The House on Flamingo Cay (5 page)

“Oh ... I’m sorry.” Sara wished she had not asked. He turned his head and looked at her with a blend of curiosity and speculation.

“Why are you sorry, Miss Gordon?” he asked, disconcertingly.

Sara colored. “Well ... because you’ve lost your country,” she said awkwardly.

“You do not think that all this—” he made a gesture that encompassed the pale pink beach, the feathery palmettoes and the foam-fringed blue water—“is preferable to a winter in Central Europe?”

She decided to match his directness. “I don’t know—is it?”

He shrugged. “I would say there was no question. Here one has all that life can offer.”

He was looking away from her again, and Sara wondered if he was really as negligent as he appeared.

“Perhaps the Out Islands have, but I wouldn’t say so of Nassau,” she answered gravely. “All that money can offer, perhaps—but fun in the sun isn’t everything.”

“No?” His expression was amused. “What else do you require of life, Miss Gordon?”

“Well ... if I were a man, I should need something to do, some work that interested me.”

“You think all play and no work is too degenerating, eh?”

“Just rather boring, I’d say.”

“I wish I could share your view,” he said wryly. “For me, it is the work which is boring.”

“What do you do?” she asked.

Again he shrugged. “I teach the visitors how to water-ski. I have been giving lessons to the little American girl. And you, Miss Gordon—what do you do? I feel sure you are not content with nothing but amusement.”

The question was an awkward one, since Angela had repeatedly warned her to dodge any enquiries about their life in London. “Nothing very inspired, I’m afraid,” she said, rather lamely. “But, for women, marriage is generally the best career, don’t you think?”

He gave her another of those long speculative glances, then smiled. “Yes, for you, I think it would be so,” he agreed.

Sara wasn’t sure how to take this, but she thought it prudent to change the subject.

“Tell me about water-skiing,” she said. “Is it hard to learn?”

“That depends on the pupil. It is all a matter of balance. For someone like yourself, who has no fear of the water, perhaps two or three lessons would be necessary. Then it requires only practice before the more ambitious techniques can be mastered. You would like to try it some time?”

Sara would have liked it very much. Skimming over the sea in the wake of a speeding motor-boat appealed to her. But she doubted if their budget would run to even a few lessons.

“I doubt if I shall have time. We seem to be fairly booked up,” she said casually. “What I most want to do is to go on a reef-roving trip.”

“Ah, yes, they are very interesting. Beneath the sea is like another world.” Then, just as she thought the conversation was safely away from personal topics, he said suddenly, “You are very different from your sister, Miss Gordon.”

Sara smiled. “Yes, I know,” she said drily.

He laughed. “Oh, I was not thinking of your looks. But I don’t think you mind that you are less beautiful than Miss Angela. You have your own appeal,” he said frankly. “No—it is the difference in temperament that interests me.”

“I suppose we aren’t much alike in any way, but sisters often aren’t,” she said cautiously.

“There are generally certain attitudes in common,” he said thoughtfully.

“You sound like an amateur psychologist,” Sara said lightly. “It isn’t really so odd. Angela takes after our mother, and I’m like our father.”

“Your people are here with you?”

“No, we’re alone. Our parents are dead.” He had finished his cigarette and she scrambled to her feet. “I think we’d better go back now. The others may want to leave soon.”

He stood up and followed her into the deeper water. “If you do change your mind about learning to ski, let me know. I should enjoy teaching you,” he said, before they struck out for the yacht.

As soon as they climbed back on board, Sara knew that Angela was annoyed. But whether with herself for disappearing, or over something that had happened in her absence, she could not tell.

The Stuyvesants took them back to Nassau about six, and Sara learnt that there was to be a dance at the hotel that night. There was informal dancing in the palm lounge every evening, but twice a week there was a full-dress affair in the ballroom with a steel band from ‘over the hill’ and a midnight cabaret.

As soon as the girls reached their room, Angela swung round and said sharply, “Really, Sara, it wasn’t very good manners to go off this afternoon.”

“I don’t think anyone minded,” Sara said mildly.

“And you were very offhand with young Pillbaker,” her sister continued crossly.

“No, I wasn’t. I just wasn’t madly smitten by him.”

“I suppose you preferred that unpleasant Laszlo man,” her sister said tartly.

“As a matter of fact, I did.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Angela lit a cigarette, snapping impatiently at the lighter and then tossing it on to a chair with an angry jerk of the arm. “You’re worse than a schoolgirl. Surely you could see what he was?”

“I don’t know what you mean?” Sara said perplexedly.

Angela gave her an exasperated look. “I should have thought it was obvious,” she said acidly. “He’s one of the types one always finds in these places ... a professional philanderer, a sort of modernized gigolo.”

“Oh, that’s ridiculous! Whatever makes you think so? He told me he taught water-skiing.”

“I suppose he offered to give you lessons?”

“He did mention—”

“You little idiot! Of course he mentioned it. He probably thinks you’re like that American girl—that your father is rolling in money. Impressionable little ninnies like Dolores Pillbaker are perfect victims. She’s probably spent all her pin-money buying him presents, and if she were a few years older, he’d very likely persuade her she was madly in love with him and wring a nice fat cheque out of worried father.”

Sara stared at her. It was the biting contempt of her sister’s tone rather than the actual allegations that startled her. Even if her suspicions were valid, why should Angela be so violently condemnatory?

“Well, as I’m not like Dolores Pillbaker, I don’t see what you’re worrying about,” she said evenly, after a moment.

“The Pillbakers are leaving for Bermuda tomorrow. Laszlo may see you as his next prospect and start pestering us.”

“I doubt it. I told him I hadn’t time for any lessons.”

“Hm ... well, perhaps I was worrying unnecessarily then,” her sister conceded, more calmly. “All the same, he’s a most undesirable contact, so if we do come across him again, you must give him a pointed snub.” She glanced at her watch and began to undress. “What else was he talking about?” she asked presently, fastening her robe.

“Oh, nothing much ... just about Nassau and the reefs,” Sara said vaguely. “I still don’t see why you think he’s a shady type. Old Pillbaker looked pretty astute to me, and he can’t think so or he wouldn’t let Mr. Laszlo teach his daughter.”

“He may be a shrewd businessman, but I doubt if he’s all that worldly,” her sister said coolly. “Those American tycoons are often incredibly ingenuous outside their particular field.”

“I must be too. I thought he was rather nice,” Sara admitted candidly. “And I’m still not convinced that he is a ... a sort of confidence trickster. He hasn’t got the right smarmy manner.” There was a glimmer of amusement in her eyes as she regarded her sister and said thoughtfully, “If he did take us for a couple of rich girls, I wonder why he was so offhand with you?”

She had meant it as a friendly dig and there had been no hint of malice in her tone. So she was surprised when Angela’s mouth compressed and her nostrils flared.

“Probably because he saw that I wasn’t likely to be taken in by him,” she snapped back curtly, before sweeping into the bathroom.

* * *

The cocktail lounge was a kaleidoscope of butterfly-colored evening dresses and shimmering embroideries and jewels when they went downstairs that evening. Angela was wearing a hyacinth silk sheath with beaded shoulder-straps and Sara was in pineapple satinized cotton over a couple of bouffant petticoats.

The Stuyvesants were already ensconced at a table and Conrad rose to welcome them. Tonight, his mother was encased in vivid carmine satin with a ruby and diamond clip on her imposing bosom and some impressive bracelets on both plump wrists. In spite of the mild temperature, she was one of several women who had a mink stole draped over their chairs. Sara also noticed that one or two were wearing elaborately dressed wigs over their own hair—perhaps to conceal the ravages of sun and salt air. One girl in particular was attracting a good many glances. She was sitting at the bar in a silver-blue lame tunic with an enormous beehive helmet of blue-tinted platinum hair and heavily blued eyelids. Mrs. Stuyvesant—who seemed to know all about everybody—informed them that she was an American socialite who had come over from Miami.

By the time they had finished dinner, the strains of a Bahamian calypso were coming from the ballroom.

“You’re going to stay with us this evening—at least for a little while, I hope?” Mrs. Stuyvesant said to Sara.

“Oh, yes—I’m not a bit tired,” Sara said quickly, in case Angela had any intention of forcing her to retire to their room again.

“They call that music Goombay, you know,” Mrs. Stuyvesant explained. “They have the oddest names for things. Now what was that quaint drink we had the other evening, Connie? Oh, I remember now—it was called Loco Coco. It was gin and coconut milk—sounds terrible, doesn’t it?—and they served it in the genuine coconut husks. You must remind me about that when we get back home, Connie. It would be such a cute idea for one of our barbecue parties.”

The ballroom was not yet crowded and they found a table at a comfortable distance from the band and Conrad ordered drinks. “Why, there’s that charming Mr. Laszlo!” his mother exclaimed suddenly. “He didn’t mention he was coming over this evening.”

Sara looked over to the doorway. Mrs. Stuyvesant was right. Although he was turning to speak to someone and she could not see his face, it was certainly the Hungarian who stood just inside the entrance.

“Go and ask him to join us, Connie. He’ll be a partner for Sara,” Mrs. Stuyvesant suggested. “I shouldn’t be surprised if that’s why he’s come here tonight,” she added, with a roguish glance at Sara. “I noticed how he followed you over to the beach this afternoon, honey. I suspect he’s a little bit taken with you.”

Sara colored slightly, and shot an anxious glance at her sister. But Angela was fitting a cigarette into her new tortoise-shell holder, her expression quite unreadable.

“Oh, good. He’s coming,” said Mrs. Stuyvesant, as they saw Conrad bringing Laszlo back to the table with him.

“Good evening,
madame
.” The Hungarian bowed over her hand with a gallantry that clearly confirmed her approval of him. Then he smiled at Sara. “What a very pretty dress, Miss Gordon.” To Angela, he only bowed and murmured “Good evening”.

Before he had time to sit down, the band had begun a new number and Conrad asked Angela to dance.

“You didn’t tell us you were planning to come over this evening, Mr. Laszlo,” said Mrs. Stuyvesant, when they had moved on to the floor.

“I had not intended to do so,” he replied. “It was what I think you call a decision on the spur of the moment. You would like also to dance,
madame
?”

“Why, that’s very sweet of you—but I’m sure you’d much rather partner little Sara here. Now you two young people go ahead and enjoy yourselves. I’m quite happy to sit out and relax. It’s been quite an exhausting day.”

Laszlo turned. “I may have the pleasure, Miss Gordon?”

Sara hesitated, but Mrs. Stuyvesant said briskly: “Off you go now. I can see you’re just longing to get out on that floor.”

It was not until they had circled the room that the Hungarian said, “You like dancing, Miss Gordon?”

“I haven’t done a great deal,” she admitted. It had been a relief to find that he was an easy partner to follow, holding her lightly but firmly and not attempting any complicated steps which would have quickly revealed her own shortcomings.

“You do not go to many parties in London?”

“Not many. I’d rather see a film ... or go to the theatre.”

“You are a little shy, perhaps,” he said gently.

“I don’t think so. I’m just not the party type. Is that so very unusual?”

He shrugged slightly. “Not unusual perhaps, but not common. For most girls of your age, parties and dancing are very important pleasures. But tell me, what else you do like besides the films and theatre?”

“Oh ... reading, going for walks ... cooking,” she said with a smile.

“Cooking?” His eyebrows shot up. “Now that is most uncommon. Ah, but I forget. Cooking is taught at many of the finishing schools now, is it not?”

Sara hesitated. Could the question be a subtle probe? “At most of them, I think,” she said carefully. “What do you do with your free time, Mr. Laszlo?”

“Please ... won’t you call me Peter? In Nassau there is very little formality . Everyone is on holiday and the days passed too quickly to waste time with conventions,” he explained smilingly.

Sara wondered if he had interposed the request in order to avoid answering her question about his leisure. Perhaps it was the falseness of her own position that made her think of it. Or perhaps Angela’s conviction that he was a dubious character had infected her with suspicions.

“Why, yes if you like,” she agreed.

“And may I call you Sara?”

“Of course.”

The music came to an end and he escorted her back to the table, his fingers curled round her elbow. When the next dance began, Conrad politely asked Sara to partner him and she accepted. Presently, over his shoulder, she saw Angela dancing with Peter, and she couldn’t help noticing how much better they looked together than her sister and Conrad Stuyvesant. Of course this was only because they were both such good-looking people and their heights matched so well, but somehow it served to emphasize that Angela didn’t match with Connie, not physically, or in any other way, Sara thought anxiously.

It must have been nearly midnight, and she was dancing with Peter again, when her eyes widened and she almost missed a step. Momentarily unrecognizable in a white dinner jacket and dark silk cummerbund, Stephen Rand was standing near the service door. The dance floor was crowded now and almost at once she lost sight of him. But, although he was the last person she had expected to see in such surroundings, she was sure she had not been mistaken. It
must
have been Stephen—unless he had a twin brother. Yet what could he be doing here? From the way he had looked when she had met him on the wharf yesterday and this morning, she would not have supposed that he possessed such a thing as evening kit. Was it possible ...? Oh, no, of course not! Just because he had been kind enough to take her over to the beach and had seemed to like her, it was going too far to imagine that he had come to the dance to see her.

“Hello, Sara.”

Suddenly, as they were passing close to the tables, she heard his voice and stopped short.

“Oh ... Stephen.” She wondered when he had spotted her and how he had got round the room so quickly as it was some distance from where he had been standing before. “Peter, this is Stephen Rand. Stephen, Mr. Laszlo.”

“Good evening. Do you mind if I cut in on you, Laszlo?” Stephen said coolly.

Glancing from one to the other, Sara realized with a prick of discomfort that not only did the two men know each other but that there was a mutual hostility between them. For a moment she thought that Peter was going to object. Then, with one of his formal bows, he relinquished her hand and said tonelessly, “Of course. I will see you presently, Sara.”

“You look quite startled. Surprised to see me?” Stephen asked, as he slipped his arm round her.

“Well ... yes, I was,” she admitted. “What are you doing here?”

“Can’t you guess?” His smile, and the way he drew her closer against him, made her pulses quicken. “How did the lunch party go?” he asked.

“Oh, it was quite good fun. I—I almost didn’t recognize you out of sailing clothes,” she said shyly.

“I had a surprise myself. I certainly didn’t expect to find you dancing with Laszlo.”

“We met him at the yacht. Why don’t you like him?”

“I don’t actively dislike him,” he said drily. “But he’s not a very suitable companion for you.”

“Why not?” she asked gravely.

He was about to reply, when the lights began to dim and the music ended with a flourish.

“It’s time for the show to start,” he explained, shielding her from the crush as the dancers began to hurry back to their tables.

Sara had supposed that they would rejoin the Stuyvesants and she would have to explain how she had met him, but he steered her to the other side of the room and secured two chairs which would give them an excellent view.

Presently the lights were extinguished entirely and, for a second or two, the room was plunged into blackness. Then, at a clash of cymbals, a single flame-red spotlight lit the centre of the floor and two gleaming tawny-skinned figures leapt into the circle of brilliance and acknowledged the burst of applause. Then, as the clapping died down and they stood motionless, facing each other, the first slow beat of a drum came out of the darkness.

Of all the lithe, indolently graceful West Indians whom Sara had seen since her arrival, these dancers were the most handsome. The man was not tall, but he was magnificently proportioned with powerful shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist. The oil on his muscular torso gave his skin the lustre of copper and he wore tight white cotton trousers, cut short at the swell of his calves. The girl must have been of mixed blood as her features were more delicately modelled than those of the negro, and she had a mass of silky black hair cascading over her shoulders. She wore a tiny glittering bodice of emerald sequins and a length of vivid green silk was bound round her slender hips to fall open on one burnished brown thigh.

It was she who began the dance. At first, only her shoulders moved, then her hips, then her arms. Gradually, as the beat of the drum grew stronger, her slim brown feet began to stamp the polished parquet and she edged closer and closer to the man until they were almost touching. There was a second drum beating now, and soon a third and fourth, and still the girl swayed and postured and stamped while the negro stood still and unblinking.

Then, so suddenly that there was a murmured reaction from the audience, he lunged to catch her. But, with split-second timing, she had darted out of his reach. Four times he tried to grasp her elusive figure and each time she whisked away and snapped her fingers at his clumsiness. But the fifth time she was not quite quick enough, and with a single fluid sweep that must have taken weeks to perfect, he caught her up in his arms and tossed her high into the air. From then on, the performance was a spectacular combination of wild dancing and superb acrobatics. And then, when it seemed impossible for the drums to beat faster and louder, or for the two whirling figures to keep up the frenzied pace, the man seized the girl by one ankle and swung her up on to his shoulder. For a moment longer they stood in the fiery glow, the man’s chest heaving with exertion and the girl still balanced above him, her black hair damp now and tangled. Then the drums stopped beating, the spotlight went out and the act was at an end.

“What did you think of it?” Stephen asked, when the main lights had been switched on again and the outburst of clapping had diminished.

“It was very good,” she said warmly. “Are they local people?”

He nodded. “But Elena has a Spanish strain, as you could probably tell. I believe her grandfather came from Cuba.”

“Are they married?” Sara asked.

“No—just partners.” He gave her a curious glance. “What makes you think they might be?”

She made a gesture of uncertainty. “I’m not sure. I suppose because she had such confidence in him. One mistake, and she could have been killed—or at least very badly hurt.”

“It isn’t really as risky as it looks, and they’ve been doing it since they were youngsters.”

“All the same, I shouldn’t want to be flung around like that,” Sara said with conviction.

She glanced across the room, but she could not see the others, and she wondered what Angela was making of her absence, and if Stephen, too, would be dubbed an unsuitable acquaintance.

Soon the light dimmed again and the next act was announced—this time a trio of calypso-singers. The cabaret lasted for about half an hour and the dancing began again.

“I don’t think I shall be out for an early swim if we don’t go to bed till two,” Sara said wryly, as they moved into a slow waltz.

“How about driving up to the pine barren tomorrow afternoon, then?” Stephen asked.

“It sounds lovely—but I don’t know what Angela is doing,” she said doubtfully.

“Do you have to go where she goes?”

“Well, not exactly—but she usually makes most of our plans.”