Sara Craven - Thunder On The Reef

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Endpage

SHE knew, of course, that she was being watched.

In normal circumstances, it wouldn’t have bothered her too much. She was accustomed, even hardened, to the effect her spectacular looks had on people. She’d even learned to live with the flash of cameras when she appeared in public, and the resulting pictures in glossy magazines. ‘Sir Edwin Gilmour’s lovely daughter.’

Macy’s mouth curled in self-derision. At one time that had seemed the only identity she possessed. But not any more. She was someone in her own right now, with a life—a career that had been almost a salvation.

And that was why she was here on Fortuna—to prove to Cameron and her father and the rest of the board at Gilmour-Denys that the nursery slopes of property negotiation were behind her, and she could handle deals even as tricky as the purchase of Thunder Cay promised to be.

And the last thing she needed was to be recognised at this stage in the game, she thought with irritation as she sipped her iced tea, and tried to ignore the prolonged and intense scrutiny she could feel being directed at her from the other side of Fortuna Town’s bustling Main Street.

Because any negotiations for Thunder Cay were to be strictly confidential. The unexpected tip-off Sir Edwin had received had made that clear. Any hint that the island might be on the market would bring other types of shark to those normally inhabiting Bahamian waters thronging around.

‘And we have to be first,’ he’d said with intensity. ‘Our syndicate wants that land, and I—I need this deal, Macy.’ For a moment there was a note of something like desperation in his voice. She’d stiffened in alarm, her eyes searching his face, questions teeming in her brain, but, after a moment, he’d continued more calmly, ‘I’d go myself, of course, but if I was spotted it would give the game away immediately. So it’s all down to you, my dear.’

She’d said, ‘No problem,’ with more confidence than she actually possessed.

The elaborate model for the hotel and leisure complex which would turn Thunder Cay into the Bahamas’ latest and most expensive resort had graced the penthouse office at Gilmour-Denys for a long time now.

Privately, Macy had termed it the Impossible Dream, because Boniface Hilliard, the reclusive millionaire who owned Thunder Cay, had always adamantly refused to sell. She’d been convinced he never would.

Yet in the last week, a whisper had reached Edwin Gilmour’s ears from some grapevine that the old man, a childless widower, was said to be ill, and prepared to discuss the disposal of some of his assets.

Thunder Cay wouldn’t be the only item up for grabs, Macy thought. There was the fortune he’d made from investment worldwide, and the mansion Trade Winds, overlooking the best beach on the south side of Fortuna itself.

But the bulk of his massive estate wasn’t her concern. All she had to do was convince his lawyer, Mr Ambrose Delancey, to recommend Gilmour-Denys’s bid for Thunder Cay to his client. For someone apparently prepared to negotiate, Mr Delancey had proved annoyingly elusive. She’d spent three fruitless days so far, trying to make an appointment with him.

Ostensibly, of course, she was a tourist, booked into Fortuna’s main hotel, using her mother’s maiden name Landin as an added precaution. She’d thought she’d be safe enough. Fortuna, after all, wasn’t one of the most fashionable islands of the Bahamas. It didn’t appeal to the jet-setters and generally well-heeled who thronged to New Providence and Paradise Islands, and there were no paparazzi eagerly face-spotting around the bars and cafes on Main Street, or the bustling harbour area.

On the whole, it was a man’s resort, a haven for the big-game fishermen who came to chase the bluefin tuna, the sailfish and the blue marlin by day, and enjoy a nightlife more lively than sophisticated when darkness fell.

Accordingly, Macy had deliberately played down her appearance, choosing a plain navy shift dress, with matching low-heeled leather sandals, as well as concealing her cloud of mahogany-coloured hair under a bandanna, and masking her slanting green eyes behind an oversized pair of sunglasses.

And yet, incredibly, it seemed she’d still been recognised. Damn and blast it, she thought with exasperation.

She ventured a swift, sideways glance across the busy road, searching between the slow-moving hurly burly of carts, street-vendors’ bicycles, and luridly hued taxis.

She saw him at once, lounging against an ancient pick-up, its rust spots held together by a virulent yellow paint-job. He was tall, with a shaggy mane of curling dark hair, the upper part of his face concealed behind sunglasses as unrevealing as her own, the lower hidden by designer stubble. But even from a distance she could see his teeth gleam in a smile of totally cynical appraisal.

The rest of him, Macy noted, bristling at the implications of that unashamed grin, was bronze skin interrupted by a sleeveless denim waist-coat, and matching trousers raggedly cut off at mid-thigh.

He was as disreputable as his tatty vehicle, she thought with contempt, averting her gaze. A later-day Bahamian pirate turned beach-bum. She supposed that, as a woman sitting alone at a pavement table, she was obvious prey for his kind. Nevertheless that prolonged, oddly intense observation made her feel uneasy—restless, almost unnerved.

Idiot, she thought, glancing at her watch, then signalling to the waiter, as she finished her tea. She was out of here anyway. It was time to find her way to the office of Ambrose Delancey, attorney-at-law.

As the bill was placed in front of her, a shadow fell across the table. A tanned hand dropped a scatter of loose change on to the folded slip in the saucer.

And a voice she’d never thought to hear again said laconically, ‘Have this on me, Macy.’

Shock mingled with disbelief paralysed her. Turned her dumb. The traffic noises, and the buzz of laughter and chatter around her faded into dizzying silence. All she could hear, echoing and re-echoing in her brain, were those few drawled words.

Turning her ordered world to sudden reeling chaos.

Her nails became claws, curling into the palms of her hands, scoring the soft flesh. But, as they did so, bringing her back to stark reality.

No wonder, she thought, swallowing back sudden nausea. No wonder she’d felt uneasy. Some undreamed of sixth sense must have been warning her.

She turned her head slowly. Looked up, with an assumption of calm enquiry.

He was standing over her, close enough to touch. She had to force herself not to shrink away. But it was imperative not to allow him any kind of ascendancy.

She said coolly, ‘Ross. What a surprise.’

‘You could say that.’ He sounded faintly amused, as he hitched a chair forward. ‘Mind if I join you?’

His presumption galled her. She said between her teeth, ‘Yes, I bloody well do mind,’ and he laughed.

‘Now that’s far more in character.’ He looked her over, a tingling top to toe assessment that missed nothing on the way, and made her cringe inside with anger, and a kind of unwilling excitement. ‘You’re looking good.’

‘I wish I could say the same for you,’ she said tersely. ‘I didn’t recognise you.’

‘Now I,’ he said softly, ‘would have known you anywhere. The beautiful Macy Gilmour. I hope I’ve got the label right.’

‘Absolutely.’ She pushed the coins back at him. ‘Save these for your next meal.’

‘Always the soul of generosity.’

‘A family trait,’ she said. ‘But maybe you don’t remember.’

‘By no means. I recall all the details of every transaction between us, Macy, my sweet, sexual as well as financial.’ His voice lingered on the words, deliberately creating all kinds of intimate images. Deliberately winding her up, she realised with vexation, feeling swift blood rise unbidden in her face,

‘Fortunately, I don’t,’ she said crisply, trying to take control of herself, and the situation. She couldn’t believe what was happening to her. For four years, she’d striven to dismiss Ross Bannister from her mind as completely as he’d disappeared from her life. Of all the people in the world, she thought despairingly. Of all the places in the world. And of all the lousy, stinking, rotten luck.

‘So, what brings you to Fortuna?’ Ross asked lazily, sitting down in spite of her denial.

‘I’m on holiday,’ she returned shortly. To her annoyance, the waiter whisked away the bill and the money before she could stop him, lifting a hand to Ross in obvious camaraderie as he did so.

Above the enigmatic shades, his brows lifted sardonically. ‘Are all the usual flesh pots fully booked? I wouldn’t have thought this was your scene, although there are some good beaches.’ He paused. ‘I won’t tell you to watch out for sharks. You’ve been mixing with them all your life.’

‘You,’ she said, ‘were the first.’ She reached for her bag, and got to her feet.

‘Going so soon?’ Ross rose too, with a courtesy so exaggerated it bordered on insolence. ‘But our reunion has hardly begun.’

‘Wrong,’ she said. Her mouth was dry, her heart was hammering. ‘It never started.’

He stroked his chin meditatively. ‘I hope the beard hasn’t put you off.’

‘By no means,’ she returned. ‘It looks wholly appropriate. Wasn’t there a pirate called Blackbeard?’

‘Indeed there was,’ he said. ‘He used to operate round Nassau way.’

‘What a pity you don’t do the same.’

‘I prefer to work on a smaller scale.’ She’d forgotten his smile. Forgotten too how heart-stoppingly handsome he was, in spite of the scruffy hair and stubble. In fact, there was a lot about Ross Bannister she’d have preferred to dismiss permanently from her mind.

‘You’re not very relaxed for a holidaymaker,’ he commented. ‘You seem constantly on edge.’

‘Do you wonder?’ She paused. ‘May I be frank?’

‘You always were,’ he murmured.

‘Thank you.’ She faced him squarely, chin up. ‘The fact is, Ross, I’d hoped you were out of my life forever. Meeting you again is like the worst kind of bad dream.’

‘Well, that is being frank. Unfortunately for you, it could also be a recurring dream,’ he said. ‘This is only a small island. We could bump into each other quite regularly.’

‘No.’ She said it so loudly and vehemently that people at neighbouring tables looked at them curiously.

‘Alternatively,’ Ross went on imperturbably, ‘you could always ask your hotel for a transfer to another island.’

If the choice were hers, that was exactly what she’d be doing, Macy thought angrily. Only she couldn’t cut and run. Not yet. She had business to attend to. An important deal to get off the ground. Her personal emotions couldn’t be allowed to interfere with that.

She said coolly, ‘Using the excuse that I’d been frightened by a rat, I suppose. But, no, I don’t think so. I like it here.’ She paused. ‘How much, this time, Ross, to get you out of my life?’