Echoes in the Dark. Gayle Wilson
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in the deliberate dimness of the office.
His client was seated in a high-backed chair just beyond the open doorway. The solicitor walked around the chair and stood for a long time facing the tall, dark figure. The smile that played around those lips was not a display of pleasure or amusement. He wondered again about the purpose of this search that had involved his staff now for more than a year.
“Well?” he asked finally and watched the smile broaden.
“You’ve done very well, Beaulieu, very well, indeed.”
“She fits every qualification you gave me. Will she do? Is she what you wanted?”
“She is exactly what I wanted.” The man in the chair controlled the triumph in his voice with an effort. “You understand the necessity of complete confidence.”
“That’s always our policy. You’ve depended on us in the past. Have we ever given you cause to question our integrity?”
The listener could hear the stifled anger in the lawyer’s voice, but he was paying him enough to put up with a few insulting questions. It was vital that no one should be able to trace her here or to him.
“Does she look like the picture I gave you?” he asked suddenly, surprising himself by his curiosity. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer, but when it came, it was only what he had expected.
“Their mothers couldn’t tell them apart,” the solicitor said. There was no pleasure over the success of the search in his voice, only regret for the woman. He had found himself liking her quiet, self-effacing humor. He didn’t, however, ask any of the questions that stirred darkly in his mind. That wasn’t part of his job. He had done what he had been paid to do, and any misgivings he had he would keep to himself, but he didn’t envy the woman he had found. He already knew far more about all this than he wanted to, far too much for his own peace of mind.
Chapter Two
The flight to Guadeloupe had been restful. There was something to be said for flying first class and being waited on. It was an experience she thought she could grow accustomed to. All she needed were a few more opportunities to try it, she thought in amusement.
The call had been unexpected in spite of the approval she had sensed in the lawyer’s attitude. She had learned in the past few years not to expect anything good. She would have rejected that thought as self-pitying, would never have consciously allowed it to form, but it was true, and it colored her view of the world. The offer of this job had been, to her, truly a miracle.
She watched the islands unfold below the plane in a seemingly endless chain of green dots rimmed with the white pearl of surf against an iridescent shimmer of blues. The scene looked like something out of a travel film, except she was here. She was to be the social secretary to a wealthy widow whose family owned an island. She smiled at the image of herself in that setting, but the reflection in the plane’s window mocked her doubts. She certainly looked as if she belonged.
She had put her long, sun blond hair up today and had worn more makeup, in hopes, she supposed, of making a good impression. She had even bought a new dress—an emerald linen, very businesslike, except for what it did to the green of her eyes. There would never be anything businesslike about her eyes.
She had followed to the letter the lawyer’s instructions about what to pack. She had also read the friendly note from her future employer so many times the paper threatened to come apart at the folds. It had been reassuring, warm and inviting. Of course, Madame Rochette had been under no obligation to write at all, so the gesture seemed to indicate that she would probably enjoy their relationship as much as she hoped. She tried not to, but she found that she was, indeed, hoping that this all would work out to be as pleasant as it seemed.
The lawyer had given explicit instructions about arrangements for reaching the island, including travel from the airport, ferry times, an endless list of minutiae that she also intended to carry out to the letter. She was surprised to find, however, that when she came through customs and presented her passport, there was an immediate flurry of officialdom that led her eventually to the door of a private office while her escorts went rushing off to find her bags. She followed their instructions, entering the office to find it occupied by someone quite different from the officials she had encountered so far.
“Ms. Evans?” he asked, unfolding his long body from the leather chair. He had been reading a newspaper, comfortably invading someone else’s office with a tall, cool-looking drink within arm’s reach. A tropical-weight tan jacket draped broad shoulders and fell loosely to his narrow hips. The lean length of the legs below was emphasized by the skintight and well-worn jeans he wore. His hair was darkly curling and long by current standards. It fell below the collar of the jacket, but on him it looked right, finished the picture of a man who was perfectly at ease with the persona he had chosen, perfectly suited for the tropics. He was, of course, deeply tanned, the contrast as sharp between the crystal blue of his eyes and the dark gold of his skin as it was between the flash of white, even teeth in the smile he gave her.
“You are Caroline Evans?” he said. “My reputation won’t stand an attempt to pick up some strange woman at the airport.”
I’ll just bet it won’t, she thought, but she smiled, extending her hand to reassure him. “I’m Caroline Evans.”
“Andre Gerrard,” he said. His handshake was pleasantly firm and brief. “My sister asked me to meet you. Our transportation arrangements can be a little confusing for someone not born to boating everywhere. She asked me to take you to the island. I have my boat and can have you there, resting from your journey, much quicker than if you wait for the ferry. I hope that’s all right. I have identification,” he said, perhaps seeing the hesitation in her face.
“Since Madame Rochette didn’t mention her brother’s name, I don’t suppose that would help. Besides, it seems that everyone here knows who you are. The cooperation of the airport staff should be recommendation enough of your credentials. I don’t think they’d contrive to help you kidnap ‘some strange woman.’”
The laugh that broke from him was rich and full, and its ease touched a chord somewhere deep inside. She liked men who were unselfconscious enough to laugh like that. She found herself studying the laugh lines around the blue eyes and realized that he was now simply smiling at her scrutiny.
He’s probably used to having that effect on women, she thought. He certainly has the right equipment. And knows it. And knows how to use it. And I am a cynic, she chided herself, smiling, but he took the smile caused by that admission as an answer to his own. By that time, her bags had arrived, and there was no more time for conversation.
When he handed her into a Porsche, she wasn’t surprised. It wasn’t new, but classic, lovingly cared for, and he drove it well. They didn’t talk against the force of the wind. Eventually she took the pins from her hair and let it whip in tangling strands around her face. Not very businesslike, but what the hell. He’d been sent to pick her up, and she’d had no choice in her means of transportation. She’d attempt repairs once they reached the island.
The boat, too, fitted her image of the man at her side. It was sleek and fast, not new, but again classically styled, wood with brass fittings. She knew nothing of boats, but recognized the money and time it would take to care for something like this.
He controlled the boat with the same unthinking competence he had used to handle the convertible while the salt air finished the disorder of her careful hairdo. He had handed her in and out with that strong brown hand, and as she walked up the steep steps from the landing, she could still feel the strength in those steadying fingers tingling against her palm.
He had held her hand a fraction of a second too long, and she tried to ignore the long-forgotten messages such a gesture evoked, but she was attracted. She was honest enough, with herself at least, to admit it. She couldn’t remember when she had been so attracted to a man, and the irony of that thought wasn’t lost on her.
She took a deep