Thunder On The Reef
Sara Craven
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
SHE knew, of course, that she was being watched.
In normal circumstances, it wouldn’t have bothered her too much. She was accustomed, even hardened, to the effect her spectacular looks had on people. She’d even learned to live with the flash of cameras when she appeared in public, and the resulting pictures in glossy magazines. ‘Sir Edwin Gilmour’s lovely daughter.’
Macy’s mouth curled in self-derision. At one time that had seemed the only identity she possessed. But not any more. She was someone in her own right now, with a life—a career that had been almost a salvation.
And that was why she was here on Fortuna—to prove to Cameron and her father and the rest of the board at Gilmour-Denys that the nursery slopes of property negotiation were behind her, and she could handle deals even as tricky as the purchase of Thunder Cay promised to be.
And the last thing she needed was to be recognised at this stage in the game, she thought with irritation as she sipped her iced tea, and tried to ignore the prolonged and intense scrutiny she could feel being directed at her from the other side of Fortuna Town’s bustling Main Street.
Because any negotiations for Thunder Cay were to be strictly confidential. The unexpected tip-off Sir Edwin had received had made that clear. Any hint that the island might be on the market would bring other types of shark to those normally inhabiting Bahamian waters thronging around.
‘And we have to be first,’ he’d said with intensity. ‘Our syndicate wants that land, and I—I need this deal, Macy.’ For a moment there was a note of something like desperation in his voice. She’d stiffened in alarm, her eyes searching his face, questions teeming in her brain, but, after a moment, he’d continued more calmly, ‘I’d go myself, of course, but if I was spotted it would give the game away immediately. So it’s all down to you, my dear.’
She’d said, ‘No problem,’ with more confidence than she actually possessed.
The elaborate model for the hotel and leisure complex which would turn Thunder Cay into the Bahamas’ latest and most expensive resort had graced the penthouse office at Gilmour-Denys for a long time now.
Privately, Macy had termed it the Impossible Dream, because Boniface Hilliard, the reclusive millionaire who owned Thunder Cay, had always adamantly refused to sell. She’d been convinced he never would.
Yet in the last week, a whisper had reached Edwin Gilmour’s ears from some grapevine that the old man, a childless widower, was said to be ill, and prepared to discuss the disposal of some of his assets.
Thunder Cay wouldn’t be the only item up for grabs, Macy thought. There was the fortune he’d made from investment worldwide, and the mansion Trade Winds, overlooking the best beach on the south side of Fortuna itself.
But the bulk of his massive estate wasn’t her concern. All she had to do was convince his lawyer, Mr Ambrose Delancey, to recommend Gilmour-Denys’s bid for Thunder Cay to his client. For someone apparently prepared to negotiate, Mr Delancey had proved annoyingly elusive. She’d spent three fruitless days so far, trying to make an appointment with him.
Ostensibly, of course, she was a tourist, booked into Fortuna’s main hotel, using her mother’s maiden name Landin as an added precaution. She’d thought she’d be safe enough. Fortuna, after all, wasn’t one of the most fashionable islands of the Bahamas. It didn’t appeal to the jet-setters and generally well-heeled who thronged to New Providence and Paradise Islands, and there were no paparazzi eagerly face-spotting around the bars and cafes on Main Street, or the bustling harbour area.
On the whole, it was a man’s resort, a haven for the big-game fishermen who came to chase the bluefin tuna, the sailfish and the blue marlin by day, and enjoy a nightlife more lively than sophisticated when darkness fell.
Accordingly, Macy had deliberately played down her appearance, choosing a plain navy shift dress, with matching low-heeled leather sandals, as well as concealing her cloud of mahogany-coloured hair under a bandanna, and masking her slanting green eyes behind an oversized pair of sunglasses.
And yet, incredibly, it seemed she’d still been recognised. Damn and blast it, she thought with exasperation.
She ventured a swift, sideways glance across the busy road, searching between the slow-moving hurly burly of carts, street-vendors’ bicycles, and luridly hued taxis.
She saw him at once, lounging against an ancient pick-up, its rust spots held together by a virulent yellow paint-job. He was tall, with a shaggy mane of curling dark hair, the upper part of his face concealed behind sunglasses as unrevealing as her own, the lower hidden by designer stubble. But even from a distance she could see his teeth gleam in a smile of totally cynical appraisal.
The rest of him, Macy noted, bristling at the implications of that unashamed grin, was bronze skin interrupted by a sleeveless denim waist-coat, and matching trousers raggedly cut off at mid-thigh.
He was as disreputable as his tatty vehicle, she thought with contempt, averting her gaze. A later-day Bahamian pirate turned beach-bum. She supposed that, as a woman sitting alone at a pavement table, she was obvious prey for his kind. Nevertheless that prolonged, oddly intense observation made her feel uneasy—restless, almost unnerved.
Idiot,
