and porters about the airport looked cool and comfortable, which was more than Emma felt. She was still wearing the Donegal tweed suit she had worn when she left England, and apart from changing her blouse that morning she was dressed for a much colder climate. Her llama coat was slung over one arm, and her suitcases had been deposited beside her when she refused the services of a porter.
But, as she looked around her, she could see no one who might conceivably be Damon Thorne's cousin, Chris. If this girl was a relation of Damon's she would most likely resemble him, but there were no dark-haired girls in the vicinity, and only a tall, slim, fair-haired man was standing watching her speculatively.
Becoming embarrassed by his scrutiny, Emma turned away, wondering whether she ought to report to the information desk that she was going for a cup of coffee and would they contact her if anyone came looking for her. There was no point in her taking a taxi into the city; she had no idea where she should go.
Lifting her cases, she turned towards the airport buildings again, but the man suddenly came to life, and walked swiftly towards her. As he approached, Emma wondered who he could be. Dressed in a lightweight tropical suit of a biege material, his almost silvery hair lifting slightly in the faint breeze, he looked about thirty, and was certainly very attractive.
Reaching her, he said: ‘I'm sorry if you were beginning to resent the appraisal, but I've finally decided you must be Emma Harding, am I right?'
Emma stared at him in relief. ‘Yes, I'm Emma Harding. Have you come to meet me?’ At his nod she continued, ‘Oh, thank goodness. I was half afraid … Mr. Thorne's cousin had forgotten all about me.’ She hesitated only a moment over his name.
He grinned. ‘Didn't Damon tell you I should meet you? I mean, I thought at first you couldn't be the girl I was waiting for simply because you never gave me half a glance.'
Emma smiled. ‘Are you Chris Thorne?'
‘Of course.'
She laughed. ‘I don't know why, I was expecting a girl. You know, “Chris” being short for Christine.'
He took her cases, and started to walk across to where a low slung white sports car was parked. ‘It's also short for Christopher,’ he said, slinging her cases on to the back seat, and helping her into the car. ‘And you're not quite what I expected, either. You're much younger, and much more attractive.'
Emma blushed. ‘Why, thank you,’ she said, sliding into her seat. ‘I feel better already.'
The drive to Nassau, with Christopher Thorne, was a memorable experience. He took the coast road, giving her the full benefit of the magnificent scenery. Emma thought she would never be able to describe the place to Johnny, and Joanna, back home, without sounding exactly like a travel brochure. But despite her assertions that the Bahamas held no appeal for her, she was unable to prevent a thrill of purely physical anticipation when she saw the fabulous pink-tinged beaches and creaming coastline. The names of the beaches were inviting too; Love Beach, Paradise Beach; Emma shivered expectantly.
Christopher Thorne glanced at her and indicated a famous golf course on their right. ‘There's plenty to do,’ he said lazily. ‘Swimming, water-skiing, skin-diving. Can you swim?'
‘Oh yes, but I'm afraid the other two things you mentioned I've never tried.'
‘You will,’ he remarked, smiling. ‘I'll teach you myself.'
Nassau was teeming with people at this time of day, but Christopher managed to ease his way between the swarms of cyclists, the taxis and the horse-drawn Surreys to swing into the forecourt of a huge hotel. The building was all white, with lots of windows with jalousies, and balconies overlooking the whole of Nassau. Christopher handed the car-keys to a waiting attendant, and then called the boy to take in Emma's cases.
He helped Emma out, and said: ‘Come on, your room is booked. I guess you could use a shower and a change of clothes.'
‘Could I not!’ exclaimed Emma, nodding, and preceded him into the hotel.
She left Christopher downstairs and went up in the lift with one of the boys who conducted her to her room. It was a magnificent place with modern Swedish-designed furniture and cream and green walls and coverings. Adjoining it was a bathroom for her own personal use, and she wondered why Christopher had gone to the trouble of booking her a room like this when they would be leaving after lunch for Sainte Dominique.
She bathed in the deep step-in bath, towelled herself dry, and then sought about in her cases for a change of underwear. Finally she donned a pale blue shift of thin Tried jersey which outlined the rounded curves of her slim figure. She ran a comb through her thick, silky hair which swung against her shoulders and a coral lipstick completed her toilet.
Feeling more ready to face the world, she went downstairs again. It was after one o'clock, and she was feeling quite hungry. To her relief, Christopher was waiting in the foyer, and came to meet her eagerly as she emerged from the lift.
‘Come on,’ he said, grinning appreciatively. ‘I'm starving!'
‘So am I,’ replied Emma, and allowed his fingers to link with hers as they walked through to the restaurant.
Their table, which Christopher had reserved earlier, was situated on a terrace overlooking the harbour. They had Martinis first and then Emma allowed Christopher to choose what they would eat. They ate fresh melon, followed by shellfish and green salad and french fried potatoes, and completed the meal with a fruit salad and fresh cream topped with nuts. Coffee was of the continental variety, and Emma had two cups.
She leaned back, replete, and accepted a cigarette from Christopher. When he had lighted hers, and his own, he said: ‘You enjoyed that?'
‘You know I did.’ She smiled. ‘Did I seem to have an enormous appetite?'
He laughed, and shook his head. ‘No. I like to see a girl enjoy her food, instead of only picking at things which aren't fattening. I should say you had no worries on that score.'
‘Not at the moment, although I'm afraid this life won't be so demanding as my work at the hospital, and I may find myself putting on a couple of inches here and there. I shall have to be careful.’ She smiled.
‘What did you do in England? I mean, I know you were a nurse, but what were your hobbies? Did you go out a lot?'
Emma shook her head. ‘No. Not really. I attended lectures sometimes, and I enjoy the occasional visit to the theatre. I like concerts, most kinds of music, and I adore reading.'
Christopher looked interested. ‘Do you now? And what do you like to read?'
She shrugged. ‘Most anything. I enjoy thrillers, romances, really anything that holds my interest.'
‘Have you heard of Christmas Holly?'
‘Christmas Holly.’ Emma frowned. ‘Of course, he's that private investigator Michael Jeffries writes about.’ She laughed. ‘They're rather good. I think I've read two or three of them.'
Christopher grinned at her. ‘Two or three!’ he exclaimed mockingly. ‘I'v written twenty-seven, I'll have you know!'
Emma was astonished. ‘You're Michael Jeffries!’ She drew on her cigarette incredulously. ‘How marvellous! Imagine meeting Christmas Holly's inventor. What a wonderful name, by the way. Wherever did
