great rain forests of my own country, make me acutely aware of my own minute contribution to the scheme of things.’
Charlotte breathed a sigh. ‘Mr Kennedy, I do not require a lecture on my own insignificance. I accept that. All I wondered was why Madame Fabergé should choose to live here.’
Logan’s nostrils flared. ‘Pierre Fabergé died of yellow fever six months ago in the Amazon delta!’ he stated grimly.
‘I’m sorry.’ Charlotte moved her shoulders in a gesture of regret. ‘I—I gather you knew him.’
‘He was my best friend,’ replied Logan harshly. ‘Lisette—his wife—had no one else.’
Now Charlotte understood. And with understanding came a feeling of withdrawal that had nothing to do with cool common sense. It was easy to see how Mr Lewis had confused the issue. Madame Fabergé’s husband had no doubt been a marine biologist, too. That would account for his friendship with Logan. And because of Logan’s occupation, it had been assumed that he was her husband.
‘You—Madame Fabergé lives with you?’ she ventured faintly, and was rewarded by a contemptuous glare.
‘Do not judge everybody by your own standards!’ he retorted cruelly, and it was fortunate that Robert chose that moment to distract their attention by pointing out the ocean ahead of them.
The road emerged from the trees above dunes of fine coral sand, where creaming waves spread a necklace of white lace. The sand looked pure, and unblemished by human endeavour. Before them lay the calm waters of the lagoon, deepening perhaps to no more than twenty feet, and beyond, maybe a couple of hundred yards out from the shore, the surging waters of the ocean tore themselves to pieces on the barely submerged crenellations of a reef.
‘Gosh!’ Robert was briefly speechless as he stared at a scene that was straight out of a travelogue, and then he shook his head as he turned to Logan again. ‘Is the water warm?’
‘Is seventy degrees warm enough for you?’
‘Seventy degrees!’ Robert hunched his shoulders disbelievingly. ‘Man, that’s warm!’ Then he sat up as signs of habitation signalled their proximity to their destination. ‘Where’s the lagoon? Is it far from the beach?’
Logan shook his head. ‘That’s the lagoon, Robert. The calm waters before the reef.’
‘Is it? Is it really?’ Robert was excited. ‘But why is it called a lagoon? I thought that was a lake or something.’
Logan hesitated. ‘Without the protection of the reef, these waters would be accessible to the biggest and most dangerous fish in the Caribbean.’
‘Sharks!’ said Robert, not without some satisfaction, and Charlotte shivered.
‘Yes. Sharks,’ agreed Logan flatly. ‘But barracuda, too.’
‘Have you ever tangled with a shark, Mr Kennedy?’ Robert asked eagerly, and Charlotte saw Logan’s mouth turn downward at the corners.
‘There are many types of shark, Robert,’ he told the boy quietly. ‘And not all of them are dangerous. The largest fish in the sea is a whale shark, and it’s quite harmless.’ He cast a strange look in Charlotte’s direction. ‘But some sharks—like some women—are unpredictable, and until you learn to recognise the species, you should leave them alone.’
Avocado Cay was a collection of dwellings bordering the ocean. Here and there, attempts at cultivating gardens had been made, but the rioting undergrowth and off-shore winds had almost defeated them. They were verandahed buildings, mostly, with corrugated roofs, set in clearings between flowering shrubs and ubiquitous palms. A few goats grazed on the outskirts of the village, and hens scattered before the wheels of the station wagon. They could smell the sea, its sharp salty tang coming strongly through the windows of the vehicle. The clarity of the air was startling, and only the blown spume on the reef misted the distant horizon.
Logan drove through the village, following a narrow track which led down through a belt of palms and eucalyptus trees almost to the water’s edge. Ahead of them, Charlotte could see the roofs of several single-storied buildings, and beyond, a wooden landing jutting out into the lagoon where a sailing ketch was moored. It all looked very beautiful and very peaceful, and without the presence of the man beside her, she would have felt a greater sense of relief.
‘Is this where we’re going to live?’ demanded Robert, voicing the question which had trembled on his mother’s lips, and Logan nodded.
‘Yes. That bungalow directly ahead of us belongs to Madame Fabergé.’
‘And where is our house?’ Robert persisted, but Charlotte again intervened.
‘I expect—Madame Fabergé will explain where we’re going to stay, Robert,’ she told him quellingly, avoiding looking at the man beside her. Then: ‘Now what are you doing?’
Robert grinned. ‘Taking off my sandals. I can’t wait to try the water.’
‘Robert! At least let’s meet my employer first.’
Logan slowed the station wagon as they neared the sand-strewn slope beside the bungalow. ‘Didn’t I explain?’ he asked with deliberate irony: ‘You already did—meet your employer, I mean. I employed you, Mrs Derby. Didn’t I make that clear?’
Charlotte’s lips trembled, and she pressed them together to hide the fact before gasping distractedly: ‘You know you didn’t!’
Logan’s thick lashes shaded his eyes, but his expression was unmistakably smug. ‘Well, I’m sorry, but I am. Does it make any difference?’
Charlotte’s breathing felt constricted. ‘You—you—–’ she began chokingly, and then became aware of Robert’s startled eyes watching her. Pressing a hand to her throat, she moved her head in a helpless gesture of defeat, and the station wagon slowed to a halt as a small boy came darting round from the back of the building to meet them. The child’s face was tear-stained, and his tee-shirt and shorts were grubby with sand.
‘Uncle Logan! Uncle Logan!’ he yelled excitedly, and Logan swung out of the vehicle to catch the small figure up in his arms.
‘Olà, Philippe!’ he exclaimed, one long finger tracing the marks of tears on his cheek. ‘What have you been doing now?’
‘Nothing.’ Philippe looked sulky for a moment, and then his attention was attracted by Robert getting out of the back of the station wagon. ‘Who’s that?’
‘That’s Robert,’ answered Logan easily, turning towards the older boy. ‘Perhaps he might be persuaded to play with you sometimes. Providing you remember you are only four years old.’
Robert grinned. ‘Hi, Philippe,’ he said, somewhat self-consciously. ‘How are you?’
Philippe wriggled down from Logan’s arms, surveying the newcomer’s five feet from half that height, and Charlotte deemed it time she made her presence apparent. She pushed open her door and got out just as a plump woman of medium height came down the verandah steps to join them.
It was reasonable to assume that this was Lisette Fabergé. She was carrying a baby of perhaps nine months, a fat little thing wearing nothing but a nappy, and she was obviously in some distress. Her dishevelled appearance matched the dishevelled appearance of her son.
‘Oh, Logan, thank goodness you’re back!’ she exclaimed, with evident relief, ignoring Charlotte standing beside the car and going straight to the man.
Logan turned towards her, sparing a smile for the baby before his concern made itself apparent. Tall and masculine, he dwarfed Lisette, and Charlotte felt an ugly feeling of resentment stirring inside her. So much solicitude for Lisette Fabergé’s widowed state, while she had had to cope alone with the fears of her unwanted pregnancy! Watching Lisette’s fingers curving possessively round the muscular flesh of his forearm, her eyes turned up to him in appeal, made her feel physically sick, and she slammed the