempted to let it fall away completely. To walk naked down the winding path between the whispering, fragrant shrubs to the crescent of silver beach. To let the fantasy begun in her dream go on to its ultimate conclusion with the man who must surely be waiting for her—there, on the edge of the sea.

She stopped, with a sharp gasp, flinging back her head. That, she berated herself, would be a self-betrayal beyond words.

Because there was no man, no tender, sensuous lover waiting to beguile her into rapture with his words and touch, and she knew it. He’d never really existed at all—always been a figment of her imagination, and she had to remember that.

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