out and expected to be obeyed without any regard for the fact that, for reasons that almost made her blush, she might not wish to be thrust into his company like this.
But he was not a mind reader, praise the Lord, so as much to put a speedy end to this whole sad business as to accommodate him, she stifled a refusal and said instead, “Of course.”
“Where can we rent a car?” He ran a finger inside the collar of his open-necked shirt. “Preferably one equipped with air-conditioning.”
“We can’t—at least not the sort you have in mind.”
“What? Why not?”
“Except for a very few registered government vehicles, there are no cars allowed on the island.”
“You mean that open contraption decked out in flowers that brought me from the airport—”
“It’s called a jitney. And it’s one of only two on St. Julian.”
An exasperated breath puffed from between his lips. “Then what’s the alternative? Riding bareback on a donkey and waving a straw hat in the air?”
Chief Inspector Montand’s posture, which would have done credit to the French Foreign Legion at the best of times, stiffened perceptibly. Sophie flung him a commiserating glance before saying mildly, “There’s no need to be offensive, Mr. Winter. St. Julian might lack the sort of sophistication you’re used to at home, but its other charms more than make up for that. We can take one of the mini-mokes provided by the hotel. It’ll be more than adequate. The island is quite small.”
Except for the streets in the center of town and the route from the airport, there was only one other paved road on St. Julian. The Coast Road, as its name suggested, ribboned around the perimeter of the island, dipping down at times into secluded coves and at others climbing to offer dizzying views of turquoise sea and jungle-clad mountains. Because its passage was so narrow, island custom dictated that traffic move always in a clockwise direction, even though that meant that a five mile trip out involved a twenty-five mile trip back again.
The little buggy, the fringe on its striped canvas canopy fluttering in the breeze, swooped merrily along with a scowling Dominic at the wheel. “I’ve driven more sophisticated golf carts,” he grumbled as they jolted over one particularly vicious bump in the road.
“Would you prefer walking?” Sophie inquired, unable to disguise the sarcasm as they approached the next steep incline.
“I’d prefer not to be here at all,” he shot back without a moment’s hesitation. “Nor would I be, if it weren’t for you and your half-baked ideas of a holiday paradise.”
“St. Julian doesn’t pretend to be Rio or Monte Carlo, Mr. Winter. If it did, I wouldn’t bother wasting my time visiting it. The sort of people who flock to places like that don’t particularly appeal to me.”
The merest hint of a grin touched his lips. “People like me, you mean?”
She pulled off her sunglasses and subjected him to a frank examination, wondering if the extraordinary conditions of their mission might offer a glimpse past the good looks to the man within.
She was doomed to disappointment. Black hair swept back from a wide, intelligent brow. His nose had been broken at some point but had suffered not the least for the misfortune and merely enhanced the strong, uncompromising line of his profile. His eyes were the deep still green of woodland pools and his lashes would have been laughable had not the set of his jaw promised dreadful retribution to anyone who dared to make light of their beauty. As for the rest of him, it was so formidably and sexily masculine that he’d probably had to beat women off since the onset of puberty. But as far as giving a clue to his inner self? Not a one!
“What are you staring at?” he inquired testily, swiveling a glance at her.
“You,” she replied. “I’m trying to figure out if you’re this irascible all the time or if it’s a temporary by-product of grief and heartache. I’m inclined to believe the latter since Barbara didn’t strike me as the type who’d willingly devote the rest of her life to a chronic grouch.”
He flung her another outraged glare before turning his attention once again to the road. “How much farther?” he barked.
“About seven miles. Once we round the headland, we drop down to the weather side of the island. You’ll notice the change in the coastline immediately. It’s very wild.”
That he grew progressively more withdrawn as they covered the distance was indication enough that he agreed with her assessment. “Good God!” he muttered at one point, as spray flying across the windswept beach and on to the road caused visibility to shrink to a few yards. “Is it always like this?”
“More or less, though during the hurricane season it gets much worse.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” he replied dryly. “Barbara must have been mad to consider trying to sail in this.”
They were approaching the wind-battered southeastern tip of St. Julian, the place where Atlantic fury met the point of most resistance from the land mass. The shore there was littered with easy pickings for the beachcomber: driftwood forged into fantastic shapes, and seashells by the thousand in every shade from dark pearlescent purple to palest satin pink.
“There’s a lookout point right ahead,” Sophie said. “If you pull over, we can walk across the dunes and you’ll see the reef where...”
He nodded, sparing her the necessity of having to elaborate, and swung the mini-moke off the road.
They clambered down to the beach and waded through the fine, soft sand. Then stood shoulder to shoulder and leaned into the wind, together yet separated by the intensely private silence in which Dominic wrapped himself.
A jagged line of surf marked the hidden reef. Close into shore the water swirled and foamed, subdued but by no means tamed by the barrier over which it had hurled itself. But beyond, where the heaving green Atlantic rollers let loose their fury... Dear Lord, Barbara must have been bent on suicide to have tried to sail in that, because no sane person could have hoped to survive such unleashed violence!
Sophie couldn’t quell her shudder and looked away. Small wonder no trace of bodies had been found. It was a miracle the splintered wreckage of the Laser had endured the sort of beating it had taken.
Dominic, however, stared impassively for so long at the scene before him that Sophie half wondered if he’d forgotten her presence. Then, without warning, he swung toward her, his features stark with misery. “Get me the hell away from here before I really lose it,” he muttered savagely.
He saw the dismay she couldn’t hide, saw how it softened to compassion, and didn’t know how he contained himself. He wanted to howl his outrage to the heavens; to curse and revile the cruelty and waste he’d been helpless to prevent. But the shock Sophie Casson now felt would be nothing compared to how she’d react if he really let loose his emotions. They boiled inside him with the same destructive fury of the seas out there, clenching his jaw, his fists, the ridged muscles of his abdomen.
“Dominic,” she said, so softly he could barely hear her above the roar of the seas, “what can I do to help you?”
How certain she was that
