were. He could now afford to employ the best brains in the world, and if another Sullivan Spa was built it would blend expertly into the scenery. Log cabins, he thought, raw on the outside, but offering every conceivable luxury within. And pools fed by filtered lake-water, icy cold or steaming …
The short flight was almost over. The stewardess, who had offered him a drink after boarding, now appeared to ask him to fasten his seatbelt for landing. Like the pilot, she had looked at him with enquiry in her eyes. But, unlike the pilot, there had been speculation in them, too.
He wondered whose idea it had been to have a stewardess on a flight that lasted less than half an hour. No doubt her short skirt and trim figure was much appreciated by any male visitors. But was the bodice of her scarlet tunic usually unbuttoned, so that the dusky hollow of her cleavage was distinctly visible as she bent to take his empty glass? And did she usually circle her glistening lips with her tongue as she removed the monogrammed coaster?
He decided not to theorise, though his expression was faintly cynical as he turned back to the small window. Maybe it was Adele’s way of reminding him that she hadn’t forgotten—or forgiven him, for not wanting her. Perhaps it was intended to arouse his libido, to taunt him with memories of what he had rejected.
Or maybe he was just too sensitive, he reflected wryly. And sensitivity, in any form, was not what was needed here. Incredible as it seemed, his father had made him his only heir. Kittrick’s Hotel, Pelican Island; it was all his now. And, however, Adele chose to play it, he was in command.
The small jet was making its approach to the island now, and, dismissing his thoughts, he took a concentrated look at the place that had been his home for more than fifteen years. His father had bought Pelican Island with the idea of creating a private resort for deep-sea fishermen, yachtsmen and the like, and by the time he was sixteen it had become a thriving little business. Guests shared rooms in the sprawling plantation house that had been their home in those days, and, although the accommodation was fairly basic, no one seemed to mind. He remembered his schooldays as being long days spent crewing the thirty-foot schooner his father charted out to would-be anglers, and hot nights on the beach, eating barbecued grouper, and talking about the big marlin or barracuda that just got away.
Until Adele came on the scene, he brooded. Adele and her seven-year-old daughter, India. Adele, with her big ideas about building a proper hotel and expanding the facilities they could offer. Adele, who had met his father on one of his infrequent trips to London to visit his late wife’s mother, and who had seen in Aaron Kittrick the promise of a financially secure future.
His long fingers combed impatiently through his hair again. His assessment of Adele’s motives was harsh, and he knew it. But it was also accurate. From the very beginning, he had seen right through the girlish façade she had adopted for his father’s benefit. The wonder was that his father hadn’t been able to see through it, too. But, from being a mild-mannered man who had always had time for his son—even when that son had tried his patience considerably—he had changed into a lovesick schoolboy with little or no interest in anything his son had to say. He had been infatuated with Adele, bewitched by her doll-like beauty, flattered that a woman with such obvious sex appeal should be attracted to a man undoubtedly past the emotive watershed of middle age.
The only advantage he had gained from this unlikely pairing was India. Although he hadn’t realised it at first. At fifteen, he had had little time for the skinny kid who dogged his footsteps. She was a nuisance, and he’d lost no time in telling her so.
But India hadn’t taken offence. And, as time went by, and she had showed no signs of taking advantage of her position, he had softened. Besides, it had actually been quite a novelty, having a stepsister. He had always been an only child, and in the years between his father’s marriage to Adele and his graduation he and India had become good friends.
In some ways she had been old for her years—due in part to Adele’s neglect, he reflected—and she had been quite content to sit for hours, listening to him expound on every subject under the sun. She had been good for his ego, he acknowledged, and, as Adele had persuaded Aaron to invest in building a new hotel, and he and his father had become more and more alienated, India had been the recipient of all his boyish frustrations.
On the more positive side, he had taught her to swim and snorkel. He’d taken her to explore the wonders of the reef that lay to the east of Pelican Island. He’d shown her how to dive for clams, and given her a guided tour of all the secret coves he had discovered throughout the lonely years of his childhood. During his holidays they had been inseparable, and he had started treating her as an equal, as well as a friend.
Until Adele had intervened. She had never liked their relationship. Looking back, he wondered if she had been jealous, but even now that interpretation of her behaviour stuck in his throat. What possible reason could she have had to be jealous of a schoolgirl?
Whatever, she had ultimately succeeded in parting them. That final summer vacation, when matters had come to a head, she had successfully driven a wedge between them. She had told India, in his and his father’s hearing, that she had to stop bothering him. She had said he had told her he was sick of India, that for the past six years he had put up with her, but now it had to stop, that he was a man, not a boy, and the last thing he needed was some overweight, spotty teenager like her cramping his style.
Of course, he had denied it, but he had seen the uncertainty in India’s face. And, when his father had asked him outright if he was calling Adele a liar, he had backed down. It had been a cowardly thing to do, he knew, and he had played right into Adele’s hands. But in a choice between rowing with his father or hurting India, there had been no contest. And he had still been young enough—and naïve enough—to believe the alienation from his father was not already irrevocable …
The Cessna banked steeply, and he looked out on the palm-strewn beaches of his youth. A curving sweep of coral sand fringed an ocean that paled from deepest blue to the clearest turquoise, with banks of seaweed submerged and moving in the current. Pelican Island, he thought, was no longer just an angler’s paradise, but one of the most exclusive resorts in the world.
The landing-strip seemed to come rushing up to meet them, and the powerful little jet squealed across the concrete. Windermere Bay; Cat Point; Abalone Cove; all the names he had once known so well came surging back to greet him. For the first time in more than eight years, he was coming home.
He wondered who they would send to meet him. It was nearly three miles from the airport at Green Turtle Hill to the hotel at Abaco Beach. In his day, guests had been transported over the last few miles of their journey in one of the minibuses that had been used as well for tours around the island. But that was before Kittrick’s Hotel had received its five-star status. These days, they probably used Rolls-Royces or Cadillacs to ferry their guests around.
The plane had stopped next to a white-painted building that served as both immigration area and traffic control. All guests were registered as they arrived on the island, and he was relieved to see that, apart from a coat of paint, the place looked little different from what he remembered.
‘I hope you enjoyed the trip, Mr Kittrick,’ the stewardess said, after the door of the aircraft had been opened, and the flight of steps unfolded. ‘Have a nice day!’
‘Thanks.’
But as he shook hands with the pilot, he noticed her tunic was now sedately buttoned. Perhaps she had been acting on her own behalf, her reflected drily. They all must know that he was the new owner of Pelican Island. And it was his own fault for dressing so casually, and maybe allowing her to think he might be flattered by a little healthy provocation. New owners sometimes meant new staff, and it was incredible to think he had the last word on her employment. He could almost feel sympathy for the core of her dilemma.
But experience had taught him that nothing came for free, and, hefting his overnight bag, he descended the steps without looking back. God, the sun was hot, he thought, feeling the tight jeans sticking to him like a second skin. He should have changed on the plane. He had some shorts in his bag. But he had been too pre-occupied with his thoughts to give any real consideration to the climate.
He