‘That’s right.’ Rachel was grateful to discuss her destination. ‘It’s just a small hotel, I believe. I suppose it will be busy at this time of the year?’
‘Oh, sure.’ The man nodded expansively, turning the wheel of the car. The little statue of the Madonna that was suspended above his mirror swung in sympathy. ‘Janu’ry, Febru’ry—they’s our busiest months. ’Course, we do get visitors in summer, but when it’s winter in the UK and the United States, that’s when we get most tourists.’ He paused. ‘Like yourself.’
‘Mmm.’
Rachel absorbed this, but she didn’t comment. She was wondering how she could get around to mentioning Matthew Brody’s name. It was a small island, and a small population. Surely it wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility that he might have heard of the man?
The road that had been riding along the cliff now swung inland, and Rachel stared at the thickly wooded vegetation covering the land that rose on the right. Trees and shrubs, ferns and bushes, all exploding with colour. Even in the late afternoon, the brilliance of the sunlight was dazzling.
They were nearing the small town of St Antoine, she realised. Outlying dwellings, some of them with a plot of land given over to either cattle or crops, bordered the road, and presently an occasional store boasted signs that read ‘Fresh Sandwiches’ or ‘Home-made Ice-cream’.
Now the road was divided into two lanes by a belt of palm trees. Rachel could see shops and houses with bougainvillea dripping from every roof and balcony. She glimpsed frangipani and oleander behind iron railings, and lots of West Indian faces peering at her as the taxi drove by.
‘Um—I don’t suppose you know a man called Brody?’ she ventured at last, realising she couldn’t afford to waste any more time. They’d be at the hotel soon and any chance would be lost.
‘You mean Jacob Brody?’ The taxi driver didn’t wait for her to correct him before going on. ‘Sure, everyone knows Jacob Brody. Seein’ as how he and his son own most of the island.’
Rachel’s eyes widened. Her father had told her nothing about the Brodys at all. Somehow she’d got the impression that this man—Matthew Brody—was some kind of playboy. That he and her mother must have had an affair.
‘I—’
She’d been about to ask if Matthew Brody was related to Jacob when the taxi turned between wrought-iron gates. Ahead, she could see what she assumed was the Tamarisk Hotel. A two-storeyed stucco-painted structure, with a fountain playing on the forecourt out front.
‘This is it.’
Her driver, a barrel-chested man, with a luxuriant moustache and cornrows, thrust open his door and got out. Then, after swinging the passenger door open for Rachel, he walked round to the rear of the vehicle to haul her suitcase out of the boot.
Rachel followed him and thrust a handful of dollars into his palm. She never knew how much to tip people, but judging by the man’s expression she’d overdone it this time.
Oh, well…
‘You know the Brodys?’ the man asked, evidently associating her generosity with the man he’d spoken of, but Rachel shook her head.
‘No,’ she said, not wanting to get into a discussion. ‘I can manage,’ she added, when he would have carried her suitcase into the hotel. She pulled up the handle on the case to demonstrate, and then towed it after her as she walked away. ‘Thank you.’
‘My pleasure.’ The driver stuffed the bills into his pocket. ‘Yo’ want anything else while you’re here, yo’ just let Aaron know.’ He nodded towards the hotel. ‘They got my number.’
Rachel doubted she’d take him up on it, but she cast him a polite smile over her shoulder. However, privately she was thinking that she’d have to be more diligent with her cash. She couldn’t afford to go throwing money around, whatever happened here.
Two shallow steps that stretched along the front of the building led up to a wide verandah. Cane chairs and tables sheltered beneath the shadow of an awning, and tall columns were wound about with flowering vines. She entered into a marble-tiled foyer, where more flowers rioted from tubs and urns.
The reception desk was immediately ahead of her, but, glancing up, she saw that the second-floor rooms all opened onto a curving balcony that swept around the upper floor. The ceiling of the reception area was open to an airy atrium, and although there didn’t appear to be a lift a staircase hugged the outer wall.
A pretty West Indian girl was in charge of the reception desk, and as there were few people about at the moment she watched Rachel’s approach with a critical eye. Rachel doubted there was any aspect of her appearance that had gone unnoticed, but she was used to ignoring that kind of attention.
‘Hi, there, welcome to the Tamarisk,’ the girl said, her smile as practised as her manner. ‘You have a reservation, Ms—er—’
‘Claiborne,’ said Rachel pleasantly. ‘Yes, it was just made a few days ago.’
‘Of course.’
The girl’s voice had the slow, attractive drawl of the islands that Rachel had already noticed at the airport. And while she brought up Rachel’s booking on the computer, Rachel took the time to examine her surroundings more fully.
The hotel was small, it was true, but it was very attractive. Not least because of the white stone pillars that supported the balcony, and the airy brightness of its public rooms. There was a pleasant scent of spices and sweetness. The air outside had been close and humid, but here the layout of the foyer allowed a cross breeze that cooled her skin.
‘Here we are, Ms Claiborne.’
The girl—her name-tag read Rosa—had evidently found what she was looking for. Rescuing a pen from the drawer in front of her, she pushed a registration form towards Rachel.
‘If you just fill this in,’ she said, her dark eyes assessing. ‘Then I’ll get Toby to show you to your room.’
‘Thanks.’
Rachel rested the backpack she’d carried instead of a handbag on the counter and picked up the pen. This part was familiar to her. She’d stayed in plenty of hotels before, albeit not in such exotic surroundings. She couldn’t suppress a momentary twinge of excitement. Whatever else, this was an experience she wouldn’t forget.
She was checking to see that she’d supplied all the necessary information when she became aware of a sudden quickening in the air. Someone else had entered the foyer, and judging by the way the receptionist straightened her spine and adjusted her cleavage it was someone she wanted to impress.
A man, then, thought Rachel cynically. She doubted Rosa would make such an effort for a member of her own sex. Unable to resist, she peeked beneath her arm and saw tan loafers and taut muscular calves clad in black denim.
Definitely a man, she conceded, straightening. Women were such clichés. Didn’t they realise their reactions were so obvious to a man?
‘Hi, Matt.’
Matt!
Was that a coincidence? Rachel couldn’t help herself.
