The House on Flamingo Cay (20 page)

“Oh, darling—of course not!” Sara said compassionately. “He
is
getting better—much better! He’s bound to look ill for some time. It was a bad accident. But now that you’ve come back to him and he has a real future ahead, he’ll pick up much faster. He looked pretty worn before the smash, you know. Now you mustn’t spoil everything by getting a heavy guilt complex. Nobody gets through life without making a few bad mistakes. But I’m sure we aren’t punished through other people. I think we pay for mistakes by remembering and regretting them. And anyway, aside from your part in all this, I’m quite sure that Peter deserves to be happy.”

This unconsidered viewpoint seemed to comfort Angela, but after she had gone to open up the bungalow, Sara sat lost in thought for a long time. She was relieved and delighted that her sister had at last come to her senses, but she could not help realizing that the settlement of Angela’s affairs brought no solution to her own problems. However sincerely she and Peter might offer to include her in their plans, she could never accept a place in their future ménage as more than a temporary expedient. Nor, clinging to impossible dreams and thereby prolonging her misery, could she remain at the hotel. No: somehow she must find a new fundus on which to establish the future. Given time and new interests, she might even succeed in forgetting that there had ever been a man named Stephen Rand and an island called Flamingo Bay. Or, if she could never quite forget either the man or his island, there was bound to be a point when memories would become less poignant and the sharp edge of longing blunted by closer realities.

But even as she told herself that there was no loss, no despair that was not, in time, assuaged, her spirit shrank from the dragging process of recovery.

* * *

In the week that followed Angela’s return, Sara made several tentative enquiries about the possibility of working her passage to England. But the clerks at the travel agencies and shipping offices were polite but discouraging.

Angela spent much of her time at the hospital with Peter. The change in her was startling. Even before the unhappy association with Ross Anderson which had sparked off the whole fantastic venture, she had always had a tendency to egotism, but now she was like another person. And her looks, always striking, were illumined by such inner radiance that she was lovelier than ever. Before, her beauty had had a cool touch-me-not quality. Now, lit by this inner radiance, it glowed and beckoned. It was little wonder that, even in seven days, Peter’s progress had begun to shoot ahead of the doctor’s prognosis.

During this time, Sara discovered that the Langdon-Owens were no longer in the hotel. For a moment, her foolish heart kindled with renewed hope. And then it occurred to her that they were probably staying on Flamingo with Stephen. The thought of Valerie queening it on the island made her even more wretched and, in a kind of frenzy to escape, she seriously considered stowing away on one of the passing cruise ships. Anything to get away, to escape.

One evening, coming out of her room with the intention of going for a walk on the wharves, she turned the corner of the upstairs corridor and collided with Stephen.

“Hello, Sara.” He mistook her violent recoil for loss of balance and put out a hand to steady her.

The touch of his fingers was the final unendurable torture. With a kind of tormented whimper, she thrust past him and plunged down the staff staircase.

“Sara!” Two flights down he caught her by the shoulder. “What the blazes—?”

Sara struggled wildly, twisting and straining to be free. There was a sharp rending sound as the sleeve of her dress was ripped from the armhole. For one second, Stephen’s hold slackened and she almost escaped him. Then, with a smothered expletive, he used his full strength to haul her back to the landing and pin her against the wall. The next instant, she was being forcibly and furiously kissed.

A long time afterwards, when all the breath had been crushed out of her and it was only his hands, still clamping her arms against the wall, that prevented her knees from giving way, Stephen raised his head.

“Now you’ve really got something to get steamed up about,” he said huskily.

And suddenly, it was all very simple and obvious. Because no man, not even Stephen, would behave so violently and passionately without a reason—and there was only one possible reason.

“Oh ... Stephen!” she said weakly.

His eyes were still dark with suppressed passion, but his mouth curved upwards. “Oh ... Sara!” he said mockingly.

And then he was kissing her again, but, this time, not pinioned against the wall but held very close in his arms, as if he would never let her go. In fact it was quite some time before he did, and then only to the extent of holding her a little way from him so that he could see the expression on her face.

Sara would have preferred to keep it hidden in his shoulder, for she was aware that, considering the tacit nature of their new relationship, her response to that second kiss had been much too conclusive.

Stephen, sensing some constraint, said quizzically, “If you’re worried about your ‘fiancé’s’ view of this—I know all about it, my sweet.”

“You know?” she asked perplexedly.

“I went up to the hospital to see him, and your sister was there. Judging from the scene I interrupted, he must have remarkable recuperative powers,” he said drily.

“So they told you the truth,” she said slowly.

“Part of it. I don’t think they know the part that interests me most.”

Sara was studying the weave of his dark silk tie. “What part is that?” she asked in a low voice.

“The reason why you’ve been fending me off all this time.” He tipped up her chin so that she was forced to meet his eyes. “Why, Sara?”

“Oh, Stephen ... so many reasons. How could I know that you—”

“Loved you?” he put in, smiling. “You must be singularly obtuse, my darling.”

“I don’t think it was. It was you who were so enigmatic,” she said reproachfully. “And when I saw you—” She broke off, flushing.

Stephen grinned and gave her a little shake. “This is no place for an emotional denouement. Come on—we’ll retire to my sitting-room,” he said firmly.

In the privacy of his personal apartments, he drew her down on to a sofa and said, “Now, what did you see that made all these evasions necessary?”

Sara averted her face. “It was at the barbecue,” she answered, very low.

“Ah yes, the barbecue. I had an idea that night was the root of our troubles—or one of them. One moment we seemed to be getting somewhere, and then you suddenly decided to retrench. I thought you must have got cold feet at the last moment.”

“Cold feet?” she said blankly.

He let go of her hands and stood up. Moving across to the window, he said over his shoulder, “You’re very young, Sara. I supposed you were afraid of committing yourself. It’s nothing to be ashamed about.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Stephen.”

He turned to look at her, a faint smile curving his mouth. “A man of my age is very different from a boy in his early twenties, my sweet. If you’d already had several youthful romances, I expect you’d have found it easier to cope with me. Being rather inexperienced, I think you were frightened of finding yourself in deep water.”

Sara didn’t answer for a moment. Then she said firmly, “I’m not as young as all that, Stephen. I—wanted you to make love to me.” Then, her voice slightly husky, “But it wasn’t exactly encouraging to see you kissing somebody else.”

His eyebrows shot up. “To see—
what
?”

“I saw you with Valerie Langdon-Owen ... behind the pavilion,” she said tautly.

There was a brief pause until, incredibly, Stephen began to laugh. “So that’s why you gave me such glacial treatment, is it? Well, I’m afraid you must have had too many champagne cocktails, my love. I didn’t kiss Valerie or anyone else that evening. I was planning to kiss you.”

“But I saw you.”

His expression hardened. “I’m not in the habit of lying, Sara. You may well have seen Valerie being kissed—but not by me.”

She knew then that he was speaking the truth. It wasn’t in his character to lie.

“What you saw, I imagine was someone in a similar get-up,” he added drily. “You evidently didn’t notice, but there were several men in pirate dress at the barbecue, and at least two of them were about my height. At a guess, I should say Valerie was probably amusing herself with a chap called Crawley.”

“But she was in love with you—it was obvious.”

Stephen’s mouth twitched. “I’m inclined to doubt that Valerie is capable of love—at least as you think of it,” he said cynically. “She likes to play with fire, and one of these days she’s going to burn her fingers.”

“I think perhaps she already has,” Sara said slowly. She told him about the conversation she had overheard between Valerie’s parents.

“It doesn’t surprise me very much,” he said drily.

“You mean you were never even mildly attracted to her?”

He laughed. “Those bold-eyed brunettes aren’t my type.”

Sara looked down at her hands. “I shouldn’t have thought I was your type,” she said shyly.

“I’m not too sure myself,” he said teasingly. “But Aurora seems to think you’ll make me a suitable bride, and I place great faith in her judgment.”

“Aurora? What does she know about it?”

“She seems to have an instinct about these things. The night we were on Flamingo, she gave me her full approval. That drink she gave you, and the amulet under your pillow, were both love charms.”

“Did she guess how I felt about you?”

“I asked her that. She told me to find out for myself. I think it was a pity I didn’t, don’t you?” He came back to the couch and recaptured her hands. “Would you have said yes to me, then?”

“I would have said it long before that,” she admitted. “Why didn’t you—try to find out, I mean?”

“I was afraid that if I rushed my fences, I might ruin the whole thing,” he said drily. “You weren’t very enthusiastic about spending the night there, remember? And, from one or two things you said, I had an idea that you were really more interested in Laszlo.”

“Supposing I’d gone back to London. Would that have been the end of it?”

Stephen drew her close. “There was only one possible end to it,” he said softly. “Here, in my arms, where you belong!”

Some time later, Sara said dreamily, “I still can’t believe this has happened. An hour ago I was so utterly miserable I felt like ... like flinging myself into the harbour. And now—” She breathed a deep sigh of contentment.

Stephen’s fingers were tracing the curve of her cheek. “Now what?” he murmured lazily.

“Oh, you know.”

He kissed her closed eyelids. “No, I don’t. Tell me.”

She was silent for a moment. Then, gently pushing him away she slid off the couch and said quietly, “No, first I ought to tell you some other things. You see—”

“Don’t go away,” he objected. “Tell me here.”

“Oh, darling, I can’t.” It was the first time she had called him that and she was momentarily shy again.

Stephen’s eyes glinted. “Why? Do I distract you?” he asked solemnly.

She laughed. “You know you do.”

“All right. Let’s leave all the explanations till tomorrow. Tonight I want to make love to you.”

Sara drew in a breath. She was beginning to discover that he had certain tones of voice which she had never heard before and which gave her a curious sensation as if all her bones were melting. It was almost impossible to resist that caressing note, but somehow she managed it.

“Please, Stephen—I’d rather get it over,” she said seriously.

Stephen listened in silence, although halfway through the recital he rose from the couch to pour them both sherry. But having handed her a glass and lit a cigarette, he leaned against his big polished teak desk and continued to watch her with a total lack of expression. Even when she had finished speaking, he made no immediate comment, and with a sudden thrust of disquiet, Sara wondered if, even now, her new and rapturous happiness could be snatched away from her.

Then, very deliberately, he crushed out his cigarette, replaced the glass on the tray and came towards her. “Is that all?” he asked keenly.

Sara bent her head. “Yes, that’s all.”

He took her face between his hands and kissed the tip of her nose. “You know,” he said teasingly, “you look exactly like a schoolgirl who’s been caught reading under the bedclothes.” And he began to laugh.

“You mean you don’t mind? You aren’t shocked?” she asked hopefully.

He ruffled her hair. “Shocked to the marrow, my sweet.” His amusement gave place to a kind of quizzical tenderness. “Actually I’d guessed most of it. Anyone in the hotel trade gets to be fairly accurate at summing people up, you know.”

“How did you sum me up?” she asked curiously.

He grinned. “As the girl I’d most like to come home to.”

“No, seriously—before that.”

“There was no ‘before that’, sweetheart. I took one look at you and it was all up with me.”

“Oh, Stephen, stop laughing at me,” she remonstrated. “It may seem funny to you, but it was horribly worrying to me.”

“I’m sorry, sweet. I suppose you have had a tough time,” he agreed, more seriously. “But, you see, compared with some of the characters we’ve had here, your sister’s campaign seems pretty harmless to me. And you’ve certainly no need to have any pangs of guilt.”

“What do you mean? What sort of characters?” she asked, intrigued.

He shrugged. “Oh, all the big luxury resorts have their quota of shady types—card-sharpers, ‘con’ men, all kinds. Usually, if we scent something odd, we do a little discreet checking.” He paused a moment. “Look, there is one thing I’d like to ask you.”

“What is it?” she asked anxiously.

He was holding her hands now, and she felt his fingers tighten. “How soon will you marry me?”

Sara relaxed. Her eyes were glowing, her lips softly parted. For a long moment she looked up into his lean dark face which had once seemed so bafflingly unreadable. Freeing her hands, she slipped her arms round his neck.

“Darling Stephen—whenever you like, of course,” she promised blissfully.

Two weeks later, a small group of people stood on the quay above a gleaming gull-white cabin cruiser. A gusty salt wind was blowing across the harbor and Angela Gordon put up a hand to secure her white straw picture hat. Her other hand was on the shoulder of Peter Laszlo, still confined to a wheelchair but looking remarkably fit, and with quiet contentment replacing the cynical detachment that had once been so characteristic. With them were Mrs. Lindsay, a tall redheaded Out Islander named Tom Rankin who had been Stephen’s best man, and Samuel and Aurora Johnson—Aurora resplendently draped in electric blue silk with three large pink carnations and a clump of fern pinned upside-down to her majestic bosom.