Island of Darkness (2 page)

I’m sure it does,” Clive agreed quietly, his eyes watching her face and smiling. “But you can’t
just
go for the view, honey, surely.”

“Maybe not,” Leonora allowed, and glanced at her wristwatch. “But if I’m going to take these lobsters I’d better go before they think they’re not getting any.” She kissed her uncle lightly on his cheek and waved a hand as she went out of the door of the shop. “See you!” She had not to row, as Roberto did, but she did have to cope with startling the rather temperamental outboard motor. Fortunately it fired first time today, thanks to some attention by Scottie on her last trip, and she set off across the bay at a fair pace, leaving a trail of soft creamy foam behind her on the glittering blue water.

From the sea Terolito looked quite picture-book with its white cottages and with the boats bobbing gently on the barely ruffled sea. The hills behind the village rose into masses of green, with here and there the white walls of a villa or a farmhouse, and, safely distant, a glimpse of the main road with flashes of sun glinting now and then on speeding cars.

The sight of the distant cars reminded her of the man whose hideaway she was about to invade, and she wondered if he would raise objections if he knew she came across to talk to Scottie as much as to deliver the fish for Roberto. She liked Scottie and she made no secret of it, although she was careful how she spoke of him, for her uncle was sometimes a little anxious that she should meet what he called someone suitable, and marry.

She did not see Scottie in that capacity at all; for one thing he was a man in his late thirties and therefore some fifteen years or so older than she was. Apart from that he treated her in much the same way her uncle did, and she was nothing loath to let him go on doing so. She liked Scottie, but she had no other feelings for him than that of a nice, older man who liked to talk about his home.

In no time at all the towering height of Isola de Marta cast a shadow over the boat as she guided it carefully to the stone pier at the foot of the rock. Those hundred or so stone steps looked rather dismaying in the heat of the sun, but at least for some of the way she would be in shade and the climb was well worthwhile once she arrived at the top.

She tied the boat securely and started up the steps with her basket of lobsters, making more speed on the shadier lower steps and slowing down when she got into the full heat of the sun. There was a light breeze as she got near the top, and that was one of the things she liked best about the rock. No matter how hot and stuffy it was lower down there was always a blessedly cool breeze up here on the pinnacle of the rock.

The villa was a sprawling and beautiful building and Leonora always marvelled at its size when she got close to it. The rock was far bigger than it appeared from a distance and the villa was set right on top of it, surrounded by stone terraces that were shady with trees and shrubs.

There could have been little or no soil originally that was fit for cultivation, but by clever and industrious contrivance the rock itself had been laid out in graduating terraces and what soil there was supplemented by top soil transported from the mainland and enriched over the years by additional layers.

It all looked exotically beautiful in the bright sunshine, white walls reflecting the dazzle of the sea below, the interior of the villa cool and dim, and the trees just stirring in the breeze. Tall cypresses and almonds stood above the calm sea on their wide terraces, with mimosa and carnations scenting the air, and long vines of bougainvillea and roses rioting their colour over the skirting walls.

Leonora went in through an arched doorway that led to the kitchens and saw no one until she came upon Lucia, the Italian cook-housekeeper, preparing a salad, and called out to her,
“Buon giorno,
Lucia!”

Lucia looked up, carefully used a clean white cloth before offering a hand for her to shake, and smiled.

“Buon giorno, signorina
!” The Italian custom of shaking hands at every meeting was one that Leonora was growing accustomed to and now took for granted. Lucia’s wide, bright face beamed her pleasure as she looked into the basket. “Ah!
Le aragoste - bene! Mills grazie, signorina
.”

“They’re beauties,” Leonora said, wondering where Scottie was, and Lucia nodded as she took the basket over to the cooker.

There was a bright mischievous twinkle in her dark eyes when she looked over her shoulder at Leonora. “Signor Scottie is coming,” she informed her, and Leonora sighed inwardly at the inevitability of it. Everyone seemed so determined to scent a romance where there was none.

The arrival of Scottie prevented her from putting Lucia right, however, and she smiled at him, making her pleasure, at seeing him quite obvious. “Hello, Scottie!”

He took her hand and his broad weathered face beamed her a welcome. He was not a good-looking man, but had frank, open features that were, in repose, rather stem, but which smiled often enough to make a network of crinkles at the corners of his nice brown eyes.

“It’s good to see you again, Leonora,” he told her, leading the way into a small cool room just off the kitchen. “Have you time to sit down?”

“Not for very long, I’m afraid,” Leonora said. “I promised my uncle I wouldn’t be too long gone.” She raised her eyes to heaven and pulled a face. “I’m head cook and bottle-washer again - Maria’s having one of her turns!”

“Och, that woman!” His expression sympathised with her and he shook his head, glancing over his shoulder at Lucia who was grappling with the last energies of the lobsters. “It’s lucky Lucia’s not given to such tantrums or we’d fare pretty badly, for I’m no cook!”

“Oh, but there’s less excuse for Lucia,” Leonora pointed out, trying to be fair to Maria. “She hasn’t a husband and five little ones to cope with. She’s a widow, isn’t she?”

“Aye, she is.” He seemed unwilling to dwell on Lucia’s single status, and Leonora wondered briefly if his employer had been attempting some of the same matchmaking tactics that she suffered from herself, from her uncle.

“Anyway,” she said with a laugh, “there’s nowhere for Lucia to run to. She couldn’t just walk out like our Maria does.”

It was strange, she thought, how much at home she felt here, despite the fact that she had been only three times before. She felt that she knew Scottie and Lucia like old friends. On their first meeting Scottie had insisted that he would not know who she was speaking to if she called him Mr. McLellan, or his true name of John. He had been Scottie, he said, for as long as he could remember. Returning the friendly gesture by telling him her own name, he had declined to use her uncle’s abbreviation of Leo, and told her that Leonora was one of his favourite names and he would much prefer to use that.

“Look, I’m sorry to dash off, Scottie,” she said after only a moment or two. “But I have to get lunch for Clive and me and I was a bit later than usual starting out.”

“It’s been an awful short stay,” Scottie complained. “We’ve had no time at all to talk.”

“I know, and I’m sorry.” She instinctively put out a hand and touched his arm. “I’ll try and come again, Scottie, if you’d like me to.”

His brown, work-worn fingers covered hers for a moment and the brown eyes looked deep and earnest. “You know fine I’d like you to come again,” he told her quietly. “If you’ve the time and patience to listen to my ramblings about the old country.”

“Oh, Scottie, you know I
love
coming!” She would have tip-toed and kissed him reassuringly, but she refrained from doing anything so impulsive because if Lucia saw it she was bound to put quite the wrong interpretation on it. “I’ll come again,” she promised softly.

He walked with her to the top of the steps, reluctant to have her leave so soon, but they were only part way when he remembered she had not taken her basket back. “I’ll get it for you,” he offered, and went off back to the villa, leaving her standing against the wall, half way along the

terrace.

She stood there for a moment, looking down at the sun-bright sea lapping the foot of the rock, and humming softly to herself, thinking herself alone and unobserved. She was all the more startled, therefore, when someone spoke from the terrace behind her and she spun round quickly.

A man sat upright on a long reclining chair in the sun, a drink in one hand the other resting on a raised knee, and she had no difficulty in recognising Jason Connor. His head was turned in her direction and, although she knew he could not see her, she felt her heart fluttering anxiously at her ribs and realised with a start what the magazines meant about his impact on women. His impact on her own senses was both startling and alarming.

His fair hair looked quite extraordinarily blond in the sun and he was tanned to a deep golden brown, despite the months he had spent in hospital. Evidently the ensuing weeks spent in the hot Italian sun had counteracted that. His eyes were hidden behind the blankness of dark glasses, but the rugged features, so familiar from newspaper and magazine pictures, showed curiosity and more than a hint of impatience, while the wide, rather thin-lipped mouth looked tight and unfriendly.

“Who’s there?” he asked again impatiently, and Leonora bit her lip, holding her breath and wondering what to do for the best. It was possible that he would blame Scottie for allowing her to discover his hideaway, and she had no wish to get Scottie into trouble. “Speak up!” he ordered sharply. “Have you lost your tongue?
Chi
e?” He tried rather clumsy Italian.

Leonora could see Scottie coming from the villa and she looked across at him appealingly, still saying nothing, while the man in the chair frowned, his fingers tight on the glass he held, obviously suspicious. “I know damned well there’s someone there!” he declared harshly, and Leonora’s heart was racing in panic. “Speak up, for God’s sake! What the hell are you trying to do?” He turned his head once or twice trying to hear the sounds that had betrayed her, but she was standing quite still. “Scottie!” he yelled suddenly. “Scottie, get out here!”

Scottie emerged into the sun and glanced apologetically at Leonora before he walked across to his employer. “It’s all right,” he told him quietly. “You’ve no need to get wound up about anything.”

“I’m not wound up, damn you!” The brown rugged face was still turned in Leonora’s direction and she felt strangely vulnerable with those blank eyes staring at her. “I
know
there’s someone there and I want to know who it is!”

Scottie hesitated only briefly, then sighed at the inevitable. “It’s - it’s only - Leo,” he told him quietly, and Leonora looked briefly surprised at his use of the abbreviation. Then it occurred to her that by doing so he hoped to convey the impression that she was a boy delivering fish, and no more. “Leo brings our fish for us, Jason,” he added, confirming her suspicion.

“Is he dumb?” He was still not satisfied, and suddenly held out a hand. “Come over here, boy!” he ordered sharply.

Leonora hesitated, looking at Scottie helplessly, but she had little option but to do as she was told, she recognised that, and she walked across, soft-footed in her sandals, and stood at the foot of the long chair.

Jason Connor lifted his face, sensing her presence, but saying nothing for a moment, while Leonora watched a series of expressions flit across those mobile features.

“What kind of a fisherman’s boy is it who wears perfume?” he asked softly, after a moment or two, and the wide mouth twisted into a sly smile as he turned his blank eyes on Scottie. “That’s not fish I can smell, you old sinner, it’s
Boheme.
Now what the devil are you up to?”

“I’m not up to anything,” Scottie denied, looking at Leonora anxiously as if he feared she might take exception to the implication. “I told you, Leo brings our fish over for us.”

“Leo?” Again the dark lenses turned on Leonora and a hand reached out. “Come round here, Leo Whatever- your-name-is - I’m convinced you’re no boy!”

Having little choice in the matter she walked round the end of the chair and stood beside him, but made no attempt to take the hand he held out. Her heart was hammering wildly at her ribs and she felt almost childishly nervous as she looked down at that rugged brown face under its mop of blond hair.

He was barefoot, she noticed vaguely, and his long muscular legs had their length emphasised by smooth-fitting blue trousers. There was not an ounce of superfluous flesh on him, despite a long convalescence, and the white shirt he wore was open down its entire length.

She could see the faint, lighter marks of scarred tissue on the golden tanned skin just above his ribs and across the broad chest where a gold medallion on a fine chain proclaimed his apparent faith in St. Christopher. He looked strong, sensual and blatantly masculine and every bit as disturbing as his publicity should have warned her he would be, and she was alarmed at the way her whole being was responding to him.

One long hand moved about helplessly for a moment before it found hers, then he curled strong, relentless fingers round her wrist and pulled hard, so suddenly and unexpectedly that She lost her balance and fell across him, finishing up on the edge of the canvas chair, with her heart racing like a wild thing.

“Hmm!” Before she could recover her breath, he put down his glass carefully on the stone paving and took both her hands in his, while his nose wrinkled appreciatively at the expensive perfume she wore - her one extravagance. “ It
is Boheme
,” he said, confirming his own first guess, and she did not stop to wonder how he was so knowledgeable. He was smiling, a small, infinitely suggestive smile. “And since you seem reluctant to identify yourself,
signorina
,” he added, “I’ll do it my way!” The deep, quiet voice sent tingles of warning along Leonora’s spine and she gave an audible gasp when the long, strong fingers brushed lightly and briefly up over her hips and waist to her arms. She would have objected, moved away out of reach of the intimate, searching touch of those sensitive fingers, but she felt as mesmerised as a rabbit with a snake while they slid gently over her face and neck, then up into her hair and down her slender throat until they drew the outline of the neck of her dress with such a delicate touch that she shivered. The whole sensation was like an assault on her senses and she closed her eyes briefly when he took her hands in his again as if to make sure she could not move out of reach.