Читать книгу Treacherous Longings - Anne Mather, Anne Mather - Страница 8

QUINN sat on the veranda of the Old Rum House, drinking a glass of the strongest punch he had ever tasted. And he needed it, he thought ruefully. God, imagine that! Meeting Julia Harvey herself as soon as he stepped off the boat. Hector would say it was a bloody miracle. And it was. He just hadn’t come to terms with it yet.

Inside the hotel he could hear the preparations for the evening meal getting under way, and there was a delicious aroma of foreign herbs and spices. Mr Hope—Zeke—had asked if fresh papaya and a conch chowder would be suitable for supper, but Quinn barely remembered what he had said in response. His thoughts had still been focused on the familiar, yet unfamiliar woman he had met on the quay, and he hoped he hadn’t looked as stupefied as he’d felt.

Thank God he hadn’t had to make conversation with the other guests, he reflected now. There were only two of them: a young couple from England, Zeke had said, who’d arrived a couple of days ago, and Quinn suspected that they were here on their honeymoon. They were seated on a couch at the other end of the veranda, murmuring together in low, intimate voices, and every now and then there was a pregnant silence that spoke volumes for itself. They made Quinn feel unbelievably old, and a rather large gooseberry into the bargain.

Not that he wanted company, he reminded himself, taking another stiffening mouthful of the rum. Right now he was having to cope with the fact that Hector’s information hadn’t been wrong, and that was not something he could take lightly.

Even now he found it incredible to believe that the woman he had seen earlier was the Julia Harvey he had known. Oh, she had recognized him, so it had to be her, but she was nothing—nothing—like he had expected.

Yet what had he expected? He’d hardly believed Hector’s story to begin with, and he’d been half prepared to find it was all a wild-goose chase. But what the hell? A trip to the Caribbean in February was no hardship and, in spite of Susan’s aversion to the idea, he had been curious.

And now? Now he didn’t know what he felt. Meeting her like that had certainly robbed the situation of any fantasy, but he was no longer sure he wanted to pursue it. She had changed so much, and although she had been perfectly polite he could tell he was the last person she had wanted to see.

His own reaction had been no less astounded. It was like being confronted by a dinosaur when you’d believed they were extinct. Not that Julia looked like a dinosaur. Her appearance was unique. He couldn’t get over how young she looked—how unsophisticated, how natural.

How old was she? he wondered. She had to be thirty-five at least. But she didn’t look it. She looked to be in her mid-twenties. She’d evidently stopped cutting her hair, and the sun had streaked its silvery blondeness with shades of gold and honey. She’d put on some weight, too, though that suited her. And her skin was tanned now, instead of the magnolia-white that the studios had demanded.

He took another swig of his punch and shook his head, as if by doing so he’d make some sense of the turmoil in his brain. Julia Harvey—and not just Julia Harvey but her son as well. For God’s sake, had her disappearance been due to nothing more than the fact that she’d got married? And if so, why hadn’t she just announced the fact? She wouldn’t have been the first woman to give up a successful career for love.

For love...

His glass was empty, and rather than disturb his amorous neighbours Quinn picked it up and ambled into the foyer of the small hotel. The reception desk was unmanned, but he could hear the sound of glasses clinking to his right, and when he turned in that direction he found himself in the subdued lighting of a bar.

This part of the hotel was evidently used by the locals, and there were one or two of them there already, propping up the bar and filling the air around them with the aromatic smoke of a rather doubtful tobacco. A radio was tuned to a calypso station, and Zeke himself was serving his customers. He looked cheerfully in Quinn’s direction when he came in, his mouth widening knowingly as he saw his empty glass.

‘You want some more of that, Mr Marriott?’ he enquired, indicating the glass, but although Quinn was tempted he shook his head. He had the suspicion that Zeke and his cronies encouraged visitors to partake rather too freely of the local spirit, and then got a good-natured enjoyment out of the hangovers they cultivated. Quinn had no desire to spend tomorrow nursing his head and, setting his glass on the bar he accepted a Mexican beer instead.

‘Dinner be ready pretty soon,’ Zeke declared, running a damp cloth over the counter. ‘You hungry, Mr Marriott?’

Quinn grimaced. In truth, he was tired. Back home, it was already well after midnight, and although he’d tried to doze on the plane from London weariness, and a certain sense of anticlimax, was getting to him. This wasn’t the way he had anticipated this assignment to go, and the knowledge that the initiative had somehow been taken from him niggled at his conscience.

Why hadn’t he challenged her when she’d spoken to him? Why hadn’t he admitted, there and then, that he had come here to find her? She was probably suspicious, so why hadn’t he told her? Instead of making some inane remark about enjoying a rest?

But, ridiculously enough, she had been the last person he had expected to see at that moment. His mind had been full of the problems he faced in trying to find her, and meeting her on the quay like that had left him feeling stunned. Much like the first time he’d seen her. She’d stunned him then as well...

He gave an inward groan. How could he have been such an idiot? She’d completely mangled his brain. He’d stood there feeling as immature and callow as the youth he used to be, and by the time he’d pulled himself together she’d gone.

‘Going to get some scuba-diving in while you’re here, Mr Marriott?’

Zeke’s enquiring voice brought him out of his reverie, and, realising he was being rude, Quinn made a determined effort to gather his scattered wits.

‘I—why, maybe,’ he conceded, still not sure how best to handle this. He knew Hager had made no secret of his enquiries, but Quinn preferred a more subtle approach. If Julia was living anonymously on San Jacinto, she had her reasons. And until he’d had the chance to talk to her—properly—he’d rather not advertise why he had come.

He tried to remember everything Hagar had told him. He’d said he’d been told there was no Julia Harvey living on the island, but that there was an Englishwoman, who might have been mistaken for her. Unfortunately, he hadn’t said what she was called. Just that she wasn’t who they were looking for, so he’d abandoned the search.

Of course, Hector had been of the opinion that whoever Hagar had spoken to had been lying. That you couldn’t remain hidden all these years without having an efficient means of defence. Oh, God! Quinn’s lips twisted. What if Neville had actually met the lady without recognising her? She certainly looked nothing like those old pictures. But he wouldn’t like to be in Hager’s shoes if Hector found him out.

‘South Point,’ Zeke put in helpfully now. ‘That’s where you’ll find the best diving. Harry—that’s Harry at Harry’s Hire ‘n Dive—can give you all the gear you need. You’re planning on hiring a Moke, aren’t you? You’ll need one to get around.’

‘Oh—I guess so.’ In truth, Quinn hadn’t given a lot of thought to how he was going to get about the island.

‘I thought so.’ Zeke gave him an approving nod. ‘Another beer, Mr Marriott?’

* * *

In spite of the conviction that he wouldn’t sleep, Quinn actually slept very well. He opened his eyes the next morning feeling considerably rested, and apart from a slightly muggy head there were no unpleasant after-effects of the rum punch.

A shower in the tiny bathroom disposed of the mugginess, and by the time he’d pulled on narrow black jeans and a matching T-shirt he felt ready to face the day. He even felt more optimistic this morning, though he had yet to decide what his next move would be.

One thing was certain: whatever Julia had thought of his behaviour the night before, he was no longer the impressionable teenager he had been ten years ago. She might believe she could still intimidate him—and who could blame her?—but she would soon realise that he was a man now; he wasn’t so easily dazzled. Besides, his experience of women was more extensive these days. He was certainly not the idealist he’d been before.

He phoned Susan before going down for breakfast. Although it was only seven o’clock in San Jacinto, it was lunchtime in London, and he caught her at the apartment, before she left for Courtlands.

As soon as his mother had learned what he was planning, she had insisted that Susan spend the weekend with them. Quinn suspected that part of Lady Marriott’s insistence was due to a desire to hear more about it than the little he’d told her, and, if Susan was still in Suffolk when he got back from the Caribbean, she was fairly assured that he’d come and fetch her. And incidentally tell his mother what had happened on his trip.

Isabel Marriott was still endearingly loyal where Julia was concerned. She had always defended her decision to drop out of the limelight, and although she had been disappointed that she hadn’t been taken into Julia’s confidence she had always maintained that the younger woman must know what she was doing.

‘It must be a man,’ she had confided to Quinn wistfully, unaware how that news had affected her son. ‘It’s always a man, darling, when someone like Julia abandons her friends and family. What other reason could there be? I just wonder who he is.’

Which was why Quinn had felt bound to tell her what he was doing. And, like her son, Isabel had had reservations as to the propriety of his mission. She was of the opinion that if Julia wanted to remain anonymous she should be allowed that privilege. She had never liked the part of his work that placed him in the category of investigator. She’d have been far happier if he were like his brother, Matthew, content to breed his fox-hounds and supervise the estate.

‘Darling!’ Susan answered his call at the first ring, and he felt a momentary sense of guilt for not having made the call the night before. But after seeing Julia he’d been in no mood to be sociable, and he’d consoled himself with the thought that it had really been too late. ‘Did you have a good journey?’

Quinn assured her that he had, and then went on, ‘I’m just about to go down for breakfast. It’s a beautiful morning, I’ve got a view of the Sound from my window, and the temperature’s in the seventies already.’

‘Lucky you!’ Susan’s tone was just faintly hostile. ‘I wish I could have gone with you.’

‘So do I,’ agreed Quinn smoothly, though that wasn’t strictly true. But they’d had this argument before, and it was easier to be sympathetic when there was no chance of her taking him at his word.

‘Do you mean it?’

Evidently the distance had mellowed her mood, and Quinn took the opportunity to work on it. ‘Of course I do!’ he exclaimed. ‘But it is a business trip, Suse. I don’t expect to have much free time. Hector wants me back in the office on Wednesday.’

‘I suppose.’ Susan sounded philosophical now. ‘So, have you had any success with your enquiries?’

‘I only got in last night,’ declared Quinn evenly, aware of the equivocation. ‘Um—when are you leaving for Courtlands?’

‘In about half an hour, I think.’ Susan paused. ‘Will you ring me there later?’

‘Well, maybe not today,’ said Quinn evasively. ‘I don’t know where I’ll be, do I?’ That, at least, was true. ‘I’ll try and ring at this time tomorrow. If you’re out, I can always leave a message.’

‘Where will I be?’ exclaimed Susan, her irritation evident again. ‘Unless you think Matthew might be persuaded to run away with me. That is if I can prise him away from his blessed kennels, of course. I just hope your mother has invited some other guests for the weekend. If not, I’m going to have a pretty boring time.’

Quinn made some reassuring comment, and then, excusing himself on the grounds that he was wasting Hector’s time and money, he brought the call to an end. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk to Susan, he told himself. It was just indicative of his impatience with what he had to do.

He breakfasted on the veranda, alone. There was no sign of his fellow guests this morning, but that didn’t surprise him. If they were on honeymoon, food was unlikely to trouble them. It would probably be around lunchtime before they put in an appearance.

A couple of hot rolls, spread with apricot conserve, and several cups of strong black coffee later, Quinn’s spirits felt somewhat fortified. He’d refused the blueberry pancakes the young waitress had been sure he’d choose in favour of the lighter meal. In truth, he didn’t have much of an appetite either. He felt empty, it was true, but with apprehension, not hunger.

Zeke appeared as he was leaving the table, and it crossed his mind again that the hotel proprietor could probably save him a lot of effort. But Neville had said that the woman he’d approached lived at the other end of the island, and until he’d checked that out he was loath to state his intentions.

‘You going swimming, Mr Marriott?’ Zeke asked, with friendly enquiry, and Quinn used the opportunity to check out the whereabouts of Harry’s Hire ‘n Dive. Whether he was going to be successful or not, he definitely needed some transport, and a Moke sounded ideal for his purposes.

Half an hour later, he was bouncing up the steep hill out of San Jacinto town. The rear wheels of the little vehicle seemed to leave the road altogether in places, and he was forced to concentrate on his driving to keep it on the track.

All the same, he couldn’t help noticing how delightful the little town looked from this angle. Pink-splashed roofs, gardens lush with greenery, all jostling for space among hedges bright with scarlet hibiscus. There was an abundance of light and colour, of scents and smells, and exotic spices, teasing his senses with their sharp aroma. Even without the sparkling waters of the Sound the scene would have been dazzling, and the heat from an unguarded sun was already hot upon his shoulders.

Yet, for all that, there was still an unsettling sense of apprehension in his gut. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was disturbed at the prospect of seeing Julia again. To succeed where Hager had failed, he assured himself grimly. He refused to allow any other reason for the turmoil inside him.

The road levelled out, following the curve of the bay for some distance, allowing him to admire the rugged coastline. Here and there there were coves, surely inaccessible except by boat, with sand as white and untouched as when they had been formed. He could see coral in rocky outcrops and glimpse seaweed beneath the waves. It would obviously be a haven for tropical fish, and he wished he were only looking for somewhere to swim.

Where the bay curved away towards the north the road divided. A signpost indicated North Shore and Palm Springs in one direction, and West Bay and South Point in the other. And, although Hager had said the woman he’d spoken to lived at the other end of the island, he hadn’t said which one.

Quinn gnawed his lip. North Shore and Palm Springs didn’t ring any bells, but South Point did. That was where Zeke had said the best diving was to be had. At least if he went that way he’d have an excuse for discussing it if he was wrong.

The road turned inland for a distance, winding among trees for some of the way, giving him a brief respite from the glare of the sun. It was hot and getting hotter, and he guessed he should have brought some protection before he left. His skin was fairly resilient, but it was used to an English winter. This transfer to a semi-tropical climate was going to take some getting used to.

By the time he passed through the village of West Bay, he was experiencing a curious feeling of presentiment. This was the right way; he was sure of it. A kind of sixth sense was warning him that he was nearing his goal.

There were some children playing outside a kind of store, and, stopping the car, he decided it was worth a try to ask the store’s proprietor if he knew where this woman Hager had mentioned lived. He knew there was only one Englishwoman living on the island, and if it was the right area a shopkeeper would know her whereabouts.

But the man in the store was decidedly unhelpful. Even though Quinn bought a bottle of some obscure suntan lotion, and chatted about the weather, the man only shook his head when he mentioned Julia and the boy.

‘San Jacinto gets many visitors, sir,’ he replied, completely ignoring the fact that Quinn had said she lived here. ‘Have a nice day,’ he added politely as his customer went out of the door.

The children—there were about half a dozen of them—regarded him solemnly when he emerged. Quinn guessed they’d been examining his car in his absence, but the Moke was hardly a cause for concern.

‘Hi,’ he said, unused to speaking to children but willing to take any chance that was offered to him. ‘Do any of you know a white boy who lives hereabouts?’

One of the children, a girl of perhaps ten or eleven, appointed herself their spokesperson. ‘Our mother says we haven’t to speak to strangers,’ she declared smugly, before any of the younger children could chime in, and Quinn sighed.

‘Oh, right.’ He hid his exasperation beneath a bland smile, and went to get back into the car. He would have to try somewhere else. He might even be lucky enough to find a local who didn’t view him with suspicion.

One of the younger children, an attractive boy with his hair in corn rows, came to stand beside the Moke. ‘Why do you want to know?’ he asked, ignoring the older girl’s admonitions. ‘Do you know him?’

‘Not exactly.’ But he felt a little more optimistic suddenly. ‘I’m a friend, of—of his mother,’ he added quickly, before they could think that sounded odd. ‘I spoke to her yesterday, as a matter of fact. When she met the boy off the ferry.’

‘He comes home for the weekend,’ offered a sweet-faced little girl who looked about five years old, and the boy gave her a scowling glance. ‘Well, he does,’ she added defiantly, undaunted by his stare. ‘Jake always comes home on Fridays. And you know Mrs Stewart always goes to meet him.’

‘Butt out, Celestine,’ retorted the boy, who Quinn now suspected was her brother. ‘Em’s just told us we don’t talk to strangers. You should learn to keep your big mouth shut.’

‘So should you, then,’ said Celestine, her eyes filling with tears which Quinn was uncomfortably aware that he had caused.

‘I’m older than you,’ declared the boy, as if that were some excuse. ‘And I’m not a silly girl. Everyone knows girls don’t know what’s right from what’s wrong.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ Quinn felt obliged to intervene, and, fishing a handful of dollars out of his pocket, he thrust them into the boy’s hand. ‘Buy some sweets,’ he said. ‘For all of you. And thanks for your help, Celestine. I really do appreciate it.’

‘But you don’t know where Jake lives,’ protested the little girl as the older girl, Em, took the notes out of her brother’s hand and started to count them. ‘It’s called Nascence Bay,’ she added, ignoring her brother’s fury. ‘Well,’ she added, turning to him and looking at the money clasped in Em’s hand, ‘it’s only fair.’

Feeling like the biggest sleaze around, Quinn decided it was time to leave. God, was this what he was reduced to? Quizzing kids for information? But he noticed Em didn’t give him the money back. Evidently her scruples didn’t stretch that far.

And, thanks to Celestine, he found the entrance to the Stewart property ten minutes later. The name on the postbox, Renaissance Bay, would have meant nothing to him without Celestine’s childish directions. Though, now he came to think of it, it really was quite apt.

There were no gates to bar his way, but the dark tunnel of trees that edged the drive was an obvious deterrent to uninvited guests. Besides, if he hadn’t known that there was a dwelling at the end of it, he might have thought the narrow track could lead anywhere. To Renaissance Bay, perhaps? he reflected wryly. After all, that was what the sign had said.

And, in spite of the determination that had brought him here, Quinn couldn’t help feeling a little uneasy now. What if her husband was there? What if he threatened violence? Would he still persist in his objective if he had to use threats to get her to talk to him?

There was something unpleasant about the whole deal—but he had known that before he’d left England. And if he hadn’t done it Hector would have found someone else who would. Someone without his fastidiousness, without his scruples. He was here to ease her passage, whatever that might be.

The trees gave way to a battery of thorn and hydrangea, and then, suddenly, a long, low bungalow came into view. The reason he hadn’t been able to see it sooner was because the land in front of the house sloped away towards the shoreline, and all but the roof of the villa was protected by the ridge that rose behind it.

Quinn’s nerves tightened. What a perfect place for a house, he thought. What an incredible hideaway. No wonder no one had found her. Without foreknowledge, he would never have known where to look.

A shadow moved as he parked the Moke in the shade of a clump of palms. But it was only a fat black cat, which fled away into the shrubbery. No watchdog, then, he decided drily. Yet he had the distinct feeling of being observed.

He cut the Moke’s engine and looked around. It was possible, he supposed, that she was expecting him. That comment yesterday evening about his being on holiday could have been a bluff. And he’d done little to dispel it, struck almost dumb by her appearance.

His first impressions were that someone had taken a great deal of trouble to tame this semi-tropical paradise. The gardens surrounding the house were smoothly lawned, with colourful herbaceous borders and crazy-paving. There was a prettily arched pergola that was covered with flowering vines, and the scent of lime and citrus from a cluster of fruit trees.

A footway led through the pergola, apparently round to the back of the villa. Quinn hesitated, wishing someone would come and confront him, but no one did. He felt uncomfortably like the intruder he was, but he couldn’t stay here indefinitely. For all his uneasiness, he had to make a move.

Behind the villa a paved patio was strewn with terracotta pots of scarlet geraniums. There were flowers everywhere, tumbling out of stone planters and suspended in hanging-baskets. Even the pillars of the veranda that opened from the house were liberally covered with bougainvillaea, its pink and white confection like icing on a cake.

Beyond the patio, and the garden that enclosed it, he could hear the muted thunder of the ocean. An almost white beach, flanked by palm trees, fringed the blue-green waters of a lagoon. The waves crashed on the teeth of a reef some way out, but only creamed in gentle ribbons on the sand.