Second Tomorrow (8 page)

‘She’s devastatingly beautiful,’ declared Phil, bypassing his sister’s last sentence. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen such perfection in a woman.’ He passed the muffin basket to Clare, but she shook her head.

‘I’ve had enough, thank you, Phil.’

‘Yes,’ mused Phil, selecting a patty case stuffed with minced chicken and biting into it, ‘extraordinarily beautiful.’

‘But hard, and thoroughly detestable. I wonder what her husband’s like.’

Phil gave a wry grimace.

‘I don’t envy him,’ he said with fervour. ‘I’ll bet she leads him a dance!’

‘Perhaps that’s why she’s on her own. I expect he made the excuse that he couldn’t get away from the office—’ She broke off, laughing, and said they were both assuming things which were in all probability wrong. ‘She could be a widow,’ she ended, little knowing that she had hit upon the truth.

Chapter Five

True to his word, Luke came over to the Rusty Pelican that evening. Clare, having taken extra care with her appearance, watched from the flower-draped sun-terrace as he strode across the lawn, taking a short cut from Silver Springs to enter the hotel grounds where they joined the beach. He saw her and waved; her heartstrings
tugged with a pleasure-pain sensation. How she loved him ! And yet memories and promises had intruded again. Yes, from waking this morning to bright sunshine pouring into her room until now, the promise she had made to Frank’s mother had continually intruded. What must she do? Her own resolve to be true to the memory of her dead fiancé was weakening with every meeting with Luke, and yet there were moments when Frank’s face was clear before her mind and then all her love for him seemed to well up and she felt sure no one could ever take his place. To be married to one man and thinking of another . . . It would be sheer hell, trying to deceive her husband.

Her husband. . . . As yet Luke had made no mention of love, so marriage was obviously not yet in his mind. It was even possible that he did not love her at all, that he merely wanted to succeed in making her forget the past and learn to live again. Or he could possibly be interested in her only as a potential mistress. The thought was too painful and she thrust it from her mind. In any case, Luke was close, his majestic strides bringing him to the terrace where several groups of guests were relaxing in loungers or sitting at white wrought-iron tables drinking iced lemonade through long straws, chatting, enjoying the cool evening breeze wafting in from the crystal clear sea.

‘I’m early,’ stated Luke after a cordial greeting and a long appreciative examination of her face and figure, and the dress of white lace she was
wearing over a copper-rose underskirt. Ankle-length, with a full flowing skirt, nipped in waist and tight bodice—sleeveless and low-cut—it suited her to perfection, accentuating her adorable curves and contrasting most attractively with the honey-peach tone of her skin. ‘I thought we could have a little preliminary chat over drinks.’ He stood, towering over her, his oyster-coloured linen suit superlatively cut to fit his equally superlative frame. Clare’s eyes wandered over him, and she thought that he could not be carrying an ounce of excess weight. But the slender body was deceptive, as she had already learned, having experienced his powerful animal strength, the coiled-spring hardness of his body. It must be all muscle, she thought. ‘What, child, are you thinking?’ A hint of amusement in his voice and a glimmer in his eyes. She coloured a little but her fluttering smile was impish.

‘My thoughts are secret,’ she told him archly. ‘Mind your own business.’

‘My girl,’ he said warningly, ‘everything you do is my business, and don’t you forget it.’

She laughed, a happy, tinkling laugh that set that nerve pulsating in his throat. He bent to whisper softly in her ear, ‘If it wasn’t for all these people I’d kiss you! Where can we go? There are times in one’s life when the presence of others is definitely unnecessary!’ His eyes were dancing and a quirk of amusement lifted the corners of his mouth.

‘If it’s a drink you want,’ she returned mischievously, ‘then we could sit here. Or perhaps you prefer the lounge?’

The grey eyes glinted, but the smile still lingered as he said, giving her hair a tug, ‘Evasion will get you nowhere. I thought you knew me better than to try that.’

‘But you did say you wanted to chat over drinks,’ she countered, feigned innocence in her glance. ‘Er—have you changed your mind?’

‘No, he answered. ‘I haven’t changed my mind. Drinks and talk it is.’

‘Oh. . . .’ Taken aback by his words, Clare forgot her pose, staring at him in comical dismay. He gave a gust of laughter, regarding in some amusement the rising colour in her cheeks.

‘How very transparent you are! It serves you right if you’ve missed a special treat; you asked for it!’

‘Treat? What an opinion you have of yourself! I wouldn’t care if you never kissed me again!’

‘You little liar,’ he returned softly. And then, taking her arm. ‘Come on if we’re to have that drink. I want to tell you what’s happening on Windward Cay.’

A few moments later they were in the lounge, tucked away at a table for two behind some potted palms, and after ordering the drinks he began to outline his plans for the development of the island he had bought. The building plans were, for the most part, no problem, as at one
time the two families had themselves decided to develop and in consequence plans for two hotels had been passed already.

‘They soon realised that they hadn’t sufficient money,’ Luke continued, ‘and so the idea was dropped. However, to have plans already passed is a great advantage as work can begin almost immediately.’

‘Are the plans what you want?’ she asked, feeling sure they were not. ‘I mean, their ideas would be vastly different from yours, wouldn’t they?’

‘Yes, but it’s far easier to alter than to start from scratch, mainly because then it takes time to get the plans passed. I’ve studied them carefully and although the alterations will be major ones, they’re mainly internal, so it should not be any problem to get the actual building under way without much delay at all.’ He was brisk, enthusiastic, his eyes faraway. ‘Additions externally can come later. For the present I shall be satisfied with the sizes of both hotels as I’d like to get them ready for next season.

‘Next season?’ blinked Clare. ‘But that’s only about nine months away!’

‘What of it? With enough workers it’s possible.’

‘You know better than I, Luke, but it seems a very short time to me.’

‘I shall submit the plans for the third hotel as soon as I’ve thought them out and had them drawn up,’ he decided, bypassing what she had said. ‘But of course that one will not be built until next year, or perhaps the beginning of the
following year. However, I must get you a plan of the first hotel so that you can begin buying what you want. We bring in most of our requirements from Miami, but you already know that. You’ll have to order everything soon, so as to be sure to get them here in time.’

‘I hope I won’t let you down, Luke.’

He smiled at her from above the rim of his glass.

‘Have confidence in yourself, Clare,’ he advised, ‘for I have plenty in you.’

‘You’re very . . . kind.’

He laughed and reminded her that she had not always thought so.

‘I seem to remember you calling me a beast,’ he added on a teasing note.

‘Well, you did ask for it!’

‘I was only trying to teach you something.’ He paused as if unsure of himself, a circumstance which staggered Clare, who would never have believed he would ever be without that innate confidence that had struck her from the very first. ‘Have I taught you anything?’ he queried at last.

The question took her unawares and she floundered, saying, before she quite knew it, ‘I don’t know, Luke. I can’t say. Sometimes—’ She stopped, not knowing just how to put into words what was in her mind. Luke did it for her, with ruthless bluntness, his voice hardening, his eyes cold as steel.

‘So we’re back to memories again. You’re the most infuriating woman I have ever met!’ he
exploded, making her give a start that set her pulses racing. ‘Your warped ideas are positively unhealthy—!’

‘Luke,’ she broke in unhappily, ‘you haven’t given me time to speak—’

‘You didn’t know what to say. Admit it.’

‘You’re right, I didn’t.’ She swallowed hard, trying to clear her throat of the blockage that was making speech so difficult. ‘It isn’t easy to change one’s ideas—’ She broke off and spread her hands. ‘I loved Frank desperately—you have no knowledge of how it is to lose someone so very dear to you.’ She stopped again as he uttered a muffled oath. Of a surety his temper was giving him trouble, and Clare felt righteously indignant because she had certainly not given him an excuse for being as angry as this. His impatience with her she could understand, but anger of this strength she could not. He ought to give her time, show a little patience, try to understand her feelings and her doubts. ‘I said just now that you’re kind,’ she went on perseveringly, ‘but sometimes you’re hard and unfeeling. . . .’ Her voice trailed as, through a gap in the greenery, she perceived the tall svelte figure of Stella Wesley entering the lounge. Luke, puzzled by her expression, twisted his head, then gave an exclamation of disbelief.

‘Stella,’ he muttered to himself, appearing to have forgotten Clare’s presence. ‘What is she doing here?’

‘You know her?’ Something decidedly unpleas
ant caught at Clare’s throat as an inexplicable sense of foreboding flooded over her.

‘I used to be engaged to her.’ Luke spoke automatically, scarcely able to take his eyes off the incredibly beautiful woman who was gliding along the middle of the lounge, glancing about her as if looking for someone.

‘Engaged? She’s the one—the girl who—’

‘Yes. We were madly in love once.’ His voice was harsh, grating on Clare’s ears. ‘She married someone else, and now she’s widowed.’

A quivering hand went to Clare’s cheek. Widowed . . . And she was here, on Flamingo Cay. Did she know that Luke was living here? It seemed likely. . . .

‘How long has she been widowed?’ she asked, her eyes on the girl who was still scanning the people sitting in the lounge.

‘About six months.’ He too was watching the girl, and his tone had an absent ring as he answered Clare’s question. ‘Perhaps a little less.’

‘That’s not long.’ It seemed that he had not heard because he made no reply, and after a moment Clare added quietly, ‘Did she know you were living here? I mean—you haven’t always lived here—’ She stopped and began again. ‘You weren’t living here when you were engaged, were you?’

‘No.’

‘How long ago was it that you and she were engaged?’ The girl had stopped; a waiter came
to her, indicating a table and after a slight hesitation she accepted the chair he had pulled out for her. How beautiful and poised. Every head had turned as she walked down the middle of the lounge and even now, when she was seated, people were looking at her.

‘How long?’ Luke sounded impatient, she thought, and he did not even look at her as he replied, ‘Six years. She’s not changed a bit.’ He was talking to himself, a vacant air about him.

Clare picked up her glass, a terrible weight dragging at her heart. Stella was so devastatingly lovely, exquisite in her feminine perfection. And yet, if Luke had wanted to take up with her again he would have been in touch with her before now, since he obviously had known that she was a widow.

‘Are—are you going to speak to her?’ she could not help asking, placing her glass down on the table without putting it to her lips.

‘Not at the moment.’ His attention came back to Clare and he smiled, obviously having forgotten what they were talking about before his mind was diverted by the unexpected appearance of his old flame. ‘Drink up and we’ll go in to dinner.’

She took up her glass, much of the weight lifting from her heart. She had been so sure that Luke would want to talk to Stella but, judging from his expression at this moment, he did not appear to have the least interest in talking to her.

Phil was not at the table and a short while
after they had been seated a waiter came with the message that he was busy and would probably have his meal in his office. Clare did not know whether to be glad or sorry. It was always a pleasure to have the evening meal with her brother . . . but it was an even greater pleasure to be dining alone with Luke.

They chose Bahamian food, fish—grouper for Clare and bone-fish for Luke—topping the list as a natural choice, being the
specialité de la maison,
cooked as it always was, native style in a variety of intriguing ways. A fruity white wine went well with both and after having coffee at the table they got up to leave, Luke suggesting they go along to the Clipper Inn and have a planter’s punch. All the time they were eating Clare’s eyes had scanned the tables but there was no sign of Mrs Wesley. She must be having dinner in her room, Clare decided, wondering if Luke had been thinking of her and concluding—as she had done—that Stella was dining in her room.

Over drinks in the Clipper Inn Luke talked some more about the development of the island and as she listened Clare realised more and more that there was something idyllic in his plan. He was intent on creating a little piece of paradise on one of the Out Islands and she felt proud that she was to play such an active part in that creation. Her mind buzzed with ideas for colour schemes, materials, furnishings, ornaments and so much more. Luke began talking about the outside, the smooth lawns, the flower
beds, the flood-lit tennis courts set in a palm grove with exotic flowers trailing along the border wall. The golf-course of one hotel was to be between a lake and the sea, and dotted with palms and other exotic trees.

‘It all sounds so exciting that I can’t wait to see it finished!’ she declared, her eyes aglow with enthusiasm. ‘How long will it be before I’m actually able to begin?’

‘The inside, you mean? About six or seven months. But you’ve a lot to do before then,’ he warned. ‘Everything must be here, on this island, ready to be put in place once the builders are out.’

‘I know.’ She paused, hesitant about her next question even while knowing it had to be asked. ‘The expenses, Luke . . . Shall I have to come to you for every cent? It would be easier if—’