Thunder On The Reef

Only that wasn’t what Ross wanted at all, she thought, inner pain slashing at her. He’d had very different plans for the future.

Don’t look back, she adjured herself. Look forward. Concentrate on the job in hand. Make the deal, and get out as fast as you can. The fact that you’ve seen him doesn’t have to affect your plans at all.

As she turned to hail a passing taxi, painted like a mauve and white zebra, she found the image of Ross, tanned and unkempt in his raggy denims, disturbingly entrenched in her mind. Looking, she thought, exactly like the drifter and layabout her father had accused him of being.

She supposed she should be glad her father had been right about him all along. At the same time, she couldn’t help wondering exactly what Ross had done with all that money.

The money her father had paid him to get out of her life forever.

* * *

Ambrose Delancey’s law offices were situated on the first floor of a pleasant white-painted building, in a square of similar buildings.

In the middle of the square was a fountain, surrounded by flower-beds, and surmounted by a statue of a man dressed in the elaborate style of the seventeenth century. A plaque announced that this was Bevis Hilliard, Fortuna’s first governor.

As a family, the Hilliards had clearly enjoyed power here from the first. The sale of Thunder Cay was the first chink in the wall of autocracy they’d built around themselves. A tacit acknowledgement, perhaps, that Boniface Hilliard was the last of his name.

There was a certain sadness about that, Macy thought, as she went into the office building.

She found herself in a small reception area, confronted by a girl with a smile as wide as the sky.

‘My name’s Landin,’ she introduced herself. ‘And I have an appointment with Mr Delancey.’

‘He’s expecting you, Miz Landin.’ The girl lifted a phone and spoke softly into it. ‘Will you take a seat for just one minute. May I get you some coffee, or a cold drink?’

Macy declined politely. She was feeling frankly nervous, and took several deep breaths to restore her equilibrium.

Then a buzzer sounded sharply, and she was shown through a door at the rear of the room into a large office. One wall was mostly window, shielded against the worst of the sun by slatted blinds. Two of the other walls were lined in books, and a display of green plants gave an impression of coolness as well as discreetly masking another door, presumably leading to further offices.

Ambrose Delancey was a tall black man, impeccably clad in a lightweight cream suit. He greeted Macy with reserved friendliness and a firm handshake.

‘What can I do for you, Miss Landin?’ he asked, offering her a black leather chair in front of his imposing desk.

‘I hope you can open negotiations for the sale of Thunder Cay to Gilmour-Denys,’ Macy returned coolly and crisply. ‘You’ve seen a copy of our proposal, and had time to consider it. We’d now like to hear your client’s response.’

Mr Delancey smiled reluctantly. ‘You don’t waste any time. But this is Fortuna, Miss Landin, and we take things at a slower pace here.’

‘So I’ve noticed,’ Macy said drily.

‘I’m not saying my client isn’t interested in your offer,’ Mr Delancey went on. ‘But there are certain—formalities he insists on, before any serious discussion takes place.’

‘What kind of formalities?’

He toyed absently with a pen. ‘The fact is, Miss Landin, Mr Hilliard wishes to meet you.’

‘To meet me?’ Macy was taken aback. ‘Why should he want that—at this stage?’

He shrugged. ‘Maybe he wants to assess the calibre of your company from you as its representative.’ He let that sink in, then continued, ‘I take it you have no objection?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘If that’s what it takes. Will you arrange a further meeting here?’

He shook his head. ‘Mr Hilliard’s state of health doesn’t permit that, so the interview will be at Trade Winds. I’ll contact you at your hotel as soon as the appointment’s been made. I trust that’s convenient.’

‘Perfectly,’ Macy returned. It seemed to her that Mr Delancey’s gaze had strayed a couple of times towards the door in the corner, and that she’d heard vague sounds of movement from behind it. Another client, she surmised, growing restive.

She got to her feet. ‘I realise how busy you are,’ she said pointedly. ‘I’ll wait to hear from you.’

Outside, in the baking afternoon heat, she drew a deep, shaky breath. What did they say about the best laid plans?

It seemed that, for good or ill, she was stuck here indefinitely.

She would have to wait with as much patience as she could muster for her summons to Trade Winds. Play the game on Fortuna terms. She wasn’t enamoured of the idea of being inspected by Boniface Hilliard, but there was no point in objecting. Softly, softly was the only approach.

Under different circumstances, of course, she could have shrugged off the inconvenience, even enjoyed her enforced break, especially as this was her first time in the Bahamas.

If, that was, it weren’t for Ross...

His presence on Fortuna made all the difference, of course. That was why she was so on edge, she thought.

‘This is only a small island.’ That was what he’d said. And ‘See you around.’

Macy tasted blood suddenly, and realised she had sunk her teeth deep into her bottom lip.

‘Not,’ she said under her breath, staring up at the merciless blue of the sky, ‘not if I see him first.’

CHAPTER TWO

MACY still felt restive as she showered and changed for dinner that evening.

She put on white silk trousers and a matching sleeveless, low-necked top, defining her slender waist with a favourite belt of broad silver links. Her hair she pinned up into a loose coil, and she hung silver hoops in her ears.

She looked like the ideal tourist, anticipating an evening of leisure and pleasure, she thought, grimacing at her reflection before turning away.

She’d spent a quiet afternoon in a sheltered corner of the hotel gardens, making herself think coolly and rationally about the best course to follow when she came face to face with Boniface Hilliard. How to make the best impression.

But in spite of everything, her thoughts kept turning compulsively back to Ross, although she knew she was a fool and worse than a fool to let him impinge even marginally on her consciousness.

She didn’t mention his presence when she left a message on her father’s answering machine about the latest development in the negotiations.

What Sir Edwin didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, she told herself defensively. She could imagine only too well how he’d react if he discovered Ross was within a thousand miles of her again.

But then they’d been oil and water from their first meeting, she recalled with an inward shudder. On almost every issue—personal, professional, and political—they’d been on opposite sides of a steadily widening gulf, with her, trapped between them, suspended over some bitter, bottomless pit of divided loyalties.

But she’d still hoped, with absurd optimism, that they might learn to get along for her sake.

But then I was very na?ve in those days, she thought in self-derision. My father, of course, saw through Ross right away—realised he was simply on the make. Why couldn’t I have believed him instead of finding out the hard way?

In the thatched roof bar, adjoining the hotel dining-room, she chose a table overlooking the sea, and ordered a Margarita while she studied the menu.