over?’
‘Yes. Oscar was an ex-hippy who just wanted enough to get by on, and to “hang loose”.’ Cass smiled, thinking fondly of her pony-tailed and somewhat eccentric uncle. A member of the peace-and-love brigade, he had been so laid-back as to be almost falling over. There’s no word for “stress” in the Creole dictionary, so when he decided to live here he came to the perfect spot.’
‘What about paying guests?’ he asked.
‘Oscar rarely advertised or did much in the way of repairs, so unfortunately those who managed to find their way here were not inclined to come again. The food is good—Edith’s an excellent cook—but the accommodation’s in urgent need of updating.’
‘What is the accommodation?’ Gifford enquired.
‘Just the cottages,’ she said, gesturing across the restaurant and out over an oval lawn of thick-bladed grass to where three pale blue wooden cottages sat in the dappled shade of stately palm trees. Tricked out with pointed arches and gingerbread eaves, they possessed a shabby, fairy-tale charm.
Gifford turned to look. ‘No one’s in residence?’
‘I’m in the nearest one, but the others have been unoccupied since I arrived, and there are no forward bookings. Edith lives in the main house here, in a flat above the kitchen,’ she added.
He set down his knife and fork. The plate was clean.
That was ambrosia,’ he told her.
Thanks.’
‘Thank you. I feel a darn sight more human now,’ he said, and, easing back his chair and splaying his legs, he stretched lazily.
As he raised his arms, his shirt pulled up to reveal a strip of firm, flat midriff above the waistband of his jeans. Cass felt her heart start to pound. Her erstwhile lover was human; he was six feet three inches of powerfully constructed male. She could remember running her fingers over the hairy roughness of his chest, across that smooth midriff and down. She could remember the burn of his skin and—
Are you here on your own? he enquired.
She flushed. She had, she realised, been staring. Had Gifford noticed her fascination? Probably. He did not miss much.
She took a sip of coffee. Was she here alone? At long last, he had worked around to Jack. Alleluia! But what did he think she had done? Parked the baby with someone and swanned off unencumbered to the tropical sunshine? Come on! Yet by avoiding a direct question Gifford was playing games. She shot him an impatient glance. OK, she would play games, too.
‘On my own?’ Cass repeated, all innocence.
‘There’s no man around?’
She opened her blue eyes wide. If he wanted to be obtuse, she would also be obtuse.
‘Man?’ she enquired.
‘Is Stephen with you?’ he said, and heard the curtness of his voice reflect his distaste for the idea.
‘Stephen?’ She gave a startled laugh. ‘No.’
Stephen was Stephen Dexter, head of the Dexter sports equipment company which had been bought out the previous year by the vigorously expanding Tait-Hill Corporation. She had worked for the young man, first as his secretary, then as his personal assistant, and later in the upgraded role of business aide.
‘Does Edith do all the cooking or do you lend a hand there, too’ Gifford asked.
Cass looked blank. She had been thinking how Stephen had been a loyal and generous friend, but hopeless when it came to trade. It had been his incompetence which had hastened the family firm’s decline, made it ripe for a take-over and thus brought Gifford Tait into her life.
‘I help with minor tasks sometimes—like peeling vegetables—but Edith plans the menus and makes all the dishes. I wonder what’s happened to her?’ she carried on, inspecting the slim gold watch which encircled her wrist. ‘She’s gone to visit her sister and take—’
Cass bit off the words. She had been on the brink of saying that Edith had taken Jack along in his buggy to be fussed over and admired—all the Seychellois seemed to love children—but she refused to open up the subject. The lengthy months of silence had made it clear that Gifford regarded her pregnancy as her fault and the baby as her responsibility—a responsibility which she had willingly accepted. But it was now a point of principle that he must refer to their son first.
‘Edith should be back at any moment,’ she said.
He drank a mouthful of coffee. ‘Whoever’s buying this place must believe they can drum up customers from somewhere,’ he remarked.
She balled her fists, the knuckles draining white. He was a perverse so-and-so. His refusal to speak of Jack—innocent, adorable, fatherless Jack—made her want to
throw things at him. Hard. In the past, Gifford had exhibited a straight-arrow approach to problems—an approach which could be ruthless, as she knew to her cost—so why was he avoiding this issue now?
Cass shot him a look from beneath her too long fringe. Could he be embarrassed by his failure to respond to her letters, make contact and offer help? He was far too urbane an individual to visibly squirm, but did he feel ashamed? Might he want to say sorry, yet be tonguetied by thoughts of his abysmal behaviour?
‘Apparently,’ she said, thinking that when he did pluck up the courage to apologise she would take immense satisfaction in watching him grovel.
‘Has the guy run a hotel before?’
‘Yes, in South Africa.’
‘What made him decide to come here?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ Cass said impatiently. Once upon a time they had spent hours avidly discussing business matters, but the pressing topic for discussion now was Jack. Her darling Jack. ‘Edith had the first dealings, and although I met him when he called in a couple of weeks ago basically all I know is that his name is Kirk Weber and he comes from Johannesburg.’
‘What’s he like?’ Gifford asked.
‘In his forties, good-looking, friendly. Edith thinks he’s the bee’s knees and calls him Mr Wonderful.’
‘You said he’s yet to close the sale.’
She nodded. ‘It was supposed to go through a month ago, but Kirk’s been having difficulty transferring his funds, and since then—zilch.’
‘Perhaps he’s changed his mind.’
Her brow crinkled. ‘I don’t think so. He insists the money is on its way and rings every few days to check that no one else has been to look at the property.’
‘Edith always tells him no?’
‘Yes.’
‘An error.’
‘Could be,’ Cass acknowledged.
‘Is. Damn.’
As Gifford had spoken, he had slashed out a hand in emphasis and knocked a spare knife from the table, sending it flying and clattering to the floor a couple of yards away.
She waited for him to rise and, with the athletic grace which she remembered so well, retrieve the knife, but when he didn’t she pushed back her chair. Collecting fallen cutlery had, it seemed, been designated as the waitress’s work. Cass bent, picked up the knife and polished it on a napkin.
She thrust it towards him. ‘May I return this?’ she said.
‘You’re too kind.’
‘It’s all part of the service.’
Amusement quirked in one corner of his mouth. ‘And you’ve resisted the urge to carve me up into little pieces.’
She shone a saccharine smile at him. ‘Just.’
As