in Las Vegas.
For the next couple of years, however restless he became, he intended to take a break, to do some sailing and fishing, and to generally chill out. He need never work again, but he didn’t think he could stand that prospect. Nevertheless, in future, he intended to invest in small enterprises. Like Cartagena Charters, for example.
Rafe drove through the village of Coral Key. His home, a sprawling villa made of coral and limestone, occupied the cliffs overlooking a private sandy cove. Rafe had taken to swimming there most mornings, usually before most of his household was awake.
Perhaps the Fielding girl should follow his example.
The gates to the property swung open at his approach, thanks to the electronic pad Steve Bellamy, his butler-cum-assistant, had installed in the car.
As well as vetting all visitors, the ex-policeman acted as chauffeur, computer programmer, and gourmet chef, if required to do so. Though this was a skill he’d sworn Rafe never to divulge to any of his erstwhile colleagues on the New York force.
Rafe parked the Lexus in one bay of the six-car garage and, leaving the keys in the ignition, he strolled around to the back of the villa.
A swimming pool lay basking in the noonday sun and, on either side of the pool, tubs of hibiscus and fragrant oleander tumbled exotically onto the painted tiles. Beneath a striped awning, a teak table was already laid for lunch. Just in case he should choose to eat outdoors.
His housekeeper appeared as he was standing gazing out towards the ocean. Carla Samuels had worked for him for over fifteen years, since long before the breakdown of his marriage. And, although his ex-wife had threatened her with all manner of retribution, she’d insisted on going with Rafe when he’d moved out of the apartment and ultimately to Orchid Cay.
‘What time will you be wanting lunch, Mr Oliveira?’ she asked, and Rafe turned to her with a lazy shrug.
‘I cannot say I am particularly hungry, Carla,’ he confessed ruefully. ‘Maybe later, hmm?’
‘A man needs to eat,’ insisted Carla staunchly. ‘Wouldn’t you like a delicious fillet of grouper, cooked simply with a little butter and lemon?’ And when this aroused no apparent interest, ‘Or a salad? Luella has got some shellfish, fresh off the boat this morning.’ She touched her fingers to her lips. ‘You would love them.’
Rafe grinned, sliding his arms out of his jacket and hooking it over one shoulder. ‘You don’t give up, do you, Carla?’ He strolled towards her. ‘Okay. I’ll have a salad. But tell Luella no mayonnaise, me oye?’
Carla’s response was indicative of what she thought of his decision. But, apart from checking with him whether he wanted to eat outdoors or in, she’d learned to keep her opinions to herself.
‘Outdoors, I think,’ Rafe decided, following her into the house. He grimaced. ‘God, it’s cold in here!’
Carla shrugged. ‘Mr Bellamy likes it that way,’ she said smugly, hurrying away before her employer could take her up on it.
Rafe tossed his jacket onto a chair in the glass-walled entry and then walked on into a huge reception hall. The floor was Italian-tiled, with a central table overflowing with orchids and lilies. Beyond, a curving stone staircase led to the upper gallery, where all the main bedroom suites were situated.
Rafe’s study was in the wing to his left. He was heading in that direction when Steve’s voice arrested him. ‘Hey, Mr Oliveira,’ he called, striding towards Rafe from the direction of the kitchen. ‘Got a minute?’
Rafe gave a resigned gesture, turning to rest his shoulders against one of the stone columns that supported the ceiling. ‘Do I have a choice?’
Steve pulled a wry face. A tall, well-built man, a few years older than his employer, he had the kind of face that Rafe thought anyone would trust. ‘You always have a choice,’ he said now, rumpling his greying hair. ‘I only wanted to tell you, you had a visitor while you were in town.’
Rafe surveyed the man curiously. He’d known Bellamy for over two years now, and he knew he wasn’t the kind of guy to get upset over nothing. ‘A visitor?’ he said, frowning at Steve’s doubtful expression. ‘Grant Mathews, no?’
‘Close. But I get the feeling Mr Mathews is still licking his wounds from his trip to Las Vegas. I did hear he is short of cash.’
‘Men like Mathews are not short of cash for long, Steve,’ retorted Rafe flatly. ‘Having a cash-flow problem is their usual excuse. You will see, in about six months he will be desperate to buy this house and the land back again.’
Steve’s brows rose. ‘And will you let him?’
Rafe shrugged. ‘That depends.’
‘Depends on what?’
‘On whether I like living here,’ replied Rafe carelessly. ‘Do not get too comfortable, Steve. I may find island life is not for me.’
Steve stared at him hard, as if he was trying to see if his employer was serious, but Rafe was getting impatient. ‘The visitor,’ he prompted, causing the older man to do a double-take. ‘You said we had had a visitor. If it was not Grant Mathews, who was it?’
‘His daughter,’ said Steve at once, and Rafe stared at him now, trying to come to terms with what he’d heard.
‘His daughter?’ he echoed. ‘I didn’t know he had a daughter. What’s her name? How old is she?’
‘Does that matter?’ Steve’s tone was dry. ‘In her twenties, I’d guess. Her name’s Laura. Apparently she and her mother used to live on the island—in this house actually—until her mother remarried and Laura went away to college.’
‘I see.’ Rafe contemplated what he’d heard. ‘Did she say what she wanted?’
‘No.’ Steve was laconic. ‘But she insisted it was you she needed to see.’ He paused. ‘My opinion is that she’s come here hoping to see what you were like. Maybe her father sent her. Maybe not. She certainly seemed interested in you.’
Amusement tugged at the corners of Rafe’s mouth. ‘Did she now?’
Steve looked disgusted. ‘I’d have thought you’d have had enough of women who use their good looks as a weapon,’ he retorted shortly, and Rafe gave a sigh.
‘Oh, I have,’ he agreed flatly, patting the other man on his shoulder. ‘And thanks for the heads-up, Steve. I may just be unavailable—again—if Ms Mathews returns, no?’
* * *
Lily didn’t see Rafe Oliveira again for several days.
Ray Myers returned from his trip to Miami and was somewhat ambivalent about the news that a Señor Oliveira had been looking for him.
‘How well do you know him?’ asked Lily, defending her curiosity on the grounds that she’d worked for Ray for a few years and usually shared his confidence.
Indeed, it was only six months since he’d offered her a chance to invest in the business. The fact that she didn’t have that kind of money hadn’t soured their relationship. At least, she
