White Lies (7 page)

'Just a minute,' she whispered, leaning helplessly into his body because her legs refused to take her any further.

'You're so defenceless. It's deeply attractive,' he murmured. And he took advantage of her listlessness, his hands smoothing down her back towards her hips.

She jerked away. 'You need locking up!' she ground out in temper.

'I've been locked up!' he said tightly. 'So don't push me too far. I'm not the kind of guy who lets others walk all over him.'

She began to shake. 'L-locked up?' she stuttered.

'Prison.'

Mandy tensed every muscle and remained utterly still. 'What for?' she breathed.

'Criminal damage and actual bodily harm.'

Mandy screwed up her courage despite his forbidding expression. 'Why?' she asked harshly.

He hesitated, as if debating the pros and cons of telling her. His face seemed suddenly all angular bone, as if the skin had been drawn into a tight mask. But the lines around his strained mouth and the desolation in his silvered eyes spoke volumes. Her heart tumbled over and over. This was the cause of the pain, the root of the anger he carried inside him, and she waited, wide-eyed, for him to speak, because she wanted to know what was driving him to his extreme behaviour.

To her disappointment Pascal slowly shook his head. 'I don't see the point of telling you, if you're going.'

'Tell me,' she demanded.

And apparently he couldn't resist her round-eyed appeal, because he shrugged and said, 'I attacked my father. He'd been careless with one of his cigars.' There was a long pause which she didn't interrupt. Pascal's mouth thinned. 'He threw it away in my garden and burnt my house down. My—' His next words were cut short when he clamped his mouth shut.

Mandy's face softened in sympathy. The loss of his house and possessions had obviously affected him deeply. She wanted to say something but the words wouldn't come, though he must have seen her concern because his eyes softened for a moment before they were concealed by his lowered lashes.

'That's all you need to know,' he said. Mandy knew that there was something else that caused him to look so haunted and wished he'd confide in her. Most people did. Pascal was more controlled. 'Just don't push me too far, Mandy. I might do something we'd both regret. I don't want to hurt you,' he said gruffly. 'I would like us to come to an amicable agreement. But if you're difficult there might be trouble. Understand?'

'Yes,' she agreed. Amicable. That was all she wanted. She was too tired to put up any kind of fight.

Then he was propelling her up the steps again. She was so absorbed in wondering what else had happened that she stumbled, grazing her ankle slightly on the rough volcanic rock.

,|Mandy! Are you all right?' Pascal's exclamation of genuine concern made her even more confused than ever.

'It's nothing,' she answered hastily as his troubled blue eyes met hers. 'I'll face worse, perhaps, when I get to meet your father.'

He froze and then quickly brought her around to face him, the kindness wiped from his face. 'You said you were going home!' he said sharply.

'No.
You
said,' she corrected. His mouth tightened and she looked at him warily. 'What are you going to do now?'

'Whatever I have to,' he said grimly.

It was an empty threat. He couldn't do much, she thought; they'd finally reached the restaurant and reception building. Mercifully, plenty of people could see them because it was an open-sided affair, poised halfway up the hill below the individual guest villas. In the bar and lounge above the restaurant waitresses were serving tea and cakes and shooing away the tropical birds which flew in from the flame-flowered trees.

Not far now and she'd be shot of him. One of the staff would help her from here. She could crawl into bed with a couple of aspirin and a wet towel for her head. 'I can manage now,' she said stiffly, trying to sound capable.

'I think not.' Pascal stopped, his weight holding her back, and he waved a greeting at the waitresses with his free hand.
'Bonjour,
Lucretia, Shelly, Cynthia!'

Mandy stiffened. He was attracting the attention of every waitress in turn! There were six of them, all dressed in white broderie anglaise tops and the traditional pastel tartan fabric that Simon had called madras. They politely greeted Pascal and nodded at her. Silently she suffered their stares and slight air of shock. Their disapproval stemmed from the fact that she was being hugged to Pascal's hip like a Siamese twin.

'You beast!' she muttered, rounding on Pascal. 'They must all know I'm a new arrival—'

'And they'll think you're a quick worker,' he pointed out, before conversing in patois with one of the women.

She could pick out a couple of French words—she'd become quite fluent whilst working in a Channel ferry office a number of years ago—but everything else rendered his words annoyingly incomprehensible. Mandy felt like sinking through the floor.

Her brain fired warnings at her to abandon him here, now, in full view of the women, before her reputation suffered any more. But she felt exhausted after the long climb in the sultry heat.

'Let's move on,' Pascal suggested finally, sounding pleased with himself. 'I think they've formed their opinions of you.'

She clenched her teeth and resisted. An idea had occurred to her. 'Not yet. I n-need a longer breather before we go on up the hill,' she whined, deliberately sounding pathetic.

Pascal was, as she expected, quite content to give everyone in the bar more time to see their intimacy. 'Suits me,' he said expansively.

It suited her too. She searched her mind for the name of the tall waitress who was cutting slices of cake at the bar. 'Agnes!' she called plaintively. With a dramatic gesture, Mandy pressed a fluttering hand to her forehead and willed her tongue to behave. 'Would you have anything for a sick headache?' she asked hopefully.

'You feelin' sick?' exclaimed Agnes, coming over to them with an expression of obvious relief.

'Very,' said Mandy truthfully. 'Monsieur St Honore has very kindly helped me up the steps. My head's spinning,' she said, allowing her body to tremble, just as it wanted to. 'I feel awfully hot and dizzy.'

'I can see you're shaking! Just you wait there a moment,' said Agnes, putting a sympathetic hand on Mandy's arm. 'Hold her good, Monsieur St Honore,' she added politely. 'I got something for her.' And the concerned Agnes bustled off in a flurry of broderie anglaise and madras.

'Clever,' murmured Pascal, his mouth tight with annoyance.

'Thanks,' she said gratefully to Agnes, who'd appeared with a glass of water and a pop-strip of two pain- relievers. Mandy flung Pascal a look of triumph from under her lashes.

'You need any help, Monsieur St Honore?' asked Agnes in a remote tone.

'Yes, please!' cried Mandy quickly.

'No!' He gave Agnes a disarming smile. 'You're busy. I can manage. Mrs Cook doesn't want any fuss.'

'Sure you'll be all right?' Agnes asked Mandy with an anxious expression.

Mandy swallowed the two pills and returned the glass. She felt awful and she had a hurdle or two to get over before she could feel really safe. 'I'll be fine when I can lie down,' she said shakily. 'Monsieur St Honore can see me to my door—and then,' she added, brightening at a sudden inspiration, 'I'd like him to stop here on his way back in a moment or two and accept tea at my expense, as a thank-you.'

Agnes nodded. Pascal launched into a long stream of patois and she went off to the bar.

'What did you say to her?' asked Mandy suspiciously as Pascal began to help her up the hill towards the canti- levered villas, looking out over the jungle.

'That I'd be with you for an hour or so. And that I'd like her to ring the boat and let them know it might be a while before I'm back,' he said blandly.

'You'll leave me at my door,' she muttered crossly. 'I need to be alone! I can't stand having you around any more!'

The walk up the hill was longer than she remembered. She plodded on, trying to think of nothing at all.

'Almost there.' Pascal's accent was more pronounced, the Caribbean drawl more languid and seductive.

Her head was spinning with it. 'Fine. Leave me now!' she demanded weakly.

Pascal gave a short laugh and abandoned her, totally, as she'd asked. Surprised, she sat down suddenly on anearby wall. She needed him! The awful truth made her_ break into sobs. She'd had enough. Life had thrown too much at her and she couldn't cope.

'Stubborn woman,' sighed Pascal, and swept her up into his arms, carrying her the last twenty yards along the hibiscus-lined path to her door. Refusing to listen to her whimpering protests, he turned her key in the lock, walked across the tiled hallway to the open deck and gently arranged her on the tartan madras settee.

'That'll do,' she whispered miserably. 'Go!' He disappeared from her immediate view. There were odd sounds coming from her bedroom, but she couldn't raise the effort to lift herself from the deep, plump cushions and see what he was doing. 'Go away!' she yelled in exasperation.

'I'm fixing your mosquito net,' he called back.

Mandy sighed and gloomily watched the hummingbirds busily extracting nectar from the bougainvillea. Gradually her tears ceased as she became lulled into a false calm by the glorious view. The two mountain peaks rearing into the cobalt-blue sky, the tropical hillside and the sparkling sea would have mollified anyone.

It was breathtakingly beautiful. She was lucky. And, awful though she felt, she was on an island in the West Indies, poised—perhaps—to learn something to her 'advantage'. Once she'd scraped Pascal from under her feet.

With a calmer mind she found that her logic returned. Slowly she reasoned that it was quite likely that there was nothing unpleasant in her background at all.

He'd been trying to get rid of her for reasons of his own—reasons to do with his terrible rage against his father. Perhaps when Pascal knew that she really was determined to stay he'd come clean and tell her why he was .so hell-bent on getting her off the island. And she was curious to know what else his father had done to drive Pascal to such violence. Something extraordinary, she was sure. Her hands trembled a little as she contemplated her meeting with Vincente St Honore. And she hoped that he wasn't as evil as Pascal had suggested.

But, however worried she was, she had to solve the mystery surrounding Vincente's client. His—or her— identity intrigued her. The hotel was so exotic and obviously expensive that she knew her summons must have been financed by someone important. That might be her mother or her father—or even a rich relative. Whoever it was, he or she must be on tenterhooks, wondering if the solicitor had made contact yet.

It dawned on her that it might be someone who didn't dare reveal the existence of a love-child—someone with a family already, in a position of trust and responsibility.

She was impatient to know the truth. She'd find out, she thought sleepily, and yawned.

'It must be bedtime in England,' Pascal said idly, parking himself on the deck near her feet. 'How do you feel?'

'Fine,' she lied, turning her green-flecked eyes on him.

'Then I'll leave,' he said surprisingly, 'when I've cleaned this graze.'

She felt the gentle dab of soft cotton wool on her ankle and was too weary to remonstrate. Carefully he cleaned the broken skin and patted it dry, applying a little cream he'd found in her first-aid kit. His expression was absorbed and deceptively tender and she wished that he were really kind and not just hanging around and killing time, hoping everyone would think that they'd been making love.

'That'll do!' she said resentfully. 'You've stayed long enough.'

'As you like. Will you go down for dinner?' he added with polite interest.

All she wanted was the oblivion of sleep and a snack— and to be alone. 'I'll get room service,' she said warily. 'That way the staff will be able to see for themselves that you haven't stayed the night.'

He nodded and stood up. 'So they will. Sleep well.'

Before she could move, he'd bent his head and pressed his lips to hers in a long, deeply satisfying kiss that had her longing for more. But he merely stared deeply into her treacherously wistful eyes, lightly trailed his fingers down the side of her face, and strode out. Leaving her nonplussed.

'Oh, hell and darnation!' she breathed.

She'd been so close to reaching up for him. She
had
to find her family and channel her affection or she'd be in serious trouble! So much love to give, no one there to receive it. Perhaps she ought to adopt a kitten, she thought gloomily.

She didn't feel inclined to move a muscle. All the stuffing seemed to have been knocked out of her body. For a long time she lay on the settee while the peace of the lush valley descended on her mind, creating an oasis of calm till she finally struggled to her feet. It might have been nearly sue o'clock local time with the sun beginning to set, but her body told her that it was five hours later. Pascal had been right. It was bedtime.

After loosening her hair and taking a shower to freshen herself up and clear her headache, she lifted the gauzy net that hung from a central point above the bed, and, because she felt so hot, slipped naked into the comfortable, king-size bed. It was wonderfully romantic to be surrounded by a muslin tent; to feel so warm that she could dispense with a sheet and lie with the moonlight silvering her pale, gleaming skin.

The massive louvred doors that formed one wall of her bedroom had been folded right back so that the room was open to the air. From where she lay she could see across the wide deck to the tops of the banana trees with their huge, paddle-shaped leaves, and the small yellow birds, hopping around the coconuts clustered in the gently clacking palms. Bananaquits. Lovely, she thought muzzily.

In the morning she'd begin to unfold the mystery of her summons to this beautiful island. Maybe she'd discover the truth about the St Honore men too. But her priority, she thought dreamily, was to know that she wasn't alone in the world. And with that hope in her heart she promptly fell asleep.