Dark Paradise (16 page)

There was some kind of stunted tree projecting almost horizontally from whatever soil it could find behind her, and after a moment's hesitation she grasped the unprepossessing trunk, bending it experimentally, trying to test whether it would take her weight. It looked precarious in the extreme, but rather to Kate's surprise, the roots showed no signs of budging. The tree's hold on life must be hardier than its appearance gave credit for, she decided, but it was still risky, and any sane person would climb down again, in more ways than one. Only she would rather dare a ducking at best and the sea-urchins at worst than do any such thing, she told herself fiercely.

She grasped the trunk with a silent prayer, reminding herself it really wasn't very far, then swung out towards the opposite rocks, hand over hand. Even in that brief distance, her arms felt as if they were being torn out of their sockets, and she had to grit her teeth in order to struggle on. She collapsed on her knees on the rock, breathing hard, and promising herself that there was no way she would take the same route back.

The climb down to the sand after that was a doddle. It was a much smaller cove, this, its beach almost bisected by a grove of palm trees growing down to the water's edge.

Kate walked slowly towards the trees, sucking her grazed knuckles, trying to calm herself, and get back on emotional balance. But every time she thought of her eager, wanton response to Matt's lovemaking, she wanted to die of shame.

Why, oh, why had he come back just at that moment to find her off guard and vulnerable? He probably thought the fact that she had been half naked was quite deliberate, an attempt to provoke him into making some kind of advance to her, and her total lack of inhibition in his arms could only have confirmed this for him, she thought unhappily.

But whatever the provocation, he hadn't allowed himself to be carried away for long, she reminded herself with some bitterness. He hadn't been sufficiently interested to indulge himself with a brief passionate interlude on a deserted beach, but what else could she have expected? Since the day they had arrived, he had shown her quite clearly that he found her only too easy to resist. And the fact that she had fallen deeply, disastrously in love with him made not the slightest difference.

She had sensed a need in him, as raw and urgent as her own, but that was because he wasn't used to being celibate. Any girl, discovered in those circumstances, would have done as well. He had wanted a warm female body, but nothing more, and certainly no emotional commitment, and perhaps her eager untutored passion in his arms had betrayed her, warning him that to take what she was offering might bring unwanted complications.

The thought lashed at her, and she started to run again, up the beach and into the shelter of the palms which closed around her like a sanctuary.

The clustering trunks were denser than she had imagined, and it was suddenly dim and much cooler. She paused, getting her bearings, hearing the excited chatter of a bird nearby. She moved forward carefully, keeping a watchful eye on the tangle of roots and undergrowth at her feet, awake to the possibility of unseen hazards. Poisonous insects, she thought, or even—snakes. She remembered the guide at the old sugar plantation they had visited a couple of days ago explaining how mongooses had been imported into many of the islands to kill the
fer-de-lances
in the canefields, but that wasn't to say they'd all been wiped out, she thought gingerly.

She stood still for a moment, shivering a little, wishing she was back on the beach in the heat and light of the sun, tempted to turn back. Then she shook herself, and plunged forward again.

St Antoine wasn't a big island. There couldn't be a square foot of it unexplored, yet she still had the feeling that she was the first person ever to walk through this palm grove. Virgin territory, she thought wryly, until one saw the footprint in the sand.

And as if to underline the point, somewhere quite near at hand she heard a dog bark happily, excitedly.

It was the last thing she had expected. There were dogs on the island, of course, usually asleep in patches of shade, or hanging hopefully round the stalls on the street markets, waiting for scraps, but few of them seemed to have the energy to do more than snarl at each other occasionally.

Whereas this barking seemed to betoken a certain
joie de vivré
.

Kate made her way towards the sunlight, pausing for a moment in the shade of the palms, an incredulous smile curving her lips.

Beyond the trees the beach seemed to stretch endlessly, a perfect playground for a boy and his dog. It was a beautiful animal—a German Shepherd, obviously in the peak of condition, leaping and frisking round his master, who was throwing a piece of driftwood for him to retrieve.

Kate sat down on a fallen trunk and watched them, her artist's eye entranced by the sheer exuberance of it all. She found that she was automatically reaching into her bag for her sketchpad. She wanted to capture all that life and happiness if she could. Her work at home was usually detailed and exacting, but this would be an exercise in movement and flow, an impression created in a few brief lines.

Her pencil began to move hesitantly at first, and then with more confidence as she saw the sketch taking shape, and realised that it was working. She hadn't made a sound. She didn't want to intrude or interrupt, and she thought they were probably enjoying themselves so much that they wouldn't even notice that she was there. She could make her drawing, and then her escape.

But before she could finish, she heard the tone of the barking change and knew that inevitably she had been seen. The dog was loping towards her to investigate, and his master was just behind him.

As he got closer, Kate registered that he seemed vaguely familiar, yet she couldn't imagine where she could have come across him. He also looked frankly astonished, she noticed, as if she'd just dropped down from Mars.

He said sharply, 'Quiet, Caesar!' to the dog, who instantly subsided, then he looked at Kate. 'How did you get here? This is a private beach.'

'I'm sorry.' She got up. 'Some friends of mine are diving nearby, and I felt like a walk. I didn't realise there was any restriction.'

He spread his hands rather helplessly. 'You didn't see anyone? You weren't told to turn back?'

'No one at all.' She tried a smile. 'Is that a guard dog?'

'A pet,' he said flatly. 'You're staying at the Paradis, aren't you?'

'So that's where I've seen you before. I was trying to think—but I couldn't remember Caesar. Are you staying there too?'

'No.' He shook his head. 'I live near here. But I sometimes go there for a drink.' He paused, then added stiffly, 'My family owns it, you see.'

Now she did remember him. 'I saw you in the bar the first day I was there,' she said. He'd been on his own. He'd given her that hopeful smile. 'You seemed rather more friendly then.'

He flushed. 'I'm sorry, but there are difficulties. People are not intended to come here. I cannot understand how it could have happened. My father will not be pleased; he—values his privacy.'

'Then don't tell him,' Kate said lightly. 'I'm sorry I butted in. I'll go now.' She stood up, making to slip her sketchbook back into her bag.

He was looking at it. 'You are an artist? You've been making a drawing?'

She pulled a rueful face. 'I'm afraid so. I suppose it must seem a cheek, but it was such a nice scene—free and happy.'

'Yes,' he said in an odd tone. 'I come here often with Caesar—to be free. May I see your drawing?'

Kate handed over the book with a feeling of resignation, half expecting him to tear the sketch out. He studied it for a few moments, then the shy smile she remembered began to spread.

'This is good,' he said. 'This is really wonderful! It is Caesar—and myself also, although you cannot see my face. Are you a professional artist?'

She nodded. 'I illustrate books, among other things.'

Then they must be very good. I should like to see some of them,' he said promptly.

Kate laughed. 'I'm afraid they're for children, not adults.'

He shrugged. 'Sometimes the things of childhood remain the best.' He glanced again at the sketch, hesitating. 'I would like to show this to my father. He would be most impressed, I know.'

Kate smiled. 'Keep it.' She held out her hand. 'If I could just have the book back.'

The hesitation was even more noticeable. 'I was thinking that perhaps you yourself might show it to him. It is nearly lunchtime. You could join us. We have so few visitors.'

Kate was taken aback. 'I—I don't think so…' she began.

There is some difficulty?' He looked crestfallen.

'I did mention that I wasn't alone,' she said gently.

He cheered up at once. 'No problem. We will invite your friend also—especially if she is as beautiful as you.' His smile had lost most of its shyness and was frankly admiring. Kate found herself wondering how old he was.

She said, biting her lip. 'My—friend is a man.' He looked wary, and she said, That obviously makes a difference. In the circumstances, I think perhaps I'd better re-join him for lunch instead. But do take the drawing.'

He made to hand the book over, but between them they bungled it and it fell to the sand. The boy bent to retrieve it with a muffled exclamation. When he straightened, his face wore an odd, startled expression.

He said, 'You made this drawing also?'

Kate saw that the book had fallen open at the portrait of Matt.

She gave a taut smile. 'Of course.'

'You—know this man? He is perhaps the friend you spoke of?' The words were quick and staccato, and Kate raised her brows.

'Yes, as a matter of fact. What of it?'

The boy shut the book and thrust it into the waistband of the denim shorts he was wearing. He said, 'Then I must insist that you have lunch with us.'

Kate took an indignant step forward, then halted as a low warning rumble issued from Caesar's throat. 'What the hell do you think you're doing? Please may I have my property back?'

'Later, perhaps,' he said dismissively. 'Now you will come with me.'

Kate gasped. 'I'll do nothing of the sort!'

'I think you will.' He looked past her towards the palm grove and gave an almost imperceptible nod. She turned, and saw that a tall man had emerged from the trees and was watching them.

For a crazy moment she thought it was Winston, because he was of similar build, dressed in white pants and a striped cotton shirt. But as he walked towards them, Kate realised her mistake. He was burlier than Winston, and he certainly wasn't smiling as Winston would have been.

And, she realised with heart-stopping shock, he was carrying a gun.

They left her alone in the room. It was long, low and beautifully furnished, with sofas and chairs in silky pastels, but it was a prison just the same. One wall seemed to be composed entirely of glass, and Kate looked round for something to smash it with, but the elegant room contained nothing more lethal than a cushion.

The house itself had been quite a shock. From the beach there had been no sign of it, and as she had been taken through the clustering palms and along a narrow path, Kate had known real terror. But with the dog Caesar padding in front of her, and the man with the gun following behind, any attempt at flight seemed madness.

The high wall seemed to grow out of the ground in front of them like a special effect in the theatre. The old grey stones were like the rampart of some forbidden castle, Kate thought, as a heavy wooden door creaked open to admit them.

She tried to tell herself that she had fallen asleep on the beach, and that everything which had happened in the last two hours was just a bad dream, which would soon dissolve back to normality. Tried to tell herself, but failed.

The house was real enough, an enormous white villa, built on two storeys, the upper one of which was graciously balconied, and rioting with flowering vines. It wasn't the sort of grim fortress, Kate thought, that one would associate with a former dictator who had gone into hiding. There were several men tending the immaculately laid out gardens, but their interests weren't wholly horticultural, she realised, as they straightened, giving her and her companions keen-eyed looks as they passed by. She couldn't see any guns, but she had no doubt they were there just the same.

Inside the house, she was briefly aware of cool marble floors, and pale walls forming a background for displays of what appeared to be pre-Columbian pottery. Kate wondered cynically as she was hustled past whether Jethro Alvarez had visited the Santo Cristo museum as well as the treasury before his hasty retreat.

On her own, she wandered restlessly up and down the room, stopping every now and then to peer through the big glass doors which led on to a paved patio, well supplied with cushioned chairs and loungers. Beyond the patio, the ground seemed to fall away sharply, and she guessed that a steep path or steps led down to another part of the garden.

She stared unseeingly at the patio, thinking about the irony which had brought her here instead of Matt. She shivered, wondering how soon he and Winston would miss her and come looking for her. She had no idea what the time was—her watch was in her bag, which had been taken from her—but she guessed it was past the time when they usually ate.

And if they did come looking, would they know where to search?

She knew suddenly that the answer to that was 'yes'. That while the other choices of picnic coves might have been random, today's had not. Matt knew the island well, and Winston had been born here, so they both knew exactly what they were doing when they had set out from the Anchorage that morning. The underwater caves had merely been an excuse, she thought, recalling Matt's offer to abandon the story, his mention of needing a breakthrough soon. Clearly he had decided to force the pace a little.

She heard the door behind her unlock, and turned quickly, trying to look composed. The boy came in. He had changed into dark trousers and a shirt which made him look older.

He said, 'We're having lunch by the pool. My father and his wife are both anxious to meet you.'