Sweet Seduction (12 page)

"But I haven’t said . . ." Kira began.

"Yes, you have. You’ve said yes with every word, every gesture, every look in your eyes. We’re going to be partners."

"Partners? Are we going to be partners?" she asked tremulously. "What do you mean?"

He tipped her chin up and gazed into the glowing depths of her green eyes, the brightness of the gold flecks.

"Give it time, Kira," he said huskily. "Give me time."

Sixteen

Reuben could not take his eyes off Dolly during the long, slowly-served meal. Course after course arrived at the table and Reuben did his best, although his appetite had fled. Conversation with the Minister’s eldest daughter and the doctor’s wife was hard work when Dolly was sitting opposite, flirting demurely with every man in the room except him.

He could not believe it was the same harum-scarum Dolly looking so grown-up, toying with her food and sipping the wine. He imagined her hosting dinner parties at Sugar Hill, bewitching all his friends and their wives.

Dolly looked enchanting. She had tamed her hair into a twist on the top of her head, but tendrils had escaped, framing her face and neck.
Dolly had finally chosen a simple ivory silk dress after days of window shopping. At the last minute she had tucked a gardenia into her hair and the perfume clung around her.

But under the table, she had eased her feet out of her mother’s brocade shoes. They were too tight. And there had been no money for new shoes.

"My husband tells me that this new factory will have all the modern safety requirements," said the doctor’s wife. "No more workers falling into vats or crushed under cranes."

Reuben shot back to the present, nearly spilling his wine. "Of course. Absolutely. Every new regulation observed to the letter."

"I do hope there will be an official opening," the woman continued. "Such an event will deserve everyone of importance being there. Members of the Senate?"

"You and your husband will be among our special guests," Reuben murmured politely, tensing. Cool bare toes were touching his ankle, sliding slowly up his trouser leg. He glared across the table but Dolly had assumed an expression of total innocence, head tilted, pretending to be listening to her neighbour.

The caress was touching his nerve ends and desire flooded his body, destroying all his concentration. The doctor’s wife prattled on but he did not hear a word.

Dolly was driving him crazy. Reuben exhaled through his nostrils, trying to control his thudding heart and sweating body. He slid his hand under the tablecloth, as if to retrieve an errant napkin on his lap. Instead he grabbed Dolly’s ankle and held it in a fast grip. He looked at the sudden shock in her eyes and tugged a fraction of an inch.

He could see her alarm increase. If he pulled on her ankle, she would be off her chair and under the table in a humiliating heap. Her eyes pleaded with him silently but his face did not move. He loved her desperately but he could stand no more of her games.

With his other hand he pinched one of her toes, quite tightly. He saw the pain spark a tear. He did not mean to hurt her but he was angry.

"Having trouble?" enquired the doctor’s wife.

"You could say," he said, eyes granite hard. "Damned napkin. Lost it."

"I’ll get you another one."

Dolly looked as if she was about to faint. She was gripping the sides of her chair, bracing herself for the moment when Reuben pulled her off balance. She looked at his face, so hard and unforgiving. He knew it frightened her.

"I wonder if I could have a glass of water?" she murmured, hardly daring to turn her head.

Suddenly Reuben ripped his thumb nail down the sole of her foot and Dolly squealed out loud. He let go of her foot.

"Ticklish, Miss La Plante?" he said with a glimmer of amusement.

Dolly was pink with embarrassment. Everyone round the table laughed. Benjamin did not understand what the laughter was about but, since his guests seemed to be having a good time, he did not mind. Dolly looked pale and lovely, every inch a lady.

Giles drove her back to Sandy Lane later in the afternoon, after he had seen to some disputed loads which had arrived in his yard unannounced. The lorry drivers were unknown to him and he was reluctant to take the cane.

It was easy to see that the men respected his authority and that his decision was a fair one. The loads would remain stacked in the yard until some identification could be produced.

They did not talk much on the return drive cross-country, though Giles did point out sights of interest, particularly the Lion Monument on Gun Hill. The great white beast stood out prominently from the hill, roaring a silent defiance into the air.

"Little did that young English officer, way back in l869, know that his idle, off-duty stone chipping would become a tourist attraction a century later."

"Do you know his name?"

"Oh yes. It was Henry Wilkinson. He was stationed with the Imperial Forces."

"You love this island, don’t you?"

"Of course, it’s my home," said Giles, as if that was enough.

Giles also pointed out the quiet, tree-shaded road leading to the Villa Nova. The house itself was hidden by royal palms and huge bearded fig trees.

"It was Sir Anthony Eden’s retreat from the world and from illness," he said. "I’ll take you there one day. It’s a beautiful house and the views are magnificent. And I’ll take you to Bathsheba to see the wild East Coast, then Harrison’s Cave at Welchman Hall Gully."

"Harrison Ford?"

"Harrison who?"

"If I’m to take on your research, then I won’t have time for the tourist track," said Kira resolutely.

"You can’t come to Barbados and ignore its beauty and history. You’re allowed some time off. You might as well be working in some dreary industrial town. Did you know that the first King Charles was at his wits’ end to decide whose grant was valid to this land? He might have saved his head if he had come to live here himself."

"It must have taken months at sea to get here. What a horrendous voyage."

"The sailors survived and Barbados became another Little England."

Kira wondered if one of those sailors had founded Giles’s family, or perhaps an aristocratic English gentleman, one of the deported political rivals, came to make his fortune growing tobacco and cotton. Sugar had not become a crop until a long time later.

She did not ask about his family roots. A Barbadian beauty might have captured the heart of a male Earl sometime in the past. The only hint of colour in his skin was his deep, healthy tan but his dark hair had a crisp thickness that might once have been tight curls in a distant ancestor. Then she remembered the photograph of Reuben Giles and that his hair had been a blond thatch.

Giles dropped her at the end of the driveway to Sandy Lane. Golfers were coming off the course, pleased with the day’s game, ready for a swim and a drink.

"I’ll leave you here. I want to reach Speightstown before everything shuts down. You could come with me."

"No, thank you," said Kira, getting out of the car. "Thank you for the guided tour of your factory and the cold drink. It was most interesting."

"And the kiss? Are you going to thank me for that? Was it interesting too?" His face was brooding, voice dead-pan.

"I didn’t realise I was supposed to thank you for kissing me," said Kira. "It’s not normally expected, is it? Or does a kiss come under the heading of hospitality?"

"Part of the tourist promotion scene. Always make the visitor feel at home."

Giles sped off with a burst of acceleration, scattering home-going cyclists from the fields with uncharacteristic carelessness. Kira did not understand what had upset him. He had seemed a controlled driver of the powerful car and showed courtesy to all users, even hens and dogs asleep in the middle of the road got polite treatment.

Perhaps she had failed him in some way. If he had been expecting a quick holiday affair, then he was going to be disappointed.

She wandered onto the shimmering white sand, long shadowed now, and waded into the sea to wash away the stickiness and heat of the day. The skirt of her sundress wrapped itself round her legs but she did not care. People wore anything in the sea. Her dress could be mistaken for a sarong. She lay on her back in the lapping waves, gazing up at the cloudless sky, her eyes half closed against the setting sun, the cool water easing her burning shoulders.

The sea was turning to liquid silver from the rays of the sun. On shore, the noisy birds were roosting in the casuarinas trees; the branches alive with birds fluttering and socialising, telling the world about their busy day. Birdsong had taken over from the rustling wind and the birds had become living trees.

Kira dined alone in the restaurant, not eating much, then strolled for a while in the darkened gardens of the hotel, enjoying the music from a steel band and watching the dancers on the patio. She envied the couples dancing closely, obviously in love, some cheek-to-cheek. It was a wonderful place for a honeymoon.

She had dreamed of a honeymoon with Bruce, somewhere warm and romantic. Bruce and his new woman would be married by now. He would want their baby to be born within a legal marriage. Kira waited for the usual quiver of rage and surge of anguish but it did not come. She had drained her strength with overpowering jealousy and hatred, but where was it tonight? For the first time, she faced the thought of their baby without emotion.

That night she slept well. She did not fall asleep with tortured thoughts of Bruce. Instead she curled against the pillow and remembered another kiss, a bold demanding kiss from a muscle-hard man, hot and sweaty from a day’s work.

The meeting of the Sugar Growers’ Association was being held at Fitt’s House at nine o’clock before it got too hot. Meeting Benjamin Reed for the first time was going to be an unknown quantity. Kira was not sure how she would react. And she was nervous. She was breakfasting on her balcony and her hand shook as she stirred her tea.

She dressed with extra care, deciding on a simple white cotton suit with a pale blue silk shirt. She fastened the belt from the suit round her slender waist, slipped on high-heeled sandals and sunglasses, put the new business cards in her bag.

"Research Consultant, here I come," she said with confidence to the mirror. But something was wrong. Her hair was in its usual tidy style. She took out the grips and let her hair fall onto her shoulders. Not so efficient, but much more glamorous. Mr Connor would have disapproved if she had arrived at the Commons looking so outrageously flamboyant.

She drove the mini-Moke to Fitt’s House, following Giles’s directions. The open-sided yellow Moke was a noisy vehicle, with a gear change that sounded like a battering ram in reverse. But at least the through breeze made it cool.

She drove slowly along the driveway, taking in afresh the strange architecture of the house, the unreal stone statues dominating the veranda and balcony. The trees were laden with blossom, strewing flowers and fruit over the untidy lawns and unkempt edges. A new and younger gardener might be able to cope better than the present one.

Other cars were already parked in the semi-circular forecourt in front of the sweeping steps that led to the front door. Giles’s white Mercedes was there. On the back seat was a round basket full of different kinds of melon and sweet corn, as if he had been early to the market.

She brushed aside overhanging branches, flowers shedding petals on her shoulders. Her tidy mind longed to take a broom and sweep up the debris of petals and leaves and scattering of sand that littered the veranda on either side of the front door.

She went up the steps cautiously, remembering the high heels. The scent from the pots of rioting flowers and hanging ferns was not enough to quell her apprehension now that she was actually here and about to meet her grandfather. She conjured a picture of her mother, bent over a sewing machine, working far into the night. She was here to avenge her mother and her mother’s death. The thought was enough to drain some of the tan from her cheeks.

An elderly Barbadian woman showed her into a big cool room running the whole width of the back of the house. Her immediate impression was of furniture. So much furniture filled the room. Wall-to-wall heavy antique furniture; Victorian, Colonial, Edwardian. The dark polished wood of the long central table seemed to take light from the windows into its veneer. Every surface had a vase, statue or ornament of silver on it. It was like going into a sale room at Christies before the auction of treasures from a stately home.

Giles unfolded himself from the marble fireplace and came over to her. He was in a pale grey suit, with a shoestring tie laced loosely under the collar of a dark brown shirt. His highly polished boots reflected the gold from the old watch-chain slung across his waistcoat.

He took her hand and pressed it lightly to his lips, his dark eyes smiling.

"Barbados agrees with you," he said in a low voice. "You are looking relaxed and the tan is coming along nicely, slow and even."

"Thank you, Dr Giles," she said mockingly. "I appreciate your concern. When am I going to meet Benjamin Reed, the chairman?"

"In a moment. Here comes everyone. Once they meet you, they’ll want to make you a permanent feature of the association." He bent towards her and Kira jerked back but he was only brushing a petal from her shoulder.

A group of men came over, smiling. Giles made the introductions. Their names did not register. She was listening for her grandfather’s name,
searching the weathered faces.

"May I introduce Benjamin Reed, chairman of the Sugar Growers’ Association, my father’s partner and now my partner." Giles’s voice gave nothing away. It was deferential but restrained in any warmth. Kira tensed. She felt something stir inside her that had been dormant for many years, a reaching out for family. She turned to face her grandfather, the man who had contributed to her mother’s death.