Dark Paradise (14 page)

She did not know what held her back from the ultimate commitment. She was unable to explain her inner confusion. She loved Drew, so why this reluctance to express her love in physical terms? Drew teased her about being an old-fashioned girl, but she could sense he was growing impatient, and she wished she could explain, and be reassured by him in some magical way.

But Drew had not been in the reassurance business. He was looking for easy sexual conquest, and Kate's reluctance was a thorn in his flesh, a slur on his virility. What little patience he possessed was soon used up, although Kate only realised this when she found herself actually fighting him off.

It was the most frightening experience of her life. He was a stranger suddenly, all the easy charm submerged by more primitive forces, uncaring that he was bruising her, hurting her. He swore at her, telling her to relax, but it was impossible. Shock had locked her muscles, and tautened her body into rigidity. His hoarse, excited breathing seemed to fill her ear. Her voice, pleading with him to stop, to leave her alone, sounded weak and fragile in contrast. His body crushed her, making her feel sick with disgust. She moaned helplessly, feeling scalding tears pouring down her face, her hands clenched into fists pushing unavailingly at his shoulders.

Then, suddenly, it was over. Drew rolled away from her, cursing under his breath, telling her harshly to get out. For a moment, she was too stunned to move, then she dragged herself to her feet, straightening her clothes, noticing almost mechanically that there were a couple of buttons missing from her shirt.

Outside it had begun to rain, and she wasn't prepared for it. Shaken and shivering, she waited at the stop for a bus that was inevitably way behind schedule, and a kindly woman asked if she was ill. She knew she would have to pull herself together before she reached home if she was to avoid arousing her parents' concern. And Jon's. She shuddered to herself, thinking of Jon's reaction if he knew what had happened.

She could hardly believe it herself. But at least it had made one thing clear: Drew did not love her and he never had. The things he had said, the things he had tried to do to her had proved that. She bit her lip, tasting blood, as she remembered with anguish the last thing he had said to her as she stumbled to the door of his flat, 'Why the hell did I ever waste my time on you, you stupid, frigid little bitch!'

It was that which had made her understand that she was just another sexual adventure—a challenge for him because she was a virgin. But he had never cared for her, and that was the hurt which would linger corrosively, long after the shock and bruises of his attempted violation had faded.

Going on with her college course wasn't easy, because Drew took his revenge in any number of ways, ignoring her in private, and ridiculing her work in class.

Whenever she saw him, he was the centre of an adoring female circle, obviously intent on showing her what she had missed by her recalcitrance, she thought bitterly. He would soon be going back to the States, so he wasn't even bothering to be discreet any more. If she'd dreamed she'd been the only one in his life, she knew better now. Drew had been right about that at least—she had been stupid—stupid and blind not to see him for what he was.

Worst of all, it was assumed by most people at the college that she had had a full sexual affair with Drew, and had been discarded by him when she had failed to live up to his exacting standards. At first, when the rumour got back to her, she denied it vehemently, but she soon realised that few people were inclined to believe her, aware that even her friends were regarding her with a certain scepticism. She supposed she couldn't blame them. She had been so besotted by Drew that it hardly seemed credible even to herself that she could have denied him anything.

Nor could she expect much sympathy for her daily humiliations at his hands. The girls who had envied her were glad to see her unhappiness, and even her friends felt that she had probably asked for it by getting involved with Drew in the first place.

It had been a hard and bitter time for Kate, and her work had proved her only salvation. And even when Drew had gone, and she knew that she would never have to set eyes on him again, or suffer his sly taunts, she wasn't altogether free of him. One of the girls in her year who had been most recently involved with him had a nervous breakdown, and threw up her course, and it was said that another girl had had to have an abortion.

Every new whisper filled Kate with anguish. She despised Drew for the way he used women, but she despised herself far more for her own weakness.

She had allowed his cloud to hang over her ever since, making her wary of every relationship, reluctant to commit herself even lightly.

And when she had seen Matt at the wedding, she had instantly judged him as coming from the same mould, and condemned him.

Well, she knew better now. Because if Drew had brought her to St Antoine, she wouldn't have been permitted to spend her nights unmolested.

She started violently as Matt's hand descended on her shoulder.

'I've spoken to you twice already.' His voice held a trace of impatience. 'In case you hadn't noticed, we've dropped anchor.'

Kate said, 'Oh,' feeling foolish.

Winston, who was putting things in the dinghy, looked round with a flash of white teeth. 'She's in a dream, man,' he said, giving Kate a knowing look.

Matt leaned down and took off her sunglasses, looking at her naked eyes with deliberate assessment. She knew he saw the shadows, the strained look, and she saw his mouth tighten.

'No,' he said abruptly. 'She's awake.' He handed the big frames back, and she replaced them hastily, thankful for their concealment.

Matt helped her into the dinghy, but Winston made no attempt to land with them when they reached the shore. Kate watched in surprise as he began to row back to the boat with a cheerful wave.

'I thought you were going to dive to those underwater caves you were discussing.'

'Later,' Matt said. 'Winston has a cousin living not far from here, and he's gone to pay him a visit, and pick up some fresh local crab for lunch.'

'It sounds wonderful,' said Kate, with a bright smile.

He gave her a weary look. 'Does it?'

He began to walk up the gently shelving beach, and Kate followed, her feet sliding a little in the soft sand.

'What do you mean?'

He sounded grim. 'I mean this has hardly been the trip of the decade so far.'

She bit her lip. 'Because you haven't got near your Mr Big yet? But—but there's still time, isn't there?'

'I'm beginning to doubt it,' he said flatly. 'Unless I get a breakthrough soon, the whole thing's been a waste of time.'

'Is it really so important?' Kate asked doubtfully.

Matt shrugged. 'It would have been to me—and to the company if I'd managed to pull it off. A genuine old-fashioned scoop. A dead man brought back to life again, courtesy of National Television,'

'A dead man?' Kate stared at him, her brows wrinkling questioningly.

'Except that like Mark Twain, reports of his death were greatly exaggerated,' Matt said. 'The man I'm here to see is Jethro Alvarez.'

Kate gulped. 'The South American dictator? But he's dead—he must be! They found the burned-out wreckage of his plane in the jungle after the coup and…'

'I'm not denying what they found,' Matt agreed. 'What I'm saying is that Alvarez was never in that plane. The things they found were no real identification, but the new regime couldn't wait to write him off, so they never looked further than the fact that it was his own private aircraft. I say he's here, in hiding, biding his time. Because a man like that isn't going to be satisfied with this little corner of Paradise for long.'

Kate could only agree. Jethro Alvarez had been a big man in every sense of the word. The small, backward nation he ruled with total authority was rarely out of the news because of him. He had put Santo Cristo on the map. He had risen to power from the kind of obscurity which encourages the wildest rumours. He was part Spanish, and part Irish, it was believed, a bearded giant of a man with fists like hams which he didn't hesitate to use when he was displeased. He had enjoyed his years as El Presidente to the full, and Santo Cristo had flourished to a certain extent. Alvarez had a persuasive tongue and he had talked foreign investment into his country, drilling for oil and mining for minerals, although fruit crops would always be its largest export.

His fall had been as spectacular as his rise in the end. There had been an army revolt and a coup, with fighting in the streets. For a while, no one knew what had happened to Alvarez, and it was supposed that the rebels had captured him with his family, then the news came that his plane had crashed in a mountainous jungle region while he was trying to escape.

And since that time, Santo Cristo had been torn by a sporadic civil war, with left-wing insurgents fighting the ruling army junta.

She said, 'But what gave you the hint that he might be alive, after all?'

Matt shrugged. 'Instinct at first. The crash seemed— too convenient, somehow. I'd met Alvarez during my time as a foreign correspondent, and he struck me as a man who'd have his retreat well planned and foolproof. He knew exactly how shaky his position really was. He ruled through his personality, claiming he was the people's friend, but he was under no illusions about them. He knew that as a nation, they hadn't even got to first base. The vast majority might be sorry to see him go in a desultory way, but they wouldn't fight to support him. And he was right. No one lifted a finger to oppose the coup, and all the fighting since has been done by small fringe minorities.'

'And was it instinct which brought you here to look for him?'

Matt shook his head. 'It was part coincidence, part detective work. I came here first a couple of years ago purely on holiday, but even then things were changing. It was clear someone was investing in the place, lifting it out of the doldrums, but I couldn't find out who, and that seemed odd, because usually these entrepreneurs are only too pleased to take public credit for their efforts. Then I remembered that Alvarez had married a white Creole girl, after his first wife died, and I decided to dig a little deeper. What little I managed to learn convinced me that I wasn't mad, that the mystery man round here could well be Alvarez. The tricky part was always going to be getting close enough to persuade him to answer some questions.'

'Do you think he knows that's why you're here?'

'He can't be sure, any more than he was a couple of years ago, otherwise he'd have been out of here on the next plane looking for another bolthole. That's been my private nightmare while trying to persuade London to back me in this—that someone else would get to him first—or frighten him off. But, touch wood, it hasn't happened yet.' He sent her a sardonic grin. 'So this masquerade of ours has been a partial success at least. Aren't you glad that your sacrifice hasn't been utterly in vain?'

Kate didn't look at him. She unrolled her towel and spread it on the sand, mumbling, 'Oh, it hasn't been that bad.'

'Hasn't it?' His tone was ironic. 'No one taking a long, hard look at you would ever believe it! Just now, on the boat, you were out on your feet. Why don't you spend your nights sleeping? Or is it really so impossible for you to relax when I'm around?'

Kate shook her head, saying something inane about strange beds, and he gave an exasperated sigh.

'Oh, for God's sake! We'll give it a couple more days, and if I'm still no closer to this interview, then we'll go home. And in the meantime, I'll use the couch in the other room. Will that make things better?'

'No,' Kate thought with a sudden pang. 'Infinitely, desperately worse.' But all she said quietly was 'Thank you.'

She unbuttoned the matching shirt she wore with her coral bikini, and slipped it off. Matt was stripping too, down to the usual brief trunks, and she studiously avoided looking at him, because, if he looked back, he might see something in her eyes besides the strain engendered by lack of sleep.

When he said abruptly, 'I'm going for a swim,' and started off down the beach, she wasn't really surprised. He tanned swiftly and deeply and his skin was like mahogany already, but he didn't work at it. He was too active to enjoy simply lying around in the sun.

His seaside childhood had paid off, she thought, because he was a good swimmer, strong but safe, with a healthy respect for the sea. She had spent a lot of time in the water over the past week and her own swimming had improved out of all recognition, although Matt and Winston kept a watchful eye on her, she realised.

Probably if she asked them to teach her to dive, they would have done so, but she didn't want to be a drag, and she wasn't entirely smitten with the idea anyway.

She turned on to her tummy, reaching behind her and undoing the strings of her bikini top. She was selfconscious about doing this when Matt was around, although he had never made any edged remarks about her coyness. Many of the girls at the hotel sunbathed topless, but there was no way that she would do so. Considering she had been through art college, and attended innumerable life classes, she was absurdly inhibited, she knew, but there was little she could do about it.

She had brought a book with her, a paperback family saga set against the Industrial Revolution with all the characters having a uniformly grim time, and she read a few pages, getting more and more depressed as she did so. It was the first of a series, so presumably at least some of them survived their vicissitudes, she thought, closing the book with a little sigh.

She pillowed her head on her folded arms, staring gloomily in front of her, considering what Matt had said. Was he really prepared to abandon his quest and go home? It seemed incredible, but that was what he had said. She should have been overjoyed. She would be getting out of an impossible situation, and her work was waiting for her in London, and yet she wasn't aware of any lifting of the heart. Quite the reverse, in fact.

After the shock of learning about Alison's devious behaviour, and the shaming realisation that she had been unfair to Matt all along, she had had time to think—to hope that she was being given another chance. Because Matt had been quite right when he had accused her of fancying him at the wedding. She had been attracted—shatteringly so. Which was why she had overreacted when he came across to her. Because she was terribly afraid that the defence mechanism which had served her so well since Drew was going to let her down.