The Bedroom Barter (16 page)

I suppose that's meant to convey something, Chellie thought with rising vexation. When am I going to start getting some straight answers round here?

They seemed to be descending into a steep valley, plunging into a green tunnel where overhanging foliage almost blocked out the sun. Through the trees, she could just glimpse the lines of a tiled roof.

Clinging on like grim death, as the Jeep lurched and bounced, she gasped out, 'Is that the hotel—the place where you're taking me?'

Alphonse flashed her a grin. '
Oui, mademoiselle. C'est Arcadie
.'

'But I won't be able to stay there.' She tried to speak clearly and concisely above the roar of the engine. 'I'll need my passport to register, and Mr Brennan has it He forgot to give it to me and I have to get it back. Do you understand?'

Alphonse nodded, still smiling, and drove on without slackening his pace by one iota.

Nuts, Chellie told herself helplessly. He must be. I'm driving round with the local fruitcake.

And if the building below was a hotel, it was a pretty small one, she thought, a frown creasing her brow. There could be supplementary cabins dotted round the grounds, but so far she hadn't spotted any sign of them.

Nor could she see any flash of blue water suggesting that Hotel Arcadie boasted a swimming pool, and that was a disappointment. St Hilaire might not be a leader in the Caribbean tourist industry, but surely whatever hotels it possessed should be expected to have the usual amenities.

And, she realised, she'd been looking forward to a swim.

In her old life in London, swimming had been one of her favourite forms of exercise—apart from dancing. In the pool near her home she'd swum in the early morning, pushing herself almost to the limit of exhaustion. Distancing herself from the devils of boredom and frustration that had plagued her so often.

Here, she had other frustrations to work through—other demons to exorcise—and the prospect of stretching her limbs in cool water—restoring her body to fitness—had been irresistible.

A cold shower wouldn't be the same thing at all, she thought wryly. That was, of course, if the hotel was sophisticated enough to have bathrooms. She didn't even know that for certain.

But when they eventually emerged from the overhanging trees into full sunlight, and she was able to take her first proper look at Arcadie, she had to admit that she'd been unfair. Because it certainly lived up to its name.

It was a gracious two-storey building, standing square and painted white, its roof tiled in faded terracotta. It was surrounded by well-kept lawns of coarse grass and flowerbeds that were a sheer riot of colour.

A shady verandah encircled the ground floor, guarding long shuttered windows, and a balcony with a wooden balustrade surrounded the first floor.

It was very still, only the harsh cry of a bird breaking the welcome silence as the Jeep stopped.

Chellie saw that the main door was open, and an elderly man with grizzled hair stood waiting in the shade of the pillared portico.

He came forward and opened the passenger door, lifting down Chellie's bag and offering her a hand to assist her descent.

'
Mademoiselle
.' He wore dark trousers and a pristine white linen coat, and his smile was grave and polite. 'My name is Cornelius. Welcome to Arcadie.'

Chellie got down stiffly, resisting the temptation to rub the bits that ached from that headlong journey. She felt hot and sticky, and was aware that the dress she'd worn to impress was creased and dusty.

She took a deep breath. 'I'm sorry, but there's been a mistake,' she began, then whirled round, gasping, as the Jeep's engine roared into life again and the vehicle took off in another swirl of dust, with a cheery backward wave from Alphonse.

'Hell's bells.' Ridiculously, she tried to run after it 'Don't go,' she yelled. '
Ne me quittez pas
. You can't leave me stranded here. You
can't
…'

'You must not disturb yourself,
mademoiselle
.' Cornelius's voice was soothing as he came to her side. He took her arm and began to urge her gently but firmly towards the door. 'All is well, and you are quite safe. I will show you your room, then Rosalie, my wife, will make you some iced tea.'

Chellie stared at him. 'If you're the owner, then there's something you should know,' she said, swallowing. 'I've been brought here under false pretences. You see, I've no passport or money either, and I needed the driver to take me back to town so that I could sort something out'

'Neither are required,
mademoiselle
. And I am not the owner of Arcadie, merely an employee. Whereas you, of course, are an honoured guest'

They were inside now, in a spacious hall kept cool by the gentle movement of a ceiling fan. The walls were painted ivory, and the floor had been constructed from some wood the colour of warm honey.

Apart from a carved wooden chest supporting a ceramic bowl heavy with blue and crimson flowers, the hall was empty. There was no sign of a reception desk, or any of the other paraphernalia of hotel life.

Just a wide curving flight of stairs in the same honeyed wood—which she was being encouraged towards, she realised.

She hung back. 'It's very—quiet. So, how many more are there? Honoured guests, I mean?'

'As yet, you are the only one, Mademoiselle Greer.'

'I see.' It wasn't true, but there seemed little point in hanging around arguing the point, so she followed Cornelius up the stairs, the polished banister smooth under her hand. The only touch of reality in a confusing world, she thought.

She said, 'Has the hotel only just opened for business, then?'

'Hotel?' Cornelius halted, glancing back at her in obvious astonishment. 'Arcadie is a private house,
mademoiselle
. You are here at the invitation of the owner, Mist' Howard.'

Chellie's hand tightened on the rail. 'But there must be some mistake,' she said, trying to speak calmly. 'I don't know any such person. Is he here? I—I'd better speak to him at once…'

'I regret—Mist' Howard is in America.'

'In America?' she repeated, stunned. 'Then how could he…?' Her voice tailed away as realisation began to dawn.

'Ah,' she said softly, between her teeth. 'I think I understand.'

So this was the arrangement Ash Brennan had made, she thought smouldering. Once more he was presuming on his employer's good nature, it seemed. He must be awfully sure of his position in the family to take such advantage. But then he was going to be his boss's son in law—wasn't he?

She forced a smile. 'Tell me, Cornelius, does your Mr Howard own a boat called
La Belle Rêve
? by any chance?'

'
Mais, bien sûr, mademoiselle
.' He gave her an anxious look. "There is a problem? You still wish to leave?'

'No, not at all.' Chellie gave an airy shrug. 'Why shouldn't I stay in his house? After all, I've enjoyed so much of his hospitality already in the last few days.' She ticked off on her fingers. 'I've sailed on his boat, eaten his food, and I'm even wearing his daughter's clothes, so what does one more thing matter?' She paused again. 'I presume he
does
have a daughter?' She tried to make her voice casual.

Cornelius nodded. 'Indeed,
mademoiselle.
.' There was fondness in his tone. 'Mademoiselle Julie is with him in Florida.'

'How delightful,' Chellie said brightly. 'All the same, I hope I'm not sleeping in her room. I should hate her to arrive and find it occupied.' In fact, I should hate her to arrive, period, she added silently, her memory serving up the image of the smiling blonde in the photograph.

'You have been given the guest suite,
mademoiselle
,' Cornelius sounded faintly shocked. 'But neither Mist' Howard or
Mam'selle
are expected.'

Good, thought Chellie, and meant it.

But, in spite of her misgivings, she could not help but be enchanted by her accommodation. An airy sitting room, furnished with a brightly cushioned rattan sofa and chairs, opened into a large bedroom, with soft turquoise walls and filmy white drapes billowing gently in the faint breeze from the open window.

The low, wide bed had a quilted coverlet, patterned in shades of turquoise and white, and the ivory and gold tiled bathroom held a deep tub, as well as a walk-in shower with glass screens.

Chellie was suddenly aware that tears were not far away. All this comfort—all this beauty, she thought, for someone frankly fraying at the edges.

She said huskily, 'It—it's wonderful, Cornelius. Thank you.'

He inclined his head, looking pleased. He said, 'If you give your dress to Rosalie,
mademoiselle
, she will have it laundered for you.'

Of course, she thought, as the door closed behind him. As her father's daughter, this was the kind of service she had been taught to expect. Yet she'd never really appreciated it until this moment.

She stripped, and had a long, luxurious shower, hoping to wash away the blues, then changed into a pair of cream cut-offs and a black vest top. She slipped on a pair of light canvas shoes, and ventured downstairs.

A large woman in a striped cotton dress came surging to meet her, the dark eyes flicking over Chellie in a swift, shrewd assessment that in no way detracted from the warmth of her smile.

'You would like some refreshment,
mademoiselle
—iced tea, or maybe pineapple juice?' She whisked Chellie through a sitting room replete with large squashy sofas and low tables, and out through sliding glass doors to the verandah at the back of the house, where a table and chairs had been set and a tray awaited, set with covered jugs and glasses.

'It looks lovely,' Chellie said, with a little sigh of pleasure. 'May I have some tea, please?'

She watched as Rosalie poured the tea with a satisfying clink of ice cubes, and took the glass she was offered.

One sip convinced her that it was the best iced tea she'd ever tasted, full of flavour and not too sweet, and so she told Rosalie, who looked quietly gratified.

Encouraged by this, Chellie decided on another tack. 'It's good of you to go to all this trouble,' she said. 'After all, it can't have been convenient to have me dumped on you at such short notice.' She paused. 'I thought Mr Brennan was sending me to a hotel.'

Rosalie dismissed all hotels with a wave of her hand, lips pursed disapprovingly. 'You are Mist' Ash's friend,
mam'selle
, so where else would you stay? Mr Howard would wish you to be here.'

Would he? I wonder, Chellie thought, her own mouth twisting. And is that really what I am—Ash's Mend? He wasn't very friendly when we parted.

Which reminded her. She said 'Rosalie, I need to contact Mr Ash fairly urgently. Would it be possible for me to call Mm on the telephone in St Hilaire?'

'Mist' Ash?' the older woman repeated, setting the jug back on the tray and arranging its beaded muslin cover with minute care. She shook her head. 'I don't know,
mam'selle
. Don't know where he might be.'

'But it isn't a huge place,' Chellie protested. 'Surely you must be able to reach him somewhere.'

Rosalie folded her hands in front of her. 'It's not easy,
mam'selle
. But I ask Cornelius,' she added with the air of one making a major concession.

Chellie sighed in silent perplexity as Rosalie went back into the house. Another dead end, it seemed. Or was she being deliberately blocked? Surely not. Yet Laurent had indicated that Ash had his own place on the island, which must mean an address—a phone number.

Unless he'd given instructions that he wasn't to be contacted—particularly by her. Maybe he'd decided it was time to draw a line, once and for all, under this strange stop-go relationship.

Shaking off the faint feeling of desolation assailing her, she settled herself back against the cushions of her wicker lounger and drank some more tea. A climbing plant, heavy with blossom, was spilling over the balustrade, and a huge butterfly with pale velvety wings was busy among the flowers.

There was a flash of green and gold, and a parrot flew across the grass and vanished into a nearby tree.

Arcadia indeed, she thought, drawing a swift, delighted breath. But she could not allow herself to relax and enjoy it too much. Her presence here was a strictly temporary measure, and she must never forget it.

Another twenty-four hours and I'll be gone, she told herself, and all this will be behind me. And perhaps then I can start to forget—and to heal. And she sighed again, wishing with all her heart that she could believe that.