Sweet Seduction (10 page)

When his mouth reached hers, Kira was beyond resisting. She let him part her moist lips and deepen the kiss into her mouth. Her body began to weaken as the kiss moved from tenderness to growing passion. Her eyes were closed but she knew that his were blazing.

He pushed her aside as if the lapse had been her fault. For a moment, Kira was hurt, then the turmoil quietened in her breast and she knew he was right to stop. The closeness had become as darkly turbulent and dangerous as the waves that lashed the reef.

Twelve

"Home," he said, briefly.

When they reached the car park, Giles took off his jacket and slipped it round Kira’s shoulders as he had before. It was still
warm from the heat of his body.

"You may feel chilly on the drive home," he said, tidily lifting her hair over the collar. Her hair was soft and the wind curled a tendril round his finger. Giles had never touched anything so soft. It made his heart contract with longing. He did not know how he had managed to break the spell in the garden. He wanted to know why she was so thin and troubled; longed to comfort her.

"Can’t have you getting cold," he added, on one of the warmest n
ights Kira had known for years.

He reached out and folded his arms round her loosely, almost as though he could not stop himself. Kira froze, her arms pinned to her side. It was a long, suspended embrace, intended to be casual but with both of them acutely aware of the shape of their bodies touching. She lost herself in the clean, masculine of smell of him, the healthy fragrance of good soap, the tangy scent of after-shave. He had no right to smell so good.

Wonderingly, Kira stayed still in his embrace, letting him hold her. Her mind was spinning. Why did he seem to need her? For months she had thought only of herself and her pain, her betrayal, her injuries. But now this man, this man of stature and strength, was wearing a suit of sorrow that she could not understand. She was sure it was not another woman. It was something else.

Giles stepped back and Kira would have fallen if he had not steadied her. She braced her balance but her injured leg let her down and the pain was sharp.

"Are you all right?" They stared into each other’s eyes, wondering at what they saw. Kira knew that something was happening to her icy heart but she fought against its stirrings. She did not want to be hurt again.

"I’d never hurt you," he said, doing it once more, reading her thoughts. "Not intentionally."

"I’ll never let you," she said, the pain putting coldness in her voice.

"I’m glad we’ve sorted that out."

He drove her back to St James, through the balmy night, passed the ghostly sugar cane fields and whispering palms, stopping outside the hotel entrance. He did not get out, but sat staring ahead impassively, his hands on the wheel. A bell boy came and opened the door.

"I’ll get one of my boys to bring you a car. Get a visitor’s licence at Holetown and I’ll see you in my office tomorrow. He’ll bring you directions for getting there.”

"I’ll call you first," said Kira, slipping off his jacket. "I may have other things to do tomorrow."

"Cancel them. Two sharp, in my office," he repeated firmly. "Goodnight, Kira."

"Goodnight, Giles," she said, forgetting to thank him. She began the words but it was already too late.

She collected her key, hearing his powerful car speed away. She had come to Barbados for peace and quiet and to make some contact with her grandfather. To put some wrongs right. Instead, she was being caught in a web spun by a man she should be keeping away from. She slid open the doors to the balcony and stepped out for a last look at the glimmering sea. Her spirit was singing a new song. But the cold voice of commonsense at the back of her mind told her to beware.

Kira dreamed of Giles. He came unbidden into her sleep and took her body without force. It was a dream of glorious passion and unutterable sweetness. Rapture beyond all her imaginings hung like spun gold, lancing their pleasure with joy and happiness.

She awoke, drenched in sweat, her legs aching, still feeling the pressure of his warm weight. She stretched languorously beneath the smooth cotton sheet as if indeed her body had been satisfied. Then she curled onto her side, her hand on the empty pillow, vulnerable for his presence.

Her physical longing for Bruce had long since gone. Once she had wanted him, in those early heady days, but she dreamed of being a virginal bride. Waiting had seemed right at the time. Perhaps that was why Bruce had fallen so easily into Jenny’s arms.

How could she continue to want a man whose body had so recently been pleasuring another woman? It quickly dampened her desire for love-making, cooling the physical passion, her pride not allowing her body to still want him. It faded, leaving an empty husk, nothing like the warm and loving woman she had once been.

Kira turned in bed, her hand now cupping her cheek, reliving her dream, wondering if Giles was going to bring her body to life again. It was strange that she should even contemplate such a happening, when in reality she strove to keep him at a distance. She wanted time and space in which to heal and make herself whole again.

Bruce had demolished her spirit that awful evening. She could not remember his exact words now, did not even try. The pain was enough. A living nightmare arriving unexpected out of a haze of blind love.

For once, Kira did not cry at the memory and that was something new. Dry-eyed she looked back dispassionately, remembering how Bruce could not bring himself to meet her eyes, how he found excuses. Time was helping ease the anguish or was it Barbados, weaving its magic spell?

She drifted back to sleep, half-smiling, unaware that she was letting Giles into her thoughts again.

* * *

They had not met for a week. Reuben had kept away but dreamed of Dolly every night, longing to invade her body, wanting to quench the fire that burned in his loins. He was going mad with wanting her. It was crazy.

"Don’t you love me?" said Dolly, leaning up on one elbow, stroking his hair with gentle fingers. "I want more kisses
. . . here and here . . ." She touched the hollow of her throat and a small place on the curve of her shoulder, twisting her body towards him. "Love me, love me."

"I can’t," he groaned, rolling onto his side. "You know what it does to me. It’s driving me mad."

"What does it do to you? Tell me. Is it here?" Reuben jerked away and sat up.

"For God’s sake, woman. Don’t do that again. You’re a little devil," he choked angrily, recoiling away from her. "Don’t you know anything?"

Dolly was bewildered by his reaction. Tears smarted her eyes. "André tells me nothing. And if you don’t tell me, how shall I know? I’ve no mother, no friend to ask. Don’t be angry with me. How shall I ever know if you don’t tell me about life, my sweetheart, darling Reuben?"

Reuben could not stand the sight of her tears. He kissed them away gently, stroking her face and hair as if she was a kitten. He loved her so much and even more when she acted like a child. One day she would be a woman and would share his life.

"Firstly, you do not take your clothes off," Reuben said, re-arranging her dress. "You do not drape your bare legs over a man. And you do not touch him here."

He planned to marry her, one day. He was barely twenty so it would be a long way off. First he had to learn the business, save some money, build a family home. Sugar Hill would not be his for a long time. But one day he would own the white plantation house and he wanted Dolly to share it with him.

"I’ll tell you everything if you promise to behave, Dolly. And no going off and dazzling the other boys with your bare legs and bare shoulders." Reuben relaxed back onto the sand and folded his arms behind his head. A dappled palm fluttered shadows across his face.

"You can talk. That smug girl, Elise, is always eyeing you. She’d go out with you any time you asked. And flaunting her money and posh clothes because her father’s going to build a smart hotel and a golf course."

"Waste of good sugar land," Reuben muttered. "It shouldn’t be allowed. Someone ought to stop this rot."

"Get yourself elected then," said Dolly, wondering if she dare unbutton his shirt and touch the dark hair on his chest. She loved the coarse curls that lay like a raven’s sheen on his skin. When they went swimming, she often pretended she was out of her depth so that Reuben would hold her against him and the water wash over their closely treading limbs. "Be a Representative at Congress. You could be our youngest Representative ever," she giggled.

Dolly let herself bathe in the reflected political glory for a daydream moment. She saw herself attending balls and dinners with Reuben in a variety of dresses, though where she got them from was unanswered in the dream.

"I’ve too much to do, thank you. There’s no time for politics. Why don’t you get yourself elected? Become the first woman in Congress."

"Now you’re laughing at me. How would I know what to do or say? No-one has ever taught me anything. I can only cook and clean paintbrushes. I can barely read."

"It’s your own fault for not paying more attention in class, always skipping school to go swimming or selling your father’s pictures in Bridgetown market on cruise days."

"But I had to. The big cruise ships only anchor off Bridgetown for a few hours. The passengers come ashore to shop-buy. American dollars, you know. We would starve if we didn’t sell to the tourists."

She straightened the rest of her frock and stood up, shaking off the sand, her face composed and motherly now. "I must get my father’s tea," she said.

"I’ll walk with you to the end of the lane. My bike’s in the bushes."

"Don’t wait too long to marry me," said Dolly, very matter of fact. "I don’t want to be an old maid, a spinster, all crumbly and dried-up."

Thirteen

Facing Benjamin Reed for the first time was going to be difficult. Kira did not relish meeting him, nor was she certain how she would react. Her anger at his treatment of her mother was beginning to lose its impetus under the relaxing spell of Barbados. It all seemed a long time ago and perhaps the old man had had a reason.

She was lazing in bed, enjoying not having to rush to work with crowds of commuters. She poured herself a pineapple juice from the refrigerator and turned on the radio.

The Voice of Barbados was a mixture of music request programmes, phone-ins and quiz games. There was regular local news and world news. Parochial items about local people and choirs, and then, following solemn music, announcements of deaths on the island and details of funerals. It seemed that no matter how lowly or unknown, everyone got a mention on the radio when they died.

Lists of mourners were read out and Kira was surprised how the families split up and went to every part of the world – America, Britain, Australia. It was sad listening to funeral details so she turned the tuning knob, found another station in time to hear her own name.

"More out and about Barbados news. Seen dining at Sam Lord’s last night, Miss Kira Reed, a London-based research consultant, with Giles Earl of the Sugar Hill Plantation. Miss Reed is newly arrived on the island and staying at Sandy Lane, St James." The warm, throaty voice added a footnote, "It is rumoured that Miss Reed is here to do some research for the sugar industry."

"So I made the radio," Kira smiled to herself. "But how did they know about the sugar research?"

The dewy morning was so fresh and beautiful, she could not lie abed for long. Slipping into her one-piece swimsuit, she went through the gardens and onto the newly-swept sand. She dived into the crystal blue water and swam strongly out to a moored sailing dingy in the bay. She felt the weakened muscles of her leg obeying her commands.

Later she would collect the business cards from the printers in Bridgetown and a driving licence from the police station. She had her UK driving licence with her, so it would be a formality and paying the registration cost.

Giles had not mentioned money. She wondered how much he was going to pay her for her work. She hoped it was going to be a fair return.

Sometime that morning she would find Fitt’s House again and meet her grandfather. She had come to see her grandfather and see him she would, without disclosing her identity at first. He had made it clear long ago that he wanted nothing to do with his grandchild, and that suited Kira too.

She sliced through the water. She wanted no man in her life; neither grandfather, Bruce, and certainly not Giles Earl. She could stand on her own two feet even if one of them tended to let her down.

She ploughed back towards the shore, anger and frustration lending a fierceness to her strokes which sent sprays of water flying through the air.

She waded into the shallows, her feelings calming down. A splashing from behind told her that someone else was up early. Water was streaming off his long tanned body as Giles emerged from the waves, his skin glistening and muscular. He wore black trunks fitting low over his hips, his legs moving with strength through the powerful waves.

"I thought for a moment you were being chased by a shark. Then I remembered that we have no sharks inshore. What was it? A crab?"

"Several crabs," said Kira, waiting for him to reach her. "I have several crabs permanently nipping at my toes."

"Ah, that accounts for the occasional hunted look."

"What are you doing here?" she asked, ignoring the remark.

"I live here. I told you I have a beach villa," he added, waving towards a thick screen of casuarinas and sea grape trees on the white shore. Kira could see nothing through their foliage. "My house is over there. It’s called Copens."

"Copens? What does it mean?"

"Samuel Copen. He drew what he called a prospect of Bridgetown in l695. Probably the first ever draughtsman’s map. It was an impressive Dutch-style seaport then with red-tiled roofs, brick chimneys, wharves and quays, and its bay was full of three-masted ships. A prosperous seaport. I have a framed copy of Samuel Copen’s prospect."

Kira was impressed. "Did Bridgetown stay prosperous?"

"No way. We’re an island of hurricanes. In l780, the whole town was reduced to rubble by a hurricane. The cathedral was destroyed, the harbour filled with sand and stones and wood. Many people died. They hit us and they kill. There is no discrimination."

Kira stood in the shallows, hugging her arms across her chest. A swimsuit circa l905 would have suited her growing modesty at that moment. This skimpy, high-legged sheath of Lycra left little to the imagination. Why had she put it on again? She had not expected to meet Giles.

"When was the last bad one?"

"We had an abnormal hurricane in l955. Hurricane Janet. The forecasters thought it would pass north of Barbados but the wind shifted north through east to south. But the worst ever was on 10 August in l831. It lasted eight hours and there was little of the town left standing by the time it moved on."

"When’s the hurricane season?" Kira asked apprehensively, scanning the sky for horned black clouds.

"You’re safe," said Giles, shaking water from his hair. "August through October are the hurricane months. You’ll be back in foggy old London before then. Where did you get your Russian name?"

"My father," said Kira, without thinking. "My father was Russian."

She bit on her last words and gave him a swift, startled look. But Giles was only paying polite attention. Perhaps the island gossips had long forgotten that Benjamin Reed’s daughter married a Russian dancer.

"You were right about the publicity," said Kira quickly. "There was a mention on the radio this morning. Not exactly one hundred per cent accurate."

Giles chuckled. "I signed the visitors’ book at Sam Lord’s. I know the radio reporters keep an eye on it for anyone new."

"You signed for me?"

"Why not? It was fun to hear the item on the radio this morning. A surprise for you. Didn’t it give you a small thrill, or are you used to publicity and the media?"

Mr Connor had hated the media. He always got uptight about journalists’ questions and insisted he was unfairly reported. "No, it was the first time for me."

"Any other firsts last night?" he asked lightly. His eyes lingered on her a second too long for composure. He wished he knew what was troubling her. She looked so uncomfortable in her deliciously cut-away swimsuit. He wanted to taste again that full, soft, sad mouth. He wanted to make it smile, to make her eyes glow, for the tension to melt from that stiff, straight back.

Giles planted his hands on his hips. It was the only way he could stop them touching her. This was a kind of madness, he groaned inwardly. How long had he known her? Only two or three days, yet there was already something elusive between them that was exciting and full of promise.

"I don’t know what you mean," she said, striding onto the soft dry sand. She tried to dismiss the image of the tall, dripping man following her, the expanse of broad chest glistening with dark wet hair. He was too earthy, too primitive, too disturbing.

"Come and have breakfast with me," he called out. "At my place, on the patio."

"No, thank you."

"I won’t ask you any awkward questions or chase you round a grapefruit."

"I don’t intend to give you the chance."

She heard him chuckle as he veered across the sand to the left of Sandy Lane, towards a thicket of glossy leaves.

"By the way," he turned and added, "if you ever meet Benjamin Reed, don’t mention Hurricane Janet. I’m warning you. He gets upset."

Kira stopped in her tracks. How did he know she was going to see Benjamin Reed? Her heart thudded, then good sense took over. He was Chairman of the Sugar Growers’ Association so a meeting could be on the cards. Perhaps Giles would pencil in a meeting.

"Why?"

"Because it does."

Giles pushed aside the tangled branches and she caught a glimpse of a one-storey building, mostly white stone and a flash of floor-to-ceiling window glass. A white table and cushioned chairs stood on a patio. Then the branches closed behind him and she lost her view of his breakfast on a beach paradise.

She was consumed with envy. She thought of the cheerless grey mornings in London, her small but compact kitchen, wet and steaming raincoats on the Underground, the crush of backpackers; waiting for crowded buses that arrived in conveys, always having to stand.

This life was a million miles away from reality. Like Giles, not real. He, too, was part of an island culture, a different world from hers, and the sooner she dismissed him from her thoughts the better.

After breakfast, Kira changed into a parrot red sundress and took a silk scarf to drape over her bare shoulders. She did not want to break any local bylaws by wearing the wrong gear in their capital. She waited outside Sandy Lane and boarded the first rickety bus to arrive, much to the amazement of the taxi drivers touting the hotel guests.

The bus was highly mechanised, despite being an ancient vehicle. Passengers had to drop their money down a plastic chute under the eagle eye of the woman conductor in a military-style uniform. Kira was handed a ticket. She moved along the crowded bus and took a seat next to a buxom matron whose lap was piled high with empty shopping baskets. The other passengers looked at Kira with interest, their faces friendly. She smiled back.

It was a scare-a-minute drive into Bridgetown. The driver took corners on two wheels, emergency braked for stray hens and dogs, made numerous unscheduled stops for people whose homes were on the route, stopped mid-road to exchange ribald comments with a mate driving a bus out of Bridgetown.

Kira even enjoyed the confrontation between the stern conductress and a long-haired, bleary-eyed beach wino who climbed unsteadily aboard and then refused to pay his fare.

"We ain’t starting until you paid your fare," she said.

"We all paid our fare, man," said the indignant matron beside Kira, the abundant flowers on her brimmed hat bobbing. "We all gotta get to Bridgetown. You making us late."

"You drink all your money. That’s your business," bristled another old man, his faced wrinkled and veined like a map.

There was no sympathy from the busload of passengers held up in the soaring temperature. The leatherette seats were hot and sticky. Kira felt like paying the wino’s fare so that they could get moving, but decided not to interfere. The conductress was on top form, quoting rules and regulations.

Eventually the wino climbed down and tottered off to find some shade, trailing rags and a gnarled walking stick. They opened the windows wider to clear the air of alcoholic fumes.

Kira stepped off the bus in the bus station into a swirling throng of people and cars and bikes and buses. The hot air was pulsing with the smell of sweetmeats and spices from pavement stallholders, crushed ice vendors mingling with the fruit sellers and pungent motor exhausts. Kira was glad she didn’t have asthma.

She wandered about, drinking in the sights like any another tourist. The Harbour Police Force in the Nelson-era sailor uniforms;
schooners in the Careenage harbour and the preserved warehouses; great ocean-going ships anchored out in the bay; the sugar bulk stores and loading towers, cargo ships and the gleaming white cruise liners calling at Bridgetown for a couple of hours of intensive shopping.

Six international banks were neighbours to old wooden houses with overhanging balconies. Many of the side streets were in poor shape and awaiting demolition, though Kira thought these quaint old ramshackle buildings gave Bridgetown its unique character. Swan Street, Mahogany Lane, Sobers Lane with their deep gullies to take torrential rain, the un-mended narrow pavements were a hazard of pot holes and broken stones. Rows of shabby pink and brown shacks sold a few vegetables or peddled some repair service.

The air-conditioned police headquarters in Coleridge Lane was full of smartly-uniformed officers, spruce and welcoming.

"Good morning, ma’am. How can I help you?" said the officer behind the counter.

"I’d like a visitor’s driving permit, please."

In no time Kira had a local driving permit and a registered licence.

"Take care, ma’am. It’s getting really hot now."

Heat blistered the pavements. She had not felt it so much yesterday, wandering in and out of the sea. She was feeling quite sick by the time she found the printer’s shop in a dusty back street.

"Come in, Mizz Reed," said a wiry Barbadian, pulling up a chair. "Can I get you a Coke or a coffee?"

Kira accepted an iced can of Coke, savouring the cool wet feel of the can before the icy drink.

The printer had a fairly old printing machine, but a very modern computer and photocopying machine. He had made a good job of her business cards; the gold print on brown card looked smart. The price was a bit steep but Kira realised she was a sitting target. Still, the Coke saved her sanity.

That had been worth its weight in currency.