Sweet Seduction (3 page)

Four

"The hotel was built on the site of an old sugar plantation called Sandy Lane, in a small bay on the west coast of St James," Giles went on. "It’s the island’s most elegant and luxurious hotel.”

“That’s why I booked it,” said Kira.

Sandy Lane was the dream and inspiration of an English Member of Parliament, Ronald Tree, who bought the site in l957 and spared no expense in putting the finest materials and workmanship into his paradise hotel, making it world-famous. She’d looked it up on the Internet.

Giles chuckled. "Ronald Tree even took a shovel himself to dig down into the black sand, a relic from 200 years of settling ash from the nearby sugar refinery. Happily, two feet down he struck the pure golden sand that now makes the island’s most beautiful bay. Where you’ll go swimming tomorrow, no doubt."

"I’m not here for a holiday," she said, but he was already moving out into the aisle as the plane came to halt on the runway. A man in a hurry to get back to his plantation.

As she had expected, Giles Earl left her abruptly at Grantley Adams International Airport. He had no luggage to collect and a car was waiting outside. He bid her goodbye, tipped his hat and strode off through the crowds. She saw him wave to some youngsters hanging over the rail of the visitors’ gallery which spanned the upper part of the curved building. They grinned back. The gallery was packed with sightseers. It seemed to be part of their regular evening entertainment.

There was a loud argument among the porters over who should trundle her luggage. Kira was surprised when the victor was a tough-looking girl of about twenty, in tight jeans and skimpy T-shirt. She swung Kira’s case onto her trolley, still shouting at her male colleagues.

"This is my customer," she insisted. "Clear off, you jerks."

Kira followed her out into the warm night air. Even though she was tired, her interest revived as she took her first look at Barbados. There was not much to see outside the airport; the land was flat with few buildings, tall palms swaying against the tropical black sky. The balmy air was full of pungent scents
. . . sugar cane, flowers, tobacco, the sea . . . all mixed into the sweet and spicy aroma that she was soon to recognise as being pure Barbados.

She tipped the girl porter well and was rewarded with a flashing toothy smile. "We w’men should stick together," the girl said.

"Sandy Lane Hotel, please," Kira said to the owner of a large American Ford. All the taxis looked old and in need of a re-spray job.

"Yes, ma’am," said the driver jauntily, opening the door for her. "Sandy Lane it is!"

It was Kira’s first experience of the Barbadian’s’ friendliness and inborn politeness. They were gentle, polite and smiling. From young beach vendors to old women selling fruit from their doorways, each had the same kindly manner. It was a new and pleasant attitude after the surliness and indifference so often encountered in England.

The taxi driver took her through rolling countryside in the diluted darkness away from the airfield. Winding lanes meandered between hedgerows and fields full of pale green sugar cane; the breeze rustling through the tall stalks and long waving leaves. Their music stirred through the fields, sighing and rising like an unseen choir, a long note of song carrying out to the sea.

Rows of small wooden houses, bleached and decaying, clustered along the new ABC road, little more than huts but each with an air of tidiness with neat curtains and plants. The roads were a hub of nightlife; people sat on steps outside their houses, playing dominoes, listening to music from transistors, eating fruit, drinking local rum, sleeping. The taxi driver hit the horn to break up a game of road cricket. The young players whipped up the stumps and stood aside, grinning.

Kira had never seen so many faces of mixed African and European origin. It was a predominately black island although the English had settled and developed the land from 1627 onwards. But it was the English who discovered the thick dark soil that grew tobacco and sugar so well and made the island one of the richest of the Empire’s outposts.

The Elysian trade wind touched her face from across the oceans. It was as fresh as a morning wind, its coolness taking away the residue of the day’s heat. Already Kira felt herself relaxing in the warmth and newness of the island. If only she could simply enjoy having a holiday here. She knew her health would improve. But she had to confront her grandfather, revenge the injustice suffered by her mother. Or did she? She did not really know what she was doing. Perhaps she would find out tomorrow.

They left behind the street lamps and hotels and the road ran through pitch darkness; weak glows came from fishermen’s houses scattered along the shore. Sudden headlights from an oncoming vehicle lit up the swaying palm trees and rustling sour grass.

"And we got pirates, you know," the taxi driver told her cheerfully. "You watch out for their ships, ma’am. Big black sails, you can’t miss ‘em."

"Real pirates?"

"Sure. There’s a lot of piracy goes on. Not a tourist attraction and day trips. But real piracy."

Arriving at Sandy Lane was something else, in an area of lush green countryside. It was an elegant Spanish hacienda-style building built of expensive coral and designed to follow the natural curve of the bay. From the moment the taxi turned into the driveway, Kira knew she had been right to stay here for the first few nights. She needed to be kind to herself.

"Have a pleasant holiday," said the driver, smartly taking in her luggage before the bell boys could put their hands on it. Kira was impressed. She had never been surrounded by so many people wanting to be of service. It was a heady feeling.

She paid the fare and tipped the helpful driver. He gave her his card. He did private work. Early Bird Services, he called himself.

The reception lobby was cool and spacious, stone and marble, displays of exotic flowers everywhere.

Her room was in the new wing, an elegant room in pastel colours, a little less expensive than the rooms and suites in the original building. She had to remember that she had not won the Lottery, even if it felt like it.

She went out onto the balcony to take her first real look at the Caribbean. The sea was a deep blue, dark and mysterious, tipped with phosphorescence. She leaned on the balcony rail, letting the wind take her hair out of its careful styling. No more blow drying at the hairdressers. It could go wild. She breathed in the warm, aromatic scents of flamboyant flowers that tumbled over the walls of the hotel gardens.

It had been a strange day. Leaving a cold, chilly London at dawn; the long flight; meeting Giles Earl at St Lucia and now installed in a beautiful hotel on St James, waiting to be healed by its peace and tranquillity. It was a whole world away from the fumes of Parliament Square, the demanding Mr Connor and a 750cc Honda motorbike.

A waiter brought her a late supper on a trolley laid with a linen cloth and silver cutlery. There was cold chicken, cold salmon, salad, a selection of fruit and cheeses. She was not really hungry but after a shower, Kira sat on her balcony in a wrap, enjoying the delicious food and sipping fresh juice. She was here. She could hardly believe it.

It was some time before she fell asleep. She was thinking of the tall man in the wide-brimmed hat. It was ridiculous to think that anything could come out of their brief meeting, especially with the troubled background of Reed & Earl. She should concentrate on storming the sugar community with some research paper and meeting her crusty and unforgiving grandfather. She would put the handsome stranger right out of her mind. She still hurt too much to risk getting to know another man.

Any research was still only a hazy idea in her mind. She switched on a lamp, found some hotel notepaper and began to put her ideas down on paper, making something constructive of her thoughts. But she kept seeing Giles Earl’s face, hearing his voice. It was disconcerting.

Something dark and winged flew against the window, hitting the glass. Kira jerked backwards, her throat dry with fear. She switched off the lamp and burrowed under the sheet. The hotel might be beautiful but it was still a strange island with animals and insects she had never seen before.

Kira woke early, disorientated by the time difference. She had had very little sleep, tossing restlessly under the single sheet, listening to a tropical dawn chorus of bird song that was truly glorious. She pulled on a black one-piece swimsuit and a baggy black T-shirt and went down a floor and through the gardens to the beach. The hotel grounds were full of trees, royal palms, mahogany, breadfruit, avocado and the bearded fig trees. Legend had it that the oddly ragged fig tree was the origin of the island’s name. The early Portuguese sailors had called the tree "
los Barbudos
"; the bearded one.

The white sand was cool to her feet, powder fine and tickly. Trees and flowering shrubs swept down from the gardens to the wide shore of the curving bay. A few painted boats bobbed on the gentle waves. The sea was a glittering blue and inviting. It was perfection. No wonder they called it a paradise. Kira stretched her arms upwards. She had it all to herself.

She stripped off the shirt and waded into the sea, letting the cool waves wash against her legs. The surgery scar on her thigh stood out fierce and angry. She ducked under the waves and swam out to one of the boats.

She hung onto a rope and turned to admire the coastline. For as far as she could see in both directions, it was bay after curving bay of sandy shores lined with sweeping trees and flowering bushes. Between some of the trees, she glimpsed the white and pink coral stonework of private houses built on the Sandy Lane Estate. Film stars, pop idols and millionaires guarded their privacy on this stretch of the coast.

The water was transparently clear and Kira could see down to the sandy bottom. A shoal of tiny white patterned fish swam passed, darting off at an angle when they sensed her presence.

How could her mother have left such a heavenly place? Kira remembered their cold and drab homes in North London, often moving from flat to flat as the rents went up. Tamara’s pride had been as unrelenting as her grandfather’s.

But Kira was here now and she knew without a doubt that she had done the right thing. Bless that persuasive Dr Armstrong. She must send him a card. Wish you were here.

She would need a mask and airpipe if she was to watch the exotic fish life among the reefs. And her frothy trousseau nightdress was too hot for comfort. She needed a plain cotton one. A shopping trip to Bridgetown was definitely on the agenda.

She wondered if she could get some visiting cards printed so that she existed, even if only on cardboard. Kira Reed, Research Consultant. And she would invent a string of phone numbers, fax number, email address. Reception might be able to recommend a local printer.

As the rising sun began to warm the beach, Kira came out of the sea and walked along the shoreline to dry off. Her skin felt smooth and cool. The morning was calm and peaceful, so unlike the bustle of London and the crowded airport. She felt truly alone, and yet not at all lonely.

Life was stirring. Fishermen were bringing in their catches. A burly man was sweeping the sand outside his wooden beach bar. He nodded and called out a greeting.

"Good morning, miss. You want a coffee? Coke?"

"Good morning," Kira smiled back. "Later, thank you."

She was surprised at the mixture of sea-side dwellings. Next to another luxury hotel with flamboyant gardens was a cluster of old wooden houses, lithe children swinging on a tree that dipped down to the sand. There were well-kept private houses next to shacks made of corrugated iron. Another was a ruin, burnt-out and derelict. There did not seem to be any planning policy.

The sea was not always clear. Some of the beaches were strewn with rocks and a lighter green showed a sandy channel towards the deeper water.

Kira climbed round a rocky headland and heard a deal of splashing. She couldn’t imagine what was happening.

"Now, boy, now, boy. Good boy. Good fella."

A man was pulling a goat into the sea. He had a big scrubbing brush and was scrubbing the goat’s behind. The goat was making a vigorous attempt to escape, leaping and tugging on the rope.

He lifted the goat up by one leg and dunked the animal into the waves. There were furious protests from the goat but the grizzled-haired owner was determined to get the animal clean.

"Drat it, boy. You’s getting me as wet as a bath tub. Give over. You’s nearly done."

Kira laughed at the spectacle and made a note not to swim at Goat Bay as she would call it. "You’ve got a reluctant bathing beauty there," she said.

"It’s like this every time. You’d think he’d know I ain’t gonna hurt him. Just cussed awkward."

By now she was not alone on the beach as she turned back. Jogging had reached the Caribbean. Figures were running along the water’s edge. Several young men came in sight, swarthy chests gleaming, towelling sweatbands round their foreheads, slim hips in bright running shorts. It was very Western.

One of the joggers wheeled on a heel, spurting up sand, slowed down to a trot beside Kira. She took no notice of him, hoping to shake him off.

"Good morning. You’re up early, Kira. Did you find it too hot to sleep? It does take some getting used to."

Kira felt dizzy with a weakness that flooded through her at the sound of his voice. She had not expected to see him again so soon. He was one of the cut-off jeans, rag-band pack of joggers, his tanned skin so dark that she had mistaken him for a local. Sweat was trickling down his chest to a slim waist.