White Lies
Autor
Sara Wood
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19,6K
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9
Chapter 1
‘THE...Caribbean?’ repeated Mandy incredulously. ‘There must be some mistake! I can’t possibly have any family there! I thought,’ she said, suddenly more subdued, ‘that this was an advert from a relative who was trying to trace me. That can’t be right, can it?’
‘Why not?’ The solicitor smiled encouragingly.
In a wistful gesture that was almost a caress, her hand smoothed the much read page of the newspaper in front of her and she went over the words of the advert again, even though she knew them by heart.
Cold facts, simple words. And yet they’d aroused such a disturbing turbulence in her that she’d barely been able to keep her finger steady to dial the number given for the London solicitor, Jack Lacey. Full of excitement and hope, she’d gabbled out her story—that she’d been searching for her natural parents for a long, long time and was hardly daring to hope that she might have a positive lead at last.
And luckily Jack Lacey had understood why she’d been half laughing, half crying and why her words had tumbled out in an unstoppable rush like a river in full spate.
‘Come at once,’ he’d said. ‘Take the next train from Plymouth.’
And here she was in his office, four hours later. She’d sipped tea and nervously chatted to him while he checked the documents she’d brought as proof of her identity.
Then he’d looked up and stunned her by saying that she was to fly to St Lucia in the Caribbean!
‘I dearly want this to give me a link with my real parents,’ she said earnestly. ‘But it’s so unlikely—’
Jack Lacey lifted a thick grey eyebrow. ‘Is it? The details are correct, aren’t they? I can understand your amazement, but my contact in St Lucia said that when I found Mandy Cook his client wanted her to take these tickets and make the trip to the West Indies as soon as possible.’ He smiled at her, knowing that she desperately wanted to be convinced. ‘I believe quite a few Scots went out to work on plantations in the past. Why not one of your relatives?’
Mandy found herself smiling back wryly. ‘Because having exotic connections isn’t the kind of thing that happens to ordinary people like me!’
A little dazed, she stared at the tickets in front of her. Heathrow to St Lucia. St Lucia to Heathrow. They were genuine; the solicitor had checked them out—and he’d confirmed that the hotel accommodation at the Anse La Verdure Hotel was genuine too.
‘I can’t think of anyone better,’ said Jack Lacey gently. ‘Go,’ he urged. ‘Treat yourself. I’ll get in touch with Vincente St Honoré once I know your flight plans.’
‘I could ring him from home, couldn’t I?’ she suggested cautiously. ‘That would save his client’s money.’ And save herself a nerve-racking trip. Mandy flipped open the clasp of her handbag and began to rummage for something to write on. ‘Do you have his phone number or address?’
‘I’m not to divulge that,’ Lacey said to her surprise. ‘I know; odd, isn’t it? But those are my instructions. He wants to contact you. If his client is willing to pay for your travel, why argue? I’m sure you’ll be told everything when St Honoré meets you.’
It seemed very cloak-and-dagger. Why weren’t people straightforward instead of being so devious? It could be a huge disappointment. It could be...oh, it would be wonderful if St Honoré could put her in touch with relatives.
‘If he refers to a client, does that mean that Vincente St Honoré is a solicitor? If so, surely he would have said something about the purpose of the advert?’ She leaned forward eagerly. ‘It’s worded as if someone’s died and the executors are searching for anyone with claims on the estate. What do you think?’
Jack Lacey nodded. ‘That’s how I read it. But St Honoré has told me nothing. He could be just a lay executor, but he keeps referring to his “client” so I’d put my money on him being a solicitor as well. I assume he’s acting as a go-between for someone and he wants to satisfy himself that you’re who you say you are. However, I’d advise you not to raise your hopes—’
‘Why?’ Mandy asked quickly.
‘Because he hinted that he was making other enquiries. That’s all I know.’ Lacey hesitated, seeing how her spirits had fallen and that the joy had vanished from her face. ‘I wish I could tell you more.’
‘I’m not interested in any financial gain,’ Mandy said shakily. ‘It’s...it’s the prospect of discovering my roots that’s excited me. But if there are doubts...’
All of a sudden her voice became croaky with emotion and her soft hazel eyes grew filmy with unshed tears. Flying to St Lucia only to discover that there had been a mistake would be quite devastating to her. Disappointments had peppered all her attempts to find her family so far and increasingly she was afraid to allow hope into her heart any more—even though her quest was becoming an obsession.
Lacey cleared his throat. ‘All I know is that St Honoré wants you in St Lucia.’
‘For an audition, perhaps?’ she asked with a rueful laugh. ‘Or some kind of identity parade, where this man’s client stands behind a two-way mirror and picks out whoever has the greatest family resemblance?’
‘I don’t know,’ confessed Lacey, giving her a sympathetic grin. ‘But if there’s any doubt I’m sure DNA testing will be used if necessary, to put everyone’s mind at rest. I hope it works out,’ he added quietly. ‘I’d hate to see you return disappointed.’
‘I would be, Mr Lacey,’ she said fervently. ‘I’ve longed to know about my mother all my life.’ She dropped her gaze for a brief moment. Jack Lacey’s sympathetic eyes were encouraging her tears to form, and she knew that she mustn’t let herself cry or she’d never feel tough enough to cope with the prospect of failure.
‘See it as a holiday, all expenses paid,’ he told her. ‘I envy you, Mrs Cook. How about taking a personal advisor with you?’ he suggested, a twinkle in his eyes.
She flashed him a grateful smile for realising that she needed a touch of humour to lift her spirits. ‘I can’t afford you! Besides, you’d miss your daughter’s school play—and your wife’s...what did you say? Her tip-tilted smile and the way she sings around the house.’
Jack Lacey laughed warmly. Unlikely though it seemed, the young woman in the washed-out, demure blue dress and the cheap shoes had totally disarmed him with her admiring exclamations over the photograph of his family and had somehow coaxed him to wax sentimental about the people he loved.
‘You’re right,’ he admitted, feeling an odd affection for Mandy. He frowned. She was so open that she’d be extremely vulnerable. ‘Don’t get hurt,’ he said suddenly, with fervour.
‘How kind you are!’ she said warmly. Her eyes shone with pleasure through the fine veil of tears. ‘I might,’ she admitted. ‘I’m afraid that happens now and then. I trust people and sometimes they let me down. I’ve had cranks and opportunists answering my adverts and pretending to be a long-lost parent before, as I told you.’
‘But no crank would fund a trip to the West Indies,’ reasoned Jack Lacey.
‘That’s what I’m banking on,’ she said eagerly. ‘This time the solicitor in St Lucia could be acting for a relative of mine and I might learn about my past. I know it would be wiser not to get excited, but this means everything to me, Mr Lacey. If I find my mother, or my father, or even one relative, I’ll come right back and hug you!’
Jack Lacey found himself praying that she would. But as she left, his hand aching from where she had squeezed it so fiercely and a lump in his throat at the quiet joy on her pale face, he thought of the ice-cold tones of the man he’d been told would contact her and he wondered if he should have warned her more strongly. He sighed, knowing that he wouldn’t have had the heart.
Mandy Cook might discover that some families were best left divided and that the mother who’d abandoned her at the nursing home had probably had a good reason to keep her baby girl’s existence a secret from her relatives.
‘A Planter’s Punch for you too, madam?’
Mandy smiled warmly at the woman who’d come to the table in the spacious, open-air lounge of the hotel. The ‘welcome’ drink looked long and cool and fruity—just what she needed after the hot and dusty drive.
She checked the name-tag on the frill decorating the woman’s crisp white blouse. ‘Please, Agnes,’ she said gratefully. ‘The road was so bumpy! I felt quite shaky when I got out of the minibus.’ She took a sip of the drink and detected the faint taste of rum.
‘It’s bad,’ agreed Agnes equably, and shot her a curious glance. ‘Are you Mrs Cook?’ And at Mandy’s nod she said, ‘Monsieur St Honoré’s been asking after you.’
Mandy glowed with delight. ‘Is he here?’
‘He’s on the beach,’ Agnes said shortly. ‘Simon will show you. Simon!’
‘The beach?’ Mandy quickly drained her glass and jumped up. She felt a little unsteady, but then she’d been sitting for hours and hours on the plane. She smiled at the young bar attendant who came running up. And she wondered how many St Lucian solicitors received their clients on the beach! ‘The beach! It’s wacky. I think I’m going to love Anse La Verdure,’ she said with a grin.
‘Everybody does. It’s the best in the Caribbean,’ said Simon proudly. He indicated the key in her hand. ‘Would you like to unpack and rest first?’ he asked thoughtfully, but then, they’d had a long chat already, and she’d drawn out half his family history from him.
She hesitated. Perhaps she ought to take the opportunity to freshen up and wait till her shakiness had gone before confronting the man she’d flown thousands of miles to see. But she was eager to meet him—and she felt sure that her dizziness would pass once her body had realised that it had stopped travelling.
‘I’ll be all right,’ she said. ‘I’ve had time to drop off my hand luggage.’ She smiled, thinking happily of the luxurious villa perched higher up the hill. ‘Mr St Honoré takes priority.’
‘We go that way.’ Simon pointed to some dark volcanic steps which led from the terrace of the bar and lounge area.
‘OK. I’ll see you all later, I expect,’ she said warmly to the other guests sitting nearby, and they smiled and cheerfully lifted their glasses in a friendly farewell.
She followed the teenager down the steep hill, occasionally catching glimpses of an impossibly blue sea scintillating like a jewel in the hot sun. The steps wound through a tropical garden of palm trees, hibiscus, great billows of bougainvillea...
In answer to her request, Simon began to give her the names of the plants, shouting them over his shoulderangels’ tears, heart flower, water-well, paw-paw, mango, bottlebrush—till her mind reeled.
But it took the edge off her tense anticipation. Somewhere on the beach below was the man who might change her life. And as she hurried after the white-clad Simon her whole body almost bounced with joy till the thick brown rope of her plait bounced too in sympathy.
‘Where is he?’ At the bottom of the steps she paused to search the beach expectantly. Yet there was no one remotely like a solicitor in sight. ‘I’m looking for a guy in a bowler hat and pinstriped suit with a briefcase,’ she said with a chuckle. ‘I suppose I’ve got that wrong!’
Simon grinned back at her. ‘No suits here! Only sand and sea, sun and tanned people. Everybody having a good time.’
Mandy beamed merrily at all the friendly faces nearby and was rewarded with a battery of smiles in return. ‘It’s going to be so lovely staying at this hotel!’ she sighed. ‘I expected people to be standoffish. But they all look as happy as I feel.’
‘Sure they do. This is paradise,’ said Simon. He paused, then gave a satisfied exclamation. ‘I see him! You follow me, lady!’
Excitedly Mandy strode after his eye-searing, white-clad figure, barely controlling her urge to skip. Her pulses, however, were galloping along in leaps and bounds because all her hopes and dreams were bound up in this moment. Even admiring the dazzling blue sky, the translucent sea and the ‘desert island’ beach with its leaning palms and sultry, tropical atmosphere came second to her long-term goal. Beaches she could enjoy later. The unbelievable view to the mountains from her balcony could be drooled over some other time. This was her future, after all.
Preoccupied by her thoughts, she stumbled on a ridge of sand. Seeing Simon’s curious glance, she grinned and said, ‘It’s OK. I feel wobbly. I’m just nervous as a kitten about this meeting!’
Simon’s step faltered. ‘Monsieur St Honoré is—’ He stopped, seemingly unable—or unwilling—to continue.
Mandy’s joy faded a little. There seemed to be a kind of warning in Simon’s silence. Feeling a little alarmed, she stopped and touched his arm. ‘What is it?’ she asked uncertainly. ‘What’s worrying you? He is here, isn’t he?’ Frantically she searched up and down the shoreline, her heart sinking. ‘There isn’t anyone with clothes on,’ she said in wry disappointment, ‘let alone a suit!’
‘Monsieur St Honoré, he don’t wear a suit often. Or many clothes much,’ explained Simon.
‘Not...wear...!’ Her eyes widened. ‘Where is he?’
‘There!’ Simon seemed embarrassed but she didn’t have time to question him further because he added hastily, ‘Monsieur St Honoré!’
He lay sprawled beneath the waving fronds of a nearby palm tree, sunlight and palm shadows contriving to slash his lithe form with gold and black. A sleeping tiger. A rather magnificent animal, the torso sculpted with firm muscle, the tanned body beautifully taut and lean. And he wasn’t wearing much—only a pair of brief green bathing shorts, low on the narrow hips.
This was Monsieur St Honoré? A lawyer? Mandy put a hand to her mouth to stop her gasp of disbelief and tried to gather her wits. ‘Simon, I think you’ve made a mistake—’ she began in a hushed and urgent whisper.
‘No mistake,’ he replied, sounding hurt. ‘This is him.’
For Simon’s sake she gave the man another once-over. He looked thirtyish, his flaxen hair sun-streaked and with no hint of grey. It was untidy too, the thick, springing curls tousled and damp as though he’d recently been for a swim. Her uncertain gaze took in his thick, honeycoloured brows and his strong bone structure, highlighted by the sun where it hit the prominent cheekbones and firm jawline.
OK, she thought. Solicitors came in all shapes and sizes. But... tousled? Rakish? Mandy now understood Simon’s unstated warning. He looked the kind of man who’d bite.
‘This is Monsieur St Honoré? You’re absolutely sure?’ she persisted in a whisper.
‘Definitely,’ the young man answered. ‘This, Monsieur St Honoré. That—’ and he pointed out to sea ‘—his boat.’
‘Oh! Thanks,’ she said absently, riveted by the sight of the boat.
Simon left her gaping at the sleek motor yacht lying a short distance off shore. Its size and elegant lines screamed money. She shaded her eyes against the glare from the sea and watched its launch being drawn up out of the water by an on-board crane.
‘Wow!’ she breathed. A crane on a boat! Even more astonishing was the sea-level bathing deck at the stern, where a couple of St Lucians in white shorts and shirts were setting up a barbecue—a barbecue! ‘Now that is money! How the rich do live!’ she marvelled.
The gold letters on the stern proclaimed the boat to be named St Honoré, confirming Simon’s claim. Confounded, Mandy followed the line of the mooring rope. It extended all the way to the beach where its end had been coiled a couple of times around a palm tree. The one that shaded the sleeping tiger.
Mandy moved closer, eyeing the teak-coloured body admiringly. It was too good a sight to ignore. His flat, muscle-defined stomach tensed slightly and she took a startled pace back, thinking for a crazy moment that he was aware of her presence despite the resolutely closed eyelids. Embarrassment made her pink and hot. Nice women didn’t ogle men’s bodies in public!
Then something dawned on her. He didn’t look ready to conduct any business at all. There was just him and the sand and the palm tree. No briefcase, no shoes, no clothes, no towel. She swayed slightly and realised that the sun was beating down on her head. Cautiously she ducked under the shady palm and wondered what to do.
There had been some mistake. Her stomach turned over with the intense disappointment. Someone had got his wires crossed. Her soft eyes glazed over as she gloomily reviewed her situation and battled with the fear of failure.
Perhaps her hopes had been raised unnecessarily. All along she’d tried not to expect too much, just in case she was disappointed. But how could you not get excited at the prospect of finding a blood relative when you’d longed for family all your life?
And... maybe she’d be asked to pay back the cost of the ticket! Appalled, she lifted her eyes to the heavens. ‘Oh, Lord!’ she groaned aloud, swamped with misery. ‘If this doesn’t work out, I could be on the streets!’
Something shimmered at her feet, making her look down quickly. The man had stirred and stretched, sunlight bouncing off the planes and curves of his body and the wide bracelet of his gold watch. As she watched, holding her breath, the heavy fringe of golden lashes fluttered. So did her pulses and her stomach. And then she found herself pinned by the bluest and most compelling pair of eyes she’d ever seen.
‘Hi,’ said their owner lazily, bringing up an arm behind his head. And then the tiger stretched again, flexing and tensing a battery of shifting muscles in the process. Mandy half expected him to purr.
She cleared her throat. ‘Hi.’ And cleared it again because she’d sounded as if she was suffering from bronchitis. ‘I was looking for Monsieur Vincente St Honoré...’ She paused and took a deep breath, her mouth trembling. Better get it over with. ‘I don’t think I’ve got the right man, have I?’ she asked sadly.
He smiled. Not much, just enough to make the firm, male mouth quirk in a disconcertingly attractive curve. He’ll bite! she reminded herself hastily.
‘Expecting someone older?’ he murmured.
For a moment she was taken aback by his silky, fascinating accent. And then, seeing his amused eyes on her, she found her voice again. ‘Well, yes...’
‘My father.’
‘Oh! Mystery explained!’ she said huskily. ‘I thought there had been a mistake. I’m so believed!’
‘I bet.’
Mandy risked a friendly smile and tried to place the accent. French, presumably. Herbert, the man who’d driven the minibus from the airport, had said the British and French had fought endlessly over the island. Seven times British, seven times French.
It seemed to her that the man’s sexy accent was mixed with the slow-blues drawl of the Caribbean, and it reached into her stomach like warm, soothing cocoa. Mandy concealed the weakening effect of the richly flowing voice and got down to business.
‘I’m glad there’s no mix-up,’ she said in a rush. ‘Mr Lacey told me Monsieur St Honoré would contact me—and then the girl at the bar said Monsieur St Honoré was waiting on the beach and then, when I saw you, well!’ She laughed but he didn’t smile in response and continued to gaze at her cynically. Her smile faded. ‘I was sure something was wrong,’ she said more soberly, ‘and I didn’t know what to do.’
He jackknifed his strong legs and stood up in a leisurely, languid way as if his joints had been oiled as comprehensively as his gleaming dark body. ‘I’m Pascal.’ Then he smiled and two dimples appeared in each cheek, utterly distracting her because they turned him from a rake into a charmer. ‘You’re Mandy Cook, I presume?’
‘Yes!’
Everything was going to be all right! Overjoyed, Mandy took the offered hand enthusiastically. It was large and dry and strangely comforting, and it reminded her of her beloved Dave’s hands so much that she was momentarily thrown off balance.
‘Delighted,’ he murmured. ‘Absolutely delighted.’
And the frisson that Pascal St Honoré engendered was something new—a sudden contracting of her loins, and unexpected awareness of his sexuality. Startled, she flipped a quick glance up at the blue, blue eyes and then wished that she hadn’t. He was studying her with a frank and open interest that left her wondering where her breath had gone.
‘Thank goodness!’ she burbled, letting her mouth take over. ‘For a ghastly moment I thought I’d been the victim of a practical joke! I’d half expected someone with a bald head, a pinstriped suit and a briefcase, you see, and you didn’t fit that bill at all so—’
‘You’re after my father.’
It sounded like a statement rather than a question. ‘Yes,’ she said eagerly. ‘I—’
‘How was the flight?’ he enquired politely.
‘Endless.’ she grinned, forgiving him his constant interruptions. She had been gabbling on. Nerves seemed to have loosened her tongue. She sighed and tried to stay demure and decent. ‘So was the drive from the airport. We took twenty minutes to do the last two miles! Those potholes in the road are unbelievable! My body’s still swaying—’
‘It is somewhat inaccessible here,’ he conceded. ‘But it keeps down the number of tourists on this end of the island.’ His eyes seemed to mock her. ‘A little discomfort is worth suffering if you end up with your dream, isn’t it?’ he drawled.
She nodded vigorously. ‘I absolutely agree! I never mind hardship if there’s something special at the end, as a reward.’ There was an odd flicker in his eyes that made them briefly splinter with cold lights and then he was smiling again. ‘I suppose you’re used to travelling on that road. It joggled every bone in my body,’ she said wryly.
‘Travel by boat,’ he advised, indicating the hotel launches and the long motorised canoes in the bay. ‘I suggest you go back that way when you fly home. It’s cheap—and a lot quicker. When are you going home?’ he asked smoothly.
‘It depends,’ she said, her eyes shining with joy. ‘It could be in two weeks, or never. It’s up to fate and what happens when I meet your father.’ And there was no way that she could keep the eagerness out of her voice.
Pascal nodded slowly as though he already knew some details of her visit. ‘And whether you can bear the boredom of such isolation,’ he said softly.
Mandy looked around and sighed. ‘I wouldn’t get bored. I love remote places,’ she said warmly ‘I live in a tiny little village in Devon and I hate crowds.’
His heavy lids half closed over the deep blue eyes. ‘You like isolation?’ he asked, as though that was a failing on her part.
Puzzled, she explained. ‘I prefer living in the country but I do enjoy company. I’d be quite happy stuck in the middle of a forest, providing I had someone to talk to.’
Pascal let out a long breath. ‘My father doesn’t entertain. He has few friends.’
Mandy looked at him in surprise. ‘Some people like their own company,’ she remarked politely, wondering why he’d confided that piece of information to her.
‘Life with him would be very lonely,’ he said flatly.
‘Y-y-yes,’ she said hesitantly. ‘But he’s got you, hasn’t he?’ she added with a gentle smile.
‘Like your villa?’ he shot at her suddenly.
Her smile broadened. ‘It’s wonderful, like a luxurious tree-house,’ she enthused warmly. ‘I’ve been treated like a princess. Champagne in the fridge, a basket of weird fruit, garlands of flowers over every available surface—even around the bath taps! How’s that for a welcome?’
‘Warm,’ agreed Pascal in his honeyed drawl. ‘Bordering on the enthusiastic.’
‘It’s fantastic. I’m walking on air,’ Mandy confessed. ‘I can’t thank your father enough for organising it so beautifully.’
The chiselled lips thinned. ‘You will. I’m sure he’ll get his pound of flesh,’ Pascal murmured enigmatically.
Mandy looked at him with anxious eyes. Did he mean that the solicitor’s fees were excessive? Still, presumably whoever had hired Pascal’s father could afford the cost—or maybe they wanted to find her so much that they’d pay anything to get her. A soft affection filled her eyes.
‘I know he’ll expect fair payment,’ she said dreamily. “That’s reasonable since we could both be benefiting from this. You don’t get something for nothing, do you? For instance, I imagine that even the view from my villa must be costed in the overall price.’
‘What a practical turn of mind!’ he murmured. ‘What view do you have?’ he asked casually. ‘Which one have they given you?’
She thought of it with such pleasure that she wanted to share it with him. ‘Up there,’ she said, pointing at the gazebo poised some way up the hill, above the circular reception building. It was just visible amid a tumble of purple and red. ‘I have this incredible open-air deck—I swear it’s larger than my whole house put together! And it’s smothered in bougainvillea and I look down on banana trees and coconut palms with little yellow birds flitting around—’
‘Bananaquits,’ he supplied with a languid air—but watching her intently.
‘Bananaquits!’ she repeated in delight. ‘And the black birds like starlings on stilts?’
‘Grackles.’
Mandy laughed—a gurgling chuckle that welled up from her great happiness. But, instead of smiling back at her as people usually did, Pascal remained neutral, as though he found her joy a little childish. She didn’t care. If she was unsophisticated, so be it. Right at this moment she could have hugged everyone in sight.
‘I’m going to buy some biscuits to feed the birds,’ she said contentedly. ‘They’re amazingly tame. I think I’ll spend quite a bit of my time on my deck. The view is stunning. I look across that valley to the hill,’ she said, waving expansively at the jungle. ‘I can see the ocean and the two mountains—Herbert, the minibus driver, said they were volcanic cones or something—’
‘The Pitons,’ provided Pascal lazily, his eyes as sharp as glinting knives.
‘Yes,’ she said, in a voice tinged with awe. ‘Aren’t they something? Two triangles—just like the mountains that kids draw! Herbert lives near them—can you imagine having that view every morning? We had a long chat. He showed me his family photos,’ she added softly, her eyes glowing at the memory of the man’s friendliness.
‘Herbert got chatty with you?’ he asked in a tone of mild surprise. ‘Herbert?’
‘Yes. Do you know him? I love talking to people, don’t you?’
Pascal lifted a hand and rubbed the nape of his neck thoughtfully, his brows angling to meet in a frown over his nose. ‘He’s wary of strangers.’
Mandy laughed again. ‘But you can’t sit next to someone for an hour and a half and remain strangers! I’m going to visit his family some time. Won’t that be lovely?’
‘Lovely,’ Pascal said faintly.
‘Oh,’ she said, remembering, ‘if that fits in with your father’s schedule, that is,’ she amended.
‘Do what you like.’ He paused, his mouth set in lines of barely concealed triumph. ‘Your time’s your own. He’s ill.’
‘Ill!’ The news brought her up sharp. ‘Oh, dear. Poor man.’
Pascal’s sky-blue eyes seemed to cloud briefly and then his expression became sunny again. Sunny...with clouds imminent, she thought apprehensively, because there was a reserve about the man’s manner which she couldn’t quite understand. And why the triumph?
‘He’s quite sick,’ he drawled with a mystifying relish.
‘I see,’ she said slowly. ‘What a shame! I was so looking forward to meeting him today.’ She put a hand to her head because it was still buzzing from the effects of the journey and she couldn’t think clearly. ‘I’m awfully sorry,’ she said sympathetically.
‘How kind. I’ll tell him. You look a little tired. You’d better sit down,’ Pascal said soothingly, taking her arm. ‘Come right under here, next to me. You’ll burn that tender skin if you don’t take proper cover. You don’t want to go home red-raw, do you?’
‘Er...no.’ Uncertainly she allowed herself to be drawn down to the soft, warm sand.
‘Drink?’ he asked politely, shifting into the full glare of the sun so that she could take all the shade.
‘Thanks. I’d love one. Something fruity and cold, please.’
‘Certainly. Simon will be along in a while, I expect.’
The worries were crowding back into her mind. ‘How ill?’ she asked anxiously, slipping off her shoes and wriggling her bare pink toes.
He gave the scuffed, much repaired condition of her shoes a detailed scrutiny and then looked sideways to meet her troubled gaze. ‘Too ill for you,’ he said softly.
She frowned. Either her imagination was running riot or he’d just been rude. ‘I am very sorry to hear that,’ she said sincerely, ignoring his lapse. ‘Anything serious?’
‘There’s always hope,’ Pascal said with a grave expression.
‘That ill?’ Mandy soberly sifted sand through her toes. ‘It sounds as if he won’t be able to see me for a while,’ she said a little tremulously.
‘If at all,’ agreed Pascal placidly.
‘No!’ Her hand fluttered to her mouth, his words throwing her into total confusion. And then she put aside her own needs and thought of the poor man, fighting some dreadful illness. ‘That’s terrible!’ she exclaimed in sympathy.
‘Isn’t it?’ Pascal’s eyes filled with silvery lights. ‘Father will be deeply touched by your concern.’
She bristled at the slicing edge of sarcasm. ‘I meant what I said,’ she said huffily. ‘You think I’m mouthing platitudes, but of course I’m sorry! I feel sympathy for anyone who’s ill.’
Pascal’s gold-tipped lashes swept down to veil his eyes. ‘How nice. Life has made my cynical.’
‘That’s a shame.’ But suddenly she wasn’t thinking about Pascal at all—or even his father. Her own troubles were looming too large. ‘It’s left me with a bit of a problem,’ she said slowly. ‘My air ticket has to be used by the eighteenth of February. That’s less than two weeks away. And your father only paid for my accommodation at Anse La Verdure till that date. What shall I do? I can’t possibly afford to stay any longer—’
‘Shame,’ he echoed insincerely.
Mandy stiffened and flushed at his mocking tone. He wasn’t exactly being helpful. Quite at a loss, she stared at the sand between them, watching a tiny crab laboriously hauling itself out of a hole and dumping a clawful of sand onto a small heap at the entrance. She sighed, identifying with the crab’s efforts. She’d been fighting her way out of holes for years. She looked closer. Or was the crab digging that hole for itself to shelter from the burning sun?
She lifted appealing eyes to Pascal’s amused face. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she confided.
‘Have that drink,’ he suggested, either unaware of her distress or completely indifferent to it. A brief lift of his hand in the air seemed sufficient to bring Simon running, the young man’s bare feet kicking up small flurries of sand as he hurried over.
There was an exchange of friendly conversation in the strange local patois she’d heard several times already, before Simon went off convulsed with laughter at some teasing remark. For a moment Pascal looked rather nice—the sort of man she could confide in, who’d share a laugh and be jolly when life became tough—and she was glad that he wasn’t too cynical to be nice to Simon.
Emboldened, she reached out and touched his arm. ‘You will help me, won’t you?’ she said persuasively.
‘Of course,’ he said smoothly, giving the lie to the message in his frosty blue eyes. ‘I’ll give you the best advice I can,’ he assured her.
‘Please do!’ she said fervently. ‘I’ve no idea how to proceed.’
The lips smiled, the eyes didn’t. ‘I think,’ he said, with a regretful sigh, ‘that all you can do under the circumstances is to enjoy your holiday here at my father’s expense, go home on the eighteenth, and hope that he’ll arrange for you to come over again some time in the future.’ He creaked the smile a little further but the dimples didn’t appear.
Her pulses hammered like small drums. He wanted to get rid of her, she felt sure. But why? Trying to be generous, she decided that she might be posing a problem under the circumstances. It was more than likely that his father had left a backlog of work at his office. She knew from her days as an office worker that difficulties arose when a key member of staff was ill.
Maybe Pascal was involved in trying to lighten the load for his father’s firm—and she was just another problem that they wanted to shelve for the time being. There might be more pressing cases to deal with...like defending those clients charged with crimes, she thought vaguely. But her case was important too! No one knew how desperately she needed Pascal’s father. It was only fair to make that clear.
‘You’re right. What you suggest would be the sensible thing to do,’ she agreed reasonably, startled by the genuine and delighted grin that lit Pascal’s face. She smiled back ruefully, knowing that she’d blow his hopes of clearing her file from the in-tray. ‘However...and I can guess that this won’t be what you want...’ she said sympathetically, ‘I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly do what you suggest. I have to stay, somehow.’
He gave her a sharp look. ‘Why?’ he asked tightly.
She smiled gently at his determination to protect his father from extra worry. ‘I’m too close to my dream. To walk away from it, to risk losing the chance I’ve been given, fills me with horror. I can’t give up on this.’
‘You’d be wasting your time,’ said Pascal coldly.
She noticed that the tiny pile of sand between them was much larger now. The crab had laboriously excavated a home for itself, grain by grain. It seemed like an omen and she gave a sigh of satisfaction.
‘I don’t think so. Your father may be my saviour,’ she said huskily. ‘When I knew what he might be offering, I was over the moon. It’s everything I’ve always wanted. To be honest, I’d have surfed across the Atlantic to come here, knowing what might transpire! I appreciate that you won’t understand what this means to me—’
‘On the contrary, I do.’ Pascal impatiently swept a hand through the mass of silky gold hair that haloed his head. ‘In my time I’ve seen plenty of women like you passing my father’s way,’ he said shortly. ‘Bright-eyed, hungry, hoping their lives will be radically changed.’
She beamed in delight. From what Pascal was saying it seemed that his father specialised in missing-person or lost-daughter cases. ‘Your father’s quite a guy,’ she said in admiration.
‘His reputation on the island is second to none,’ agreed Pascal cynically.
Mandy decided that if Monsieur St Honoré had such a good track record there was all the more reason for her to stay. She clasped her hands together tightly, her hopes rekindled.
‘If you have had experience of women like me before, then you’ll know how desperate I am,’ she said, her face impassioned as she strove to engage Pascal’s emotions. ‘I have to hang around here. I’ve got to wait till your father’s better. He can make my life perfect.’ She smiled dreamily. ‘It would be a new kind of life entirely. With someone for me to love, someone to love me...’
‘My God!’ he muttered.
She flinched, but she lifted her chin, determined not to be crushed by his look of revulsion at her sentimentality. Love wasn’t nauseating and Pascal was missing a lot if he thought it was.
‘I know I’m hoping for a lot—’
‘Dream on,’ he said scathingly.
‘I will,’ she said firmly. ‘And my dreams will come true. I am a romantic, but I don’t apologise for that. I don’t care what you think—what anyone thinks!’ she added, defending her beliefs. ‘Ever since I saw your father’s advert I’ve been so excited—dancing on air, halfscared, half-thrilled. And I don’t care who knows it. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt so happy.’
He grunted, unmoved by her happiness. ‘Pity you’re going to be disappointed.’ And Pascal lay back on the sand and closed his eyes in dismissal. ‘He won’t be well enough to see you before the eighteenth.’
Mandy frowned with irritation. He was being difficult. ‘In that case I’ll have to get a job,’ she said, with more conviction than she felt.
‘You won’t be able to,’ he muttered irritably, not even bothering to open his eyes and talk to her properly. ‘You’ll never get a work permit. Jobs go to St Lucians. So, if you haven’t any funds, how do you think you’ll manage?’
Mandy didn’t waver. She’d shift the ground from under him even if it meant doing it grain by grain! She grinned at the image and felt a bit better. ‘Well, do me a favour and save me from selling my body in the open market-place,’ she said jokingly. ‘I’m sure you can help me if you put your mind to it.’
His eyes opened and pinned her with a baleful look. ‘Are you suggesting I finance you myself?’ he asked coldly.
‘No!’ She checked her exasperation. ‘Look, your father must have someone who’s deputising for him now he’s ill. Couldn’t I talk to that person? I appreciate you must have a thousand and one things to do and I don’t want to be a nuisance, so if you’d just tell me where his office is I’ll go there in the morning and make my own arrangements,’ she finished briskly.
‘That could be difficult. He doesn’t have an office.’ He smirked at her surprise.
‘Well, wherever your father usually sees his clients,’ she persisted sweetly, wondering why he was being so obstructive.
‘In bed?’ murmured Pascal, lifting a wicked eyebrow.
Her eyes flickered. ‘Yes, in bed! Why not?’ she countered pleasantly, calling his bluff. What a ridiculous remark to make!
Pascal let his gaze drift insolently over her body and she wished that she hadn’t made the joke. It was perfectly obvious that he was thinking lustful thoughts because his eyes had become drowsy and his expression was smouldering. Surely he must have realised that she was being sarcastic?
‘You come to the point with astonishing bluntness. The very idea fills me with horror. I think we can try to ensure your relationship never gets that far,’ he said levelly.
She heard the threat that edged his voice and read the message in his eyes. Goose-bumps rose on her arms. He was totally hostile to her. Why?
‘Your sense of humour’s deserted you! And so have your manners. You ought to be helping me,’ she said impatiently. ‘If your father should learn how—’
‘Don’t threaten me!’ he snapped. ‘You’re not seeing him, so get that into your head!’
His hostility was out in the open now. Mandy fumed. ‘There’s no need to be rude!’ she said stiffly. ‘Arrange a meeting with one of your father’s colleagues for me. I’m sure you’ve been asked to give me what help you can—’
Pascal interrupted her with a disparaging snort. ‘Yes! Unfortunately for you, however,’ he said coldly, ‘I’d rather help a snake find a vein in my leg than do anything that would assist either you or him.’
‘What?’ she gasped.
‘You’re on your own,’ he growled. ‘Don’t expect anything from me. To be frank, Mrs Cook, if I had my way I’d feed the two of you a hefty dose of rat poison.’
