The House on Flamingo Cay (8 page)

Sara’s color deepened as she shook her head. “Oh, no! I—I’m rather given to day-dreaming, that’s all. I didn’t realize I looked doleful while I was doing it.”

“Not doleful—but a little forlorn, and very young.” His mouth curved. “You make me conscious of my years.”

“How old are you?” Sara asked.

“Thirty-one.”

“But that’s not old,” she said, smiling.

He gestured. “It is not the number of years but how one has spent them that makes age.”

Sara had hesitated to ask him about his past life from the feeling that there might be a great deal of it which he did not wish to recall. But now she said diffidently: “What were you going to do if you hadn’t had to leave Hungary, Peter? I mean, had you a job you liked?”

He reached for the coffee pot and refilled their cups. “You have heard of Tokay?” he asked.

“It’s a drink, isn’t it?” she said uncertainly.

“Yes, it is a sweet wine. The name comes from a town in the north of Hungary. It is on the river Tiza and not far from the border with Czechoslovakia. Then there is also Imperial Tokay which is a fine liqueur. For many generations my family had grown the grapes from which Tokay is made and, from a small boy, I had learnt the culture of the vines. But even before the rebellion, our life was becoming very difficult. After my father died, I knew I could not stay long. It is not pleasant to be stateless, but it is better than living under force.” His mouth twisted in a wry grimace that sent a pang of compassion through her. “By now, I expect, our vineyards have become part of a commune,” he ended flatly.

There was a pause, and then Sara asked, “What made you come to the West Indies?” It seemed to her that, for an expatriate like Peter, Nassau was an odd choice of refuge. She was beginning to suspect that his cynical and sybaritic attitude to life was really more posed than genuine, and it seemed to her that to come to one of the most luxurious of the world’s holiday resorts and be surrounded by complacently affluent tourists could only serve to intensify his bitterness.

“It was by chance that I came here,” he said carelessly. “At first I was in Canada for several years, but that was chiefly to get myself a new passport. You see, when you have no papers, no legal identity, life becomes very complicated. So many doors are closed to you. From Canada, I thought I would go to Rio, but on the way, I stopped here for a few weeks and a job was offered to me—so I remained.”

He had been staring out to sea as he talked, but now he glanced at her and grinned. “But this is enough of my career. If you are ready again, we will go back to the boat and try some more skiing. But first you must apply some Ambre Solaire. It would be a pity for those pretty shoulders to be spoiled by sun-blisters.”

By the end of the afternoon, Sara was sufficiently adept to be able to ski with arms akimbo and the hand-bar tucked behind her thighs. Her first attempt at ski-jumping had resulted in a ducking, but afterwards she had been more successful, and on the way back to the hotel, Peter said teasingly that it was a pity they could not go into partnership, he to instruct the women and she to teach the men.

“At present there are no pretty girls to give instruction. I am sure it would be a most successful innovation.” he said gaily.

“I only wish I could stay,” Sara replied. She was experiencing the pleasant blend of physical tiredness and mental satisfaction that comes from a long and active day in the sun and sea air.

“Why not?” Peter went on, half serious now. “You don’t have to go back to London, do you?”

“I don’t
have
to,” she agreed, smiling to herself at the thought of Angela’s horrified reaction if she were to broach such a scheme.

Peter let the subject drop. “What time is your sister returning from this fishing trip?” he enquired.

“I’m not sure. They said something about having a late dinner and going to one of the clubs.”

“Perhaps, if the sport has been good, they may be delayed. Why not have dinner with me? If you like Chinese food, we might go to the Golden Dragon Patio, or Blackbeard’s Tavern is interesting?”

“Oh, Peter, I’d like to—but I think I ought to wait for the others.”

He did not persist. “Another evening, perhaps,” he said equably.

Back at the hotel, Sara wondered if she ought to ask him for a drink. But she was worried about encountering Stephen Rand and wanted to slip quickly up to her room, so, hoping the Hungarian would not think her ungracious, she thanked him warmly for their day together and said goodbye.

But it was not Stephen who caught her as she was about to duck into the lift. It was Angela, who was coming out of the cocktail bar.

“Oh hello—did you have a good time?” In spite of her effort to appear only pleasantly surprised by her sister’s unexpected appearance, Sara knew that she had given herself away.

“Yes, fine. We had quite a big catch.” Angela’s tone was pleasant, her smile friendly.

But, as soon as they were alone in the small lift compartment and the door had slid shut, her amiability vanished.

“Where have
you
been today?” she demanded. “We just met Mr. Rand and he said you had cancelled your drive with him.”

“That’s right. I changed my mind.”

“Oh, Sara, how could you be so stupid! What excuse did you make?”

“I didn’t. I just said I couldn’t go.”

They had reached the second floor and Angela stalked into the corridor and across to their room.

“There are times when you behave like the greenest school-girl,” she said angrily, as Sara closed the door. “I wish you’d try to remember that your actions reflect on me. So what
have
you been doing with yourself?”

Sara unbuttoned her shirt. “I’ve been water-skiing with Peter Laszlo—and if I’d had any sense I’d have accepted his invitation to dine, too. It would have been more fun than having you glowering at me all evening.” she said shortly.

Surprisingly, Angela didn’t flare up. She seemed on the brink of an outburst, but after a moment, she shrugged her shoulders and said coldly: “Oh, well, if you’re determined to go your own way, there’s very little I can do. But don’t blame me if you get yourself in a fix with that character. And I should avoid Stephen Rand, if you can. He isn’t the type to take kindly to a casual brush-off.”

* * *

All through dinner that evening, Sara expected to see Stephen bearing down on her. But, when they left the terrace, there had been no sign of him. The Stuyvesants were taking them to the Coral Cave, but as the club did not open till eleven, they decided to spend the interval in the hotel bar.

After about half an hour Angela murmured something about the bar being rather stuffy, and Conrad immediately enquired if she would care for a stroll along the waterfront.

“How about you, Momma?” he asked, when Angela had agreed that this would be pleasant.

“Not me, honey. I’m feeling lazy this evening. But you two go right ahead. If we aren’t in here when you get back, we’ll be over in the lounge,” said his mother.

So, after ordering them each another frosted lime julep, Conrad escorted Angela out.

Mrs. Stuyvesant gave Sara a roguish smile.

“I hope you didn’t mind my including you out, as they say, dear. But I have a feeling that those two would like to be alone for a while. At least I know Connie would.”

“Of course not,” Sara said politely.

“You know I’ve been a little worried about Connie,” Mrs. Stuyvesant said, in a confidential tone. “Even at college he was never keen on dating, and lately he’s been so involved in our business interests that he’s scarcely had a moment’s relaxation. I had quite a job to persuade him to come on this vacation with me.”

She paused to sip her julep, and Sara wondered what was coming.

“But I guess he’s pretty glad he did come,” Mrs. Stuyvesant went on, with a chuckle. “In fact I wouldn’t be at all surprised if it turns out to be a very memorable trip. What do you think honey?”

Sara swallowed. “I—I don’t know,” she murmured uncomfortably.

“Your sister hasn’t said anything to you?” Mrs. Stuyvesant asked, in faint surprise. Then, before Sara could reply: “Well, maybe no. You British are so much more reserved than we are, even in family relationships. Why, do you know...” She broke off, a sudden frown contracting her pencilled eyebrows. “Oh, dear, I do believe that lobster pate was too rich for me. I’m inclined to suffer from dyspepsia, you know. Sara, dear, I wonder if you’d mind fetching my tablets. If I take one right away, it may do the trick.”

“Of course I will.” Sara was only too pleased to escape.

“Here’s my room key. The tablets are right on the dressing-table in a little enamelled box. You can’t miss them, dear.”

After the babel of voices in the bar, the first floor corridors were pleasantly silent. Sara found Mrs. Stuyvesant’s room, unlocked the door and felt for the light switch. The glass-topped dressing table was littered with such a conglomeration of cream jars, scent bottles, crumpled face tissues and other bits and pieces that it was a moment or two before she spotted the silver-mounted etui box half hidden by a swansdown puff. Wondering how the chambermaids felt about such untidy guests—a quick glance round showed that the rest of the room was in equal disorder—Sara blew a film of powder from the iridescent lid and moved back to the doorway.

She had switched off the light and was checking that the door was safely latched again, when a voice said, “Good evening, Miss Gordon,” and she almost dropped the box.

“Oh ... good evening.” As she turned to face Stephen Rand, a rush of embarrassed color suffused her cheeks.

Tonight, he was wearing a well-cut lounge suit in light-grey tropic worsted with a white nylon shirt and plain dark tie. One hand was in his trousers pocket, the other was holding a fishing reel.

“I was sorry you couldn’t make our drive up to the forest,” he said smoothly.

Foolishly, caught off her guard, Sara said the first thing that came into her head. “I—I had a headache.”

One dark eyebrow arched in sardonic derision. “Then I must have been mistaken. I was out in the launch this afternoon and I thought I saw you water-skiing.”

Sara shrivelled. It was not in her nature to lie, and she had only done so because something about the man made her lose all poise.

“I was,” she admitted unhappily. Then: “Excuse me, please. I’m on an errand for Mrs. Stuyvesant.”

Both the staircase and lift were to the right, so she was obliged to pass him. As she did, he moved into the centre of the corridor.

“Do you always shrug off any previous invitations if something more interesting crops up?” he asked negligently.

Sara stiffened. He was not actually barring her way, but she felt that he was quite capable of doing so. “It wasn’t a question of that,” she answered coldly.

“What was the reason then?”

There was a fractional pause while she debated whether to try brushing past him or to match his own bluntness. She decided to get it over. “You ought to have told me you were the owner of this hotel,” she said frostily.

His mouth curved, but there was a steely glint in his eyes and, involuntarily, she shrank slightly.

“Why? Do you regard hoteliers as being outside the social pale?” he enquired silkily.

Sara’s eyes widened in genuine astonishment. “Of course not! You must know it wasn’t that!” she exclaimed.

“Offhand, I can’t think of any other reason.”

“Please ... Mrs. Stuyvesant is waiting for these tablets.”

“She’ll have to wait a moment longer. I want to know what this is about.”

“It’s simple enough—I just don’t like being made a fool of.”

To her surprise, he laughed. “I’m sorry, my dear, but you’re still talking over my head. Just how did you arrive at that peculiar assumption?”

“You knew I was staying here, but you never said a word! You told me you lived on a cay,” she said accusingly.

“If I remember correctly, I told you my livelihood was here,” he countered equably.

“But you didn’t say what it was!”

“You didn’t ask me.”

Sara bit her lip. “Oh, this is absurd! What is the point of arguing about it?” she exclaimed.

“There’s no point at all,” Stephen agreed. “But I can assure you that I’m entirely innocent of unkind motives.” He smiled at her then, and she was very conscious of his charms. “Let’s start again, shall we?” he suggested. “How about coming over to the cay tomorrow.”

“Oh ... I don’t think I can,” she said awkwardly. “Look, I really must take this down to Mrs. Stuyvesant. She’ll be wondering what’s happened to me.”

“All right, I’ll come with you and explain.” Before she could object, he had slipped his hand under her elbow and was guiding her towards the lift.

“Good evening, Mr. Rand. Won’t you join us?” said Mrs. Stuyvesant, when Sara had apologized for being so long. “I’m afraid I’ve been over-indulging myself,” she confided to him, as he sat down beside them. “I have a very sensitive digestion, you know, but your cuisine here is just so tempting that I simply can’t resist a single delicacy.”

“I’m delighted to hear it,” Stephen said, looking amused. “But if you’ll permit a suggestion, I think I can recommend something more effective than those pills.” He signalled to a waiter and gave an order. “I was wondering,” he continued, “if you and your son and the Miss Gordons would care to join me on a trip round some of the Out Islands tomorrow?”

“Why, how very kind of you, Mr. Rand. We’d be delighted, wouldn’t we, Sara?”

Sara knew that Stephen was watching her. She carefully avoided his glance and was saved from expressing any opinion by Mrs. Stuyvesant asking Stephen how he came to be living in the Bahamas.

“You know I always make a point of studying the places we visit and, last night in bed, I was reading the most fascinating account of your local history,” she explained. “It was all about the Eleutherian Adventurers who colonized the islands under a charter from your Parliament. You don’t happen to be a descendant of those first settlers, I suppose?”

“Well, no.” Stephen hesitated. “As a matter of fact my family is said to be descended from a notorious buccaneer called Black Jack Rand.”

Mrs. Stuyvesant looked momentarily horrified. Her jaw dropped and she emitted a little squeak of shock. “Oh, surely not, Mr. Rand? I can hardly believe
that.
Why, according to my book, those pirates were perfectly dreadful people.”

“It’s a long time ago. I imagine that any hereditary tendencies have been ironed out by now,” Stephen said drily.

At this point, the waiter returned with his order, a small tumbler filled with a thick fudge-colored liquid.

“Don’t worry. It isn’t unpleasant,” Stephen assured her, as Mrs. Stuyvesant looked rather doubtfully at this concoction.

She gave him an uncertain glance, as if the revelation of his ancestry had shaken her confidence in him, then cautiously sipped.

“Why, no! It’s quite tasty,” she exclaimed in surprise. Stephen pushed back his chair and rose.

“Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have some things to do now. The launch will be ready to leave about eleven, if that’s convenient to you.”

“Oh, perfectly, Mr. Rand. We’ll be looking forward to it.”

“Then I’ll say goodnight. Goodnight, Sara.” With a smiling inclination of his head, he replaced his chair and walked swiftly out of the bar.

“Do you know I believe this drink really has something, I feel better already,” said Mrs. Stuyvesant, after a moment. “You don’t think he was offended by that silly remark of mine do you? I mean if I’d had any idea of such a thing, I would never have dreamed of asking. I wonder if they mention Black Jack Rand in my guide-book? I must read through that part again.”

“I—I think Mr. Rand was teasing us, Mrs. Stuyvesant,” Sara suggested diffidently.

“Oh, no, honey! It isn’t the kind of thing anyone would joke about. I’m surprised he admitted it. I think as we’re going on this trip tomorrow, I might have an early night. You look a little tuckered yourself. What do you say we take ourselves to bed? We can ask the waiter to tell the others we’ve gone up, and I’m sure they won’t mind.” She chuckled. “In fact they’ll probably be delighted.”