Circles of Fate (2 page)

“Charmed,” said Rock Bennett, making a performance of bending low over Anita's hand as he greeted her in true continental manner. A flame of warm attraction sprang between the girl whose eyes contained a keen romantic longing that did not go with the ring on her finger, and the pilot who lived with his head in the clouds and didn't seem to require man's basic need of feminine companionship, despite his ease of greeting.

A speculative smile quirked on Monica Perryman's mouth. She half-envied, half-sympathized with Anita. The years of love and passion are so few, a wild untamed flower that flourishes in young breasts, with a heart that quickly withers and dies or, in exceptional cases, changes into a fireside bloom of eternal quality. It could have been like that with Claude and me, she thought. It was all there, the passion ready to sweeten into mellowness and warmth, only we never found the right fireside. A roughness entered her voice as she rounded on the bland faces of the other two.

“Well, are we going to stay here all day? How do you expect to make a living, Rock Bennett, when you don't give a reliable service?”

“I was unaware of the hurry,” he drawled. “So, also, is my third passenger. I am afraid we'll just have to wait until he arrives.”

“Who is it, this inconsiderate man who commands V.I.P. treatment?”

“Felipe Sanchez.
El valiente,
himself.”

For some inexplicable reason that seemed to satisfy Monica Perryman. For another reason, equally obscure, it heightened Anita's own sense of anticipation. She couldn't wait to meet the man responsible for her new friend's sudden mood change.

He came strolling up half an hour later, turning a few heads, quickening a few heartbeats with his dominating personality and formidable strength of both feature and stride. He had about him that special quality one associates with foreign aristocracy, a certain mystique that defies exact definition. Introductions completed, a cool handshake with none of the flourish and fervour of Rock Bennett's greeting, she wondered whether his black eyes were symbolic of his nature. A fascinating complexity of black-panther cruelty and friendly imprudence, they looked into hers with a depth and intensity that made hers retreat like those of an embarrassed child's.

She fancied he laughed because she wasn't mature enough to face that glance, although his lips did not betray his inner thoughts and remained in a courteous and correct enquiring tilt.

“I hope I haven't kept you good people waiting.” Pure lip service, she decided ungraciously, unfairly committing a snap judgement, something she prided herself on not doing no matter what the circumstances.

She was piqued to have to sit next to him on the plane. Monica Perryman neatly organized this by commandeering the lone bucket seat at the rear. Her nearness to home put a strain on her face. There was still time to change her mind. Would she? Wouldn't she? She withdrew to wrestle with her problem. She was the uncommunicative, hostile woman Anita had first met.

“Have you been to the
Isla de Leyenda
before?” enquired Felipe Sanchez.

At first Anita had thought he could have passed for a Frenchman, but only because his temperament seemed less excitable than either Spanish or Italian. His carefully accented English gave him away more surely than the slightly darker colour of his skin, and pronounced him a proud and arrogant Spaniard.

“It is my mother's birthplace,” she told him, lifting her own shoulders to inject her words with importance.

“So?” There it was again, that deep and probing glance which made her shrink from even an implied lie.

“I have never been there, except in my imagination.”

“What better reason could you have for going now. I envy you.”

“How so?”

“To see the Island of Legend for the first time is a truly memorable experience.”

“Island of Legend,” she mused. “I'd forgotten that was what
Isla de Leyenda
stood for.”

“Of course, you would speak the tongue of your mother's birthplace,” he teased.

“Rustily, I'm afraid,” she admitted, adding ruefully, “At the moment it sounds more gibberish than Spanish.”

“It will come.” His tone was bitter. “A foreign language is like a youthful folly, never wholly forgotten.” Before she could add her own comment, he was pointing out of the window. “If you look carefully you will see the coast of Africa.”

The tiny smudge of cloud had grown into a shelf which obscured her view, but occasionally a break allowed her eyes to drop all the way to the brooding sea, but the coastline he referred to remained elusive and she thought perhaps he was looking with the eye of memory. He had the air of the seasoned traveller about him and, like Monica Perryman, he would have made this journey numerous times, so that he could accept the frailness of the craft in which they flew. All Anita's flight-nerves had returned threefold.

“
Mire! Mire!
” Excitement forced a Spanish imperative from Felipe's lips, and Anita obeyed and looked. Magically the clouds of knitted purple had dispersed once more and she could see the collection of volcanic thrown islands, dark petrified blobs, fantastically and dramatically contoured by the prevailing wind and the greedy lick of the grey sea. Soon the tiny plane would sweep down into the lush green beauty of the Poniente Valley, and Edward would be waiting to transport her to the best, and probably only hotel Cala Bonita thought fit to provide.

“Are you being met?” enquired the Spaniard with practical interest.

“Yes.” She could have left it at that. Some demon of perversity made her add: “My fiancé is meeting me.” She used those words as a fierce protective cloak to wrap around herself. His eyes narrowed in a smile.

“I see.” It was statement, awareness and amused rejoinder all rolled into one. “In that case let us say our goodbyes now. Departures tend to be hustled and there is never time to make sincere good wishes. Enjoy your stay, señorita. Come to love my island.”

“I'm positive I will.” If she sounded aloof it was because his proprietary air of ownership annoyed her. His island indeed!

“We shall be landing any second now. You can hold my hand if you wish,” offered the objectionable Spaniard.

Anita looked at the proffered hand, dearly wishing she had the nerve to decline its courage-giving strength, knowing her palm would rush to meet his, as indeed it did. Finger locked securely against finger.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “I'm sure this is a ridiculous fear.”

“Don't apologize.” His voice was unnaturally harsh. “Never to be afraid is to be less than human.”

“Are you ever afraid, señor?”

He didn't answer. He was strangely keyed up, listening. She knew the engine had changed tune, but she had thought this was because they were preparing to land. The first intimation that something was wrong came in his alerted attitude and the imperceptible tightening of the fingers securing hers. The second was more than an intimation, it was a confirmation contained in Rock's pat little speech.

“No cause for alarm.” Why did they always say that when there so obviously was? “As you see, I've overshot the runway, but don't worry, I'll get us down.”

I won't be frightened, thought Anita. Fear is a progressive plant. I must suppress its growth. Funny, she thought, how one heightens an imaginary fear, but automatically tackles the real thing.

The engine was making a strange singing, whining noise. It gave a sputtering cough, then cut out altogether. Row upon row of pines, hushed in an unnerving and quivering silence, sighed beneath the windows as the plane failed to gain height. Occasionally the sky and the earth tilted at a crazy angle. Anita's turning thoughts were forming a kaleidoscopic pattern of horror and elation. She felt as though she had risen above herself, above her own fear. She might die, but she felt curiously unafraid, a thought which filled her with wonder and awe. If she lived it would be like being born again. A new person. And in some way this horrible experience would enrich her life, give it a clearer definition and greater purpose.

Monica Perryman's face was a frozen mask. It was as though she, too, had acquired clairvoyant powers. As though she knew.

Felipe watched Anita. Very English in appearance, with probably a dash of Scandinavian to account for her rope of golden hair and incredibly fair complexion. Her skin had a delicacy which would fail to hide the slightest blush, and her eyes, unlike the eyes of a Spanish girl, would not conceal the emotions which smouldered within but would reveal every turn of thought. Aided and abetted by her nose, which in the course of their short acquaintance he had seen crinkle with laughter, wrinkle with impatience and, on one mystifying occasion, tighten with scorn, her face was the mirror of her emotions. A man would always know exactly where he stood with such a girl. He watched her mouth tilt at the corners with a disbelief that was comic as she digested the bitter aspect of the situation. He saw it straighten out in acceptance as her chin lifted in noble, and touching, determination.

He robustly applauded: “
Bueno
.”

One eyebrow, a mere handful of delicate feather strokes, flew up to express a question.

“For accepting the inevitable, señorita.”

“What is –” Now her blue-grey eyes probed his, her voice, despite its resolution to remain calm, was not quite steady – “the inevitable?”

“Don't you know?” How could he answer this charming, dignified, hopeful child?

“I know the plane can't continue to limp home in this hurt-bird fashion,” she said, fixing her eyes upon him with waiting intensity.

“The cost of repairing the engine will be uneconomically high. Rock will have to scrap it and invest in a new plane, and when you make the return trip the fare will have doubled.” Not a bad bit of preliminary cape-work, he thought as a smile touched the stiffness of her mouth.

“Why do they call you Felipe
el valiente
?” she asked.

Before he could answer, Rock yelled: “Brace up for landing!”

He hardly had time to get the words out before the impact of touch-down seemed to jar every bone in Anita's body. Now that it was over she wanted to sit for a moment and collect herself and perhaps offer up a little prayer, but Felipe wouldn't allow it. He bullied her to her feet and forced her towards the exit door.

The plane had sat down on its tail. The ground seemed to be a perilously long way away, but even as she hesitated the impetus of his hands fell on her back to hurl her through space. She landed inelegantly, crumpling to nurse an ankle shot with a Technicolor flame of pain. Once again she only wanted to stay where she was, to be allowed to sink into sweet oblivion. This time it was Rock who bossed her up and on to her good leg, putting his arm round her waist, easing her a safe distance away.

“Where is Felipe?” she enquired. The rising dust roughened her throat and made speech difficult.

“Trying to release Monica Perryman. Her seat jammed and she bumped her head.”

“Will he get her out?”

“That, or he'll die in the attempt,” was the grim reply. “Now I want you to...” His voice diminished, died.

She opened her eyes to a totally alien world dominated by grotesque boulders, tortured and streaked with solidified lava; no matter where she looked it was a recurrent pattern of black rock and stunted trees and rivers of petrified lava. It was like something out of a horror film and she wouldn't have been a bit surprised to see Frankenstein's monster bending over her. Neither was she surprised to see the Spaniard's eyes hovering inches above hers. Not surprised, but sweetly, achingly overjoyed.

“Hello, Felipe
el valiente
she said.

“It amuses you to call me that?” he speculated.

“What have you done,” she pondered, “to earn such a grand title?”

“It would be more appropriate to ask what I do. One's fame is measured by one's current endeavour, I fear.

“I don't believe you.” This time his eyebrows slid up. “You don't fear anything,” she explained. “Did you get Mrs Perryman out of the plane?”

“What do you know about that?”

“Rock told me her seat jammed and she bumped her head. Did you get her out?”

“Yes.” His mouth was grave.

“Where is Rock?”

“He has gone for help.”

“Why didn't you go with him?”

“And leave my lame duck?”

“Who else is here?”

“No one.”

“Monica Perryman?”

“Ah, yes!” Anita followed the involuntary movement of his chin and saw a shrouded form. Sheltered from the wind by a huge boulder, Monica Perryman was wrapped in Felipe's jacket. She touched the thin material of his shirt sleeve, noticing also that his tie was missing. She contrasted the vee of his brown throat with the stark white of his shirt, a whiteness echoed in the glint of his teeth. “Mrs Perryman must feel nice and snug in your jacket,” she said.

“Do you feel cold?”

“No,” she lied.

“How is your ankle? Any easier?”

She looked down at her ankle. It was neatly bound with a strip of sober grey material flecked with silver crescent moons.

“My tie was happy to do service,” he said, grinning, if grimly, at her dismay.

“I seem to be causing a lot of trouble, señor –? I'm sorry, I didn't properly catch your second name.”

“Felipe will do nicely, Miss Hurst.”

“Please call me Anita.”

“Anita is a Spanish name.”

“Of course. I'm half Spanish, on my mother's side. But I have already told you that.”

“You said Leyenda was your mother's birthplace. It is possible to be born somewhere without being of that country's descent. How did a daughter of Spain come to give birth to such a typical English rose?”

“That has been the big regret of my life. Perhaps nature will right her wrong by giving me typically Spanish children. You know, when I was a little girl I spent hours bemoaning the fact that I had inherited my English father's fairness, and not my mother's raven hair and splendid eyes. Her eyes were her best feature, as bright and sparkling as hand-mirrors, yet they cloaked her thoughts in dark mystery. Mine are pools of inconsequence. They reflect all of me.”