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Rachel opened her eyes and stared blindly at the London rain. In all the three weeks she had spent at the Villa Azul, it had never rained once, she remembered. She would wake up in the huge colonial bed to a sound like rain, but when she’d rushed to the window it had been to find that the sound was only the wind through the palm trees. She had been so homesick. So hungry for familiar sights and sounds. So alone.
Open-eyed, she stared out at the rain. Alone! She gave a harsh laugh that contained no amusement at all. Oh, she had been alone all right. Until that last night, when she had learned, briefly and unforgettably, that there were worse things than being alone—and that the worst loneliness of all was when you could not reach the person you were with. She felt sick, remembering.
But there was nothing else for it. Now she had started, the whole thing was coming back in cruel Technicolor.
The first time she’d met Riccardo di Stefano she had almost run away He had been like an alien from another galaxy. Well, they all had been, at the Villa Azul. By that time Rachel had learned to expect every new acquaintance to possess a degree of sophistication she knew she could not deal with. By the time he arrived, Riccardo di Stefano was exactly what she was expecting.
Tall and slim, he arrived in the Caribbean with an all-year-round tan and the inscrutable dark glasses to go with it. His hair was so dark that it looked blue in the glare of the midday sun. He was wearing piratical cutoffs that could have belonged to the ragged urchins in the town, had it not been for the indiscreet designer label at the back of the belt.
He was not bothering with a shirt that day and even to Rachel’s jaundiced eye its absence revealed muscles that could only be called impressive. He moved lazily, gracefully, as if he knew every eye was on him and did not give a damn. Rachel loathed him on sight.
The Villa Azul loved him. It was only to be expected.
But by that time she was loathing the Villa Azul and all its inhabitants with a ferocity that she would never have thought possible. It could not have been further away from the relaxing holiday her father had fondly described. There was no possibility of relaxing. Rachel had never felt more on edge in all her eighteen years.
One thing her father had been right about was the luxury, though. Rachel had never seen anything like it. The house party seemed to drink champagne at all hours, change their designer outfits three times a day and have personal trainers and hairdressers in constant attendance.
In fact, at first she thought Riccardo di Stefano was a new fitness expert. Only, then he took off the arrogant shades to reveal even more arrogant eyes. Rachel revised her opinion rapidly.
Slowly he surveyed the company scattered round the pool and the exotic gardens. His expression announced that he was supremely bored. None of the tennis professionals and expert scuba-divers would have allowed themselves to look like that. It would have cost them their job. It did not make Rachel like him any better.
And then their eyes met.
It was oddly shocking. Even on edge as she was, Rachel felt her inner tension go up a couple of notches. She stepped back as if she had walked too close to a fire.
The stranger in the designer rags looked her up and down. Rachel had just come up from the beach to collect some fruit for her lunch. She had not bothered with a wrap because she did not intend to stay. She was going to go back to the beach and carry on reading in the shade of a coconut palm. Indeed, she was still marking the place in her book with one finger.
So all she was wearing was a dark one-piece bathing suit. By the standards of the Villa Azul it was modest to the point of puritanism. But, under that cool inspection, Rachel felt that she might as well have been naked. Her face flamed.
Even across the width of the flamboyant garden, the pirate recognised her reaction. His eyebrows rose. He was clearly amused. Rachel blushed harder, and hated him for it.
Nobody else paid any attention at all. At least, not to her. That was nothing unusual. The sophisticated house party had been bewildered by her arrival. Since then, they had done their best to ignore her. Because, of course, Judy had dumped her the moment they’d got to the estate.
‘This is Bill’s daughter,’ she had said, waving a hand in Rachel’s general direction.
After that she’d stripped off and dived into the pool. She had not exchanged more than a dozen words with Rachel since. She had not even bothered to introduce their host.
He was, Rachel discovered, Anders Lemarck and said to be something in oil. The other guests were vague on his profession but very precise on his wealth, which was described as serious. On their arrival, he’d considered Rachel appraisingly, decided she was not worth getting up for and raised a casual hand in her direction.
‘Hi, Bill’s daughter.’
After that he’d ignored her too. If it had not been for the friendly islanders who ran the Villa Azul, Rachel would not even have had anywhere to sleep.
‘Part of my education,’ the eighteen-year-old Rachel had told herself. ‘Nobody said education had to be pleasant.’
She’d established a routine of swimming and reading, keeping out of the way of the main party as much as she could. Until now it had worked fine. But the piratical stranger was something else.
In spite of herself she could not look away. She stared into the face she did not recognise and knew that she would recognise it anywhere in the world for evermore. It was not just the barbecue-deep tan and insolent eyes. It was something that seemed to look right into the heart of her and imprint his image on her very core. Rachel felt helpless all of a sudden.
If the other guests continued to ignore her, they were more than-enthusiastic to greet him. Women in tiny, jewel-coloured bikinis converged on him; men turned from discussing stock-market prices to greet him. Even Anders got out of his hammock to shake his hand.
And I’m no better, standing here like a mesmerised rabbit, staring at him, thought Rachel. She was disgusted with herself. It was a real physical effort to break that eye contact. Even across the garden she could feel his resistance. But she did it.
She turned away and made for the terrace where the luxurious cold lunch was set out. These days, Rachel had learned to mingle with the sophisticated diners with reasonable confidence.
She was bending all her attention on a dish of exotic fruits, when she felt a butterfly touch against her bare arm. She brushed it away absently. Warm fingers caught and held her own.
Rachel gave a thoroughly unsophisticated squeak and let go of her plate. The pirate caught it neatly, one-handed.
‘Don’t tell me—you’re the discus professional.’ His voice was as casual as his appearance. Casual and low and horribly sexy.
He returned the plate to her with an enigmatic smile. Rachel swallowed hard. This was where that education proved its usefulness. She tried to remember all that the holiday had taught her about dealing with these people.
‘Thank you,’ she said, clutching at the plate. It tilted dangerously and half a mango fell off it. He caught that too.
‘Not the discus,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Maybe ping-pong?’
Rachel was embarrassed. That education did not seem to have stuck after all.
Annoyed with herself, she said curtly, ‘Sorry, no,’ and held out her hand for the fruit.
He turned it over with a grimace. ‘Is this all you’re eating?’
‘I like fruit in the middle of the day.’ Why did she sound so defensive?
His eyes crinkled at the corners. With half the garden between them she had thought his eyes were dark. Now she saw that they were a swirl of curious, complicated mineral colours, flecked with green. They were also oddly weary.
She thought suddenly, He looks as if he’s seen everything in the world. And nothing matters to him any more.
She gave herself a quick shake. This was silly, melodramatic. He was a stranger. And not a very kind stranger, from the expression in those eyes. She did not think he would be kind if he knew what she was thinking about him, anyway.
He looked round at the little groups of people sitting under the trees.
‘Who are you with?’
Rachel almost jumped. ‘What?’ Then she realised what he meant. ‘Oh. I’m not. I mean—’
He looked surprised, his brows rising interrogatively. ‘You don’t eat with the guests?’
‘No,’ she admitted. It felt like owning up to her lack of sophistication all over again. She looked away.
He buffed his knuckles against the top of her arm.
‘No need to look like that. So where do you take your plunder?’
She looked up at that, laughing in quick surprise. At once his eyes narrowed, became intent. Rachel saw that the hand holding the mango clenched. Then slowly, as if in an act of will, he relaxed his fingers and gave her a slow, lazy smile.
‘Well? Do you climb a tree, or what?’ The laughing voice said he shared her amusement.
‘I’ve got a beach,’ Rachel admitted. Laughter always warmed her. The trouble was—and she had not learned enough yet to know how dangerous this was—it also took her off her guard.
‘Really? A whole beach?’
‘Well, no one else seems to use it.’
The pirate looked over his shoulder at the party again. He shrugged.
‘Surprise me,’ he said cynically. ‘Real sand, real seaweed?’ He shook his head. ‘Messy.’
Rachel chuckled.
For a moment those strange eyes widened. Then he seemed to shake himself. He looked down at the mango he was still holding. It was looking distinctly the worse for wear.
‘You can’t eat that.’ He summoned one of the house staff by some magic semaphore which Rachel was not quick enough to catch. As the man appeared at his elbow, he said, ‘Take this away, will you? And bring some food down to—’ He broke off and turned compelling eyes on Rachel. ‘Where is this magic beach of yours?’
It was at the far end of the estate, outside the cabin she had been allotted by the staff. There was no point in trying to hide the location. This was the servant who had shown her to her room three days ago. The man nodded.
‘Coconut Beach. I know. Gladly, sir.’
The pirate took the plate out of her suddenly nerveless fingers. ‘You won’t need that. Ben’s a professional. He’ll bring everything we need for a beach picnic, won’t you, Ben?’
‘I will, sir.’
Rachel did not at all like the look they exchanged. It was not far short of a grin. She suspected masculine conspiracy. It annoyed her. Worse, it made her uneasy.
But she could hardly prohibit one of Anders’ guests from visiting to one of Anders’ private beaches.
She said, ‘Maybe I won’t have anything to eat, after all. It’s hot.’
‘Plenty of shade on Coconut Beach,’ Ben said, thereby confirming Rachel’s suspicions about masculine solidarity.
The pirate chuckled. ‘Lots of ice in that picnic, Ben. Plenty of nice ice-cold drinks. Oh, and the lady likes fruit.’
The man nodded. ‘Leave it to me.’
He went. Rachel found she had an arm round her shoulders. It was warm and sinewy and it felt like iron. Her heart began to slam uncomfortably. She made a move to draw away and the arm tightened as she had somehow known it would. It set her very slightly off balance, so that she had to lean against him.
She looked up, uncertain. He was smiling down straight into her eyes. His expression made her head swim.
‘And now take me to the seaweed.’
He took her down the shallow steps of the terrace into the midday glare. Even in her confusion, Rachel was aware of the eyes watching them. For days her fellow guests had seemed barely aware of her existence. Now she felt as if she were in a spotlight.
The pirate seemed unaware. Or, if he was aware of it, he did not care. Still with that long arm round her, he skirted the pool area, with its spectacular apricot-veined marble, and swept her off into the shade of the casuarina trees.
He let her go then. It was not practical to walk along the uneven, sandy path side by side. But he did not stop touching her. The path through the casuarinas was dotted with fallen vegetation—things like cones and scaly brown twigs. He put out a hand to help her skirt them. He brushed away the feathery branches that drooped over the path, holding them back for her to pass. Once or twice, perhaps by accident, his hand brushed her loose hair.
It was flattering. It was also slightly alarming. Rachel ducked her head and made for the beach without daring to meet his eyes again.
They came out through a grove of trees whose name she did not know. They were slim-trunked and fanned out to make a loose canopy overhead. The sun made a sharply etched lace pattern of shadows beneath.
‘We could sit here. In the shade,’ said Rachel, holding back a little.
In the garden her swimsuit had felt modest until he’d looked at her. Out here, with no companion but the ocean and the pirate, she suddenly needed the covering of shadows.
He shook his head.
‘No, we can’t.’
‘But I’d rather.’ Her embarrassment felt like panic. Her voice came out too high, too defensive. ‘I can’t take too much sun. My skin—’
He looked at her. It was like a caress. It silenced her. The sexy smile grew.
‘Believe me, your skin would not like sitting under manchineel trees.’
‘What?’
He put a hand against one of the slim branches. It was a large hand, long-fingered and brown as a nut. For no reason she could think of, Rachel’s mouth dried.
‘Manchineel,’ he said. ‘Poison apple. Didn’t anyone warn you?’
Rachel shook her head. ‘What’s to warn?’
He frowned. ‘Well, the fruit’s poisonous, but you probably would not eat that. The leaves give off a sticky sap like lime trees. It’s not exactly poisonous but it can irritate the skin. Some people react badly. There have been nasty cases of blistering. The bad thing is to be under the trees when it rains. The rain washes the sap off the leaves onto the people taking shelter beneath.’
‘Oh.’ Rachel looked at the beach, powder-white in a sunlight so intense that it seemed to hum. The sky was so pale that it was hardly blue. There was not a cloud in sight. She put her head on one side. ‘An immediate danger, do you think?’
He stopped frowning and gave a bark of laughter. ‘Maybe not today.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind for the next time it rains.’
‘Bear it in mind for the next time you look at your contract,’ he said cynically. ‘Suing Anders can be lucrative.’
Rachel stared. ‘My contract?’
‘Working conditions are not supposed to include poisonous trees. Unreasonable hazard, if you were not warned.’
‘Working conditions?’
But he was not listening to her. He was running across the baking sand to the shade of the coconut palms. He looked fit and free and utterly at one with the wild landscape. Rachel followed more slowly.
So he had not realised she was a guest. In fact he had made exactly the same mistake about her as she had about him, when she’d first seen him. She thought about the other guests, their casual acceptance of every luxury, their brittle laughter and their dark, dark tans. He had recognised at once that she was a misfit. It was not really surprising, she thought wryly.
By the time she reached the tree he had found her sunblock and towel. He shook the towel free of sand and spread it for her ceremoniously. Rachel laughed and sat down. But the misunderstanding still worried her.
She said, ‘Look, I know I don’t fit in here—’
He interrupted. ‘Why should you? You’re twenty years younger than most of them.’
It was closer to thirty years, if she were honest. Most of the house guests were Anders’ contemporaries.
‘That’s not the point.’
He dropped down beside her and Rachel fell abruptly silent. She found quite suddenly that she could not remember what she had been going to say. The pirate sent her an amused, comprehending glance.
‘Oh, but it is. You’re not here to fit in. You’re here to help them convince themselves they’re having a good time.’ The cynicism was harsh.
Rachel shifted uncomfortably.
‘I’m not—’
‘Yes, you are.’
He stretched out, propping himself on one elbow, and looked at her. His eyes were not unkind but they had a remote expression. Once again Rachel had the overwhelming impression of weariness.
‘What do you think you’re here for? To run aerobics sessions? Guide them round the reef?’
She opened her lips to correct him but he waved the suggestion away before she could speak.
‘It doesn’t matter what it says in the contract. Your real job here is to be their audience.’
‘What?’
‘Such an innocent.’ He sounded almost sad.
Unexpectedly he cupped her face. It was a tender gesture, quite without sexual intent. But it set something fluttering under Rachel’s breastbone that she had never been aware of before. She drew back instinctively. His hand fell.
She rushed into speech, the words tumbling out, only half-aware of what she was saying. More aware of the small reverberations she could still feel in every nerve and muscle. Aware of the need to hide that schoolgirl vulnerability to his fleeting gesture.
‘You don’t understand. It’s not like that at all. They don’t want me as an audience. They don’t want me at all. I should never have come. The way they look at me.’
He said quietly, ‘You’re talking about envy.’
Rachel shook her head violently.
‘No, I’m not. You haven’t seen it.’ She remembered last night’s barbecue, the way people’s eyes had glazed over as she’d approached. ‘It’s as if I’m spoiling things somehow. Like I’m an alien or something—some creature that’s put a tentacle out of the sea and pulled itself up the beach to spoil the party.’
There was a little silence. Rachel realised she was shaking.
At last he said slowly, ‘Spoil the party?’
She made a helpless gesture. ‘I know it must sound stupid.’
‘No.’ He sat up.propping himself against the bark of the coconut palm. ‘No, it sounds very lifelike.’ She felt his reflective gaze on her face. ‘They really didn’t know what they were getting in you, did they?’
Before she could answer there were footsteps behind them. The manservant appeared at the top of the slope, bearing a rush basket.
The pirate looked up.
‘Our picnic,’ he said, amused.
He got lazily to his feet and went to receive it. He exchanged words with the man which Rachel could not catch. Then he brought the basket back to the shade of the tree.
‘He’ll pick it up later. All we have to do is eat, drink and enjoy ourselves.’ He looked at the pale crescent of sand and gave the first unshadowed smile she had seen from him. ‘Shouldn’t be too tough.’
It was not. They swam, then talked while Rachel unpacked the basket, finding delicacies wrapped in foil and cool-boxes. There was flaked crab in a spice that burnt the tongue, barbecued prawns soaked in lime, wonderful crisp bread, a cornucopia of exotic fruits, and wine—wine such as she had never imagined, sharp and sweet at the same time, the bottle icy cool in its astronaut suit.
The pirate did not eat much, she saw, though he watched her appreciation with lazy amusement.
‘It’s wonderful,’ she sighed at last, licking mango juice from her fingers.
He was propped against the tree.
‘You like your pleasures simple.’
‘Simple...’ She stared. Then, seeing he meant it, she burst out laughing. ‘And what would you call luxury?’
He was watching her with an odd, quizzical expression. He shrugged at her question.
‘Oh, something with linen tablecloths and at least three Michelin stars. You’d have to wear diamonds.’
Rachel choked. ‘I almost never wear my diamonds to swim,’ she said gravely.
His eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘Why is that?’
‘It attracts the sharks. Or so they tell me.’
For a moment the strong face tightened. ‘I’ve heard that too.’
Rachel looked at him. He had been a friendly, easy companion over lunch. So why was she reluctant to ask him about himself? He was self-evidently not the usual type of visitor to the Villa Azul, in spite of his familiarity with the names of the staff and the quality of the company. What was more, he had elected to spend half the day in her company. Her curiosity was perfectly understandable. Yet she sensed a reserve in him which would not permit invasion. And she did not think he would be kind if she intruded too far.
So she did not ask him who he was and what he was doing as Anders’ guest. Instead she said carefully, ‘Meet a lot of sharks, do you?’
His expression was inscrutable. ‘My share.’
Rachel looked away from him. They were facing a view of breathtaking beauty over the pale beach to the Caribbean Sea. In the sun it looked like a cloth of silver. The distant islands could have been painted on silk, as insubstantial as dreams.
She said softly, ‘Well, there are none here.’
There was a pause. He neither moved nor spoke. All she could hear was the steady lull of the waves against the shore and the cicadas in the trees behind them. Then he gave a long sigh.
He said slowly, as if something new had occurred to him and he was examining it, ‘You could just be right.’
He stretched. Out of the corner of her eye Rachel saw him move. Instinctively she tensed. Something in her had been waiting for him to make a move in her direction ever since she’d first set eyes on him. She had been aware of it, increasingly, all during the afternoon. It was exciting, but it troubled her all the same. She did not know what she was going to do about it.
But her wariness was unnecessary. He was only lowering himself to lie full-length under the palm. He crossed his arms behind his head and tipped his head back. He closed his eyes and made a noise indicative of total satisfaction.
His lips barely moving, he said, ‘Wake me up when it gets dark.’
CHAPTER THREE
RACHEL spent the next three hours swimming and sunbathing and reading her novel. The pirate slept deeply beside her. At first she was disconcerted, even slightly piqued. But then she remembered the terrible weariness she had sensed and kept herself as quiet as a mouse in order not to disturb his rest.
Eventually he stirred. Rachel put down her book and looked at him. His eyes opened, drifted shut, stayed closed for a moment. Then they flew wide open, a startled expression in their depths.
‘What—?’
Rachel laughed down at him gently. ‘You were tired. You ate. You slept.’
His eyes flickered and went dark. His expression became unreadable. He continued to look up at her. Rachel shifted a little, suddenly uncomfortable under that unblinking stare. She tore her eyes away and made a great business of tidying up the last of their picnic. She even tried a little mockery to ease that sudden tension.
‘You don’t snore.’
He still watched her. For a moment she thought he was not going to reply.
Then he said idly, ‘You reassure me.’
Still not looking at him, she wrapped glasses in the napkins Ben had provided and stowed them carefully. A thought occurred to her. She gestured to the picnic basket. ‘Would you like something?’
‘Well...’ His voice became a drawl. ‘Maybe I would, at that.’
Rachel was surprised but she peered inside the basket, inspecting the remains.
‘Cheese, breadfruit, pineapple—Oh!’
He had reached out a lazy hand and pulled at her shoulder. Not expecting it, Rachel fell back onto the sand in a tumble of flying hair. She was twisting her head, brushing hair from her eyes and mouth when the sky above her went dark.
‘Pass on the pineapple,’ said the pirate, leaning over her. He was amused. He bent forward.
She had been half braced for it all day but now that it was happening it came at her out of the blue. Really, she had the sophistication of a six-year-old, Rachel castigated herself. What was more, now the moment had arrived, she had not the faintest idea what to do about it.