Видящий. Ярл. Валерий Пылаев
a pair of Raybans as soon as he’d taken his seat, their dark lenses successfully concealing his expression.
But she said nothing, forcing herself to look about her as Matt drove away from the hotel. The small town was buzzing, even this early in the morning, with local people and tourists milling about the narrow streets.
They passed close to an open-air market, and Rachel could smell fresh fish and garlic and exotic vegetables, all mingling with the musky scents of animals and humanity. A stall selling straw hats reminded Rachel that she hadn’t brought any protection. It was all right as long as the Jeep was bustling through the air, but she guessed she’d feel the heat on her head if she left the car.
However, she refused to ask Matt to stop so she could buy a hat. She would have to take care she didn’t spend too long in the sun. And she probably wouldn’t have the chance, she mused, judging by the speed with which Matt was driving. She had the suspicion that he was now as unenthusiastic about this outing as she was.
And that was her fault. She knew it. She had behaved quite rudely back at the hotel. It wasn’t his fault that she wasn’t used to being handled. He’d only saved her from a nasty fall, for heaven’s sake. Not mauled her for his own ends.
The streets were quieter now. They were leaving the town behind, and now children played freely in the road, apparently indifferent to passing traffic. If Rachel had expected Matt to be impatient at having to brake every couple of minutes she couldn’t have been more wrong. Instead he waved at the reckless youngsters, answering their greetings, proving how well-known and obviously well-liked he was with them.
The air was getting warmer and more humid. Rachel could see the dampness on Matt’s forehead and felt a trickle of perspiration running down between her breasts. What she wasn’t prepared for was Matt pulling up his shirt and using it to fan his stomach, the hair around his navel glistening with sweat.
Rachel’s own stomach quivered in protest. Dear God, he was such a physical man. She discovered that, contrary to previous experiences, she wasn’t immune to this man’s sexuality. Quite the reverse, in fact. She wanted to reach out and touch him, to brush her fingers over that provocative growth of hair and feel the smoothness of taut brown skin.
The knowledge horrified her. As far as she knew this was the man her mother had flown over three thousand miles to see. Whatever their relationship—and she couldn’t believe, having met him, that it was just friendship—her father certainly didn’t expect her to get involved with him herself.
Having left the final cottages behind, they were now driving towards the ocean. Behind them, the mountains she’d seen from the taxi crowded closely towards the road. Thick vegetation turned their slopes into a lush green carpet, but ahead rough acres of uncultivated grasses descended inevitably towards the sea.
Rachel, who had been trying to remain detached about her feelings, couldn’t deny a breath of wonder at the sight of blue-green water lapping a beach of pure white sand.
‘It’s so beautiful,’ she said in a hushed voice, barely aware that they were the first words she’d spoken since they left the hotel.
Matt cast a fleeting glance in her direction, before agreeing that this was a pretty part of the island. ‘Mango Cove,’ he said after a moment. ‘St Antoine is reputedly one of a series of peaks from an underwater mountain range. Jamaica is another.’
‘Really?’
Rachel was fascinated, and Matt went on to explain that the Spaniards had first settled here at the beginning of the sixteenth century. ‘Then, when Jamaica became a British colony, they ignored this island and it was later taken over by the French. San Antonio became St Antoine. End of story.’
Rachel shook her head. ‘I can’t understand anyone not wanting to hold on to such a beautiful place,’ she protested.
‘Economics, I suppose.’ They’d reached a bluff above the sand dunes and Matt brought the Jeep to a halt overlooking the bay. ‘Jamaica offered so much, whereas this place must have appeared to offer so little.’ He pulled a wry face. ‘Hey, I’m grateful. At least St Antoine isn’t overrun with beach resorts and hotels.’
Rachel half turned in her seat to look at him. ‘The taxi driver told me that—that the Brodys own most of the island. That would be you, right?’
Matt pulled off his dark glasses to look at her through narrowed eyes. ‘Now, why would a taxi driver tell you something like that?’ he asked, and for a moment Rachel didn’t have an answer.
She was certainly not prepared to confront him about her mother at the moment. When—or even if—she did so, she would hope it was in a place less isolated than this. But at the same time she had to say something. Even if he must suspect her motives just as much as she suspected his.
‘I—er—I was asking him about the plots of land around the houses. I said I thought they were cute, but he said the tenants didn’t own them. That—that the Brodys did.’
‘Really?’ Matt looked sceptical. ‘Well, for your information, the island people do own their own plots of land.’ He gave her one final speculative glance and then thrust open his door. ‘We encourage people to be self-sufficient.’ His lips twisted. ‘Your taxi driver got it wrong.’
‘So it would seem.’ Rachel kept a wary eye on him as he got out of the Jeep. Then, pushing open her own door, she did likewise, feeling the heat of the sun on her arms and the delicious breeze off the water.
Matt pushed his glasses back onto his nose and went ahead of her. Slipping and sliding, he descended the dunes to arrive unscathed at the beach.
He turned then. ‘You coming?’ he asked, and Rachel decided she didn’t have much choice. Besides, she wanted to paddle in the water. Her feet were already itching to feel the sand between her toes.
Hauling her backpack out of the back of the Jeep, she removed the flip-flops and then followed him. It wasn’t as easy going down the dunes as he’d made it look, and she arrived at the bottom dishevelled and red-faced.
Thankfully, Matt had already walked away towards the water. And, putting down her pack, she combed her fingers through her hair again, realising that trying to look neat at the moment was far beyond her capabilities.
Shouldering the pack again, she started after him, and then paused for a second to examine a huge pink shell that was honeycombed with cracks. Evidently something had lived inside it once, but its sanctuary had been invaded. Or perhaps it was very old and had been eroded by the sea.
The sun was beginning to beat down on her head now, as well as on her shoulders. When she straightened, she lifted a hand to protect her scalp.
‘You hot now?’
Her interest in the shell had not gone unnoticed, and Matt had made his way back to her. Like her, he’d shed the Converse trainers he’d been wearing, tying the laces together and hanging them round his neck.
‘A bit,’ Rachel admitted, and Matt nodded towards the sea.
‘Take a dip,’ he advised. ‘That will cool you down. You might even enjoy it.’
Rachel pursed her lips. ‘How do you know I’ve brought a swimsuit?’
Matt pulled off his glasses again, his eyes mocking and intent. ‘Hey, I’m not a prude,’ he said. ‘We can go skinny-dipping, if you like. I’m game if you are.’
Why did he always have the power to embarrass her? As her face flamed with colour, Rachel hoped it would just blend in with the flush that already stained her cheeks.
‘I know you’re not serious,’ she said primly, although she was half afraid he was. ‘But I have brought a swimsuit, as it happens. If you’ll look the other way, I’ll put it on.’
Matt’s mouth showed his amusement. ‘Now who’s a prude?’ he asked. ‘I can’t believe you’ve never undressed in front of a man before.’