Sara Craven - Thunder On The Reef

He said softly, ‘Forget it, Macy. There wouldn’t be room for all the noughts on the cheque.’ He slanted a brief smile at her. ‘See you around,’ he added, and walked away.

* * *

Macy walked too, back up the street, oblivious to the jostling of other pedestrians, as she stared unseeingly ahead of her. Her head was whirling, her thoughts going crazy.

It had been four long years since Ross Bannister had walked out on her. Four years in which to heal herself, and rebuild her shattered self-esteem. Find a new identity.

She thought she’d succeeded. But his sudden reappearance, just when she needed it least, had shaken her world to its foundations.

For the first time, she realised just how much her hard-won security and confidence depended on never being reminded of Ross. Certainly of never seeing him again.

Yet, like some evil genius, here he was.

Under the laws of probability, she wondered just what the chances were of them bumping into each other like this. Probably a million to one. It had to be the most appalling coincidence of the decade.

She cursed herself silently for not staying safely in the confines of the hotel until it was time to go to Mr Delancey’s office. If she hadn’t taken time out to explore, shop-gaze and have a drink at that particular pavement bar, Ross might never have seen her.

She was surprised that he’d recognised her at all. She wasn’t the girl he’d left behind four years before. And she was astonished that, after all that had passed between them, he should want to make contact with her again, however fleetingly.

He could have no conscience, she thought bitterly. No sense of shame.

And there was no guarantee this was the only time they’d run into each other.

‘This is only a small island...’

Had she imagined the note of warning in his voice? She didn’t think so.

She felt sick again. She could always call her father and ask his advice. Except that she knew what he’d say. He’d summon her back instantly, and hand the Thunder Cay negotiations to someone else.

And she didn’t want that. She’d fought hard for her place on the Gilmour-Denys team. At first work had been a form of therapy in the wake of Ross’s desertion. Lately, she’d become involved for the sake of the job itself.

Among other things, she’d taken over the administration of the charitable trusts left by her wealthy American mother. The bulk of Kathryn Landin’s considerable estate, bequeathed to Macy personally, would come to her in four years’ time, on her twenty-fifth birthday.

Up to now, her father had acted as her trustee and adviser, while she’d merely been a figurehead, following his direction. She’d gathered, wryly, that that was how he thought matters should continue.

But she had other ideas. She planned to manage the Landin bequest herself, alongside her career at Gilmour-Denys. She had no intention of being treated as a pretty ornament, to be produced at dinner parties and other social events. She had a sharp business acumen like her mother’s before her, and no emotional shock, however acute, was going to throw her off balance. She couldn’t afford to get hysterical just because an ex-lover had crossed her path.

But not just an ex-lover, said a sly voice in her head. Ross was your first, and only lover. The one you fell so hard for that you gave him your whole life.

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.’

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 naïve 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.

Once again she knew she was the object of scrutiny, but this time no mental alarms were being sounded. She was simply encountering the usual speculative, semi-lustful attention that women on their own tended to be subjected to. And apart from closeting herself in her bungalow, or wearing a bag over her head, there wasn’t a great deal she could do except ignore it, and hope the hint would be taken.

The menu was heavily weighted towards seafood. Macy had noticed the huge conch shell displayed at the dining-room entrance, and conch was being offered cracked, frittered, as a salad or in the ever-popular chowder, along with grouper, snapper, and stewfish.