Logan's Island

LOGAN'S ISLAND Mary Wibberley

Helen had inherited an island off the coast of Brazil -- jointly with an unknown man called Jake Logan. Its name -- Island of Storms -- just about summed up the wildly antagonistic relationship that promptly developed between the two of them!

CHAPTER ONE SANTOS had vanished in the mist. Helen Carpenter turned round again and looked ahead. Now she was really on her way. For the first time since leaving England it came over her exactly what she was doing; and for the first time also, she felt slightly apprehensive... 'It won't be long. Just an hour and we'll be there.' The voice was very English, faintly patronizing, and yet apparently trying to be friendly. Helen turned to her neighbour—the blonde woman sitting in the window seat at the other side of the aisle. She smiled. 'Yes. It's just—I've never been here before. I felt a little strange.' 'I know.' The woman stood up, moved across, and sat beside Helen. She was probably in her forties, dressed simply and expensively in a brightly coloured dress of wild silk—Helen was an expert on clothes, and this had cost a packet. 'You don't mind, do you? It's rather silly shouting across the aisle, and I've seen the view so many times—' she smiled and sighed. 'You live on the island?' queried Helen. 'Have done for fifteen years. Marcia Ross.' And there was a faint enquiring tilt to the deeply tanned, faintly lined face, with the skin stretched tightly over classical bones and good features. 'I'm Helen Carpenter,' Helen told her quietly. She guessed what the other's reaction would be, and was not mistaken. There was a slight, almost shocked pause, then: 'Carpenter? Are you by any chance?'—an imperceptible pause— 'related to Robert Carpenter?' 'I'm his daughter.'

'Oh, my dear! Forgive me.' A slim brown hand rested momentarily on Helen's bare arm. 'He was a good friend. You do know -' 'Yes, I know that he died three months ago. That's why I've come. He left me some—things.' Helen's composure failed her slightly, but only for a few seconds. She wasn't going to tell a stranger, however friendly, that she had had no idea, until a month ago, that her father had even existed. Helen had been told by her mother that her father had died soon after she was born. And the double shock of hearing that not only had she had a father, living for the past nineteen years on a large island off the coast of Brazil, Ilha do Sol— Island of the Sun, but that he had just died, was almost too much to bear. But she had been told, in a quiet solicitor's office in a pleasant London square, just a few weeks previously. And then she had been told something else, equally startling. For a few moments, as the new neighbour answered a question of the quietly spoken air hostess, Helen's mind travelled back irresistibly in time, and she heard again Mr Hazeldene's dry tones. '—and your father has left you a half share in his house, his boat, and an island called -' Here came an even drier rustle of papers as the elderly man bent to peer closely at the typewritten page before him, 'er —the Ilha das Tormentas—which—er—roughly translated from the—er—Portuguese is Storm Island.' 'An island?' She had been too stunned to take it in. An island, left to her by a man she had not only never seen, but who she had thought dead many years ago, when she was a baby. And then he had told her more... 'The stewardess wants to know if we'd like coffee.' Helen's eyes focused again, and she smiled. 'I'm sorry. Yes, please.'

There was a pause after the girl had left them. The plane was a small one, with only eight passengers, and Helen and Marcia Ross sat near the rear. 'How sad that you could only come now, when it was too -' and Marcia Ross stopped, as if perhaps she had said too much. Helen felt something tighten inside her. But nothing showed. The finishing school in Geneva had seen to that. She might ache inside, and want to cry, but her face would show a calm serenity, a pleasant expression that would give nothing away—not to anyone. 'Yes, I know. My solicitor told me I was to see a Mr Logan'—there was no mistaking Helen's changing of the subject. No mistaking either the other woman's quick, shocked indrawn breath, almost like a hiss, at Helen's last word. 'Of course,' she said softly, and her nostrils had a pinched look. 'Is there something wrong? Is he not there?' A short dry laugh. 'Oh, he's there all right. Jake Logan is there.' And Marcia Ross looked directly at Helen. 'Did your solicitor tell you anything about Logan?' There was something wrong. And Helen wanted to know what it was. She spoke slowly: 'Only that he has the other half of everything that has been left to me.' 'My God!' And then the coffee came on little plastic trays which clipped in front of them like tables, and Helen looked at the two wrapped cubes of sugar in the saucer, and waited. She had not intended to tell this woman anything so private. And yet—something had made her. 'I'm sorry.' Marcia Ross smiled at Helen, but her eyes seemed almost brightly angry. 'It's absolutely nothing to do with me. But this man

Logan is—he's one on his own. We all liked and respected your father, but I couldn't understand why he let that man influence him so. I hate to speak ill of the dead, but perhaps it's better said now. Jake Logan is an absolute rotter. He has a terrible reputation as far as women are concerned— and yet he and your father were good friends. I personally couldn't understand it'—she paused to sip her coffee as if it might give her strength—'and now he's got his hands on half.' She looked at Helen almost sadly. 'I'm sorry for you, my dear. Watch him. He'll be trying to get your share from you, and I dare say he won't be too particular about the methods he chooses.' Helen was silent. Then she shook her head. 'This is unbelievable,' she whispered. 'I didn't dream -' 'He got an island girl into trouble a couple of years ago, Serena Garcia. She was fifteen at the time.' 'How awful,' Helen said quietly. 'The poor girl—' 'She has a little boy, Toby. Nearly two years old. Sweet little thing. Serena lives with her older married sister. She used to follow Jake around like a little puppy. She adored him—poor child.' Helen's shock was great. And now she didn't try to hide her feelings. She turned to the older woman. 'And I imagined this man Logan would be middle-aged— rather quiet. I was looking forward to meeting him, hearing about my'—she faltered, but went on—'my father.' She shook her head wordlessly. Marcia Ross softened slightly. 'I shouldn't have sprung it on you, like that, a perfect stranger, but'— she gave a graceful little shrug— 'hearing about Jake Logan—well! I felt I had to warn you—as one woman to another.'

'I appreciate it, don't worry.' Helen picked up one of the small biscuits from the plate beside her coffee cup, and bit it. Inside though, she almost wished she had not heard anything about the man called Logan. Sometimes, some things were better left unknown... 'Is anyone meeting you at the airstrip?' 'I don't know. I had half expected Mr Logan -' She paused, swallowed hard. 'What does he look like?' The other's mouth tightened. 'You'll know when you see him! He's dark, tall—built like an athlete— though the life he leads you'd think -' She checked herself visibly. 'Well, I suppose some women would find him attractive, in an animal sort of way,' she shuddered fastidiously, and Helen glanced quickly at her, a faint suspicion hovering, never to be spoken. 'Nobody knows much about the man, or where he comes from. Maybe your father did but never spoke about him. He has a faint Australian accent most times—but I'd bet he has some foreign blood in him— maybe Brazilian, who knows?' She looked sharply at Helen. 'Your father had another friend, Bill Innes— have you heard about him? 'Yes, the solicitor did mention him. Is he -?' Helen paused, wondering what other revelations might ensue, and Marcia Ross laughed, as if guessing. 'Bill's fine. A bit of an oddball, big, bluff, and hearty, but straight as a die. He lives with his sister, Hannah, and if she takes to you, you're in. If not -' She smiled a little crooked smile that spoke volumes. 'I see.' Helen spoke softly. It was a relief to know that there was someone she would get on with, at least. But an odd thought

intruded. Why, if Jake Logan was so disreputable, and Bill Innes so nice, had her father left half of his property to the former? And that was a question that would never be answered. Suddenly tired, Helen leaned back and closed her eyes. 'I've still not caught up on my sleep,' she murmured apologetically to the woman beside her. 'I know. Try and rest for a few minutes.' Marcia Ross studied Helen's face as the girl lay back with eyes closed, her long silky lashes fanning her cheeks. Helen was beautiful, her features intriguingly attractive, her nose small and straight, large grey-blue eyes thickly, darkly lashed, a soft full mouth, well shaped and feminine, and her gold hair swept back in a chignon. Marcia Ross took a deep breath., How would Jake Logan react to this? More important perhaps, how would Richard Carpenter's daughter react to him? She sat back herself and closed her eyes. Yes, that would be interesting. This English girl looked as if she might well be able to take care of herself. There was something very cool, almost unapproachable about her. And something touched the older woman's heart, almost a stab, as if regretting something passed, and her mouth tightened. The sooner this journey was over, the better.

There was no major airport, not even a small one. There was simply an airstrip at the end of the island, where trees had been cleared, and some sort of road laid, and one white-painted shed outside which stood a few cars, and a man. The man shaded his eyes as the plane circled in to land, and he watched it. Helen saw him, and wondered who he was. A big, bluff giant of a man, with black hair, whiteflecked, a salt-and-pepper mixture, he was dressed in scruffy shorts and khaki shirt, and puffed at a pipe. Marcia Ross leaned over and pointed. 'Bill's come to meet you,' she said. 'You won't have to get the taxi now,' and she laughed.

And then, minutes later, they were walking down wooden steps, and the man came forward to meet them, and fixed Helen with bright blue eyes underneath very bushy grey brows. 'Miss Carpenter? Bill Innes.' A huge hairy paw enveloped hers, and then he turned to Marcia. 'Give you a lift?' 'How nice of you, Bill. Thanks. I'll just get the luggage'—she turned away, and Bill winked at Helen. 'Soon have you out of this heat. My sister's got a meal prepared for you at our house. You'll come?' He sounded almost anxious, and Helen smiled at him. 'Please, Mr Innes. It's so kind of you to meet me.' 'Bill. And you're Helen. No formality on this island. Least I could do, you being a stranger, and Jake -' He stopped suddenly, too suddenly, as Marcia returned, and Helen wondered what he had intended to say. It was too hot to think clearly. Her cool white linen dress felt as though it was made of thick fur, although when she had left Rio that morning it had been just right. The sandy ground blurred and danced beneath their feet as they walked to the Land Rover parked behind the shed, followed by a coloured boy with the cases on a trolley. The sky was an intense blue, with a bright electric quality to it, and a butterfly darted erratically past in a shimmer of gold and red. Helen took a deep breath. 'I never imagined anything like this,' she said. 'It's a beautiful place -' 'But you've not seen anything. Wait until you've been all over the island, then you'll say it's beautiful all right.' Bill was proud of Sun Island, Helen could see that, and Marcia gave her a little smile, as if she saw it too. They got into the Land-Rover and set off down a rough track. Behind them the other passengers stood in a little knot, talking, and passing them was a large ancient taxi. And this was the place where the man Helen had never known, never even known

about, had lived for nineteen years. And she had never guessed. She thought wryly, almost sadly of her mother, holidaying in Bermuda. Helena Carr, world- famous actress, much married, had, for reasons best known to herself, told Helen that her father was dead. Helena, honeymooning with her latest, fifth husband, didn't even know, and almost certainly did not care where her daughter was. Beautiful and glamorous, admitting to thirty-one, she didn't like it to be known that she had a twenty-year-old daughter, and they rarely met. Helen looked quickly out of the window as her face tightened helplessly. She had always had everything any child could wish for, except the one thing that really mattered, the one thing that was possibly more important than anything else in life-—love. Holidays from the various expensive boarding schools had invariably been spent with relatives, because Mummy was very busy, darling—Helen swallowed. Uncle Philip was the one she loved best of all—and she turned to Bill, remembering. 'I must send a cable to a relative,' she told him, 'is there anywhere -' 'We'll stop by the Post Office. It'll not take you a minute.' The trees were dense on either side of the dusty yellow road. Except for the taxi, no traffic had passed them either way, except a boy on a bike with a dog loping after him at scarcely any speed at all. A bright patch of orange caught Helen's eye and she looked to the side to see several small bushy trees with thick dark leaves, bearing oranges. She had never seen them actually growing before, only tissuewrapped in greengrocer's shops. And it somehow brought everything sharply into focus. She really was here, on a tropical island off the coast of Brazil, thousands of miles from home. But what was home? Had she ever known a real home? Would she ever have a place to go, with loved ones waiting, a place to feel secure and wanted, really wanted? Helen didn't know. Uncle Philip had always made her welcome, when it had been his turn to have her. The older brother of Helen's mother, he possessed all the loving qualities so lacking in his sister, and he and Helen had shared many happy times together. And

since she had grown up, it had been to him that Helen had turned for advice—not her mother, whom she scarcely knew... 'Nearly at your place, Marcia. Got everything?' 'Yes, thanks, Bill. Can I ask you in for a quick drink?' 'No, thanks, better not. Hannah is waiting with the table laid. And you know'—his shrug was expressive. 'I know,' Marcia laughed as the Land-Rover began to slow, apparently in the middle of a vast expanse of nothing but trees. But as they stopped Helen caught a glimpse of a low white building through the thick lush vegetation. 'Are there any more houses?' she asked in surprise. Bill answered. 'A few dozen. You have to find your way through the trees first. 'Bye, Marcia.' ' 'Bye. Thanks for the lift. Lovely to meet you, Helen. Do call and see me.' 'Thanks, I will.' They watched her vanish up a hidden drive, then Bill jerked into action. Immediately after the Land-Rover had started, he said: 'Did Marcia tell you anything about this place?' And Helen instinctively knew what he was getting at. It was most odd. She answered carefully: 'A little. She told me she had liked my father.' 'Yes, that's true. And Logan? What did she say about him?' She knew he was going to ask it, it came as no surprise at all, and it was absurd to find her heart missing a beat. 'She doesn't—like him very much.'

Bill's disbelieving roar of laughter shook the vehicle. 'You've a tactful way of putting it, lassie. She hates his guts. And so does my sister—so I'd be obliged if you didn't mention his name at the house while you're there.' That's two women who hate him, thought Helen, so how on earth can he be such a wow with the ladies? 'And do you "hate his guts" as well?' she asked quietly. She might as well find that out now. 'Me? No! I get on with him fine. But'—he gave her a fierce bushybrowed look—'he's a man you can't ignore. And I'll grant you, he can be a bit overwhelming too. But you treat him right, and you'll be fine.' I wonder what he means by treating him right, she thought wryly. She had no intention of being anything else but polite to him— however difficult. His morals, or lack of them, were certainly not her business, but she had to admit a certain flutter of trepidation at the thought of meeting him. If only it could have been Bill she had to see regarding the legacy! Already she felt as if she knew this man well, and liked what she knew. Then her thoughts were forgotten as she saw houses, a thinning of the trees, roads criss-crossing theirs in untidy fashion, a goat trotting purposefully across in front of them, children on bikes—a fat woman with check scarf on her head sitting at the side of the road in the shade of tall palms, with a basket of bananas... 'Well, this is the village—the main one. There's a couple of smaller ones, and a commune of hippies nearby, but this is the central trading point of the island,' Bill said, and looked at Helen for her reaction. They had stopped outside a log building, with windows full of clothes and tinned food, and ornaments. Next to it was a smaller building with no windows at all, only shutters that were open.

'It's just overwhelming,' she answered. 'I feel as if I'm dreaming. And to think my father lived here all these years, and I never -' She stopped and took a deep breath. 'Tell me what he was like,' she said. 'Ah, a good man, a fine friend. You would have -' He stopped. 'I never knew about him,' she answered simply, 'or I would have come before.' 'Ah,' and that sounded differently now, a long gentle sigh. 'Ah, my dear, I didn't realize -' 'My mother told me, when I was old enough to understand, that my father had died when I was born. I don't know why. She had her reasons. But I can't—I can't—' and now she nearly broke down. Bill patted her arm. 'Now then. We'll go and send your cable, eh? This travelling lark's a bit much, even for a youngster like you. Takes it out of you. A good night's sleep's what you need. You'll see everything differently in the morning, and then -' He was getting out as he spoke, coming round to Helen's side, pulling his pipe out of his pocket, patting his shorts for a lighter, and then they went in the small dark Post Office.

'I really couldn't eat any more, thanks.' Helen smiled at the plain middle-aged woman who was Bill's sister. Hannah had greeted her with a cautious, bristly attitude, and Helen had set out quite deliberately to win her over. After Marcia's warning ... 'if she takes to you, you're in, if not...' she had determined to do nothing to give the woman offence, and besides, inwardly she knew a different, deeper reason. Bill was nice; he could be a good friend—but it would be difficult if his sister didn't like her. So Helen smiled pleasantly and warmly at the thin little woman who was so unlike her brother, and

answered all her questions quietly and pleasantly, and felt a gradual thaw. And now... 'It was the most delicious fruit salad I've ever tasted.' And she smiled at Miss Hannah Innes. It was quite true. The mixture of ripe fresh bananas and pineapples and oranges had been delicious, and the thick cream on top added that final touch of luxury. 'Then you'll have coffee?' Hannah had quite a nice smile, when she did smile, and it transformed her face so that Helen caught a glimpse of beauty that might have been. 'Yes, please. Then I really must go and find my new home. I've been here hours, I didn't really intend—I hope I haven't taken up all your time.' 'There's not so much to do, and a new face is welcome.' Hannah sniffed. She poured black coffee out from a beautiful green china coffee pot. 'Cream?' 'Please.' Their home was cool and comfortable. Not luxurious by any means, but the furniture was old and solid and well cared for, and the floors were highly polished red tiles with thin rugs scattered round. Outside it was dark, for night came early in this part of the world, and huge moths fluttered round the lights, casting odd shadows on the ceiling. 'You'll see Helen safely in when you take her home?' Hannah looked hard at her brother, and he nodded. 'Aye, I will.' 'And you'll warn her?' 'Yes, Hannah, though what -'

'Hmm, you know.' She nodded briskly at Helen. 'Though you're welcome to spend a couple of nights here, till you find your feet like. Will you be staying on the island long?' 'I don't know,' Helen answered. 'I just came to see, and -' she smiled and gave a slight shrug. 'You've a job waiting for you, maybe?' Hannah wasn't really nosey, Helen was sure. Just curious about any newcomer to her small community. 'Yes. I work in a large store in London.' That sounded all right. Instinct told Helen that if she admitted being a model, some of the frost might return, and in any case it was true, she did most of her modelling work in Uncle Philip's store, and he'd told her to take just as long as she wanted, because he loved her... 'And I've got leave of absence for a month or so.' 'I see.' Hannah nodded. 'Well, you'll have a good look round, and see if you like it here. There's a good number of English, a few Scots, a lot of Brazilians, and of course the caboclos.' 'Who are they?' 'Mixed Brazilian and Negro blood. If ever you hear music at night, it's them having a get-together. You'll get used to it after a while'— she paused—'I mean if you stay.' 'Yes.' Helen stood up, feeling this was time to leave. She thanked Hannah, and was told she was welcome to call any time, which was somehow heartening, for Helen felt as if the older woman really meant it. Then as they went out of the front door, Hannah called after them: 'And mind now, you tell Helen -'

'Chega!' Bill said it in a low growl, and took Helen's arm as they moved down the darkened path to the road. It had sounded like a reprimand, and for a moment, in that warm sheltering darkness, Helen bit her lip. Bill gave a low throaty chuckle. 'I was telling her to shut up. She's got a bee in her bonnet about Logan— though I should think you've already guessed that.' 'Yes. Who do you have to warn me about? Him?' 'Aye. You know—no, you don't, do you? His house is next door to yours.' Helen stopped walking. 'This house where I'm to stay, my father's old house? He lives next door?' 'Yes.' 'Oh, I see. And are there many others?' 'No. Just the two. You share a garden, and they're both surrounded by trees. Which is why Hannah wanted you to stay with us. She imagines Logan -' 'It's all right. You don't need to put it into words.' But although she spoke lightly, dismay tightened her stomach muscles. 'And this—my home—it's really half his as well, isn't it?' 'Yes, under the terms of the will.' 'And I suppose he'll have a key?' She asked it very casually, very casually indeed. But now she was beginning to wish she had accepted Hannah's well-intentioned invitation after all.

'Oh, my God!' Bill's voice touched a level of despair. 'What can I say? Marcia and Hannah can't stand him—I don't blame you for listening to them'—and they were passing down a narrow tree-lined track that the moonlight did not quite reach, so that Helen shivered as Bill held branches to one side for her to pass— 'but he's not like you think. He would no more dream -' But Bill didn't know that she knew about the girl of fifteen, did he? 'I'm very tired, Bill, after all the travelling, that's all. I'm not normally so silly.' She saw the two dark outlines in front of her, the moon slanting obliquely across whitewashed walls, casting ghostly dark shadows. Bill had taken her cases along before, when she and Hannah had been eating, and he still had the key, so that now he put it in the lock, opened the door and switched on the light. They went into the house. There was a musty dry smell about the room in which they now stood. But it was pleasant, and in sunlight, Helen imagined, would be beautiful. The furniture was of light wood, modern and uncluttered, and an exquisitely embroidered rug hung on one white wall. The floor was of rich dark wood, shiny, expensive- looking, and three doors led off, white louvred doors with curved brass handles. And perhaps something lingered of the man who had lived there for so long, for Helen took a deep breath, and knew that whatever happened, she had been right to come. Uncle Philip had persuaded— no, insisted—that she came to Sun Island, and as usual, his judgement had been sound. 'Thank you, Bill,' she said quietly. Her cases stood on the floor by one of the doors.

He pointed. 'That's the bedroom. Hannah made up the bed for you. It's air-conditioned for the very hot summer weather, though you'll maybe not be needing it tonight. Let me show you round. It won't take us a minute.' He took Helen into each room, kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, and pointed out switches and taps, then carried her cases into the bedroom and closed the shutters. After doing so he turned round and said: 'Are you sure you'll not come back with me? Hannah will -' She shook her head. 'No, thanks, Bill,' and she smiled, and tilted her chin up. 'I'll be all right. I've been used to being independent all my life. I can manage.' Her blue-grey eyes were very clear and beautiful, and Bill saw, and kept on looking, a sharp appreciation lighting his own eyes. 'Ay, I think you will, lassie. But if you want me'—he nodded towards the white telephone standing on an elaborately curved cane table beside the bedroom door —'use that. I'll give you our number,' and he went slowly towards it, patting his pockets, found a crumpled envelope and stub of pencil and bent down to write something. 'You lift the receiver, jab the button until the operator answers, and ask for "trinta"—that's thirty in Portuguese—and if the woman doesn't understand you, say Bill Innes.' He grinned. 'Okay?' 'Yes. Thank you very much, Bill.' She watched him walk away down the path whistling aimlessly. He vanished as soon as he was out of the light flooding from the doorway, and Helen went in and shut the door, then bolted it carefully. She pulled down the cool grey raffia blinds over the living room windows, and went into her bedroom to begin unpacking. Soon

she would have time to think about all that had happened; just now she was too tired, but she intended having a drink before she went to bed. Bill had shown her the provisions he had brought to the house—and for which he had refused her offer of payment—there was instant coffee, tea and sugar, fresh milk in the refrigerator, in a funny carton. Also bread, butter, fresh fruit, and a chunk of cheese. He was thoughtful, was Bill, or maybe it had been Hannah's doing. Whoever it was, Helen was glad that she had met them, glad too that Hannah had shown a certain amount of liking, for Helen sensed her disapproval could be a tangible, unpleasant thing. She hung up the last of her dresses in the sliding doored wardrobe, and walked into the living room to cross to the kitchen. And a sharp knock came on the door. Helen froze, and looked quickly at the telephone as if to reassure herself that it was still there. But could it be Bill returning, having forgotten something? Of course! She crossed to the bolted door. 'Bill?' It was a plea. 'No. Miss Carpenter, my name's Logan, Jake Logan,' came the reply. Helen's mouth went dry. What did she do now? 'I'm just going to bed,' was all she could manage. 'I won't be a moment. I just want to give you the key,' was the answer, and because she had no choice, because she might as well get it over with now, Helen reached up and unbolted the door, then very slowly, reluctantly, opened it.

CHAPTER TWO HELEN was tall, but she had to look up to see the man who stood leaning negligently against the door frame. Her heart was beating fast with a mixture of fear and apprehension at seeing at last this terrible man she had heard such disturbing things about. And their glances met across the two or three feet separating them, and her knees went weak with shock. This was worse—far worse than she had expected. It was like being confronted with a pirate! She had to hold tight to the door to stop herself instinctively slamming it shut. The man, Jake Logan, was over six feet tall, broad- shouldered, dressed in faded jeans and denim jacket with what looked like a white vest or tee-shirt underneath. But it was his face that riveted her attention. Deeply tanned, his hair black and shiny and wet, as if he had just been swimming—and maybe he had. His mouth was well shaped, sensual—even slightly cruel, for there was an arrogant, hackle-raising confidence about him that made prickles stir on the back of Helen's neck. And he wore a black eye patch over his right eye. That was the final touch, that and the sudden quick flash of cynical smile he gave her—as if he knew—as he said: 'Am I to be asked in for a moment or not?' She wanted to say no. Instead she backed and held the door wide— and left it wide open after he had come in, with that arrogant walk she should have known he would have, and turned round and said to her: 'Don't worry, I won't stay—and yes, you should leave the door open, it's safer.'

He had a dark, almost husky voice that was—there was only one word for it—sexy. An unwilling tingle ran up Helen's spine. It had a challenge in it, that voice; it said, behind whatever words he was saying: 'I'm sure you've heard all about me, but I don't really give a damn.' And he looked as if he didn't care a fig for anyone's opinion. He held out a key, then put it down on the sideboard. 'We have a lot of things to discuss, Miss Carpenter, but not tonight. I'm sure you must be very tired after all your travelling.' And why did it seem to Helen that his words were faintly insulting? 'I am,' she answered coolly. 'Perhaps tomorrow?' 'Surely.' He inclined his head slightly as if in agreement. 'I also came to tell you that I'm only next door if you need anything.' 'It's very kind of you,' Helen was coming swiftly back to normal. She even managed to smile at the man. 'But Bill—Mr Innes, and his sister, have been very good, and brought in food.' 'Yes, I know.' He paused, half turned, then added, as if in afterthought: 'This is a very peaceful island— but if anything worries you, just shout out. I'll hear.' She stood very still. She could hardly answer that the only thing she had been frightened of so far was him. 'Thank you, Mr Logan, but I can cope with most things,' she said quietly. He paused again, nearly at the door, turned, and looked coolly at her with that one visible, very deep brown eye. A slight smile touched that wide expressive mouth as he said softly: 'Yes, I'm quite sure you can. Goodnight.' And then he was gone, quietly, shutting the door after him before Helen could move to do so. She stood quite still, the memory of that

cynical smile remaining with her. The sudden flaring dislike before had been unmistakable, a tangible current that had been in the room from the moment he entered it. And both of them had been aware of it, she knew that, for the air had been brittle with it. Helen bolted the door again. Who was to say that he didn't have a duplicate key? She was too confused with her meeting to realize that he would hardly want to break in and seduce her when his whole demeanour had made it quite clear that he found her not the least bit attractive. She touched her cheek reflectively as she went out to the kitchen. That had been in a way an odd new experience. Helen had grown used to men's open admiration. She accepted it, without vanity, as she had done since the age of fifteen when the puppy fat that had been the bane of her life had magically vanished and she had emerged into slender, devastatingly attractive young womanhood. Most men found her irresistible. This one, this virilelooking animal, had acted as though she was some sexless creature of indeterminate age. Helen looked at herself in the mirror over the sink in the kitchen. She was glad—more, relieved. The idea of him ever wanting to touch her made her flesh crawl. She thought of the girl, now seventeen, who was the mother of this man's two-year-old son, and began to shiver. What manner of man was he? She asked herself the question, but she was beginning to think she could guess. * Helen slept well, and woke the next morning to hear church bells in the distance, and it was an oddly comforting English sound so far away from home. Sunlight slanted through the shutters across the bed, on to the cool tiled floor, and she sat up and stretched lazily—then remembered

about her neighbour. And she had to meet him again. Marcia's words came back, advising her to watch Jake Logan, because he would try and get her share of the legacy from her. Could it be true? Was he a villain as well as a seducer? Bill had not seemed a foolish man, or one easily misled—and yet he had made no attempt to warn Helen, in spite of his sister. She went and washed, dressed in her coolest pale- blue cotton dress that was sleeveless, perfectly simple— deceptively so, for it had cost more than she cared to remember. That was one thing Helen had never had to worry about—money. Her mother had always made her a generous allowance when she had been younger, and her own money, now that she was modelling clothes, was ample to keep her well clad. Uncle Philip, wealthy, uncaring about spending, gave her model clothes with monotonous regularity, and Helen's wardrobe at her London flat was crammed its entire length with superbly cut dresses, suits and trouser suits. Now, she smoothed a little pink lipstick on her soft mouth, blotted it, and skilfully swept her hair back into its chignon. That was one of the few things about which her mother had influenced her, and perhaps because Helen so infrequently saw her, the casual advice, so carelessly given, was engraved in her mind. 'Ladies never have their hair loose,' Helena Carr had said, seeing the sixteen-year-old Helen's flowing locks of rich gold. 'It's vulgar, darling.' This from an actress famed as much for her lovers as for her acting roles, but Helen hadn't known of her mother's reputation then, and the maxim had deeply impressed her. She never wore her hair loose. She would have it cut short first—and she had no desire to do that. It was done. She turned away from the mirror, and the image of cool elegance vanished from the glass, and only the faint perfume she always wore lingered in the room.

Helen ate toast and drank coffee in the kitchen. She looked out of the window, and all she saw was a forest of trees, English-looking ones, yet with palms among them, and one laden with fruit like huge yellow pears. After eating she went to stand at the window. The grass was a thick lush carpet of green, and it needed cutting. But it wasn't this that transfixed her, it was the sight of the man standing at the window of the next house. Just for a second, and then he moved away. The houses were almost at right angles to each other, so that the back windows of each were visible to the other one. And Helen had seen him clearly for that moment. Only to the waist, fortunately, for it wasn't certain if he wore any clothes. And he had moved away as soon as she had gone to the window, after all, but she felt the hot colour rush to her face before she quickly turned back to her cooker—anything to get away from the image that burned into her brain. His chest and arms were deeply tanned, hairy and muscular, and she had caught the glimpse of something gold on a chain round his neck before he had moved. And now she knew too why he wore an eyepatch. The glorious black eye he sported needed some sort of cover. She had wondered why Marcia had not mentioned his piratical eyepatch when she had so accurately described him. Probably because he had only just acquired it. Helen repressed the quick tremor of disgust. It was none of her business if he brawled like some drunken dockyard worker everywhere he went, none at all, but violence of any sort showed lack of control. It went with what she had already heard about him. And it showed more clearly than ever just what kind of man he was; and the one question remained that would never be answered: why had her father liked him so?

The knock came soon afterwards. Helen was ready for him, dishes washed and put away, bed made, door unlocked. 'Come in,' she called, and walked slowly into the living room from the kitchen as the front door opened. His opening words were startling to say the least. Helen was to get used to his outspoken bluntness before much longer, but then it still came as a surprise. He walked in, looked at her, and said: 'I'm sorry if I embarrassed you before—I'd forgotten I had a neighbour.' Helen felt herself stiffen with shock. Some things were best forgotten. Surely he could see that? Apparently not. She looked at him. 'You didn't embarrass me,' she replied calmly. 'Will you sit down for a moment?' He regarded her coolly, and the merest glimmer of amusement lit his dark face. 'I've not been up long,' he answered. 'I prefer to stand. I came to see if you wanted to look at the—our boat.' The emphasis was deliberate. 'Yes, please. When? Now?' He shrugged. 'When you like.' He didn't really care, one way or another, that was clear. He frightened Helen, not in the obvious way—but in a more subtle insidious manner. It was as if he sensed her thoughts, and as if he intended to make it quite plain to her that she counted for nothing in his scheme of things. Every movement, every inflection of his voice carried the message: I don't like you. And that was what frightened her. For he had no reason—had he? But there was worse to come. As they went out of the door, he asked: 'How long do you intend to stay here?'

'I don't know. Why?' Her skin prickled with tension. She had never met anyone to whom she felt such an instant antagonism. And that also was distressing to her, because strong emotion was a thing to be well controlled, especially when it was dislike. Jake Logan shrugged. They were not taking the path that she had walked along with Bill the previous night. They were going the other way. 'I wondered if you intended living here permanently.' She didn't intend to say what she did, but it came out anyway. 'I might—if I like the place,' and she looked at him. They were walking along a slightly wider path than the other, and it was protected from the sun by the tall trees, so that the air was cool and green-shaded. And this man strode beside her, dressed as the previous day in faded jeans, a white tee-shirt with short sleeves, and rope-soled sandals— and that eye-patch. 'Why,' she asked, 'do you wear a shade? I would have thought the bruises would go more quickly in the fresh air.' 'Would you? I put it on for your benefit. I thought the sight of a black eye might shock you.' There was a dry cynicism in that husky, sexy voice that Helen didn't like. 'I've seen one before,' she answered. 'I'm sure you have. I'm resting it anyway, so I think I'll keep it on for a couple of days.' And then, quite out of the blue, he said: 'But I'm also sure Marcia and Hannah let you know what an absolute cad I am, so you won't have been surprised, will you?' She glanced quickly at him, alarmed, and he laughed. She was rather amazed to see that he had good white teeth, and they looked as if they were all his own—which for a man always brawling was quite remarkable—unless he always hit first and hardest. He saw her

startled look and nodded: 'Oh, I get to hear everything. Marcia sat with you on the plane—and I dare say Hannah added her two pennyworth when she entertained you—so I don't really blame you for looking at me as if I'd crawled from under a damp stone. It's just unfortunate that some folk can't mind their own business instead of other people's.' Helen stopped walking, and so did he, and turned round. 'Have you finished?' she asked quietly. 'I think so. Why?' His face was hard. 'Just that I don't think it's anything to do with you who I speak to, or what they say to me. I'm certainly not going to tell you anyway, so you can stop fishing.' He stood facing her, legs slightly apart, standing lightly, poised to move, and strength was all about him, so that Helen had the absurd desire to run away —as if this man was a danger to her, and that was absurd. So she faced him, because she had no intention of letting him see how she felt, and she watched him with her startlingly clear greyblue eyes with their dark lashes. And she saw him smile crookedly, and nod. 'That's better. I wondered if you had any human reactions. You have. Good!' 'What do you mean?' There was nobody to overhear them, or even see them. They were completely surrounded by trees. Even the two houses had vanished. It was, she thought, like being in the middle of a tropical jungle. Distant bird sounds came from high in the trees, and that only added to the sense of complete aloneness, of remoteness. 'I think you know. Are you always so damned aloof?'

'You're being insulting, Mr Logan. Are we going to see the boat or not?' 'Yes. In a minute. There's no hurry. There never is on this place—as I'm sure you'd find out if you stayed long enough.' 'You seem very keen to know how long I'll be here,' and she was beginning to feel the disturbing traces of anger now, and feel too the colour come to her cheeks. 'You'll be telling me next that it would have been better if I'd not come.' 'It probably would. After all, you left it a bit late, didn't you?' Shock drained that colour from her cheeks. 'You had better explain that, I think,' she said, very clearly. 'Surely you know? He was here for over eighteen years before he died. You couldn't come to see your own father when he was alive, so it seems rather indecent to me to come now, so soon after he's dead.' His words were cruel and harsh, and they struck Helen with the force of a blow. She flinched, and her head went back as if he had indeed hit her. The shock was too great for her to speak for a moment. And then, when she could, her voice was almost shaky. 'What you've just said is unforgivable. How dare you speak to me like that?' 'I dare because I admired your father greatly. He was a good friend— perhaps one of the best I've ever had. He was a lonely man in lots of ways. A letter from his daughter would have brought some happiness into his life. You didn't care to write, did you? But you couldn't get here fast enough when he left you his things.' Helen still reeled with shock. Nothing like this had ever happened before. Nobody had ever spoken to her so, and the wound went deep.

Very steadily, she answered : 'I couldn't write to a man I didn't know was alive. I didn't know I had a father until it was too late.' And Jake Logan looked long and hard at Helen. 'I don't believe you,' he said bluntly. Helen did something she had never done before in her life. She swung up her arm and slapped him across his face as hard as she could. Without a word he turned and walked away from her. For a moment she stood there trembling, hand still tingling from what she had done, and then, realizing that she would be hopelessly lost if she let him get out of sight, she walked quickly after the man striding along the path. She saw his fists clenched at his sides; even his back looked angry, and she knew what would have happened if she had been a man. But, strangely, she was no longer afraid of him. For she knew now why he disliked her so. * She caught up with him as he emerged from the trees. And then she stood still, forgetting what had happened at the sight spread there before her. A golden sandy beach stretched along for about a mile to the right, and at the end of it there began a cluster of houses. To her left, rocks piled precariously high with steps cut in, and from them, leading straight out into the calm greeny-blue sea, with foamy-white breakers at its edge was a long wooden jetty to which several boats were moored, bobbing gently up and down, occasionally bumping into each other. There was no one in sight, and high overhead in a pale bright sky several gulls wheeled and dipped, crying harshly. Jake Logan had stopped too, as if realizing what this first sight of the sea might do to Helen. But he didn't look at her, merely waited. In spite of his cruel

words, she regretted her hasty action in striking him. She deplored violence, yet she was guilty of it, even if perhaps it had been justified. Then he spoke, voice tight: 'The boat is there,' and he pointed to the one furthest out. Helen looked at it, reading the words painted on the side, small from where she stood, but quite clear: 'Bruxa do Mar.' 'It's called Sea Witch,' he said, as if reading her thoughts. 'Come on, we'll——' He was interrupted by a voice shrieking: 'Jake, oi, Jake!' and Helen looked round to see what looked like three children pelting along the sandy shore from the direction of the tiny faraway houses, towards where she stood. Two small boys led the way, followed by a girl, a little older, probably a young teenager— and then, as they neared, the girl slowed down perceptibly, and ended in a slow foot- dragging kind of walk. Her eyes were on Helen. And then Helen saw that this was no child, but a young woman. And something told her who it was. Jake bent and scooped the two shrieking boys into his arms, and began speaking to them in what Helen assumed was Portuguese. He was laughing, a different man entirely from what he had been with Helen. Then he spoke to the girl. 'Serena, what are you doing here?' There was nothing in his tone to give him away. He might have been talking to a younger sister, and Helen suppressed the faintly sick feeling inside her. It was nothing to do with her—but which one was his son? She looked at the boys as he set them down on the dry golden sand. Both barefoot, chubby, and tanned, one was perhaps five, with fair silky hair and engaging blue eyes. The other, younger, darker, had deep brown eyes—and was maybe aged two. Helen's heart skipped a beat. She knew.

Jake confirmed it when he touched the younger boy on the head and said: 'Toby should have a hat on, Serena.' The girl shrugged. 'He threw it away.' She looked shyly at Helen as she spoke, her accent strong, as if wondering what this English girl would make of her speaking English. Helen smiled at her. She was so young and vulnerable-looking, and her heart went out in a warm wave of sympathy. She was little more than a child herself, yet this little boy was hers. 'Then you should make him wear it. You're his mother. He must do as you tell him.' He said something sharply to the boy, who looked up, giggled, then, seeing the expression on Jake's face, bit his lip. Jake seemed to remember something. 'This is Serena Garcia, she lives in the village near Bill and his sister. Serena, this is Miss Carpenter from England. Say hello.' 'Hello.' Serena bobbed her head shyly, and gave Helen a sweet smile. 'Hello, Serena.' The girl's eyes were large and dark, but her hair was deep gold, almost like Helen's, an unusual and attractive combination of colours. There was something faintly, elusively familiar about her face, but Helen could not place what it was. Yet it puzzled her, and would return later to tease her. The boys provided a distraction by starting to run round the three adults, laughing and shrieking as boys will do all over the world. Helen concentrated on watching them, trying not to listen to Jake as he spoke to Serena in that deep husky voice that held no harshness or bitterness in it now. The older boy fell, and Helen was nearest, so she bent and picked him to his feet and dusted the sand from his shorts. He wriggled away laughing, and Jake said: 'We're going to look over the boat. Don't have them going in the sea today, the tide is too strong. You hear me, Serena?'

'I hear you, Jake,' the girl looked defiant for a moment, then grinned. 'I will see you later, yes?' 'Perhaps. Adeus!' He turned away, and after a moment, and a quick smile at the girl, Helen followed him. Serena was dressed in a plain blue sleeveless shift, and was barefoot, and the forlorn, almost pathetic picture she made as she watched Jake walk away remained in Helen's mind for a long time afterwards. Helen had never known what it was to feel hatred for anybody before. It was a new, disturbing sensation. He disliked her because he clearly considered her a greedy fortune-hunter. It was nothing to the loathing she now felt for him. For the casual way he acted towards the girl he had so vilely treated—and could be still, for all Helen knew. She followed him down the rough wooden jetty, and he came to Sea Witch and stopped, then leapt lightly down on to the deck. He stood waiting for Helen, and when she measured the distance and jumped, caught and held her. For one moment she felt strong fingers holding her round the waist, strong impudent hands, then she wrenched herself free and moved quickly away, breathing hard. His voice cut like a whiplash. 'You should have said if you didn't want helping.' 'I didn't know you were going to,' she answered, and the loathing in her eyes must have been obvious, for she made no attempt to hide it. She saw his face tighten.. 'Who told you?' he asked. 'Told me what?' but they both knew. 'I saw you—on the beach—it was quite clear what you were thinking. Which one was it who told you about Serena—Marcia or Hannah?'

'I'm not going to tell you,' she answered. 'But you know that I'm supposed to be Toby's father, don't you?' 'Aren't you?' He gave a grim smile. 'Would you believe me if I said no?' 'No, I wouldn't,' she answered. 'You have the consolation of knowing I wouldn't slap you across the face if you called me a liar,' he shot back. 'But otherwise I reckon we're quits.' 'Perhaps. It's none of my business anyway.' Helen turned away, pretending an indifference she did not feel. 'Who is the other little boy?' 'Paulo? Serena's nephew. She lives with her married sister and her husband.' Helen could not help it. Her next words were wrenched out of her. 'Don't you care?' she exclaimed. And he didn't have to ask what she meant. For a moment he was silent. Then he said, in a voice quite unlike his usual one: 'I may care more than you —or anyone—knows. But'—a casual, bitter shrug—'as you say, it's none of your business. Shall we look round the boat?' 'Yes.' The subject was closed. The ice was dangerously thin, but if they were to behave in a civilized manner, then some things would be better unspoken. For Helen knew she must try and control her dislike of the man her father had been sufficiently fond of to leave half his possessions to, otherwise, she knew instinctively, life on the island, living so close to this dark, hateful man, would be very difficult.

And so she tried hard, and perhaps Jake Logan sensed it as well, for his own manner was different as he showed her round the boat, with its neat cabin containing two single bunks and many lockers in polished brown wood, its galley, small washroom with toilet and shower, and the large windows with gay red curtains looped back on fine chains. After seeing the bridge, with its imposing array of instruments, and an efficient-looking radio transceiver, they returned to the cabin. Helen was impressed. She could see why this man might be reluctant to share such a beautiful boat with anyone. Was he disappointed at finding out that Robert Carpenter had had a daughter? Perhaps. She could not ask, ever. Certain subjects must remain taboo if they were to establish any kind of truce at all, and that was one of them. Jake pointed to one of the bunks. 'Sit down,' he said. 'I'll make us some coffee. It's powdered milk, not fresh. Okay?' 'Yes. Thank you.' She sat down, and the seat was comfortable, very much so, and she bounced up and down experimentally a few times as he went out of the cabin and into the galley, stooping a little in the low doorway. She heard him moving about, the clatter of spoons, the hiss of gas, and then, after a minute or so a low, rising note of a whistling kettle, growing louder, then cut off abruptly as he switched off the stove. He carried in two beakers and set them down on the table. 'Right. Now we can talk. Do you smoke?' She didn't normally, but she needed something. 'Occasionally.' Then, as he handed her the packet for her to take one: 'Thanks.'

He lit hers, then his own, and they could have been strangers meeting across a cafe table, except that the atmosphere wasn't quite right for that. Helen waited for him to speak. She was gradually relaxing; her model's training and her own upbringing standing her in good stead, for she needed something to help her in the intangible battle with this unpredictable man. 'All right,' he said. 'All things apart, we have to discuss a few basic things about our joint inheritance. There are three items that we share. One, the house in which you are at present staying. Two, this boat, Sea Witch, and thirdly a small island, Ilha das Tormentas, which roughly translated means Island of Storms.' Helen nodded. She knew this already. 'Yes,' she answered. He looked at her very steadily, very directly as was his way. 'So,' he went on, 'what do we do about them?' 'You tell me,' she answered. 'All right, I will. It's obvious that we don't wish to remain sharing these things—so I'll buy your share. I'll give you a fair price for everything. If you want, see a solicitor in Santos or Sao Paulo.' 'No,' said Helen. 'No? What do you mean? You don't want to see a solicitor?' 'I don't want to sell.' And then she added, just to make it clear: 'Not to you, or anyone else.' 'May I ask why?' He was being politely curious, not annoyed, not anything particularly, but there was a vibrant tension gradually growing in the air of that small cabin, a dull smouldering fuse, and

she sensed that his volatile temper could easily be roused. Oddly enough, Helen felt quite ready for him. Strange, because she didn't like trouble or upset, but with him— there was a difference. A vast difference, only she didn't know why. 'Because,' she answered calmly, and her face looked at that moment beautiful and untroubled, and she couldn't imagine the effect it was having on the man with her, 'I might stay on here—I might decide to live here. And if I do, I'll certainly need a house to live in, won't I?'

CHAPTER THREE 'So, you might stay,' Jake Logan said it quite calmly, as if seeing how he liked the sound of the words. 'And if you do, as you say, you'll need somewhere to live. And the house is half mine.' 'But we could come to some arrangement'—she looked round, waved her arm—'with this boat—or the island -' She was trying him out. 'I might not choose to sell my half of the house,' he calmly interrupted her. She frowned at something in his tone. 'But you expected me to,' she reminded him. 'True,' he nodded, and it might have been amusement in his tanned pirate's face—or again, it might not. 'But there's a difference, isn't there?' It was quite strange. Helen had not originally intended to say what she had. Life was London, and modelling, and the safe secure world with Uncle Philip, and a few friends, in the background. Life was not here, on this sunbaked island with a lot of strangers, some friendly, one frankly hostile, and the ghost of a man she had never even known. But Jake Logan could not guess that; for all he knew, what she said could be true—so why was she trying to rile him? Helen did not know. She did realize that the thought of staying here was somehow growing more appealing, even if only as a pipe dream. And she had no intention of letting him know that that was all it was; a dream. 'I don't see the difference,' she answered slowly.

'Don't you? I've lived here for eight years. You've been here, how long? Twelve hours?' The husky sexy voice taunted her with its quality of dry cynicism. 'A lot of decisions can be made in twelve hours.' He stubbed out the last of his cigarette and finished his coffee. Standing up, he said: 'Right, so you don't want to sell. Neither do I. Stalemate. Want more coffee?' 'No, thank you. Where's the island?' He paused as he was about to go through the doorway into the galley. 'I wondered how long it would take you to get around to that.' 'Did you? Is it far?' If he wanted to make her angry, he wasn't going to succeed. Helen had been more hurt than angry before, when he had said those unforgivable words and she had hit him. It would not happen again, she would see to that. She sat there at the table, watching the steam rise from what was left of her coffee, and she didn't imagine what was to happen so soon, that would turn all her ideas, all her life, completely upside down. The coffee cup was no crystal ball; she was no fortune-teller—and some things are better not known in advance. 'About five hours by boat—or one by plane.' 'By plane? Can I fly there?' 'No,' and he laughed, and vanished into the galley. 'But it was to give you an idea of the distance. You flew from Santos to here.' 'Yes. And by boat? This boat?' He reappeared, wiping his hands down the side of his denims. 'Possibly.'

'Then when can I go?' 'What's the hurry?' 'There's no hurry,' she agreed. She would keep calm. She would not allow him to succeed. And so she smiled at him. She knew the effect that smile could have on men, and usually did. On him it was apparently wasted. He breathed in deeply, and his mouth tightened, then he turned and went out to the galley again, and she heard the clatter of a cup falling into the sink, followed by a bittenoff oath. Helen's lips trembled for a moment with suppressed laughter. It had had an effect after all. Not perhaps a very flattering reaction— but better than nothing. She followed him out to see him picking up pieces of broken crockery and putting them in a plastic bag. Then he sucked his finger and she made a small sympathetic sound. 'Have you cut yourself?' she enquired. She couldn't understand it. She had had almost a feeling of satisfaction at the thought. He looked up darkly and removed his finger from his mouth to enable him to say: 'No, I like sucking my finger, hadn't you noticed?' But there was a nasty-looking little slit near the nail, so that she drew in breath sharply. 'Hadn't you better put a dressing on or something?' 'When I've picked these up.' 'I'll do that.' There wasn't an awful lot of room in the tiny galley, and she regretted her offer as she went in. She didn't like being so close to him—and then he moved away, back into the cabin, and she was alone. It hadn't been her imagination, that prickly discomfort she had felt when, for a moment, they had brushed past each other. He had

been aware of it too, she knew as certainly as if he had said, and she took a deep unsteady breath. She didn't know what to make of him—or of her own reaction to him. She had never been so conscious of a man before, never so nerve-tinglingly aware—and it was disturbing, almost, frightening. This man in the space of so few hours had brought her to a sharp realization of herself, and of him. The sensation was not entirely unpleasant—which was puzzling, because he was everything she abhorred; quick-tempered, quick-fisted—and a womaniser. Helen bent to pick up the few remaining pieces from where they had fallen on the floor, careful not to cut herself. And he still hadn't answered her question about the island. When she had finished she carried the bag into the cabin and saw him fixing a plaster on his finger. 'Can I hire a boat?' she asked him. 'What for?' 'To go to the island.' 'I doubt it.' 'Then can I go in this?' Was he being deliberately obstructive? 'No-o. It needs an overhaul.' She looked round the cabin. 'It looks all right to me.' He lifted a cynical eyebrow. 'Do you know much about engines?' Damn the man! 'No. But—well, it's a fairly new boat, isn't it?'

'Three years old, as a matter of fact. Your father spent many happy hours aboard her. He went long trips, sometimes alone, sometimes with Bill or me, fishing, taking photographs. It's a good boat, Sea Witch, a damned good boat.' She wanted to know all about her father. There was so much she wanted to hear—but not from Jake Logan. From Bill, or Hannah, yes. But from this aggressive, prickly man, with his veiled insinuations or downright insults, it would be too uncomfortable. 'When will it be overhauled, then?' 'When I have time.' And she caught a glimpse of his dark face as he turned away to replace the tin in its locker. He was enjoying himself. And there was nothing Helen could do about it, that was what was so awful. She experienced a horrible, helpless feeling, as if she was fighting an invisible, amorphous enemy. Because that was what he was—her enemy. He hated her because he thought she was a fortune-seeker, coming now, only out for what she could get. Nothing she could say or do would convince him otherwise— and why should she want to anyway? If only he knew the truth—that Helen had not wanted to come at all, but that Uncle Philip had. told her it was her duty, now, after all these years; that if her father hadn't wished it so, he would not have left her so much. Helen's first instinct had been to instruct the solicitors to transfer her half of the legacy to the Mr Logan who had the other portion, because he must have known her father well, and therefore had more right. But Uncle Philip had told her that would be wrong. She must go. And she had. And now she was here, and the island was more beautiful than she could ever have imagined—but this man was spoiling it all, turning it all awry, a disturbing sensation, and one she had never encountered before.

'Are you very busy?' she asked. 'I mean, will you have time soon?' But she didn't want to go to the island with him anyway, and already a slight idea was beginning to form at the back of her mind, a slight idea, but a good one. And she felt a tingle of anticipation. Jake Logan put his hands flat on the table and looked at her. 'Yes, I am busy,' he answered. 'I've got a lot of gardening to do—seen the grass at the two houses? And I have other things, but I'll start on Sea Witch as soon as I have time. Does that satisfy you?' 'Do you get pleasure from being rude?' she asked. 'I wasn't aware that I was.' But a muscle tightened in his cheek. 'Oh, yes, you are. But I dare say it comes naturally to you, Mr Logan,' she had taken enough, and now she was going to tell him a few things, and she didn't stop to think why she was doing it. 'After all, if anyone answers you back, you just belt them one, don't you?' He began to laugh, and she would have sworn that his amusement was genuine. 'Do I?' he said eventually. 'Is that what they told you? I mean, am I supposed to go round beating up women as well as men?' And then, when she didn't answer: 'Go on. Am I?' 'I don't know. If you must know—it wouldn't surprise me.' And she tilted her chin defiantly. 'Then what the hell are you doing on board the boat with me? You're taking a chance, aren't you?' He looked her swiftly, appraisingly up and down. 'If I'm such a swine, hadn't you better be careful what you say to me?' 'No. Because you don't frighten me. I'm stronger than I look.'

He gave a twisted smile. 'Are you? Shall we put it to the test?' And he could have been joking—but nothing was sure, nothing was quite what it seemed—with him. She shook her head. 'I hate violence. It's—there's something disgusting—horrible, about fighting—about any kind of force.' 'I agree. There is. And having said that, perhaps you'll tell me something, Miss Holier-than-thou Carpenter. If you were a man, and you were passing a dark alley, and you heard a woman screaming in terror, and you looked to see two men trying to pull her clothes off, as well as punch her with their fists, what would you do?' The force of his words, the meaning and impact stilled Helen. His wide mouth twisted cynically. 'Lost your tongue?' 'I'd go and—I suppose I'd go in and help.' 'Right. And that's where I got this,' he lifted the eye- patch to reveal even more glorious hues than she had seen that morning in those disastrous few seconds at the kitchen window. 'It was a choice between a black eye or a knife in the ribs. I removed the knife to a safer place, but couldn't quite dodge this. The lady in question got away. Oh, it was a rough area, and no decent woman would be found within a mile of that spot— and I dare say she had a nifty line in pocket-picking— but even so I didn't like the odds. So I shortened them. I left the two bully boys nursing sore heads and came away quietly. So you hate violence. Admirable. So do I. But I don't always have a choice, do I?' 'Where did this happen?' she asked. 'On another island about twenty miles away from here, two nights ago. I was there—well, never mind why I was there, I was. It's a good

tourist trap, plenty of night clubs, bags of "atmosphere" for dollarhappy Americans—and lots of locals willing to take chances.' Helen looked at him. 'What do you want me to say?' she asked. 'Nothing. I'm just putting a small part of the record straight. Marcia and Hannah and a few others, don't know it all—not by a long shot.' 'But why should you feel the need to explain anything to me?' she said quietly. 'I wouldn't have thought you cared a jot for my opinion of you.' He gave a twisted grin. 'Too true. I just wanted to see your face when I told you. Sometimes that mask of queenly refinement slips; you should do it more often —it makes you seem quite human.' 'I don't have to take such insults,' she breathed. 'I'm going!' 'Lady, I haven't even started with you.' His words followed her as she walked out and up the steps from cabin to deck. They had an ominous ring to them.

Helen was tired from travelling, and rested after a light lunch of fresh pineapple and bread and butter. She was still shaken after her encounter with Jake Logan, and annoyed with herself for letting him have such an effect on her. Nobody had ever succeeded in ruffling her calm like he could do with just a few well- chosen words. She turned restlessly on the bed as she thought back again to the scene on the boat, and his parting words. They had had an ominous ring to them, almost like a threat. A shiver ran through her, and the picture of his face came back to haunt her—a strong face, perhaps even handsome without that eye-patch, certainly with an air of animal magnetism surrounding him. And the sort of man who got his

own way in most things, she imagined—and that was disturbing too, in a different way. Eventually she dozed, and when she woke it was cooler. She looked at her watch; nearly five-thirty, and soon it would be dark. Helen slipped out of bed and pulled on her housecoat as she went into the kitchen for coffee. She intended to visit Bill and Hannah, and the sooner the better, before the light went. The plan, vaguely half formed on the boat, had crystallized. She needed a word with Bill about it. She sensed that he liked her-—she certainly liked him, and Hannah too. And there had been hundreds of books and magazines in their house. Helen knew she would need something to read to help her sleep that night, and something to pass the hours alone. And tomorrow was another day. There would be shopping to do, letters to write to England—Uncle Philip especially. Then sunbathing, perhaps a walk along the beach or a swim. The holiday, the next few weeks here would do her good, she knew. Helen had, reached the pitch, before coming away, of being tense and nervous, and constantly tired. And she was sensible enough to know that a few weeks' rest and relaxation without the tension that was an integral part of life in a modelling world would do her good. She intended to make the most of it. Jake Logan would have to be pushed firmly out of her mind. And that, as she would so soon find out, would be easier said than done. Hannah called out: 'Come in, it's not locked,' and Helen pushed open the thin wooden door and entered the cool hall. Hannah's voice floated out again: 'In the kitchen. Who is it?' 'Helen Carpenter.' 'Oh, hello.' Hannah came out from the kitchen that led directly off from the long hall. 'I was just making some shortbread. Come in and sit down. You'll have a drink?'

'Please.' Helen followed her into the cool cream and white kitchen, and watched the older woman as she poured sharp-looking lime juice from a jug into two glasses, and added ice from the refrigerator. 'Did you want Bill? He'll not be long.' 'Yes and no.' Helen smiled. 'I came visiting really— and to try and borrow a few books.' 'Books! You can help yourself. They're nearly all Bill's. Every so often I threaten to throw them all away —and sometimes I have a crafty clear out—if I think he won't miss them. Aye, you're welcome to what you want.' Hannah's face was transformed by that rare smile, to which Helen found herself responding. 'Thank you. I thought I'd read tonight. I slept this afternoon—so I'll probably lie awake when I go to bed,' she admitted. 'You'll soon get used to the climate. It's very relaxing really. I always sleep like a top here. Never do if I go away.' Then, without a change of tone, as she busied herself cutting out the floury shapes: 'And you'll have met Jake Logan, I imagine?' 'Yes.' Helen swallowed the deliciously cool lime. 'He came to give me the house key last night—and showed me the boat this morning.' Hannah sniffed. 'And what do you think of him?' 'I don't—particularly—like him.' Helen slowly admitted. 'And the feeling's mutual. He made it quite clear that he thinks I've only come for what I can get.' 'Oh, he would.' Hannah briskly greased a baking tray. 'He's never been one to mince his words, our Jake. You want to give as good as

you get. It's the only way with him. One of these days he'll meet his match —and I'd like to be there to see it.' But Helen didn't want to talk about Jake Logan. She wanted to know about the island—and what Hannah thought about her idea before she broached it to Bill. 'I want to go to the Island of Storms—the one my father owned. Do you know anything about it?' she asked Hannah, who paused and looked across the room, as if seeing the place, as she answered: 'I went once on Sea Witch with Bill and your dad. Ah, there's a nice little place for you. It's only small, mind, I mean compared to this one, and there's not a soul on it, which is a shame, for the fruit is bursting off the trees, and you get all sorts of birds nesting there. You go and see it, my dear—you'll get a surprise.' 'That's just it. How do I get there? I asked Jake Logan—and you can see he doesn't want me to go. He says Sea Witch wants an overhaul, and he hasn't got time -' She stopped at the sight of Hannah's face. 'Why, what is it?' she faltered. 'Huh! That boat's as good as any on this island. He's hoping you'll not bother if he doesn't take you. There's nothing wrong with her at all! And I suppose he's trying to buy everything off you?' 'Yes,' Helen admitted. 'But I don't want to sell. I can't explain why. I just need time to think, that's all.' 'Of course you do. And don't let him rush you. You've as much right to everything as he has.' 'I was wondering about asking Bill to take me there,' Helen said tentatively. 'After all, I am legally entitled to use the boat, aren't I? I dare say Mr Logan has been using it these last few weeks.'

'He has,' Hannah answered. 'And you can ask Bill when he comes in. Mind how you do it, though. He's quite pally with that man—be tactful.' Helen laughed. 'I'll try.' A small strange excitement filled her. Having Hannah on her side was important, for Helen was the stranger here, and this woman, she sensed, had a kind heart, in spite of her rather uncompromising exterior. They talked for a while on general matters, about the island, and about Helen's father, Robert. The picture gradually emerged of a kindly man, liked by all, who never spoke about his life in England, and who appeared to have settled completely into island life in his small comfortable house. Hannah finished her baking, and they ate some of the light crumbly shortbreads and drank coffee while she searched out a box of old photographs and gave Helen two of Robert Carpenter aboard Sea Witch. On one, in the background, stood Jake Logan, caught just as he was turning away, as if realizing the camera was on him. Hannah sniffed as she handed it to Helen. 'Hmm, didn't see him on it before. Look at him— doesn't like his picture taken from the look of it—got his hand going up to his face -' and Helen looked again. It was true. Jake Logan was lifting his hand to his face, very much in the manner of those celebrities who shun the limelight. It was not until much later that a slight suspicion began to form in Helen's mind. But not-then. She was more concerned with seeing the man who was so completely a stranger—yet to whom she owed her existence. And he was just as she would have imagined, tall, thin, with grey hair and a gentle, kindly face.

'May I—keep these?' she asked Hannah as she looked up from them, her eyes bright. Hannah's face softened slightly. 'Why, of course. That's why I looked them out. I meant to do it yesterday when you were here, but—well, I forgot. Here, I'll find you an envelope or something to keep them clean. While I'm doing it, you can search out some books and magazines, and—here's Bill, I think.' The outer door had slammed. And, just as if to make sure they had heard: 'It's only me!' 'Helen's here,' called Hannah, then quietly to her: 'Wait till he's walking you back home, then ask.' Helen nodded. 'I will.' Bill had been fishing. Three shiny white fish were deposited in the sink, and he began to gut them. 'You'll take one home for breakfast?' he said over his shoulder to Helen. 'That's very nice of you,' she answered. 'How do I cook it?' 'I'll show you when you go home. Grilled is best, with a little butter on.' He sighed heavily. 'And that's making me mouth water!' They laughed, and he began telling them about something that had happened on a previous fishing trip, and it was amusing, but Helen was only half listening. In her mind she was planning how to approach him about a visit to the Ilha das Tormentas... She stayed there longer than she had intended, but they were both such good company, each in their different ways, and Bill told Helen something that filled her with a warm glow as they set off home, he carrying the filleted fish, and half-a-dozen books, she holding several women's magazines and a small bagful of shortbreads for her supper.

'You know,' Bill remarked as they reached that particularly dark stretch of path that gave Helen an uneasy feeling even in daylight, 'Hannah's quite taken to you. I'm glad. She's not really got many friends here, and she seems to have perked up since you visited us yesterday.' 'I'm glad,' Helen answered quietly. 'She's a very nice person. I hope we can be friends. I got slightly the wrong impression from -' and she stopped, realizing that what she had been about to say might be construed as tactless. 'Marcia or Jake?' Bill enquired, much amused. 'It's all right, you don't need to say anything. She doesn't get on with either of them very well—for different reasons, I might add.' 'No,' Helen agreed slowly. 'I can see why—I mean, especially with Jake Logan. I don't really know Marcia at all.' 'And you think you know Jake?' he said, laughing. This was her cue. 'Not very well. But what I do know I don't like,' and they were nearly at the house now, so her voice was low, in case the sound carried— even though music came from behind the lighted windows of Jake Logan's house, and he would hardly hear above that. They went in, and Helen continued: 'He doesn't bother to conceal what he thinks about me, I'm afraid.' She put the magazines and biscuits down, and took the other books from Bill who then went out to the kitchen. Following him out, Helen went on: 'I want to go and see the island, but he doesn't want to take me. Bill—will you take me, on Sea Witch?' She hadn't meant to put it so bluntly, she had intended to lead up to it gradually, but that was how it came out, for she suddenly knew that that was how Bill would understand it best.

He was stooping by the refrigerator, carefully putting the fish in on a plate. And he looked round, and up, and slowly straightened, his face split by a grin that was only half surprised. 'Without his lordship knowing, you mean?' She nodded. 'Yes.' He gave a low whistle, fingering his jaw. 'Lassie, do you know what you're asking?' 'I think so.' She tilted her chin defiantly. 'It is half mine—and he's been using it, hasn't he?' 'Aye,' Bill slowly agreed. 'And you'll not have seen Jake Logan in a temper, will you?' 'No. But he doesn't frighten me,' she rejoined swiftly. He laughed, a deep rumble from somewhere in his chest. 'Maybe not. He wouldn't fight a woman. I'd not like to get on the wrong side of him, though.' 'Then—you won't?' She was shocked. She had thought... He lifted those bushy brows. 'I didn't say that. I'll need to think about it. Aye, you've the right, well enough. When would you want to go?' Helen's plummeting spirits lifted. And she knew she had won. But she didn't know what was to come ... 'As soon as possible. Tomorrow?' 'Whoa now! Let's not rush. It's a ten-hour journey in all. That means loading up with fuel—and water— and some food. And if we're

going to do it quietly like, if you follow me—when Jake's not here, it'll have to be Wednesday or Thursday. I think he's flying to Santos one of those days. I'll find out, and we'll sort it all out.' 'Can we go while he's away?' she asked, eyes lighting up. 'He need never know at all --' Bill grinned. 'You're persistent, do you know that? Let's see. That's all I'll promise.' 'You'll want money for fuel, won't you? The solicitor I had to see in Santos gave me some—enough for me to stay here a while, and I brought plenty anyway -' He held up his hand. 'Hold on there! Let me get everything, then I'll tell you. Easier that way. We can sort it out after. I have enough to cover everything. You know, Helen, I'm quite looking forward to this'— and he smiled slowly. 'I feel like a schoolboy again, planning to play truant,' and he chuckled. 'Me, feeling like a lad!' He shook his head wonderingly. 'Well, let's get on with showing you how to cook the fish,' and he strode over to the cooker and pulled out the grill pan. 'Now, see, this is a bit tricky. It's bottled gas, but you knew that, of course. So it's a bit different from what you're used to -' he went on explaining, and Helen listened, and paid attention, but not with all of her mind. The rest of her was occupied with thinking about a trip to an island on Sea Witch—and how, with a little luck, Jake Logan need never know.

Bill left shortly afterwards, after not only showing Helen how to cook the fish, but how the radio and record player worked. She made herself coffee, put on a long-playing record of Perry Como's, and curled up on the settee with a pile of women's

magazines, and two shortbread biscuits. It was past ten o'clock, and she hadn't expected to feel tired so early, especially not after a sleep in the afternoon, but she found the lines of a story blurring and dancing after a while. The coffee was finished, the first side of the record neared its end, and she stood up and brushed a few last crumbs from her skirt into the hearth. In the morning she would do some shopping, go for a walk, then perhaps go to the beach and take a look at Sea Witch. Helen tidied everything away, checked the doors were securely locked, and then went to close the living room blinds. It was dark outside, with the tall trees outlined sharply and blackly against the purple velvet sky. She stood there for a moment, feeling suddenly happy. She was glad she had come. Then a door slammed, she heard a girl's laughter, and she did something quickly, instinctively— switched off the light, then moved back to the window to stand quite still. Two shapes were clearly to be seen in the darkness. A man and a girl, walking away from Jake Logan's house, towards the path leading to the village. Helen recognized the faint outline of that pale shift dress that Serena had worn, heard her voice clearly in the cool night air, Jake's deeper, huskier voice in reply, and she turned away from the window and let the blind fall, her tranquil mood suddenly shattered. She had shut the scene outside from sight, but she could not shut it from her mind. Nor could she lose the faint sick feeling given her by the picture of those two... She tried not to think about them, but it was a long time before she managed to fall asleep.

CHAPTER FOUR HELEN had forgotten that Portuguese was the main language of the island, and when she went to the large general store next to the Post Office from where she had sent the cable on the day of her arrival, it was rather disconcerting to find that the two cheery brown- skinned girl assistants spoke no English. They giggled a lot, and Helen found herself joining in as she tried to point to the various items she needed. Gradually the things mounted in a pile on the counter, and then she remembered writing paper and envelopes. There were none to be seen. Helen made writing motions on the counter, and mimed licking a stamp and sticking it on an envelope, a performance which was met with a brace of appreciative but non- comprehending smiles. Then two chattering voices were heard, the door burst open, and Paulo came in, followed by his cousin Toby, both of whom were giggling and laughing. 'Oh!' Helen felt a mixture of relief and dismay. Serena was near if the boys were about, and she spoke English well—but had she seen Helen watching her from the house the previous night? The next moment Serena walked in, chiding the boys, then, seeing Helen, she stopped abruptly. She smiled shyly. 'Hello,' she said. 'Hello, Serena.' It was all right. 'Can you help me? I need writing paper and envelopes, but I'm afraid I don't know how to ask.' 'I will help you.' She really was a good-looking child. Child? thought Helen suddenly, watching Serena as she spoke to the girls in Portuguese. She's about three years younger than me—yet she

looks like a girl, like a little defenceless girl. She felt a sharp pang of pain inside her. And that man ... How hateful he was, how awful. 'Thank you, Serena.' A bright blue writing pad and even brighter blue envelopes were produced from a dusty drawer with a flourish and laid on the counter beside Helen's food. Serena turned to her and smiled. 'You have too much to carry,' she said, 'we will help you.' She turned to the boys who seemed to be trying to bury themselves in the refrigerator full of frozen food standing in the corner, and shouted to them. Helen said: 'Let me buy them an ice cream—and you too, for helping.' 'Please, yes.' Serena spoke to one of the smiling assistants, who went over to the refrigerator while her companion vanished into the back of the shop. The two boys were firmly lifted out, and they promptly ran giggling to Serena. A few minutes later they were all walking back in the direction of Helen's house, the two girls each carrying a cardboard box full of groceries while the two little boys ran on ahead, leaving a trail of ice cream drips on the dusty path. As they neared the front door, with Jake's house there, in front of them, Helen could not help it. She stole a quick glance at Serena, but she was walking calmly along, box under one arm, licking the ice cream that was held in the other, her tanned face pleasant and smiling. Serena, Helen thought. The name suits her. She is serene, and calm, a beautiful girl, and she'll be a lovely-looking woman in a few years.

'Please, will you come in?' Helen asked as she put down her box to open the door. She didn't know why she was doing it. It would really be the wisest thing to have as little as possible to do with this girl. After all, what lies might he not have told her about Helen? She could imagine, and the thought was a disquieting one. 'I will bring in the food and help you put it away,' Serena agreed. 'Then I must take the boys to the beach.' 'I'm going there too. I want to swim later. Is it safe?' Helen remembered what she had heard Jake tell Serena the previous day. Serena shrugged. 'Now she is safe. The tide comes in. Is good. No good when she go out.' 'I see,' Helen nodded. 'Then I'll change now. Do you swim?' Serena seemed to hesitate. 'Well—sometimes,' and she shrugged. 'Ah, but I have to watch the boys—they are naughty.' 'I can watch them if you want to swim,' Helen smiled. She didn't know what had come over her. She only knew that she liked this girl. In spite of her relationship with Jake Logan, she felt only sympathy— more, a kind of empathy with her. 'All right, that will be nice. See—you change. I will put food in the fridge. Otherwise she goes bad.' 'Yes. Thank you, Serena.' It took Helen only a minute to strip and put on her deep blue swimsuit, and slip on her dress over it again. They set off down the path to the sea shore, and she recalled the atmosphere of the previous day, when Jake Logan had said what he had, and Helen had struck him...

The beach was empty. Sea Witch bobbed at her mooring, and Toby and Paulo ran shrieking down to the water to fall in like two puppies, with giggles and laughter. Serena looked at Helen and gave a resigned shrug as if to say: 'See what I mean?' Helen laid down her towel and the tube of suntan cream she had remembered to bring, and sat down on the warm dry sand. 'If you want to have a swim now, I'll keep an eye on the boys—pull them out if they go too far.' 'You will? You are kind.' Serena's brown eyes lit up with impish mischief. 'I like to swim, but with those two -' she shrugged, 'and Jake—I do not often have a chance.' And with that she ran off down to where the white foamy breakers quietened down sufficiently to run in along the sand with a soft shushing sound. Helen still puzzled over her last words, and then was startled to see Serena run into the water with her dress on and begin to swim outwards with a graceful easy stroke. The two boys were surprised, and began to bellow loudly, and Helen ran down to where they stood and took their hands, fearful that they might decide to follow her. 'It's all right,' she said soothingly. 'Serena is swimming.' Oh lord! she thought, I'll have to learn Portuguese if I'm going to be here for a few weeks, and she gave a wry grin at the two puzzled faces that were turned up to her. Just a few words will do, so that I don't get these blank stares everywhere I go! She pointed out to sea, to where Serena's dark gold head bobbed up and down. The sun shimmered on the water, tossing up blurred beams, turning it to molten gold, and far overhead a gull cried out mournfully, to be answered by another even more distant. Helen blinked, only partly from the strong light. It was so beautiful. All of

it. The tall palms swayed gracefully in a slight sea breeze, their feathery fronds outlined sharply against the stunningly blue sky, and behind the palms it was a mass of dark green trees, all lush and richly leaved, so that the eyes were rested just by looking, and soothed. And my father has seen all this, thought Helen, as she walked along, unconscious that she was still holding the boys' hands, and that they were being quiet and well behaved for once. He has lived here, and perhaps he wanted me to see it as well, and that is why he left these things to me, so that I would come out... 'Where's Serena?' The voice rudely shattered her quietly contented mood and she whirled round to see Jake Logan walking towards her, shirtless, in shorts, and barefooted, from the direction of the houses. She stood quite still and watched him come towards her, and it would have been difficult, anyway, to look anywhere else. He really was, there were no other words for it, a magnificent animal. Someone— Marcia?—it all seemed so distant, that plane trip—had said that he was built like an athlete, and it was so true. His shoulders were broad and powerful, his arms muscular, and there was no spare flesh on that strong, darkly hair- covered torso. The glint of gold at his neck riveted Helen's eyes as he walked towards her with easy grace, and then stopped only feet away. 'She's swimming,' Helen told him. 'She's what!' He looked out to sea, then at Helen, swore softly, and then bellowed: 'Serena!' Helen blinked. If the girl didn't hear that, it would be a miracle. Even a gull which had been placidly pecking at some seaweed rose with a startled squawk and flew away. And the two boys looked up wideeyed, then Toby burst into tears. Helen couldn't help it. 'You brute!' she said.

Jake, looking out to sea, spared her a brief glance as she swung Toby up in her arms. He put his hands on his lean hips, and looked away again. Toby became magically quietened as Helen jogged him up and down, and she saw Serena's head bobbing nearer and nearer, and then she was stumbling to her feet, the dress clinging to her, outlining the curves of her slender girlish body. Jake made a beckoning motion with his arm, and she waded out of the water—and Helen noticed she looked shamefaced. What on earth was it? He spoke to her rapidly in Portuguese, and from his tone it was clear that he was telling her off. Helen's normally calm temper rose, and she had to breathe deeply, and hold tightly to Toby, who now seemed to be listening to the rather one-sided exchange with great interest. Serena shot back an answer or two, but was overpowered. Then she gave a last look at Helen, an apologetic glance that showed the tears glistening in her large brown eyes, and began to run towards the houses at the far end of the beach. Helen put Toby down, prepared to go after her, and Jake Logan did something very surprising. He put his hand on her arm. 'Wait a moment, he said, and then spoke to the two little boys, who ran delightedly towards the water. Helen put up her hand and prised his from her arm, and if her nails dug in, she no longer cared. There had been a disturbing tingle where his warm brown palm had rested on her bare arm, but she was going to ignore that. 'Don't touch me!' she breathed. 'You think I'm a brute?' 'And a few other things, but I'll try not to say them.' 'Better not. After all, you don't want anyone to think you're not a lady, do you?' he rejoined.

She looked at him, not even slightly trying to hide the contempt in her clear wide eyes. 'Are you going to look after the boys, or shall I? That is, always supposing you remotely care about them.' She looked towards them as they paddled and splashed like a couple of happy puppies in a few feet of water. 'You've just sent Serena off in tears. Maybe you can do the same with them—I'm sure you'd find it easy.' 'I told Serena to go home and get herself dry. She had no right to be in the water. She has trouble with her ears, or did have when she was younger, and she knows she's not supposed to go in the sea.' He looked down at Helen. 'I don't relish being nursemaid to anybody, but there's no one else who cares about her. Her sister is too occupied with looking after their home and a couple of younger babies to bother what she does. And if I speak harshly to her it's because she's like a spoilt child. She won't listen any other way.' His words had an odd effect on Helen. They had the ring of truth, and perhaps—perhaps he did care, after all. But she would not go into that. The memory of what she had seen the previous night was still too clear. He didn't always treat her like a child, obviously. 'I'll mind the boys,' she said. 'I was coming to swim now anyway, while the tide's coming in.' He looked at the heavy gold watch on his wrist. 'It won't be for much longer—I'll look after them. You get your swim in. You have about half an hour.' And he walked away towards the two playing children as if the subject was closed. Helen stood watching his retreating back, confused and strangely nervous. What was there about this man? It wasn't her imagination— there was a definite magnetism about him, a vibrant reeling sensation that affected her when he was near. Insolent, rude, he was those certainly. And yet—and yet at the same time there was this odd gentleness about him. She saw him bend to

speak to Toby—his son—and to touch the boy's cheek, and there was nothing brutal about that, rather a caring, a concern because, a few minutes ago, he had made the boy cry. Helen turned away and walked towards her towel on the sand. She would have her swim, and she would pretend that he wasn't there. And maybe it would be difficult, but he wouldn't know.

Then, after all, she could not pretend he wasn't there. Because while she was swimming idly around, splashing in the warm salty water that was first green, now blue, as the light caught it, she looked very casually to shore, and Jake was teaching the boys to swim. Helen stopped, and trod water as she watched what he was doing, and there was something so fascinating that she forgot all about herself, and just relaxed, and watched the three males. Two were so small and chubby, the other one was so big and dark—and all, quite clearly, had forgotten her existence. That was what was so interesting. She really might not have been there. Completely oblivious, never once looking as she found herself being carried nearer by the strong warm current, Jake Logan bent over Paulo while Toby watched, absorbed, thumb in mouth. He was lifting the older boy, supporting his chin and stomach while Paulo began threshing about, wildly at first, then gradually in some semblance of order as the big man spoke softly and firmly to him. There was laughter in this lesson; tears all forgotten as the boys took it in turns to be supported in the salty water, to feel their first taste of weightlessness, of suspension in an alien element. But it was Jake Logan that Helen found herself watching. Could this be the same man who spoke so rudely and brutally to her— and now to Serena ? Gone the prickly antagonism he seemed to exude whenever Helen was near. He was laughing with the boys, and at their efforts, especially when Toby, probably in a fit of bravado, launched himself

out in several feet of water and had to be fished out bodily, spluttering and beginning to yell, a moment later. And suddenly Helen didn't want to see any more. She turned and swam out towards sea again, striking out in a strong crawl to dissipate the nervous tension which suddenly filled her. A safe distance away she stopped and rested, eyes resolutely turned away from shore, and trod water, gazing at the village and trees surrounding it which stretched distantly and hazily away in a long strip. Above, the sky was clear, with no clouds to mar it, and the sun, the central point, too unbearably bright even to contemplate, filling everything with a wash of golden light. She lay on her back and floated, kicking idly, feeling the water drying instantly on her face and neck, drying in salty patches that made her want to lick her lips, but she resisted the temptation. Gold filled her closed eyelids, intense orange-gold, filling her head too, making it burst with colour and... 'Helen, the tide is turning soon!' It was Jake's voice calling from shore, rudely shattering her dreamlike state—and he had called her Helen, not Miss Carpenter ... She raised an arm, 'Right,' and she began to swim towards shore. The dislike might be intense and mutual, but she appreciated that Jake knew the sea here, and she did not. The salty water prickled her skin in thousands of tiny needles as she slowly walked out, the dark blue suit clinging to her, emphasizing her figure—she knew it was good, without being conceited—but for all Jake Logan seems to notice, she thought, without rancour, as she approached him, I might as well have a sack on from neck to ankles ...

'I hope you didn't mind me telling you to come out,' the sarcasm was more potent because of the bland expression on his face, 'but I thought I'd have a quick swim before it's too late—and you were a bit far out.' 'Of course.' She looked at the two boys, now engaged in paddling in the shallows, kicking up water and splashing each other. 'I'll watch Paulo and Toby.' Jake took off the eye-patch and flung it on the sand beside her towel, an accurate careless aim, turned and ran out into the water without another word. She watched him go, saw the boys heads turn too, as if wistful, hoping they could follow—and she watched him strike out with long powerful strokes in a line parallel with the wooden jetty, and outwards to sea. Then there was only his head, and Helen bent to pick up her towel, and began to dab herself dry as she watched the two laughing boys.

Helen wrote a long letter to Uncle Philip that evening. She had not imagined that there would be much to tell him, but once she sat down, open writing pad on her knee, the words poured out as fast as she could write. She was strangely reluctant to mention Jake Logan, but he would think it odd if she didn't, for he knew the solicitor, and had been with her when Logan's name had first been mentioned. It had been dark for hours, and was nearly bedtime. The letter was sealed and addressed, waiting on the light sideboard by the door for her to post in the morning, and Helen looked out of the window, feeling restless. The night outside was rich and dark and beautiful, and if there had been anyone with her she would have gone for a walk, but—and then she thought, why not? There was a light from Jake Logan's kitchen, she had seen it when she went into the bedroom to pull the shutters to. So he was safely indoors—no chance

of an encounter with him, and she was sure he was alone, for he had been preparing some food at the sink. She had watched him for several minutes ... He hadn't put the eye-shade on again after his swim that morning, and still had it off now. The glorious yellows and mauves and blacks were fading fast, melting into that deep dark tan, and he looked so different without that piratical eye-covering, so very different. And it wasn't difficult for Helen to see why Serena put up with what she did—not why Hannah and Marcia disliked him. He would frighten them perhaps by his very aggressive maleness—this awareness that could be disturbing to some women, but not Helen herself. She was immune. She had turned away from the kitchen window then, because looking at him was bringing disturbing reminders to the fore—and she needed no memories here... So now she was going out for a brief walk, always keeping within sight of the house and light. Helen slipped on the sandals she had removed earlier, and opened the door feeling very daring. She held her key, and shut the door firmly behind her and walked away towards the beach path. That was lighter and wider than the one to the village, and she could keep an eye on the house for quite a while... But she stopped, because the sky was so dark and bright, a velvet bed for the diamond-bright stars that glittered so far away. She saw five stars more brilliant than the rest. The Southern Cross—never seen before by Helen, and so she stopped searching the sky and feasted her eyes on it. She would never see it again when she went back home to England... Home. For it was only in the southern hemisphere that it was visible. The Southern Cross—and she remembered that glint of gold at Jake Logan's neck. That had been a cross too—and Helen had recognised it because she had the twin to it in her own jewellery box. Coincidence? Maybe. There were thousands of them,

but none perhaps identical as these were, slightly curved, a faintly bevelled edge outlining the shape—and the chain quite thick and heavy, which was also unusual. Helen's mother had given her the crucifix when she was a child. And where, she wondered, had Jake Logan got his from? Everything was still and quiet, and soon she would go back, for it was late, and the trees were too dark and tall to be really safe... The crackling of the undergrowth came as loud as a gunshot, and Helen turned to run, and heard the footsteps following, the sudden flurry of sound as someone, or something, emerged from those black shadows. She must have cried out, for a distant echo teased her ears as she ran towards the warm light safety of her home—and then fell over a stone hidden by the long grass and went sprawling, her breath leaving her lungs in a great shattering gasp as she heard Jake's voice: 'It's all right- it's not -' But then he seemed to be laughing. And then he pulled her up to her feet, and even in the midst of her panic, she noticed how easily he did it—how strong he was. 'It was—it was -' She began, her voice too ragged to finish. 'It was a goat.' And there was no mistaking the amusement now, but he still held her, as if she might flee if he released her. Gradually her hammering heart slowed nearly to normal, and she could see where she was. And the grey blur in the distance was unmistakably an animal of some sort. A great wave of humiliation swept over Helen. She had been looking up at the stars, thinking of him— and then—this! 'Oh!' She moved her arms, and he freed her. Turning, she began to walk towards the house, and when she reached the door, pushed it, then remembered. 'The key! I—I must have dropped it when I -'

There was no mistaking the sudden indrawn breath, the oath that might have been said if he hadn't bitten it back. 'I don't think,' he said, 'it would be much use searching for it in this.' Then he added softly: 'If I hadn't rushed to give you mine the night you came, you would have been all right, wouldn't you?' She had recovered now. If he wanted to make her feel a fool, she wouldn't let him, but what on earth, she wondered, was she going to do? 'You've made your point,' she said calmly. 'Thanks for coming out when I shouted. I left the kitchen top window ajar. I'll go and open it. Goodnight.' And she marched away with great dignity, and went round the back of the bungalow. But she was crossing her fingers that the window wouldn't stick, or the gauze screen wouldn't prove too difficult. 'All right, you've made your point too.' He had caught up with her. 'You can manage, I know. But I'll have a go first, shall I?' They were round the back of the two houses now, and the moon was hidden the other side, so they were in shadow. And that strange atmosphere that she couldn't fathom was there again. He was a tall dark shadowy blur in front of her, a dark vibrant blur, with that animal magnetism she could never ignore. 'No, thanks, I can manage.' He reached out to touch her arm, just lightly but quite definitely. 'You seem to forget,' he pointed out, 'the house is half mine—so any windows you break will distress me as much as you.' She shook his arm away, fighting to keep calm. 'I'd hate to put you to so much trouble,' she answered. 'Really, I'll manage.' And I damn well will, I'll show him, she thought.

Without another word he reached up to grasp the ledge, high up, swung one long leg up on the sill, and the next moment was standing up there. Helen had left the living room door to the kitchen open slightly, and the light came through in a faint strip, enough to see his outline as he reached carefully in, and down, seeking to release the catch of the larger bottom window. She caught her breath, watching him, sensing the sureness with which he moved, of everything he did. There was a loud 'snick', the metal catch sprang free, and he slid the window open and gingerly eased his large frame in. Helen went round to the front of the house, and waited until he opened the door for her. 'Thank you,' she said, and smiled as she went in. He was watching her, and she saw his eyes narrow slightly. 'You're a cool little customer, aren't you?' he remarked, almost pleasantly—for him. Helen looked at him, trying not to stare too much at that eye. 'Do you feel that rescuing me, and climbing through a window to open the door, entitles you to be rude?' she asked. 'Because if so, go ahead. I mean, perhaps you feel you need some reward for your gallantry.' And she had the satisfaction of knowing her words had hit the target. He shook his head slowly, a muscle tightening in his jaw. 'You're certainly never lost for an answer, are you?' 'Should I be? Would you feel happier if I went all confused every time you spoke? Don't worry, Mr Logan, that'll never happen. I'm sure you have everyone else dithering, but not me.' 'No, that's a fact. You're far too sure of yourself, aren't you, Miss Carpenter? Still, that's what an expensive finishing school can do for a girl—turn out a smooth polished lady -'

'How dare you!' Two spots of colour blazed high in Helen's cheeks. 'You're quite the rudest man I've ever met!' He lifted thick arrogant eyebrows in feigned amusement. 'That's better. It's only references to money that upset you. I must remember that.' And before she could even think of a retort to his shatteringly personal remark, he turned and went out. Helen shut the door behind him, and bolted it. Then she went out to close the kitchen windows and pull the blinds before he could go into his own and see her. It was not until much later that she remembered, and was puzzled, by his remark concerning her finishing school. How on earth would he know about that?

On Tuesday Helen didn't see Jake Logan at all. He had found the key, for it had been pushed underneath the door when she got up the following morning. She held it for a moment, her feelings oddly confused as she thought about him looking for it in the grass. She went to the village to post her letter, saw Serena and the children and chatted with her for a while, then walked on to Hannah's house, hoping to see Bill. For now she was absolutely determined to go to the island. And if Bill could not or would not take her, why then she would go on her own. She would find out how the boat worked, and how to steer—of course she knew it was impossible, but that was how mad the man Logan had made her feel. Made enough to do something crazy, just to let him see. But Bill was there, sitting with a pint of iced beer in the cool shade of their large garden, and Hannah told Helen to go out. Her pale face lit with a smile.

'I think he's as keen to go as you,' she remarked. 'You've got him interested.' 'Thanks, Hannah.' Helen felt a small stirring of excitement. Soon—it would be soon, she knew it in her bones now. Bill raised his glass. 'Want one?' 'No, thanks, Bill. I came to see if you'd thought about our trip to the island.' 'Aye, I'll take you. Jake goes away Thursday and Friday, so we'll go then. Give us time to stock up with fuel on Thursday—and set out early Friday morning.' 'Oh, Bill!' she could have hugged him. 'Aye, well, thank me when we get back. I'll be quite relieved myself, I can tell you.' 'Never mind. I'll tell him—if he ever finds out, that I talked you into it. He can blame me. And as he already does for just about everything, I won't notice the difference.' Bill laughed his deep throaty chuckle. 'You'll stay for lunch?' 'I'd love to. Actually, I was going to ask you and Hannah round later on for a meal. I must repay your hospitality, and I'd love you to come.' 'Well, that sounds very nice, but you must ask her— she's the boss.' It was arranged. Hannah said that she would be delighted, and after a light lunch of fruit and crackers, Helen left to go to the store—this time with a borrowed Portuguese phrase-book, opened at the food section.

She worked hard preparing the supper for the three of them. One thing Helen enjoyed and had always had a natural flair for was cooking. A tasty prawn cocktail was set aside on little dishes in the refrigerator while she prepared the main item, a fluffy concoction of rice, meat and vegetables. She had been delighted to find that the variety of fresh foodstuffs available on Ilha do Sol compared very favourably with England, with the bonus of exotic fruits that were normally available only at a fantastic price, or tinned, at home. Bill and Hannah arrived at eight, and stayed until eleven. Helen switched on the record player in the corner just before they came, playing a Simon and Garfunkel LP—her father's taste in records had been quite extensive, and a constant source of delight to Helen as she discovered more of her favourites in his collection. She had found candles and holders in the sideboard, laid the rich oak table with raffia place mats, lighted the candles in the centre, and the redshaded lamp in one corner of the room. Bill, surprisingly, was most appreciative of her efforts. Helen had imagined that the feminine touches would leave him cold, but he looked round as he came in and said: 'My, but this is very nice, Helen, very nice indeed.' He looked at his sister, who was divesting herself of a black lacy stole from her shoulders. Hannah wore a long dress of soft blue material, and looked, thought Helen, very nice. She smiled at her brother. 'It is indeed. You are to be congratulated, Helen. It's not often we're asked out like this. I think I'm going to enjoy myself.' Helen had bought a bottle of sparkling white wine to go with the meal, and Bill made a great ceremony of opening it, and the cork shot out of the open doorway into the night with a great 'pop' and a shoosh, as Helen, forewarned, held a glass at the ready.

This started the meal off with laughter, and it continued as the supper progressed. It was a warm night, with all the doors and windows open wide to catch the slightest whisper of a breeze. There had been, thankfully, no signs of life next door. Not a single light showed, everything was in darkness, and Helen was relieved. She didn't imagine he would want to visit her even so, but he would have a slightly inhibiting effect on the party if he was in, say with Serena. Perhaps he had taken her out. Helen's mouth tightened in distaste at the thought. She was in the kitchen, taking the fresh pineapple from the refrigerator, pleased that the food had been appreciated, and she looked across to his silent dark house. How much easier if she could just ignore him. But she knew she could not. He was not a man you could ignore, ever. She took the pineapple into the living room, and she had a smile on her face as she went in. He wasn't going to spoil this, her first effort at entertaining, no, he wasn't! After they had gone, she lay awake for quite a while thinking over the evening, and looking forward to Friday. Only three days away. She would see the island, that now, strangely enough, seemed even more attractive because Jake Logan didn't want her to go to it. Bill would be a good man to go with, she knew. Steady and reliable, he seemed a good friend already to Helen, as was Hannah. And Serena. Helen found herself liking the girl more each time they met. She knew that the feeling was mutual—and yet that was strange, for wouldn't Jake Logan try and see to it that they didn't become friends? Helen couldn't understand that. He was so obviously able to order Serena about, to dictate to her, and every time they met Helen had the uneasy feeling that Serena might hurry past. And then she would know.

At last she fell asleep, to dream of landing on an island that was like Ilha do Sol, only even more beautiful. # Wednesday passed so very slowly. Helen swam, and sunbathed, then saw Jake Logan in the distance, on the boat, and turned her back on him and looked towards the village. She wasn't sure if she could face him, knowing and intending what she did. For there was this uncanny feeling that perhaps he could read thoughts. Absurd, of course—but Helen was taking no chances. And on Thursday morning she saw him leave the house, dressed, respectably for him, in faded jeans and blue shirt and sandals, and carrying a duffel bag and a large flat package. As he vanished along the path through the trees, Helen heaved a sigh of pure relief. That was it! He would be gone for two whole days— and when he came back she would have seen the island for herself— and there would be nothing he could do about it. Bill called for her later, and they walked down to the boat and went over it while he decided what they needed for the one-day outing. Then he started the motor and they went round the island to a spot where they could refuel ready for the trip. It was like a waterside garage, quite a large place, and Helen watched with interest as the long hose snaked out, and Sea Witch was filled with diesel oil ready for their journey. Bill then filled the water tanks, and they took the boat back to her mooring on the jetty. The engine died out as he switched off, and she bobbed gently against the tyres that lined the jetty. Bill patted the radio. 'She's a good boat,' he said. 'Bigger than mine, and twice as fast. A real beauty. I'm looking forward to piloting her.'

'When will we leave, Bill?' Helen asked. He frowned, considering the question. 'Early. About six. Can do?' 'Can do.' She nodded her head, eyes alight. 'Oh, Bill, I'm looking forward to it too. Thank you.' He grinned ruefully. 'Wait till we're off. I'll feel more relieved then.' They parted soon afterwards, and Helen went home to wash some clothes, and write a few more letters to friends. She wondered about Uncle Philip, and tried to picture his face when he read her letter. She would soon have more to tell him. Much more, about the Island of Storms. That would fascinate him, she thought. But she couldn't even have begun to imagine just how devastating it would all be.

She had gone to bed early on Thursday night, and set the alarm clock to go off at five. Dawn had broken when she woke, and the sky was pale with that early morning light that would so soon grow powerful and hot. There was not . a sound outside, the birds still slept, and the air held an almost eerie, waiting stillness, as if it knew what was to happen. A small stirring of excitement filled Helen as she swallowed coffee and pushed her uneaten toast to one side to throw out for the birds. She was too nervous to eat, but later, she promised herself, she would— safely on the boat. Her boat—even if shared—and she was going a long way in it, going to a place that she knew in her bones she would like. She dressed in slim, figure-hugging white cotton slacks, and a fine white blouse embroided with guipure lace at the neck. She put her blue swim- suit out with her handbag, hoping for an opportunity to swim, perhaps

even from the island, then, taking a last look round to check that everything was safe and switched off, she went out and closed the door. It was strange. Even though she knew Jake Logan was away, she still walked very quietly past his house- just in case. Safely out of sight, walking down the wide path to the beach, she breathed again. And now there were faint stirrings in the undergrowth, and it was quarter to six, and Bill might or might not be there before her. A startled bird flew out from a bush to Helen's right, and she smiled, remembering the goat—then sobered. It would have to be him who heard, and came out. What an absolutely awful man he was! To think that Bill actually liked him. Which only made what Bill was doing now all the more noble, in a way. Helen determined to see to it that he didn't get blamed if Jake Logan found out about their trip—and on that she was resolute. It certainly wouldn't make any difference to his opinion of her—that was already as bad as it could be. There was the beach, straight ahead, and she could see Sea Witch still and proud in the water, which was very calm and gentle-looking. Helen scrambled up the stone steps, resisting the impulse to call Bill, to let him know she had arrived. She walked carefully along the wooden jetty, wondering how old it was, for the wood was quite dry and rotten in parts. She paused for a moment at the side of Sea Witch. This was it. Once aboard, and off, there would be no time for turning back. Helen jumped down, pausing to regain her balance as the boat rocked gently in protest at this invasion. Then she heard the sounds in the cabin, and leaned over to call out: 'Bill, I'm here!'

He came to the foot of the cabin steps, and looked up. Only it wasn't Bill. It took her startled eyes a moment to recognize that fact. It wasn't Bill who stood looking up at her, a cynical twisted smile on his tanned face. It was Jake Logan. 'Welcome aboard, partner,' he said.

CHAPTER FIVE HELEN looked round as if seeking escape—as if also checking that she was awake, not still asleep in bed. No, it was real enough. That gentle movement beneath her feet as the boat rocked could not be dreamed, nor could the reality of the man, solid and inescapably there, looking up at her—and now moving up the steps, until he stopped on the deck beside her and looked down at her. She found her voice. 'What are you doing here?' she exclaimed. He cocked one arrogant eyebrow. 'Waiting for you. Ready? We'll go then. Excuse me -' And he made as if to pass her, to take the steps up to the small bridge. But she didn't move. 'Where's Bill?' she asked in a quiet voice. This was a nightmare, but a real one. 'Ah, Bill! Yes. Still asleep, I imagine. We were—er —drinking last night.' And there was no doubt about it. He was enjoying himself— and there was something more besides, some quality she couldn't understand. But it worried her. Then he was carefully moving past her, unavoidably touching for one brief, brushing moment before he strode up to the controls on the bridge, protected behind the high windscreen with its powerful wipers in case of spray—or rain. Helen went up after him then, because if this nightmare was true, and it seemed to be, that meant he was going to start the motors, and she wasn't going anywhere with him. 'Just a minute.' He looked round politely, a questioning expression on his face. Looked round with his hands actually on the controls, and watched her.

'Yes?' he said. He wore only shorts and alpargatas, the rope-soled sandals he seemed to like, and he needed a shave, and it was very difficult for Helen to keep her cool in face of that devastating maleness of him. But she tried, she tried. 'There seems to be some misunderstanding,' she said carefully. 'Yes, I'm quite sure there was, but it's all sorted out now. You want to go to the island. On this boat. I'm taking you.' He spoke quite patiently, as if he was explaining something to Toby or Paulo, she thought, a little wildly. 'No, you're not. Bill's taking me.' His mouth twisted in a grin. 'Bill's in no state to take anyone anywhere. Which will be another black mark for me in Hannah's book—but I dare say I'll survive it.' He looked down at her. 'Now why don't you go down to the cabin and sit down or something? You can make me a coffee if you like. I've only just woken up myself.' And he rasped his dark chin. It was funny, but he wasn't as awful as he had always been. Not quite so aggressive, almost human in fact, but Helen was too disturbed to care. 'I am not,' she said, very clearly, 'going anywhere with you.' 'Oh yes, you are.' And he switched on the engines, which roared into instant, powerful life, and the next moment they were moving away from the jetty, Helen looked back, and saw the rope snaking out through the water, and realized that he had already untied—he had been waiting for her. She turned round and without thinking, reached out to the switch she had seen him move before. 'Stop this boat at once!' she breathed, and

he took hold of her hand and lifted it away, just as easily as brushing off a fly, and then held her wrist, his other hand on the wheel, and said, and he was not joking any more: 'Keep your hands away from things you don't understand. Go down to the cabin. I'll be down in a minute, once I've set this on course.' She tried to pull her hand free, and wondered, just for a second, what would happen if she tried to fight him. But it was only for a moment; she already knew the answer. 'Let go of my hand!' 'Only if you promise to behave yourself,' and his fingers tightened fractionally, and she knew he could snap her wrist in a second if he chose. 'I don't have much choice.' There was still time to go back, if she kept calm. 'All right, I'll go.' 'Right.' He turned away and started straight ahead, and after a moment Helen went and jumped down on deck. They were moving fast through greeny-blue water, the jetty a black speck, the beach, and more distantly the village, just a small picture-postcard view now. Salt spray was on her face, and the air was still cool. Helen shivered and went down the steps into the cabin. Then she stopped. Jake Logan's duffel bag lay at the foot of one bunk, and the sheet was crumpled, the pillow dented. He had slept on Sea Witch the previous night. Helen put her hand to her forehead, feeling as if her head were going to burst. And she had crept past his house only minutes before—knowing he was miles away—thinking she knew—and he had been here all the time!

She went into the galley. She needed something herself, and it might as well be coffee. The coffee tin and two beakers were already out on the working top by the stove, as were a tin of powdered milk and a box of matches. The kettle was filled. All she had to do was light the stove ... There was something so cold-bloodedly logical about everything. Helen struck a match and lit the gas; it flared into blue fire, and she waited for the kettle to boil, because, just for the moment, she didn't know what else she could do ... She heard his feet clattering down the steps, and stiffened. The kettle began to whistle and she switched it off and filled the beakers. Then he was behind her, filling the tiny doorway. 'No sugar for me. Can you manage?' 'Yes. Sit down.' There was only one way to deal with him, and that was by keeping calm. She took a deep breath and carried the mugs in and set them down on the table. He sat on his bunk, she sat on the one opposite, and looked at him. 'Cigarette?' 'Yes, please.' Then: 'Why? Will you tell me why?' He flicked his lighter before answering, watching her over the flame as she drew on the cigarette, feeling immediately dizzy at that first breath. 'It's simple. You want to see the island. All right, you can.' 'No, not that. Why the—what did you do to Bill?' He raised shocked evebrows. 'You make it sound as if I've done him in!'

'You know what I mean.' Exasperation showed through. 'All right. Yes, I do. Right. Well, the next time you have Hannah and Bill to supper, either talk more quietly or else keep the doors and windows closed.' She felt herself going pale. 'But—you weren't in -' 'No, not at first. But I came home—quietly, as is my wont, and heard a most interesting snippet of conversation -' 'You listened!' 'Oh yes, you bet your sweet life I listened. Wouldn't you if you heard your name mentioned? And I gathered something about Sea Witch that intrigued me— so I came back last night instead of tonight, and met Bill at the club, and when he nearly fell off his chair at the sight of me I knew you were damn well up to something, so I bought him a few drinks, and:—er—got him talking -' 'You swine!' 'Language!' He didn't quite laugh, but it was there all right, in his face, in every slight inflection of his voice. 'Yes, I am that -! 'You didn't want me to go. So why are you taking me now?' He pondered a moment. 'Let's say I had a change of heart, shall we? After all, as Bill pointed out to me before he —er—succumbed, you have a right to go -' 'I don't believe you.' She stood up. 'You planned this. You slept here last night, didn't you, and you had the mooring ropes untied, because you knew I wouldn't want to go with you—and I don't—so will you please turn this boat round now?'

'No.' He stood up too, towering over her in that small compact cabin. 'We're going—together. Isn't that nice?' And then he laughed. But something strange was happening. He was starting to blur and move, and Helen took a deep breath, or tried to, but it made her more dizzy, and—and then she heard him begin: 'What's the matter?' 'I don't -' But then he was holding her. 'All right, sit on the bunk. Head down.' She felt him push her head down between her legs. 'Stay like that for a moment. Did you eat before you came out?' Her voice was muffled. 'No.' 'That's why. Lie down. Come on, like this.' His hands might be strong, but they could be surprisingly gentle too, as Helen found when he lifted her to the other tidy bunk and laid her down flat, after removing the pillow. She opened her eyes, and saw his face very near as he bent over her, smoothing the blanket beneath her. 'Listen,' he said, 'I'm going up top a minute, then I'll do you some food. You shouldn't have had that cigarette on an empty stomach. You don't smoke, do you?' 'No,' she whispered. His face was so near. She had never seen it so close before. His skin was dark with the tan, his teeth good and white, slightly irregular, his nose and mouth both strong and well shaped. But his eyes ... Dark brown they were, and that black eye was nearly gone now, and his eyes would melt a glacier if he wanted... Helen closed her own, in horror. What on earth was she thinking of? Heavens above, if this was what a cigarette on an empty stomach did for a person, she must see that she never had one again!

He had gone. She struggled to sit up, determined not to be dependent on him a moment longer than necessary. 'I said lie down.' He was coming down again, and paused only a second on his way to the galley to tell her before vanishing again. 'Toast and cheese do?' 'Yes.' He brought it a minute later and handed it to her. 'All right. Now you can sit up. Eat it slowly. Are you ever seasick?' 'No.' 'Well, that's something. You'll be fine in a few moments.' He was being quite impersonal now, like an almost friendly stranger, and when he was like this, he wasn't so unbearable. Helen ate, and he went out to make more coffee, and he filled that galley, he was so big. Bringing the drink back, he said: 'Drink it good and hot. No more cigarettes for you, okay?' 'Yes,' she nodded. 'But this doesn't alter things. I still want to go back. I don't want to go to the island with you.' 'Believe me, I didn't want to go with you either. But when I discovered how determined you were I had a rethink. I suggest we call a truce, for today anyway, in our undoubted clash of personalities, and try and enjoy the trip. It can be very enjoyable, you know.' 'In our undoubted clash of personalities,' he had said. But was that all it was? Helen knew otherwise. This was no mere repulsion of opposites—it was more complex than that. But just now she could not for the life of her think clearly enough to analyse what exactly it was.

'Does that mean,' she said slowly, 'that you'll try not to insult me? Won't you find that difficult?' And she tried to avoid the sweetness of sarcasm when she said it, but he grinned anyway. 'Something like that. I'll try anyway. I can't promise more. Now, eat and drink up.' And as he spoke, he raised his beaker in what could have been a mocking acknowledgement of her remark. And Helen saw something, perhaps in the way he held his head, some slight expression as he turned fractionally sideways, that caused her heart to beat faster. There was an arrogant charm about him, about his face and body, a certain disquieting air that both disturbed and frightened her. She knew where she was with him when he was downright rude. Would she be able to cope with a different, less prickly Jake Logan? She did not know. She didn't want to find out.

It was when they were almost there that it happened. Ever afterwards those few minutes would have a vital, slow-motion quality, whenever Helen remembered them. But at the time it happened almost nightmarishly quickly. It began as she went up with a cup of coffee for Jake. He was steering a steady course, the island was dead ahead, and he pointed. 'See those rocks? We have to go through them to anchor.' She looked, heart skipping a beat because now she could see it, Ilha das Tormentas—Island of Storms —and it was long and low, and as beautiful as she had imagined, and it belonged to her—and him—but she wouldn't spoil it by thinking of that. 'Yes, I see them. But they look solid,' she answered. The long black ragged edge to the shore stretched for a mile or so, without a break— apparently.

He laughed, not unkindly. 'They do—they are— but there's a gap all right. Just wide enough for a double-decker bus to drive through— which means a few feet to spare at each side for us. And then we anchor in a natural harbour the other side—you'll see where when we get nearer, the trees hide it now.' As he spoke, the sky darkened— literally—in a few seconds, and he swore softly under his breath, presumably in Portuguese, and looked up. 'It's living up to its name.' Helen looked around her. Everything was suddenly seen in a strange half light, a greeny heavy brightness that was quite frightening. 'What is it?' she asked. 'A storm—now?' 'Yes. It's called the Island of Storms—and now you know why. And I'll tell you the legend of the Sea Witch too—the real one, not the boat, when I've got time, but it's not now because I'm going to belt hell out of this boat to get us there before it hits us.' A strange fearful excitement filled Helen, a foreboding of what was inevitable, and she looked up into the clammy dark air as the first large drops of rain splashed down, warm and heavy. 'Get down into the cabin before you get soaked,' he said. 'No. I want to—can't I stay?' she asked. He shrugged, concentrating, too busy to look round as he eased the engine into its fullest speed. 'I haven't time to argue—it's at your own risk—and for God's sake hang on when I tell you.' 'I will.' She still could not believe how quickly everything had changed. From a beautiful sun-filled sky, in a few minutes, to a grey heavy threatening cloud- filled one—and more—that greenish light was like nothing she had ever seen before, but she knew with a deep

sure instinct that only the cleansing power of lightning could now dispel it. And she was right. But nor then. It was not quite ready—not just yet. It waited until they were there—almost—until they were gliding alongside the black slippery evil-looking rocks that had slimy seaweed flung carelessly over them, and Jake Logan was gentling the boat, guiding her along with a precision born of experience into that perilously small gap between the jagged black edges—and lightning snaked down out of the sky, yellow, vivid, crackling with immense power. Snaked down and struck a tree yards away with a roar and a crack that was followed almost instantly by the most terrifying clap of thunder that Helen had ever heard. She screamed in terror and grabbed hold of Jake Logan—and the boat slewed sideways, and with a grating crunch scraped along those black, oh, so sharp- edged rocks. Then, in the ghastly silence that followed: 'You bloody stupid little idiot!' he said, and the throb of his voice was of sheer undiluted rage.

It was three hours later. Three whole hours—and now the storm might never have been, but it was too late, far too late, to wish it hadn't. Helen had spent those three hours huddled in the cabin, shaking as the lightning struck so very near, and the thunder crashed about her ears, and a furious man made temporary repairs to the damaged port side of Sea Witch, and refused to speak to Helen at all, except to ask her to pass him another nail, or a strip of wood. And now, suddenly, as swiftly as it came, it was gone, and a shattered Helen, white-faced, emerged from the cabin and went up on deck to try and breathe some fresh air into her exhausted lungs. She wanted to cry; she knew she must not. Jake Logan was angry—she knew he had a right to be—but he wouldn't even listen to her. She stood on deck, holding tightly to the rail, and looked round her.

The storm had wreaked its havoc. Broken branches, palm fronds, and seaweed littered the beach of the lagoon in which they lay at anchor. Even the water had a greyish disturbed sheen, as if it too would have to settle down, now that the storm had departed. She leaned over the side and looked at the hole in the boat. It made her feel sick. It was her fault. If she hadn't grabbed him at that one vital moment... 'Yes, take a good look.' He had come up silently behind her. Helen whirled guiltily round. 'Be thankful it's above the waterline, or we'd be in twenty feet of water by now.' She felt her mouth begin to tremble, but managed to control the treacherous nerve. 'Then—it's all right? I mean—all right to go back when we've looked around?' 'You must be joking! You are, aren't you?' He looked down at her, his eyes—had she thought they could melt a glacier?—they were glacial themselves— bored through her. 'Do you know how far we'd get with a hole like that? I'll tell you. Twenty feet and we'd be waterlogged. There's a difference between the waterline when we're anchored and when we're moving.' 'Oh!' 'Oh!' He repeated it with a sneer—if that was possible, and it apparently was; she felt the scorn in that brief sound. 'So—what happens now?' She thought of the radio set she had seen up at the controls. 'Who do we contact?' He looked surprised. 'I don't follow you. For what?' He had no intention of making anything easier for her, that was obvious.

'For'—she gestured helplessly—'for assistance.' He looked round him as if seeking inspiration, or patience—or both. 'I can mend it—in time.' And there was that something in those last two words that warned her, and she felt an icy prickle creep slowly up her back, a slow cold trickle of realization. 'How much time?' her mouth was dry. 'A few days.' 'Oh no, oh no,' she shook her head. 'Not here—not with you!' 'Yes—here—with me.' And then he took her arm, not gently. 'How do you like that?' 'I don't.' Wide-eyed, she met his cold dark gaze. 'I'm not staying here with you.' She eased her arm free. 'Oh, sister! Then what are you going to do?' he enquired softly. 'There's the radio. We can tell someone where we are. They'll come out and—and -' She stopped in the face of his dark scornful expression. 'We're not ill, or injured. There's enough food to last for ever if need be, on and around the island—and you think the emergency services are going to turn out for that?' 'You could—what about B-Bill?' Helen found to her dismay that she was beginning to stammer. She had never in all her life felt so unsure of herself as she did then. Utterly helpless, with a horrible lost feeling she had not experienced since she was a child. 'What about Bill? I'll contact him, sure, to say we're stuck for a while, and not to worry, because he'll be expecting us back tonight, and you

can be sure he'll be down by his boat, listening for a radio message if we're not back by ten. He'll feel as guilty as hell, and I'll have to reassure him that all this is not his fault—but as for trying to get him out here—forget it. His boat's not got the distance or the power. I wouldn't ask him, and he's probably the best friend I've got on the Ilha do Sol.' Helen listened with growing disquiet. So at least he would contact Bill—she determined there and then to be with him when he did. She would at least speak to him—and further than that she was not prepared to think—at the moment. Jake Logan was too shrewd and clever by half. She didn't want him to guess what was in her mind. She turned away and looked towards the sandy beach which now surrounded them on all sides. What a magic spot! How perfect to be here with someone you liked, whose company you enjoyed. What a world of difference there would be. There was a wide strip of sand, littered at the moment with branches and leaves, but that could be cleared, and the trees began, and continued in an endless row several feet behind. All kinds of trees, rich and lush, the leaves still trembling from the onslaught of rain, shining darkly with the water which had not yet dried off. The air had a sharp spicy tang to it, and she breathed in deeply, to calm herself. She must keep cool at all costs. To panic would be fatal. Even to show upset with this man would be to invite that scorn and ridicule he used to such effect. 'How do we get ashore?' she asked after a moment. He ran his hands through his wet hair, not quite dry, still black and shiny from the rain. 'There's an inflatable dinghy. I'll get it.' He turned and went down to the cabin, and she noticed that he left wet rope-soled footprints on the golden deck, which quickly dried in the sun that had come out with renewed vigour and was blazing down from its highest spot in the sky. Helen's watch showed that it was nearly two o'clock in the

afternoon. And she was suddenly surprised to discover that she was absolutely starving. She walked to the steps leading down to the cabin. Jake was about to come up, carrying a grey shiny bundle under his arm. Helen bit her lip. 'Can we—I eat first, please?' He halted. 'If you like.' He ran up the last few steps and stood beside her. 'Right. I'll go and inflate this with compressed air—you can go down and sort out what you want to eat.' She swallowed. 'What would you like?' He shrugged. 'Anything will do me. I'm pretty hungry myself, now I come to think of it. Off you go.' She was dismissed like a child. He was already on his way up to the bridge, carrying the bundle, and she was forgotten. Helen went down the steps and into the cabin which was so much darker and warmer than up on deck. She and Bill had filled the galley and cupboards with tinned provisions the day before, and she knelt now and went through them carefully, wondering what Jake Logan would prefer. She didn't know why it was so important to get what he would like, except perhaps that in a way, she wanted to make up for the damage which was her responsibility. She sat back on her heels and lifted the tin of curried chicken out. There were some packs of pre-cooked rice as well—and it decided her. She would do a curry. Most men liked one. She hoped, how she hoped, he did too. As an afterthought she lifted out a tin of mangoes and put it on the tiny working top, to be opened later. She would do this carefully, she really would. The next few minutes were too busy for her to think or worry about him, so that she was startled to hear his voice from behind her in the

doorway. The chicken pieces simmered in rich red curry sauce, and the rice was warming in the frying pan beside it. and the smell that arose was truly delicious. She turned round, wondering what the buzzing noise was. 'What did you say?' 'I said'—he was standing there, holding a battery electric razor in his hand, running it over his face, and now he stopped in mid-sweep— 'you don't need to open those mangoes. Save them. We'll get fresh ones when we go ashore. And once you've tasted fresh mangoes you'll not touch tinned again.' He paused and stroked his jaw thoughtfully, as if not sure where he had been up to. 'Still, it's nice to see you and Bill were so sensible—stocking the food cupboard up so well. You never know when you're going to be stuck, do you?' She would not, she would not, show any anger at that taunt. 'True,' she rejoined swiftly. 'Tell me, do you prefer an audience when you shave? I would have thought the washroom was the place for that.' And she turned a neat back on him and lifted a spoon to stir the gravy. He laughed. 'Forgive me. I was drawn out by the delicious aroma— still, I must remember to watch my slovenly male habits for the next few days—especially as we'll be living in such close proximity.' And he began whistling above the renewed buzz of the shaver as he walked to the washroom beside the tiny galley and shut the door very firmly behind him. Helen stood very still. It had been said to effectively silence her. But he would never know just how well he had succeeded. It had been a shot in the dark—a taunt like his others, simply because he didn't like her, and knew that she didn't want to stay with him. She put her hand to her head. It was beginning to ache. The ache was fear. Helen was

frightened of Jake Logan, of being on a boat with him—just the two of them. Alone in the dark hours of the night, when anything could happen. But he would not know why—never know the real reason for her fear, the hidden one she could not tell. She was suddenly not hungry any more. When she put the plates on the table—her own with a very small portion on—he saw her white face and said: 'What is it?' 'I've got a headache,' she answered. It wasn't a lie. She had a dull aching throb at the back of her temples, but that wasn't what had made her feel ill. 'Try and eat, then have a couple of pills. There's an assortment in the first-aid cupboard. There'll be something to suit you. Then I'll go ashore and let you have a rest. Okay?' 'No. I want to see the island.' 'There'll be plenty of time tomorrow. I'm going to try and find some suitable wood, that's all.' Tomorrow! The throb deepened. She blinked quickly. It was a nightmare, but it was real. What, oh, what was she going to do? It was so hot in the cabin too—she knew she would feel stifled in no time. 'Is it safe to swim in the lagoon?' she asked suddenly. 'Sure. Why? You want one? Will that make you feel better?' 'I think so. It's so hot here. Just for a while.' He shrugged. 'As you wish. I'll be within shouting distance if you need me. You know where the first-aid box is?'

'Yes.' He ate the chicken and rice as if he really was starving, and Helen picked at hers. Then he got up. 'I'll make coffee. Stay there.' And he went out into the galley, taking her plate with him. Helen sat at the table, quite still. If she didn't move, her head didn't hurt so much. 'Take these with your coffee. Don't go swimming too soon after eating. Give it about half an hour. Okay? I'm going now. If you're asleep when I get back, you needn't worry, I won't wake you.' He drank his coffee in one long swallow and put the beaker down. Helen looked up. 'Thank you for the pills. What are they?' 'Codeine. Don't forget, wait a while before swimming.' And he went. No goodbyes with him, none of the social niceties that other people found essential. If he had something to say, he said it, if not he kept quiet. Helen heard his steps overhead, the creaking of the boat as he climbed down the metal ladder attached to the side, and on an impulse she went to the window to see him rowing away in a small rubber dinghy. He pulled it up well on the beach, turned and vanished into the dark mysterious undergrowth. Helen finished her coffee, swallowing the codeine with it, and went to lie down for a few minutes.

When she woke up it was dark, and for a few moments she literally didn't know where she was. Then, when she did, she sat up abruptly, and a voice from nearby said: 'Well, perhaps we can have a light on now,' and Jake Logan uncurled himself from the other bunk.

She could just see him, only faintly, a dark-grey blur in the moonlight that filtered through the windows. Her heart leapt to her mouth in sudden fear. 'Yes. The light, please.' The thought was unbearable. She had been asleep in the dark—and he had been there. Soft yellow light flooded the room from two wall lamps, and she breathed easily again. 'I didn't intend to sleep—what time is it?' 'About six. You've just missed the most glorious sunset by about ten minutes.' 'Oh. I didn't have a swim. I meant to, after I'd laid down for a while, but then—I must have gone out like a light. I thought it was too warm to sleep, but I did.' 'I know you've not been swimming. I felt your suit when I came in and it was bone dry.' 'What time are you going to contact Bill?' she asked, with an effort at casualness. She was feeling trapped, here in the cabin with him, almost stifled—and she had to get away. She had no idea where, but she didn't intend to stay for any longer than she could help. 'Not for a few hours—say round about ten. He'll have had time to find out that we're not back, and go to his boat and wait. He might even try and contact us first.' 'Oh, I see. Can I—see the island?' 'Now?' He wasn't being sarcastic—yet. 'Yes.' It wouldn't be so bad out in the open—but he didn't know that. 'There's a good moon, isn't there? It should be nice walking.' She froze momentarily at the awful thought that perhaps that might give

him ideas, but it was a risk she had to take. Anything was better than being here, in the cabin after dark. 'Sure, we can try. When? Now? Hadn't we better eat first?' And what did she detect in his tone? Amusement? Or slight suspicion? She didn't think she would ever feel hungry again, which was strange, for she had eaten very little all day. But the dreadful pressing down feeling was stronger still, and something would have to be done about it, but she wasn't sure what—yet. Perhaps, Helen thought, a walk would help her to think more clearly. 'I'll do us some sandwiches if you like. We got a loaf yesterday.' 'I saw.' His tone was dry. 'All right. And we'll have jam on if you want, and something cold to drink, then we'll be off.' Half an hour later Helen was climbing down the ladder into the dinghy which bobbed at the side of Sea Witch like a child beside its mother. He had gone first, and sat, steadying the tiny vessel against the side of the larger boat as she took that final wobbly step into the dinghy and sat down—hastily. He took up the oars, flat wooden paddles, much broader and shorterhandled than conventional ones, and began to row across the still quiet waters of the lagoon. He carried a large powerful-looking torch which he handed to Helen as they set off. The moon was bright and big, low in the sky of dark velvet, and beautiful as polished steel, gleaming softly down on them. Jake Logan pulled them up and jumped on shore, then held his hand out. 'Mind how you walk. Your legs will be rocky after all those hours on the boat.' She didn't believe him—but it was true. The sand

felt hard, and most oddly, as if moving as she trod on it for the first time. He took his hand away. 'All right now?' 'Yes. But why?' 'Because the boat's been rocking—and you adjusted to that. Now, terra firma is different—your legs feel cheated.' And he laughed. 'Did you find any wood?' She didn't want him laughing at her. He'd be doing that later, and perhaps she would have to run the gauntlet of his scorn as well, but it would have to be done, and here was as good a place as any. But not quite yet. 'No,' he answered, 'but I will.' They went into the trees, and he switched on the torch, for the moon didn't reach down through millions of leaves. He went first, and Helen followed, and heard distant crackles and rustlings, as if other creatures moved in that undergrowth—and she was glad she was not alone. He held the torch so that she could see the path, slightly back and down. 'Won't be long,' he said. 'Then we'll see by the moon—and we won't need this.' And even as he said it the trees were thinning, and he switched off, and they came out on to the beach with its lining of black rocks and the sea beyond. Helen stopped still in amazement, just looking, taking it all in. And for a moment it didn't matter that they were enemies, as she whispered: 'Why, what a gorgeous view! Even at night. And nobody has ever lived here?' 'No. But that could be remedied.' And before she could ask him what he meant, he walked quickly on, and she was left to follow. The sea

was black, fathomless, and the moon touched the tiny distant waves with silver, moving liquid silver, so that the water shimmered and moved as if it were a living thing. Helen stopped to watch it, and it seemed as if pictures formed as she looked, images of people dancing, round and round in a ceaseless polka. She blinked, and the pictures vanished, and Jake called: 'What is it?' And the spell was broken. She hurried after him. 'I was watching the sea, I could see pictures in it,' and she expected him to laugh, but he didn't. He gave her an odd look. 'Mind the witch doesn't get you. That's how it starts.' 'What starts?' Despite everything, she was intrigued. 'The legend. There was this ugly old sea witch— Bruxa do Mar—a hideous old crone who was jealous of young girls, so she used to lure them out to sea until they drowned. She's supposed to hang out around here, so watch it.' It was only an old story, not to be taken seriously, but the hairs on the back of Helen's neck prickled. 'Heavens! What did she look like?' she asked lightly. 'A mermaid, usually. She could disguise herself, you see, and she'd surface, covered with seaweed, and sing a sad song that fascinated those foolish enough to listen. So if you hear anyone singing tonight, cover your ears.' This was her chance. Now. She said: 'I want to sleep on deck tonight.' 'What?' He had started to move on, but he whirled round, saw her face, and added, with contempt: 'Oh, for God's sake!'

'No—it's too—too hot in the cabin. And—and I slept so long this afternoon I won't get to sleep for ages—and I'll keep you awake -' She was babbling, and it was so unlike her, but she couldn't help it. Anything not to have to face his scorn. 'Listen,' he said, 'just let's get it straight, right now. I suppose this is why you wanted to come for a walk, to break it gently, eh?' He shook his head, and in the moonlight, at that angle, his face was shadowed, but she could see his expression, and she didn't like what she saw. 'I have to fancy a woman before I want to make love to her. Do I make myself clear, or would you like it explained in more detail?' She flinched. 'That's clear enough—thanks. But I'm not staying in that cabin with you. That's all. I don't know the island well enough to sleep on it alone, so it'll have to be the deck. I mean it. I'm not spending the night in that cabin with you.' And she (began to move on, but he caught her arm. The anger that lay always only under the surface, with him, was rising fast. She sensed it in the grip of his fingers on her, in the taut way he held his head as he looked down at her. 'Don't push me too far,' he said quietly. 'With you I've got a low boiling point. I'm trying, believe me I'm trying, but you're just about reaching the limit of my patience.' She stood and faced him, and his hand was like fire on her arm. 'I should think you've got a low boiling point with everybody,' she said, as calmly as she was able. 'From what I've heard. But that's beside the point. What matters is here and now. Just the two of us. I know you don't "fancy me" as you so tactfully put it. I'd be an idiot if I thought you did. I just have a—a thing about s-sleeping in the same room with anyone' —she nearly broke down, but managed to go on—'so it's not personal at all.'

'Like hell it ain't!' he grated. 'You expect me to believe that?' 'You already called me a liar once before.' She was feeling a fine rush of temper herself, and it made her face tingle. 'I know you think you can ride roughshod over everybody—but you can't over me. Ever. I won't be bullied by you—and I won't take you calling me a liar.' 'And what will you do?' he taunted. 'Hit me again? I'd advise you not to. I get an irresistible urge to hit back when someone dots me one.' 'That's obvious,' she retorted. 'And you'd certainly get away with it here, wouldn't you? Nobody for miles. What would you do? Beat me up?' Her eyes flashed fire, and she tilted her chin defiantly, and there was nothing to tell her that at that moment she looked truly beautiful, the moon tinting her hair liquid silver, her skin to delicate shadowy gold. But the man with her saw, and he breathed deeply. His voice was more husky than usual as he answered swiftly, clearly: 'I don't fight with women.' 'Don't you?' she pulled her arm free, jerkily. 'You're having a good go at it now, aren't you?' 'No, I'm not. It's you who started it, with your ridiculous ideas about sleeping. God, how old are you? You're acting like some child of fourteen who's -' He heard her choking gasp, and then she started to run—anywhere to get away from him. And for a moment he stood still, then went after her, because she didn't know the dangers at night. 'Helen!' he called, but she ran faster, her heart bursting with the effort to get away, and in her ears the rhythmic chant: 'He knows, he knows -'

She was caught, and he whirled her round, but she didn't see him, she saw the other man now, the one who... Helen screamed, 'No—no—oh, please let me go -' And pushed and beat at him with all her strength, sobbing with terror—and only faintly heard Jake's voice, as if from a distance, and he seemed to be saying: 'Helen, what is it—Helen?'—and he shook her hard, and she came to her senses, and saw it was him, and her face was ashen, and she felt herself falling, falling... He laid her down on the sand, she felt his hands touch her face, and she opened her eyes and looked at him. In a voice that wasn't angry any more, he said: 'I'm sorry I had to shake you. Did I hurt you?' 'No.' She lay there for a moment. Strength was returning. 'I want to sit up.' 'Are you sure -' 'Yes.' Without another word he put his hand behind her back and pulled her up. 'Let me stand up, please,' she asked, and looked at him. She was no longer frightened of him. His anger had gone. He looked very sober, with deep lines etched from nose to mouth—and most definitely not at flash point, as he had been before. His hands were gentle as he lifted her to her feet. And Helen looked at him. 'I'm sorry I screamed,' she said, almost in a whisper. 'It wasn't at you -' She faltered. 'I know. Shall we go back now?'

'No—not yet. I want to see the island. I want to explain something as well.' 'You don't have to tell me anything, Helen. Come on, we'll walk round the beach. It won't take long. This place isn't very big.' He waited until she started walking before he began himself, and when she felt herself sway slightly, he asked: 'Do you want to hold my arm?' 'No—I'll manage,' then, belatedly: 'Thank you.' Helen felt drained of all strength. If he spoke cruelly to her now, she would burst into tears, she knew. But she also knew that he would not. He had altered, in those few brief moments before. The sand was different at night, the texture coarse, and the moon cast shadows in minor depressions and curves, where none would have shown in daytime, and it looked heavy and blurred underfoot. Once, when she stumbled, he held her arm, but only briefly. And they walked on and on, gradually rounding the curve, seeing another stretch of endless sea, awe- inspiring, magnificent. 'I'm longing to see this in daylight,' she said, breaking a silence that had gone on for a long time, but was not strained or tense. 'You will do in the morning. You'll like it.' 'I know I will.' She stopped to look up at the sky, and put her hands on her arms, and shivered slightly. 'Are you cold?' 'No. Only—a little. It's still warm, isn't it? I just like looking—stars fascinate me, they always have. You don't mind me looking for a moment?'

He gave a brief laugh. 'Look all you want. It's free. You've seen the Southern Cross?' and he pointed. 'Yes,' and she remembered the occasion. 'That was the night I saw the goat—or rather, it saw me.' 'I see.' But he didn't laugh now. And she shivered again, she didn't know why, only that there was a tingling awareness in the air, a consciousness of each other, and he sensed it too, she knew quite suddenly, for he moved slightly away, and said: 'Hadn't we better be walking on? You'll catch cold after your -' And he stopped, too abruptly, and the next word would have been 'shock', but he wasn't going to say it. 'Yes, I suppose so.' Did he feel it too? Was that why she could hear him breathing now, when she couldn't before? And he reached into the pocket of his shorts and said: 'I'm going to have a cigarette. Would you like one?' Helen shook her head. 'No, thanks.' 'You don't mind if I do, do you?' And he sounded as if he meant it, and she remembered, he didn't say things out of politeness, only if he did mean them. 'Of course not. I'd have one myself, but I've eaten hardly anything today, so -' And she shrugged. 'I shouldn't. Bad habit.' The lighter flickered and flared, and she watched it light his face, bathing it in gold and shadow, and it was a strong face, she already knew that, but now she saw gentleness too, and she turned away, because she didn't want to see that. The sea was never still. The white foam shushed at their feet and vanished round the rocks to reappear again seconds later, and all

about them lay evidence of the storm, twigs and branches, some with leaves, and even there, by them, a box lid, washed up from the sea and left on the sand to dry. Jake kicked it and it fell apart. 'That's no good,' he said in disgust. 'We'll find some tomorrow. I'll help you look,' Helen said quickly. She didn't want him to start on again about the boat and the damage. It was much pleasanter with him as he was now, and she didn't want him to change. And maybe he knew. 'We'll find some,' he said, agreeing. 'I know.' He caught his watch in a quick flash of light from the torch. 'We'll be back at the boat soon, and contact Bill. He'll be starting to have kittens round about now.' 'Poor Bill. I'm sorry about——' she began, and he reached out his hand and put it on her arm. 'Don't say it. I blamed you—I let you think it was all your fault, but it wasn't. It would probably have happened—or something similar— anyway. The wheel was jerked out of my hand for a split second by something—not only you 'Oh—and you -' She stopped, relief and anger strangely blending into an explosive mixture. 'Yes, I did. Because I was so mad. So if you want to tick me off, go ahead.' Could this be Jake Logan speaking? She couldn't imagine him saying that before. 'It doesn't matter. I felt so guilty—it's like a weight being lifted off— I'm glad you told me,' she finished. And then she began to shiver in earnest. Shock followed by relief was a heady combination at the best

of times, but now, here, on this darkened strand with a man she didn't even like—it was devastating. Her legs went to jelly, and he must have seen the state she was in, for he said: 'We're getting back to the boat. Come on, there's a short cut. Follow me.' He lit the torch and the broad beam of yellow light shot out, turning the trees to living, moving creatures that jogged and shifted in front of and around them. Numbly Helen went after him, and he didn't walk too fast, he slowed down, and held back jutting out branches that might have caught her face, and in a short time they were at the lagoon. The boat waited, white and proud in that water, and Helen could look at the blackness of the hole in its side without inwardly flinching now. It would probably have happened anyway. He pulled the dinghy out, and when it floated, jumped in and held out his hand. 'Come on.' Helen reached out and was gripped firmly as she jumped in and sat quickly down. He tied up alongside Sea Witch and gestured for her to go first, and she did so. The first thing he did in the cabin was to switch the lights on so that the small space was filled with warm gold, gleaming and reflecting off all the highly polished wood surfaces. 'Sit down. There's some cognac in a locker. You'll have a drop?' She shook her head. 'No, thanks.' 'Yes.' He leaned on the table and looked straight into her eyes, and she couldn't look away. 'Doctor's orders.' 'Are you a doctor?' She tried a little smile, but her mouth couldn't quite make it. No. But I'm the skipper of this vessel, and that's the next best thing.' He was actually being pleasant.

'All right,' she answered. 'Just a drop, please.' He brought out two glasses and a bottle and poured golden liquid out. 'Brazilian—a touch fiery—but it'll do you good.' He swallowed his while she was still spluttering over the first sip. He had a point there, she thought. Fiery was the word. And warming. It went down very briskly, and curled round her empty stomach and reached her limbs in no time at all. 'That's better. You've got some colour back.' He sat down on the bunk opposite. 'I'm going to try and raise Bill in a few minutes, but first I'll tell you. I'm going to sleep on deck tonight. You'll sleep here—and there's a bolt on the door. Okay?' She took another quick swallow, and gasped. When she could speak, she said: 'It doesn't matter. I s-said I would -' 'Listen, there's no point in us both sleeping up top, is there? I've slept out many times. I'm used to it, you're not. Only one proviso—if it pours down I'll hammer on the door until you open it.' Didn't he want to know why? Helen felt the need to explain. Suddenly it was important that he understood clearly. 'Look—the reason I d-don't want -' She sipped again, quickly; perhaps the brandy would give her the courage to tell something she had never talked about to anyone before. 'I must tell you -' He stopped her. 'No. Look, I can guess. Something— bad— happened, I imagine when you were fourteen, because that's why you ran, when I said it -' 'Yes, but it's not -'

'No. I don't want to know, because I can't do anything about it now— and a man who would touch a kid—I would want to kill him -' 'It wasn't quite as bad——' She looked up, and it was important for him to know, and a certain significance to his words was only gradually sinking in. 'It was one of my many stepfathers. My mother's an actress,' she was not aware how her voice gave her away. 'I was staying with my mother for a few days. He came into my room when I was asleep, and tried—tried -' She stopped to breathe, because breathing was difficult suddenly. 'I woke to see him bending over me, and he smelt of drink—and he looked all strange—and I screamed, and the maid came in, and—and -' she put her head in her hands— 'then he went away, and I never saw him again.' Helen was shaking uncontrollably, and then Jake's arms were round her, and it wasn't awful any more, although it should have been, because of Serena. 'All right, you've told me now. It's all over, Helen. Don't worry, I understand. You're safe with me. I won't hurt you.' He was talking to her as though she was still a child, and it was oddly soothing. 'Finish your drink.' Then quite suddenly he moved away. 'I'm going to get Bill on the radio.' His voice had gone more husky, and he poured himself a glassful of the brandy, drank it, and stood up. 'Come up when you're ready if you want to listen in.' He had changed again, just like that. Helen's eyes were on him as he went out and up the steps. Suddenly, in a few seconds, it had all gone, all that gentle air she had just got used to—and she thought she knew why, and felt her mouth tighten. Serena—of course! He could hardly go on about the kind of men who tried to seduce children when she knew all about Serena, could he? She felt a sudden surge of sick disgust. A law unto himself, that was Jake Logan. And she had really thought—he had seemed so genuine, so caring just before. Not at all his usual self, cynical and sarcastic, but kind. And then—all

gone. His mouth, his face, had been very hard again as he had moved to go out. Helen shivered. What was he, this man? What could anybody made of him? Would she ever know? And she wasn't sure if she even wanted to know, at that moment. She finished her drink, and went up on deck, to the bridge where a faint light glowed, and Jake Logan was standing with his back to her, holding a microphone in his hand. He was repeating a series of numbers, and clicking switches, and Helen waited silently, just watching him. She had been planning to speak to Bill, to beg him to come—or send someone—because the thought then, of being alone with Jake, had been suffocatingly unbearable. Now everything was different. In spite of his abrupt change of manner, she knew she was entirely safe with him. Nothing else had altered, but she was not frightened of him. She heard crackling, then a distant tiny voice, and she went forward, drawn by that faint sound which she guessed would be Bill. '—yes, fine. Had slight trouble with a storm. Holed port side—above the waterline—just, thank God. I'll have to fix it, Bill, before we can move, but we're okay.' A pause. 'You want to speak to her? I'll call -' Then he turned and saw Helen and she saw his face change. 'Do you want to speak to Bill? You'll have to be quick.' 'It's all right, thanks.' He didn't really want her to talk to him, she knew. But why? 'Just tell him I'm okay,' she said. He turned away abruptly. 'She's busy, Bill. Says to tell you she's fine. Listen, let's fix a time for tomorrow. Say twenty hundred—will do. Out.' It was over. The final click was quite definite. And the silence, and the night, came rushing back, and she was alone with him again. For a moment it was unbearable. An indefinable tension had sprung up between them, and then he moved, and the spell was broken.

'Right,' he said. 'Supper and bed. I'll bring my things up now.' 'You don't need——' she began, and saw his face, and faltered, 'I mean, it's all right. I was silly before. I can't expect you to sleep up here -' 'I'm going to anyway. So save your breath.' And he brushed past her and strode along the deck and down the steps. Helen stayed quite still, where she was. So Jake Logan was his old self again, and at least you knew where you were with him—but why did it matter so? She took a deep breath and went slowly after him. They ate toast, and drank hot sweet cocoa, and they talked about the island, and about Bill being on the radio, and how he had been worried, and Jake Logan was carefully polite and indifferent, and Helen's protective armour was back in place again, and she answered him and asked questions, and then he stood up and gathered his mattress, pillows, and blankets and said: 'Goodnight,' and walked out. 'I won't lock the door,' she stood at the foot of the steps and called after him. 'In case it rains again.' But he didn't answer, and she wasn't sure if he had heard, and she wasn't chasing after him to repeat it. The cabin was only slightly less warm than it had been earlier. Helen had a quick wash in cold water, took off her trews and blouse and crawled into her bunk wearing only bra and pants. She heard Jake moving about overhead for quite a while, then his steps going down the ladder on the side, just inches away from her, and then the quiet splash of oars. So he couldn't sleep either. And perhaps, she decided, he would go for a long walk around the island,

or just sit and think. She wondered if he ever felt lonely. She doubted it. He looked like a man who was happiest alone.

CHAPTER SIX HELEN woke because of a slight sound. She had never slept on a boat before, and there was always that faint movement she had now grown used to. But this was different. And she looked out of the window beside her to see the water cascading down it in streams. Rain! And Jake Logan was out—asleep in it! She sat up abruptly, nearly cracking her head on the shelf above the bunk. He would be soaked by now. Then, as she reached for her blouse, she heard the slight movement from the bunk opposite and looked quickly across to see the shape huddled in the blankets, and hear his muffled voice: 'S'all right. I got up before it really started—I've been down about fifteen minutes.' She lay back, suddenly aware of the flimsy nylon bra she wore, and pulled the sheet up to her neck. 'Oh. I thought—I was just going to shout you.' 'I guessed that.' His tone was dry. 'Go back to sleep. And don't worry.' 'I won't.' She turned on her side. 'What time is it?' 'About three. It might thunder. You're not frightened of storms at night, are you?' His voice was getting blurred with sleep. She could tell it was an effort. 'No.' And then she added quietly: 'Goodnight.' 'G'night.' Slurred, he was nearly asleep now. She was glad she hadn't locked the cabin door. The next time she woke up the sun was streaming in through the window, and Jake Logan was stretched out on his back fast asleep,

his face without the harshness she had come to expect. Helen sat up and grabbed her swimsuit and clothes, never taking her eyes off him in case he woke. But he was dead to the world, she could tell by his deep breathing. She stood and moved to go in the washroom, then stopped to look at him, irresistibly compelled, hardly daring to breathe lest she wake him up. He was deeply tanned, and the dark bruise of his eye was nearly vanished altogether, and he looked almost—it was an odd word to think of, but true—almost beautiful. Yet there was nothing effeminate about that face. It was a man's face, strong and hard—yet, in sleep, perfect. His mouth slightly curved as if he was dreaming of something pleasant, and his dark lashes were ridiculously thick, for a man. So too his eyebrows —but not too thick, just right. Helen had the absurd desire to touch that face, and the notion was almost shocking in its intensity; had the ridiculous urge to stroke that dark cheek, and she moved her hand away, as if her fingers could almost feel the hard skin—and she went into the washroom and shut the door very quietly. It was seven, and she was going for a swim. She changed into her blue swimsuit and quickly washed her previous day's clothes with cold water and the hard block of yellow soap. Then quietly, creeping, she edged past the table and put her hand on the rail. 'Where are you going?' The voice made her turn guiltily. 'I—for a swim. You said it was all right.' Her heart beat fast with the shock. 'And to hang up these clothes.' He sat up and ran his hands across his face and through his hair. 'And you were going, just like that—without letting me know? What if you got into difficulties?'

She resented being spoken to as if she were a disobedient child. 'I'm a good swimmer,' she retorted. 'And I'm only going round the boat. Not far away. I don't know these waters.' He lay down again, as if tiring of the conversation. 'All right. See you do.' Helen turned without another word and ran up on deck. After draping her things over the rail, she climbed carefully down the steps and gingerly eased a foot into the water. It was cool. Not cold—but not warm either. Before she could think too much about it, she slid off and into the lagoon and struck out away from the boat, her hair trailing after her in the water. She had not lied. She was a good swimmer, a strong one, and once the first shock of immersion had worn off, she enjoyed the movement, the easy lightness of being in the sea. A gull flew high overhead, and the sky was cloudless, almost as if the rain, and the storm, had never been. It was a beautiful morning, Saturday, and she should have been back home on the other island, safely in the bungalow, shopping, perhaps visiting Bill and Hannah, or meeting Serena. And what would Serena make of this? Would she be very worried about Jake? Of course she would. Helen suddenly felt sad. Men were such brutes, all of them. He wouldn't even give the girl a thought, Helen decided. All that mattered to him was himself, and what he wanted. And that was how it would always be, with him. The sooner he mended the hole in the boat, the better. She would do her best to find suitable wood. She didn't want to stay here an hour longer than necessary —not with him. Helen swam for about half an hour, then reluctantly made her way back to Sea Witch. As she climbed the steps she made a mental vow not to let anything Jake Logan said disturb her.

He was eating toast when she went in. He pushed the plate away from him and picked up his coffee cup. 'We'll pick some fruit and vegetables today,' he said. 'I'm getting a mite fed up with toast.' 'Yes.' She went into the washroom for the towel. Oh, for a change of clothes! She would have to sit in the swimsuit until her other clothes were dry. She rubbed vigorously, everywhere that wasn't covered by the swimsuit, and went into the galley to make herself something to eat. Her skin glowed and tingled, and she was hungry after the swim. She made toast, reheated the still warm water in the kettle, and called out: 'I'm making coffee. Do you want more?' 'No, thanks.' She took her food in and sat down, and he looked at her, and his jaw hardened. 'You're eating—like that?' He managed, without any apparent effort, she thought, to make it seem as if she were dressed indecently. 'I've washed the clothes I wore yesterday,' she answered. 'I don't imagine they'll be dry just yet.' He stood and went to the locker inset above his bunk, and opened it. Clothes were folded neatly inside. He gave her a swift glance, looked back frowning, and lifted two things out. One was a shirt, well washed, faded, and the original colour might have been yellow —or again, it might not. The other was a pair of shorts, very brief, of blue denim, with a buckle belt attached. He put them on the table. 'They're both clean. I keep spares here for -' he shrugged, 'emergencies. I'll go up on deck while you change. You can't sit in a wet swimsuit in here.' And he strode out, and up the steps.

Helen picked the clothes up. Biting her lip, she went into the washroom and stripped off the wet costume, which was, she had to admit, getting rather uncomfortable. She shouted up: 'All right,' when she came out. She had had to belt the shorts to their tightest notch, and the shirt swamped her, but they were clean and cool and dry, and that was what counted. When he came down, she said: 'Thank you, Mr Logan.' 'Do you think you could force yourself to call me Jake? I've not been called Mr Logan for eight years— it brings back memories I don't care to recall.' 'All right.' He wasn't doing it out of friendliness— he had made that quite clear by the tone of his voice. And what were the memories he hated? Helen had a sudden vision of the snap of him on the boat, when he had belatedly tried to hide his face, and she wondered what he was running away from. But to ask would be another matter. The thought of trying to pry filled her with faint horror. There was no need to invite his anger deliberately, she seemed to be doing well enough in that respect without even trying. She turned away before anything could give away her thoughts. He was too shrewd by far. 'When you've finished, we'll go ashore.' He crouched by the locker under the bunk and pulled out a large plastic bag which he then rolled up and put in his back shorts pocket. Helen bit back the natural question. She would have asked anyone else: 'Why the bag?' but not Jake Logan. Because he was cool and remote, not hostile—yet—but not friendly either, and she wondered if she had done something to make him so.

The air was brittle with that indefinable tension again. And it was growing warmer, and stickier, minute by minute, the sun rising higher all the time, and hotter. Helen shook her hair back. She would wash it later, for the salt water had made it feel tacky. But not until he said she could. She suddenly had the feeling that she must tread carefully. She didn't know why. A deep, age-old instinct told her that Jake Logan's mood was highly unpredictable. And she had to stay with him—and it would be so much easier if they could get on reasonably well, and she would try. 'I'm ready now.' She carried the dirty plates and beakers out and left them in the water-filled bowl. She would do them later. Mustn't keep him waiting. He had gone, so she followed, and he was waiting in the dinghy, steadying it for her to get in. When they beached, he pulled the dinghy up and threw the oars down beside it. 'Whatever you do, don't walk barefoot among the trees,' he warned her. 'There's a kind of spider living here—not many, but enough, and they can kill.' 'Tarantulas?' 'No. Crab spider. It's big, about three inches across, walks like a crab—don't go near if you see one. Otherwise you've no worries.' No, only you, she thought silently. 'I'm going to pick fruit first, then find wood. Are you coming with me?' 'No.' He didn't want her, and she certainly didn't intend to follow him around. 'I'll explore on my own if I may.' 'Please yourself.' He looked briefly at her, then turned and walked away to vanish in the trees. Helen watched him go, her feelings mixed. He could be so likeable if he wanted to. He could even be

charming. She had caught a glimpse of that, and of a gentle side to his nature. But just now he was an absolute swine, there was no other word for it. She turned and marched off in the opposite direction. What things there would be to tell Uncle Philip when she wrote! Helen found a large flat rock looking out to sea, and sat on it, to drink in that terrific view. The sea had a faint misty haze further out, and nearer, a grey metallic sheen. It was very still. What an atmosphere this island had! Behind her the leaves rustled dryly in the faintest of breezes, and that slight spicy tang was in the air, all about her. She leaned over and took up a handful of sand, letting it trickle slowly through her fingers. Had her father walked along this beach? Was that why Jake Logan resented her being here? For he did, she knew, even although he had brought her. He resented too the time he was wasting here with her, away from his other pursuits. Helen frowned slightly in the strong light. How different it would be if it were Bill here. She could imagine him making it all fun, and she would enjoy looking for fruit and vegetables with him. Everything would be an adventure. She sighed and flung the sand from her. Time to move, and explore. She walked on, past where they had taken the short cut back the previous night, and the marks were still there in the sand as evidence of the scuffle when she ran away from him in fear, and been caught, and held ... Strange, she could still feel his hands on her, as they had been, when he had held her gently, after shaking her. She took a deep shaky breath. She had always hated men holding her, ever since that time ... But she hadn't hated Jake then, she had felt comforted —just as she had back in the cabin afterwards, when he had put his arms round her again. She stopped in her tracks as warm memory rushed back. To be held, like that, by him. She had enjoyed it. And then she thought—does Serena enjoy him holding her? And the bubble of contentment burst, and she walked quickly on. Quickly, so as to put it out of her mind.

After a while she turned and went into the cool darkness of the trees, mindful of Jake's advice about spiders, and walked slowly, touching the branches of the many trees with care, for some had spiky leaves, and there were orchids twined like ivy round the trunks of some, wild orchids, rich and exotic—yet almost sinister-looking with their lush creamy colours. The ground was still moist after the torrential rains, and faint sounds of branches and leaves moving back into place followed Helen. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, and birds fluttered and moved high overhead, invisibly. She felt as if she were alone in a new world, and it was an eerie sensation, almost exciting. Then Helen came to the clearing, and she stopped quite still in surprised disbelief, wondering if it was real. But they didn't have mirages here, did they? she thought, ridiculously. It was real. Grass grew under the trees, like a carpet, but the main floor was of thick sand, in the clearing. A rocky wall was at the end, and water cascaded down it in a silver spring of dancing, leaping life, to tumble into a natural stone basin. Flowers grew round that small crystal lake, tall, beautiful roses, and huge daisies, and the gorgeous pink geraniums that she loved, as well as many others, some of which she didn't even recognize. And she stood still, and stared, because she was frightened that if she moved, it would vanish. Then slowly Helen went forward, knelt by the bubbling spring, and bent her head and drank some of the icy clear water. She touched the nearest rose, and it was a perfect pink, open fully, the petals trembling now with a drop of water from her fingers. She felt tears prick the back of her eyes at the sheer beauty of it. She was pleased that she was alone, to enjoy it to the full. It would not be the same with another person, especially not him,. She sat on the low edge of the natural basin and looked round her. What a place for a house!

She could almost see it, there, in the middle of the clearing, a small white stone house with a red roof, shutters at the windows, gay red blinds, and a door wide open... 'So you found it.' Jake Logan stood there at the edge of the clearing, tall and arrogant, dressed only in shorts and sandals, and he put the bag down at his feet as if it were heavy, and it was full, that was obvious. Helen stood up and walked reluctantly towards him, her feet dragging a little. The magic had gone. It was just an ordinary place now, and she didn't want to stay here with him. 'Yes, I found it.' And she made sure that nothing showed on her face. 'And what do you think of it?' She wanted to tell him, it's the loveliest spot I've ever seen in my life, and I could live here happily for ever, and the beauty of it makes me ache—She shrugged. 'It's very nice. You didn't tell me there was a spring.' 'Yes.' He watched her, eyes slightly narrowed. She puzzled him, she knew. At that moment, he didn't know what to make of her. She walked on, past him. 'I'll go and wait by the dinghy. I've seen most of the island now.' And after this, everything else would be anti-climax, but she wouldn't tell him that. 'I'm going there myself to leave this food. I've found a tree that will do. It was felled in the storm. I'll get a few good planks from it, and the saw's on the boat.' 'I'll help you,' she offered.

He looked her up and down. 'If you like.' The look told her that he didn't think she would be much use—but if she wanted... 'I'm quite strong, I assure you,' she answered. 'Of course.' He inclined his head slightly, mockingly. And she had to let him pass, because he knew the way and she didn't. It was easier in daylight, and he slung the bag over his shoulder and led the way through the trees until they reached the dinghy, where he threw the bag in before pushing it from the beach, jumped in, and reached out his hand to Helen. She had to take it. She didn't want to, but she knew how very wobbly that dinghy could be. His hand was warm and hard, and she let go of it the instant she could safely do so, and sat down. He rowed across the water, tied up to the ladder and followed her aboard the boat. In the cabin, he put the plastic bag on the table. 'We'll put the sweet potatoes on before we go out again.' He was busily pulling weirdlooking things out on to the table as he spoke. Despite everything, Helen was fascinated. 'What are they all?' she asked faintly when he had finished, and a mound of assorted shaped objects lay before them— with one or two familiar ones among them. He pointed to what looked like a giant brown carrot covered in bumps, and quite repulsive to look at. 'Sweet potato. I got a few, but one should do for lunch, I think. We peel and boil—in a way just like cooking an ordinary potato.' The small green 'melons' turned out to be avocado pears, the large yellow 'pears' were actually mangoes —it was all very confusing.

And there were several very big red tomatoes—at least Helen had been right on one thing! Jake picked up a small mango and deftly peeled round the top with a knife, exposing rich golden flesh. He handed it to Helen. 'Try that— then you'll know why I didn't want any tinned ones last night.' Helen bit deep. It was as soft and luscious as a peach, but infinitely sweeter, and yet, at the same time, with a subtle sharpness that teased her palate. It was a new flavour, like nothing she had ever tasted before, and she looked at him, and before she could help it, she exclaimed: 'Why, it's the most delicious fruit I've ever eaten!' Then she remembered who she was speaking to, and sobered. He nodded. 'I know. There's plenty more. Finish it on the way. I'm going to peel this.' And he picked up the hideous-looking sweet potato, and carried it out to the galley. Minutes later they were setting off back across the lagoon. Helen threw the mango skin overboard and watched it float away, then she sucked the last juicy shreds from the flat stone and watched it career slowly downwards. She rinsed her fingers, trailing them in the cool water, and felt the bump as they beached. Jake lifted out the saw with care. It was a double-handled one, in a protective wooden case, and he watched her scramble out. 'Ready?' When Helen nodded, he walked off without waiting for her. She followed. Never had anybody had the power to infuriate her as much as he. He did it deliberately, that she knew. He was absolutely hateful—at times. And when she remained calm, he didn't like that either. She smiled a little to herself. Well, that was one way to annoy him. Keep cool—and see him get mad. One way of passing the time. But why, oh, why? She thought she would never know. But she was wrong.

* Helen admired efficient workmanship, and Jake's methods were certainly that. He wedged the trunk upright between rocks, after they had sawed a five-foot length off the fallen tree. She flexed her aching fingers and stood up. The work was only just beginning, and already she was soaked in perspiration. And if that was how she felt after sawing through one trunk, about eighteen inches in circumference, how would she feel after cutting six or seven planks, each several feet long? She was determined not to show any weakness in front of Jake. It was what he would expect. How pleased he would be if she confessed she had had enough—and then she would see that dry cynical smile she so hated. 'Ready?' It was a mocking query. 'Ready.' She gritted her teeth, and they began sawing. Back and forth, to and fro—the sunlight dazzled her, and they weren't tears that blurred her vision, they were trickles of perspiration, and her hair was drenched, and her arms ached intolerably, but she would keep on... She nearly fell—and he stopped sawing. Two neat planks lay beside them on the ground, and there was more to be done. 'Had enough?' he asked softly. He straightened and flexed his hands, and powerful muscles moved and swelled on his upper arms for a moment. Helen swallowed. 'No,' she lied, 'I overbalanced,' and she kicked a small stone out of the way, as if that might be to blame. Jake grinned cruelly. 'You look as if you're all in to me. I suggest you stop.' She wanted to, oh, how she wanted to!

'I'm thirsty.' That was true anyway. 'We're near the spring. Come on, plenty of time to do these. We'll have a drink. I could do with one myself.' And he put the saw down carefully and strode away into the trees. After gathering some breath, Helen followed him. He was kneeling down at the edge of the basin when she reached the clearing, and he was plunging his face into the icy water, splashing it all over himself. He stood up as she went near, moved away, and said: 'It's all yours. Take your time,' then strode off back through the trees, leaving her alone. Helen sat on the flat stones for a moment before leaning over to drink that beautiful liquid cupped in the palms of her hands. She splashed her forehead, cheeks, and hair, and it was bliss. Then gently along her arms, on her neck, finally on her legs. She stood up, and her knees buckled, so she sat hastily down again. She rubbed the calves of her legs, trying to massage the vanished strength back—before he shouted her. What on earth am I to do? she wondered. He's used to this—I'm not. I've never even used a saw before, and my muscles ache so that I could scream with the pain. And it's so hot. She looked down at her slender arms, nicely tanned now, damp and shiny with the water, and knew it was no use. Wearily she rose to her feet, took one last lingering look at the flowers that grew in such colourful profusion at the edge of the water, and set off back to the place where the tree lay. Jake was busy sawing, and for a moment she stood and watched before he noticed her and stopped. She didn't know that he realized how she felt, that every aching inch of her gave the game away. Delicate and slender she stood there, trying not to sway, and perhaps

he saw that too—but he let nothing show on his face. She went forward and he nodded. 'Sit down. You've done enough.' 'But I -' she began. 'You heard me. Sit down—or go back to the dinghy and wait. Please yourself.' And he began sawing again, steadily and rhythmically back and forth, and she sat down on the other half of the fallen trunk, and watched him. His torso gleamed with sweat, it ran down his back and arms in rivulets, and his muscles were strong. He was a powerful man, she knew that already, but now his strength was evident. And there was something very satisfying, just sitting and watching the perfect coordination of his movements. Even though she didn't like him; that didn't matter—she could still admire his superb skill. Helen's own strength gradually returned, the trembling muscles quieted, and she breathed steadily again. She had been slightly wrong about two things, she admitted to herself. He had not let her go on until she dropped—nor was he gloating over her inability to continue, as she would have expected. He was in fact completely ignoring her as if she were not there. Time passed, the sun blazed down, and the planks were done. He brushed the sawdust from his shorts and turned to Helen. 'Feel strong enough to carry some?' he asked. 'Yes.' She jumped up. 'Of course.' She picked up three, and they were heavy. He carried four and the saw, and they set off back to the dinghy.

She wanted to ask him when he would be finished repairing the boat, but dare not. Perhaps, if she listened to his call to Bill later on, she would find out. She felt, all of a sudden, and for no reason that she could think of, dreadfully unhappy.

After they reached Sea Witch, Jake vanished into the washroom to emerge in black swimming trunks, and carrying a knife. 'I'm going to catch something to eat,' he said, and ran up the steps. 'You can wash up.' And then she heard the splash a moment later as he dived over the side. 'Just like that,' Helen said to herself, unaware that she spoke aloud. 'I'll go and catch the food—you wash up. Me Tarzan, you Jane.' She smiled wryly to herself. His manners might be abrupt, but he left you in no doubt about his intentions. Suddenly she had a picture of what would happen if they had to stay on the island indefinitely. Of course it wouldn't happen, but the thought was sobering. He would be in complete charge—he already was— and he would provide for them both. He was resourceful and capable, she already knew, and they would never suffer hunger or thirst, but would he ever change—become more human? How remote a possibility that seemed. Helen heated water and began to wash the pots. If he did, what a difference. She had only had brief glimpses of the other side of him, but they had been enough to let her see that he could be overwhelmingly attractive—if he chose. And that was it. He didn't choose—with her. He never would, she knew that.

'I hate you,' she said softly as she rubbed his beaker with a hot soapy cloth. 'How I hate you,' and her arms ached, with strain, and tension, but even as she said it, she knew it wasn't strictly true. He was soon back carrying a large white fish which he filleted and washed, then put under the grill, spread thinly with butter. The potatoes were cooked and he left the drained pan to stand while he went to change. Helen set the tables, a rebellious line to her mouth. Would he begin the repairs after they had eaten? Or did he think he had done enough for one day? She didn't know, she wouldn't ask, she could only wait. And that seemed to be her role, waiting. Waiting for him to finish sawing, for him to return with the lunch. Waiting to see what he wanted to do. Inwardly simmering, she watched him come out of the washroom in shorts and thin short-sleeved white shirt. Look at him, she thought. Arrogance personified—so sure of himself—always. And he looked across at the wrong moment as he edged his way past the other side of the table, wet trunks in hand, and he saw something of what was smouldering in her eyes, and he stopped, and said: 'What's the matter with you?' She looked back at him. 'Nothing.' But even the way she said it carried the message. His eyes narrowed to dark slits. 'Like hell nothing!' He flung his wet trunks half-way up the steps to the deck. 'Spit it out.' She turned and went out into the galley without speaking. In one brief second he was behind her, his husky voice tightening with anger as he said: 'Don't walk away when I'm talking to you, miss.' It was a great effort to keep her anger under control. But Helen managed it, because if she lost her temper now she would hit him,

she knew, and she didn't want to descend to his level of physical violence. She stared at him, everything there in her eyes to see—-and let him make what he wanted of it. 'I forgot,' she said. 'I forgot it was you talking to me. Do forgive me.' This in the honeyed tones of deep sarcasm. She heard his sharp hiss of indrawn breath, saw the quick dark anger leap to his eyes, saw too his hands tighten into fists. She looked down at them, and smiled. 'Oh, do you want a fight? I'm sorry I can't oblige. I don't fight with men -' And she turned her back on him, and reached out... He whirled her round. 'You're a lippy little bitch, aren't you?' he grated. 'Am I?' she remained quite still in his grip, even though it hurt her poor aching arms. But some of the intolerable tension was being released now, in a strange way, and she didn't care any more. She wondered, almost disinterestedly, if he would hit her. He certainly looked furious enough. 'You should know, I imagine—I mean, you'll have met plenty in your travels, won't you?' and she looked at his eye. 'God, I could -' He stopped, his face dangerous. 'You already are. Hurting me, I mean. Hurting my arms. Does that make you feel better—does it?' And now tears sparkled in her eyes. Tears of pain. His grip was too tight, intolerably so, and she wanted to cry, but she wouldn't let those treacherous tears fall, she wouldn't. And she wouldn't fight back, because she didn't know what would happen, only that it would be something awful.

He loosened his grip slightly, and his mouth was a grim line in his face, and harsh lines ran from his nose to the corners, and she knew then, quite suddenly, that for some unknown reason he was under as great a tension as she was. It crackled in the air, a brittle dry electric current, sparking round them, ready to explode—and all because he had seen something in her eyes that he did not like! Then he moved; and it all seemed to be happening in slow motion. Slowly his lips came down on hers, and the kiss was shattering in its dark passion—-and Helen was trembling, slowly moving, trying to push him away—then not pushing any more, her lips meeting his now with a secret kind of hunger that matched his own. The world, and time, stood very still. And it went on for ever—and then was over. Jake suddenly released her, and his face—she had never seen such a look on his face before, it frightened her—and he turned away and went out, and up the stairs. Helen leaned against the doorway, her limbs weak with shock. She was trembling all over. Very slowly she lifted her hand, and wiped the back of it across her mouth with all her strength.

When he came down the steps into the cabin a few minutes later she was sitting on the bunk, reading an old magazine from the rack on the wall at the foot of her bunk. She didn't look up when he entered. She kept her eyes fixed firmly on the page in front of her, because she wasn't going to let him see that she was crying—and she wasn't going to speak, and he could do what he liked about lunch, she didn't care. She could see the red ugly marks on her arms. Marks of his fingers, and they wouldn't go away for days, because she had fair delicate

skin, but he hadn't known that, and if he had he wouldn't have cared anyway. It was then that she noticed the magazine was in Portuguese. She had been reading it for several minutes—and it was only now that the print had actually registered. Very casually she turned a page. She could look at the pictures anyway... There were noises from the galley. The crackling tension was gone. She felt drained of life and energy, and very weak. There was no more strength for argument in her. The blurred print kept clearing each time she blinked, and she quickly wiped away a tear that had dripped on to the page. If he would just leave her alone for a while— if... 'Food.' A clatter of plates, his voice flat and clipped. She said : 'Right,' and heard him sit down, heard his fork on the plate, and then she moved along the bunk and looked at her food. She did not honestly know if she could eat. She would not—could not—look up at him. She loathed him with an intensity that dismayed her—and now she was frightened of him as well. Helen picked up her fork and began to eat the fish. It was hot and tender, and fell apart at a touch. A delicious aroma arose, and she knew she must eat to keep her strength up. Both fish and potato— rather like an ordinary one, but sweeter and waxier—were tasy and perfectly cooked. She knew they were, but it was an effort to eat at all, and after a few minutes she stood up and carried her plate out to the galley. His voice followed her: 'Don't leave that food uncovered, or we'll be swarmed with flies. Put it in the bin.'

'All right,' she did as he told her. It would perhaps make life a lot easier if she did just that in future—at least as long as they were stranded here. She put the empty plate in the small washing up bowl and filled the kettle. At least water wasn't rationed. There was a limitless quantity at the spring when their supplies ran low, and plastic containers to be filled under the sink. Suddenly she heard movement behind her, and stiffened involuntarily. What was it? Then his plate slid into the bowl on top of hers, his long arm vanished again, and he said: 'Sit down, I'll make us a drink.' Without a word she came out, he stood back to let her pass, and she slipped into her place on the bunk and picked up the magazine. 'Cigarette?' It was his first that day, she realized, as she saw him bring the packet out. 'Yes, please.' As she took it, he said: 'Are you waiting for me to apologize for kissing you?' She looked up then. 'No.' She was strangely shocked at his mention of it. 'Good. Because I don't intend to. It was either that, or dotting you one—and I haven't yet descended to hitting women.' Then he paused, and she knew his eyes were on her arms. 'But I didn't know I'd gripped you so hard. Why didn't you stop me?'

'Stop you?' She looked at him in astonishment. 'Were you in a mood to listen to me -?' she faltered waited for him to press his lighter, and he said as he did so: 'I'm sorry for that.' 'It doesn't make much difference—my arms are sore anyway. I—I'm not used to chopping t-trees.' She was stammering again. She must stop it. She must control herself. 'Then why the hell didn't you say?' Exasperation tinged his voice. 'I wanted to do my share,' she answered simply, and she did not dare add, 'because I thought you'd sneer at me if I gave up too soon,' because she must not get into another quarrel with him. One like that which they had just had was enough to last a long time. Perhaps he guessed. His hard face was a shade less hard as he sat opposite her. 'I don't expect women to do men's work.' It came out before she could stop it. 'No, that's the trouble.' 'What does that mean?' She shook her head. 'Nothing—I'm sorry -' Her lip trembled. 'Oh, for God's sake! Don't say you're frightened to talk to me. You're shaking like a leaf. You're not -' His eyes narrowed. 'Are you?' 'Yes.' There, she had admitted it. He had asked her. She looked up and said it again. 'Yes, I am. What do you expect me to be? But I decided—after what just happened—that I wasn't going to answer you back, or anything, while we're here. Not argue, or

disagree, b-but just do as you say—because—because -' She faltered, because his face was quite expressionless, and he had an air of brooding stillness about him. But she had to go on, now she had begun. She would have no self-respect if she didn't. 'Because it's easier that way. Perhaps you don't realize just how p-powerful you are.' Her voice faded to almost a whisper, and she waited for the blast of anger. None came. He ran his hand down his face. 'Well, now we know where we stand, don't we?' His eyes were dark and fathomless, tone cynical. 'So I frighten you, do I? You hide it well—most of the time.' He laughed softly, but there was no humour in it. 'You can certainly put on a good act when you choose'—Helen looked up slowly '—do you really expect me to believe that? Oh, come on, Helen. The game's over. You've made your point. Okay, so I'll stop bossing you. That'll make you feel better. But don't expect me to believe you're frightened, of me. You're not scared of anything.' The kettle began to whistle shrilly, and he turned and went out to the galley, leaving her sitting at the table with the smouldering cigarette in her hands. So he thought she was acting, did he? Was that what he really thought? That she was acting all the time? She knew there was no way of making him think otherwise. She would not even try. She had seen enough contempt in his eyes to last her a while. The war was no longer undeclared. It was open. He brought in coffee, and a large avocado pear. 'You want some?' She took a deep breath. Maybe it would be better this way. At least she knew exactly where she was now. Just one thing that she was not even going to try and think about yet. That kiss. She hadn't imagined the intensity of passion in that. It had been real. But later —later would be better. She had something to sort out in her mind first.

'Yes, please.' Answer him calmly, stay cool—and polite. That way he won't be able to do anything. Helen had eaten avocado before, usually in smart restaurants, where it was filled with tiny shrimps, and mayonnaise—and was delicious. Now, quite simply cut in two, the large stone removed, and with a sprinkling of salt and pepper, it was superb. Because this one was fresh from the tree—and nothing, but nothing could equal that. He looked at his watch. 'I'm going to make a start on the boat soon. I work better alone. You can do exactly what you like.' 'Can I go ashore and walk round again?' 'I just said, you must do what you want.' He was carefully keeping any expression from his voice. Helen's heart did a funny lurch. He knew what an utter swine he could be—and he wasn't even trying hard now. 'Then I will. Thank you.' She wouldn't offer to help. He didn't want her. Good. She had a pleasant afternoon ashore ahead of her. She would search through the magazines and find one in English if possible, and take that to her favourite place, and read. But first wash up and wipe the table. She wouldn't try and step out of her place. She went into the galley and rinsed out the cloth, sprinkled it with disinfectant, and took it back. Jake stood up and looked at her. 'I'm going up on deck.' And he went. She stood and watched him vanish out of sight, his feet the last to disappear. Then she let out her breath in a deep relieved sigh. There was no hurry. She could take her time now. She cleared and tidied the table and the cabin, wiped quickly round the paintwork, and opened the windows to their fullest extent to

allow the slight breeze to clear the cigarette smoke from the air. Then she smoothed the bunks so that everything was as neat as new. It was oddly satisfying to look round then at her handiwork. Then she left the galley in the same clean state, and sorted through the magazines. There were no English ones, but a few Australian, and even though all seemed to be well over a year old, they were a welcome sight. Something she could understand, at last! She made a tidy pile of the ones she wanted, and put the others away. A large mango had tempted her, and she put that on the magazines too. And now she was ready. When she went up on deck to see Jake with an open box of tools beside him as he knelt and measured the planks, she faltered. But only for a moment. If he needed help he would ask. He wasn't frightened to say what exactly was in his mind—as he so frequently proved. So he would say, wouldn't he? Even so, as she climbed carefully down the metal rungs, she had a twinge of something she couldn't define. It wasn't pity—you couldn't ever feel sorry for Jake Logan—but there had, just for a moment, been an alone kind of look about him. He was a loner, perhaps he always would be. A man who preferred to live and work and travel on his own. But did he never know what he was missing? Did he never want to tuck his son up in bed at night, as most fathers occasionally did? Or take Toby with him on the boat? She would never know, but the feeling remained. Perhaps he wasn't as carefree as he imagined, after all. Helen stepped into the dinghy without, this time, Jake's steadying hand to help her. She picked up one paddle and began to row across, and in a minute or so reached shore. She made certain the dinghy was pulled well up from the water before she leaned in for her magazines

and the mango. He might not appear to be interested, but Helen felt sure Jake would have a critical eye on her, making sure she did everything right. She took one last brief look back at the boat, but he had vanished. Helen turned and began the walk to her secret beautiful place.

There were many things for her to turn over in her mind when she at last lay in her bunk late that night. It was beautiful out, the stars brilliant in a black sky that was still warm, scented, and pleasant. Helen lay on her back under the window hearing the faint movements that told her Jake was making up his bed on deck. Her mind was a jumble of confused colourful images of the day that was now over. Soon it would be Sunday. Her second away from England—and how different it would be from anything she could have dreamed in all her wildest imaginings ! To be stranded on a desert island with a man! Classic standby of films—but with one essential difference. There was an invisible barrier that would never be breached, with this man. The dislike was hard and mutual, never to be altered, and the sooner they were back on Sun Island, the better. She thought back to Jake's call to Bill, four hours previously at eight exactly. He had spoken in technical terms of the work he was doing. Helen had listened, waiting to hear the only thing that was important to her—when they would be setting off home. And she had. In dry clipped tones Jake had said: 'It'll be Monday or Tuesday, Bill. There's more damage than I thought, and it's a helluva job doing it while Sea Witch is in the water.' Then he had stopped talking, and listened for a minute, then laughed, and said: 'I thought of that, but how do I get her back again—' and for a moment Helen thought he referred to her, but he meant the boat.

She had already gone slightly numb at his previous words—Monday or Tuesday! It couldn't be possible. Then he had listened a while more, making notes, agreeing, and finishing: 'It's worth a try, Bill—listen, we'll be in touch tomorrow. Same time, okay?' She had turned away, sick at heart, shaken—and desperate to hide it from him, lest he remark on it. But he had, anyway. He followed her down to the cabin, and now, as Helen lay in bed, the scene came back as real as it had been before. 'Well,' he grated. 'You heard. Have you nothing to say?' 'No,' she shook her head. 'You're in charge.' 'Thanks,' he raised a cynical eyebrow. 'I didn't think you'd noticed.' She turned away and sat on her bunk. After a moment's pause, he said: 'Bill suggests we beach Sea Witch and repair her there.' 'Oh.' She looked up. 'Are you going to?' 'I'd give it a try if I was sure of getting her safely in the water again.' Anything—anything to get away. 'Would you be able to repair the hole quicker?' 'Yes. There's no power in hammering in nails when you're weightless in water.' She felt stupid at not having thought of that before. It should have been obvious. 'I see. Is there anything I can do?'

'No. Except when it comes to getting her afloat again. And that is to push like hell—but I don't -' 'I would. I would,' she insisted. He surveyed her dispassionately. 'You're pretty desperate to get away.' 'Aren't you?' He flicked his lighter idly as he felt in his pockets for cigarettes. 'Want a ciggie?' He didn't intend to answer that one. Because the answer was obvious? 'No, thanks. You've not got many left.' 'That doesn't matter. When they're gone, I stop smoking, don't I? It's as simple as that.' She believed it would be, with him. And he probably wouldn't even want one. She reached out her hand, and it had a fine tremor. 'All right. Thank you.' 'Cognac?' She hadn't enjoyed it before, but it might help her to get to sleep. Might also deaden the pain that was beginning to circulate in her muscles. 'Please. Just a little.' He wasn't so bad now. If only... But it was no use wishing he would stay like that—he couldn't. There was an explosive side to his nature that would not be stilled, that occasionally had to detonate—and anything could do it; the wrong word, or look. Helen had spoken the truth before. There was something about him that frightened her—

but he chose to think she lied. And she thought she would never understand why. But now he was civil. He lit her cigarette for her, and for a fraction of time his hand steadied hers as lighter flame met cigarette end, and it could have been any man, anywhere, looking after a woman. And, too, when he brought out the glasses and filled them, he waited for Helen to drink before he raised his own glass to his lips. Helen looked at him then, as he did so, and wondered again just who he was, where he had come from—what he had been before. Because—and the thought teased at the back of her brain—for all his abruptness, his bluntness, he had basic good manners. There was an air of breeding about him that no amount of fights or disagreements could dissipate. It was just as if, in some things, he didn't care—but he could not deny his early, instinctive training. No amount of rough living could ever do that. The cognac warmed and heartened her. Now, in bed, thinking about it, about the hour in which they had drunk and smoked, and discussed ways of getting Sea Witch on dry land—or at least the part of the boat which mattered—Helen thought that he had probably been nicer than he had ever been with her. He had actually listened, and answered, with nothing of his usual dry cynicism—and now, looking back on it, she realized with surprise that she had actually enjoyed herself. There was something else that she had carefully, so very carefully avoided thinking about; the kiss. And for the very good reason that her own reactions to it had been dismaying—and almost frightening. Helen had not known that a kiss could be like that. Never had she responded before. A defensive barrier had always been there—only until now, until today, she had been unaware of it. She had just considered kissing to be boring, a necessary chore to end an evening out with a man—something to be endured with a smile, as if you enjoyed it, and something to be forgotten immediately.

Now, now it was different. The passion, the urgency, the trembling, heart-stopping sweet ache of longing— she had known them all in that brief heady minute when he had forced his mouth down on hers in a way that had allowed no struggle or protest. Helen turned her head restlessly, eyes wide open, now that at last she admitted the feeling to herself. She might hate the man—but her wretched body did not hate his touch. And that was odd, and must be forgotten as soon as possible. But it was a long time afterwards before Helen managed to fall asleep. The question that taunted her remained: What effect—if any—had the kiss had on that man Logan?

There was one awful moment when she awoke that Helen thought she would never move again. Her arms, legs and back muscles were one solid aching mass of pain. She stifled a cry, biting her lip hard, and felt perspiration break out all over her as she tried, vainly, to sit up. Fears of dreadful tropical diseases sprang instantly to mind—then she remembered, and the relief was unbelievable. The saw! Her muscles were on strike after their treatment yesterday! That was all, not some dreaded island paralysis! But it still didn't make any difference. Begin gradually—the thought came, and so she moved her fingers carefully. They were all right anyway. Now twist the wrists—try the feet as well. It was working. Slowly but surely it was succeeding. And then, after a few minutes, came the big one. She tried to sit up. She was half laughing, half crying now. Laughing at her own stupidity in getting into such a state; crying with the exquisite agony of stiff muscles—and then Jake Logan walked in.

'I saw you struggling through the window,' he said. 'What the hell is it?' 'I can't move.' Then, because she was still clutching the window ledge, neither lying nor sitting, and the position was extremely uncomfortable: 'Help me, please.' He was wet, as though he had been swimming—but his clothes were dry. Drops of water fell on her face from his as he leaned over and put his hand between her shoulder blades and eased her up. 'I wouldn't believe anyone could be so bloody stupid,' he said, as casually as if he was mentioning the weather. 'How did you get into such a state?' 'Thanks for the sympathy,' she gritted. 'I didn't know I'd be like this, did I?' 'Obviously not,' he answered. 'And you'll get worse if we don't do something about it.' 'Like what?' It wasn't quite so awful now she was sitting up. He looked around, as if seeking inspiration—or perhaps he was counting ten before he spoke. 'Like liniment,' he said eventually. 'If you'd told me last night, I could have put some on then,' she retorted. He raised one eyebrow at her tone. 'I didn't know, did I?' he said logically. 'You never said. I'm not a mind-reader.' 'All right.' Helen was in too much pain to even try and argue. 'If you'll be kind enough to get it, I'll put it on.'

'You'll put it on? How?' Cynicism touched that wide expressive mouth. His thoughts were plain to see. 'I'll manage, don't worry.' 'You can't even move. All right—you haven't much choice. I'll do it.' 'You won't!' Her breath caught in her throat at the thought of him touching her. She saw his eyes flicker over her briefly, dismissively. Then he turned and went out to the galley, and she heard the cupboard opening, a pause, then he was in the cabin again, holding a small bottle of bright yellow liquid. He stood there looking at her. 'Give it to me, please.' He held it out, and she had to reach up—he was standing deliberately just out of reach—and she knew why he had done it a moment later. Her arm wouldn't make it. She couldn't even stretch it a couple of feet for a bottle of liniment. 'You pig! You did that on purpose!' He gave a low whistle. 'I've told you before about your language. I'm surprised at you, a lady, using words like that.' But the gleam in his eyes wasn't of amusement. It was hard again, and she guessed that he was actually deriving pleasure from seeing her helpless. An impotent wave of anger swept her. She had almost enjoyed his company the previous evening. Just for an hour or two he had been human. Now he was well and truly back to normal. He went on: 'I wasn't doing it to get you mad. Merely to demonstrate that you couldn't do this yourself—in case you thought I was offering from some ulterior motive. Come on, lift your shirt up. I'll do your back first. Better still, turn over on your stomach, and I can -' 'Oh no, you can't,' she breathed.

The air was suddenly electric. For one startling second she thought he was going to send the bottle crashing against the stairs up to the deck. 'Listen—you,' he said. 'What the hell do you think I am? My God, but you're conceited if you imagine rubbing liniment on you is going to drive me wild with lust. Turn over, woman.' And he came forward, put the bottle on the table with a glassy thud, leaned over Helen and lifted her round like a baby, his hands strong and completely irresistible. A moment later, as she buried her head in the pillow in sheer mortification—and muffled rage, she felt her—his shirt being pulled high up on her neck. A pause, a tingling heart-stopping pause—and then a gush of warm liquid and a hand rubbing hard across her back. After the first stiff outrage of instinctive resistance, Helen found her back yielding to the pressure—and the motion was soothing—very soothing. 'Am I hurting you?' His voice seemed to come from a great distance. 'No—no, that's better.' 'Anywhere else?' 'My shoulders.' She swallowed and turned her face sideways so that her voice wouldn't be so muffled. 'If you could just -' 'Lie still. I know what I'm doing.' There was no argument with that she thought. He did too. It was both hands now, kneading her shoulder blades with exquisite gentleness, and higher, to her neck, and now across to the top of her arms, and she gave a little moan. 'Hurt?'

'No. Oh no. It's nice.' It hurt to admit it, but she had to. 'I knew it would be.' He wasn't amused, was he? 'You might even want to go to sleep again after.' But she wouldn't, because it wasn't making her tired at all. Just the opposite in fact. In fact—she was enjoying it. And a treacherous warmth stole through her, and his hands were—just right, oh, so just right. 'Helen?' 'Mmm?' 'What about your arms? And anywhere else?' 'My arms. Yes. And my legs—but I don't -' 'Shut up.' She shut up. As long as he stayed like this she was all right. 'Put your arms on the pillow. Wriggle down the bed —careful -' He was amused. A pity she couldn't see his face. Why amusement? 'What?' 'Your shirt. Hang on.' A tug. 'That's better. It was— er—never mind.' Her face flamed, and she was glad he couldn't see it. He started on her arms, massaging the locked muscles gently with his fingers before smoothing more lotion in, pushing the sleeves up as far as they would go, pausing, saying: 'Where on your legs? The calves?' 'Mm—yes.' And then please go away, she added silently. For I don't like you, and I shouldn't have this tingling in my head because you have beautiful fingers, and know how to touch a woman, even if this is only for medicinal reasons, and liniment is hardly romantic, and...

But it was no use. She bit her lip hard, to stop herself from crying out at the exquisite torture of his touch. And then—he had finished. It was all over. 'That's it. You want to stay like that?' 'For a minute.' 'Has it done you any good?' In one way yes, in another no good at all—but I wouldn't tell you that. 'Oh, yes, a lot, thank you.' And now please go away. 'Right. I'll have a shave, then get breakfast.' She heard him pad away, and then she could breathe. Her nails dug in the pillows as she heard the whirr of the razor, and imagined his face, his mocking face, looking —laughing at her. Carefully she eased her shirt down a little, so that she could turn round without any fear of embarrassment. And she could move. It was marvellous. Just those few very precious minutes—and although the pain hadn't gone, most of the stiffness had. Helen sat up and swung her feet over the side of the bunk to the floor. Then she flexed her arms experimentally, and looked up. And saw Jake watching her from the washroom doorway. Their eyes met—and it was as if time stood still. Just for a second all enmity was dissolved; she saw him clearly as if for the first time, and a surge of deep emotion filled her. For there was something in his eyes that turned her blood to fire. A deep primitive look, not capable of being put into words—then gone, as he said, almost too quickly: 'Better?' The shutters were down. It had gone. She could have imagined it— but she had not. 'Yes. Thank you, Jake.'

His mouth twisted slightly. 'I had an ulterior motive, you know. I need you to help with the boat.' 'Oh.' But she knew something she had not known before. He was not so completely immune as he would like her to think. She knew now, with all the sureness of a woman's instinct. And the knowledge was a heady potion. She stood up. 'I'll get breakfast. What are we having?' 'Grilled tomatoes on toast. Does that appeal? Followed by fruit?' 'Sounds good. I'll start.' The washroom was next to the galley so that she had to pass him, very close, but he moved back. 'I'll leave you to it then.' The door shut. Helen smiled to herself. A small, secret, woman's smile.

CHAPTER SEVEN JAKE dug a trench at the side of the lagoon. The day was too hot again, and Helen wanted to beg him to stop and take a rest, but dared not. Something drove him on, and his face was grim as he bent to the spade, lifting, throwing, digging, all smooth and rhythmic again. She knew why he was doing it, because he had explained it to her. He was going to 'drive' the boat on to the sand. Which explained the levelling out to prepare for a tricky bit of steering—but not the grim purpose which filled him, as if much depended on speed. It was Sunday, the day of rest, and Helen touched his arm as he stopped to wipe sweat from his eyes. 'I'll get you a drink from the spring,' she said. 'Or do you want coffee?' He looked down at her. 'Don't you want me to do these repairs?' he asked. 'All right, get me a drink if you want, but don't expect me to stop.' 'But you'll -' She hesitated. 'Yes? I'll what?' Impatience filled him. 'You'll overdo it, and be ill.' 'Will I? Like you did yesterday? That'll be nice for you, won't it? You can massage me.' She turned away at his tone. Useless to try and speak to him. He was in a mood she couldn't define. But it was not a good one, that was clear. So different again! And before—she still went warm at the memory of having her aching limbs soothed by his gentle hands— the same hands now wielding a spade as if his life depended on it. What an unpredictable man!

Helen carried the water container through the trees to the clearing, and there filled it at the spring. As always when she was here, she paused for a moment to look around and picture her house, her dream home sitting there, right in the centre, with its windows open to let in the sound of running water, and the perfume of flowers. And when she was back in London she would remember this place, and it would be happy and sad, and she would probably never see it again after the next day or so. For Helen was coming to a decision, as yet un- thought, just there, buried in the back of her mind, the knowledge that she didn't belong here, never would—and the man Jake Logan did. It was as simple as that. This was his life, not hers. And so, soon, she would have to go. Because there are some people that it is better to be thousands of miles away from, and Jake Logan was one of them—for Helen. As yet though, she was not prepared to admit why; she didn't even know herself. He represented danger, a threat to the life she had so carefully organized, the wall she had built round her emotions. And that would never do. She turned and went back to the lagoon without looking back. He had finished the levelling out, and he drank deeply, and splashed the crystal clear water over his head and face afterwards. It was nearly noon, and the worst was over. She relaxed slightly, glad. And then he shattered everything. 'We'll eat lunch before we shift the things out on deck.' 'Things?' her mind was a blank. 'What things?' 'The bedding,' he looked at her. 'Where do you think you'll be sleeping tonight?' There was something in his tone. 'N-not on the boat?'

'Not on the boat,' he repeated dryly. 'Why do you think I've been digging for the last couple of hours? It'll level things out a bit, but Sea Witch will still be at an angle of thirty degrees or so, and that's too steep for comfort.' 'You mean we'll be sleeping on the beach?' 'Unless you have anywhere better in mind.' He leaned on his shovel, a big dangerous man in a mood that was difficult to fathom. 'I assure you you'll be quite as safe on the beach as you were aboard.' And his mouth twisted. Helen looked at him. 'But the spiders—you said -' 'They don't come near sand. There's nothing here for them—and if you're worried you can pile up seaweed 'twixt us and the trees. They don't like that.' 'W-what if it rains?' 'There is that,' he raised a black insolent eyebrow, 'or thunders, or typhoons -' he gave an exasperated shrug. 'We'll take shelter then, you little idiot—we'll manage. But I'm sleeping in comfort otherwise.' She didn't like being called an idiot, but short of arguing, there was nothing to be done about it. Perhaps she was being stupid. After all, he wouldn't— would he? Wouldn't try anything? That was what was really bothering her. 'I wish I'd never come,' she said, taking herself as much by surprise as him. There was a hard brittle silence. Then he spoke, softly. 'Do you? Do you really? It's a bit late for that, isn't it? Come on,' he gestured

towards the dinghy, 'let's go.' A quality of impatience ran through his voice, a tautness that could easily build up into anger. And Helen obeyed, instantly. She prepared their meal while he hefted the mattresses and bedding up on to the deck. She didn't know why she had said what she had. But she knew one thing—the tension was building up again. She rubbed her arm where a muscular twinge ached momentarily, and watched the sweet potato she had left simmering before. They were having that with tomatoes and cold meat with avocado pears to follow. She had so keenly wanted to come here, to this, her own island. Now she had seen it, and it was all she had ever imagined, and more. But it was not for her, she knew it as surely as she knew that Jake Logan wanted her to go away. Well, he would have his way. Perhaps he always got what he wanted. Some people did. But he wouldn't know. Not yet, not for a while. Uncle Philip had been wrong in a way. It might have been better if she had not come, after all. She brushed her hair out of her eyes as she heard him come down the steps and into the cabin. 'Let him not be awful,' she whispered—and wondered why she should say it out loud, when at one time she would not have even thought it. She sliced the luncheon meat and drained the water from the pan. There was going to be nothing for him to find fault with. Not now. She would try very hard in future, not ask silly questions—to see that look of scorn in those dark eyes was painful to her. They ate on deck because the bunks without the mattresses were too low and too hard. The sun reflected in dazzling slants off the calm water around Sea Witch. It seemed impossible to imagine any other

kind of weather save this. And yet a storm had greeted them. Perhaps it had been an omen. Afterwards, when the meal was done, and all crockery washed, cleared away and secured in the special cupboard fitments, Jake went to the controls and shouted: 'Okay?' 'Yes.' Helen was at her post, ready to guide him into the centre of the depression in the sand which waited for them. He had warned her to hold tight. The crunch, when it came, would be quite something, he had said. And so it was. He gave the engine full power, took a long curving sweep round to build up speed, and Helen held tightly to the rail as the shore rushed nearer and nearer. A strange excitement filled her. If this didn't work, how long might they not be here? 'Dead ahead,' she called. 'Just as you are.' Then—it was like a bomb exploding beneath her feet. For a moment she thought the boat had blown up. She was nearly jerked off her feet with the impact, flung to one side, slipping at an angle—then righting herself. Her arm felt as if it had been wrenched out of its socket. She stood there to get her breath and heard footsteps on the hard wood of the deck. And that was shifting and moving most disconcertingly beneath her feet. Jake was beside her, leaning over. 'Done it!' There was relief in his voice. 'I'll fling the bedding over, then the wood and tools. Then I'll get cracking.' Helen was still holding on tightly to the rail. 'How —how do we get off?' she asked, feeling quite foolish. He gave her a tight dark glance. 'Jump?' he suggested dryly. 'There is still a ladder down, you know. Try that way. You'll have to paddle

for a few feet, but that won't hurt you. Meanwhile I'm going to get moving. I might get a lot done before dark if I shape.' 'Can I help—I mean, is there anything I can do?' 'Yes. Keep out of the way. I've told you before, I work better alone,' then, very belatedly, 'thanks.' 'Right.' She couldn't help it. 'You do have such a charming way of expressing yourself.' 'Don't I just!' He directed a level glance her way. 'At least you understand me. I don't waste time on saying things I don't mean.' 'I had already noticed.' She was moving away, warily, wanting the conversation to end, because there was only one way it would finish, if she kept on answering him back, and he always won. And there was this tightness about him, as if of something tautly leashed, some aspect of his volatile temper that he was keeping under control. She shivered slightly. What a man to have on your side! But again—what an enemy! She climbed over the side, found her footing on the iron rungs, and climbed down. Her beautiful white sandals were already beyond redemption, a soaking in water could hardly do much more damage. He waited until she stepped out of the water, and called : 'Will you catch these as I throw them?' He was holding bundled-up sheets and blankets. 'Yes.' She caught them and put them down. He passed her one mattress, then the second, and she pulled them along the sand until they were well away from the water, and laid them side by side.

He flung the planks out while she was doing this, his box of tools, then climbed the rail and jumped down, a leap of over nine feet. Helen turned away and began to fold the sheets neatly to lay on top of the mattresses. It was slightly cooler than it had been before, a welcome scented breeze riffling her hair, teasing her skin with its soft caress. She sat down and began to watch Jake, because there was nothing else to do. And she wondered how long the repairs would take him to finish.

She fell asleep in the end, because watching someone work, she found, had a soporific effect. She was woken by Jake tapping her leg with his foot, and opened her eyes, taking a moment to focus on the tall dark figure towering over her. She thought something was wrong. 'What is it?' she sat up quickly. 'I thought you'd like to see the sun setting. In about ten minutes from now. It'll be your last chance to see it from this island—I've nearly finished the repairs.' 'You have?' She scrambled to her feet and looked across towards Sea Witch. The hole had nearly vanished, swallowed up by creamy wood that didn't match the white paint which covered the boat. 'That's marvellous I' 'Yes, isn't it?' he agreed dryly. 'Then we'll be going back tomorrow?' 'We will. I've another hour's work—but once the sun's gone, that's it.' He shrugged. 'I had hoped to finish—but no go.'

He looked at Helen. 'We'll be off as soon as we can in the morning.' And what did she see in his face? Something that caused her heart to skip a beat. To cover up she said: 'I'd better get something to eat. What will we have—and how?' 'The cooker's on gimbals—which means it stays level whatever else doesn't. But we'll eat something simple. I'm hot—I'll go and get a fish in and cool off at the same time.' Before Helen could move he unfastened his shorts and took them off—to reveal his swimming trunks. The next minute he was wading into the lagoon holding a knife. She watched him go, her feelings mixed. His black hair was shaggy, curling round the back of his neck—not, she suspected, because it was fashionable, but simply because he couldn't be bothered to have it cut often enough. His back was fascinating, she had to admit. So few men were well built nowadays, they all seemed to be skinny. This one had been made in the old-fashioned mould—his shoulders broad, well shaped, waist and hips lean, long muscular legs. She saw him fall forward and strike out towards the centre of the lagoon, and now only his head and shoulders were visible. He swam powerfully, not wasting time with fancy strokes, then vanished in a flurry of foam as he dived down, his feet kicking up sharply for a moment before they too disappeared. Ten minutes before sunset, he had said. Helen turned to walk along the beach to reach open sea, there to watch. She had not yet seen the sunset, but she had heard they were spectacular in this part of the world. She scuffed her feet in the sand as she went. He didn't want to watch it with her, that was obvious. But then why should he? He had seen it all so often before —from Storm Island as well, and if it was romantic, he would want it to be with anyone else but Helen. She

looked up, seeing the leaves and spiky palms overhead, clear and dark against a sky that would soon be dark, very soon. There was no time wasted on twilight here. One minute it was light—then the sun would vanish, and night would have taken its place. Helen found a good spot, the sun ahead of her suspended several inches above the horizon, a bright red ball in a dazzlingly clear blue sky. She went closer to the edge of the sea, and the rocks were shiny black as the water shushed over them in foamy wavelets. Gradually the sun moved down and became brighter, a red ball of fire in its last moments, lighting the sky with fierce crimsons and golds in one last glorious defiant blaze of flame. Helen felt her skin tingle as she watched. Something wonderful had just happened. The end of the day. And she had seen it. She turned— and Jake was standing not far away. As the sky rapidly darkened, almost visibly, she trembled. He was so tall and powerful, the gold of his skin turning darker with sudden shadows as she walked back towards him, and saw the last glint of gold at his neck, as he moved and spoke. 'Well, was it as good as you imagined?' his deep voice was softer now. 'Yes. Better. Did you catch a fish?' There was no point in discussing the beauties of sunsets with him. He fell in step beside her. 'Yes. It's on deck, waiting to be gutted. You can go down and light the grill. Let it heat up before we cook our dinner.'

She had to walk faster than normally because his strides were longer. She was suddenly breathless—but it wasn't because she was hurrying, it was caused by something else, a tinglingly aware quality to the air, a kind of sudden awakening to just where she was, and who with. It was the night, of course, the soft cool air which was now so dark, and lots of other things that Helen didn't even begin to understand, only that her heart was thudding suffocatingly in her breast. Then they were at the boat, and wading through the water to reach the rungs, and his arm touched hers as she reached out to grasp the metal, and he moved it quickly—too quickly. It wasn't just her, then. She made a tricky way down the steps into the cabin, leaving him to find the fish he must have flung on deck. The lights worked normally—but the floor of the cabin was at such an odd angle she literally had to hold on every inch of the way to the galley. She wedged herself again the doorway and lit the stove, still amazingly level. There came a dark laugh from behind her. 'It's worse than I thought. Can you reach the plates and forks after, or shall I?' 'I can. Where's the fish?' He had to hold the door-jamb as he passed her, and his hand touched her back, leaving a trail of flame in passing. He put the fish under the grill, which swayed gently in protest, then he reached back, and suddenly his arms were both sides of her, pinning her as he caught his balance for one electric moment. 'Sorry.' She felt his warm breath on her face, the heat of his body before he could move away, and she was suffocating now. Her hand went up instinctively to push him—or perhaps to help him, she didn't even know herself, she was so confused.

'L-look, I'll move,' she said. 'You know this cooker better than me— and I'm nearly falling over here anyway,' she tried to move away, but he was in the way, and quite ridiculously, she tripped, fetching him down as well so that the next moment they were a tangle of arms and legs on the floor, slithering—then stopping in a breathless huddle. Helen panicked, feeling his hard body on top of her, alarmed now, suddenly frightened, pushing in earnest... 'Hold it a second.' She couldn't hear whether he was laughing or not, but he spoke huskily. 'We'll have to get sorted out first, I think. My leg's somewhere under your back, I believe.' It was. She could feel it. Could feel his arm too, and it wasn't round her back, it was round her waist, touching her arm, the other hand on her hair as he began to find his feet, to move shifting slightly, touching her face, muttering: 'Blast it—sorry—what the hell -' He was free of her, bending down, not laughing, suddenly dark and shadowy, a big man who was leaning to touch her, to help her up, and she felt his arms round her shoulders; he braced his feet at an angle and then she was being lifted, and: 'Can you balance yourself yet?' he asked her. Helen was on fire with the alarm and treacherous weakness that slowly filled her whole being. 'I think so,' she whispered, unable to speak any louder for fear her voice would betray her. 'Come on, sit in the bunk. I'll see to the fish. We'll have it here—I can't face walking up on deck with two plates of food -' He had one arm round her waist, supporting her, guiding her upwards to where the bunks waited, bare but safe. And as they reached his, he slid his arm up to her shoulder, almost as if in a caress, but it wasn't, of course, it was merely her imagination.

'Sit there. I'll pass you the plates. You'll have to hold them level for when I pass you the fish, okay?' Whatever had been, before, had gone. He spoke normally now, quite in command. Helen sat and waited. And gradually she too came back to a normal state from that of the high-pitched, intense awareness that had filled her before. 'Plates.' His voice roused her from her daydream. She reached round and took them with the two forks balanced on. A few minutes later they were eating, and the fish was, as before, very tasty. Afterwards they had coffee, and Jake washed the dishes and put them away, and they went up again on deck. It was eight o'clock, time for Jake to contact Bill. And he would be telling him that they would be going home early the following day. The night was warm, tempered occasionally with that salty spicy breeze. The sky was a rich dark canopy dotted with the silver of stars, and the high white moon that rested on her back. 'You'd better stay there. It's quite a climb up front,' and Jake took his hand, which had rested momentarily on Helen's elbow, away. 'Yes. All right.' She didn't need to listen anyway, but she was near enough to be able to hear him. So she waited, and heard the clicks and his voice, quiet at first, then as he got through, a little louder. But at one point he seemed to hesitate—and although Helen couldn't see clearly, it seemed that Jake looked round before going on: 'What?' She could not have heard what Bill was saying anyway, but some sixth sense told her it concerned her. She stood very still, but Jake spoke too quietly now— deliberately, she felt sure.

Then he was signing off, jumping down, holding on to the rail as he came towards her. 'Come on. We'll have an early night. I want to get cracking with this repair at first light.' Whatever it was, he was giving nothing away. Not by voice or expression. And she wouldn't ask. He climbed over and went down the steps first, and Helen followed him. He was waiting at the bottom and he lifted her round her waist and swung her across to the beach before she could protest. 'If you don't think you'll be able to sleep, I suggest you go for a walk,' he said, his voice deep. Then he looked at the two mattresses side by side. 'And we'd better separate those. I move around sometimes when I'm asleep—so I'm told'—those three words mockingly —'and I'd hate you to get the wrong ideas.' And anger sparked almost imperceptibly, but it was there all right, and she knew he was thinking about the radio call. Helen's heart thudded, but she managed to answer, calmly enough: 'I only put them there to be well away from the boat. I've no wish to sleep near you.' And she bent to move them. 'I'll do it,' he said. 'I'm flaked out.' And he turned his back on her and lifted one mattress several feet away. It wasn't far, but it was enough. Helen turned and walked away, leaving him on his own. She was glad in a way. It was their last night on the island. In the morning they would be gone—she for ever, although he didn't know that. She would say goodbye in her own way, in her own time, without his dark shadow casting uncertainty over everything, making her feel unhappy.

After a while she sat on the rocks, taking off her sandals and letting her feet soak in the tingly salt water. It was all so achingly beautiful, so completely different from anything she had previously known in her life. She would never forget this trip as long as she lived, she knew that. The air grew imperceptibly cooler, and after an ageless time of looking out to sea, and thinking about so many things, trying to get them sorted out in her mind, Helen was ready to move back to the beach. Jake was fast asleep, stretched out on the mattress with only a thin sheet on top of him. He neither moved nor altered the heavy rhythm of his breathing as Helen lay down on her own bed. And after a while of lying there on her back, looking up at the most gorgeous ceiling anyone could ever ask for over their bed, she too fell asleep, and dreamed.

She slept badly. There was too much on her mind. Then she awoke, and it was still dark, with that diamond-bright canopy overhead, and the restless awareness swept over her. In a few hours she would be leaving here for ever. It had never belonged to her—-it never would, no use trying to pretend. She rolled on her side, saw Jake, arms outflung above his head as he lay on his stomach, and as she looked, he moved and murmured something in his sleep. Was he restless too? But he could come back. He belonged here. There was something about that man and this island that went together perfectly. Seeing him swimming in the lagoon, sawing wood to repair Sea Witch, striding along the beach, had made the completed picture. She slid carefully from the sheet which lay over her, and stood up, watching him fearfully lest he wake. There was one spot whose magic would never fade, one that would stay for ever green in her

mind. And while he was asleep, and couldn't spoil it for her she would go there, to say a last goodbye, take that last look round so as to imprison the image for ever. The moonlight, fainter, white, would guide her way, and Helen felt no fear as she turned and moved quietly into the trees that led to her spring—and her imaginary house. Leaves whispered in the night. Perhaps small furry creatures slept among those branches. Helen had remembered her sandals, and she moved quietly and gently so as not to disturb anything. And it was strange, she realized, how well she knew the way, even now, in the dark, with the moon hidden by trees, and nothing save her own determination to guide her. She had left behind her a sleeping man, a hostile stranger whom she would never really know. She had carefully kept all pleasure out of her face or voice when he had been there—so that would stay her secret, and so, in a small way, was a victory over him. And it was here, and she looked round the smooth clearing with its border of flower-filled bushes and trees, all sleeping now, and took a deep tremulous breath. A quiet haven of peace in the centre of Storm Island, this place. She walked round it, and the moon lit that sandy clearing, leaving the edges in dark mysterious shadow. But there was nothing frightening about it. She would never feel afraid here—ever. She went to sit by her spring. The roses there, and the other flowers, waited patiently for the sunshine to come and wake them up. She looked round her, and because in a way she was still in a half sleepy state, everywhere seemed almost magic. The house ... she could almost see it standing there, visualize the rooms, perhaps only three or four, just a tiny place ...

Time passed, and the night had this beauty of its own, quite indefinable. Helen knew she must go back soon, but she was too tired to move... Once, faintly, it had almost seemed as if her name were being called, and she thought of the Sea Witch-—the one in the legend, not the boat, and she shivered. Perhaps it was true. Perhaps the voice would grow clearer, until she was compelled to go in the sea, and swim until she was too exhausted... 'Why the hell don't you answer when I call you?' The dreams shattered into thousands of fragments around her. Helen, half dazed, stunned at the stormy violence of his voice, looked up to see Jake Logan, a dripping wet Jake Logan, standing by the trees of the path from the lagoon. She stood up slowly, gracefully, as yet partly unaware of his temper. And she walked quietly towards him because she didn't want him here anyway. 'What do you mean?' she asked. 'I was just sitting here -' 'And I was shouting you. I woke—and you'd gone, so I waited—and waited. Then I called you, after about half an hour, and nothing happened. I went aboard Sea Witch to check, then swam around to make sure -' He stopped, and there was no doubting his anger now. It was real and potent. But something made Helen answer; perhaps some recklessness engendered by the atmosphere of the night—she would never know. 'I shouldn't imagine you'd care anyway,' she said. 'You want to get rid of me—that's a simple solution, to -' His fingers dug into her arm. 'Don't talk so bloody stupid,' he said. His hand was still wet. Moonlight gleamed on him, and she saw the water dripping down his chest and arms, and felt the vibrancy of his touch, and jerked herself free. Not angry herself—not yet.

'Don't touch me,' she said. 'I don't like you touching me, remember?' 'I remember a lot of things about you,' he gritted, 'and some more you think I don't know. Oh boy, you sure had me fooled with your tears that first night here.' She didn't know what he meant, but tension throbbed all around them. Her breathing became shallow as realization came. Did he think she had been acting? Telling her secret fears—and now this—to be told this I 'Let me pass,' she demanded, and made as if to walk past him—but he barred her way so that she would have had to dodge to pass him. 'Oh, come on.' She saw the dark gleam of his eyes as he looked down on her. 'You could just have said you didn't want me in the cabin— there was no need for the dramatics -' She didn't wait for him to finish. She pushed past him, and into the trees. And he swung her round and held her. 'Scared?' he jeered, 'because I guessed?' She kicked his leg hard, and he drew in breath with a sharp hiss of pain. 'You little -' 'I said don't touch!' Temper rose in a lightning flash that startled Helen herself, and she reached up her hands to push at his chest. For answer he put his arms tightly round her, forced her chin up with his free left hand and brought down his mouth on hers in a savage punishing kiss. 'That's what I meant,' he gasped, when the kiss was over. 'The innocent act—but I knew when I kissed you before—I can tell— some things you can't hide, and if you'd been as——'

That did it. Helen arched her back to free her hands and brought them quickly up to his face, her nails raking his cheeks in a desperate, sick frenzy of anger and despair. She heard him exclaim, but she was past caring, and he reached out to take her hands and wrench them apart until she stood there gasping for breath, pain making her cry out as he tightened the grip on her slender wrists. She wriggled and twisted, but he had a hold of steel. 'You swine!' she gasped. 'You utter brute—I hate you!' She brought her leg up, hooked it behind his, and pushed with all her strength. Caught off balance, he went crashing down, taking her with him— but for a second his grip was loosened, and she scrambled to her feet and began to run through the trees blindly, frightened. He was after her. Only a few seconds, and he was up and after her. She could hear his running footsteps, the crashing through the undergrowth—and terror filled her. He would do something awful to her when he caught her—she must get to the beach—only then what? Fear lent wings to her feet, but even they weren't enough. As she reached the sandy shore of the lagoon, he reached his arm out, caught her and sent her spinning round to face him. And she slipped on the tangled sheet he had left behind, went flying down, taking him with her. Then he knelt over her, pinning her to the mattress by her shoulders, and she looked up, looked into his face—and then quickly away at the sight of all those deep scratches running down his cheeks. 'Well, I've had some fights in my time,' he grated, 'but none like this -'

'If you're going t-to—to'—she writhed in his grasp, turned her head to avoid his eyes—'hit m-me—get it over with—I can't -' She stopped, sobs welling up from some secret reservoir in her throat. 'I'd like to. The temptation is something, believe me.' And his chest heaved as if he fought for control. 'You little bitch! Have you seen what you've done to my face? You might live to regret that.' And she was to discover exactly what he meant, hours later. 'You asked for it,' her voice still quavered, but relief seeped in. He wasn't going to do anything terrible. 'You implied I was—acting about that time when I was fourteen. I hate you for that,' her voice trembled. 'Can you swear you weren't?' 'I'm not even going to try. You wouldn't believe me anyway. You're a hateful man. Let me go!' 'I could—I could -' She saw him move, turn his head slightly away as if to give him time to think. Then he was pulling her up to sit, his arms round her shoulders, not intending to let her go at all. Helen felt weak; there was no more fight left in her. She just wanted to go somewhere alone to have a good cry. Because no one had treated her so brutally before, and there was no beating him. No way. His breathing was harsh. His face was all dark planes and shadows as he held her—and then he kissed her again, taking her completely by surprise... Only this was strangely different. It was like slow motion. She saw his face coming down, but it didn't really register; saw his eyes closed, darkly, the shadows round his mouth and chin, the tautness of his head, his wet hair gleaming... Then it was all blotted out; his lips weren't as hard -—they were gentler, and now trembling, and Helen's own mouth treacherously

responded, in spite of everything, she answered his softness with her own, and the world, and time, melted and blurred in that tenderness, quite unlike anything she had ever known before in all her life. The kiss went on and on, silently, beautifully, until the darkness fled, bringing the sun, flashing cool brilliance on the couple on the beach. Then Jake moved away, slowly, like a man in a dream, and looked at Helen. She looked at him, and saw that in his face which she had never seen before. A sharp needle of white pain—and realization— touched her. She loved him. And how utterly absurd that was! It was almost funny. Only she couldn't laugh, her breath caught in her throat as she watched his face. And then he spoke, very softly. 'My God! I really must be mad,' he said. The words were bitingly cruel—deliberately so. The mood shattered in thousands of fragments. She watched him get up, run to the water and dive in. Nausea filled her. He loathed her—and now she couldn't wait to get away from him.

She went to see Hannah the following day, after sleeping soundly for over thirteen hours after her arrival home. And there she found out what had made Jake so angry over the radio message on the Sunday evening. As she went into the house, Hannah gave Helen a very shrewd glance. 'Are you all right?' she asked. 'Fine, thanks,' answered Helen. 'I mean—on the island. Did that man try -?'

And the penny dropped. Helen looked at the older woman, her eyes reflecting the shock of her words. 'You mean Jake? Did he try anything?' that could have been funny, if she had been in the mood to appreciate anything. Hannah sniffed. 'It's none of my business, of course, but you not really knowing him and that, and what with Marcia doing her bit -' 'Marcia?' Helen shook her head. 'I don't understand.' 'She's been having a good time, speculating what he'd be up to -' 'Oh no!' So probably Bill had warned Jake, and he had been annoyed. Well, he would be, wouldn't he? she thought. But what did it matter now? 'He was the perfect gentleman,' she said, 'in as much as he's able to be in anything.' Hannah looked relieved. Or was there a trace of disappointment too? 'Aye, well, I told Bill, I said, Helen will be able to take care of herself, coming from London, you know what I mean?' She cleared a place on a kitchen chair. 'Sit down, dear, I'll make us a drink, and you can tell me all about it.' And she went over to the refrigerator, and Helen watched her with a blank feeling of dismay inside her. The sooner she left, the better.

She didn't see Jake Logan for several days after. She swam, lay in the sun, met Serena, and had her and the two boys at the house one afternoon for cool drinks, and ices for the boys. They played happily outside on the grass with a big coloured ball, while the two girls talked. Helen nearly told her about her plans for leaving, but restrained herself. She could hardly expect Serena to

keep it from Jake—and she would not let him know until it was necessary. Then from outside she heard his voice calling the boys, and they answered. Serena looked at Helen, her eyes shining. 'It is Jake. He is asking them what they are doing here all alone—and they are telling him that I am here with you.' 'Oh, I see.' But Helen stiffened, until she heard his door slam, and then she relaxed. 'Tell me,' Serena said softly. 'You do not like Jake, no?' Helen looked at her. 'No, I don't. But he doesn't like me either, so that's all right.' 'He is very good to me and Toby,' Serena went on in her calm precise voice. 'I like him, Helen.' Helen swallowed. 'I'm sure you do.' 'He gives me money every month, just for the two of us. It's in the bank, and I can draw out what I like.' Oh, God, I don't want to hear any more, thought Helen. She stood up. 'Let me get you another drink, Serena, and some biscuits? I bought some yesterday.' She went out to the kitchen, and leaned against a cupboard for a moment, surprised to find that she was shaking. She stayed there, took a deep breath, and went back in with the biscuits. That evening she wrote to the solicitor in Sao Paulo.

Helen was shopping in the village next morning when she met Bill. It was Saturday, and she hoped to hear from the solicitor on Monday, all being well.

Bill took her arm, grabbed her shopping bag, and said: 'I'll walk you home. I've got something to explain.' 'If it's about the trip on the boat, it's all right,' she protested, laughing. Bill had that effect on her. 'Well,' he tried to look shamefaced, but didn't quite succeed, 'I've a weak head for drink, and Jake bought me one too many.' 'I know. He told me.' They left the sunny houses and shops behind them, and took the shady path to the bungalows. 'Aye, but I feel terribly guilty. And you had a fight while you were there. You made a mess of his face.' 'One of many, I'm afraid. That was the last one, I assure you, Bill. I shall never speak to him again.' Bill sighed heavily. 'It's a right shame you don't get on. He can be quite something, can Jake.' 'Something is right,' she agreed. 'No, I mean—well, one or two don't like him because he says what he means—and is prepared to back it up if necessary with his fists—but he's solid gold inside.' 'If he's so wonderful why didn't he marry Serena when he landed her in trouble?' Helen could no more help asking it than she could help breathing. Bill sighed deeply and opened the door for her, and they went in. He put her basket down on the sideboard and turned to her, his heavy face creased in worried lines.

'He'll kill me for telling you this,' he began. 'But I'm going to, if only to put the record straight. Everyone thinks the child is his—and he lets them go on thinking it, because for Serena it's a form of protection. About three years ago, she got in with a bunch of hippies who live in a sort of commune about ten miles from here. She was only fourteen, and with her mother dead, had been allowed to run wild. Well, the upshot of it was she fell in love with one of them, an American called Dorran, if I remember rightly. The inevitable happened. Now, she'd worshipped Jake for ages in a sort of distant, untouchable way, but this boy was more her own age. To be fair, I think he wanted to marry her, when she knew, and in fact they went through some form of hippy ceremony—but that wasn't quite enough, and before they could make it properly legal, he was killed in a boat accident—and she was heartbroken. Told your dad, who said he'd help. Then rumours grew that it was Jake responsible. No one knew about this hippy—but they all knew she'd followed Jake about.' He paused to relight his pipe, and went on, as Helen listened in growing astonishment: 'He didn't give a damn, as you can imagine, and when she asked your dad for help, he said he'd look after her— and he has done ever since. Don't you see? If some of the local young bloods knew it wasn't Jake, they'd be pestering her. He says there's time for her to make up her own mind when she's older—she's very immature, you know, for all her grown-up manner.' Helen began slowly: 'But I didn't realize -' But there was even more to come. 'No, nor does Hannah, or all the others. They think like you—but don't you really know, can't you guess why he looks after her so?' She frowned. 'You mean he's—in love with her?' He laughed. 'No! He thinks of her like a young sister. That's all—but he promised your father he'd take care of her, and he's keeping that promise.'

'My father?' Nothing was making sense, not even the expression on Bill's craggy, gentle face. 'Aye. Do you not see it? No one knows—even Jake doesn't think I know, but I can see it, and I think that's why he wants you to go away, before anyone else does. Nobody knows, you see, not officially, except Jake. Serena is your half-sister. Her mother died several years ago, and now her father—your father—and she's only got Jake, and Toby.'

CHAPTER EIGHT HELEN waited for him to go before she cried. Then, safely alone, she began to weep. Serena, her half-sister! It was incredible but true. No wonder there had been this instinctive bond between them. It transcended all else, even Jake, who had seemed to stand between them—and now she knew the truth. Later in bed, Helen thought it all over. Jake was not the swine she thought—not to Serena anyway. To her he was good and gentle, because he had made a promise to her father to be so. Helen slept, much later, and badly, and knew what she had to do now. On Monday Bill told her that Jake was going away for several days, and this decided her. She told him she was leaving, told him why— but only partly, for how could she confess that she had been stupid enough to fall for the man who wanted nothing more than to see the back of her? She went to see Hannah, to tell her that she had decided to go home, and she skilfully parried all the older woman's questions regarding the property, saying only vaguely that she was thinking of selling Jake Logan her half. She had no intention of telling anyone her true plans. There was not much to pack. The only things she had now that she hadn't had before were a couple of snaps of her father. But before she left she had one extra task. And on Tuesday evening Helen sat down at the table and wrote a letter to Jake.

It was brief and to the point, and when it was finished she went to her jewellery box and took out the gold cross and chain given her by her mother when she was very small. Before sealing the envelope, Helen re-read the letter. She hadn't wasted time on preliminaries. She had begun it simply: 'Jake, I am going back to England in the morning. I have instructed the solicitor in Sao Paulo to make over to you all my half of the property and the boat. Perhaps you will let Serena share some part of it? I like her very much and want to help her. Please give her the enclosed cross and chain. It is one I have had since childhood. Helen Carpenter.' That was all. She sealed the envelope and put it under Jake's front door. The next morning she went to say goodbye to Hannah before Bill ran her to the airstrip for the plane to Santos. Hannah kissed her. 'I shall miss you,' she said. 'You were like a breath of fresh air. You'll write—just to keep in touch -' She paused. 'Of course! You must try and come to London for a holiday. Thank you for looking after me, Hannah. I would have stayed longer, but'— she shrugged—'I know this isn't my scene -' she stopped, near to breaking down, because of one man ... And perhaps Hannah, for all her bitterness to Jake, understood, for she squeezed Helen's arm. 'I know, love, I know!'

Helen sat back on the plane and closed her eyes, wondering if Uncle Philip had got her cable yet. He would be waiting at London Airport if he had. If not, she would get a taxi. And the sooner she was back in

the swing of things, the better. It had been madness to come—but at least, now, it was out of her system. And soon, in a little while, she would assume that sophisticated veneer so necessary to her job—and her life. She would see that nothing hurt her again, or at least not for a very long time. If Jake Logan had done one good thing, it was to release the mental block that had prevented her relaxing with a man. His kisses had done that. She had enjoyed them. She would begin perhaps to enjoy others. That was something she had to thank him for. Helen turned to look out of the window at a dazzlingly blue sky, and her lips curved in a little smile, because that was funny—and it was strange, but her lips trembled, and the smile died to nothing, and vanished.

She watched out for Uncle Philip, and he was waiting, and waved, and after the Customs formalities were over and they were safely ensconced in his old grey Rolls, he said: 'Right. Out with it, young woman!' Helen looked guiltily at him, seeing the immaculate grey suit, white shirt, grey tie. Uncle Philip was always a good walking advertisement for his own tailoring department. Helen had never seen him looking even remotely dishevelled. Yet for all that there was nothing starchy about the man himself. Big, fiftyish, balding, he walked calmly through life, seeming to divert stress and strain by the simple expedient of pretending they weren't there. 'I just had enough of life on a tropical island,' she answered lightly. 'Can I have a cigarette?' 'No. You don't smoke, and you're not going to start now. And if you think that answer's going to satisfy me, you're mistaken. Who or what

was it? I might add you're positively bursting with rude health—and will no doubt show those other models up as pale lilies. Does the tan extend all over?' 'Really!' Helen tried to sound shocked. 'Nonsense! I'm your uncle—privileged. I'm taking you home to my place for a few days. You can tell an old man all about it then.' Helen looked out of the window. 'There's not much to tell,' she answered. She didn't see the shrewd glance her uncle gave her, nor the slight frown that creased his forehead.

He got most of it out of her the next day, which was Saturday. Normally he was off to golf soon after breakfast, but now, as they sat in the elegant dining room of his London house with its view of the Thames, he said, picking up the last piece of toast: 'I've decided to stay at home with my favourite niece today. We might go out to lunch, what say you, Helen?' She knew why. And there was no point in keeping it all bottled up inside her for ever. She smiled wanly at him, just recovering from the lost sleep and adjusting to the time lag. 'You don't have to treat me to a meal. I'll tell you here—you're right, of course, there was a lot happening on the island—and you above all have the right to know, but please -' And she looked at him across the table, and tears were not too far away. 'When I've told you everything, can we f-forget it?' 'My dear girl,' his face creased with concern, 'if you feel—you mustn't—I'm being a nosey old man,' and then, jerkily, 'It's some man, isn't it? Who is he?'

'Jake Logan.' She poured herself coffee with a none too steady hand. 'But I'll begin at the beginning. There's a lot of it.' So they went and sat in Uncle Philip's warm book- lined study, and there, at last, Helen told him all—or nearly all—that had happened to her from her first minutes on the Ilha do Sol to her stepping on the plane, after waving goodbye to Bill. After the story was done, Uncle Philip, who had listened intently and without a single interruption, said: 'You know, I had a feeling—there was something in your letter—to which incidentally I replied a few days before your return—my dear; I didn't realize when I asked! You poor darling.' He looked at her. 'The sooner you can forget this Logan, the better.' Then he frowned. 'Logan—Logan —did you say Australian?' 'Well, he has a faint accent—and Bill said something—or Hannah, I forget which.' She put her hand to her head. 'Does it matter?' She gave a wry laugh. 'You're worse than me. I saw a snap of him, taken on my father's boat, and he seemed to be trying to hide his face—and I thought he was probably a criminal on the run -' She stopped. Uncle Philip gave a short barking laugh. 'That's interesting. And I'd like to see the snap some time. Just a hunch.' But he refused to tell Helen any more, despite her puzzlement.

Life resumed its normal pattern. There was one difference in Helen that all her friends remarked upon. She was more attractive than ever before. It was not just her golden tan, or what the sun had done to her already delightful hair—it was as a more candid, non- envious friend told her: 'Like an inner glow you didn't have before, love. Tell me how you got it and I'll try some.'

But Helen couldn't tell her that a few kisses, bestowed, oddly enough, in anger, had awoken her to her own potential as a woman. She wouldn't tell anyone even if she could. And although she entered into everything with more enthusiasm than before, there was still, deep inside her, this dull aching emptiness that nothing—save perhaps time—would erase. For the practical streak that enabled her to organize her life so that it was too full and busy for her to have spare time to think, also let her realize that she would never see Jake Logan again. Ever—as long as she lived. And at that thought she wanted to cry. But Helen wasn't going to cry any more over any man— she had already decided. She was sitting making up at the long mirror, ready for the fashion show about to start in Gerrard's. It was too weeks later. Other girls chattered and made up, and zipped each other up in the last-minute panic and nerves before the start of any show, but it all washed over Helen as she pulled her mouth to apply lipstick. A discreet buzzer sounded. Helen stood and went to Mrs Jones to be helped on with her first dress, and silence fell as the first girl, with a cheery thumbs-up at the others, glided out in an exaggerated parody of a mannequin's walk. Once a show had begun there was no time to talk, except briefly in passing, in between ripping off one dress to dive into another. And all the audience saw, as they sat on their velvet- seated gold chairs, was the breathtaking elegance, with no hint of the panic behind the scenes. Helen was the fifth to go on, and there was a buzz of excitement as the other, first girls returned, quick raised-brow glances exchanged, nods and pretend swoons. Helen asked as one, Laura, stood struggling into a delightful wedding dress: 'What's up?'

'Man—back hall—on left—cor!' There was no time for more, but the message was clear, and in the language of models, explicit. Because, simply, the majority of the audiences at these shows were elderly fat matrons, anyone different caused comment—and made the girls jobs that bit more interesting, if on their way round, and out along the catwalk, they could look out for anyone entertaining. Helen made a mental note to look out for this specimen who could be either hideous or fascinating. That 'cor'! covered a multitude of sins, as well she knew, and it was occasionally difficult to keep a straight face on that return journey to the changing room. She waited in the wings, and then it was her turn. A deep breath, chin high, hips elegantly forward for the glide out, listening with half an ear to the words: 'Helen is wearing one of our...' it never really registered. You listened for your name, and that was it. Glide over to the centre, stop, pivot slightly, then forward to the long walk, and out, and already the appreciative murmurs began. Helen was used to them. She gave them a slight, warm smile, practised, meaning nothing, a movement of the facial muscles, and started back. And took that casual all-encompassing glance in the spot indicated, biting back the laugh that might threaten. And she nearly fell off the narrow platform. Unbelievably, incredibly, the man was Jake Logan. She made it back to the changing room, but couldn't remember afterwards just how she had done it. Mrs Jones saw her white face. 'Sit down, love. Aren't you well?' She was already pouring out a glass of water. Helen took it and sipped. 'I had a dizzy spell, that's all,' she whispered. 'I'll be all right in a minute.' Had she dreamed it? Yet the girls had seen him as well, which was why the buzz had gone round to take a look. And no

wonder! In that brief, photographic glimpse, Helen had seen him clearly and vividly. He had been dressed in lightweight fawn suit and open-necked white shirt, emphasizing the dark tan that was even more devastating in the cooler London air. He looked superbly tall and broad-shouldered as he stood there—scorning two empty chairs near him—at the back of the hall, by a pillar, cigar in hand, eyes on the stage. Yet there had been no flicker of awareness—nothing. He might not have recognized Helen. Tension built up in her as she dressed in a cool evening dress in silky grey Courtelle, and set off on that second, agonizing walk. She would have given anything to get out of it, but they were short-handed. She looked across, drawn by a force stronger than she knew. And the place was empty. Jake Logan had gone. Only the faint aromatic scent of his cigar lingered as if to prove that it had been no dream.

The minute the show was over, Helen picked up her bag and dashed out, not seeing the raised eyebrows of her fellow models who had also seen the shock on her face before, and who wondered ... Her destination was Uncle Philip's office on the top floor. He was the only person she could trust herself to speak to. His secretary, a plain middle-aged woman who never gave up hope that one day Philip would marry her, greeted Helen with: 'He's busy, Miss Carpenter, can you -' But Helen didn't hear. She couldn't have stopped going if she had tried. She burst in, and Jake Logan was sitting down in the comfortable visitor's chair, and Philip Gerrard was accepting a light from him for the cigar in his mouth. They both turned round, slowly, and Helen saw them both come

slowly to their feet as she fought to keep her balance. She had so much to say, but for the moment she could not speak. Uncle Philip came round his desk, face worried, 'Helen,' he began, 'I was going to -' But Helen wasn't listening. She turned to Jake. 'What are you doing here?' she demanded. He stepped nearer. 'I came to see you,' he said quietly. 'Can we go somewhere and talk?' 'No.' She tilted her chin up. 'There's nothing to say.' Then to her uncle, 'I'm sorry to barge in like this. I didn't realize you were engaged. I'll go home now -' But Jake stepped forward, and he reached out and took her arm, lightly, decisively. 'No,' he said. 'You're not. Not unless I go with you.' Fear and anger blazed out in Helen. 'Uncle Philip, are you going to let this man -' 'I think you ought to listen to what he has to say, at least,' Philip interposed mildly. 'Mr Logan has come several thousand miles, after all. Don't you think -' She would get no help there. Helen wrenched her arm free. 'I told you once before—I don't like you touching me,' she breathed. 'I meant it.' Her eyes sparked fire. Never had she looked more beautiful than at that moment. There was nothing to tell her—except perhaps the darkening awareness in Jake's eyes as he looked at her. But she was too distressed to notice anything at that moment. Without another word she whirled round and stormed out of the office. Her uncle's words were cut off as she shut the door behind her. But the first four were clear enough: 'Leave her now, Jake -'

She remembered those words as she lay on her bed in Uncle Philip's house. Jake, he had called him. Familiar, as if he knew him—Helen sat up abruptly. The whole thing was absurd. And what was Jake Logan doing down here, in London? For a moment there, she had almost regretted storming out of the office as she had. It would have been almost a pleasure to tell that man Logan precisely what she thought of him. Hateful beast! But he wasn't—not really. And for all her surface emotions, inside her, Helen knew that the weakness at the knees, the throbbing pulse in her throat, that the sight of him had brought, were the indication of her real, deeper feelings. In spite of everything, she loved the man. At that she got off the bed. He had come all this way and what had she done? Why, nothing, except give him the distinct impression that he was just about her most unfavourite person in the whole world. Helen put her hands to her mouth. Suppose he just went off, just like that, as suddenly as he had come—and she never saw him again! The thought was so shocking that she stood very still for a moment to assimilate it. Then, slowly, she went to the door and opened it. Her first task was to call her uncle. That at least, if only to apologize for her behaviour, and perhaps to ask ... As she walked slowly down the stairs, her hand trailing along the dark banister, the front door opened and two men came in. Jake saw that which was in her eyes this time. And he stopped quite still, his own upon her with a kind of sensuous awareness that took no heed of Philip Ger- rard's presence. And Philip, sensing that he was de trop, walked quietly on down the hall, leaving his niece to finish her descent of the stairs, to where Jake waited at the bottom, his hand outstretched as if to take hers ...

Philip Gerrard looked back just before he opened the door that led to the kitchen passage. Helen, with two steps still to go down, was on a level with Jake. Something that had nothing to do with words was passing between them. Uncle Philip permitted himself a very small, very secret smile before he went out, closing the door firmly behind him.

CHAPTER NINE THERE was so much to explain on both sides. But one thing above all; Jake had crossed the Atlantic simply to tell Helen that he loved her. And that was all that really mattered, or ever would for the rest of their lives. It was later on. They were sitting on a bench in the park near home, and Jake had his arm round Helen as if he would never let her go. Helen looked round her in amazement. The grass had never seemed so green before, nor the sky so bright. The air—even that had a heady intoxication to it, so that she turned to the big dark man beside her and exclaimed: 'Isn't it beautiful, all of it—everything?' Jake's eyes were dark and tender on her. He smiled. 'From where I'm sitting, it is,' he agreed softly. 'Oh, Jake,' she sighed. 'I was awful to you, wasn't I?' 'Not as bad as me,' he said. 'Look—Helen, let's get the record straight. I -' 'It doesn't matter. Honestly.' She turned her wide beautiful eyes towards him. 'Don't you see! All that matters is that you're here. I tried to pretend I didn't care, but I did. I've been so miserable since I left Ilha do Sol. I knew—I thought I knew you hated me -' 'Don't,' he groaned. 'Don't pile on the agony. I already feel bad enough about that—my treatment of you. I was fighting my natural basic instincts to make love to you all the time we were stranded on Storm Island—which made me such a bear—or a swine, as I believe you called me in one of your franker moments.' 'Among other things,' she agreed, smiling slightly. 'And I thought you were a criminal on the run, as well as all the other things -'

He began to laugh, astonished. 'What?' She explained about the photograph, where he had hidden his face, and was interrupted by his roar of laughter. 'I was, in a way—but not because of that, you little idiot -' And the last two words were an endearment, almost caressing. 'Your uncle can probably explain that better than me!' Something else clicked in Helen's mind, some expression on Philip's face when he had seen the snaps. 'I think you'd better, right now,' she said. He cocked an eyebrow. 'Threats? Wow! What do I get if I—no, never mind,' this laughing, hastily, as Helen turned on him. 'All right. My father and mother emigrated from England to Australia twenty- five years ago, when I was six, and he built up a good business in Sydney, a general store, from quite a small one. He's the same age as your uncle, and they were both friends—and rivals—before they left. They kept in touch for a while, and it became a personal thing to outdo each other—I suppose, in a way, it spurred them on to do well. Well, Dad's now the boss of a chain of stores in all the major cities in Aussie—and your uncle owns this super store I called in today. So perhaps they're quits.' He laughed softly. 'They're going to be getting in touch pretty soon.' 'I can't believe it,' she murmured. 'To think -' 'It's true. Cross my heart.' 'But why—the photos 'Ah, yes! Well, ten years ago, at the tender age of twenty-one, I left home to live my own way, "do my own thing", and we'd had a blazing row, Dad and I— we've much the same temperament—and I vowed I'd not go home again until I'd made my fortune—and I've not

quite done it—:—' He shrugged. 'It's just a natural aversion too, I suppose, to getting my ugly mug on other people's photos. But now, well -' he grinned, 'I'll write to my father and make my peace. After all, he'll want to meet his beautiful daughter-in-law, won't he?' 'I haven't said——' she began, but rather faintly. 'But you will. I'm not really as black as I'm painted —not as far as women are concerned. Just to get it straight. Marcia -' 'I think I know,' she answered. 'Did she—er—fancy you?' 'To put it delicately—yes. And I made it clear that I don't play around with married women, so——' He shrugged. 'You know the old saying.' Then he added: 'That, and Serena—and the odd fights I've had -' Helen sighed, 'Oh, Jake! You poor thing.' He moved nearer. 'You feel sorry for me? That's good.' He bent to kiss her, and she moved hastily away. 'Not here!' 'Why not?' He looked round, surprised. 'It's not illegal to kiss, is it?' 'No, but—well!' she smiled then. 'Oh, Jake, I do love you. I always did, even when I thought you and Serena -' 'I know. Bill told me he told you. I think he guessed my feelings too. He's a good guy, is Bill. Helen, all those cracks I made about you, and finishing schools— I was bitter because I thought you'd only come for what you could get. Your father told me about paying all the fees -'

'What!' she was incredulous. 'What do you mean?' His jaw tightened. 'Didn't your mother tell you that either? Helen, I am sorry. I have been a swine -' 'No,' she shook her head. 'I'm beginning to see now. My mother and I rarely meet—and I'm not sorry.' Then she remembered something. 'She gave me that cross when I was a baby. When I saw yours, identical, I guessed you had it from my father, and I knew then that Serena should have the other one, for perhaps he had given my mother mine when they married.' She looked down at her hands on her knees. 'Oh, Jake, there's so much I want to know about my father—and you can tell me. When we were on the island—Storm Island, I mean—I felt at home in that beautiful place. Truly at home, for the first time in my life.' 'Your father was planning to build a little house there, Helen,' he said quietly. 'But he died before we got it past the planning stage -' 'But—I know,' she turned a startled face towards him. 'I saw it in my mind's eye, when I went. And that's why, in a way, I didn't like you seeing me there. It was my place!' He laughed. 'It will be again. We'll build that house, Helen, and we'll go there, just the two of us, for weeks at a time—and I can paint -' 'Paint? You paint?' He looked almost—it was incredible—almost embarrassed. 'You've never seen a Logan?' 'Logan? My God! You're not -' 'Can you bear the thought of having an artist for a husband?'

'Oh, Jake. Darling Jake. Whatever you are—I've got a Logan in my flat—but only a copy, of course—I couldn't afford an original -' 'Now you can have the original,' he said softly. 'The real, one and only. Can you bear that?' 'Oh yes. Just try me—please -' And she didn't care who watched. She lifted her face to his. And two pigeons flew away in a flurry of wings and soared upwards to the bright London sky. The couple on the bench never noticed.