Spell of the Island (6 page)

‘I must go,’ she said, and her voice was far from steady. Surely she wasn’t following in her sister’s footsteps and falling in love with the creature!

‘I’m coming along, too,’ he supplied as he picked up his own wrap. ‘Did I tell you that dinner tonight will be at eight?’

‘I knew it was; Louise told me you always dine at eight.’

‘Louise. . . .’ A frown touched his brow. ‘Yes, she’s coming too,’ he added as if the recollection had just come to him.

Emma’s nerves tensed. Louise had believed it was
she
whom Paul wanted . . . but Emma was now sure it was herself. Why? Of course! He was still hoping she would accept his offer of an affair—an affair that would result in her becoming richer than when she arrived here. Some imp of mischief prompted her to say, slanting him a provocative look, ‘You mentioned wanting to have—an affair with me. Er—how long was it to be?’

The fine lips curved in a half smile.

‘You told me to go to hell, remember? And now—are you considering my offer?’ Something faded in his voice and suddenly his mouth was tight. The eyes glinted . . . at some secret thought? Or was he angry with her?

‘I was simply curious to know how soon you would tire of me.’

He looked narrowly at her and said, ‘What’s the idea? Why the sudden interest in my proposal?’

‘Oh, I’m not thinking of accepting,’ she assured him, then frowned at what appeared to be a slackening of the taut facial muscles. This man certainly was a puzzle to her by these changes of expression. Emma wished she could understand him. ‘I merely wanted to know how long you would have—er—found me attractive.’

‘That,’ he replied tersely, ‘is something one cannot predict. However, as long as you reject my offer there seems no logical reason for discussing it, does there?’ He was staring down into her face; she felt like a spanked child and consequently, subsided into silence. They were walking along the golden sands towards the small gate through which they would enter the chateau grounds. Before they reached it, Paul stopped, tilted her chin and said, ‘You can begin calling me Paul, seeing that I have chosen to call you Emma.’

She coloured delicately, thinking of Louise and knowing she would be furious at this intimacy.

‘I can’t do that,’ she stated firmly, ‘nor do I want you to call me by my first name.’

‘I already have and shall continue to do so.’ He held her chin more tightly. ‘You will do as I ask,’ he told her, the warning light in his eyes matching the taut flexing of the jaw.

‘But . . . Louise . . .’

‘It has nothing to do with your sister. You know how I feel about her—’

‘Then please feel the same way about me!’ Emma
released herself, only to realise that her skin was still glowing from the warmth of his touch. She ought to get away. This dense emotion was in itself a warning, and she would be a fool not to heed it.

‘Tonight at dinner I shall correct you if you dare address me as Monsieur Fanchette,’ was his parting shot when presently they entered the hall of the house, each to go their separate ways.

Louise was giving Jeremy his tea when Emma went into the room set aside as a nursery.

“Hello!’ he said with a bright smile. ‘Will you read me a story when I get into bed?’ His chubby face was bright and cheerful, his grey eyes sparkling. A charming little boy who didn’t ask for much at all—and it was as well, was the grim thought which followed. For Louise gave him precious little and his uncle even less.

‘Where have you been?’ Louise wanted to know. ‘You’ve been gone for well over an hour.’

‘I went for a swim.’

‘You did?’ The blue eyes were curious. ‘Paul went out there wearing a beach wrap. Did you see him—I mean, was he swimming at the same time as you?’

Emma nodded, said noncommittally, ‘He was there, yes, but I came out. I never stay in for long as you know.’

‘He spoke to you?’

Emma forced a little laugh and said,

‘What is this—a cross-examination?’ She turned to Jeremy. ‘What story would you like? Pirates again?’

‘Ooh, yes, please!’

Louise was eyeing her curiously, and she was bound to feel uncomfortable. She felt a sort of
traitor, too, which was ridiculous since it was scarcely her fault if the man Louise loved was finding her sister attractive. Nevertheless, Emma knew a disloyalty in not being able to confide in Louise, but the whole situation was far too delicate. Emma wished she had never come here in the first place, for she had done no good at all. In fact, she could easily have done some harm, she mused grimly, for she could not see her sister being kept in ignorance for much longer, especially if, as he had threatened, Paul corrected her, Emma, should she use his surname. Well, there was at least a remedy for that: make sure she did not address him by any name at all.

Chapter Four

The sexy, citrus green dress was put aside in favour of the blue, which though tight-fitting in the bodice, was at least much higher in the neck. The skirt was full, gathered into a nipped-in waistband through which was threaded narrow, silver ribbon to meet in the centre in a lover’s knot. Ankle-length, it had a regal quality about it and Louise immediately said with a frown, ‘Are you wearing that? I mean—it’s rather formal, isn’t it, for dining at home?’

‘Yours is formal too,’ observed Emma, thinking how lovely her sister looked in the long, peach-coloured dress of frilled nylon and lace. The neckline was low-cut, and tiny frills formed the sleeves.
Louise wore a necklace and matching bracelet. The ear drops were made of shell, peach-coloured to match the dress. ‘You look very glamorous,’ she added with a smile.

‘Do you think he’ll notice?’

A small pause and then, ‘Louise, try to forget him. He’s not worth it, believe me. He’s the kind of man who’ll take advantage if you’re not very careful.’

‘Oh, and what do you mean by that?’ Louise had come into Emma’s room, and she stood watching as Emma put the finishing touches to her hair.

‘He’s a womaniser; I’ve already given you that as my opinion.’

‘Has he made a pass at you, then?’ Slow the words, with an edge of unmistakable animosity in their depths. Swiftly Emma shook her head, cursing Paul for making her lie like this.

‘What a thing to ask! No, most certainly he hasn’t made a pass at me!’

Louise walked over to the window and stood for a moment looking out in silence.

‘Then why are you so sure he’s a womaniser?’ she inquired at length over her shoulder.

‘It’s obvious—’

‘In what way?’

Emma swung round on the dressing stool.

‘For heaven’s sake, Louise, stop this questioning! The man’s getting you down, and the sooner you make a firm decision to come home with me, the better it will be. Tell him—tomorrow, or even this evening—that you’ve decided to break the contract and leave. It’ll give him plenty of time to find a replacement. But in any case, there are several
housemaids here so he can get one of those to look after Jeremy.’

‘I’m not leaving and that is that!’

Emma shrugged, used the perfume spray and suggested they go down to the salon where Paul had said they would drink aperitifs.

He was there when they entered, tall and immaculate in an oyster-coloured linen suit and pale mauve shirt lightly embroidered down the front. Not a hair out of place . . . and a pervasive smell of aftershave, or could be body lotion . . . obviously expensive, judging by the way it lingered. He stared unsmilingly at them in turn, his eyes narrowed and unfathomable. At this moment he seemed older, but in any case there was a certain maturity about him that could be attributed to a much older man, and certainly those threads of silver lent even further distinction, as did the tiny fan lines spreading out from the corners of his eyes. Emma hadn’t noticed them until he laughed, although they were always there, faint but certainly discernible.

‘Sit down,’ he invited, spreading a hand. ‘Emma, what would you like to drink?’

‘Emma . . .’ The word formed on Louise’s lips, and only Emma noticed it. She set her mouth, angry with Paul for using her given name. And she felt even worse on hearing him say after she had requested a dry sherry, ‘And you, Miss Morris? What will you have?’

Louise was colouring up, and her small, white hands were clenched tightly in her lap. Emma shot Paul a furious glance, but he pretended not to see.

‘I’ll h-have a sherry too, b-but medium, please.’ That she was fighting tears was plain, and Emma’s
heart went out to her. The man was callous—among all his other vices!

It was a bad beginning, but the meal proved to be a pleasant one, mainly because—surprisingly—Paul made sure that Louise was drawn into the conversation every time she went quiet, lost in her own unhappy thoughts.

The menu consisted of Creole dishes, mainly seafood. Emma found the lobster delicious, cooked in the Creole way, and for a dessert she had guava jelly with fresh fruit to follow, the large cut-glass bowl containing custard apples, litchis, slices of fresh pineapple and paw-paw, and small, pinkish bananas the flavour of which was different from the bananas to which she was used.

‘It was a delicious meal,’ she said in answer to Paul’s inquiry as to how she had liked the Creole food.

‘And you, Miss Morris?’

‘Very tasty, thanks.’ Louise managed a thin smile, but her eyes were dulled, her pretty mouth drooping.

Emma’s eyes met Paul’s across the table, and his lips quivered at the glowering look she gave him.

Coffee and liqueurs were served in the salon where they had earlier taken aperitifs, and as soon as she had finished, Louise rose from her deep arm-chair and said she was going to bed.

‘So soon?’ frowned Emma, sure she would succumb to a fit of weeping the moment she was in her room.

‘I’m tired,’ she returned briefly and walked to the door. ‘Good night,’ she said and went out.

For a long moment there was silence in the room. It was broken by Emma who said that she, too, was going to bed. She felt she must go to her sister even though she despaired of being of any practical help to Louise in her present frame of mind.

‘You’re going?’ A heavy frown creased Paul Fanchette’s brow, it’s early—not yet half-past nine.’

She looked directly at him, mouth tight.

‘You didn’t say that to Louise, did you?’

He shrugged his broad shoulders.

‘You know very well that I have no wish for her company.’

‘But you wish for mine.’ A statement, not a question, and it was accompanied by a glance of contempt not unmingled with deep censure. ‘You’re not going to gain anything, Monsieur Fanchette, by pursuing me like this. As for your attitude towards my sister—it’s callous to say the least and, therefore, bound to antagonise me.’

‘You appear to be devoted to your sister.’

‘We’ve always been close—as a family—in fact. It hurts me to see her so unhappy.’

He became thoughtful, and his mood was neither the familiar mocking one nor the more severely serious one. He seemed softer in some indefinable way, and with a little shock, Emma found herself convinced that there was a third facet to the man’s already complex personality.

‘Are you trying to tell me that your sister is in love with me?’ he said at last, a frown between his eyes.

Emma hesitated irresolutely, reluctant to give away Louise’s secret. Yet almost immediately she was telling herself that it could do no real harm . . .
and it might just bring about a change of attitude in Paul: he might be willing to dismiss Louise as Emma wanted him to, sure that such an eventuality would be the girl’s salvation. She could go home to the mother who loved her and forget all about her disastrous stay on the island of Mauritius.

‘It’s true, Monsieur Fanchette; Louise is in love with you—genuinely.’

A long silence ensued before he responded with, ‘I doubt it, Emma. She strikes me as the kind who is looking to the main chance—’

‘A gold digger!’ resentfully and with a flaring of the temper which had never been so strongly in evidence as it had since she had come into contact with this hateful man. ‘No such thing! Louise is a sweet girl, once you get to know her.’

‘Sweet?’ with a lift of his straight, black brows. ‘A bore with her eye-play and continual thrusting her presence upon me.’ He paused, his frown deepening. ‘However, if as you say she’s been stupid enough to—’ He broke off impatiently, obviously unwilling to use the words: “fall in love” a second time. ‘I’ll agree to dismiss her,’ he added at length. ‘She can possibly return to England with you. . . .’ Quite unexpectedly his voice trailed, and he was frowning more heavily than before.

Emma, with swift perception, said coldly, ‘You don’t want
me
to go, but as I’ve said, you’ll gain nothing by pursuing me, for even were I to contemplate an affair you’d be the last man I’d choose.’

‘You’re frank,’ he said, ‘insultingly so.’

‘Can it be that your ego is deflated at last?’ Emma could not resist asking, and she saw his eyes narrow ominously.

‘Be careful,’ he recommended in a very soft voice. ‘Don’t carry the joke too far.’

Emma retorted recklessly, ‘I’ve touched you on a raw spot and I’m glad. It was high time someone brought you down a peg.’ She stopped somewhat abruptly on seeing him rise from his chair. He moved across the room with the swiftness and lithe grace of a jungle cat, giving Emma no time to escape. She was roughly jerked to her feet with such force that the breath was momentarily knocked out of her body.

‘Let me go!’ she blazed, twisting and writhing in her determination to avoid a repetition of what had happened twice already. Aware of his powerful magnetism and her own weakness, she fought with a strength she did not know she possessed. But against the sinewed strength of the man holding her, Emma’s efforts were puny, and she was soon his captive, her body crushed against him, her lips possessed by his. They seemed to burn her flesh as they moved roughly, sensuously, exploring her temples, her throat, the delicate slope of her shoulder where, with his chin, he had managed to slip the neck of her dress to one side. He took her breast, gently kneading and squeezing, using his finesse to one purpose . . . that of making her eat her words of a few minutes ago when she had declared that he would be the last man with whom she would have an affair. He was resolved to bring her to surrender and although she knew this, she was powerless to do anything about it. For he was in command, and she the suppliant, her emotions heightened by the roving hands, the exploring mouth, the sinewed hardness of his long, lean body that was compelling her to arch
hers to its shape and at the same time creating that now familiar desperate, unbearable ache of desire in her loins.