THE FARCREEK TRILOGY
2
LADY LAY
CARO FRENCH
COPYRIGHT CATRIN COLLIER
ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY SIMON & SCHUSTER 1988
Caro French only wrote 3 books. Lady Luck, Lady, Lay and Lady Chance, which together make up the FARCREEK TRILOGY. I will be eternally grateful to her. The year I was given the contract to write “raunch” as Caro French I wrote five books, One Catrin Collier, One Katherine John and the three Caro French. As a result I was able to resign my full time job and become a full time writer.
Perhaps the most imaginative paragraph concerning Caro French was the biography I constructed for her.
About the author
Caro French has always loved and lived within sight of the sea. A member of two yachting clubs, she has taught sailing in America, and has since developed a taste for sailing the warmer waters of the Aegean. She now divides her time between English and Turkish waters, which she sails with her third husband.
Believe it or not – I did once teach sailing in America. As for the rest . . . pure fiction.
FARCREEK 2
LADY LAY
Chapter One
The afternoon sun percolated through the lace that curtained the windows, softening its harsh light to a rich, golden glow. Adam Cullen smiled down at Lisa Michaels as he curled his fingers into her hair. Lowering his head, he kissed her deeply, lingeringly and lovingly before easing himself away from her to seek a cooler spot on the edge of the king-size bed.
‘Don’t go.’
‘If I don’t I’ll melt all over you like a cheese topping on a pizza.’
‘Very romantic.’
‘It’s too damned warm for romance.’ He pushed her long, dark curls away from her face and spread them out on the pillow behind her.
‘And when summer’s over and winter begins, no doubt you’ll be moaning it’s too damned cold.’ She played with the black hairs on his chest as she snuggled her head down on to his shoulder.
‘No I won’t. I’ll wrap you in bearskins, light a fire, and make love to you in an atmosphere of flickering flames and spiced, mulled wine.’ He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed the tips of her fingers.
‘While I dream of hot sultry summer.’
Throwing aside the duvet, he leant on his elbow and gazed appreciatively at her naked body, ‘That’s the problem with you women. You’re never satisfied.’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’ Mischief glinted in the depths of her mahogany eyes.
‘There’s nothing like a handsome, virile man to make a woman contented with her lot in life.’
‘Why you, arrogant ...’ He retreated as she threw a pillow at him. ‘Oh hell!’ she exclaimed in irritation as the front doorbell shrilled.
‘Ignore it. It’s probably only the Commander or Bert Marner run out of whisky.’
‘At four in the afternoon?’ Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed she reached for her silk dressing-gown.
‘Don’t go,’ he snatched the gown from her hands.
‘I’m paid to act as steward of this club.’
‘Not when it’s closed.’ The bell resounded a second time drowning out his words.
‘There might be a fire,’ she protested as he pulled her down on top of him and nuzzled her ear.
‘There’s one burning right here.’
‘And I’ll be right back to put it out.’ Struggling to free herself from his embrace, she retrieved her gown, slipped it over her arms, tied it around her waist and padded softly on bare feet into the hall and down the two flights of stairs that led to the side-door of the yacht club.
She could see the outline of a tall, dark figure behind the patterned glass set into the door frame, but she could also hear heavy footsteps clumping over the wooden veranda that fronted the bar. Opening the bar door she caught sight of a man with his face pressed against the French windows peering into the club.
The bell shrilled again. Unaccountably she suddenly felt very afraid and very cold. ‘One minute,’ she called out as she stooped to thrust back the bolts on the door.
‘Miss Michaels?’
There was no mistaking the thick-set, square-built figure on the doorstep, nor the man who moved in behind him. Even if she hadn’t seen them before, she would have known them for policemen.
‘We’ve met, Sergeant, Constable,’ she acknowledged warily.
‘May we come in?’
‘As you can see,’ she clutched the neck of her robe, pulling it high around her throat, ‘I’m just about to take a shower.’
‘Odd time to be showering, isn’t it?’
‘Not for someone who works the hours I do.’
‘We really do need to talk to you in private,’ the sergeant pressed. ‘It’s important.’
‘It really isn’t convenient.’
‘There is rarely a convenient time to bring bad news, Mrs Michaels.’
Shaking, se retreated into the small foyer, and the sergeant followed.
‘A body was washed ashore in Traceport Marina this morning. We have reason to believe it is your husband’s.’
‘Colin but . . . ’
‘Are you alone?’
She shook her head.
‘Mr Cullen is with you?’
‘He’s upstairs,’ she whispered as the meaning of his news sank in.
‘We have to ask you to accompany us.’
‘Accompany you?’ A dense black cloud descended from the ceiling, making it difficult for her to see or hear what was being said.
‘Formal identification has to be made.’
‘Of course.’ She turned and gripped the banisters staring blankly up the steep flight of stairs.
‘And afterwards, we’d like you and Mr Cullen to come with us to the station.’
‘Why?’ Barefoot, bare-chested, and dressed in a pair of jeans, Adam ran down the stairs towards them.
‘To assist with our enquiries into the death of Colin Morris,’ the sergeant answered blandly.
‘Colin. Morris is dead?’
‘A body was washed ashore in the marina this morning,’ the sergeant repeated. We have reason to believe it is his.’
‘But neither myself nor Miss Michaels has seen Colin Morris recently.’ Adam went to Lisa and laid his arm protectively around her shoulders.
‘You reported that Colin Morris broke into these premises last month.’
‘Breaking and entering hardly constitutes a social exchange in my book,’ Adam retorted.
‘At this stage in our enquiries we have to follow every lead we have, sir.’
‘I assure you, that neither Miss Michaels nor I are in a position to assist you. We haven’t seen Colin Morris since that night.’
The sergeant looked to Lisa, ‘Are you still married to Colin Morris?’
‘I reverted to my maiden name after Colin left me.’
‘I see.’
‘What do you see, sergeant?’ Adam demanded coldly.
‘At the moment very little, sir. But then this investigation is just beginning. Contrary to what the papers would have us believe, most people die in bed. It’s our job to find out why Mr Morris didn’t.’
‘And I assure you Miss Michaels and I know nothing.’
‘I have a job to do, sir.’
‘And if we refuse to go with you?’
‘I’ll return with a warrant.’
Lisa scarcely felt Adam’s reassuring hug or the weight of his arm across her shoulders as she stood shivering at the foot of the stairs. What she and Adam had shared these past few weeks was miraculous. It was as though she had never experienced a moment of happiness before he’d moved into her apartment and her life. But had it all been simply too wonderful to last?
‘Reef the sail in, reduce speed, and ride out the waves, Aim for that channel between the rocks.’
‘You trust me to manoeuvre that close to the headland?’
Poppy Cullen brushed her wind-whipped hair from her eyes and looked dubiously at Ellis Landon.
‘It’s not just a question of sailing, Poppy,’ Ellis lilted patiently. ‘The essential prerequisite for safety at sea is knowing your waters. Don’t worry, the channel’s deep enough to take this boat, and the current will carry you safely into Mount’s Bay. If a squall blows up it’s the perfect anchor in which to ride out a storm. It’s time you became acquainted with its vagaries.’
‘But the channel looks too narrow for the boat.’
‘Go for it,’ Ellis smiled at her. A wide-mouthed, winsome grin he practised in front of the bathroom mirror every morning. His white teeth were perfectly aligned, courtesy of capping; his skin was clear and tanned all the year round, thanks to the sun beds in the health club, and his dark eyes gleamed like polished onyx against the choppy blue and white background of the sea. Even his hair was styled to ruffle becomingly in a breeze.
At every hairdresser’s appointment he tested it by bullying four of his stylist’s assistants into simulating wind with blow driers turned up full blast.
‘First I have to take the sail in, right?’ Poppy fluttered her eyelashes and ran her tongue’ over pouting rose-pink lips. After four weeks spent in the constricting cage of a monotonous marriage to Joseph Cullen, it felt marvellously liberating to be out and about and alone with an attractive man. Even in a boat.
‘Reef,’ Ellis corrected. ‘But seeing as how this is our first time out together, I’ll help you. Just don’t expect special treatment again. And concentrate on that tiller!’
The cry came too late. Poppy closed her eyes and winced as the bow of the dingy scraped noisily on a rock. ‘Don’t worry, it’s only a scratch,’ he commiserated after leaning over to inspect the damage.
‘Joseph would kill me; he’s so pernickety about small things.’
‘I doubt he’d actually do away with you. No man would want to lose a wife as beautiful as you.’ ‘
‘If it came down to a choice between me and his boat, Joseph would plump for his boat every time.’
‘Ah, but this isn’t the Lady Chance,’ Ellis commented tactfully, ‘it’s only my teaching boat, and she’s accustomed to receiving a knock or two.’ He laid a reassuring hand over Poppy’s, guiding the tiller as the dinghy scudded over the crest of the waves into the calmer waters of the bay.
‘I never knew there was a bay this big close to the headland.’ A deep scoop of fine yellow sand faced them, sheltered by a rocky outcrop that concealed it from the coastal side, it was" protected on the landward side by the towering cliffs of the headland.
‘And it’s filled with quiet waters. Just what a student needs half-way through an arduous first lesson.’
‘It’s enchanting.’ Relieved, Poppy began to relax. Sailing was proving to be a nerve-racking business. On the rare occasions she’d crewed for her husband and brothers-in-law, all they seemed to do was dive around the boat without rhyme or reason and scream at her for not doing the same.
Floating gently on peaceful waters with a handsome, considerate man made a pleasant contrast. Despite Ellis’s persuasive insistence over a drink in the yacht club that a few lessons with him would make all the difference, she doubted she’d ever make a good sailor. Not in the same fanatical way all the members of the Cullen clan were.
She loathed the smell and feel of the damp oilskins that chafed her delicate skin. Her nails broke, and her hands blistered on the rough nylon rigging ropes. Her hair, fine at the best of times, became stiff and sticky, impregnated with salt, and hopelessly tangled by the wind no matter how many tons of conditioner she plastered over it beforehand, or afterwards. And although she’d paid over ninety pounds for a thumb-sized bottle of face cream that was guaranteed to keep sun, wind and wrinkles at bay, she wasn’t at all sure the formula was up to coping with Traceport Bay conditions and she was absolutely terrified of getting a weathered, cheese-grater complexion like her mother-in-law. .
‘Drop anchor.’
‘Here?’
‘I thought it would be a good place to take a breather, go over what we’ve learnt, and indulge in a warming nip.’ Ellis produced a metal flash from the inner recesses of his oilskin.
She returned his smile wondering, not for the first time since Joseph Cullen had slipped the wide gold band on to her finger, why she’d been in such a hurry to marry Joseph when he was nowhere near as good-looking or appreciative as Ellis Landon.
True, she’d been in dire need of money, and Joseph had given her a generous dress allowance, a classic Mercedes-Benz 300SL Roadster to run around in, and a practically limitless budget for their apartment in his father’s house, but Ellis seemed to live well too.
Perhaps Ellis would have been just as generous if she’d married him, and he was.so much more fun, and charming and amenable with it - and, most important of’ all, always around - unlike Joseph who practically lived in the factory he ran for his father.
‘It’s bloody hot out of the wind.’ Ellis tossed his lifejacket on to the deck. His head disappeared beneath his yellow oilskin. When it emerged he beamed conspiratorially at her. ‘Wouldn’t you like to get more comfortable?’
‘I thought you weren’t supposed to remove your life-jacket once you boarded a boat.’
‘Very good, you know your safety manual. But one step on the rock, another off it, and we’ll be on the beach. Then I can draw pictures in the sand to explain tacking into the wind. You’re looking at my favourite classroom.’
‘A lesson on terra firma sounds heaven.’ She meant it, even Ellis’s company couldn’t entirely compensate for the tense, unsettling business of trying to remember all that needed to be done to stop a boat from capsizing.
‘Don’t worry.’ He helped her to unfasten her life-jacket and divest herself of the top half of her oilskin. ‘A couple more lessons and you’ll be as hooked on flying before the wind as the rest of us.’
‘I don’t know about that.’
‘Here.’ He stepped nimbly out of the boat and balanced on a ledge in the rock. Extending his hand, he grasped her wrist.
‘Do you think I’ll ever be good enough for racing?’ She wondered just how many lessons Joseph would fund with Ellis, who was expensive, even by Farcreek standards. Then, as Ellis smiled at her again she forgot all about sailing and wished she wasn’t wearing waterproof over-trousers. They made her hips look positively elephantine.
‘You are good enough to do whatever you want in a boat, Poppy, believe you me.’
The “believe you me” echoed repeatedly through her mind as she slid from his grasp. For one panic-stricken moment, icy water lapped over her head. Balancing precariously, he leant forward, grabbed her hands and hauled her out of the sea. Carrying her to the beach, he deposited her on the sand before returning to the boat locker to fetch a towel.
‘Poppy, don’t stand there catching pneumonia, strip off,’ he commanded sharply, tossing her an enormous bath sheet.
Shivering, she crawled closer to the cliff. He followed. Slipping the knot on her waterproof trousers, he tugged at the buttons on her jeans. In two minutes he had the whole soggy mess around her ankles.
‘Here, sit on the towel.’ He threw it on to the sand.
The sudden warmth of the sun after the cold of the sea sapped her will. Too numb to think for herself she followed his directives blindly, obediently, like a child at a new school.
He lifted her feet and pulled away her trousers and jeans, wrenching her shoes off with them. ‘I should have been more careful. That rock was slippery.’
‘It wasn’t your fault.’ She lifted her arms and allowed him to peel off her sweater. The only garment beneath it was a chocolate-trimmed, skin-toned, silk and lace body.
It would have left little to the imagination dry; wet, it was transparent. She saw that he was staring at her and a thrill of something other than cold brought a pleasant tingle to her skin. There were some things about being single she really missed.
‘My grandmother always used to say wet underclothes mean colds.’ He turned his back. ‘If you take it off I’ll spread it out to dry with the rest.’
Slipping the straps, she wriggled out of the body, dangled it over his shoulder, and wrapped herself in the towel. It felt warm, thick and comforting after the sudden chill of the water.
‘Brandy?’ He offered her the flask after he’d spread her clothes over the rocks.
She took it and sipped delicately.
‘You need more than that after the nasty shock you’ve just had. I refuse to wade into British waters without a wetsuit, even at the height of summer.’ He watched while she attacked the flask a second time, then helped himself. ‘This is the worst of dinghy sailing. It’s hard work to begin with and no matter how good you are, you always run the risk of capsizing in freezing waters.’
‘I didn’t capsize.’
‘You did, the boat didn’t; that’s no reflection on you, Poppy, I shouldn’t have let you go. You really do have the makings of a brilliant sailor. And you’re so brave. Most women in your position would stick to sunning themselves on the deck of their old man’s cruiser, not learning to cope with the vagaries of a racing dinghy. I just hope this hasn’t put you off.’
‘It’ll take more than one ducking to do that.’
‘That’s exactly what I meant by being brave.’ He sat next to her and clamped his hands on her shoulders.
‘You’re cold.’ Rubbing his hands vigorously up and down her arms he pulled her around to face him. Afterwards, she tried to remember just who had made the first move. Not that it mattered. Either way, she was ready and more than willing.
His lips were hard, almost brutal as they pressed down on hers. His tongue slid sensuously, probing between her teeth into her throat. Slowly, gradually, the towel slid away, its warmth replaced by the heat that emanated from his body.
‘You’re still cold.’ His hands caressed her breasts and thighs, massaging, stroking, warming, then as life and circulation returned to her numbed extremities, his touch lightened, tantalizing and arousing.
She lay back, spread-eagled on the sand, drinking in the taste of brandy from his lips, inhaling the mixed fragrance of the sea and his cologne.
An image of her husband flashed briefly into her mind as she watched Ellis strip off his shirt and jeans to reveal taut, bronzed muscles and an erection of pylon proportions.
Joseph’s body was pale and plump, his muscles flabby from lack of exercise, his mind obsessed with work.
She closed her eyes, tensed her body and banished all thoughts of joseph from her mind. She didn’t want to think about him, not now. Wrapping her hands around Ellis’s neck she pulled him close, drawing his lean, hard body against hers until it bruised her flesh.
‘I’ve dreamed of doing this since I first saw you at that party in the Cullens’ he whispered as he thrust himself into her. ‘You’ve no idea how much.’
The hairs on his chest tickled her nipples as she locked her ankles around his waist. He began to pound into her, his movements less tender, more savage than Joseph’s.
She cried out, screaming into his ear as orgasm swiftly flowed and ebbed. Then with the return of sanity, panic set in. ‘What if someone’s seen us’ She clutched the towel to her breasts as she sat up and scanned the beach.
‘Who? The gulls?’ He leant back on his outstretched arms and laughed. ‘Look at them wheeling up there. They’re probably crying with envy and frustration right now, wishing they were human .so they could do what we’ve just done.’ He jerked the towel from her hands and threw it out of reach. Reaching across, he traced an imaginary triangle with his index finger from the tip of one rosy scrunched nipple to the other and down between her thighs.
‘Relax; the only way into this cove is the way we came, by sea. And that,’ he pointed to the huge black dome of rock behind them, ‘hides everything from the coast. So if you want to,’ he pushed the tip of his wet tongue into her ear, ‘we can indulge again. Always supposing you’re not too tired.’
‘Too tired . . . ’ Her indignation quietened as he bent his head.
His tongue moved from her ear to her nipples, each in turn, before travelling downwards over the flat of her stomach. She forgot the cold as her moans grew louder, long drawn-out cries that floated skywards to meet the shrieks of the birds soaring overhead.
A small man dressed in a black-hooded sweater and dark jeans inched his way forward, commando-style on the cliff top. He stuck his head into space and peered dizzily downwards. The figures spread out on the sand below him fused - separated - touched - broke away in an orchestrated pattern of naked limbs and bare torsos.
He waited until their movements grew more abandoned; more frenzied, then pulled the camera from his pocket, focused the telephoto lens, and began to click.
John Chin would have rather spent the afternoon on the oval bed in the stateroom of his yacht with his live-in lover than working on the neglected deck of Commander Farcreek’s boat, Jazz Age, but he had little choice in the matter.
Esme was busy running the Traceport Art Gallery Bert Marner owned and had become bored with. Bert had been only too happy to hand it over to Esme’s loving care when she had gone looking for a job.
John knew it was churlish of him to feel resentful. Esme would never have left her husband to live with him on board the Freedom if she hadn’t had an independent wage. Besides, running the gallery had given her a sense of worth and, a belated hope of a career after twenty-seven’ years of domestic servitude to Roy Morris and their three grown-up children. But while the job was doing wonders’ for Esme’s sense of self-worth and burgeoning career as an artist, it was playing havoc with his sex life. He’d’ never had a live-in lover before, not even in the university he’d left a few months ago on his twenty-second birthday.
Now, just knowing Esme was within easy reach in Traceport made him want to take the small boat down to the harbour, storm the gallery, lock the doors, carry her off to the storeroom and tear off her clothes.
He’d done just that yesterday in between working shifts at the Farcreek Yacht Club, but Esme had pleaded with him not to do it again. So far they’d succeeded in keeping their liaison and her whereabouts a secret from everyone in Farcreek, including her husband, Roy, but both he and Esme knew their luck couldn’t last.
Like an imminent bankrupt running riot with a credit card, he tried to live for today and not think about tomorrow, but Esme was more cautious.
Perhaps it was just as well Commander Farcreek had asked him to renovate the Jazz Age. It gave him something .physical to do when Esme wasn’t around, but even as he turned the pad of sandpaper over in his hand ready to attack the blackened varnish on the ironwood wheel, a delicious memory of Esme lying wanton and naked on the bed they shared came to mind.
Cherishing the moment, he leaned on’ the wheel and gazed up at the trees that clothed the banks of the creek. There was a flash of vivid colour. A bird? A kingfisher perhaps? Then it moved again . . . his mouth dried, the sandpaper fell unnoticed from his hand on to the deck.
A girl was walking through the woods towards the creek. But no ordinary girl. Clad in brilliant shades of blue, green and magenta she recalled half-forgotten illustrations of fairies from childhood books. Her slim body was crowned by a mass of auburn hair that fell unbound to her waist. She held herself like a queen, and moved with the grace and precision of a ballet dancer.
He stood rooted to the deck, not knowing if he saw reality or a bewitching figment of his imagination. Then she disappeared.
He ran to the rail, but it was no use. The vision had vanished from sight.
Five years absence had made Harmony Trent forget just how lovely the creek was in summer. The glittering sunbeams that sparkled on the silver tidal water and the lush, verdant beauty of the woods lifted her spirits above the misery that had prompted her return.
Intoxicated with the sheer joy of living she pirouetted down the path that led to Smugglers’ Creek, before the pain felled her, forcing her to recollect that for all the love she bore Farcreek Manor, it was not where she would have been spending this summer of choice.
Raging at a fate that had ended her career as a dancer almost before it had begun; Harmony reached out, gripped a tree trunk and hauled herself from the ground. Dusting off her .skirt she gingerly tested her leg. It was painful, but it would hold provide she didn’t attempt any more gymnastics. She shaded her eyes and looked down towards the two boats berthed side by side. One white, modern, gleaming, the other, tall-masted, graced with the elegance of a bygone age.
A dark, slim man was standing on the deck of the older vessel. She waved to him as she hobbled down the hill path.
‘Are you John Chin?’ she demanded as soon as she judged herself close enough to be heard.
‘You speak?’
‘Shouldn’t I?’
‘I thought you might have been a wood nymph.’
‘If I were, I wouldn’t be acting as the Commander’s messenger.’ The words came out harsher than she’d intended because the pain still burned; agonizing and hurtful in her leg. ‘Someone called Lisa telephoned and asked if you could open up the yacht club this evening. She also asked if we could remind you to switch on your mobile.’
‘Reception bad in the creek,’ he lied. He glanced at his watch. There was still an hour and a half before the doors had to be opened. ‘Lisa won’t be at the club?’
‘Presumably not as she telephoned.’
He rubbed his hands down the sides of his jeans and walked down the gangplank to the bank. He knew he was gawking like a lovesick schoolboy but he couldn’t help himself. He had never been so close to anyone who looked like this before. Her hair was the colour of autumn leaves, her eyes a deep emerald green, and in their’ depths he could see all the shades of the woods and the winter sea.
‘What are you doing?’ Unsettled by his scrutinizing, she deliberately turned her back and looked at the yacht he’d been working on.
‘Restoring the Jazz Age for the Commander.’
‘This belongs to the Commander?’ She trailed her fingers over the wooden bulkhead.
‘I sincerely hope so after putting in all this effort.’
‘I’ve never seen it before.’
‘It’s been in dry dock for years. Do you have a name?’
‘Harmony Trent.’
‘A beautiful and unusual name.’
‘I hate it.’
‘Trent? Are you related to the Commander’s housekeeper?’
‘I’m her daughter.’
‘Susie’s quite a lady.’
‘You wouldn’t think so if you’d been brought up in a tepee in a hippy commune, and saddled with a name like Harmony.’ Stepping cautiously on to a decomposing wooden jetty that jutted at right-angles next to the boats, she shed her skirt and coarse blue and green linen Cossack blouse to reveal a tiny scrap of black bikini.
As she dived headlong into the creek, her red-gold hair floated out on the water in her wake like tendrils of exotically pigmented seaweed. Surfacing close to the bows of the Freedom, she brushed her wet hair away from her eyes and called out, ‘Come on in, the water’s fine.’
‘You want certifying.’
‘Why, it’s a warm day.’
‘And the cross currents here are freezing.’
‘It’s colder than I remember,’ she conceded.
He climbed into a dinghy moored alongside the jetty. Sculling with one oar he pushed the boat out to meet her. ‘Get in.’
‘Why? I’m enjoying myself.’
‘I’ve hot water, a hair dryer and tea on board the Freedom.’
‘This,’ she pointed at the white yacht, ‘is yours?’
‘On loan to me.’
‘I wish I knew people rich enough to loan me toys like that.’
‘Tea?’
‘A hot shower would be nicer. Race you to the ladder?’
He sculled behind her, delaying until she climbed out of the water on to the deck.
‘I’ll get you a towel’ He led the way into the cabin. ‘Bathroom to the right. There are towels in the cupboard over the bath, and here’s my robe.’ He handed her a thick, floor-length towelling robe that smelled of Badedas.
As she took it, she studied him. She’d returned unexpectedly after a long absence to find two strange boats moored in Smugglers’ Creek, which she had always regarded as her own secret province, and the Commander’s and her mother’s conversation peppered with ‘John says’, ‘John does’ or ‘John is’. But apart from John Chin’s current doings, neither the Commander nor her mother seemed to have the faintest idea where he’d come from, or what he’d been doing until he’d dropped anchor in the Creek. Her mother had mentioned he was half Chinese and good looking.
Susie’d certainly been right about the good looks. Tall, slim, golden skinned with exotically slanted, mulberry-coloured eyes he would have made a perfect Tartar prince. If he’d been a member of the ballet company she’d danced with until a month ago, she would have dreamed of partnering him in the lead in Swan Lake, as it was, she didn’t even know if he could waltz, but then what did it matter? Neither could she any more, she remembered acidly.
‘How do you like your tea?’ he asked.
‘I prefer coffee,’ she replied, colouring when she realized she’d been staring at him.
‘Then how do you like your coffee?’
‘Anyway, as long as my mother doesn’t make it.’
‘That’s not very charitable.’
‘You haven’t tasted my mother’s coffee.’
‘I have.’
‘And you’ve lived to tell the tale?’
‘She cooks for the Commander and he’s eighty-five.’
‘He has an iron stomach brought up on Navy hard tack. If he hadn’t, she’d have killed him years ago.’
He was glad when she disappeared into the tiny shower.
Her body was every bit as exquisitely ravishing as her face, and her bikini, very brief. Then he remembered, he shouldn’t be looking at any girl, not when he was living with Esme Morris. Esme had given tip her husband’s luxurious life-style to move on board the Freedom with him, and here he was, only a few short weeks later, lusting after another woman.
But then, was he lusting?
A few minutes’ acquaintance had been enough for him to determine that Harmony Trent was no ordinary girl. She was different – beautiful - exquisite - captivating - an ethereal spirit from another world - descriptions tumbled into his mind, none of which captured even a hint of the essence or reality of Harmony.
He admired her - that was all. Besides, commitment to Esme didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate feminine beauty any more. No man ever entirely stopped looking. Did he?
Chapter Two
‘Your accountant on the line, Mr Morris.’
Roy Morris continued to gaze blankly at the sensuous lines of the antique bronze of Circe and the swine set in prime position on the bookshelves opposite his desk.
‘Mr Morris?’ his secretary prompted timorously.
‘Put him through, Marcia,’ he barked abruptly. ‘How are things in the world of finance, Paul?’
‘They could be better from your point of view.’
‘The tax inspection’s finished?’
‘I did my best for you, Roy, but they still want a hundred and seventy-five thousand.’
‘You estimated fifty.’ There was both reproach and condemnation in the velvet tones of Roy’s professional voice.
‘I warned you they wouldn’t wear the upkeep and running costs of the yacht and motor boat against your management consultancy. Then, there’s the trade down in premises you negotiated recently. They saw that as a cashing in of assets.’
‘Didn’t you tell them that Morris Management Services has been running at a loss for the last three years? That a tax bill of that magnitude could wipe out the company?’
Paul Bartlett drew in his breath sharply. Any normal client would be ranting, raving and swearing by now, but not Roy Morris. Owning a three-million-pound property on the banks of Farcreek, coupled with his captaincy’ of the yacht club, had given him a confidence rooted in his conviction that his position in the upper echelons of local society was unassailable. Roy had also taken good care to ensure that no one outside of those professionally involved in his accounts knew just how precarious his financial position had become since the recession. He still projected an image of wealth and calm control, even now when he was analysing and evaluating each and every angle in a futile attempt to manipulate a fait accompli.
‘It’s a matter of complete indifference to the VAT and Income Tax people whether MMS is bankrupt, or not, Roy. They would simply move into the position of chief creditor. Either way they would get their money.’
‘There’s no point in being a creditor when there’re no assets.’
‘MMS has company assets.’
‘The cars and office equipment are leased.’
‘It owns your new office building outright since you exchanged it for your old mortgaged offices; and, according to our records, you paid over three hundred and seventy-five thousand for the Earned Enough II, and four hundred thousand for the Earned Enough I. Both are company assets . . . ‘
‘You just said the Tax Inspector wouldn’t wear the cost of the boats.’
‘The running costs,’ Paul stressed. ‘Both boats are listed as company assets along with the furnishings and works of art you bought for the offices. If you don’t pay the tax people what they’re asking for, they’ll seize what they can and hold an auction. The whole lot will go for a fraction ‘of its value, and you’ll still end up bankrupt.’
‘How can the boats be company assets when they won’t allow the running costs against the firm?’
‘Because they’ve taken private usage into account.’
‘What private usage?’
‘They produced press cuttings of your races. I could hardly argue that the races were hospitality trips for MMS clients when the crew had been photographed and named as professionals. Is there a problem with raising the money?’
‘You’re my accountant, you should know there is.’
‘The way the market is at the moment you’d have difficulty selling either of the boats in time to meet the demand, and I doubt that a mortgage on the new offices would bring in a hundred and seventy-five thousand, but your house isn’t mortgaged. I’m sure you’ll find the bank amenable.’
‘The house was left to my wife by her parents. It’s in her name.’ Roy omitted to mention that Esme had left him.
‘If you want to keep MMS, Roy, she’s going to have to mortgage it.’
‘How long do I have?’
‘One month.’
‘A month!’ Roy’s voice rose for the first time.
‘They wanted a cheque today. I persuaded them you needed time. But I warn you, leave it any later and they’ll be charging interest.’
‘You’ll get the money before the deadline.’
‘You’d better see that the taxman gets it, Roy. Not me.’
‘No doubt you’ll be charging your usual fee?’
‘I think I’ve earned it on this one. One month, Roy.’
Roy pressed the button that disconnected the telephone and swivelled his chair towards the window. He knew that his wife, Esme, had been working in Bert Marner’s art gallery since she’d left him, because their twin daughters, Lucinda and Davina, who, notwithstanding their mother’s defection, were far too comfortable to leave their home and the generous allowance he made them; had let the information slip over the breakfast table. But discreet enquiries had failed to elicit Esme’s new address.
Susie Trent had commented on how nice it had been to see Esme at an art exhibition in the company of Bert. At the time Roy had accepted Susie’s statement at face value. Later he’d considered, and dismissed the thought that Susie had been suggesting there was anything between Esme and her new boss. Even the blow of an additional and enormous tax bill couldn’t stop him from smiling at the thought of Esme playing the role of mistress to any man, let alone a man almost old enough to be her grandfather.
Two of Roy’s principal reasons for marrying Esme, had been her dead father’s business and house. Her compliant manner and pleasant appearance had been a bonus that he’d utilized socially, to both his own and his company’s advantage, although he would have preferred a more conventionally beautiful, outgoing, confident and less tongue-tied wife. Neither had he allowed the lack of passion and warmth in their private life to inconvenience him - he’d simply satisfied his sexual appetites elsewhere.
Love-making with Esme had been dull, uninspiring, and confined to the missionary position on the rare occasions (usually between mistresses) when he chose to lift her night-dress. The idea of her cavorting with Bert was not only disgusting but preposterous.
Damn the woman! To leave him now, just when he’d hit a rough patch and those mortgage deeds had to be signed. He should never have allowed Paul Bartlett to dissuade him from registering the house in his name when he’d wanted to years ago.
Prising himself from the comfort of his antique leather chair, he paced restlessly to the window and looked down over the street.
His new offices were in a prime position, in the hub of the retail and business centre of Traceport, but in the light of Paul’s revelation that the taxman was penalizing him for the privilege, he wondered at the wisdom of the deal he’d struck. He’d hoped against all logic that the new premises would attract new clients and contracts. It simply hadn’t happened. But then, he’d only been installed in them for a few weeks. All the economic indications, or to be more precise those used by the government, signified the end of the recession was nigh.
It had to be simply a matter of time before there’d be more contracts on offer for Management Consultancy Services, and in the interim he’d cut his costs significantly by moving into smaller offices. But, and that was the biggest ‘but’ of all, he was still left facing a bill that he would only be able to pay by putting his house at risk.
Picking up his briefcase, he opened it and pushed the file the bank manager had sent him inside. There was no other option open to him. He had to go to the gallery, seek out Esme, and get her signature on the mortgage forms. It would have been a small and irksome task before she’d walked out on him, but her defection had changed everything. For the first time in the twenty-seven years since they’d married, he couldn’t be certain how she’d react to a request from him.
‘Neither Miss Michaels nor myself has been in Traceport for over a week.’
‘You have everything you need in Farcreek?’ The sergeant’s question was one too many. Adam’s temper finally erupted.
‘To hell with this, I don’t have to put up . . . ‘
His outburst was interrupted by a knock at the door. A constable opened it and looked to the sergeant.
‘Mr Cullen’s father has arrived with a solicitor.’
‘Thank God for that.’ Adam turned to where Lisa sat white faced and white knuckled, tense, and still shell-shocked after identifying her husband’s body.
‘You feel you need the services of a solicitor, Mr Cullen?’
‘I feel an urgent need to get out of this room,’ Adam re-joined cuttingly.
‘Before you see your solicitor, sir, would you mind telling us exactly what the relationship is between you and Mrs Morris?’
‘My name is Michaels; I told you earlier that I’ve reverted to my maiden name.’ Lisa’s voice echoed hollowly in the room, pricking Adam’s conscience. All the time he’d
Been fencing words with the sergeant, she’d been suffering sneers, innuendo, and above all, the pain of not knowing exactly how Colin had died.
‘I was under the impression you left Mr Morris to live with Mr Cullen?’
‘My husband left me a long time before I became re-acquainted’ with Mr Cullen, Sergeant.’ There was a quiet dignity in Lisa’s voice that drew Adam to her side, and admiration from every officer in the room.
‘When exactly did Mr Cullen move in with you?’
‘Miss Michaels’ private life is none of your concern,’ Adam retorted fiercely, laying his hands on Lisa’s shoulders. .
‘I have to disagree, sir. When a husband winds up dead in suspicious circumstances, and the wife is living with another man, who on his own admission has recently had an altercation with the deceased, then it is very much our concern.’
‘You did say our solicitor had arrived?’ Adam replied pointedly.
‘You really have done wonders with this place in a few weeks.’ Bert Marner stood back from the oils Esme had recently acquired for the gallery and studied them critically.
‘All I’ve done is take in some paintings and clean up the place.’
‘That’s what I mean. Now that you’ve shovelled the dirt out, the customers can see the exhibits.’
She laughed as she closed the ledger on the details of the paintings she’d “bought” - money to be handed over on sale - in the four weeks she’d been running the gallery.
‘You know, these oils really are rather good.’ Bert narrowed his eyes as he peered at a series of six depictions of sailing ships. ‘The colours are so rich, so dark, the brush-strokes so proficient, they could easily be mistaken for old masters.’
‘You don’t think they’re too touristy?’ Esme ventured, still wary of his disapproval. ‘There’s nothing wrong with them being touristy, provided they sell. But actually I was thinking I’d like these on my own walls. Particularly that clipper.’ He pointed to a ship sailing under grey skies, heading into a squall. ‘The artist has got it exactly right. If anyone tried to float a clipper the way it’s usually depicted, it would sink within minutes. But this chap, whoever he or she is, knows boats.’
‘I don’t know enough about boats to contradict you.’
‘For shame, and you married to this year’s Captain of Farcreek Yacht Club.’ He scratched at his shock of thick, grey hair. ‘I received a letter from an old art college friend of mine.’ He pulled a crumpled envelope out of his pocket. ‘He owns a couple of galleries in London. Very successful they are too. Way above this league. He has a customer who’s moving down this way and he thinks it would be advantageous if we introduced ourselves so our respective galleries could join forces to supply him. I wouldn’t even be considering his offer if you weren’t working here, especially with the tourist season about to go into full swing, but this could be just the boost this business needs. Apparently, this client is as rich as Croesus, on the look-out for new talent, and,’ Bert paused to look around the gallery, ‘you seem to have discovered where it’s been hiding. The more I think about it, the more I think we could benefit if you went up to London, met this client, and took a look around a few galleries at the same time to study the way they operate.’
‘But I’ve only just started here,’ Esme protested.
‘I managed, God knows how, but I did manage without you until a month ago. I can take over the tiller again for a few days. Can’t order you to go of course. I know you’ll miss Roy . . . ‘
‘It’s not that,’ she broke in quickly, not wanting to get side-tracked into a discussion on her complicated private life.
‘A couple of weeks ago I was looking at a gallery I’d practically run into the ground. You’ve engineered a miracle, Esme. Just think what you could do once you’ve seen how the big boys operate. I’ll pay all your expenses, of course. Promise you’ll think about it?’
‘I’ll think about it,’ she agreed reluctantly, concern for John and their very new relationship, not the gallery, uppermost in her mind.
‘Let me know your decision. I’ll either be at the club or at home. Well, looks like we’re in luck. Here come some customers.’ He smiled as a young couple ringed by four small children pushed open the door. ‘Let’s hope they haven’t come in to while away an hour before the afternoon Disney starts showing in the Odeon.’
Esme smiled at the customers as Bert left. A sudden gnawing in her stomach reminded her that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. The sandwich John had made her that morning was wilting in her handbag. It would be a long time until dinner. John had rung to say that Lisa wasn’t working, and that meant he’d be later than usual. She’d never last until he finished work at midnight. As the young couple and the children walked up the stairs to the mezzanine, she stooped beneath the counter and rummaged in her bag. She emerged, flushed and dishevelled to find Roy, immaculately turned out as always, facing her, a smile curving his lips as though they still shared the same
house, and bed.
‘You’re looking remarkably well, Esme.’
The children clattered noisily down the wooden steps away from their parents watchful eyes.
‘Did you want anything in particular?’ She resented his presence in what she had come to regard as her domain, and also the power he had to unnerve her. She may have left him but simply seeing him again proved that he was still capable of putting her at a disadvantage. ‘As you can see,’ she indicated the customers, ‘I’m busy.’
‘I have some papers for you to sign. I’m afraid they won’t wait.’
‘Can I help you?’ In an attempt to assert her new-found independence, she turned her back on Roy and walked up the stairs towards the couple as they paused before the display of oils Bert had admired earlier.
‘Yes.’ actually you can.’
Esme affected a, confidence grounded in foundations flimsier than shifting sands, hoping that if she ignored Roy in favour of the customers, he’d go. It had been comparatively easy to leave the house they’d shared when he hadn’t been in it. Facing him was proving quite a different matter, even in front of a moderating audience of strangers.
‘These oils?’ the customer asked. ‘They’re not in the catalogue.’
‘The artist only brought them in yesterday. We thought they were special enough to warrant immediate hanging.’
Esme flung herself into an enthusiastic eulogy on the paintings, their colours, their style, the artist’s talent, and. remembering Bert’s comments, the realism and authenticity of their portrayal of ships under sail, and all while she spoke, she was conscious of Roy standing, silent and mocking behind her. A consciousness that only
served to spur her into even more lyrical tributes.
Ten minutes later, the man bought the entire set, leaving orders for them to be sent to his hotel before finally succumbing to the children’s pleadings for a trip to the beach. Esme held open the door for them, at the same time willing a passer-by to enter the shop so she wouldn’t be left alone with her husband.
‘I had no idea you were such an excellent salesman, Esme. If I had, I would have taken you into the business.’
‘But I had no interest in joining your business, Roy.’ Esme opened the safe and deposited the cheque.
‘Are you staying in Traceport?’
‘Just outside.’ She crossed her fingers hoping that her luck would hold and no gossips would venture into Smugglers’ Creek and see her there. ‘You said you had some papers?’ she asked, hoping that if he got what he came for, she’d be rid of him.
He opened his briefcase and removed the relevant file. Opening it· out on the counter, he pointed to two lines marked with crosses. ‘You sign here and here. There’s no need to read it,’ he protested when she picked up the papers.‘If it requires my signature, I think I should.’
‘You never used to bother before.’
‘I wasn’t alone before.’
‘You don’t have to be alone now. Esme . . . ’
The door opened and a tall scruffy man who could only be an artist walked in. Giddy with relief, Esme raised her cheek to receive his kiss. ‘How wonderful to see you,’ she gushed. ‘I’ve sold your oils.’
‘The whole set?’ The artist, all hairy, six-foot four of him looked around the gallery in bewilderment ‘But they’re still here . . . ‘
‘The buyers have just left. Perhaps we could talk about .replacing them. If you’ll excuse us, Roy.’ Finding unexpected strength in the artist’s presence; she steeled herself to look her husband straight in the eye. ‘If you leave those documents, I’ll get in touch with you tomorrow.’
‘They’re important. You can’t send them in the post.’
‘I wasn’t intending to.’
‘I’ll pick them up here. Perhaps we could have lunch?’
‘I already have a lunch appointment, but I will get them back to you in the morning.’
She’d dismissed him. The woman he’d controlled for twenty-seven years was dictating to him. It felt most peculiar. To be outmanoeuvred by his own wife. He paused in the shop doorway for a moment, watching her.
There was something odd in her manner. Embarrassment or guilt? Could Susie Trent possibly be right? Was Esme having an affair with Bert Marner? The man was just the arty, wishy-washy sort to appeal to Esme, and even his age and lack of libido might be seen as a plus to a woman as indifferent to sex as Esme. All he had to do was watch her, follow her to Bert’s and catch them out - doing what?
Kissing if he was lucky? That’s if Bert was capable of even that much. Then he would be free to assail Esme with an attack of righteous indignation, playing the wronged and abandoned husband. By the time he finished, Esme would be only too glad to sign the mortgage form – without reading it.
‘It is good of you to help out like this at short notice.’ John Chin cut the engine of his dinghy and nudged it against the jetty of the yacht club.
‘I haven’t anything else to do, but I’m not at all sure I’ll be of any real use to you.’
‘Another pair of hands is always welcome.’
‘Even when they’ve never worked in a bar?’ Harmony stepped on to the quay and looked up at the simple wooden facade of the yacht club. ‘I haven’t set foot in this place since the day it opened.’
‘I take it there was a club warming party?’
‘There was.’ Ignoring the hand he offered her, she climbed the steps to the door quickly and gracefully, despite her pronounced limp. ‘All four Cullen boys were there in full force, getting drunk on Adam’s achievement.’
‘Adam?’
‘He designed this place. When the Commander leased the land to the yacht club he stipulated that it be constructed from natural materials native to the Creek, like wood and Adam came up with the idea of emulating the American New England, clapboard houses.’
‘I wondered if he imagined then that he’d be living here some day.’ John led the way to the side-door.
‘Adam Cullen?’
‘He’s moved in with Lisa, Lisa Michaels, the steward.’
‘That Lisa?’ She shook her head and smiled. ‘I go away for a couple of years come back and everything’s changed. The last time I was home, Farcreek was celebrating Lisa’s wedding to Colin Morris, and Adam, Tony and Joseph Cullen were running a "Ram of the Week" contest. Prize a giant pack of condoms, to be awarded to the man who bonked the most girls in one week. Tony won of course, Joseph was always shy, but never quite as painfully as Peter, the youngest brother, and Adam’s temperament was always too discerning for indiscriminate liaisons.’
‘I’ve heard a lot about Colin Morris, but I’ve never met him. What’s he like?’ John turned the key and pushed open the door.
‘The Commander called him a "Bad Jack the Lad" which, take it from me, is damning.’
‘And you?’
‘I lived for ballet in those days. I had no thoughts or opinion on anything else.’ There was anguish and bitterness in her voice, and John found himself fighting an impulse to take her into his arms and kiss away her pain.
‘The bar’s through here, the kitchen’s in the back.’
‘I know, I told you, I’ve been here before.’
‘But not as a worker?’
‘Not as a guest either. I helped my mother and the first steward to serve the food at the party. I might live in the Commander’s house, but a housekeeper’s daughter can hardly aspire to acceptance by Farcreek society.’
‘If there’re standards, I’ve yet to see them.’
‘That’s because you’ve attained them.’
‘I have?’ He raised a sceptical eyebrow.
‘Anyone who lives on board a yacht like the Freedom is automatically granted the freedom of Farcreek.’
‘Even when they work as a barman and kitchen help, and the yacht is only borrowed for a year?’
‘And at the end of the year?’
‘As a mere mortal, I’ll have to give up all this.’ John opened the French windows in the bar, walked out on to the open deck and looked down on the fairy-like images of trees and blossoms caught in the mirror-smooth surface of the creek.
‘To go where?’ she probed.
‘Back to reality, I suppose.’ He turned to face her and smiled. ‘Find a job, get a mortgage, buy a house, take out a bank loan to furnish it, sink into the nine to five mire.’
‘Life doesn’t have to be like that.’
‘It isn’t on stage?’
‘It wasn’t on stage.’ There it was again, that unmistakeable hint of bitterness.
‘Then I’ll keep searching for something I can do beyond the nine till five grind.’
She walked on to the deck and stood alongside him at the rail. ‘What would you like to do?’
‘I studied accountancy,’ he answered evasively as he fetched a cloth from the bar and began wiping down the outside tables and chairs.
‘You actually want to closet yourself in a dusty little office with a lot of ledgers for the rest of your life?’
‘Accountants have progressed since Dickens’ times. We even have computers to do the drudgery for us now.’
‘Sorry, it’s just the last thing I’d want to do.’
‘I’m not sure I want to anymore. Living on the creek has given.me an appreciation of nature. It’s also made me lazy and helped me to lose what little ambition I had. Now, the only thing I can be sure of is, that if I leave all this, I’ll miss it.’
‘I thought I would when I left to go to ballet school, but after a while I found it difficult to remember what the creek was really like. And as time passed I was too busy to miss it.’
‘I’d hate to think I’d forget this place.’ He breathed in the fresh, clean scent of the sea as they watched a pair of swans glide sedately between the moorings. He was tempted to ask her about her own plans for the future and delay the moment when they’d have to begin work, but he remembered the bitterness and held back. ‘I suppose we’d better check what’s in the fridges and freezer and see if we can knock out a menu of sorts for tonight,’ he said, before- moving back inside.
Tom and Adam Cullen looked up expectantly as Tom’s diminutive, balding, solicitor entered the room and closed the door softly behind him.
‘Well?’ Tom barked abruptly.
‘The post mortem on Colin Morris won’t be carried out until tomorrow morning.’
‘Then they can’t charge us with murder tonight, if they won’t know how he died until tomorrow?’ Adam said flatly.
‘Not at the moment,’ the solicitor hedged diplomatically.
‘Then we can go.’ Adam left his seat and held out his hand to Lisa.
‘I really think we should discuss this situation.’
‘Say what you mean, man,’ Tom responded irritably.
The solicitor squinted short-sightedly over the top of his glasses. He was too used to Tom’s outbursts to be upset by his client’s brusque manner, ‘You’re an MP . . .’
‘I pay you to tell us what we don’t know.’
‘Adam is your son. A scandal could . . . ‘
‘What scandal?’ Adam demanded.
‘You’re living with Mrs Morris.’
‘Miss Michaels,’ Adam corrected. ‘What if I am?’
‘Her husband died under what could at best be called suspicious circumstances. A general election is imminent. A whiff of scandal wouldn’t help your father’s campaign.
‘Bloody rubbish,’ Tom dismissed gruffly. ‘My family’s problems aren’t going to affect my ability to look after my constituents. Is there anything else you wanted to bring up?’
‘No.’
‘Then the sooner you get Adam and Lisa out of here the better.’ Tom gave Lisa a small, tight smile of encouragement. ‘Everything’s going to work out fine,’ he reassured her. ‘We’ll soon have this mess sorted out.’
‘Told you so,’ Adam echoed as he helped her on with her coat.
As she trailed behind Tom and solicitor to the door, she only, wished she could believe Tom and Adam, but a terrible sense of foreboding dogged her, just as it had done ever since she’d opened the door to the two policemen that afternoon.
‘You’re doing really well considering you’ve had no experience,’ Bert Marner complimented Harmony in, between pouring gin and tonics. ‘
‘Thank you.’