Monique was thrilled with her suite the moment she was shown into the sitting room by Aletha, the maid, who had taken over from the porter who had brought up Monique's luggage.
Aletha said she would be keeping the apartment clean; she would also cook anything if Monique should decide to eat either lunch or dinner 'at home'. Monique decided there and then that the easiest thing would be to eat in the restaurant, except for breakfast, which she intended taking very early, as she was eager to take a long walk each morning before her duties with Miles began.
'Do you want me to help you unpack, Miss Thornton?' Aletha, rather buxom but pretty, with auburn hair that had obviously been bleached from black and then dyed, was already moving toward the largest of Monique's suitcases. 'I have to look after all the rooms on this floor but I can spare the time to help you whenever you want me to.' Her smile was easy and broad; she spoke as if a camaraderie had already sprung up between them.
'I can manage, thank you,' smiled Monique, wanting to be alone and explore the suite more fully. 'Is there a bell, so that I can send for you if necessary?'
'Yes, over the bed. I go off duty for several hours after lunch, but today I waited for you to come. Mr. Anderson told me to. And now I must wait for Mr. Marsden. He's living opposite.' She gestured. Monique felt happy that Miles would be so close. 'Do you want me to go now?'
'Yes, Aletha. I'll ring the bell if I need anything.'
For a moment the girl hesitated, her black eyes on the suitcase she had wanted to unpack. Monique smiled faintly, taking in the smart brown dress trimmed with beige and the polished shoes. When at last Aletha moved, it was with a stately gait, serene and slow.
'Very well, Miss Thornton.' There was a big smile on her lips but faint censure in her big, widely spaced eyes. 'But please do not forget to ring if you change your mind about the unpacking.'
'I won't,' promised Monique, hoping she had not hurt the Caymanian girl's feelings.
The door closed silently and Monique looked around appreciatively. However much she disliked Dirk Anderson, she had no fault to find with the accommodation he had provided for her. It was luxurious and modern, with a divider conveniently placed to separate the large room so that there was a dining area off which a door led to a small but light and modern kitchen. The divider was of wrought iron and draped with climbing plants rooted in attractive brass containers. There were a polished table and two chairs, a small sideboard on which was a gleaming tray with glasses and an ice bucket. In the sitting area were a crimson couch and matching armchair, a side table on which stood a potted plant and a tall-backed fabric-covered chair, standing in a corner against matching drapes. A tall bookcase had one shelf filled with paperbacks; the rest were empty, and Monique thought of the ornaments she had brought with her, small things of sentimental value which on impulse she had decided to pack. They would look attractive against the dark wood; they were mostly colourful china groups—antique, because they had belonged to her parents.
The bedroom was done in pale lilac and white, with several pictures on the wall—flowers and birds which Monique guessed were indigenous to the islands. The bathroom was avocado green and peach; the suite itself was green, and the drapes and carpet peach. A potted palm stood in one corner, and a pretty ivy trailed along the wide windowsill.
Monique glanced at her watch, then hastily began to unpack. She showered and put on a flowered cotton dress, low-necked and sleeveless. How hot it was! she thought, when at last she stepped on to the balcony. But she revelled in the sunshine after leaving dull, rainy weather behind in England. Her eyes wandered to the silvery curve of the beach where a few people were lying in chairs, some with huge straw hats pulled over their faces. Beyond the beach the luminous blue sea lay calm and smooth beneath the tropical sky, with the merest hint of a haze hovering above it. Away on the horizon the white sails of a yacht could be discerned, and then a speedboat crossed her vision. It seemed an unreal world to Monique as she let her eyes wander back to the extensive hotel gardens that ran down to the white sand shore. The colour was incredible: the crimson of the royal poincianas; the gold of allamandas beneath it; ixoras and passion flowers; an orchid tree still blooming, although its leaves were dying. Around the dazzling blue swimming pool brightly striped umbrellas lent welcome shade to scantily clad hotel guests as they sat at white wrought-iron tables and sipped cooling drinks or coffee. Yes, an unreal world, a world apart, for Monique had known such scenes as this only in films. She had never envied those people who could bask in the sunny places of the world, but she had often wished she had the means to take a holiday in some exotic place.
And now she was here for at least a year. If only Dirk Anderson had been more pleasant…. Her musings were cut off by a knock on the door, and she turned swiftly and entered the sitting room.
'It's me; Miles. Are you there, Monique?'
She sped to the door, opened it, and a moment later it was shut and she was in her fiancé's arms.
'Oh, but I'm glad to see you!' Monique lifted her face, inviting his kiss. 'It's been a long wait. Mr. Anderson kept you longer than he said he would.'
'Yes, I know, darling.' Miles bent to kiss her tenderly on the lips. 'There was so much to discuss,' he went on excitedly when, after a long moment, they drew themselves from each other's arms. 'Monique, my love, this is going to be a real challenge!'
'You're excited about it.' She smiled tenderly at him. 'Was he all right with you, Miles? I mean, he seemed so superior and distant.'
'You don't like him, do you?' He looked down at her with a slight frown. 'I'm of the opinion that he needs a great deal of understanding.'
'He seemed to take an instant dislike to me because I was young.'
'You look so much younger than you are.'
'Can I help that? In any case, why should he complain when, as he admitted, I'm to be working for you, not him?'
'He didn't exactly complain—' began Miles when Monique broke in with, 'He said he hadn't expected anyone so young to be the secretary of a man like you—and at that time he knew I was twenty-two.' Her voice was sharp, most unusual for her, and Miles drew her slender body to him again, lifted her face, and kissed her tenderly.
'Forget it, my darling,' he advised, 'as it isn't of any importance.'
'No, I suppose not. I shan't be seeing much of him, shall I?'
A pause followed the question before Miles said, 'He's invited us to dine with him this evening, here, in the hotel restaurant. He wants me to meet a friend of his who's an expert in interior design and who'll be working closely with me at various times.'
'I thought you were to be in sole charge of everything.'
'Of course I am. But the actual renovations don't include my being concerned in such things as colour schemes for rooms, drapes and linen and so forth. This young lady has earned herself a reputation, having carried out the interior design of several houses owned by prominent people on the island. She does everything—even to choosing the pictures for the walls and such things as crockery and cutlery—so that all the owners have to do is walk in and unpack their personal possessions.'
'It's a lady, you said?'
'That's right. Her name's Olivia Cartwright and she's English. Been here for just over a year.'
'Only a year—and yet she's done all that work?'
Miles looked inquiringly at her. 'What's wrong, Monique? You seem… well… annoyed about this young lady.'
Monique gave a small sigh. She had hoped to help her fiancé with ideas and suggestions, as she knew that she herself had a flair for interior design.
'Of course I'm not annoyed,' she hastened to deny as she noticed the crease of anxiety on his brow. 'So we must dine with Mr. Anderson. It's going to be difficult, on a social occasion like this, to keep our feelings for one another hidden, isn't it?'
'I hope we shall succeed,' was his fervent rejoinder as he glanced at his wristwatch. 'Is there anything you'd like to do before we get ready for dinner?'
'How long have we got?' Her glance strayed to the window and the verandah where she had stood viewing the hotel gardens and the ivory curve of the white sand beach.
'About an hour and a half. I said we'd be down at eight o'clock.'
'I'd love to stroll in the gardens and explore; then, if we have time, walk on the beach.' She lifted limpid blue eyes to his face; he caught his breath, then shook his head.
'Darling, how I wish it had been possible for us to be married before we came away. It would have been so wonderful to have had our honeymoon here.' Taking her in his arms, he bent his head to kiss her lips. 'If you only knew just how I desire you, Monique. I'd make love to you this very moment if you'd let me.'
She drew away, out of his arms, her cheeks suffused with colour.
'We couldn't have gotten married even if we'd wanted to,' she said in low and husky tones, 'because Mr. Anderson wanted a single, unattached man.'
Miles nodded, and stood leaning against the door-jamb while she went into the bedroom to comb her hair.
'You look lovely.' He held out his arms and she slipped eagerly into them, nestling her head against his shoulder. 'What is it, dear?' The deep concern in his voice coupled with the tender way he held her brought unwanted tears to Monique's eyes.
'I don't know,' she admitted with a sigh. 'I'm so silly, Miles. I love being here… and yet…'
'You're tired, sweet. You ought to have had a rest until I got here. Would you like to lie down now?' he added, but she shook her head.
'I want to go for a walk with you.'
They went out into acres of trees—dazzling royal poincianas and orchid trees, frangipanis and flame of the forest, fountains and manicured lawns. They wandered alongside an oleander hedge to pass the swimming pool and the round, thatched building called the Rattan Bar, until at length they reached the shore. Monique took off her shoes; the lapping waves were warm to her feet, the sand beneath them soft as talcum powder. The sun was beginning to set, and its slanting rays were already painting the sea with crimson. Soon the entire landscape would be flooded with saffron, then amber; and as the twilight fell swiftly across the radiant sky everything would be hushed in the pearl-gold interlude before the mothy darkness fell and stars sprinkled the Caribbean sky.
It was magical, and when the sun did eventually sink below the horizon Monique ventured to take Miles's hand; her lips curved tenderly as she felt the gentle pressure that was, in fact, a caress.
'It's time we were getting back.' Miles's voice was soft, as if he was loath to break the mystic silence of swiftly approaching dusk.
'Yes. Oh, but I wish we could stay out here all night!'
'Not safe, my love,' he warned, a hint of amusement in his good-natured voice. 'I'd take advantage of you—couldn't help myself.'
She managed a light laugh, but her face coloured. Miles's lovemaking was gentle, characterised by restraint and respect. How she loved him! And he was only joking, really, when he spoke that warning; Monique knew she could trust herself anywhere with him. Suddenly she wasn't thinking of him at all, but of another man altogether, the tall, distinguished man with the sprinklings of grey in his hair and tiny age-lines at the corners of piercing, slate-grey eyes. Monique decided that although it would seem he had little interest in women, she wouldn't care to find herself alone with him in some remote, uninhabited place.
'I'll wait for you in the lobby,' Miles was saying, and she cast the formidable Dirk Anderson from her mind, but only temporarily. 'Wear that midnight-blue dress you had on the night we dined at the Dun Cow. You look lovely in it!'
She sighed and nodded, again thinking of Dirk Anderson and wishing they didn't have to dine with him. It would have been so wonderful to dine alone, just her and Miles, on their first night in this island paradise.
'What time shall we meet?'
'About ten minutes to eight. We don't want to keep Mr. Anderson waiting.'
Monique was alone in her bedroom a short while later, vexed because her uneasiness had returned and she could not account for it. However, she was able to look radiant when, at the appointed time, she met her fiancé in the lobby. Her face was flushed and happy, her eyes sparkling and her golden hair gleaming.
'You're a sight for sore eyes!' exclaimed Miles, his adoring glance sweeping over her from head to foot. 'Why should I be so lucky as to have an angel like you?'
'I'm lucky, too,' she smiled.
'We're to meet Mr. Anderson in the bar, so we'd better go there at once.
Dirk was already seated in a deep armchair, a dark-haired, incredibly beautiful girl reclining in the chair opposite him. Monique paused automatically, struck by a scene which was reminiscent of an advertisement from a glossy magazine—an immaculately dressed, stern-faced man looking superior, and a wide-eyed, seductive female, impeccably attired and coiffured, regarding each other intently over the rims of their cocktail glasses. An advertisement for some expensive French wine—or was it a liqueur? Monique could not remember. She did remember the background of the gleaming bar and sparkling bottles on mirror-backed shelves, elegantly dressed people and a dark barman filling a glass with ice.
'Anything wrong?' Her fiancé's puzzled voice recalled her and she went forward. Dirk Anderson, his tan accentuated by the white tropical suit he wore, rose on seeing her, and something totally unfamiliar touched Monique's senses and affected her nerve-ends as her eyes met his. She felt caught, hypnotised, unable to drag her gaze from the piercing scrutiny to which he was subjecting her. There might have been no one else in the room; the real world seemed to fade and with it, all sense of time and motion. All was silent and still as Monique, her head tilted back, remained trapped by the power and magnetism of this bronzed foreigner who himself seemed unable to stir even an eyelid.
An age elapsed before those grey eyes moved slowly from her face to her throat, then lower, where they rested for what seemed an unconscionable length of time on the firm, delectable contours of her breasts before sliding to her waist, its neatness accentuated by the princess line of her dress with its tight-fitting bodice and flowing skirt. His eyes continued their exploration until they finally came to rest on her dainty, peach-tipped toenails. Monique sensed, rather than saw, the impatient movement of her fiancé at her side; she saw the other girl lean forward to place her glass on the table and was conscious of a pair of brown eyes turning to look at Miles.
The actions of the other two released Monique's tension and she found herself deliberately breaking the silence… and the spell which Dirk Anderson had cast upon her. She marvelled at the calm quality of her voice as she said, 'Good evening, Mr. Anderson. I hope we haven't kept you waiting?'
'You know you haven't,' was his instant and disconcerting reply. He flipped a hand, indicating his companion, and when the introductions were made Monique and Miles sat down. 'What would you like to drink, Miss Thornton?'
'A dry sherry, please.'
'And you, Mr. Marsden?'
'The same.' Miles's voice was short and Monique cast him a swift glance. He seemed angry, she thought, but the impression was dispelled almost at once as, addressed by Olivia, he turned to smile at her.
Dirk ordered the drinks and for the next twenty minutes or so the conversation hinged on the plantation house and the projected renovations. Monique was left out, and she just sat there listening, at the same time trying to assess the character of the other woman, to whom she had already taken a dislike. She was far too sophisticated, both in her manner and her speech; there was an affectation about her that jarred, and a consciousness of her own attractions. It was soon plain that she had a penchant for Dirk Anderson, yet her gaze, beneath mascaraed lashes, was openly inviting when it rested on Miles's handsome face. The purring intonation of her voice when she spoke to Miles angered Monique, as did the fluttering of those long, curling eyelashes. By the time they went in for dinner, Monique hated the idea of this girl working closely with Miles.
The food itself was an adventure, and Monique regretted once again that she and Miles had not been able to dine alone. They sat at a table for four in front of a picture window framing a scene of unmatched beauty—the illuminated gardens and the fountain, the pool, lit from underneath, the palms and casuarinas on the beach, waving in the breeze, with the dark unfathomable sea in front and the infinity of the mysterious vault of the heavens above, argent with moonlight and spangled with stars. The master chef provided a gourmet menu of delicious seafood served by impeccably dressed waiters.
Dirk's eyes were on her when she lifted hers from the lobster creole she was eating. To her surprise, he said softly, 'What are you thinking about, Miss Thornton?'
She glanced at Miles, who was engrossed in conversation with Olivia, sitting opposite him with Dirk on her right. Neither seemed to have heard the question he had asked because they never looked either at Dirk or Monique.
'I was thinking how efficient and courteous the waiters are.'
'I see nothing out of the ordinary in that,' he commented, and it was plain that he took perfection for granted.
Monique, piqued by what she considered a snub, lifted her chin and retorted, though in a subdued tone of voice, 'In that case, I ought not to have passed the remark.'
The dark grey eyes kindled, yet he held back any rejoinder he had thought of making. Instead, he glanced at Olivia and asked if she wanted her wine glass filled. The glass was still more than half-full, and Monique knew she had been snubbed for a second time. How much more subtle of Dirk to ignore her remark, turning his full attention to Olivia, than to have retaliated in a more direct manner.
Monique disliked him more than ever and it came both as an annoyance and a shock when, after the main course was finished, he stood up and asked her to dance. She looked at Miles, but he was still deep in conversation with Olivia, discussing various aspects of the renovations, and with a feeling of being grossly neglected Monique stood up and slipped into Dirk's arms. He swung her right onto the floor, and as the moments passed Monique found herself elevated in spirit, forgetting her grievance as she followed her partner's lead with a perfection she would never have believed possible. For although she and Miles danced superbly together, she had always been faintly nervous when any other man asked her to dance. She had not expected to glide like this in perfect harmony with a man whose dancing was as superlative as everything else about him.
She was vitally conscious of the warmth of his hand on her back, the strong clasp of his fingers enclosing her small white hand.
Automatically, she looked, noting the contrast his deeply tanned hand provided, and then she lifted her face to look into his. Only the eyes moved, staring down at her with an unfathomable expression in their depths. Monique felt strange, feathery quivers running along her spine, was bewildered by the rapid beating of her heart, the racing of her pulses. He drew her very close, so that she could not possibly be unaware of the whipcord hardness of his frame, the rock wall of his thighs. Instinctively, she tried to put some small distance between their bodies, but it was his intention that she should not succeed. The mastery of his strength riled her, yet apart from actually struggling with him she had no alternative other than to submit meekly to his will. She was disconcerted, too, by his long, unwavering stare, his eyes expressionless beneath the hooded lids.
'I think we ought to go back to the table,' she murmured awkwardly. 'The dessert will be waiting—'
'The dessert will not be served until I have sat down.' He tightened his hold, pulling her close to his chest in order to miss a collision with a couple whose dancing was far too lively and fast-moving for the small dance space. 'How do you like your rooms?' asked Dirk a moment later.
'They're lovely. Thank you for the trouble you must have gone to to get them like that.'
'They haven't taken much alteration. I did have the kitchens put in, although I rather think you won't really need them. You'll find it much easier to dine in the restaurant.'
'I thought I'd like to have breakfast on my verandah.'
'You could, but you can still have it brought up.'
Monique made no comment, and for a few minutes they danced in silence, enjoying the rhythm of the music being played by a local band which, Dirk had mentioned over dinner, came to the Latana four times a week.
When the music eventually stopped, Dirk led Monique back to the table. Miles looked up, a smile on his lips. Olivia's expression was very different. Her eyes were narrowed and glinting, her mouth compressed.
'I didn't notice you get up to dance, Dirk,' she said in a brittle voice.
'I don't expect you did. You and Mr. Marsden were in earnest conversation.' Dry, the tone, and enigmatic, yet there was a subtle inflection that sent Monique wondering. She could be wrong, but she rather thought that those two were having an affair and that they had recently had some sort of a disagreement.
After the dessert Miles asked Monique to dance; she sighed as they moved around the floor, naturally dwelling on those other times, back home, when they would always dance cheek to cheek. Not now. They had to act as if they were nothing more to one another than boss and secretary.
Monique's thoughts wandered to the dance she had shared with Dirk Anderson, the awareness of his hands and body and the tantalising hint of after-shave that almost had the tang of the sea, fresh and clean and pervasive.
'You're quiet, darling.' Miles leant back to look at her. 'Are you enjoying this evening?'
Her eyes became perceptive. 'Why do you ask, Miles? Is it because you're doubtful?'
He frowned, seeming, for a space, to be lost for an answer. 'I can't fuss over you, darling, you know that.'
'I didn't expect you to fuss, but I did want you to bring me into the conversation now and then.'
'I did realise how it was, believe me, and I hated to think of your being out of it all, but we were talking about the renovations—'
'I don't mean at first, when the three of you were talking, but later, when you were so absorbed with that Olivia. You didn't even know I'd left the table.'
'Yes, I did, Monique, and I felt rotten that I hadn't thought of asking you to dance. But Olivia was talking so much—' He stopped and then added, in quiet and gentle tones, 'Let it drop, dearest. I'll come to your room when we've left these two and we can have an hour together.'
'I'd like that,' she responded. 'Oh, Miles, I do wish it was all over and we were going home!' She was almost in tears, for a terrible fear was taking possession of her. 'I wonder what's to be the end of all this!'
'Monique… sweetheart, you're tired. It's been a long, long day. I shall tell Mr. Anderson that we're both tired and want to say good night.'
That made Monique feel better, and once they were in her pretty sitting room and she was in her fiancé's arms, she did wonder what had possessed her to act the way she had.
'Better now?' Miles kissed her tenderly, on her lips and cheeks and temples. 'I must go, darling,' he was saying an hour later. 'Have a good rest and don't get up too early, promise me.'
A lovely smile fluttered on her lips. 'I promise. I was intending to get up early, have my breakfast on the verandah and then take a walk along the beach, but I'm afraid the walk will have to wait for another time.'
She stood in the middle of the floor as he went from the room, her pensive gaze fixed on the door for a long moment after he had closed it.
This dejection, this churned-up feeling in the pit of her stomach… There must be a good reason for her fears, if only she could put her finger on it. But she had no starting point, nothing whatsoever on which to base the anxieties which had begun at home and were not merely returning but becoming so strong that she found herself considering the idea of asking Miles to throw up the post and return with her to England.
