of the hotel until it was time to go to Mr Delancey’s office. If she hadn’t taken time out to explore, shop-gaze and have a drink at that particular pavement bar, Ross might never have seen her.
She was surprised that he’d recognised her at all. She wasn’t the girl he’d left behind four years before. And she was astonished that, after all that had passed between them, he should want to make contact with her again, however fleetingly.
He could have no conscience, she thought bitterly. No sense of shame.
And there was no guarantee this was the only time they’d run into each other.
‘This is only a small island...’
Had she imagined the note of warning in his voice? She didn’t think so.
She felt sick again. She could always call her father and ask his advice. Except that she knew what he’d say. He’d summon her back instantly, and hand the Thunder Cay negotiations to someone else.
And she didn’t want that. She’d fought hard for her place on the Gilmour-Denys team. At first work had been a form of therapy in the wake of Ross’s desertion. Lately, she’d become involved for the sake of the job itself.
Among other things, she’d taken over the administration of the charitable trusts left by her wealthy American mother. The bulk of Kathryn Landin’s considerable estate, bequeathed to Macy personally, would come to her in four years’ time, on her twenty-fifth birthday.
Up to now, her father had acted as her trustee and adviser, while she’d merely been a figurehead, following his direction. She’d gathered, wryly, that that was how he thought matters should continue.
But she had other ideas. She planned to manage the Landin bequest herself, alongside her career at Gilmour-Denys. She had no intention of being treated as a pretty ornament, to be produced at dinner parties and other social events. She had a sharp business acumen like her mother’s before her, and no emotional shock, however acute, was going to throw her off balance. She couldn’t afford to get hysterical just because an ex-lover had crossed her path.
But not just an ex-lover, said a sly voice in her head. Ross was your first, and only lover. The one you fell so hard for that you gave him your whole life.
Only that wasn’t what Ross wanted at all, she thought, inner pain slashing at her. He’d had very different plans for the future.
Don’t look back, she adjured herself. Look forward. Concentrate on the job in hand. Make the deal, and get out as fast as you can. The fact that you’ve seen him doesn’t have to affect your plans at all.
As she turned to hail a passing taxi, painted like a mauve and white zebra, she found the image of Ross, tanned and unkempt in his raggy denims, disturbingly entrenched in her mind. Looking, she thought, exactly like the drifter and layabout her father had accused him of being.
She supposed she should be glad her father had been right about him all along. At the same time, she couldn’t help wondering exactly what Ross had done with all that money.
The money her father had paid him to get out of her life forever.
* * *
Ambrose Delancey’s law offices were situated on the first floor of a pleasant white-painted building, in a square of similar buildings.
In the middle of the square was a fountain, surrounded by flower-beds, and surmounted by a statue of a man dressed in the elaborate style of the seventeenth century. A plaque announced that this was Bevis Hilliard, Fortuna’s first governor.
As a family, the Hilliards had clearly enjoyed power here from the first. The sale of Thunder Cay was the first chink in the wall of autocracy they’d built around themselves. A tacit acknowledgement, perhaps, that Boniface Hilliard was the last of his name.
There was a certain sadness about that, Macy thought, as she went into the office building.
She found herself in a small reception area, confronted by a girl with a smile as wide as the sky.
‘My name’s Landin,’ she introduced herself. ‘And I have an appointment with Mr Delancey.’
‘He’s expecting you, Miz Landin.’ The girl lifted a phone and spoke softly into it. ‘Will you take a seat for just one minute. May I get you some coffee, or a cold drink?’
Macy declined politely. She was feeling frankly nervous, and took several deep breaths to restore her equilibrium.
Then a buzzer sounded sharply, and she was shown through a door at the rear of the room into a large office. One wall was mostly window, shielded against the worst of the sun by slatted blinds. Two of the other walls were lined in books, and a display of green plants gave an impression of coolness as well as discreetly masking another door, presumably leading to further offices.
Ambrose Delancey was a tall black man, impeccably clad in a lightweight cream suit. He greeted Macy with reserved friendliness and a firm handshake.
‘What can I do for you, Miss Landin?’ he asked, offering her a black leather chair in front of his imposing desk.
‘I hope you can open negotiations for the sale of Thunder Cay to Gilmour-Denys,’ Macy returned coolly and crisply. ‘You’ve seen a copy of our proposal, and had time to consider it. We’d now like to hear your client’s response.’
Mr Delancey smiled reluctantly. ‘You don’t waste any time. But this is Fortuna, Miss Landin, and we take things at a slower pace here.’
‘So I’ve noticed,’ Macy said drily.
‘I’m not saying my client isn’t interested in your offer,’ Mr Delancey went on. ‘But there are certain—formalities he insists on, before any serious discussion takes place.’
‘What kind of formalities?’
He toyed absently with a pen. ‘The fact is, Miss Landin, Mr Hilliard wishes to meet you.’
‘To meet me?’ Macy was taken aback. ‘Why should he want that—at this stage?’
He shrugged. ‘Maybe he wants to assess the calibre of your company from you as its representative.’ He let that sink in, then continued, ‘I take it you have no objection?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘If that’s what it takes. Will you arrange a further meeting here?’
He shook his head. ‘Mr Hilliard’s state of health doesn’t permit that, so the interview will be at Trade Winds. I’ll contact you at your hotel as soon as the appointment’s been made. I trust that’s convenient.’
‘Perfectly,’ Macy returned. It seemed to her that Mr Delancey’s gaze had strayed a couple of times towards the door in the corner, and that she’d heard vague sounds of movement from behind it. Another client, she surmised, growing restive.
She got to her feet. ‘I realise how busy you are,’ she said pointedly. ‘I’ll wait to hear from you.’
Outside, in the baking afternoon heat, she drew a deep, shaky breath. What did they say about the best laid plans?
It seemed that, for good or ill, she was stuck
