An All-Consuming Passion. Anne Mather
school, they frequently played truant, and when Morgan found out and paid for their transfer to a fee-paying boys’ school, they were soon threatened with expulsion for using foul language. And finally, just recently, within weeks of leaving yet another fee-paying establishment, they had been caught shoplifting with some other boys in Oxford Street, and only the intervention of Andrew’s lawyer had prevented them from a serious conviction.
It had not been an opportune moment for Andrew to ask Morgan to fly out to the West Indies to bring his daughter back to London. With the twins out of school and resentful of the restrictions he had persuaded Alison to put upon them, he had been loath to leave the country. But Andrew had had the solution.
‘I’ll speak to the commanding officer of the Admiral Nelson,’ he declared, mentioning the name of a famous sailing vessel, used as a training ground for would-be naval recruits. ‘Fawcett—that’s the chap—he’s a friend of mine, and if he can fit them into his schedule, he will. Three weeks living in pretty austere surroundings is exactly what they need, and they’ll learn the rudiments of sailing as well as learning to work with other people as a team.’
‘And do you think Jeff and Jon will comply?’ asked Morgan doubtfully. ‘Will Alison let them go?’
‘If I ask her,’ returned Andrew smugly, exchanging an amused smile with his assistant. ‘It will do them a power of good. And it will get them away from their mother for a while, which can’t be bad.’
Morgan shifted rather impatiently in his seat now and Joe, attracted by the movement, glanced round. ‘That’s Pulpit Island, Mr Kane,’ he said, pointing down towards a mass of greenery, which seemed to be floating on the water. ‘See that sickle curve of beach? That’s Charlotte’s Bay that it’s wrapped around.’
‘Oh—thanks.’
Morgan produced a smile and determinedly forced his mind to dwell on less disturbing things. As the plane banked to facilitate its approach he was able to discern the distinctive outcropping of rock, which Andrew had told him had given the island its name, rising over a thousand feet from the central highlands. The rest of the island appeared to be covered in a thriving mass of vegetation, a darkly tinted emerald, set in a frame of creamy white coral.
The island was bigger than he had expected, though as the seaplane plunged towards the enveloping curve of Charlotte’s Bay, he could see little sign of life. ‘Charlottesville—that’s the capital—it’s at the other side of the island,’ the pilot commented, as if reading Morgan’s thoughts. ‘Not much of a capital, really. Just a handful of shops and warehouses, and a market that sells fruit and fish.’
Morgan wanted to reply, but the sea seemed to be hurtling up towards them at a terrifying pace. He felt the rush of adrenalin through his veins turn his stomach over, and he gripped the arms of his seat as the aircraft hit the water. ‘Christ,’ he muttered weakly, as the plane’s floats tore a channel across the bay, and a salty spray forced its way through a ventilator. Taking off had been slow, but landing certainly wasn’t.
‘You all right, Mr Kane?’ asked Joe with some concern, as the aircraft slowed to a more sedate pace and chugged happily towards the shore. ‘Guess you’ve never flown in the “goose” before, but you can rely on her. Safest transport around.’
‘Is it?’
Morgan’s tone was dry, but he couldn’t help it. It had been a long day. First the nine-hour flight to Miami, then the forty-minute wait for his connection to St Thomas. And now this crazy island-hopping amphibian, which even now was having its wheels cranked down by hand so that, when they reached the shallows, it could waddle out on to the beach.
He glanced at his watch. It was almost half past six local time, but his body told him it was much later. Apart from which, he had an ache in his spine through sitting so long, and the alarm he had experienced on landing had covered his whole body in an unpleasant wave of heat.
Reaching up, he loosened his tie and peered somewhat wearily out of the window. Although it was early evening, the warmth now that the plane had landed was almost palpable, and he looked down at his dark grey three-piece suit with some impatience. He should have changed at Miami, he reflected. He had had time. But he had also needed a drink, and he hadn’t had time for both.
The seaplane bumped up on to sand filtered from successive generations of coral, washed by the lucid green waters of Charlotte’s Bay. Ahead of the plane, the virginal white sand gave way to coconut groves and waving palms, and beyond that to the tangled forest he had seen from the air.
There was a boy standing on the beach, apparently waiting for the plane, and Joe waved to him, evidently recognising a friend. ‘That’s Samuel, Miss Holly’s houseboy,’ he explained to his passenger. ‘Seems like she knew you were coming.’
‘Seems like she did,’ murmured Morgan drily, loosening his seat belt and automatically checking the zipper of his trousers. ‘I wonder,’ he added, under his breath, and when the plane halted, he got gratefully to his feet.
Because of his height, it was impossible to stand straight inside the plane, but Joe was already out of his seat, loosening the catches and thrusting open the door. He let Morgan precede him, standing back while the other man bent to negotiate the low lintel.
Morgan stepped down on to the sand that crunched beneath the soles of his shoes, and into a wave of heat infinitely more enervating than the cloistered atmosphere on board had been. The seaplane had kept reasonably cool throughout the flight, and the wash of water against its hull had kept it cool on landing. But outside, in the still powerful rays of the setting sun, the temperature was considerably higher, and the jacket of his suit felt damp beneath his arms.
With a gesture of impatience, he shrugged out of the offending garment and slung it over one shoulder, aware of the amused gaze of the boy on the beach as he took in the equally uncomfortable waistcoat beneath. Samuel—if that was his name—was wearing sawn-off jeans and a flapping T-shirt, and his dark, bronzed skin gleamed dully with the patina of good health. He was perhaps sixteen, Morgan estimated, the twins’ age. But he was taller than they were, and not so stocky, his long legs protruding from the knee-length denims.
‘Mr Kane?’ he enquired, stepping forward, his expression sobering abruptly. ‘Miss Forsyth sent me to meet you. She’s waiting for you back at the house.’
‘Oh, thanks.’ Morgan inclined his head in acknowledgment, as Joe hoisted his overnight-case out of the plane. He shrugged. ‘Is it far to the house?’
‘Hell, no. That’s it—over there,’ exclaimed Joe, preempting the boy’s response. He pointed a long finger, and Morgan squinted into the deepening gloom. The sun was sinking fast, and the island was bathed in an amber radiance, an almost unholy glow that was rapidly turning to umber.
The Forsyth house seemed to stand on a rise, overlooking the bay. A white, verandahed portico was overset with dark iron-railed balconies and, even from this distance, Morgan could see the profusion of plant-life growing all around it. It was bigger than he had expected, and many of the windows were shuttered, but a light was glowing from a downstairs window revealing Holly’s occupancy.
‘Let’s go,’ said Samuel, apparently resenting Joe’s interference in what he considered to be his territory. He picked up Morgan’s suitcase and took a few pointed steps along the beach. ‘You coming, Mr Kane?’
‘Er—yes. Yes, of course.’ Morgan dragged his eyes away from the house and turned briefly back to the pilot. ‘Thanks,’ he said, shaking the man’s hand. ‘Now—how do I get in touch with you when I want to go back?’
‘Miss Holly’ll arrange all that,’ responded Joe, with a grin. ‘You have a good holiday now. You hear?’
Morgan forbore from repeating that this was not a holiday, and grinned in return. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘See you soon.’ And, with a final gesture of farewell, he started after Samuel’s lanky form.
By the time they had reached the stretch of beach below the house, the seaplane had shimmied back into