Captive Destiny. Anne Mather
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wanted to go, whether there was any point in holding out hope that she would agree.
After a few moments, she said: ‘What—what would be the arrangements? How would I get to—to Valentia?’
There was a pause, and then Jordan replied: ‘A direct flight operates between London and Barbados. An inter-island transport flies between Seawell and Valentia.’
‘I see.’ Emma turned again, slowly. ‘And—and how long would all this take? I mean—how long would I be away?’
Jordan shrugged. ‘That would be up to you, of course. Technically, the flight to Barbados takes something like ten hours, but bearing in mind the four-hour time lag, you can complete the journey in half a day. The inter-island flight is much shorter—a matter of forty minutes, no more.’
‘And—flights to Valentia; they’re pretty frequent?’
‘No.’ Jordan shook his head. ‘Generally they’re laid on when required. Valentia’s population doesn’t exceed five hundred, so as you can imagine, there’s not a lot of need for a regular service.’
Emma absorbed this with difficulty. Somehow she couldn’t imagine herself flying off to the West Indies at a moment’s notice, going to see a man to whom she was practically a stranger, seeing sights and people totally alien to her normally limited existence. She had seen pictures of the Caribbean islands, shared a common longing for their beauty and tranquillity. But never at any time had she seriously considered going there. She wasn’t at all sure she wanted the dream exposing, for nothing was ever quite as attractive as one anticipated.
‘I’ll have to talk it over with David,’ she said at last, and Jordan’s lean mouth turned downward at the corners.
‘Then you might as well give me your answer right now,’ he remarked cynically. ‘We both know Ingram will never agree to your going anywhere with me.’
‘With—with you?’ Emma’s eyes were wide.
‘Why, yes, with me,’ agreed Jordan dryly. ‘You didn’t imagine I would let you fly out there on your own, did you?’
Emma made a helpless gesture. ‘I thought—that is—the company—–’
‘I have a very capable general manager,’ Jordan interrupted her curtly. ‘Even I am not so heartless as to let my father die alone. At the moment, I’m dividing my time between Abingford and Valentia, but as the time runs out, I’ll stay on the island.’ His lips twisted. ‘There are telephones. My father saw to that.’
Emma didn’t know what to say. Considering going to Valentia alone was one thing. Contemplating the trip with the one man she had hoped never to see again was quite another.
‘I need some time,’ she said now, pushing back her hair with a nervous hand. ‘Surely you can grant me a couple of days. When are you leaving?’
‘At the end of next week,’ he answered, taking his hands out of his pockets to fasten his coat. ‘When will you let me know what you’ve decided? At the weekend? Or is that too soon?’
‘No—no.’ That gave her three days. ‘No, I’ll know by the weekend.’
‘Good. Will you ring me?’
Emma linked her fingers together. ‘I don’t have your number.’
‘It hasn’t changed,’ he reminded her shortly. ‘Abingford double-six-one-nine. Or you can ring me at the office. I’m sure you remember that number.’
Emma’s skin prickled. ‘My father’s number, you mean?’ she countered tautly, and saw the faint colour run up under his tan.
‘You remember,’ he observed, and turning, opened the door into the showroom. ‘Until the weekend, then …’
Emma nodded, and followed him out into the now empty shop, empty, that was, but for Gilda lounging carelessly on the edge of her desk. When she saw them, her eyes flickered thoughtfully, then she put aside the pen she had been holding and smiled.
‘Good afternoon, Jordan,’ she said, the mockery in her tones only lightly veiled. ‘This is an unexpected honour.’
Jordan’s expression was equally sardonic. ‘Good afternoon, Gilda,’ he responded in kind. ‘Still as defensive as ever, I see.’
‘Defensive!’ Gilda straightened to face him, and then subsided again as she realised she was automatically proving his point. Controlling her temper, she said: ‘Might one ask why you’re slumming? I’m sure you have enough antiques in that mansion of yours to furnish half a dozen salerooms, so I can’t believe that’s why you’re here.’
Jordan smiled then, and Emma had to admire his self-control. ‘You’re right, of course, Gilda,’ he agreed imperturbably, turning up the collar of his coat against the cold outside. ‘Quite enough antiques. Yes. Nice to have seen you again. G’bye, Emma!’ And with a polite nod to both of them he left.
‘Conceited bastard!’ declared Gilda as soon as the door had closed behind him, and Emma was glad of the brief respite to collect her own composure. ‘What did he want? Can’t he take no for an answer? You did say you had refused his invitation, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Emma turned aside to rescue the sandwich she had brought for her employer from her handbag. ‘Here you are: ham! Are you ravenous?’
‘Not particularly, but put the kettle on, will you?’ said Gilda, peeling the sealing plastic from the roll. Then, as Emma moved to comply, she added: ‘Well? Are you going to tell me what he wanted, or aren’t you?’
Emma sighed. ‘His father wants to see me, that’s all.’
‘Old Andrew?’
‘Not so old. He must be about—sixty-five.’
‘Even so …’ Gilda was perplexed. ‘I didn’t know he’d come back to live at Athehnere.’
‘He hasn’t.’
Emma disappeared into the back office to fill the kettle in the tiny cloakroom adjoining, but Gilda moved to stand, eating her sandwich, at the open doorway, and she was waiting for her when she emerged again.
‘Emma …’ she said, chewing almost absently. ‘Emma, he hasn’t asked you to go out to the Caribbean, has he?’
‘As a matter of fact—–’
‘But why? Emma, why?’ She gulped. ‘You can be considering it!’
Emma plugged in the kettle. ‘Why not?’
‘Why? Why, because—because—how do you know it’s his father who wants to see you? How do you know it’s not some devious—–’
‘Gilda!’ Emma’s impatient use of her name silenced her. ‘Don’t be foolish! Jordan Kyle isn’t interested in me. Good heavens, you said yourself he was involved with Stacey Albert! And in any case, aren’t you forgetting—I’m married!’
‘Is that what you call it?’ retorted Gilda sharply. ‘Being at the beck and call of a man who’s only half a man!’
‘Gilda!’ Emma was trembling now as much with nervous reaction as indignation, although she would never have admitted it. ‘Gilda, David isn’t responsible for his condition.’
‘Isn’t he?’ Gilda was unsympathetic. ‘Who is, then? Who else was at the wheel of the car if it wasn’t himself? He was alone when they found him, wasn’t he? You can’t blame yourself for that.’
‘I don’t. I just wish you wouldn’t talk like that about—about my husband.’
‘But he’s not your husband, is he?’ pursued Gilda relentlessly. ‘He never has been. And don’t forget, I was with you that week before the wedding. I know the doubts you had, long before Master Ingram chose to smash himself, and your relationship,