Island Quest Page 2

  Goaded, Ros glared up at him. 'I am capable of asking if I cannot find my own way.'

  'It was meant as a courtesy to our guest,' he said mildly.

  'I'm sorry. If you insist!' she agreed listlessly, all power of fighting him suddenly swept away.

  'Thank you,' he said quietly, almost tenderly.

  She glanced up at him. What an odd mixture of brash confidence and sudden gentleness he was. Then he bent towards her and before she realised his intention dropped a light kiss on her forehead.

  'Some man has been an utter fool,' he murmured as he turned and left the chalet.

  *

  Chapter 2

  With a casual wave he was gone. Ros stared after him, her mind a jumble of confused thoughts. He was arrogant, self-satisfied, conceited, yet he'd been perceptive and kind too. He hadn't meant to hurt her with his teasing remark, and for a dreadful moment she'd found herself tempted to tell him the whole miserable story. She shivered in dismay. Larry was dead, that was all over, that part of her life finished.

  As for the mystery of Tim's disappearance she was still resolved not to mention her connection with him just yet, until she'd discovered more about the places he'd worked in, and had some idea of whom to trust. Fortunately her name was different. Her parents had divorced when she was four years old, and Tim was the offspring of her mother's second marriage.

  Still trembling Ros began to change. She wanted nothing more than to slip between the sheets and forget everything in sleep. But she couldn't give up her quest. If she didn't begin soon it would be an admission of failure and she might as well return to England at once. Bracing herself she tried to decide which dress to wear. The guests would almost certainly dress formally, and no doubt many of the women would wear long skirts.

  Realising she was dithering, she felt dismayed and confused. Surely her indecisiveness couldn't be the effect of Lorenzo and his unexpected kiss? Of course not, she reassured herself. Now, what should she wear?

  She rejected a pale blue evening gown, and a lime green trouser suit. Why on earth had she packed them? The truth was she'd come away in such a hurry she hadn't been thinking straight when she packed. There had been so much to do, handing over to her partner for even a couple of weeks.

  She pulled out a white dress, sleeveless and with a slim crinkle pleated long skirt. It hadn't been damaged or made dirty, fortunately. After a quick shower in the luxuriously appointed bathroom she slipped it on and regarded her reflection critically. Yes, it was just right. She was small but slender, and the soft pleats gave an illusion of height. White suited her, with her dark hair and tanned complexion inherited from her Spanish grandmother. The burnished gold highlights lightened the dark brown locks, and seemed to reflect the silver threads which were in the material of her dress, and the silver embroidery decorating the demure neckline.

  She chose a chunky bead necklace, a deep blue which matched her eyes, sprayed on her favourite perfume, a delicate flower fragrance, and applied pale lip gloss, all the make-up she normally wore. Then she fastened a pair of silver high heeled sandals and stuffed a few pesetas into a silver purse. She carefully locked away her other money with the rest of her papers in the safe, slipping the key into her purse.

  *

  There was a tap at the door, and she found Lorenzo outside. By now it was fully dark, but in the glow from the chalet and the lights on the path she saw he wore tight black trousers in some silky material, a full-sleeved white shirt, and a scarlet cummerbund. He looked like an operatic tenor, she thought, suppressing a grin. But presumably he had to dress for the job.

  'Good, you're prompt,' he said briefly, and started to walk away down the short path in front of the chalet before she turned to lock the door. 'I have to play tonight, one of the others is sick,' he said as he took her arm to guide her along the wider path. 'Is everything you need there?'

  'Yes, as I'd expect,' she replied. He had changed, no longer mockingly flirtatious but oddly distracted, uninterested. He was behaving as if escorting her was a duty and not a particularly pleasant one at that. Despite herself she was curious.

  'I've told Veronica, one of our couriers, that you're here. She'll be meeting us and will make sure you have all you need,' he said as they neared the hotel entrance.

  A slim fair girl dressed in a white lacy top and long, flared cherry red skirt was chatting to the desk clerk when they entered the foyer, and the clerk obviously drew her attention to them, for she turned round and walked across the foyer.

  'Forgive me, or I'll be late,' Lorenzo said, rapidly introduced them, and with a slight bow walked swiftly away.

  'Welcome to the Castilla, Miss Farleigh. Would you like a drink before we eat?' Veronica asked.

  'Yes please, and do call me Ros.'

  Veronica led the way into the bar, to a couple of stools at the far end. 'What's it to be? Sherry or something stronger?'

  'Dry sherry, please.'

  'It's good, as one might expect. Did you have a good flight?' she asked, turning back to Ros.

  'Fine, thanks. I've still not got over the sight of all that almond blossom as we came in,' Ros replied, smiling. 'Like a carpet of candyfloss.'

  'Fantastic, isn't it? How did you meet Lorenzo? Did you know him before?'

  Ros explained, her tone grim, and Veronica looked at her quizzically.

  'Did he make a pass at you? The girls here rave about him, naturally, with those impossible good looks and being practically a pop star too. There's been some odd rumours, but somehow it's never specific and I'm inclined to believe they're mostly fantasies.'

  'Really?' Ros managed. If he treated the adoring females in the same way as he'd treated her, bossing them around, making impertinent remarks, kissing them without invitation and then virtually ignoring them no wonder there were rumours. 'He's oh, too confident, I suppose,' she said with a slight laugh. 'I prefer men to be less aware of their attractions.'

  Veronica chuckled. 'I hope you have an opportunity to tell him that!' she said feelingly. 'Have you finished? Let's go through into the dining room.' She led the way through double doors and across a lounge occupied only by a couple of teenagers huddled over a chess board.

  Another set of doors opened into a huge dining room. Three pairs of french windows to the left led onto the terrace, but they had been closed against the night air and filmy white curtains hung in front of them. A small stage, occupied now by Lorenzo and four other musicians, was set in the corner of the L-shaped room.

  Ros turned away at once and was relieved to follow Veronica to a table set against the inside wall.

  'I'll sit with you tonight, if you like,' Veronica was explaining. 'We do occasionally join the guests, if invited, or if they are on their own.'

  'Do you like being a courier?'

  Veronica shrugged. 'I was only good at languages, and this lets me travel. It's fun most of the time. And if not, it's easy to move on.'

  'Do you work on your own?'

  'There are two other couriers from an English travel firm, Pete Jackson and Mandy Browning, but they've gone on the usual barbecue trip tonight. We team up for some trips if there aren't always enough people to make it worth while running separate ones. I'll give you the list if you're interested later on.'

  The waiter had appeared with the menu and Ros suddenly realised how hungry she was. She chose onion soup, followed by a delicious steak au poivre, and fresh fruit salad. Veronica insisted on a bottle of red Spanish wine saying it would help Ros sleep. They ate to a background of soft sinuous music from the small orchestra,

  *

  The chalets were quiet when Ros returned, although lights shone in a few of them. A soft murmur of voices came from the one before hers, but the last one was dark and silent. Lorenzo was presumably still playing for the guests. Ros wondered briefly how good a player he was. The musicians had played together that evening, without solos, so she hadn't been able to judge.

  Once inside she went and opened the safe and took out the postcards.
She'd bought the biggest guidebook she could find at the airport, and now she wanted to compare the postcards Tim had sent her, in the hope of identifying the places he'd marked. If she went to see them she might understand their significance to Tim.

  When she'd finished checking her clothes, and putting aside a couple of cotton skirts which would need washing, thankful nothing else had been damaged, she fell into bed and was soon asleep. Some hours later she woke suddenly and lay breathing heavily. The old dream had recurred, but this time it was muddled with new, disturbing elements. Larry was still there, writhing in agony, with herself frozen into helplessness, but now Tim's features were superimposed on Larry's.

  It was still dark outside. Ros had drawn aside the drapes so that she could see the view in the morning, but now all she could distinguish in the faint silvery moonlight were the shadowy branches of pine trees.

  After a while, knowing she wouldn't go back to sleep, she switched on the light and reached for the paperback she'd had no time to read on the flight. It was the only way to forget. But the book was turgid and tedious, and failed to stimulate her imagination. Images from the past and from the dream of the past floated insistently in front of the printed words.

  Sighing, she sat up and crossed her legs, hugging her knees and resting her forehead on them. Determinedly she tried to blot out all recollection of Larry by concentrating on what she knew of Tim's movements during the last year.

  *

  When he left high school he'd followed her to Europe where she had been working for some years, starting her own business. He'd been far more devastated by the divorce of his parents than she had by hers, and had depended heavily on his big sister for the first few years. Possibly this was because he'd been old enough to remember his father, a geologist who, after the marriage broke up, vanished and was never again heard of. Ros's father, who had taken them to California in the first place, had stayed in the same town, and she saw him regularly. He'd made sure of that.

  She'd thought Tim had recovered. Then, when their mother divorced her fourth husband and began looking for the fifth, Tim refused to go to college and declared he was going to try his luck as a drummer.

  He had some talent – enough to get him jobs in small places such as hotels. For some months he'd drifted round the holiday coasts of Spain and France, writing regularly to Ros until that last letter. After that he'd simply not written. He had vanished, suddenly and completely.

  She was concentrating so hard on trying to recall the exact wording of that fateful letter she didn't hear the faint tap on her door. A moment later she looked up in alarm as she heard the door open, and Lorenzo stepped into the room. He was wearing jeans and a thick sweater.

  'Ros, is anything the matter?' he asked in concern, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world for him to sit on the bed beside her.

  'No, why should it be?' she asked, disoriented. How had he been able to get in? She was sure she'd locked the door. But he was talking and she had to listen.

  'It's very early, and with the light on I could see you from outside. You were huddled up and rocking backwards and forwards. I thought you might be in pain.'

  'I – no. I do that when I'm trying to think. I couldn't sleep, I had a dream,' she tried to explain, reluctant to mention Tim and her fears about him, and to her horror found her voice shaking, finishing with a muffled sob.

  She fought instinctively when he took her in his arms, but he folded her into a warm and comforting embrace, rocking her like a baby, until she gradually relaxed.

  'I'm sorry, I never cry. I'm OK, truly I am,' she gasped eventually. 'It was just the dream.'

  She tried to slide away from him but he stayed unmoving, his arms imprisoning her, and it was so comforting she gave up the attempt and lay back against him.

  'Is it frightening? Do you have it often?'

  'Not frightening, just – well, it brings back something I'd rather forget. And this time it was extra scary.'

  'A man? No man is worth worrying about like this,' Lorenzo said quietly. 'lt is a man, isn't it?'

  Ros nodded. At least talking about Larry made her forget Tim for a while. And perhaps if she talked it would exorcise the dream and it would once more be banished to the furthest corner of her mind.

  'We were going to be married,' she said slowly, forgetting that she was confiding in the odious, arrogant Lorenzo.

  'Tell me if it would help,' he ordered rather than suggested, settling her comfortably in the crook of his arm.

  'He died, horribly,' she said slowly.

  'Tell me.'

  'He experimented with drugs. The odd bit of cocaine, that sort of thing. The people in his office all used uppers and downers – it was a pretty stressful occupation, foreign exchange dealing. I hated it, but he laughed at me and said it could do no harm, and he wasn't going to start on hard drugs, or get addicted.'

  She fell silent. 'Did he?' Lorenzo asked gently.

  'No. We went to a party, and it got rather wild. Larry loved that sort of mad dancing that went on all night, and crazy tricks like walking on the parapets. You know how tall London houses are? And those small walls on the edges of the roof?'

  'I'm surprised you didn't leave him,' he said bluntly.

  'It was high spirits, when he'd had a drink or some cocaine. And I loved him. I was stupid, but I thought it was his age. He'd had a tough childhood, and suddenly he was earning oodles of money, and couldn't handle the stresses. I loved him,' she repeated, and blew her nose fiercely.

  'What happened?” Lorenzo asked softly.

  'He took a tablet of Ecstasy one night. It was so terrible! Apparently this awful stuff has bad effects on some people. Worse effects, I mean, than normal. He went into a coma. Two days later he was dead.'

  *

  He hugged her, and she breathed in deeply. She was so afraid something like this had happened to Tim. He was young, on his own, and she knew drugs were easy to obtain, especially since much was supposed to be imported through Spain. It must be so easy, with boats and secluded coves all around, for consignments to be landed. Besides, Tim was always wanting excitement. And he wasn't especially law-abiding. He never obeyed the speed limits on his motorbike, and wouldn't belt up in cars. In one letter he'd hinted he knew some smugglers. He loved boats, and could well think it a lark to get involved with them.

  She shuddered at the recollection. Talking about it brought back all the pain and helpless despair she'd felt then, but somehow she was peaceful. While Lorenzo held her close, stroking her hair soothingly, it ceased to matter.

  He held her gently, not speaking until he asked softly, 'How long ago was this?'

  'Two years,' Ros admitted.

  'And you're still having dreams about him? It's time to forget, Ros, my dear, get on with your own life.'

  She could hardly explain how this dream had been made horrifying by images of Tim. All the dreadful imaginings she had suffered for the last few months had come back to taunt her now she was in the very place Tim had been. The dream had been full of visions of Tim destitute, perhaps with a lost memory, perhaps in prison, and worst of all in thrall to drugs, or even dead. She'd seen visions of his body cast up on jagged rocks, or lying deep in some ocean. Her mind had shied away from images of his torn, mutilated body, killed in a car smash or a gang fight, or writhing in helpless agony.

  'I don't often have it,' she defended herself now. She knew she had to let Larry go. She'd thrown herself into work, and her business had flourished. It was at night she remembered.

  'And I'm going to make sure you never have it again,' he promised, and somehow she didn't object when his lips met hers. Larry was gone. He'd hated his real name, Lawrence. Lorenzo. How strange this other man should have the same name, different though it sounded in Spanish, she thought hazily. And how expertly different his kisses were, causing her lips to tingle while the rest of her body felt weak and helpless. He kissed the remnants of tears from her eyes, tears she hadn't really been aware of. Slowly his
lips travelled down, lingering deliciously on her lips so that she forgot everything but the flame of desire which threatened to overwhelm her, and to her throat where a pulse beat fiercely, joyously, glorying in his touch.

  Then suddenly he released her and stood up.

  'We have at least an hour before breakfast,' he said briskly. 'I was going out in my boat. That's how I saw your light was on. Put something warm on and I'll show you our beach. I'll give you ten minutes, then I'm coming back in!'

  Before she could reply he had gone and she stared after him, dazed. Had that been a dream too? But her lips still burned, and her nerve endings were alive from his touch. It had been real enough.

  Slowly a wave of astonishment swept over her. How could she have behaved in so abandoned a fashion? If he had not gone when he did – her thoughts jerked to a halt. Would it have come to that? Was she no better than the hero-worshipping little girls who no doubt trailed after him, offering themselves shamelessly?

  He'd said he would come back. She leapt from the bed, and then belatedly glanced out of the window. He had vanished. But she fully believed him. If she did not go out to him he would return.

  As she stood under the shower she again wondered how he'd managed to open the door. Surely she'd locked it last night? Living on her own she was always careful about locks. Towelling herself she gave up the puzzle. She had been very tired.

  Hastily she dragged on jeans, trainers, and a warm shirt, and was pulling on a thick white sweater when the door opened once more. Before she could free her hands Lorenzo had pulled her to him, his arms holding her close against him.

  'On second thoughts, let's stay here,' he whispered, and as she instinctively began to shake her head he laughed, captured her lips once more, and didn't let her go until she was dizzy with renewed desire.

  He laughed again, took her hand in his, and pulled her out of the door. 'Have you sailed at all?' he asked.

  'We – I had my own boat at home,' she managed to reply, gasping for breath as he ran with her along the path.

  Tim had loved to sail. Now she recalled it was to do with sailing that Tim had mentioned Lorenzo in his last letter. She couldn't recall the exact words. She'd have to read the letter again when she had a free moment.