The Shrouded Web. Anne Mather
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that compared with nothing she had ever known back in England. Occasionally, late in the evening, when Adele was fast asleep, she came and swam without her bikini, but although this beach was private she would not dare to do so in daylight. Piers St. Clair’s unexpected arrival was indicative of what could happen.
Later in the morning Adele received a telephone call, and when she put down the receiver her face was hard and angry. ‘That was Piers,’ she said shortly, as Rebecca turned from arranging some flowers in a huge urn in the hall. ‘He has postponed our dinner engagement.’
Rebecca swallowed hard, forcing her face to remain composed. ‘Oh! Has he?’ she murmured quietly. ‘Did—did he say why?’
Adele chewed her lower lip. ‘Something to do with his business here, I believe,’ she snapped moodily, her manner denoting the kind of day Rebecca might expect from now on. ‘In any event, he’s not coming! Damn him!’
Rebecca couldn’t help but feel relieved, even though a small core of anxiety inside her told her that his reasons for rejecting Adele’s invitation were not wholly impersonal. But she successfully hid her own feelings and managed to put all thoughts of Piers St. Clair to the back of her mind.
It was three days before she saw him again. Although Adele expected a telephone call daily, none came, and Rebecca was beginning to believe that he did not intend returning to the villa at all. When his business in Suva was over and he went to Lautoka the chances of seeing him were much less obvious and she told herself she was relieved.
Even so, she could not deny that his intervention in their lives had been a disrupting influence from which it would take time to dissociate themselves. Thus it was quite a shock for Rebecca when she encountered Piers St. Clair again.
She had gone shopping in Suva for Adele, and had completed her purchases and was idly wandering among the market stalls, when a stall selling oil of sandalwood attracted her. The oil was being sold in cut glass jars and was obviously intended to attract the eye of the tourist. The dark-skinned islander who was in charge of the stall sensed her interest at once as she stood, fingering a jar with probing curiosity, and he began to extol the virtues of the product with rolling eyes and extravagant hand gestures. Rebecca was smilingly shaking her head when she became aware that a man had come to stand slightly behind her and casually she glanced round.
Piers St. Clair inclined his head solemnly, his face dark and serious. ‘Bonjour, mademoiselle,’ he murmured smoothly.
‘Good morning.’ Rebecca managed a faint smile, and stood the glass jar back on the stall rather jerkily.
His eyes flickered to the oil and he said: ‘Are you going to buy it?’
Rebecca shook her head again. ‘No, I don’t think so. I—I—the glass jars caught my eye.’
‘As they were intended to do. Did you know that Fijians used to use this oil to anoint their bodies? It was very highly valued in that capacity. Nowadays, less so.’
Rebecca lifted her shoulders. ‘I like the fragrance.’
He raised his dark eyebrows, and then looked at the stall-holder with questioning eyes. ‘Cette essence,’ he said, indicating the jar Rebecca had put down. ‘Combien?’
Rebecca stared at him uncomfortably, and then before he could say anything she moved quickly away. She had the distinct feeling that he intended buying the oil for her, and she didn’t want that.
A ripple of apprehension running along her spine, she walked swiftly to the edge of the market area and waiting until the road was clear went quickly across. The noise of the traffic was deafening after the peace of the villa, and the sights and sounds of the city took some getting used to. As did the smell of dried copra that hung over the harbour on hot, humid days with intensity.
She had left the car parked in a side street. She knew the city area quite well, and had no fears for her safety among these big friendly people. From time to time she exchanged a greeting with a shopkeeper who was sitting outside his store, cross-legged in the sunshine. Many of these shopkeepers were Indians, and there was a variety of costume to be seen, from the calf-length sulus, worn by men and women alike, to the exotically draped sari, that seemed to enhance the femininity of all women, no matter what nationality. At this time of the year, too, Suva was thronged with tourists, and the tourist attractions did good business. Rebecca smiled to herself, as her surroundings temporarily banished all anxieties about Piers St. Clair, and she thought how lucky she was to live in such a paradise.
Reaching the car, she bent to unlock it, and then straightened to find the man she had been escaping from beside her. Containing her annoyance, she said: ‘Are you following me?’ in rather a tight little voice.
‘Yes,’ he said, almost negligently, and leaned against the car’s bonnet, his arms folded.
Today, in navy shorts, that drew attention to the brown muscular length of his legs, and a cream silk sweater that was unbuttoned almost to his waist, he looked somehow dark and alien, yet infinitely attractive. His thick dark hair was smooth against his head, and long sideburns darkened his cheekbones, while dark eyes surveyed her with enigmatic arrogance.
Rebecca, conscious of the formality of her uniform, was glad she had worn it. Somehow it added to the composure that seemed to be deserting her as it always did when he was around. Why did he persist in disturbing her in this way? Did it amuse him to make fun of her? Or was she a novelty to a man satiated by women of his own set? Whatever his reasons it could only spell disaster for her. Now she turned to him and said:
‘Exactly why are you following me, Monsieur St. Clair?’
He shrugged indolently. ‘To give you this,’ he said, offering her a parcel wrapped in coloured paper.
Rebecca did not take the parcel, but after putting her shopping bag into the car, put her hands behind her back. ‘Thank you, but I don’t want anything from you,’ she asserted jerkily. ‘Now—if you’ll excuse me—–’
Piers St. Clair regarded her coolly. ‘What do you suppose is in the parcel?’ he queried sharply.
Rebecca coloured. ‘I’d rather not say.’
‘You think it is the flagon of sandalwood oil, don’t you?’ he demanded.
Rebecca felt terrible. ‘Well? What if I do?’
He toyed with the wrapping on the parcel. ‘And what if I tell you you dropped something in the market—something I found and re-wrapped in this rather—well—colourful paper?’
Rebecca’s eyes went immediately to her shopping bag. Without taking it out and checking over the contents she could not be certain she had everything she had bought. Pressing her lips together for a moment, she said: ‘I’m sure I didn’t drop anything, monsieur.’ She ran a hand over her hair, checking that the chignon was secure with nervous fingers. ‘I think you are deliberately baiting me, for some twisted reason of your own.’
He raised his dark eyebrows, and with a deft movement he allowed the parcel to unwind in his fingers until a container of talcum powder fell into his palm, free of the wrapping. Rebecca stared at the talcum powder with disbelieving eyes. It was the cologne-scented talc she had bought for Adele. Her eyes lifted to his, but still his were guarded, revealing nothing.
Rebecca swallowed hard, and then said: ‘That is mine?’
‘If you say so,’ he remarked lightly.
Rebecca took a deep breath. ‘I couldn’t have dropped it without hearing it fall.’
‘What? In the noise of the market area? Don’t you think so, mademoiselle?’
Rebecca sighed. ‘I’m not sure.’ She ran her tongue over her upper lip. ‘Perhaps you took it from my bag.’
He shook his head impatiently. ‘What have I done that you have such a low opinion of me?’ he questioned. ‘What has my inestimable sister-in-law been telling you?’
Rebecca