The House on Flamingo Cay Read Free Page B

stepped out on to the balcony, she found herself looking out on the harbor. In fact this side of the hotel had a Venetian aspect as the water came right up to the edge of the terrace on the ground floor where people were having their lunches. And, as she watched, a motor-boat came purring alongside the terrace steps and its passengers climbed out and took their places at a reserved table.
    “We’ll have lunch in our room and spend the afternoon resting,” Angela said, joining her on the balcony and looking down. “I didn’t sleep all that well, and you look a bit jaded.”
    “But I’m not tired now. I want to start exploring,” Sara objected.
    “There’s no rush. We’ll make our entrance at cocktail time. Ring down and ask for something light, will you? I need a shower.”
    Sara bit her lip. It was on the tip of her tongue to say that she wasn’t looking for a rich husband so it didn’t particularly matter what people thought of her, but she kept silent.
    By half-past two, Angela, a peach-colored toning mask smoothed over her face and neck, was sleeping on her twin bed. She had closed the glass doors of the balcony and drawn the blinds to shut out the light and sounds of the afternoon, but Sara could hear the muted laughter of a party of late lunchers drifting up from the terrace.
    It seemed to her that they must be the only people on the island who were not out enjoying themselves and that, since every hour was costing them a small fortune, it was madness to waste even a moment.
    Finally, after sitting in the dusky room for half an hour and becoming increasingly restive, she decided to risk Angela’s displeasure and slip quietly out. Wearing the least conspicuous of her clothes—white sailcloth pants and a mimosa shirt—she passed through the empty foyer and went eagerly out into the sun. After strolling along Bay Street for some way and admiring the Colonial style buildings and the traceries of white-painted lattice work which gave the shop fronts a rather Oriental appearance, she found her way round to the harbor.
    Every kind of sea craft was moored along the wharves, from charter launches advertising trips to the Out Islands, to native sloops bringing in cargoes of produce. Wishing she had the talent to paint the scene, Sara sat down on a bollard at the end of a small pier and watched the people and the boats coming and going. The breeze tugged at her hair, the sun was warm on her shoulders, and somewhere a carefree Bahamian was singing a lilting calypso. And then, while she was swivelling to watch a motor boat cutting across towards Hog Island, a voice called up “Hey there—make fast for me, will you?” and something fell across her lap.
    It was a coil of rope and it had been tossed up by the man in the launch which had just slid alongside the pier.
    By the time she had collected her wits, all she could see of him was a muscular back bent over something in the well of the boat.
    Not at all sure what making fast meant, but presuming that the rope was intended to go round the bollard, Sara did the best she could.
    “That won’t do: a strong wash could pull her loose.” The man had swung himself up on to the pier and was standing over her, a dark-haired, long-legged giant with amused grey eyes and a tan the color of teak.
    “I’m sorry. I don’t really know—” Sara began apologetically.
    “I’ll show you. Look, like this.” He demonstrated the correct technique, then straightened again and said, “Never done any messing about in boats?”
    Sara shook her head. “I’m afraid I’ve never even been in a rowing-boat,” she admitted.
    He laughed, buttoning on the faded blue cotton shirt which had been hitched through the belt of his equally salt-stained levis. “That’s a pretty shameful admission in this part of the world. The islanders are some of the finest seamen afloat. On land, they’re scared of their own shadows, but at sea, nothing frightens them. A man who’ll run a mile if he