Cage Of Shadows. Anne Mather
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like to look at the names of the streets, to see if I recognise them. Some well-known people have lived on these islands from time to time. I suppose I’m just inquisitive.’
Carlos shrugged. ‘No famous people live on Mango Key,’ he declared, flattening her hopes in that direction. ‘Key West now, that’s different. That’s where Ernest Hemingway used to live.’
‘Yes, I know.’ Joanna tried not to show her disappointment. ‘I have read the guide books. I just thought you, being a local, might know of some interesting places.’
‘Oh, I know a lot of interesting places,’ declared Carlos, taking her innocent words as a sign of encouragement, and Joanna expelled her breath wearily.
‘Thank you for your help,’ she said, deliberately turning her head away, and with a gesture of impatience the young man left her.
Back in her room again, Joanna consulted her map. If Carlos had but known it, she knew exactly how big the island was, and running her finger along the coast from the hotel, she easily identified Palmetto Drive. It looked to be about half a mile from the hotel, and the tip of her tongue protruded between her lips as she considered what she should do. It was a hot afternoon, not at all the time of day any sensible person would choose to take a walk, but perhaps it was right for her purposes. She might even use it as a reason to gain entry to Matthew Wilder’s house. A young woman, walking inadvisedly in the hot sun! An ideal way to effect an introduction. She could pretend she was lost, or she felt sick, or she was thirsty. Surely even a recluse would not deny her assistance!
She looked longingly down at the pool as she brushed her hair before re-coiling it into its knot. She would have liked nothing so much as to swim in the pool for a while, and then stretch out lazily in the sunshine, as other guests were doing. There was an air of somnolence about the hotel, and she hoped she was not being foolish by tempting a capricious fate. She really could get lost or be overcome by the heat, and she had no guarantee that the Uncle Matt she had known would come to her rescue.
She received a few speculative glances as she left the hotel. She had changed from the vest and wrap-around skirt into a silky yellow shirt, with elbow-length sleeves, and a pair of white culottes, and she felt horribly selfconscious at being alone. She was sure the eyes that followed her progress across the stretch of turf in front of the hotel would not have done so had she had an escort, and although she knew she was not unattractive, she came to the conclusion that any unattached female was regarded as fair game.
Palmetto Drive seemed further than she had anticipated. Or perhaps it was simply the heat and her increasing apprehension. It was all very well rehearsing what she was going to say in the quiet of her hotel room, and quite another to consider feigning surprise to a man who had so many years more experience.
Her route took her along Coral Reef Avenue, and for a while she was enchanted by the creaming waters of the Gulf, surging on to the narrow beach on her right. A belt of palms separated the beach from the path, with here and there a sprawling mangrove tree, pushing up its roots through a tangle of marsh grass.
Across the street, an odd collection of shops and hotels jostled side by side. Fishing tackle and snorkelling equipment seemed to figure quite prominently, looking slightly out of place outside stores that had a distinctly mid-Western appearance, and small hotels, with latticed ironwork, boasted swimming pools and jacuzzis, which didn’t quite fit their image.
Joanna would have liked to linger among the shops and stores, picking over the souvenirs available and maybe choosing herself a new book from the racks that seemed to occupy every available space. But putting off her objective wouldn’t make it any the less inevitable, and ignoring the fluttery feeling in her stomach, she walked on.
Palmetto Drive appeared to be a continuation of Coral Reef Avenue, except that once the end of the avenue was reached, there were many fewer buildings. The populated part of the island swung away from the beach at this point, but a narrower road ploughed beneath a canopy of live oaks and the palmetto palms that gave it its name.
The houses, for there were no shops or hotels here, were set some distance from one another, and each stood in its own private grounds. In addition, they were on Joanna’s right, forming a barrier between her and the beach, and the chance of invading anyone’s privacy seemed unlikely indeed. It was also a little eerie walking along that shadowy path, and Joanna didn’t like the feeling of intrusion it gave her.
The house she was looking for proved to be the last in the line, and wrought-iron gates, securely padlocked, shattered any hopes she might have had of begging assistance. On the contrary, of all the houses, it seemed the most remote, and peering through the tall gates, she could see nothing but flowering shrubs and trees. The foliage formed a further screen to the house beyond, and its low roof was all that was visible.
Sighing, Joanna turned back the way she had come. Obviously she would have to think of something else, but what? She could hardly ring him up, could she? Although it might come to that if she could think of nothing else. She shook her head unhappily as she tramped back to the end of the road, and then halted abruptly when she saw the curve of the beach ahead of her. Of course—why hadn’t she thought of it before? The houses backed on to the beach. It was worth taking a walk along the shore, if only to assure herself that the house was occupied.
Scrambling over the low wall that separated the path from the tussocky grass that edged the beach, she took off her sandals and allowed the grains of sand to squeeze between her toes. It was very hot, almost too hot for walking in places, so she skipped down to the water’s edge and walked through the shallows. It would have been enjoyable, had it not been for the sun beating down on her head and shoulders, and she was glad she was wearing a shirt, and not the sleeveless vest she had worn earlier.
Nevertheless, she unbuttoned her shirt until the dusky hollow between her breasts was visible, and felt a trickle of moisture making its way down her spine. Even the slight breeze off the ocean made little headway in cooling her temperature, and she fanned herself apathetically as she progressed.
It took longer to walk along the beach. Apart from the fact that her feet were sucked down by the shifting sand, she had to negotiate a series of wooden breakwaters that intersected the sand in places. In addition to which, she had to watch out for crabs and sharp edges of coral, that could cause a nasty wound, as well as keeping an eye on the houses, to make sure she did not lose her bearings.
She was climbing over yet another wooden breakwater when the man accosted her. The sound of his voice, when she had thought she was alone, caused her to stub her foot on one of the wooden struts, and she gazed across at him indignantly, rubbing her injured toe.
‘You’re trespassing,’ he declared, halting some distance from her and regarding her with hard aggressive eyes. ‘The tourist areas are back the way you’ve come. I’m sorry, this is private property.’
Joanna pursed her lips. Apart from the fact that she was hot and tired, her toe was still stinging, and the realisation that this arrogant man was denying her her only chance of reaching Matthew Wilder’s house made her behave more recklessly than she might have done.
‘You should put up a sign,’ she declared, stepping over the breakwater, and ignoring him she continued on along the beach.
‘I said this is private property,’ the man grated, taking the steps that put him squarely into her path. ‘I’m sorry, but you can’t go any further. Please—I must insist that you turn back.’
Joanna looked up at him mutinously. In spite of her height, he was taller than she was, and now that she had a chance to look at him properly, she couldn’t help being aware of how attractive he was. He was about thirty-five, she estimated, brown skinned and tawny-eyed, with the lightest coloured hair she had seen on a man. It was a kind of ash-blond, she supposed, with a silvery sheen that was reflected in the bleached tips of short thick lashes. His nose was straight, his cheekbones high and slightly angular, and his mouth was thin and firm, above a determined jawline. Yet for all that, it was a sensual face, and she felt her senses stirring beneath his impatient gaze. He was wearing a pair of old denim shorts and a washed-out denim waistcoat, unbuttoned at present, and his skin was just as brown