Pagan Heart

PAGAN HEART Rebecca Caine

Kalinda was Christie Irvine's dream come true - almost! She'd inherited her uncle's Pacific Island home and business - but she'd inherited problems as well. She could learn about shells and coral and island living - but what could she do about Matt Denham? The only other inhabitant of the island, he'd made it clear that he could do without her company. 'Listen, Christie,' he warned, 'You're not in love with me. You're in love with love; with the idea of living here, playing at primitive house. Don't break your heart over it, Christie. There's no future in it.' For Christie, the warning came much, much too late!

CHAPTER I THE clamour of farewells was fading and the waving figures along the dockside diminishing to doll-sized silhouettes under the gaunt grey skyline of the port. The vast bulk of the Vulcania was slipping away at last; to some just another sailing; to others the moment of a lifetime and the exciting step into a new future. Christie Irvine gripped the rail and glanced down at the widening gap of water, then looked back towards the quayside with a frantic narrowing of her blue eyes, for a moment unable to recapture the sight of her family and friends. Then the glimmer of her mother's yellow scarf beside the scarlet flash of June's new raincoat swam back into focus and she gave a sigh of relief. She began to wave again, fiercely, trying to prolong the final moments before the greying distance and squally rain blurred their figures beyond recognition. The gulls cried mournfully, a tug hooted, people began to turn away from the rail, and the tiny gleam of scarlet vanished. Christie let her hands fall from the rail. It was all over now; there was no turning back. She continued to stand there and stare across the grey churning waters, oblivious to the pervading cold and that she was now almost alone on this section of the deck. They would be making their way back to the car, almost certainly talking about her, wondering about her, and already her mother would be worrying, starting to fret away the wait for the first of the letters Christie had promised to write. June would be trying to cheer them, to instil the confidence Christie herself had failed to convey despite her stubborn determination to go through with it all. Had she just taken the craziest step in her life? Was she all the things they had said? Crazy, impetuous - every epithet that added up to

sheer youthful insanity? Would it have made any difference if the breach between Stephen and herself had magically been healed - or never happened? Would she have forgiven him, fallen back into his arms and gone ahead with the arrangements for their marriage forgetting all about Uncle Noll and the strange letter out of the blue? It was impossible to tell. The old haunting wanderlust had never died completely under the transition from the days of childhood makebelieve to the realities of growing up. It had merely gone dormant and the letter had brought it back to fierce, consuming life. Could marriage have quenched it completely, for ever ? With a sudden shiver Christie-wrenched back to reality, remembering Mrs. Allan, who was another cypher in the pattern fate seemed to be weaving for her. Guiltily, Christie began to hurry towards the companionway to B Deck; but for Mrs. Allan she might not have succeeded in being here today ... To her relief she found the old lady sitting placidly in the cabin, beginning her afternoon tea. She turned her head enquiringly towards the door as Christie entered and said calmly: "Is that you, Christie dear? Come and have some tea. You must be cold." "No, I'm fine. Are you all right? I didn't mean to leave you alone so long." Quickly she crossed the cabin and ensured that the tray was secure and that there was no risk of the old lady scalding herself. For Mrs. Allan was blind. She was going to spend a long holiday with her son, who was attached to the International Science Council and at present based on Bermuda. He had not wanted his mother to make the voyage alone, she was terrified of flying, and so, through the intermediacy of a colleague of Christie's father, it had been arranged for Christie to accompany her. It had meant Christie setting off at least three weeks earlier than she had planned, but somehow it had made the working

out of her purpose much easier to attain. Somehow, it had made everything possible, as though it was all destined to happen after all. After tea she helped Airs. Allan to unpack and familiarise herself with the layout of the cabin before she went to see to her own settling in. It didn't take her very long, and when her possessions were neatly stowed away she stood looking at her reflection in the oval mirror above the tiny vanitory unit. There was the darkness of apprehension in the blue eyes now, and the twinges of unease that multiplied the hovering doubts. Suppose she got seasick and couldn't look after Mrs. Allan properly? Suppose they were all right in forecasting a disastrous end to it all, and she'd be lucky if all she suffered was failure to make a success of the strangest legacy a girl ever inherited? But she - wouldn't fail. She would work harder than she'd ever worked in her life. For a year. That was the limit on which she'd agreed with her parents. At the end of that time she would hand over to someone or sell up. But if she failed.... She pushed the thought away. Her father had made arrangements to deposit her return air fare for her, in the event of her being stranded. She hadn't wanted it this way. It savoured too much of an easy safety escape, but it was the one condition on which her father had flatly refused to relent. After all, they knew so little. Only that Uncle Noll had died a few hours after a heart attack and left everything he possessed to his niece including a shell exporting business on the tiny Pacific island of Kalinda. She'd hardly been able to take it in at first. She was still numbed with misery after the break with Stephen, and her younger brother's amusement over the letter bringing the strange news hadn't helped. She could still hear his tactless young voice teasing: 'She sells seashells on the seashore ...' and her own despairing flare of temper when her father had told her she would have to think about what arrangements she was going to make about Uncle Noll's odd legacy. And then June, always the most spirited yet clearest thinking member of the family, had said it was perfectly plain: Christie must go to

Kalinda. See for herself. Blow the whole five hundred pounds of her wedding savings on the fare and go. It would be the best tonic ever for a jilted heart.... They had written to the agents for more details. Because there were difficulties. Currency regulations would hold up transfer of her uncle's monetary assets, and no one had authority to sell or dispose of anything - except Christie herself. And then they had heard of Mrs. Allan on the far side of town ... and it all began to happen very quickly. Surely it meant that it was all destined for her. Feeling a little more assured, she went back to Mrs. Allan, to be chided gently. "I shall be perfectly all right, my dear, and I think we should get this straight at the start. I have no intention of behaving like a crotchety old invalid who expects you to dance attendance on me during the entire voyage. All I need is your help to get me along to meals and see that I don't spill something or make a nuisance of myself. Apart from that and perhaps ' writing a letter for me, there is a charming stewardess who will do the rest. You go and enjoy yourself with the other folks." "There'll be time for that as well," Christie responded firmly. "I'm certainly not going to leave you all by yourself for very long. 1 mightn't have been here but for you, and for that alone I'm grateful to you." Mrs. Allan smiled and did not press the point. But the following day when Christie settled down with a book she wanted to know why Christie wasn't planning to go dancing in the Silver Rotunda or the discotheque by the lido on the main deck - "They tell me it's fabulous, all done in crystal stars and dark blue velvet. Very romantic." A reminiscent smile touched Mrs. Allan's sweet mouth. "When I was young it was the dream of our life to take a long voyage

to the tropics and meet some en- chantingly handsome young officer who would fall in love with us under the stars. Of course it never works out that way. When I eventually went on my first cruise I was terribly disillusioned. The only two young and handsome officers were so much in demand they were so conceited as to be insufferable, and the only unattached male on board with romantic inclinations was an elderly opera singer who wore a wig and insisted on bursting out into Tosca all over the ship." "It still sounds as though you had fun," Christie said. "Oh, we did. But I suppose our idea of fun and romance must seem very tame to the young folks of today. You're all so much more assured and self-reliant than we were, and so serious about facing life's challenge." Mrs. Allan sighed and adjusted her scarf around her shoulders. "You, my dear, for example. Eighteen years old and going halfway round the world to live on a tiny island and carry on with a business you've yet to learn about. Among strangers, and thousands of miles away from your family and friends if anything should go wrong - not that it-will, my dear," she interjected hastily, "so don't take any notice of me. But if this had been me, more years ago than I care to remember, my people would have had hysterics at the mere idea. I should have been packed off to a safe place in the country, with some dried-up old aunt, and my allowance stopped until I came to my senses." Christie smiled. "My folks nearly went up in a blue light just the same. If it hadn't been for the fact it was Daddy's own brother, and I'd saved quite a bit of money - I was going to be married and then -" "Yes, I did hear. And something went wrong," Airs. Allan said gently. "I suppose it seemed a heaven-sent opportunity to occupy your mind. But it still seems a drastic way of cutting adrift to forget."

"I know, but .it isn't only that." Christie sighed and stared unseeingly at the unfathomable grey wastes of the Atlantic. "You see, I've always had this longing to travel, not only to travel and see strange, faraway lands, but to see other ways of life. It's difficult to explain, but I always had the feeling of something waiting for me, I don't know what, a kind of calling that made me restless. When I fell in love with Stephen and we decided to get engaged I thought it would cure me of those nebulous yearnings. He used to say we would travel all over and I'd soon get it out of my system once I discovered that the romantic faraway places were just cars and new concrete skylines and the locals putting on the style for the tourists so that they could earn their transistors and T.V sets. He said technology was transforming centuries in the space of years and we had to accept it whether we liked it or not." "Stephen sounds a most practical young man." "He is, and he's certainly going places - fast - but without me,'' Christie said bitterly. "He's a computer expert, isn't he?" Christie nodded, her eyes thoughtful. "I often wonder how he would have got on with Uncle Noll." "He was your father's oldest brother, wasn't he?" Christie nodded. "The different one. My father says that most families have a different one. He says that's where I got my wanderlust. Daddy was too young to serve in the war, but Uncle Noll went through it. During the desert campaign he palled up with an Anzac who was as restless as himself and when it was all over they decided to work their way round the world. Then Nick met a girl and settled down. Uncle came home, deciding to settle down himself, and

that was the first time I met him." Christie shook her head. "I'll never forget that day." "You were still a child?" Mrs. Allan reached into her bag and brought out her favourite sweets. "Have one, my dear?" "Thank you - it was my sixth birthday. We were just sitting down to tea when there was this knock at the door and this great big man, tanned so dark he was almost the colour of mahogany. June - she was only four at the time - was terrified of his deep, booming voice, but I adored him straight away. I just felt as though I'd known him always. He was in a state because it was my birthday and he hadn't anything for me, and he rushed out to the corner shop, but they only had halfpound boxes in stock at the time and he was thinking of those great big beribboned ones." Christie paused, her eyes wistful with memory. "It didn't matter a bit to me, because he gave me something I liked much more. It was one of those huge tropical shells - he had intended it for my mother -if she wanted it, but she got the chocolates instead. I was fascinated by that shell, its beautiful iridescent colouring and lovely fluted whorls in its shape. Uncle Noll held it to my ear and told me if I listened carefully I would hear the music of the sea." "An old aunt of mine had one of those big shells on her mantelpiece," Mrs. Allan recalled. "They were very fashionable in Victorian days. And did your uncle settle down for long?" "About six months, then he couldn't stick the cold winter and off he went. I almost broke my heart when he went. He spoiled me disgracefully and I adored him. He didn't come back for another five years, when he stayed a few weeks, then I never saw him again. I used to write to him, but he was the world's worst letter-writer. The last time I heard from him was just over a year ago after I'd written to tell him I was getting engaged to Stephen. He told me not to get

married for at least another five years and that he could tell without meeting him that Stephen wasn't the man for me. He was right, as it happened," she said bitterly, "but I just laughed. By then I was beginning to see Uncle Noll through adult eyes and realise that what the family said about him was true. That he'd never really grown up and accepted the responsibilities of life. But I still understood how he felt and why he chose to live the way he did." "To each his own. We should never judge hastily, my dear." Christie nodded. "I know. What if he did turn his back on what we call civilized life? He was happy. It was his life and he never hurt anybody else. But my father said he'd become nothing better than a glorified beachcomber, living rough between spells of works when he became penniless. Until he started the shell business. Apparently Kalinda is rich in them and quite by accident he found there was a demand for them, not only among collectors but from handicraft suppliers. Soon he had a regular mailing list, and said he wanted nothing more from life. Just as long as the shells rippled and sparkled on the pearly beach outside his little house he would never again leave his island paradise." She paused, suddenly aware of how long she had talked. She glanced at her companion and saw that Mrs. Allan's eyelids were drooping. She was about to withdraw quietly, intending to stroll along the deck, when Mrs. Allan turned her head, almost as though she had seen the movement. "And you are hoping this island paradise waits for you?" "Well, I'm looking forward to endless sunshine and warm seas to swim in - right at my own front door." As Christie spoke the light response she knew it wasn't the response Mrs. Allan wanted to hear. "I'm not expecting idyllic perfection," she

added quickly, "and I am prepared to work very hard as well as play." "I'm sure you are, but that wasn't what I meant. Come here, Christie, there is something I want to say to you." Wonderingly, she did as she was bade and stood by the side of the old lady's chair, understanding the need of touch to replace sight when the frail, questing hand found her arm. "I hope you'll forgive me for frank speaking, my dear," Mrs. Allan said at last, "but I must say it. I know we haven't known one another very long, but sometimes that helps one to sum up more clearly. Also, loss of sight tends to make one's other senses more acute, and I do feel I understand you very well. You've had an unhappy romantic experience and fate has thrown a strange chance across your path. Many of us experience those restless longings to journey afar in search of excitement, even danger, but most of us either grow out of them or subdue them in the very real business of living, doing our job well, perhaps in marriage and motherhood, and find satisfaction in loving and caring. Go on with your search for a good life, Christie, but make sure it never becomes a substitute for real living." "I don't think it will ever be like that," Christie said softly. "I wonder. You recognised certain qualities in your uncle's way of life. Can you recognise them in your own?" "I think so. After all, it was different for my uncle. He was a man, and they are expected to assume the responsibilities of conventional life. People accuse them of being drop-outs if they don't. But he'd been through a war and it had given him a new insight into people's hypocrisy. I don't blame him for wanting to escape."

"Yes, escape." Mrs. Allan sighed and a sadness came into her face. "Isn't that what we all seek at some time in our lives? Escape to happiness. It's always just round the corner, over the hill, always in 'if only.' But one can't find happiness in a vacuum. Remember that, my dear. It is people who hurt us, not places, possessions. And so the converse applies. It is people who bring us our greatest happiness." *** It was an uneventful voyage, and after the icy storm of the first two days gave way to warmer skies it passed quickly, almost too quickly for Christie as she realised it was bringing the parting with Mrs. Allan ever nearer. After her little homily on the second day out Mrs. Allan had made no further reference to the subject and had insisted on Christie joining in as many of the games and pursuits that made up the daily life aboard the ship as possible. And so the final day came. Christie felt strangely bereft when the farewells were over and the ship sailed on the tide that warm moonlit night, with a stranger occupying the cabin Christie still thought of as Mrs. Allan's. But the greater part of the long journey still remained before Christie reached her destination. When she disembarked at Panama her next lap was by air to Papeete, then to Tamautoa, and from there by launch to the off-shore island of Kalinda. Each was a step taking her farther from home and nearer to the unknown. By the time she stepped from the plane at Tamautoa's airstrip she was exhausted and travel-weary. But there was a heartening surprise awaiting her in the form of an airmail letter from her mother. She took it up to her room and almost wept as she read it. Not because of sorrow in its content but for the sheer joy of it at die moment when most she needed its comfort. Excitement and anticipation had buoyed her throughout the long trip, but the sight of the familiar, much loved handwriting served more than anything else to punch home reality at last. She was here. In a small impersonal

hotel room, after a ten-minute taxi ride through alien darkness, after the aircraft's descent into the night. Why couldn't it have been daytime, so that she could see beyond the unfamiliar scent and sounds of a tropical island? Had she looked as lost as she had felt? Unlike her fellow travellers who had all seemed utterly unmoved, cosmopolitan, assured of where they were going and why. She sank down on the blue-covered bed and clutched her letter tightly. She mustn't give in to scared feelings now, not when she was so nearly there. Tomorrow morning she would visit the agents who had forwarded the news to her father's solicitors. They would be able to tell her everything she needed to know, advise her how best to set about taking over Kalinda Shell Supplies (Tamautoa) Ltd., and, most important, they would be able to tell her where she would find her uncle's friends. For he must have got to know quite a lot of people during the seven years he had lived on Kalinda. Oh, if only he were still here! ■ Why did it have to happen before she had a chance of seeing him again? There were so many things she wanted to ask him. And so many things he could have explained, stories he could have told and places he could have shown her. If only... She got up and went to her case, taking out only the necessities for the night, and hunted for the slender packet containing the letters and photographs she'd had from her uncle. For a moment she studied them, the snap of him sitting on someone's veranda, another standing on the beach with a couple of small, bright-eyed Polynesian children near him, a third one of him in front of what looked like a thatched hut. An outrigger bobbed on the sea and the sand looked pure white. Soon she would be seeing these pictures with fresh vision; they would be identified and help to fill in many gaps formerly filled only by imagination. Christie put them back and transferred only the solicitor's letter into her handbag. The address of the agents was with it and she would need them tomorrow as further proof of

identification that she was the niece of Mr. Oliver Irvine. Then she wouldn't waste a. moment sightseeing in Tamautoa. As soon as she got the keys and the formalities over she would go straight to Kalinda. There was bound to be correspondence gathering up, orders and enquiries. It was lucky she'd worked in an office - she would soon straighten out any backlog in the business. Excitement and the high rate of humidity kept Christie from sleeping much that night. By dawn she had thrown off all the bed coverings and was waiting in a fever of impatience for the first pale rays to streak across the sky. When a little Chinese girl came to wake her and offer morning tea Christie had already showered and dressed and was standing on the minute balcony gazing with fascinated eyes at the scene. This was a view of the sea and no mistake! Had she been on the ground floor she could almost have reached down to the ripples lapping the silvery beach. "You have rested well?" the little maid asked. "Yes, thank you." With an effort Christie wrested her attention from that beautiful shimmering bay of pearly sea meeting sky and the misted peaks rising at the far side. "It's so beautiful I can't believe it." Sipping her tea, she turned back to savour the morning's promise, feeling a new serenity of spirit possess her. No wonder Uncle Noll had wanted to stay! It was the nearest to pagan man's impression of paradise she had ever seen. The impulse to hurry was inbred in her, but the mounting sun soon slowed her steps as she set off through the quaint streets in search of the agents' office. The stallholders were beginning to set out their merchandise and Christie had to resist the temptation to stop at almost every step. During the ten minutes it took her to walk the

length of the waterfront, which seemed to constitute the main trading area, she heard the babble of English, French, German and Dutch, besides the Chinese, Indian and native dialects she had yet to recognise. With the exception of two tall white buildings with shutters and wide verandas which stood alone farther along the waterfront there seemed nothing among the long straggle of clapboard shacks and single-storey buildings to indicate what she sought. Christie moved on past a couple of villas with long gardens running right down to the beach and came to the wider road that apparently led to the residential area that lined the southern sweep of the bay. A vague recollection of reading somewhere that the ideal house faced north when one lived below the Equator wandered through her mind as she reached the white buildings. The first proved to be the former Colonial Residence and now housed the present local administration; the second one, peeling somewhat at close quarters and with lawns not quite so immaculate, proved to house among other things the editorial offices of the Tamautoan Chronicle, the representative for A.T. Copra Inc., and Radio Tamautoa. No sign of Messrs. Teyburn and Cope. She stood for a moment, indecisive. A streak of independence in her nature had always made Christie reluctant to ask strangers for directions until she'd made firm efforts to find out for herself. All too often what she sought turned out to be right under her nose all the time and the amused or impatient response on these occasions tended to make her feel foolish. She had better walk back to the "Hello, can I help?" The voice was firm, husky and clear. Christie spun round to the girl she had not heard approach. The newcomer was tall, very slender, with raven-glossy hair bound close to her head and the kind of olive-

dark classical beauty that made Christie aware of already turning pink and sticky with the heat. Instinctively she put up her hand to smooth back any limp wisps of hair that were out of place and smiled. "Yes, I'm look for Teyburn and Cope. I've walked right along, but I can't -" "You've passed them." There was no answering smile. "They're the main traders here. It's the store nearest the hotel - you can't miss it." "Store?" Christie frowned. "But I don't think -" "It's the only European trading store. The others -" "But I'm not looking for a shop. I'm -" "Perhaps you've got the name wrong," the girl said impatiently. Her tone also suggested that Christie might have got the wrong island as well, and Christie bridled. "No, I haven't. They're export-import agents and they -" "They're a lot of things here. Are you sure ...?" The girl frowned. "I didn't realise the tourist season had got under way so soon. Perhaps you'd better -" "I'm not a tourist." Christie was stung by the air of arrogance in the other girl's attitude. "I'm living here. At least I shall be living on Kalinda as soon as -" "Kalinda?" The dark girl's expression underwent a startled change. "But you can't live on Kalinda! I don't understand. When did you-? Who-?"

"You don't have to understand," Christie broke in. "Thank you for directing me." Before the other girl could protest or stop her she turned and hurried back in the direction of the hotel. Who couldn't live on Kalinda? Did she think I'd be expecting all mod cons and the supermarket next door? Christie thought tartly. Of course Kalinda would be wild and simple, completely unspoilt, but it wasn't uninhabited. There was a marine biology place on it somewhere, and it was only about an hour by launch from Tamautoa. So why couldn't she live on Kalinda? She was prepared to rough it a bit, and she would soon put Uncle Noll's place into habitable order again. There was something in her determined expression that wiped the enquiring grin off Lonnie Teyburn's face when she marched into the overcrammed store a few minutes later, put down her credentials with a brusque gesture and said: "I'm Christie Irvine. These will prove it. Will you check them and let me have the keys for my uncle's place, please? Then tell me where I go to make arrangements to get the launch. I want to go over to Kalinda straight away this morning." For a long moment the thickset man in shabby ducks and grubby khaki shirt stared at her. Then abruptly he snicked on a lighter and relit the stub of his cheroot. "Well, well," he drawled at last. "This is a turn-up for the book. Welcome home, girlie." He jerked his head towards a bead-curtained door at the rear. "You better come through and meet my partner - God help you if you give him heart failure." "And why should I give him heart failure?" Christie hung back, not quite so sure of herself now and already distrustful of this roughlooking individual. "And I prefer not to be called girlie, if you don't mind?'

He laughed then, not unpleasantly, and thrust out his hand. "How do you do, Miss Irvine - and I can see there's no doubt about your being poor old Noll's little English rose. C'mon," he touched her arm and shouldered through the curtain. Christie found herself in a small, stifling office, dimly shuttered against the sun and untidy. Behind a rickety old desk littered with papers, an overflowing wire tray and various well- thumbed trade directories sat a small fat man with pallid, blubbery cheeks and a balding pate. He looked in some astonishment from Christie's lemonclad person to his grinning partner. "Now who've you found ? " "Guess who ? Our little heiress." "What! You've got to be joking!" "My middle name's Nojo King," smirked Lonnie. "It's for real, all right." "But..." The fat man got to his feet and returned his stare to Christie. "You're Noll Irvine's niece from England?" "Yes," said Christie with a sigh of exasperation, and the fat man sank down again. "But you're - you're not a kid. You're -" "Of course I'm not a kid," she said indignantly. "What on earth gave you that idea?" "Your uncle." Mr. Cope seemed to be having difficulty in equating what he saw with some mental picture at which Christie could only guess. "He showed us your pictures. He doted on you, used to talk about how he was going to have you out here for the holiday of your

life as soon as you were old enough. But you looked about eleven on that picture he showed us." "I was about eleven on the last pictures we gave Uncle Noll," she said acidly. "It was during the last visit he made to England." "Ye gods!" "Tempus fugit," Lonnie reminded him dryly. "You don't notice it so much as you get older." "And little girls grow up very fast - and very beautifully - which is more than can be said for Lonnie's manners. Sit down, Miss Irvine, and have a drink while we talk this business out." "Thank you - no drink, though." Christie entrusted her person to a cane chair that looked as though it was going to groan abominably and did. "It's all going to be quite straightforward, isn't it?" There was a silence, during which Christie's dawning suspicion that maybe it wasn't going to be straightforward at all grew to certainty. "It is, isn't it?" she repeated. "There hasn't been some ghastly mistake?" Lonnie and Ben Cope exchanged glances. "There's no mistake," Ben said at last, "your uncle left everything he possessed to you. It wasn't a proper will - just a scribbled statement because he was pretty far gone by then - but I was one of the witnesses and it'll be perfectly legal and watertight." Christie nodded, and he heaved himself up and went to the water cooler that stood in one corner of the room. As the cup filled he said over his shoulder: "We can't tell you what hard cash Noll left because we don't know that ourselves. We merely sent his will, along with a covering note to explain what had happened, to the address he'd

given us. The solicitors in London." Ben came back to his chair, draining the little disposable cup. He tossed it in the general direction of the waste-paper basket and sat down again. "You see, Miss Irvine, we were simply business friends of your uncle. We acted as his agent on the occasions when he needed us, but we're not legal experts, if you're thinking about starting to haggle." "Haggle?" Christie stared at him blankly. "I don't follow. Why should I want to haggle? What is this?" There was another short silence, then Lonnie said: "Personally, I'd accept the offer. It's as fair as you'll get, I reckon." "Offer ?" She shook her head. "What offer?" Now she saw her own bewilderment mirrored in the two faces turned to her. Then Lonnie, who appeared to be the quicker of the pair, snapped his fingers. "What day did you leave?" "The fourteenth." "Last Tuesday! No wonder." He turned to Ben. "That explains it. It'll have just about reached London by now. I wish you'd let us know you were actually coming." She bit her lip. "I know I should have cabled you, but I thought you'd have got the second letter from the London people by the time I got here. They sent one letter, asking for fullest details ..." Lonnie nodded, and she went on: "Then I decided to come out and I asked the solicitors to write and tell you to take no notice of the first letter because I'd decided to travel out. But I sailed part of the way because there was an old lady, she's blind, and - Didn't you get that letter?" . "No, not yet. We got the other one you mention and we sent off a reply telling you about the new development. You have to remember

that the mails take a heck of a long time to get here, Miss Irvine. We've only one flight in a week and two boats a month." "Yes - I see all that now," she said wildly, "but what's this development?" "There's been an offer for the business." "I don't want to sell," she said without hesitation. "But what else can you do ?" "Have a go at it myself. That's why I came." They glanced at each other and Christie became aware of the sluggish currents of air from the overhead fan. She brushed at the fine film of moisture on her brow and repeated: "I'm not selling." Ben shook his head. "You can't go it alone. Not a bit of a girl like you. You don't know the islands." The stubborn set reformed round her mouth. "I can learn. I haven't come all this way just to turn round and go back again." "No need to," Lonnie said soothingly. "Take the two-fifty and blow it on a holiday. Tour round the islands. Something to. remember your uncle by before you find some likely lad and settle down." "Two hundred and fifty? It doesn't even cover my air fare back!" Lonnie shrugged and looked at his watch. "Tell you what, we'll make arrangements for you to meet Matt. He'll tell you about it and then you can argue it out yourselves." "Matt who?"

"Matt Denham - he's your nearest neighbour." "And he wants the shell business - for two hundred and fifty ? He's got a nerve!" Ben sighed and rested his pudgy hands on the desk. "Listen, Miss Irvine, obviously there's quite a lot you have to learn. For a start your uncle borrowed two hundred off Matt, first time Matt stayed here last year, towards buying the boat. Matt used it, of course, he got on okay with Noll, but it never got repaid." "If that's so I'll see to it that it is repaid - before anything else," she said tautly, trying to hide her dismay. "But I refuse to sell." "You haven't seen the place yet," said Lonnie. "You might change your mind when you do." Ben shot his partner a warning glance. "You'd better let me handle this. She's dead serious about it all. You see, lovey," he dropped all pretence of formality and leaned forward confidingly, "there's this other snag..." How many more? Christie groaned inwardly. "... Matt reckons that newcomers messing about with this shell business will interfere with his work. Now, don't get him wrong - he liked your uncle and they got along fine, but now," Ben gestured, "he wants to square you, have it all wound up, and be left in peace. Anyway, I'm not sure he isn't right. You'll never make out, not a little kid fresh out from England. It just isn't the right set-up for you, and you'll soon realise we're right." She was sitting up very tense, the wrath gathering up in her almost at boiling point. She hardly heard his closing sentences. "You mean," she cried, "that this Matt Denham, whoever he is, wants to pitch me

off altogether, before I even see the place, and close my uncle's business? So that he can be left in peace!" "That's the general idea." "Well, he'll get no peace from me!" "I'm beginning to believe that," Lonnie grinned. "He's doing some pretty important research work over there, with governmental backing," Ben told her.. "I don't care a damn what he's doing," she flashed. "He can get on with it. As I intend to get oh with mine." Once again the two traders exchanged long glances. "You know something about Kalinda, about how your uncle lived?" Ben said cautiously. "Of course I do. He brought me lots of pictures. It looks and sounds like paradise." "It depends on your idea of paradise - it's not mine," Lonnie said. "And yours isn't likely to be Miss Irvine's either," Ben said sarcastically. His voice softened. "I think Lonnie's trying to tell you that Kalinda's a bit light on the civilised amenities side." "No Marks and Spencers?" Lonnie roared at the frost in her young voice. "Don't say we didn't warn you." "I'll remember. Maybe you'd better warn him as well."

"Shall we?" Lonnie stretched his hand towards the phone. "I wonder if he's over here today. Shall I try and raise him? He may be at Melanie's." But Ben shook his head. "Leave Matt to me. I'll talk to him." "I can't wait to see his face," Lonnie remarked with a touch of malicious anticipation. "Or -" Ben held up his hand, checking the utterance. "No, let her have a bit of fun with her inheritance. Kalinda's a little gem. Surely it's big enough to hold the pair of them." Exactly Christie's sentiments. But was it?

CHAPTER II SHE saw Kalinda within minutes of reaching the open sea. At first it was a like a small, vivid green emerald set on a sheet of brilliant, sparkling blue, maintaining its distance as she watched eagerly from under the canopy of the launch. "It's not getting any nearer," she said to Lonnie, who had been detailed to escort her and ensure she got there safely. "No, but we are, girlie." She smiled, already accepting the rough friendliness of the two traders and recognizing it as genuine. "I can't wait to see if it's really like this picture I have. Uncle took it from his boat, outside the lagoon. It's like these wonderful pictures you see in travel brochures, only they aren't always as perfect when you get there." Lonnie smiled indulgently at her excitement. "This one is, colourwise. Wait till you see the birds, and the fish in the lagoon. Can you dive?" "Not yet, but I'll learn." She turned her shining gaze back to the emerald, willing it nearer, with the reality of its limpid lagoon, palmfringed silver beach, bright dartings of vivid plumage amid rich verdancy, all against a setting of Pacific blue sea and sky. She hardly noticed the roughness of the sea as they neared the island or heard the wild booming of the surf as the launch pilot skilfully navigated the narrow hidden channel in the reef. There was a heart-shaking plunge, and then a dreamlike stillness on the mirror calmness of the lagoon. "If you look back you can see Tamautoa's three peaks," Lonnie pointing.

"I don't want to look back," she cried after a cursory glance over her shoulder. "I want to look at my little bit of Kalinda. I want to - Is that my uncle's house ? " "No, that's the marine laboratory and Matt's place." She dismissed Matt's place with an impatient exclamation, spotting the other smaller dwelling a little farther along, almost on the beach itself. "It's got a thatched roof!" she gasped. "Most of them do - they're quite sturdy - there's a clapboard extension behind. You can't see it from here. Your uncle-" His words were lost as the boat grated on the coral shingle. The boy sprang out and seized Christie's case, wading ashore with it and returning for the second one. She looked over at the ripples and the shining stir of coral beneath, and abruptly Lonnie picked her up as though she was a baby and carried her ashore. "Welcome to Kalinda, ma'am." He saluted gravely and waved his hand. She stood there, a slim little figure in blue jeans, a red and white striped shirt that belonged to her brother, and the wide straw hat she had bought just before leaving Tamautoa. "I can't believe it. I'll wake up in a minute!" "Come on." Lonnie picked up her cases and motioned to the boy to follow with the bag of supplies she had brought. He led the way under the palms to the small, pandanu-thatched shack that stood in a clearing facing the lagoon. "It's got overgrown, but you'll be able to get a couple of boys to tidy it up." There was a rough pebble path leading up to the single step to the little veranda, and a couple of loops hanging down at one end. Lonnie

pulled out a knife and hacked the liana down, then bade the boy take the knife and make a rough clearance of any further encroachment of profligate nature. He pushed the door open and stood back. Christie hesitated, and then entered her new home. It was surprisingly light inside, and obviously exactly as her uncle had left it. Her excitement ebbed and a lump came into her throat as she walked round slowly, looking at the simple, essential furnishings and the characteristic touches of a home in Polynesia. Two cane chairs, a small table, a full-length cane lounger, a funny little old black stove with a cauldron of coconut husks beside it. Because man must always have his fireside, no matter how sunfilled the days and how balmy the nights. A coral branch hung on the wall, its branches the glowing, coveted red. A Gauguin print hung near it, a reminder of the inspiration of nature's palette all around, and a shelf of well-read books was within easy reach of a hand stretching up from the lounger beneath. The bedroom was even more simply furnished - a chest of drawers, an iron-framed cot, a cupboard and a shaving mirror on a stand. "Lucky it isn't the rainy season," said Lonnie's voice behind her, "but there's mildew there. I think you should come back to the mainland tonight and stay at the hotel." "No, I'm going to stay here." She walked back into the living room. "I shall sleep on the lounger until I've sorted things out. You have to live in a place to find out what you need." Still he looked doubtful. "How are you going to cope with cooking on that contraption?" "I'll manage," she smiled, wanting him to go and leave her alone to make her plans.

"The place behind is his store place and office. I've tried the tank. There's water in it, but maybe you ought to boil it before you drink it." He paused, studying her with worried eyes. "Don't go eating fruits and stuff until you know what you're eating. Wait until you've got acclimatised." . "I will." "Sure you don't want to change your mind and come back?" "Sure." "Very well. One of us will look over the day after tomorrow. And remember. Matt has a radio if you want to get a message to us." He turned away and walked down to the boat. He looked back as he reached it and raised his hand. "Good luck!" She leaned on the veranda rail and waved, and not until the little white launch was a diminishing spot across the blue did she draw in a deep breath and go into her new domain. There was so much to do, and with the impatience of youth she wanted to achieve it in a day. The place where her uncle had worked drew her. The desk with the order book, the little pile of post which had accumulated for him at the post office in Tamautoa, the boxes and the assortment of containers which held the shells. She scooped up a handful of bright green cowries and let them run through her fingers, lifted up a button shell, quaintly conical like a pointed sombrero, stroked the pearly pleating of a fragile paper nautilus. Regretfully she left them; she must organise her living quarters, her evening meal, unpack ... Sunset caught her unawares; she was not attuned to the rapid descent of darkness in the tropics.

She put down the bale of bright material from which she was measuring a coverlet and flexed her shoulders, suddenly conscious of tiredness. She had to experiment with the lamp, make sure she had a light, and she couldn't let her first day end without a dip - the most cautious of dips in case the lagoon harboured some fearsome creatures and deadly dangers. The water was warm and silken, gentle and buoyant against her body, its green deepening to indigo rippled with scarlet and gold as the sun sank over the rim of the sea. As the great fiery orb was extinguished the canopy of stars came alight in the dark heavens and a sense of wondrous well-being stole over her. Very reluctantly she came out of the water, revelling in the warm, velvety night air against her, the silvery droplets streaming off her body. Not bothering to towel herself - her scanty bikini would almost dry on her by the time she walked up the beach to her new home - she stretched like a nymph and sang softly to herself as she strolled towards the tiny amber glow beckoning through the trees. Her home! For a year, if everything went well. All this was hers. A pagan paradise! She would pull the lounger out on the veranda and sleep under the stars tonight. She would put on the ancient gramophone and play some of those old-fashioned records of Uncle Noll's, and Christie thrust blithely at the door, felt it swing open, and saw the looming shadow too late to avoid the impact. There was a gasp, and she sprang back with a scream of sheer fright. The veranda rail crashed into her back as she saw the outline of the man against the oblong of light. She put out her hands, her heart petrified after its pounding leap, and tried to back from the other hands seizing her shoulders.

"It's all right! I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. I - Good God!" Her frantic evasion took her out of the hands trying to steady her, and the deep voice altered. The stranger jumped back as though stung, and in the stream of light from the doorway she saw his startled face. She straightened shakily and took a deep shuddering breath. "How dare you! Coming in here and-" Her voice cracked and she swallowed hard, not yet over her fright. He was staring at her, his face setting in grim lines of anger, and she was conscious of the contact of him still burning down her body. She groped for the towel she had dropped, but he snatched it up and thrust it at her. "I'm sorry to give you such a shock," he repeated, "but I - God! I'll have Teyburn's hide for this!" She pulled the towel closely about her and brushed past him. The warm exhilaration of a few minutes ago had vanished. She was cold and trembling, and she wanted to get dressed, but her unwelcome visitor did not move. "I'm Matt Denham," he said brusquely. "I saw Lonnie this afternoon. He told me you were here. He also kidded me into believing you were just a child. I came to see if you were okay, partly because I couldn't believe even Lonnie could let a kid loose on her own here, and because I was worried in case he had." "You mean you were curious, don't you?" she said angrily, crouching down and trying to get' the stove alight. "Isn't that human nature?" He came across the room and motioned her aside. "You'll never get it going that way - When I found this

place empty but with signs of your presence I wondered what had happened to you. That's when you bumped into me." "I went for a swim." She watched the stove flare into rosy life and controlled her bitterness with an effort. Of course the thing wouldn't light first time for her! She looked at him, then pointedly at the door. "Well, as you can see, I'm perfectly okay. Thanks for lighting the stove." For a moment he looked at her, his gaze unwavering under her defiant stare. At last he said slowly: "You can't stay here, you know." "But I am here." "It's crazy even to think of it." "I'm not thinking of it, I'm doing it." "Did Ben tell you about my offer?" "He did." Matt Denham's mouth compressed at the curtness of her tone. He seemed about to make an equally curt retort, then, perhaps realising that the moment wasn't was exactly propitious for further argument, some of the grimness left his expression. He said, "You'll want to get dressed and - and various things. We'll talk about it tomorrow." "There's nothing to talk about." "You mean you're serious?" he shot at her. "You're not even going to think it over ? " "No."

By the expression that crossed his face Matt Denham was struggling to prevent himself from shaking her. He took a deep breath. "Listen, it's crazy even to think of staying here and carrying on Noll's shell trading. How can a girl pig it on an island like this? Where there's nothing. No -" "It's a lovely island and I'm in love with it already." "In love with it!" The scorn in his voice did not move her. She ducked through into the bedroom arid hastily slipped into her wrap and belted it. "I can learn to pig it, as you term it, Mr. Denham, and nothing that you or anyone else says will make any difference." "No?" His brows went up as she reappeared. "There's one little point of which you don't seem aware. How can you stay on an island where there's no other woman?" Christie stared at him for a long time, then she turned away and moved to the stove, resting her hands on the kettle handle with the age-old instinctive gesture to urge the thing to boil. Unconsciously the taut set of her shoulders drooped. "Why do you want to get rid of me so badly ? " she asked wearily. "That's not strictly true," he said after a perceptible hesitation. "It is. You seem to think I'm going to cause you some difficulties in your work. Well, I'm not. I haven't the remotest intention of causing you any trouble, or interfering with your life." "I didn't say you were." "No, but it's implied."

"All right," he moved, to lean his long length against the wall where she could not avoid facing him, "so Lonnie's been talking. Well, it's true to a certain extent. Your activities might affect my work, but only because you're an amateur who won't know what she's doing and is liable to run into difficulties because of ignorance. Okay, you could be a liability to me, but that's not concerning me at the moment." "Then what is concerning you?" she asked flatly. "That you haven't a notion of what you're facing here." "I've already been through all that once today; I'm not going through it again." As if she had not spoken he said: "Of course the island's beautiful, it's very beauty a novelty to someone just out from England. For the moment it's enough. But it won't be enough for-very long. It's going to be very lonely here when the novelty wears off." "I shall find plenty of work to do," she said stubbornly. "You can't work or play all the time. When the rainy season comes it'll drive you crazy. You won't be able to go anywhere to get away from it. You won't be able to go out in it - unless you like having your clothes plastered to you, every step a slithering squelch, the lagoon a grey squally expanse, and everything a dripping, streaming waterlogged mess. Your bedding will grow mildew and your shoes will fall to bits if they're leather. You'll steam when you try to dry out - that is if you've had the foresight to lay in stocks of dry fuel in a place where they'll stay dry." She hardly noticed that he had taken the battered old enamel teapot out of her hands and was filling it from the softly hissing kettle. Somehow he seemed to have grown in stature until he dominated the

room, and by some strange alchemy her own strength had gradually decreased as though it were being absorbed in his. She sat down at the table and rested her chin in her hands, trying to summon up her old spirit. "You're still trying to put me off." He shook his head. "No, just trying to open your eyes." For the first time his expression softened and a ghost of a smile touched the corners of his mouth. "It's Christie, isn't it?" She nodded, and her own mouth curved wryly. "But I can assure you that a full six years have elapsed since that snapshot of Uncle Noll's was taken. I'm not twelve years old still." "I realise that," he said dryly, and something in his eyes brought a warmth into her cheeks. "I also realise that in some respects you are still a little girl. And that's why I think you should forget this mad notion of staying here. Oh, stay for a few weeks," he said hastily, seeing the protest forming, "and soak up some sun. But then go home and pick up your own life, among your own people. Before disillusion sets in." "I don't want to. Can't you understand? It's different here. It's living. It's a challenge." "Are there no challenges left at home?" "Not like this one." She saw a flicker of ironic amusement in his eyes and her mouth compressed. "You talk of disillusion. What makes you think it's special to Kalinda?" "I don't. And you're too young to be running away from that." "What makes you sure of that?"

"The soft, untouched look in your eyes. You're still living in your own ivory tower, and you believe it's going to stand firm on a desert island, isn't that it?" "Listen," she cried, "I saved over five hundred pounds during the last couple of years. I was going to be -" Just in time she reined back the impulsive confession. "I intended to have an extra special holiday this year in any case." She gulped; how awful if she'd told him she'd been jilted! "So whatever you say I'm not going to be put off. I'm staying here." "I see." She looked up at him. "And I know about that money Uncle Noll owed you. I assure you it'll be paid back. Every penny of it." The grimness had come back into his eyes. He moved towards the door. "You can forget about that." "Two hundred pounds?" "You heard me." He had reached the door, opened it, and seemed about to walk out without another word. She half rose from her chair. "Aren't you going to - to stay for this cup of tea?" "No, thanks. Good night, Christie." His steps crunched on the pebbles outside, and Christie stared at the blankness of the door. Just like that!

So that was Matt Denham. Her brow puckered, she poured out a cup of tea and took it to the lounger. Curled up in her favourite way, she cradled the sturdy blue cup between her hands and went back over the shock of the evening and its denouement. The image of him grew more vivid in her mind's eye as the flickering glow of the stove dimmed and died to ash. Matt Denham hadn't looked in the least like she had expected. Somehow she had been prepared for a much older man, a coarser, more hard-bitten type, who looked as though he belonged to Lonnie Teyburn's world, as much at home driving a hard bargain in commerce as in a bar-room brawl. Not that Matt Denham didn't look as though he couldn't give a good account of himself along with the best. The shoulders and chest under the open cotton shirt had looked as strong as teak, and the line of his chin certainly didn't suggest a weak spot anywhere. No, she hadn't expected a man quite so attractive, with the clean, clear-skinned tan of someone who spent a great deal of time in the open air, nor so disconcertingly direct grey eyes that seemed as though they would read through any pretence, a firmly defined mouth that made you watch it as he talked... , Abruptly Christie got up to get the tin of biscuits. He might prove much more formidable than she'd imagined, but she had other things to think about than a man who had shown so plainly that he didn't want her here on Kalinda at any price. Even two hundred ... Why had he suddenly waived it ? But Matt Denham was not easily banished from her thoughts. As she prepared to spend her first night on the island she became increasingly aware of the silence surrounding her. There was no breeze that night to stir the leaves, make rustles against the thatch, nothing to disturb the stillness after the birds had settled at sundown,

only that now strangely disturbing knowledge that Kalinda was completely uninhabited - except for herself and Matt Denham. Nor did it occur to her as she drifted uneasily into sleep that during the previous twenty-four hours Stephen had left her thoughts as though he'd never existed. *** It was all there still when she awakened early next morning. The magic of the pearly sea that would deepen to blue crystal as the sun climbed high, the long white sickle of beach unmarked, waiting for her small shallow footprints as she ran down to splash excitedly into the lagoon. A few days of this and she would be as brown as a true islander, with a silken tan that would be the envy of her winter-pale friends back at home. The temptation to succumb to timeless laziness, was very strong, but she resisted it, knowing that she had much to do and subconsciously perceiving that south sea island languor would be an insidious invader of good intentions. The brown husky coconuts were scattered under the palms, nature's bounty for the taking, as she returned to the little house. She gathered a couple as she passed, but the tough outer husk defied her first efforts to break it open, and reluctantly she desisted. There were so many things still to do and her latent home-making instincts were producing their bright ideas at almost every turn in the sparsely equipped little house. How had her uncle existed with one cup, one chipped pint mug, two odd plates, a very limited assortment of battered cutlery and a couple of ancient cooking pots that left much to be desired when compared with the memory of her mother's gleaming range of copper and stainless steel? To say nothing of no curtains, no table coverings, and

blankets that had quite plainly seen army service in their heyday and many inexpert male efforts at laundering. He must have done his washing in the lagoon! Christie decided, grimacing at their harsh scrubbiness and wondering if she should consign them to the dustbin and start on another shopping list of essentials. Anyway, where was the dustbin? Mirth overcame her as she contemplated the descent from pagan sublimity to such mundane domesticity. Thank goodness she had had the foresight to buy materials and sewing thread and various other household essentials before she left Tamautoa. Obviously they were going to be needed. She resisted the temptation to leave everything and go exploring, and took her sewing out on to the veranda. She would devote mornings to household reorganisation and afternoons to sorting out her uncle's business, for two or three days, anyway. By then she would be able to relax and start discovering what the island had to offer. For the first few hours the view of that heavenly sea did not pall, But as the day wore on she had to admit that subconsciously she was expecting a visitor. It was ridiculous to suggest it was disappointment she was experiencing as she walked along the beach in the early hours of evening. There was a deliciously cool breeze rippling the green of the lagoon and rustling through the palms, and the island's birdlife swooped and wheeled and cried during its busy search for supper. So that was Matt's place, the green bungalow beside the long, low prefabricated building in the lee of a green knoll that rose high from the shoreline. There was a rough landing place nearby, but no sign of a boat, and she walked right round the building, confident that she had a legitimate reason for being there should he suddenly appear to challenge" her presence.

But he didn't, and presently she looked to left and right and then, feeling guilty of curiosity, she stood on tiptoe and peered in at the window of the long building. There were long benches along the walls and various tanks standing on them, and charts and other pieces of equipment that looked scientific. It must be for the research work he was doing, she thought as she turned her steps homewards. How long had he been on Kalinda? He must have found it lonely after her uncle died. Yet he resisted the idea of herself or anyone else coming here. Was he really as selfsufficient as he appeared? She had almost reached her own home ground when she saw the speck on the sea. She stood on the soft warmth of the shallows and watched the boat come nearer, until it entered the channel in the reef. Matt's head and shoulders were clearly recognisable as he headed across the lagoon to his landing place. But if he noticed the slender figure on the beach some quarter of a mile distant he gave no sign and Christie turned away feeling distinctly piqued. So that was how it was going to be, was it? Her shoulders unconsciously taut with proud defiance, she marched indoors, set the old gramophone going at its loudest, and forgetting about her half-sewn curtain she hacked a length off her bale of material and began to fashion herself a sarong... It felt beautifully cool and 'right', she decided when she donned it the following morning, for beginning her official-' work. Lacking a fulllength mirror, she could only guess at her degree of success fashionwise and trust that two large safety pins were going to prove adequate security. She looked at her top half, hesitated, then with a return of her defiant air went into the office to collect together the things she wanted.

Conscious of the sun hot on her bare shoulders and an odd little knot of tightness under her heart, she set off for the other house on Kalinda. The boat was moored by the landing stage, and the door of the marine laboratory stood wide open. Her steps firm, she walked up to it and gave a brief tap before she looked inside. There was that faint greenish light characteristic of aquariums, and a pile of papers on a plastic-topped table at the far end, as though someone had been writing and put down the pen in the middle of the task. There was also another door, closed, and presumably leading into another room, but no sign of life. Christie turned away, then noticed that there was one sign of life in one of the otherwise motionless tanks. It was a small, quite repulsive-looking squid, and it appeared to stare balefully at her as she stooped to peer into the tank. The pen lying too near to hand was a temptation and 'Christie picked it up, obeying the childish impulse to dab at the inhabitant of the tank. The squeal was hovering on her lips, ready should one of those slender tentacles reach up in response to the challenge. More daring, she stirred the water, murmuring invitations, and then voiced the squeal of shock as her wrists were seized in a vice-like grip. "Asking to be caught?" said a low voice in her ear. "Do you really want to meet it?" The little octopus settled back in its sandy bed, as though with satisfaction, while Christie looked at the two tanned hands which had come over her shoulders and showed no sign of relenting. "I wasn't going to touch your beastly pet," she said indignantly, not daring to struggle in case her sarong slipped. "Here - here's your pen

back. I - I - Do you always creep up on visitors like this and attack them?" "If they're uninvited. For two pins I'd dip you." "Please don't." She moved uneasily and he released her, to eye her with grim humour as she rubbed her wrists. "I wanted to talk to you, about several things. I have them here." "I'm honoured," he observed sardonically, well aware of her discomfiture as she looked round for her beach bag and snatched it up. "It's strictly business - my uncle's affairs," she said rather breathlessly, trying to re-assume dignity. "There were quite a few letters and -" "You'd better come next door." He motioned towards the sunlit rectangle, and she glanced warily at him as she passed him, noting the grim humour still playing in his eyes and the survey of her new fashion handiwork. "Yes, I see that you believe in blending with the accepted character of your surroundings," he said dryly, "but you've forgotten a certain vital finishing touch." She jerked round. "And what might that be?" "This." He had taken a lithe step aside into the semi-wild garden edging the bungalow and plunged his hand in to the profusion of lovely pink blossoms. Deftly he twisted the spray of frangipani and tucked it into her hair. Uncertainly, she raised one hand to her ear. "I shall know where to come for lei materials," she said, but he had moved on ahead to clear a trailing branch and she could not see if he was laughing at her. By

the time she entered the living room his expression was soberly composed and her guarded curiosity as she looked round superseded the small incident. Matt Denham's domain was, if anything, even more spartanly furnished than her uncle's, but much neater and spotlessly clean. The white walls held no ornament and the floor was bare of covering. A louvred partition with a double central door hid what must be a bedroom and an open arch at one side revealed a small kitchen, and furnishings had been limited to essentials. The only different note as she looked for imprints of his personality lay in a big white bowl on a low table by the window. It held an elaborate flower arrangement of frangipani, ginger blossom and sprays of glossy dark green leaves. But the flowers were dying, shedding petals and stamen dust, and she could not help wondering whose hand had gathered them. She turned away and met a regard which had certainly noticed her silent query but had no intention of encouraging it. He was waiting politely, and she sat down in the chair he indicated. "I've come to ask if you'll give me some advice - about my uncle's affairs," she began rather hurriedly. . "My initial advice not being acceptable?" "No," she said bluntly. "Well?" He leaned back and regarded her with that disconcertingly level gaze. "What do you want to know ? " "How did my uncle work?" "When he felt like it." She considered the uncompromising reply and endeavoured to betray no sign of provocation. "How did he find and identify all those

shells? I've watched the beach pretty closely after each tide, but I haven't seen many of the varieties he left in the store along there." "You're not likely to, unless there's been a stormy sea." Obviously he wasn't going to impart information easily. She tried again. "Did he hunt out on the reef?" "Sometimes." "I thought so." "I shouldn't advise you to try it." "Why not?" . He shrugged. "You need stout shoes for one thing, and more knowledge of the reef and the tides than you have at present." Unsmiling, she nodded, deciding to let that pass for the moment. "Did my uncle employ anybody?" Matt hesitated. "Two boys from Tamautoa," he said at last, somewhat reluctantly. "I thought so! And they dived for the stuff, didn't they? I've found snorkels and flippers and things - one of those breathing cylinders the frogmen wear." "Yes," Matt Denham's mouth compressed, "your uncle got bitten with the diving bug and bought himself an aqualung about the same time as he got the new boat. But -" "I know," she interrupted. 'You're going to warn me not to try that either. All right, I'll take it as read. Now, about that boat. Where is it?"

"Quite safe - along at the back here," he gestured with one thumb. "I laid it up for safety's sake after your uncle died." "Of course," she nodded, "you had a kind of stake in that boat. Well, we'll leave it where it is, a kind of security until I've straightened everything out." "I thought I'd straightened that matter out already." "Not the way I want it," she said coolly. "On second thoughts I'm quite certain that I don't want to be under any obligation to you." He gave her a sharp look. After a perceptible pause he nodded. "Very well. The boat can remain where it is at present, but not for your particular reason." She raised her brows, and he said, "I'm sure it doesn't take much guessing." "No, it doesn't," she said flatly. "It's quite plain that you consider me a useless kid who knows nothing about boats, skin- diving, trade practices, and the tropics. It wouldn't occur to you that I am fully aware of my lack of knowledge, or that I do possess enough common sense not to do something silly. But everyone has to learn," she added sarcastically. "True. But is it worth it? " "Worth it?" She frowned. "I'm not sure I follow." "For a whim," he said impatiently. "Oh, why don't you face it? It's a novelty, but it'll wear off. You'll -" "Look, we went into all that," she cut in, reaching into her bag and drawing out the little bundle of papers. "I've been going through these letters that've been gathering up since Uncle Noll - Three of

them contained money orders in payment of stuff he'd sent off. One of them is for five hundred dollars - it'll pay quite a bit of his debt to you. And there's another for-" "What are you going to live on?" "I'll get by." She brushed aside the query and hurried on: "These are the interesting ones. They're orders, and one of them's a big one. It's from an American collector and he offers five thousand dollars that's well over two thousand sterling at the present rate of exchange, isn't it?" He nodded, and now his expression had hardened. "May I ask what he wants ?" "Those." She handed over the order and watched his face as he scanned the precise requirements. At last he folded it and handed it back to her, standing up as he did so. "And what do you expect me to do about it ?" "Well, I'm not asking you to supply the things," she flared, irritation beyond subduing now at his tone. "But there's a load of shells along there, probably what this bod wants. Unfortunately, I can't identify them, and I've no one to ask." "So you want me to come and sort them out for you?" Her mouth tightened. He was deliberately baiting her, enjoying the prospect of refusing her request. Abruptly she stood up. "All right, you won't. I'm sorry I bothered you, and I can assure I've really got the message. But I'll get by. Someone will be able to give me the information you can't - or won't -give me." She was stuffing the papers into her bag as she spoke and when she straightened he was watching her with ice in his eyes. Silently he

held open the door as she stormed towards it, but at the last moment he checked her. "By all means ask around," he said curtly, "but if you're wise you won't. My advice to you is to write off to those customers and explain the circumstances, and tell them you won't be able to fulfil their orders. Is that clear?" "Perfectly, except that I don't want your advice. And I'm sorry I ever asked for it." Head high, she hurried out into the golden sunshine and did not look back. Matt Denham was the most arrogant, hateful man she'd ever met in her life. But she would show him what she thought of his advice.

CHAPTER III HER anger was still simmering when the launch chugged across the lagoon that afternoon and Lonnie Teyburn jumped out, calling a teasing greeting. Christie returned it, unsmiling, so eager to begin her indignant account she hardly registered the fact that the launch contained another passenger and was now continuing along towards Matt Denham's landing stage. The tall girl in cool, immaculate white glanced along towards Christie and said something to Matt Denham as he held out his hands to help her step out of the launch. They both looked along again before they moved up the beach, but the small figure in striped shirt and shabby jeans was too intent on her own conversation with the big burly trader to notice the certain interest betrayed by Melanie Haydon. I never dreamed he could be so objectionable," Christie said breathlessly, "scaring the life out of me to start with and then ... Oh, come on in, Lonnie, and let's have a drink. I'm afraid the place is still a shambles - I've piles to do yet - but you've no idea how glad I am to see you. How's Ben?" "Worried about you. He's suddenly discovered after all these years that he's still got a soft conscience. He reckons your uncle should never have -" Lonnie shrugged, "well, left things for a kid like you to sort out. Maybe if he'd included your brother in it...?" "It wouldn't have appealed to Tim in the least. I'm sorry there's no glasses - there was only one and it had a chip, so I threw it out. But I found half a bottle of whisky among my uncle's stuff."

"I never say no," Lonnie chuckled, and started to delve into an old canvas holdall. "I thought these might be useful." "These" were a couple of bottles of mineral water, some fresh rolls and fruit, a bottle of French wine, and an assortment of somewhat luridly entitled paperbacks. Lonnie pulled a doubtful face. "Ben wasn't sure if these'd be your kind of bedtime reading, but they were the best of what we had." "Thank you - you're terribly kind. Tell Ben I always liked scary bedtime reading best." A lump came into Christie's throat as she reflected on how misleading appearances could be. At the first meeting she'd thought Lonnie and Ben were just a couple of coarse waterfront hucksters, but how wrong she had been. Maybe they were a bit rough compared to Matt Denham, but they were genuine and a damn sight kinder. They sat on the veranda with their drinks and she recounted her first two days on Kalinda - and her problems. When she finished she looked hopefully at Lonnie as he stroked his chin. "I'd like to help," he said at last, "but I'd rather not make any promises I mightn't keep. Will you leave it with me, and in the meantime I'll have a look at your shell stock." She had to own to secret disappointment when Lonnie was unable to identify more than about a dozen of the assortment in the stock shed. "I guess it's a case of seeing them kicking around the beach and not seeing them," he admitted ruefully. "There must be hundreds of different kinds, but Ben and I never gave them much thought. Tell you what, you ought to get a book on them." "I did, before I left home," she said sadly, "but it didn't have any of those in, and only a small section on the best known tropical shells."

Not for the first time she wished her uncle had evolved a system of storing and labelling his collection. It was obvious he had acquired considerable expertise with the years of experience, but like so many one-man concerns much of this had been stored in his head. Lonnie looked down at her worried face and patted her shoulder. "Cheer up. When are you coming over? " "Next Monday, I think. I want to go to the bank and do some shopping." "We'll make a day of it. Will you let Ben and me take you out to dine? We do dress up occasionally, you know," he added as she hesitated. "I wasn't thinking of that. Yes, I'd love to. I might stay a night," she said thoughtfully. "I want to get my hair done and I wouldn't say no to a proper bath." Lonnie nodded and she walked down the beach with him to wait for the launch. Only then did she remember Matt Denham's visitor. "Who is she?" she asked casually. "Melanie Haydon - from Administration," Lonnie said, beginning to grin. "Another of Matt's conquests." "Another?" Christie's small mouth went down at its corners. "The conquests must be pretty hard-up round here." "Now, now!" Lonnie bunched a large fist under her chin. "You're not the only pretty kitten in the fold. Doc Chalmers has a smart little niece come to keep house for him, and there's a new French nurse up at the clinic. Wow!" Lonnie rolled expressive eyes, but Christie was not amused. Nor could she quite account for a feeling of discontent

when the launch prepared to depart without Matt's beautiful conquest. "He'll take her back tonight - under that old Pacific moon." Lonnie settled down in the stern and sorted out a cheroot. "You be good, young Christie. See you Monday." What else did he think she could be on Kalinda - except good? she wondered bitterly as she waved and watched the launch leave, while the Pacific sunset painted its glory across that incredibly lovely view. It was hard to decide which was the loveliest, the dawn, or the sunset, or the moonlit vision. Moonlight! Christie turned her back on it and wondered if a good splash of rain wasn't long overdue... However, the next morning brought a pleasant surprise in the form of an outrigger skimming across the lagoon. Two lithe and happy young island boys introduced themselves and informed her in their halting but beguiling mixture of Tamautoan, pidgin and English that Trader Lonnie had sent them, that they would work for her, dive for shells, and she would pay them one hundred taus - each. All arranged. Lonnie had more than fulfilled his cautious promise. The two boys scorned the snorkels she offered and sorted out what they wanted from the collection of equipment in the shed. They had with them carved wooden native diving goggles, pouches at their waists, and wicked-looking knives thrust into the belts of their brief pareus. With wide, confident grins, they made off towards the reef. Christie's spirits soared again. It was all going to work out after all. She'd been stupid to let herself get depressed last night. Just because Matt Denham had got on her nerves and things had begun to look more difficult than she'd anticipated didn't mean she had to give in before she'd even tried. Of course it would take a while to iron out

the initial headaches. She would have to learn as she went along, and the main thing was to stay clear of Matt Denham... She decided to start packing what orders she could and write in answer to the collectors' enquiries, explaining about her uncle and assuring them she would endeavour to fulfil their orders at the soonest possible date. By now she had discovered the cartons in which her uncle had dispatched the shells, and an old notebook dating back several years which contained random jottings in her uncle's hand and appeared to be his first tentative attempts to catalogue current market values. There was also a dog-eared catalogue originally issued by a wellknown American dealer, and this Christie studied with care. The closely printed Latin names were still much of a closed book to her, but in time she would learn, and this was better than nothing. Prices of everything had soared since then, of course, but if she added twenty per cent on the rarer specimens and ten per cent on the more plentiful varieties ... What sort of a haul would the boys bring today? Would luck bring one of the magnificent tritons, a golden cowrie, or collector's dream - a precious Glory of the Seas...? They were back sooner than she expected, bringing one bucket almost half full and another into which they emptied the contents of their pouches. This one she was not to touch, they conveyed, until they came back, and again they loped off along the beach. She peered curiously at the collection and knew she would take the boys at their word. This lot didn't look like the results of a shellgathering amble along an English seashore. These shells were covered with algae and streaks of weed, and most of them, she suspected, still housed their occupants. About to return indoors, she noticed that the boys had collected a couple of coconuts. Interested, she watched them whittle a stout branch to a point and wedge it stake-wise into a rock cleft, and strike the coconut hard against the

point. The husk seemed to break away quite cleanly, leaving the inner nut intact. The next moment the boys were quaffing the milk as they ambled back towards the reef. So that was how it was done! Mentally filing this useful snippet, Christie resumed her office work. The shadows were beginning to lengthen when she decided to stop for a break and see if the boys were back. To her surprise, there was no sign of them and the outrigger had gone. Frowning, she walked round to the shed. Everything was as she left it, and she walked along the shore, knowing that if their craft had gone they would be with it. Maybe they'd done what they considered their stint for the day, or maybe they'd sailed round the far side of the island. Thoughtfully, she moved the buckets holding the day's catch into a shady place out of the sun's reach, and more thoughtfully took the precaution of topping up the buckets with sea water. Somehow she felt reluctant- to set about evicting the occupants of those shells just yet, and by morning, if they were allowed to dry out, she suspected she wouldn't want to go within a mile of them. She would have to make it clear to the boys that it was only the shells she wanted ... Anyway, they would probably be back in the morning... But they weren't. It was another perfect day, the trade winds plying the cottonwool clouds across the skies and providing a delightful tempering of the sun's power. Aware of impatience catching her again, Christie got the old binoculars which she found among her uncle's things and scanned the sea for a sign of the outrigger. The binoculars brought the peaks and shape of Tamautoa into vivid detail, but for the moment she was not interested. Why hadn't the

boys come back? Even if they'd changed their minds or found more lucrative employment why hadn't they come for their pay? She turned away, and saw Matt Denham strolling in her direction. She waited, unsmiling, until he stopped. Without preamble, he said: "If you're looking for those boys you'll be unlucky. They won't be coming back." "What?" She stared at him. "What do you mean? They're not coming back?" "I was coming along to tell you." His lean features held no hint of apology, merely what struck Christie as indifference. "I took the liberty of dismissing them yesterday, and I also paid them, so don't fall for it if they try to pull a fast one on you." "You - you paid them off!" Christie was almost stammering with disbelief and mounting anger. "You took a liberty! And - What right do you have to -? How dare you do such a thing? Of all the-" "Yes," he cut her short with the clipped utterance, "I expected you to be angry. I'd be furious myself." "Really!" She clenched her fists. "What else did you expect me to be? I suppose it wouldn't be too much to ask for an explanation." His mouth still grim, he nodded. "I know. It'll take about half an hour. If you hadn't flounced off in a paddy the other day I intended to explain more fully why I've made these objections to your presence here." "You've had plenty of time to make them - or rather to make up some new excuses," she flashed. "Why won't you be honest and admit you just took a dislike to me and you didn't want anybody else here. You just wanted Kalinda all to yourself, so that -"

"All untrue. I do not dislike you, nor do I want the island all to my self as you accuse." "Then why don't you leave me alone? This part of the island is mine. It belonged to my uncle and he left it to me. So I can do what I like with it and nobody can stop me." Matt Denham was remaining remarkably calm in face of her outburst. When she stopped he said coolly: "That isn't completely founded, I'm afraid. Did your uncle ever tell you how he acquired his couple of acres of Kalinda?" "He bought it off an Australian. I have the papers," she said defiantly. "He bought it off a man he'd known only for the space of a drinking session in a Sydney bar. And he bought it for the price of a few rounds because his drinking crony was penniless at the time and your uncle had a few pounds in his pocket." "Well?" she said stubbornly. "So what? It's still legal." "I'm not so sure," Matt said in the same cool tones. "That so-called ownership dated back a hell of a long time, from the days when an adventurer could stake a claim on a bit of unoccupied territory or barter a few bits of gimcrack rubbish with the natives. In most cases there was no lawful precedent in force and occupation was established by squatters' rights. But today things are slightly different. Kalinda, along with Tamautoa and the rest of the islands in the group, have been brought under Australian protection, while they manage most of their own affairs with self-government. It is possible that if a search were made you would find that you had no more legal right to Kalinda than I have." A chill was beginning to creep over Christie and it had nothing to do with the freshening breeze which was whipping her hair against her

face. She pushed back the clinging strands and stared back at him, trying not to show the unease his statements had evoked. "Just why are you telling me all this? Is someone making a search ? Is it you ? " "No," he shook his head, "ho one is making any search, certainly not me, nor is anyone likely to come along and order either of us off Kalinda." "Then why?" He looked down into wide eyes in which anger had gradually cooled, to be replaced by puzzlement and a trace of fear. He touched her arm. "Go and put on your strongest shoes - that is those with the thickest soles. Then I'll take you out on the reef and show you as well as explain the reasons for my actions." Still disturbed and still resentful, nevertheless she did as he directed, and rejoined him a few minutes later after changing into her shirt and jeans and a pair of stout rope-soled sandals. He took her arm when they reached the beginning of the reef, warning her to guard against slipping as they scrambled up its base, and as they picked their way along she saw the razor-sharp edges and roughness and realised the wisdom of sturdy footwear. "It isn't merely the risk of cutting one's foot," he told her in matter-offact tones, "but coral can give a badly poisoned cut." "Yes, Lonnie told me," she said' in equally casual tones. "He also warned me about the poisonous jellyfish and other things." "He also fixed up for those boys to come over, didn't he?" Matt said. "Well, you were the one who told me my uncle employed native divers," she said defensively.

"I know, but I still didn't realise until I saw them yesterday just how serious you were about the whole business. I thought ... oh, never mind. Watch where you're going. We've got to go quite a way out." Her mouth compressing, she kept her attention on the pitfalls underfoot. Even though the tide, was almost at its lowest ebb most of the reef was still a few inches under water. There were holes and crevices, some of them deep, and humps covered with algae and slime. Altogether the encircling reef extended over a mile from the shore, girding the lagoon and breaking the force of the giant rollers as effectively as any man-made barrier. It was the first time Christie had seen the wonders of the coral water gardens at close hand, and for a while she forgot her resentment of the man at her side. The colours matched the rainbow, sea plants of every hue flowered in every pool, strange creatures altered with the magic of a chameleon, the underwater coral branched like fairy candlesticks and made a playground for the flashing iridescent tints of the butterfly fish. Abruptly Matt recalled her. "Yes, it's very wonderful if you've never seen it before, but unless science makes a breakthrough very soon that beauty is doomed." "But how?" Unwillingly she turned away from the fascination beneath the lagoon waters and moved to his side. "The coral's dying, being eaten away. That's why I'm here, part of a research project working in the infected parts of the Pacific." He touched her arm and drew her to a long, crumbling ledge overhanging a deep pool. Bending down, he pulled at a submerged branch of coral. It broke quite easily, and when he held it in the light she saw it was dead and colourless. With it Matt gestured, and she saw the whole coral face in that section had the same drained, lifeless appearance.

"And there is the cause." He pointed to a starfish, but a starfish far removed from the little gold creatures of an English rock pool. This one was huge - Christie thought it must be well over a foot in diameter - and its many points were thickly covered with long, wicked-looking spines. "It's known as the crown of thorns," Matt said, "and there's a plague of them, has been for several years. Already they're making alarming inroads into the Great Barrier Reef and attacking the reefs of islands as far away as the Philippines and Borneo." "But isn't there any way of killing it?" "Not without killing other harmless species. We've had a team working on it for months, but so far without success. The thing breeds like lightning, but we have to find an answer soon or it's going to affect the islanders' livelihood. Once one particular species gets out of balance it upsets the whole food chain." He began to walk back towards the shore, and she took the branch of dead coral from his hand, examining it curiously. "But surely there must be something that preys on the starfish," she said slowly. "Not that I can imagine anything daring those thorns. But if you could breed something that would in its turn prey on them..." He smiled faintly. ".We already know of its enemies. One of them is the triton mollusc - which is where you come in." "Yes, the big trumpet shell. Charonia tritonis," she sighed. "It's so beautiful. But they're all beautiful."

"For the time being we've had to ban collectors taking it, until we've more data about what is causing this menace and we discover a means of dealing with it." "And this is what you're working on in your lab?" "Yes." He was silent, and she thought over what he had told her as they made their way back to the beach. Near the path to his bungalow he paused. "Now do you understand why I can't let you raid the reef's shell life indiscriminately ?" "Oh yes, I understand." She thrust her hands into her pockets and traced a circle in the sand with her toe before she looked up at him. "But what I can't understand is why you didn't explain all this right at the start." "Maybe I should have done." He hesitated. "To be quite honest I didn't think it was worth it. I reckoned you'd get fed up with hunting along the beach, and that the sheer inconvenience of living here would soon daunt you. So I decided that was the best dissuasive line to pursue." She said nothing, and he went on: "I should have remembered the feminine syndrome and gone to the other extreme of trying to persuade you to stay. It might have worked." "I doubt it." She stared across the lagoon and a slight smile touched the corners of her mouth. "I'm still going to stay. In view of your very sound explanation I shall forgive your highhanded action in sacking my staff and I'll cross the triton off my list, but..." She left the sentence unfinished, believing she had got the measure of him at last and that now the air was cleared a little humour might win through. But she was mistaken.

When the moments of silence seemed to be ominously long she turned her head and found him watching her with eyes that had frosted like iced steel. "Listen, Christie, this is—" "Miss Irvine, then, if you don't mind," she interrupted coldly. "Miss Irvine, then," his mouth twisted mockingly, "it seems that you still haven't grasped my meaning, despite this last half-hour. Will you understand that Kalinda is now banned to shell collectors?" "Altogether?" "Altogether," he snapped. "In case you haven't yet realised it, I have a certain amount of authority at present and it looks as though you're going to force me to use it. I could get a protection order slapped on this island, which would settle all arguments." She felt shock. "And how would that affect me?" "That would depend on how you behaved yourself." "I see." She took a deep breath. "You're determined to get me off this island, aren't you?" "Listen, you're trying to turn this into a personal vendetta. I thought-" "Aren't you?" He ignored the bitter little interruption. "I thought I'd made it quite clear. You can play about as much as you like - for as long as it amuses you to play house and back to nature on a desert island - just so long as it stops at that."

"But I thought I'd made my intention quite clear," she said in a cold little voice. "I'm serious. I can't afford to play house. I have to keep myself. I -" "Then Kalinda is the wrong place to do that." With an effort she kept her temper. "I used my savings to come here, Mr. Denham, and because my father insisted on depositing my return air fare in case I need it doesn't mean he's a rich doting parent. He isn't. Do you expect me to waste all that?" "It's a pity you didn't think twice and make a great deal more investigation of your uncle's affairs before you took such a foolish step," he retorted coldly. "Can't you realise that a man can knock about in the south seas in the way a girl can't? A girl on her own, without money, is soon going to be in difficulties." Christie gestured and shook her head impatiently. "I don't want to argue with you, and we seem to be getting a long way from the important matters. You want to exterminate a beastly-looking starfish. I want to make my living and my home here for a year. Very well, I'll leave your precious tritons alone and you leave me alone. Okay?" "No, it is not okay." She shrugged. "Then it's just too bad, isn't it?" Without waiting for any further threats he might make she spun round and almost ran along the beach. *** That weekend dragged by as though time were leaden. All her planned tasks suddenly lost appeal and, determined to avoid any chance contact with Matt Denham, she spent most of the daylight

hours in aimless exploratory rambles round the island. But once darkness came she found loneliness had suddenly caught up with her, exactly as he had predicted. No longer could she chase her thoughts. Once she had had a dream so zany she had kept it secret, even from June, who had always been in her confidence, because in her heart she hadn't really believed it could ever be more than a dream. But was it so zany to dream of shaping success and achievement to fit your own desire? Especially when you knew that it was really the substitute for a ruined dream of love? She wandered out on to the veranda and curled up on the lounger. People collected all sorts of things these days. It became a mania with some of them. And other people supplied those desired collectors' items, becoming authorities in the process. Some of them also became very wealthy. Why not she? Her uncle had set it within her reach, a stepping-off that many were not given. So why shouldn't she eventually have a modest villa on Tamautoa? The climate was perfect, and when the time came for her father to retire he and her mother could settle here as well, away from the cold and the damp and the rat-race... What a dream! A stupid, idle pipe-dream that should never have been given headroom. How Matt Denham would scorn her if he knew... Why did he hate her? Christie sighed and the shadows hid the hurt in her eyes. He didn't actually hate her, he wasn't interested enough to hate her. He merely despised her because ... She twisted restlessly. Why did men persist in seeing her as something she wasn't? He saw her as an irresponsible kid, lacking in maturity and spoilt. And he wanted to change her so that she saw everything from his point of view. Why didn't he meet her halfway and realise that she would willingly cooperate and be guided by him if only he would accept her as she was?

Stephen was exactly the same. For the first time since the break she tried to look back coldly and objectively, trying to be honest. Had she been unreasonable? But nothing had changed, except that she had now hit on the truth. Stephen had wanted her to change. He had called her a dreamer, a stubborn, tactless mixture of sentiment and determination, told her that unless she changed her outlook a lot more their marriage would never work... She got up and leaned over the veranda rail, to stare unseeingly at her paradise. The lagoon was awash with liquid scarlet and gold, and the palms were feathery silhouettes against the glow of the sunset sky. But she saw only the past... At last she could see what marriage with Stephen would have meant. The endless fight to keep ahead, the cultivating of people who could be useful to Stephen's future career, the round of entertaining, the parties, the back-biting - and the mutual back-scratching. Always donning the face of success and confidence, being nice to people she didn't like, and Stephen becoming more and more impatient with her. Everybody had to do it, he had said. But she had never been able to fawn over people she disliked or distrusted, and as far as cultivating influential people went ... she had her own opinion of that. It still hurt bitterly to remember the final rift. The party she had gone to and the meeting with one of the directors of Stephen's firm. All her warning hackles had quivered at the moment of introduction to this man to whom Stephen paid such smooth lip-service, and the danger signals hadn't been crying wolf ... Long before the evening was over she knew the genial, fatherly interest in "Stephen's little girl" cloaked a totally different interest. When the pass came in its distasteful guise she was furious, and unable to mask her disgust. But this was nothing

to the painful disillusion when Stephen brushed it off uneasily and told her she was probably imagining half of it. Imagine being pawed and ogled and the sourness of whisky fumes breathed down her neck! When Stephen eventually took her home the quarrel flared so quickly she was bewildered and almost" frightened. She'd given Stephen his ring bade before she realised what she was doing. But in cold daylight the next morning, Stephen's bitter "Why the hell don't you grow up?" still scarring her heart, she had already begun to grope towards the truth. Stephen wanted a gay, brittle, sophisticated girl, a party girl who could say the right things to the right people and not waste her time on things and people who didn't matter. So he didn't love her. Not in the way she wanted to be loved. If he had loved her he would have been horrified at the thought of another man laying hands on his girl ... At least that was the way she imagined it should be. Maybe that was alba silly dream as well. Maybe men didn't think that way after all... But what was she going to do now? Hardly a week here and already she was falling victim to despair... At last Monday dawned. She was ready ages before the launch hove into sight to take her across to Tamautoa. When she stepped ashore she decided to check in at the hotel before setting off to shop and call on her only two friends. At least Lonnie and Ben were on her side, even though they had to confirm Matt Denham's claim to authority. "Yes, I reckon we should have warned you," Ben said, "but we didn't want to blight your hopes too much before you even got there." "But I still can't figure why Matt's turned so darn awkward," Lonnie murmured thoughtfully. "He's a nice enough guy and he's never struck me as being officious. What do you think, Ben?"

Ben did not respond, except for a resigned shrug, and Christie sighed, "Maybe it's just he hasn't taken to me." They did their best to cheer her up, and she departed in search of the local barber, who, Lonnie assured her, would shampoo and set her hair. Tamautoa not being big enough to support a western-style ladies' hairdresser. The barber proved to be a young Filipino, and she was pleasantly surprised when he finally brushed out her long tresses. They felt soft and silky and vibrant, and her natural dark brown tones, which she had always considered unstriking, now danced with a ripple of bronze. "What kind of shampoo was that?" she asked as she looked in the mirror. He smiled and shook his head. "That is my secret, mademoiselle, and what of this?" He touched her hair. "Take care you do not let the sun and sea spoil it." "Thank you - if ever you set up business in my home town I'll tell everybody you're a genius," she smiled, as he courteously showed her out of the tiny shop. The vanity session had cheered her, and so did the two letters from home which were waiting for her at the post office. By the time she had completed her business and shopped and then got ready to dine with Lonnie and Ben she was in a brighter frame of mind, and as the evening progressed she had almost succeeded in forgetting Matt Denham. The hotel was the social centre, the only one in the port - indeed on the big island - and Lonnie and Ben knew everyone. They admitted frankly that it was years since they had been honoured with young and beautiful feminine company and they introduced her to every acquaintance who chanced to drop in that evening.

She met the local port official, a sea-captain and his Scottish mate who were on the copra run, the charming young French nurse Lonnie had mentioned earlier, the doctor's niece who was called Jean, and several other strangers whom she had difficulty in recalling afterwards when she tried to fit names to faces and where they fitted in the island's business sector. Lonnie and Ben spoilt her outrageously. They sought people who had known her uncle and encouraged their reminiscences, she had several offers of business advice if she wanted it, and when at last she retired to her room she was flushed and happy. But two things made the exhilaration a short-lived state. The first came when she took a last look from her tiny balcony before going to bed and saw below two figures instantly recognizable as Matt Denham and the sultry Melanie Haydon, who were obviously concluding an evening as enjoyable, if much more romantic, as her own; and the second waited unpleasantly for her return to Kalinda the following morning. The big tank which held her water supply had run dry, and there was no source of fresh water anywhere on Kalinda.

CHAPTER IV CHRISTIE'S first reaction was disbelief when she made the frightening discovery. It must be stuck, or blocked up, or something. Again and again she wrenched at the tap, but there were only the two or three sluggish drips, then nothing. At last she desisted and wandered outside, staring up at the hot brazen blue of the sky. What did she do now ? The anger of frustration came; if only it had given out before she went to Tamautoa! Lonnie would have arranged for an emergency supply to see her over until the tanker could get there. She gathered that it happened quite often on the smaller islands. Few of the atolls had fresh water and some of the islands had only a precarious supply. Water was a precious commodity and had to be zealously hoarded. And obviously she had been far too careless with her supply. She looked up again at the cloudless blue and returned indoors. Unless it absolutely bucketed down for the next day or so she would have no alternative but to seek Matt Denham and ask him to send a radio message for her. It was not a happy prospect and every scrap of pride rebelled instantly at the thought, yet what else could she do? She had to have drinking water... The implication sobered her as nothing else could do and she began a feverish stocktaking of the drinkable resources she possessed, the thought vaguely taking form at the back of her mind that if she could manage for two or three days Lonnie or somebody was bound to come over - she'd dished out invitations to all and sundry to come visiting her, and Ben had announced his intention of heaving himself aboard the launch next time Lonnie came. But it had all been a bit casual...

Fortunately she had had her things laundered at the hotel, her hair was shampooed, and it wouldn't hurt her to make do with bathing in the lagoon for a few days. If only she didn't get so thirsty when the day was at its hottest. The two bottles of mineral water and fruit juice she had brought back wouldn't last very long, and she couldn't very well exist on the bottle of wine... A sudden rush of determination sent her outside again, to a further and much more exhaustive exploration of the island's interior. Surely there must be water somewhere? Something had to support the tangle of ferns and creepers that rioted among the palms. And there were birds on the island, a lot of strange and beautiful tropical birds. They had to drink. But they probably found berries, and maybe they had the special metabolism or whatever it was that enabled the sea- birds to convert salt water. She returned to the little house hot, tired, and more thirsty than ever, but as reluctant as ever to seek Matt Denham and admit what had happened. There was no cup of tea that day, or the following morning, . that eternal English reminder of home which she found difficulty in reconciling herself to missing. She stayed in the shade, occupying herself with sewing and a book and a steadily growing hatred of Matt Denham. He had never come near her since last Friday. He knew she had no contact with anyone but him, and for all he cared she could die of thirst. Oh, why didn't the launch come? Even if only to bring his beautiful conquest, the coolly assured Miss Haydon whose haughty assumption Christie remembered all too clearly from her first day on the main island. But no trace of life disturbed the placid green mirror and the second miserable day dragged to its end. There wasn't even a sign of Matt Denham, which was distinctly ominous. He was usually about somewhere, to be glimpsed at a distance, but not now, and she experienced a flash of fear as it occurred to her that he might not have returned to Kalinda. Perhaps he was spending a few days over in the little town. In which case she was quite alone, utterly cut off from other human contact.

Christie drank a few mouthfuls of the last half bottle of mineral water and crept into bed, a prey to very real fear. There was only about a quarter of a cupful left in the bottle for the morning. When that was gone... It was a long time before she drifted into an uneasy sleep, from which she wakened suddenly in the middle of the night to a raging thirst and an idea so heaven-sent she wanted to leap out of bed there and then. It would have to wait until daylight, and she wondered why she had been so utterly dense not to remember the two boys that afternoon. She joyfully swallowed the last of the mineral water and possessed herself in patience until dawn. The stout stake was still there in the rock cleft where the boys had wedged it. Breathlessly she searched for fallen nuts and set about emulating the boys' method of de-husking them. Here was liquid unlimited, as long as there were nuts to hand - cool, delicious coconut milk. Christie's parched mouth watered with anticipation. She could hold out easily until Lonnie turned up and be independent of Matt Denham. It wasn't quite as easy as she hoped. The nut tended to deflect instead of split open neatly, and when she did succeed in breaking the husk she also broke the nut inside. The liquid poured away into the sand and she almost gave way to tears of exasperation. She tried again, and again, fiercely, and gave a cry as the husk flew apart. The next moment her cry of triumph turned to pain as her hand slipped and the point of the stake drove straight into her arm. Tears of agony squeezed between her lids as she sank to her knees and clutched her bleeding arm. The nut rolled away, down the incline, and bobbed in the ripples at the water's edge. She did not see it. She was trying to wrap a hopelessly inadequate handkerchief round her arm and not give way to the bitterness of

despair. It wouldn't stop bleeding and she had nothing to put on it. She thought she would bathe it in sea- water, it would stop it bleeding, and then a wave of sickness rushed over her and she crouched down, willing it to pass. She did not see the long shadow cut across the sand until Matt Denham bent over her and grasped her shoulder so hard it hurt./ "What the devil have you done to yourself ?" "S-scratched myself." He must have heard the tiny mumble, for he echoed the two words and squatted down at her side. "Let's see." Not very gently, he pulled her shielding hand away and examined her arm. "I saw your antics and guessed something like this would happen. If you wanted a nut shelled why the devil didn't you come and ask me? Instead of -" "You never do anything I ask you." She kept her face averted so that he shouldn't see the tears. "I - I'll - You needn't bother. I can -" "Come on." He pulled her to her feet. "That's quite a gash you've got there. It'll have to be dressed." "I can manage. You -" "With what? That?" With a contemptuous dig of his toe he kicked the soaked little handkerchief into the soft sand. "I'll bet that you've nothing remotely like a first-aid kit with you." He whipped out his own handkerchief and rolled it round her arm with quick movements. "That'll do for the moment," he murmured, and holding her arm he propelled her forward as though she were a not very bright child whose playtime grazes he would have to attend to as a matter of course.

Protest formed on her lips and she dragged back from his arm. His head turned. "Oh, come on, Christie! Do you always argue every inch of the way?" The roughness of his tone was the last straw. Her mouth quivered, refused to obey her will any longer, and twisted with the force of the silent sobs shuddering through her. She stood there, and Matt Denham gave an exclamation. Then, almost unwillingly, his expression changed. He touched her shoulder, hesitated, then said in a softer voice: "Don't be scared. It'll be all right. It looks a lot worse than it is." She shook her head blindly, striving for control. "It isn't that. It's Oh, go away and leave -" "I can't do that." A trace of puzzlement crossed his face. His mouth compressed and he turned her firmly, making her face him. "Christie, I know you loathe the sight of me, but I'm not going away until that arm's attended to. I may have to take you over to Doc Chalmers, so you might as well be sensible about it." She stayed silent and he looked down at the bowed head. After a moment he raised one hand and pushed back the soft brown veil of her hair. "You did say just now that I never do anything you ask of me, so I'm only running true to form." The new quality in his tone and the lingering curving touch of his hand on her brow triggered off a sudden violent reaction in her. She jerked back and stared up at him with anguished eyes. "You don't understand! It isn't this! It's empty - the tank. It's gone dry! And you stand there telling me to be sensible! It'll be all right! Nothing's all right! Oh, why does everything I do go wrong?"

Suddenly her voice broke and she crumpled, her shoulders hunching as she whispered despairingly : "And I'm so thirsty." "Thirsty?" He started. "What -? Do you mean -?" His voice checked, and she was too overwrought to pin down the exact moment his arms went out and drew her against him. He let her face rest against his chest and stayed silent while the incoherent little account poured out. At last she took a deep, gasping breath and brushed at her hot cheeks. She drew away, starting to say something, then exclaimed in a distressed whisper: "I've put blood on your shirt." "It doesn't matter." "But it won't come out." "It doesn't matter. Come on." This time she did not argue. He kept one arm round her, holding her curved into his side as he walked her along the beach to the green bungalow. There he made her sit down and the first thing he did was to give her a glass of ice-cold crystal clear water. "I expect that's what you want more than anything else in the world at this moment." His expression closed now, he watched her gulp thirstily. She still avoided his gaze, but nodded when he asked: "A refill?" "Yes, please. How do you keep it so cool? It's almost iced." "Cooling cabinet." He was taking a white tin box with a red cross-on its lid from a cupboard. "I even manage ice, but I forgot to fill the tray last night." She had just noticed the lamp bulb in her cautious survey of the room. "You've got power here. How?"

"A small Army-type generator," he said in his normal clipped tones. "Your uncle was talking about investing in one just before he died. This may sting." "It's all right." She had got a grip on herself by now, building a taut wall of tension round herself as he started to dress her arm. Slowly she sipped at the second glassful, trying to appear as though the breakdown on the beach had never happened. There was something about Matt Denham's strength and firm hands that made her feel small and youthful and vulnerable, and for some reason she could not stop remembering the way he had walked with her along the beach. It was very strange, but now that he wasn't touching her she could still feel the warm hardness of his side against her shoulder and the weight of his arm across her back. "All right?" He had moved away to close the lid of the white box, and she nodded, expelling a ragged breath to release that uncomfortable tension. She looked at the neat band of white round her arm and flexed her hand. "Yes - it feels fine, thank you. Matt ... ?" she hesitated and glanced up, waiting for his nod before she voiced her query. But the small assent did not come. Instead he raised his brows. "That's the first time you've used my name." She betrayed surprise. "Do you object?" "Not at all." The flat negative and his expression gave nothing away. "Why should I ?" he countered in the same flat tone. "I don't know." The small movement of her shoulders was almost petulant. "You used mine right at the start." "To which you objected strongly the other day."

"Because you made me feel like -" Abruptly she stopped. She was not going to make the admission that the way he spoke to her on occasions made her feel childish and gauche. "Yes, I make you feel like - what?" A flicker of amusement showed in his eyes. "It - it doesn't matter. Can I use your radio to call Lonnie?" "Certainly. It's through here." The amusement was more evident now. "Help yourself." Christie bit her lip. She wasn't quite mistress of herself again, not sufficiently to hold her ground with him. She looked away. "You know perfectly well I haven't a clue how to use a radio. You'll have to do it for me." "Yes, I know. But it might not be necessary." At her quick glance of surprise he gave a gesture. "Leave it for the moment. Are you hungry?" She thought for a moment, remembered, and tried to be flippant. "Well, those two glasses of water were rather a super breakfast - I nearly had coconut as well, but I try not to be greedy." "So a French breakfast would be positively gluttonous. You'd better help me to eat it." "You haven't eaten?" "I was about to start when I noticed your antics with the stake and coconuts." "Oh," she looked away, "I'd better leave you to get on with it. I -"

"You'll come and have something to eat. Anyway, I want to talk to you." The amusement had disappeared and there was a grim note, instantly familiar, that did not brook argument. She found herself obeying meekly when he told her to sit down at the little table on the veranda. It was already set for one, and she took the opposite place, aware again of the indecision he could engender in her. Should she follow him and offer to help? Or would he think she was being inquisitive? What did he want to talk to her about? Was he -? A most delicious aroma of coffee wafting to her nostrils made her forget the possibly ominous what-was-to-come, and she realised that she was very very hungry as well as thirsty. He came back then with a coffee pot in one hand and a second place setting in the other. She jumped up to take the cup, saucer and plate from him and set it out, flushing a little as she managed to drop the spoon and had to duck down for it. "Well, go on." He pushed the plate of rolls towards her and waved to the dish of fruit. "It's a bit late to start being shy." "I'm not!" Indignantly she helped herself to papaya. "I was trying to be polite." He inclined his head, then shook it as she seemed about to make further protest. "Eat first, then talk." After a suspicious glance at him she obeyed, and not until Matt had poured his second cup of coffee did he lean back and regard her with more kindness than he had previously shown her. "Better?" "Yes, thank you." She sighed deeply and met that level gaze with a little more confidence. "I enjoyed that, probably because it was unexpected. I - I - Matt, I'm terribly sorry about the - the exhibition

on the beach. I mean weeping all over you and dragging you away from your breakfast, and everything. I know we haven't exactly well, seen eye-to-eye about everything, but -" she hesitated, feeling colour coming into her cheeks, "well, I was glad to see you this morning." For a moment he was silent, perhaps surprised by the impulsive little confusion, then he said quietly: "Is this the olive branch?" "N-no, of course not." Her head came up sharply. "I was just trying to thank you." "Saying the right thing?" "If you want to look at it that way." She felt disappointment, though why she did not know, and made a move as though to rise. Then she remembered he wanted to talk about something and sank back. "What did you want to say to me?" Again he was silent for a moment or so, then he put his hands on the table and leaned forward. "Why are you so stubborn and spirited about the unimportant things, Christie, and so secretive and silent about the things that matter ? " "I don't understand." She frowned. "What do you mean?" "I'll leave you to think that out. Meanwhile, did you think over what I told you the other day ? " There was something in the way he spoke that made her hesitate before she replied. "Yes, there appears to be a more serious implication," she said guardedly, and left it at that. He nodded, his eyes still holding an unfathomable light. "And are you going to act accordingly ? "

Christie's spirits drooped and despite the lovely pearly freshness of the new day she felt weariness pervade her. He was going to start all that again, trying to edge her off the island, only he was trying a different approach this time. He was being more gentle, reasonable, and it was going to be impossible to defy him this time. Because she knew in her heart that his work and purpose were more important than her own. Hers was a personal whim, if one were completely honest about it; his was a link in a chain of scientific importance and so must take precedence. But it wasn't easy to acknowledge. Not after she had journeyed so far, dreamed a dream, and fallen in love with a green and coral gem set in the Pacific. Because like countless others before her she had felt the dormant lure of the south sea islands and the pagan magic that beckoned, but she had been the one in a thousand fortunate enough to have the dream become reality, even if only for a space almost as fleeting as a dream. If only she could have held on to it for a little while longer... "Poor Christie! You've had a very rough welcome to your island inheritance." She started, wondering if the words were echoes of her sad thoughts, and saw his mouth curve slightly. She averted her face. "That's life. It was fun while it lasted." "You make it sound like the end of the world." She shrugged. "Coming here was like coming to another world. But when I do go back home ..." she bit her lip and tried to instil wry humour into her tone, "I don't know how I'm going to explain to my family that I lost out to a beastly starfish!" Unexpectedly he started to laugh. "There's a lot more to it than that and I wouldn't say you've lost - yet." He stood up and slapped her lightly on her shoulder. "Come on, we'll check that cistern." "Cistern?"

"The thing you call a tank." He grimaced good humouredly at her dimness and waited on the veranda step until she moved slowly towards him. During the past half hour she had almost forgotten the water crisis. Matt Denham seemed to have suffered a change of heart - if suffered was the apt definition. Could it be that a small mishap and a little spilt gore had found a chink in that doughty armour? It was almost worth a bit of pain, she reflected cynically. Then she remembered that she had practically admitted defeat. He could afford to be magnanimous now. He was probably assuming that she would be departing in the very near future. The warm golden sun could not melt the chill that crept over her again as she walked silently at Matt Denham's side. It wasn't easy to admit that all the doubts and protests of her family had been well founded. But she would have to go back eventually, unless she could find a job, move on, work her way around. Other girls did it, why not she? She was free, reasonably intelligent and adaptable. But somehow this notion held no appeal. There was little scope here for her and it was here she wanted to be, for the present at least. Her small features shadowed, she went straight indoors when they reached the house while Matt Denham disappeared round the side of the building at the rear. Her arm was beginning to throb and she could not see any point in wasting time looking at an empty cistern. It merely spelled another omen of defeat. Idly she picked up her own shell, the one her uncle had given her so long ago, and stroked the smooth pearly surface before she held it up to her ear. "The original wireless?" Matt Denham's shadow fell across her. "It's only your own pulses you can hear." "My own heart - you're too unromantic." She set the shell down carefully.

"All right, I've no imagination. But you can take a bath again," he said briskly. "Bath? Don't try to fool me, Matt. I nearly twisted that tap off - and not for bath water, either." "Come and see for yourself, then." Unbelieving, she followed him, and saw the kettle he held out, quite full of water. She stared. "But I don't understand. It-" "Your uncle had a filter fitted," Matt said patiently. "But like most filters it got blocked up at times. Also," he added dryly, "with all due respect to your uncle, he tended to leave everything until it either fell apart or ceased to function altogether." "Yes, I know he did, but how did you find out about the filter? I didn't even know it existed." "You wouldn't think of looking up there, of course." He gestured towards the ladder against the end of the shed. "When you depend on a small supply of such a precious commodity as water you ought to know exactly how to check on the source of that supply. These things can't be left to God and good luck, Christie, you have to help yourself along a bit as well." "I'm aware of that." The need for defence made her add sarcastically: "I've never been in any doubt about having a lot to learn." "All right!" He made a placatory gesture that managed to be mocking at the same time. "What a prickly child you are, almost as thorny as that accursed starfish! I'm simply trying to point out that this is just another reason why it won't work out for you. A man automatically thinks of these snags, things a woman doesn't always think of until it's too late, in the same way as she tells when her cooking is going to

burn but a man might not. It's instinct, and a man can rough along, taking things in his stride." She sighed, and her mouth tightened. "I don't mind roughing it." "That wasn't quite all I said. You weren't exactly taking things in your stride when I found you an hour ago." She stayed stubbornly silent and it was his turn to give an impatient sigh. He said slowly: "That's why it worries me, a girl trying to adopt the way of life your uncle chose." "But I'm not." He brushed aside the protest. "How long has that tap been stuck?" "Since Monday." "Three days? You mean you've been without drinking water for three days?" At her nod he gave an involuntary exclamation that held anger. "Why the devil didn't you tell me?" "I didn't want to bother you." "You mean you were too proud." "Maybe." She found she was having difficulty in meeting his accusing stare. She looked away. "Matt... do you really worry about me?" There was a brief silence, then he said in a brusque voice, "I don't usually say things I don't mean. But I'm beginning to wonder if you could make the same claim."

For a moment she turned her head towards him, uncertain of the subtle new element which seemed to have entered their brief relationship. A fleeting impression came that his brusqueness masked defensiveness as surely as stubborn defiance cloaked her own. Almost instantly she dismissed the notion as a product of her stupid imagination; there was nothing defensive about Matt Denham. He was merely proving to own a little more humanity than she had credited him with, but he still objected to her presence on Kalinda and he wouldn't be satisfied until he had persuaded her to start packing. She walked slowly back into the little living room and from there on to the veranda. She rested her hands on the rail, almost sensing his marking her own steps. When he reached her side she said slowly: "You know, I'm not quite as you seem to imagine me, Matt. I haven't come here only to escape, or for travel kicks, or because it might be fun. I came because it was a challenge and an opportunity to fashion a new and independent life for myself, one that was different." She paused, sensing his waiting for her to continue, and a small wry smile curved her mouth. "There was also something that seemed to impel me on, in a way I could neither analyse nor explain. But I don't expect you to understand that." "No imagination and too unromantic?" "Could be. However," she shrugged and turned rather abruptly from the rail, "while you're here there's this ..." She let the words trail off as she went to the shabby desk and opened one of the drawers. Matt watched idly from the veranda as she took out a slip of paper and came back to him. "This is half of it - I meant to bring it along on Tuesday morning, but I forgot about it with the worry of the other things." She hesitated, holding the slip out. "There are still things to sort out in my uncle's affairs - it seems more difficult here, somehow

- that's why it isn't for the full amount. But I'll try to get it settled as soon as I can. I - I might be able to sell the boat and on® or two other things that I won't be able to take back with me." He stared at the bank draft, but made no movement to take it. When he did look up at her his eyes had gone hard. "I thought I'd made my intentions quite clear about this matter." "Yes," she held his gaze steadily, "but they don't match mine. I can't inherit my uncle's belongings without his debts. Please take it, Matt." Slowly he stretched out one hand and took the draft. Without looking at it he ripped it across, twice, and let the pieces flutter over the rail. He said calmly, without a flicker of expression, "I've taken it. And that's the end of it. Satisfied?" "No," she said vehemently after a shocked stare at him, "I'm not." "So you're not romantic enough to consider it a quixotic gesture?" "No, I can't." She made a small weary gesture. "Whichever way you look at it you can't deny the plain fact. You're giving me money. How can I take it?" "I'm not, Christie. I'm giving you nothing. I'm forgetting a dead man's debt - something quite different." "It isn't. It's no use, I can't see it that way." Her small face shadowed with worry as she shook her head. "I can't, Matt, unless... Would the boat be any use to you?" "Not at the moment." "Well, I can't leave it at that." She turned away, biting at her lip as she wandered back to the veranda rail and stared unseeingly at the

placid shimmers of the lagoon. "Don't you understand? My uncle would have wanted me to do this." "Yes, I know." "Then why?" There was a silence, then he moved to her side. "Listen, Christie, I didn't want to say this, but you leave me no choice. I don't think you knew your uncle very well, or if you did you're deliberately shutting your eyes to the truth." "Don't say anything against him," she said in a low voice. "I won't listen." "I'm not going to say anything against him. I'm trying to tell you that I know he couldn't have left you very much in actual hard cash. A boat, an assortment of gear, a not very luxurious house -" "A ramshackle dwelling - why don't you say it?" she interjected bitterly. "Yes, a shack, and a not very lucrative business that he worked at when he felt like it. But actual money - very little. Isn't that the truth?" "I suppose so." She would not look up, her mouth still set stubbornly. "But if it's worth so little why did you want to buy it?" "I have my reasons for that, but I haven't time to go into them now I'm expecting visitors and this looks like them." "Oh," She glanced at the launch which was chugging slowly across the lagoon and thought of the beautiful Melanie with a bitterness that went surprisingly deep. "It's your girl-friend."

"It isn't my girl-friend." A trace of amusement curved his mouth. "It happens to be two very serious and erudite scientific colleagues, and I must go and meet them to collate findings." "About the coral and the crown of thorns?" "About the coral and the crown of thorns." He straightened from the rail and faced her. "When they've gone I'll be back to talk to you. I've a proposition to make. So can you amuse yourself until then?" What did he think she'd been doing ever since she arrived? Still too wrapped up with her troubled thoughts of the debt, Christie was too bemused to do other than nod, and with a small gesture Matt left, loping down the beach with long strides towards the landing place. Only when she was alone did Christie start to wonder what on earth he meant by a proposition.

CHAPTER V SHE watched curiously as the two men greeted Matt and strolled up the beach with him. When they disappeared into Matt's house she stayed watching for quite a while until she realised she had chores to do, to say nothing of presenting a picture of idle curiosity when the visitors re-emerged. It was marvellous to have running water again, but now she had learned a hard lesson and she was sternly economical, imagining the water line falling each time she drew off a bowlful for washing or cooking purposes. As she worked she fought the temptation to look along the beach for a sign of Matt Denham. His visitors would probably be here for the day, maybe longer, so he wouldn't be back today to talk about this proposition. Was he going to repeat that ridiculous offer he'd made for the shell business? In view of what he'd said since it didn't make sense. Even if he'd meant it to include everything it still didn't make sense because the little house was no use to him, and presumably he was on Kalinda for a limited time only. Unless the boat was worth a lot. She hadn't even seen the boat yet - because you've been too busy arguing with Matt and too proud to ask, she told herself wryly. The day dragged on and by late afternoon she was beginning to feel very depressed. Because of the wound on her arm she decided to avoid swimming for a couple of days - by then it ought to be healed, she thought optimistically - but she missed the delicious cooling effect and looked longingly at the inviting water as her body grew hotter and stickier during the long scorching afternoon. There didn't seem to be a breath of air and even the palms seemed to droop their great fronds listlessly. At last she gave in to ennui and taking a large towel to lie on she went in search of a shady spot along the beach and settled down to write a long letter home. But the effort to write was too much and her

eyelids grew heavier. She dropped the writing pad and began to draw idle patterns in the sand, and could not recall the exact moment when the pen slipped from her fingers and she fell asleep. The air cooled and darkened, and the clouds began to obscure the setting sun. Presently the first scurries of wind brought the huge drops, so quickly that they were too brief a warning of the clouds about to unload their burdens. When they fell they were like countless miniature waterfalls that shut out everything beyond their glistening veils. Before Christie stirred sleepily and even realised that she'd slept so long she was drenched to the skin. Gasping and pushing back her tumbled hair from her eyes, she sat up, scrabbling for her pen and pad and peering with shocked eyes at the dark torrent of night. Everything looked so different. She thrust the towel round herself and set off at a stumbling run for shelter, giggling and gasping as she tripped over unseen obstacles. She'd prayed for rain and her prayer had been answered - with a vengeance! She was as soaked as though she had fallen in the lagoon but still giggling when she rushed indoors and lit the lamp before she hurried to start the stove, thankful she'd left everything ready before she went out. It caught easily, blazing up almost too quickly, causing her to make another scurry to fill and put on the kettle. Sometimes the stove burned Out before the kettle had time to boil and she had to start all over again. Only when she had done this and returned to the living room, intending to get out of her wet things, did she distinguish the ominous sounds of rainfall indoors and notice the swamp on the floor. Still trickling small rivulets herself, she looked up at the cavernous hollow under the thatch and groaned aloud. The roof had sprung a leak - several leaks, she discovered with growing dismay - and judging by the unabated roaring and hissing of the deluge she was going to be flooded out in a very short time. So much for Uncle

Noll's thatch! Cool and airy when the sun was unbearably hot... but he hadn't mentioned anything about it being like a sieve when it rained ... Sadly she went in search of receptacles. She was standing on a chair, trying to balance a bowl on top of the cupboard so that it caught two of the dripping sources, when Matt Denham walked in. He took one look at the scene and said flatly: "Come on, out of it. You're wasting your time." The chair rocked wildly as she spun round. "Matt! What a fright you gave me." "Sorry. I did call out, but you mustn't have heard. Where were you before ?" "Out." She recovered her balance. "The rain's coming in all over the place." "So I see." He steadied the chair as she scrambled down. "What happened to you? Did you fall in somewhere?" "No, I fell asleep on the beach - and don't laugh." "I wasn't going to - obviously you had a rude enough awakening." But amusement had entered his eyes and she turned away, suddenly conscious of her wet things plastered against her skin. "Excuse me, I've got to change - and you're dripping all over the place yourself." He glanced down at his own streaming waterproof and shrugged. "I don't think it's making much difference." She sniffed and made for the curtained opening in the partition, hoping that the bedroom wasn't a quagmire as well, and gave a sigh of relief to find it reasonably dry. Nevertheless, the air felt damp and she still felt uncomfortably clammy when she had changed and

emerged into an empty living room. Disappointment was surprisingly sharp. "Matt...?" she called, glancing out into the darkness of the veranda and seeing no sign of him. Why hadn't he waited? "I'm still here." He came through from the kitchen lean-to and glanced rather curiously at her unguarded expression. "I just went to damp down your stove. Have you an oilskin?" "No - why did you put the stove out?" she demanded. "I'd just got it going." "You won't need it. Didn't you bring a waterproof of any kind?" "Just a showerproof poplin - I didn't think I'd need anything heavier." "You didn't think ..." He raised resigned brows and sighed. "Well, go and get it on. It'll be better than nothing. I should have a spare oilskin kicking around somewhere that you can have." "Yes, but..." she stared at him, "I've no intention of going out again tonight in that!" He regarded her steadily, his head a little to one side, for a moment before he said quietly: "I think you're going to have to, little one. You can't stay here in this." 'I don't have any choice, though, so if you're thinking of taking me over to the hotel tonight forget it." She shook her head. "It's very kind of you to bother, but I couldn't possibly drag you and your boat out there in this weather, Matt." "I've no intention of taking to the boats," he said calmly, "but I am taking you along with me to get dry and have a decent meal. And you'll stay with me until this - this hovel is dry and habitable again."

She gave a small, bewildered gesture, searching his expression for signs of satire. He couldn't be serious. He couldn't mean that he was asking her stay with him until the rain stopped or the thatch was mended. It might be for days. She'd probably got it all wrong. "Is it worth it?" she asked, carefully keeping her tone off-hand. "I mean, it might take ages to make this - this hovel watertight again. And if I'm going to have to leave it ... That was what you wanted to talk about...?" "Yes, but not at present, I think." "Oh." She thought for a moment, and shot him a sidelong glance "Is this a formal invitation to dine tonight?" "No. It isn't formal and it isn't an invitation," he returned coolly. "And it isn't the - the proposition?' she asked in a small, suspicious voice." His mouth hardened slightly, then regained its normal calm line. "No. It's an order." She looked steadily into cool, unwavering steel-grey eyes. His expression did not change. "You're not going to argue this time, Christie. Get that raincoat and whatever else you need for the night." There was something about his manner that silenced her and evoked obedience. She collected her things and in a strange air of unreality emerged out into the night. Neither of them spoke after that until they reached the green bungalow, and Christie did not notice that the rain had stopped until Matt remarked on that fact as he pushed the door open for her to enter. She nodded, aware now of a kind of tension holding her, and

that if she were to let it slacken she would either talk too quickly or giggle at remarks which were not in the least inane. Matt himself was cool and matter-of-fact, and he made it quite plain that she was to make herself useful. She set the table, obeyed his brisk directions for the preparation of what proved a very good meal, and when he showed no inclination to linger over the coffee she was content for the moment to go along as he indicated. When he disappeared to see to a couple of jobs she cleared the dishes and waited for his return. But her thoughts were not placid as she sat in the living room and thumbed through an Australian magazine which lay on the table. A lively curiosity about Matt Denham was asserting itself, asking questions which at the moment would have to remain unanswered. For so far he had volunteered precious little information about himself, and the surrounding he lived in held no clues. No photographs, no signs of his interests or hobbies, or even where his home was. How long had he been here? How long was he staying? It was strange that she couldn't picture him in any other setting, and with a crowd of people. Was he the lone guy he seemed to be? And why -? "Right." Matt stood in the doorway. "I'll show you the layout now." Beyond the kitchen was a tiny shower room, tiled in blue, and opposite this a small room containing a two-tier bunk, a tall cupboard painted white and a chest of drawers. "You'll find everything you need in there." Matt pointed at the cupboard. "There's a couple of extra blankets on the top bunk." She looked around. "This is where I'm to sleep?" "It's not quite the Waldorf, I'll admit, but it's better than your uncle's pad."

"Er - yes. I'll let that pass." She walked into the room, eyed the bunks, then swung round. "What about you?" "Me?" "This is the guest room." "Oh, I see. No, you don't have to concern yourself about me. I'm not quite altruistic enough to sacrifice my own bed." He returned her gaze, and one brow flickered. "You're not nervous?" . "Should I be?" "I can't think of any reason why you should be," he said coolly, "but I'll be near enough to hear if Sammy invades your nightmares." "Sammy?" "He's next door, safe in his tank." Matt's mouth twitched. "You remember Sammy." "That octopus?" He nodded gravely and she grimaced. "I never heard of a pet octopus before. You're sure he can't sleep-walk?" "Quite sure. He'll be going back home soon, anyway." "Oh. How come?' "I found him on the reef one day, half dead, and I decided to rescue him." "I see." She thought for a moment, then gave him a sidelong glance. "Like you decided to rescue me tonight?"

"No, not exactly." Matt leaned against the door frame and his eyes narrowed somewhat thoughtfully as they rested on the wary young face. "You come into a rather different category." "I should hope so!" With the attempted flippancy she turned to test the softness of the bunk mattress, and kept her back to him when she straightened. "Matt... ?" "Yes?" "There's just one thing I have to get straight." . He shifted his weight to the other foot, and the line of his mouth altered a little. "And what is this crooked one thing?" She smoothed the cotton coverlet with small fingers that weren't quite steady. "I -1 appreciate your concern for me, and it's very kind of you, especially after - but it - it is just concern, isn't it?" "I think so." There was a perceptive pause. "What did you think it might be?" "I just wanted to be sure you didn't have any ideas about me." In the silence after this she suddenly felt horror and the scarlet tide of embarrassment flooding into her cheeks. Before the words were out she had realised they were a ghastly error of judgement, and that the doubt should have entered her head before she ever left her own place. But it hadn't; mistrust of Matt Denham's motives regarding herself had been founded on several things since she came to the island, but never on the suspicion of which she had almost accused him now. While she groped for words to undo the mischief he said quietly: "You might well blush. You'd better take a look at this door."

Unwillingly she turned, aware that the scarlet tide was reluctant to ebb from her face, and did as he directed. "I'm sorry," she murmured as he replaced the key in the lock, "I didn't notice it." "It's probably the only door that still locks on Kalinda," he said grimly. "Satisfied?" "Yes," she looked down unhappily, "but try to understand. It's my fault. I've just realised how stupid I was. But all the same, I wouldn't want you to think I had any ideas. Some men might have thought so, and thought I was inviting a pass." "I don't happen to be 'some' men," he said icily, "and to be perfectly honest you don't look as though you'd recognise anything but the most blatant of passes, let alone bring yourself ever to make one." Her mouth tightened. "I did apologise. Haven't you said enough?" "Not quite." His tone was still even, but not quite so cold. "Not until I'm sure your suspicion has gone. I believe you really were scared deep down in case I had designs on your honour." "I wasn't!" "No?" He seemed to have forgotten his annoyance as he surveyed her indignant expression and she gave an exclamation of impatience. "I don't know why you bothered. I began to think you'd changed your attitude towards me, but I can see I was mistaken." She pulled her night things out of her bag and threw them on the lower bunk, then whirled to face him. "It's still the same. The twelve-year-old brat niece of poor old Noll!"

Matt pursed his lips and half turned to the doorway. He said, "Ever taken a look at yourself in the mirror when you're in one of your pets?" "No." "You should - it might surprise you." "And you should try to be more polite when you invite someone to be your guest." "Should I?" Abruptly his expression changed. "Now listen here, young lady. I thought I'd made it clear about the invitation business. You're quite right about my not changing my attitude towards you. You're still a stubborn, aggravating little baggage, but unfortunately I've discovered I still have a conscience. Nor are my protective instincts as dead as I'd hoped." "No, you rescue beastly squirmy octopuses and make more fuss of them than - than -" "Than you!" Suddenly he laughed and shook his head. "I think you'd better turn the key and put it in the traditional place." "Under the pillow?" she said bitterly. "Or round your neck." "No, thanks." He shrugged. "Sleep well. Goodnight, Christie." She muttered an acknowledgement and glared at the door after he had closed it. After a moment she went to the only mirror the room held, an ageing one in a plain wood frame which was hung at an angle a shade too high for viewing herself easily. Impatiently she

lifted it down and set it on top of the chest of drawers where it provided a slightly more comprehensive reflection of herself from the waist upward. At last her set features slowly lost their anger and became thoughtful. She put her head on one side and backed away, unwilling to admit impartially the truth the mirror confirmed. It was true; people never thought of looking at themselves when they were angry or upset, but did she really look so - yes, she had to admit it - infantile? To say nothing of the effect a new climate and island living were having on her personal appearance. She'd got the gorgeous tan she'd wanted, to be sure. In fact, it was dusky gold, and she'd • collected a wild, rosebrown colour that even a week in Spain last year hadn't put into her cheeks. Her hair tended to flow its own way now, and from the first days of island life she'd realised that long lacquered nails were out of place. Actually she looked disgustingly healthy, but wasn't the whole new effect just a bit sand-urchinish? Add to that a scowl of outraged dignity and she could begin to see what Matt Denham meant... She took more pains with her appearance the next morning than she had done since she broke up with Stephen, adding a discreet eye make-up and a not so discreet application of lipstick. When she had coaxed her hair into a smoother, more confined style she felt she had recaptured the essence of the old Christie Irvine who had fitted herself into the slick competitive life of the career girl. But for the notice Matt took she might have saved herself the bother. "Is that all you eat?" he asked dispassionately when she dined off papaya and rolls and coffee. "I don't care much for fish - especially when it's a kind I've never heard of," she returned mildly.

He grinned. "You'll never be a true islander until you catch and cook your own breakfast." "But as I'm not likely to become a true islander it doesn't make much difference, does it ? " "Do you want to become a true islander as badly as that?" She looked up sharply, stung by the note of indulgent amusement in the question. "It isn't a question of that exactly. It's the question of being free to stay and become one if I want to." "Meaning that I'm the bogey threatening to drive you away from your pagan paradise." "Aren't you?" It was out in the open now and she tensed, instinct telling her of a subtle change in his attitude. The earlier hint of dislike and distrust seemed to be gone, if they'd ever been present. Maybe in her own defensive anger she'd imagined or exaggerated them. Maybe Matt was one of those people who couldn't help being brusque and offhand with strangers, but once you got to know them they were quite nice - sometimes the best kind of people to have for friends because they didn't put on a charming act that lulled you into trusting them, only to be disillusioned afterwards. And if one thought about it there could be something in her prim, gentle grandmother's favourite maxim - "Do as you would be done by!" If, instead of flaring back in the first place at Matt, she'd tried being reasonable and understanding, maybe he would have reacted differently. But wasn't that putting on an insincere act ? He had been watching the play of thought on her small oval face and he leaned back, saying quietly: "I think you've already found your own answer."

She nodded, and suddenly her sense of humour bubbled up. "A bogey would have left me to sleep with the rain running down my neck, I suppose." He smiled slightly. "Human nature takes a bit of understanding, doesn't it?" She nodded, finishing her coffee before she looked up again. "What about this proposition you mentioned ? " "Yes, we'll get round to that presently," he said easily, and stood up. "I thought we might take a look at your uncle's boat first. See what you think of her." Pleasure slid through Christie, lighting her eyes and almost bringing her to her feet. "Now?" "Why not?" It was an observation rather than a question and it marked the beginning of the pax. Matt told her he had done some work on the boat the previous morning, and the engine was in first class condition. All it needed now was refuelling. He disappeared within the boathouse and Christie sat happily on the edge of the landing jetty, obeying his instruction to wait there. When she heard the kick of the motor she scrambled up expectantly, and gasped when the boat slid into view. It was beautiful, gleaming white and larger than she expected. But there was another surprise waiting when Matt drew alongside and helped her down into it. The keel held a glass base, designed for bringing the fairyland hidden beneath the sea into a wonderful new perspective.

"I didn't expect anything as nice as this," she said frankly. "Knowing Uncle Noll I expected something held together with tar and good luck - or whatever they hold boats together with." "So speaks the landlubber. This was the pride and joy of your uncle's heart." Matt headed across the lagoon, leaving a beautiful feathering of white spume on the liquid emerald silk. "Now you'll understand why I kept you away from it. I guessed seamanship was something that had been missing from your education to date and I couldn't risk a mishap." "My skin or the boat's?" "Both." "Will she go to sea ? I mean right out ? " Matt turned and gave her a pitying look. "This isn't one of your seaside pleasure boats, but you need to know your sea as well as your craft." "Will you teach me?" He looked at the slender figure kneeling amidships and nodded. "On the understanding that you don't go out alone." "Not even in the lagoon?" "Not even in the lagoon. In a moment I'll show you why." The sparkling little craft sped on, until Matt slowed a short distance from the opening in the reef. "Look overboard." "I can see through the bottom. Great spikes of coral reaching up to the surface." She raised sober eyes. "I see what you mean."

"So you'd better come up here and have your first lesson." If she'd hoped to be let loose with her own property that morning she was disappointed; all she was allowed to do was watch and ask questions. Nevertheless, after a short spell in which Matt took the Chiton out on the open sea and right round the outer perimeter of the island, she was glowing and bright-eyed with exhilaration when at last she stepped ashore and looked lovingly at the boat. Her boat. It was on the tip of her tongue to say firmly: I'm not going to sell her - ever, but she kept silent, afraid to risk destroying the new fragile acceptance of her that he had shown. And so she was content for the moment to follow his lead. After lunch he set to work to repair the thatch, but before the job was half done the rain came again and she had to spend another night at the green bungalow. It was this second evening that she brought along one of the big curly shells and spent almost an hour filling it with moss and an arrangement of wild ferns and leaves with blossom heads nestled amid the greenery. She was quite proud of it, but Matt, beyond tucking back a frond which had trailed over the edge of the table, made no comment and she remained unaware of whether he noticed with pleasure, dislike, or disinterest. Her curiosity regarding him was still unsatisfied and increasing. Although he had already drawn a great deal of information from her about her own home and family and the four different jobs she'd had since she left school he gave away very little about himself and a mixture of shyness and uncertainty prevented her from asking him personal questions. The following day dawned hot and dry, so hot it drew a fine mist from the drenched island. Matt worked on the thatch again, with Christie acting as labourer, and told her that she could start reorganising indoors. Which meant she could move in again, she thought with a sudden sense of flatness. The sense of flatness was

further extended when Matt announced that he'd leave her to it and get back to his own work. "Yes, of course." Telling herself not to be so childish, Christie tried to banish disappointment that there was to be no boat trip that afternoon, and set to work to put her house in order again. But she had not been working very long when the launch arrived and a white-clad figure, instantly recognisable, came ashore and made for the green bungalow. Christie's first impulse was to fling off her clothes and put on her most stylish dress, resort to the full range of her makeup kit, and take the glamorised result for a studiedly casual stroll along the beach. Melanie had reappeared now, clad in brief scarlet bikini that left very little of her superb form to the imagination and enhanced her dark sultry beauty. Matt was in swim trunks, carrying snorkels, and masks, and it was plain that his work wasn't of exactly pressing importance. After a moment of reflection Christie decided not to bother to change. She told herself wryly that she didn't have the equipment to match Melanie at the present moment, and as she sauntered down the beach she did not stop to analyse the subconscious motive that directed her to adopt a" totally different mode of behaviour. The tide was very low, revealing a long sandbank a few yards out in the lagoon. Christie rolled up the legs of her jeans and waded out to it, apparently quite oblivious of the two swimming figures some distance away. She had previously noticed a couple of strange squiggles in the sand of this ridge and mentally filed the small fact without giving it any further thought. Now she dropped to her hands and knees and saw the same little trails ruffling the smooth wet surface, as though some

small creature had taken a stroll and then disappeared into thin air in the middle of it. Christie began gently to scoop away the sand. But whatever it was it remained elusive. She sat up and pushed a lock of hair off her face and stared at the two quite large holes she had dug. Already they were filling in and blurring. "What on earth are you doing?" "Looking for specimens." Christie spared a brief glance at the shadow of Melanie and returned to further probing of the sand ridge. The older girl took off her mask and surveyed the small, untidy figure in the jeans that were now well stained and shrunk with immersion in sea water, and the red and white striped shirt that was little better. "The novelty hasn't worn off yet," she said in amused tones. "What novelty?" "Playing back to nature." Melanie glanced at Matt and smiled. "Can't you tell she's fresh out from the old shores? They invariably go to one of two extremes. Either they still dress as though for Ascot and stop for afternoon tea or they go hippy." "I'm not hippy. I'm working," Christie said coldly, then exclaimed: "I've got something! Oh, it's gone again.' "Let's see." Matt dropped to his knees and bent to furrow into the sand. His hands moved deftly, and as he dug down he turned his head to Christie. "I think you've tracked down a voluta." "Are they special?" "Some are. If you're looking at it from a collector's angle."

"Oh." She stayed motionless, conscious of his nearness arid a small aura of that nearness that was shutting out the other girl for the moment. It was rather satisfying and she was almost sorry when he gave a small exclamation of triumph and brought up his cupped hands. Then she forgot the nebulous thought as she saw the cream and orange conical shell with a delicate pointed tip and deeper shadowy spirals encircling it. "It's a beauty - I haven't seen one of those so far," she murmured. "You deserve full marks, little one," he said gravely, turning the shell in his hands. "It's the first one I've seen in these waters." "You caught it," she pointed out. He straightened, noticing that she had made no attempt to take the shell from him. "Well, here you are. I'm afraid I can't identify it there are dozens of varieties of the voluta gastropod." "I -1 think I'll put it back for the time being." "What!" He stared. "But it'll burrow down again and you'll lose it." "Yes, I know, but-" "What are you two whispering about?" Melanie decide it was time to break up the conchology discussion. "What is it, anyway? Is it a pearl, or something?" "No," Christie put out her hand abruptly and almost snatched the voluta. "It isn't worth anything at all." Without waiting for further response she splashed away through the shallows and dropped the shell in the water. The transparency of liquid lent its strange iridescent beauty of colour, and almost instantly the shell began to quiver and ripple, and perceptibly sink. By the time Melanie

approached, her curiosity somewhat aroused, the voluta had almost vanished. "It's gone," Christie said, and with a careless wave of her hand loped out of the water and along the beach. She did not see Matt again that day, and by the next morning she had almost forgotten the incident. But Matt hadn't. It was almost the first thing he mentioned when he found her at the door of the boathouse, looking wistfully in at the Chiton. "Never mind about that." His mouth twitched. "I'm beginning to see why you gave up the shell business so tamely." She pretended indifference. "I gave it up because you asked me - no, ordered me to. In case I took a few shells that upset the balance of nature on your precious reef." "Sure that was the only reason?" He rested on hand against the boathouse wall and surveyed her with teasing eyes. "Sure you didn't discover it could be a messy business?" "All right." She sighed and looked up at him. "I'm squeamish. Oh, Matt" - she began to giggle - "it was awful that time when I got the boys to dive and they brought a load of the things. They still had all their inhabitants squirming about inside, and I just couldn't face trying to dig them out or boil them alive or whatever they do. All right, go ahead and laugh. Men are so callous about these things, but how do you know that even shellfish don't suffer pain?" "Tender heart as well as tenderfoot," he scoffed softly. "Well, the boys did tell me I wasn't to touch them until they came back, and then they didn't come back because you -"

"Sent them away. I remember." Matt straightened and his amusement sobered. "Like to come and make my morning coffee?" "Okay." She fell into step with him, and he said casually, "Those other shells the boys warned you about were probably cones." "Are they poisonous ? " "They're deadly. Their sting can kill." "Can they?" But her response was automatic. The first thing she had noticed as she entered the living room was the big stark white bowl with the stark, stiff arrangement of frangipani. Of her own shell and its floral content there was no sign. A stab of sheer displeasure ran through Christie and she came to a halt. "Where's my shell?" she demanded suspiciously. "What? Oh, that. It'll be around somewhere," he said vaguely. "It'd better be," she muttered, making for the kitchen and casting a comprehensive glance around for any further evidence of Melanie's little womanly touches. Matt had disappeared in the direction of the lab., and Christie got on with making the coffee, her thoughts still dark with imagined pictures of Melanie. She's gone on Matt, Christie decided, and recalled what Lonnie had said: his latest conquest. How many had there been? Somehow it wasn't an endearing train of thought and she shrugged it away, making a brisk clatter with the cups and saucers. When the. coffee was poured out she went to the door and called: "Coffee's ready!"

The sounds of a typewriter being somewhat laboriously tapped ceased while he replied, "Bring it through here, Christie," and then began again. Holding the two cups, she shouldered the door open and went into the small room next to the lab., which Matt used as an office. She put his cup to hand and glanced over his shoulder at the sheet in the machine. "Your ribbon's had it," she remarked idly. "So's my typing." "What are you doing?" "Trying to bring my notes up to date, but I seem to have been occupied otherwise of late," he said with rather pointed emphasis. "Oh ..." she hesitated, "I could do them for you, if you like." "You?" He smiled and reached for his coffee. "And how many fingers do you use?" "I'm a trained touch-typist," she said indignantly. "I told you. I've been doing secretarial work for the past year. And I hated it," she added, perching on the edge of the table and glowering into her cup as she recalled her last job. "It was a ghastly office. In the summer it was like a glasshouse and you couldn't breathe, and in the winter the heating never seemed to work properly and it just got colder but stuffier." "Then you really don't want typing chores to bring back memories, do you?" , "Oh, it's different here. I'd love to do it for you," she said quickly.

"In that case, fire away." He waved his hand towards a heap of closely written sheets. "There's a week's work waiting there. I'll leave you to it." He did so, almost immediately and. rather drastically, she reflected, considering that it was over two hours before he reappeared. "Not finished yet?" He looked at the small heap of neatly typed sheets and then at the not so diminished stack of notes. "You said there was a week's work here," she reminded him tartly. "For a two-finger-touch amateur. Not for a super-trained touchtypist." She said nothing, and he glanced down at the small set face that was trying to remain immune to his baiting. He said casually: "I found this on the reef. I thought you might like it." It was a triton, the giant trumpet shell long famed for its beauty and significance in island ceremonial lore, and it was a magnificent specimen. Matt had cleaned it, dried it, and polished the glowing coral colour of the inside so that its full beauty was revealed. "It isn't perfect," he said as she turned it in her hands. "The tip's broken - they usually are." "It's gorgeous!" Obeying a sudden impulse before even reflecting on its wisdom, she reached up and kissed him. The kiss took him unaware, just catching the corner of his mouth, and he took an involuntary step back.

"There was only one of these among the collection my uncle left," she went on excitedly, "and it wasn't nearly as big as this. Only about eight or nine inches. This one must be twelve at least. It-" She stopped, awareness of her other action catching up and awareness of his. She saw his hand wiping across his mouth and the expression in his eyes which made her forget the shell. "What are you doing?" she exclaimed. The odd flicker of expression had gone. "Automatic reflex, little one." He grinned. "Removing the evidence." "What evidence?" The descent from joy to unmistakable hurt was shaking her. "I don't wear evidence — at least not today." For a moment he stared at her, seeing the tremble her set lips couldn't quite control, and his own mouth hardened. "I'm not your Uncle Noll, you know, Christie, and I think it's time you decided just what you do want." "What do you mean? " "If you want to play the little girl you must expect to be treated like one, but don't expect all men to play universal uncle to you." "But I don't! Oh, for heaven's sake -" She turned away, almost reduced to the point of the childish tears that he'd doubtless scorn. She grabbed her beach bag and made for the door. "I'll never understand you, Matt Denham," she jerked as she yanked the door open and passed through. "Maybe it'll be better if you don't try." Despite herself, she had to look back. He was pushing the forgotten shell and the pile of copied notes carelessly to the back of the work

bench, and without another glance at her he sat down and took a clean sheet of paper out of the rack. Furiously Christie slammed the door and made her way back along the silent beach.

CHAPTER VI AFTER some eighteen hours spent in solitude enlivened only by a fierce mental harangue of men who were arrogant, sarcastic, irritating, unpredictable and infuriating, and one in particular who was the worst of all, she was no nearer discovering why her vow to ignore Matt Denham for ever more was bringing little or no consolation. It was even more disconcerting to be hailed by him that morning as though nothing had happened. Looking bronzed and piratical in a scarlet shirt and white swim pants, and dangling a mask by its headband, he stood on the beach and watched her swimming. She gave a brief wave and resumed her stroke, and when she next looked shore- wards he had vanished. She had just spotted the scarlet splash of shirt draped on a bush when his head broke the surface beside her and he dashed water out of his eyes. "Lost interest in sailing?" "No." "Sulking?" "No." She turned in the water and struck out for the shore, determined not to let him provoke her into either anger or amnesty. But he scythed through the silken ripples like a flash, overtaking her with powerful strokes and finding his feet before she was even within her depth. "I think you are." He reached down and took her arm, helping her to her feet. She shook her arm free. "Think what you like. But you can forget about playing universal uncle."

"So that's it! Just a moment!" He caught her arm and yanked her round to face him. "Listen, my little thorny urchin. Can't you take a bit of teasing?" "Is that what you call it?" "It's as good as anything. You hand out a pretty tough fistful yourself, you know." "I think I need to." "And nobody else does?" "Is this supposed to be your idea of the olive branch?" she demanded. "Is it needed again?" She let out an explosive breath and glared at him. "Do you always go on as though nothing had happened ? " His brows went up. "Has anything happened ?" "Oh, you're hopeless. I give up." She shook her head despairingly and turned away. His hand fell away from her arm and he said softly: "Good. I was hoping to get those notes finished." "Is that all you're thinking about? I might have known!" she exclaimed disgustedly. "So I do have my uses." "I never denied it." He retrieved his shirt and slung it carelessly over his shoulder. "Ever tried out that diving equipment your uncle left? "

"No," her tone wasn't quite so stiff but still held reserve, "I've never done any underwater swimming and I know you're not supposed to do it alone unless you're an expert." "Even the experts rarely go it alone, but I know of a deep pool where it's reasonably safe for you to make a start." He paused at the foot of the veranda steps and waited for her to go first. "How's the thatch holding out?" "It seems to be okay, but there's only been one shower since you mended it. Check on it yourself." She left him to look for traces of damp while she went to towel her wet hair. When she came back into the living room she had made bright with the multi-coloured print he was sitting in the armchair. "What happened to the matching sarong?" he asked with a grin. "It's around somewhere. I decided it was a bit twee." She belted her beach jacket more tightly about her slender waist and thrust her hands deep into the pockets. "Want some coffee?" He lounged back, almost insolently at ease, and regarded her with a level gaze. "If you're making some - yes, please." Without a word she went to make it, aware of a division of instinct within her. Half of her was still wary and resentful, and not a little hurt; the other, softer half was more than willing to reach out to him again. With a sigh for her inability to wear the kind of insouciance which sat so easily on girls like Melanie Haydon, she made the coffee and took the tray back into the living room. It seemed that the pax was on for the second time... If it was the beginning of the second pax it was also the beginning of the most idyllic days Christie had ever known. She was sure she was not imagining that Matt was a little more gentle in his attitude;

certainly he was more patient, particularly when she took her first tremulous plunge beneath the limpid green surface of the lagoon and fought the wild rush of panic at the sense of being totally enclosed in a silent, alien element. There were a few awkward moments; when her mask flooded, and while trying to remember what seemed dozens of instructions she lost her mouthpiece and was rushed spluttering and gasping to the surface; when she lost sight of Matt and floundered round stirring up so much sand she lost all sense of underwater direction; when a parrot-fish loomed up against her mask, magnified out of all proportion, and startled her far more than she surprised the curious fish. But once the initial stage was past she became a victim to the spell of the magic sea-garden. The whole spectrum played through the crystal water. Jade and violet, amber and coral, curved and carved into fantastic intricacies of design no human hand could hope to emulate. She was bitterly disappointed when the aqualung cylinders were exhausted and Matt told her there would be no more extended explorations underwater until they could be recharged. This would have to wait until next they went over to Tamautoa, probably in a couple of days' time, Matt said. In the meantime there were more discoveries to be made and a growing number of strange shells to be added to her collection. She was garnering a great deal of knowledge from Matt now that he had chosen to be amenable, even if little of it concerned himself. It was not until the day she accompanied him for the first time to the main island that she asked idly: "Where is your home, Matt? You've never told me." "You'd be surprised if I told you."

"Is there any reason why you shouldn't tell me?" she said lightly. "None at all. It's about ten miles from your own." "From London!" He nodded. "Although I haven't been back for nearly ten years." "I thought you weren't English," she said after a short silence, when it seemed that he had nothing to add. "What did you think I was?" He seemed amused, his eyes narrowed against the glare of the sea. She laughed and shrugged. "I don't know. I thought you might be from Australia or New Zealand, but you don't have an accent, so it's not always easy to tell." Again she shrugged and looked away, afraid of seeming too inquisitive. "I did live in Sydney for three years, but that was some time ago, before I went to the States on a joint commission to investigate marine pollution." "You've got around in your time." He nodded, half smiling, though a sudden shadow crossed his face, as though the smile hadn't reached his eyes. "I might have stayed there, but I was offered my present post with the department- of marine biology and it seemed to be the niche that suited best, so ..." He let the words trail into silence as he berthed the Chiton by the harbourside. He helped her out- and threw a coin to the diminutive Kanaka urchin who had won the rush to catch the mooring line, then took her arm until they were clear of a tangle of ropes and crates from a nearby tramp which was unloading her freight.

"I've a few things to see to," he, said when they reached the beginning of the row of market stalls along the waterfront. "Suppose I meet you at the hotel around midday for lunch? Okay?" "You won't forget about getting the cylinders recharged?" "We'll do that after lunch." On that note they parted. She wandered along, looking at the colourful array of fruit, seafood of strange and exotic variety, hectically coloured bales of cotton, all blending with such western delights as chewing gum, plastic kitchenware and Coca-Cola. This last stopped Christie. The stallholder took the top off for her, gave her a flower for her hair, and happily imbibing the dark delicious fizz she sauntered towards the main store, feeling at peace with the sunlit world. "Long time no see," said Lonnie when she walked in. "We were just talking about you. Wondering if we should send out a rescue party." "And why should I need rescuing?" She sat down and made herself at home. "A fleeting thought. How are you?" "I'm fine. Where's Ben?" "At the bank. You look fine. Aloha and all the rest of it as well. How's the feud?" "What feud?" She patted the hibiscus nestling behind one ear and pretended not to see the sly glint in Lonnie's eye. "Didn't you know it's the local love'n peace convention this week?" "Before fifty-one weeks of the war'n strife jamboree?"

"Go on, laugh your head off. I can take it." She picked up a pen off the desk and began to doodle. "Actually I came over with him just now, in the Chiton. We're having lunch; then we're getting the bottles recharged." "Bottles?" Lonnie widened his eyes, pretending shock. "Diving cylinders. Matt calls them bottles." "Oh, yes." Lonnie nodded his head very slowly. "So it's like that, is it? You've taken the feud underwater now." He looked up as Ben ambled in. "Hey, Ben, we've been cut out now." "I never thought we were in. Hello, chick." Ben ruffled her hair and looked pleased to see her. "Who's doing the cutting?" They sent out for coffee, keeping up the flow of friendly chaff, which Christie was secretly enjoying immensely. The hour passed very quickly. Just as she was about to leave Lonnie said: "Been to see Luna yet?" She stopped. "Luna? I've never heard of it. What is it?" "It's an island, the farthest outlying one of this group. They call it the Island of the Moon. It's taboo to the locals, but I guess you should be immune." Her interest was caught. "Why is it taboo?" "Old folk-lore." Lonnie gestured. "Most of these islands have old stories about them. Ask Matt to take you there. It only takes a couple of hours or so. He's sure to know the legend."

She hesitated, wanting to ask more questions, but a glance at her watch told her that Matt would be waiting. "There isn't some frightful spirit that needs to be appeased with a human sacrifice?" Lonnie assumed a ghoulish expression and was obviously preparing to elaborate, but Ben cut in dryly: "We'll send him to find out. If he doesn't come back we'll know." But away from the flippancy she was deeply intrigued at the thought of a forbidden island. "Luna. Island of the Moon," she mused to Matt as they relaxed over their post-lunch drink. "It's a romantic name. Have you been there ? " "I took a look at it soon after I got here. It's best seen at night." "Why is that?" "Some kind of deposit lends it a luminescence. Under moonlight it looks silver, and so does the sea around it." "It sounds beautiful." "It's volcanic and barren. I suppose it has a wild, stark beauty," he said, his eyes reflective. "Even if it's only the sheer contrast to the green lushness of the atolls." "I'd love to visit it," she said wistfully. "I thought you might," he responded dryly. "I suppose your trader pals put the idea into your head. "I may never come back to the south seas again." His mouth twitched. "Meaning, by logical deduction of a woman's illogical train of thought, that it would be a pity to go home without

seeing it. What about Fiji, Samoa, Hawaii, Micronesia, Polynesia?" He waved his hands. "The scope is quite wide." "All right, mock away," she returned, imperturbable. "The Pacific isn't as big as it used to be." "And on what do you base that outrageous assumption?" "It's metaphorical. Air travel's shrunk the whole world," she told him airily. For a moment he looked at her, then he said abruptly: "It's time you sat in a little boat in the middle of the Pacific and got your horizons in perspective, young lady. Come on, I think I will take the rest of the day off." Although he had not said so, she knew he had decided on impulse to take her to visit Luna, and she maintained a demure silence as he paid the bill and they made their way back to the Chiton. The chandler who owned the compressor was almost opposite, and it did not take long to have the cylinders refilled. Matt also stocked up with drums of fuel for his own boat as well as the Chiton, and when that was done he jumped down and held out a helping hand, his expression enigmatic. There was a slight swell, but not enough to be uncomfortable, and soon the Chiton was heading for the open sea at a steady six knots. Christie perched up in the bow and began a leisurely application of sun-oil on her limbs. The warm sun, the smooth tingle of the lotion, and the motion of the boat combined to induce a sensuous indolence. Occasionally she stole glances at Matt, until the moment her guarded look encountered the direct impact of Matt's own cool survey.

She shifted, her movements a cover for the sense of awkwardness she felt at being caught out. "How long now ? " she asked. "Another hour, maybe." "You haven't got the auxiliary on, have you?" "What's the hurry." "Nothing." She turned away and walked restless fingers along the trim little brass rail. "Just wondered." "Relax. Why are women so impatient?" "You mean why do they always talk when men want to commune with the ocean ? " "You should try that silent communion yourself some time," he said calmly. "Not only with the ocean but with your fellow beings. It can be a rewarding experience." "I'm sure it can." She stared across the infinity of blue. "But it's something that has to take its time. And there are so many experiences to get into a lifetime." "That's the impatience of youth, Christie. As you get older you realise that there's room for both." She turned to look at him, for the first time being conscious of her youth in a way that worried her. Matt seemed momentarily to retreat back to being a stranger, an older stranger divided from herself by a gap in understanding as well as years. She stood up. "I'm thirsty - I want a drink. Do you want one?"

Moving carefully, for the swell seemed to be heavier, she went down into the tiny cabin. She had stocked up with fruit juice that morning and cans of beer for Matt, and from the neatly fitted drinks compartment behind a sliding panel in the bulkhead she took two glasses, reminding herself not to fill them too full for easy carrying. She had almost got back to Matt without a messy slop over her fingers when she slipped. She gave a cry, instinctively trying to hold the glasses high while she tried to save herself from falling. "Steady!" Matt's arm whipped round her waist and she crashed against him. Beer and fruit juice cascaded down her arms as she struggled to regain her balance while still hampered by both hands being full. "It's going all over the place!" she groaned. "You'll have to try better next time," he said somewhere above her ear. "Yes ..." She was steadying now, awareness rushing of the arm still clamped round her waist and his muscular body hard against her own yielding softness. She braced herself and drew away. "Here's yours what's left of it." "Half a drink!" He pretended scorn. "And why glasses? Can't you drink out of a can?" "Yes - I didn't think." She saw his teeth, very white as he smiled, and she seemed to be seeing every line, every plane, all the lean tanned texture of his face for the first time. The irises of his eyes were, a very deep rich blue with dark flecks in them, one brow was more arched than the other, and the hand now holding the remains of his drink had left what felt like a fiery brand around her waist. But taking

supremacy above all this was the dormant force within her that struggled with new knowledge. She scarcely remembered getting back into the cabin and collecting two fresh cans until she found she was sitting on the bench seat gulping down mouthfuls from the can intended for Matt. Her mouth at last registered the disliked bitterness of beer and she stared at the can with dismay. Why was she sitting here reliving over and over again those moments after her foot skidded on a patch of spray? Why was this trembling taking control of her limbs? Why did they urge her to feverish activity, to rush back on deck where -? Christie quelled the impulse and stood up, to stare at her reflection in the small mirror above the panelling. It was a flushed, bright-eyed stranger looking back at her, a girl whose glowing eyes were blind to the answers to those questions, who was suffused with a wild new happiness. A happiness whose source was too overwhelming to bear the cold logic of analysis, yet... *** When the volcanic peak of Luna towered like a mountain of black glass, shutting out the sky, Christie was still trying to come to terms with a new sense of unreality. The shadow of the mountain was stretching out, casting its dark on the sea, but Christie was immune to any mystic sense she might otherwise have experienced. She had almost forgotten her earlier fascination and desire to see the Island of the Moon; she was totally concerned with maintaining a suitably natural manner and carelessness of response towards Matt Denham. "I fancied you might be disappointed," he said as he carefully manoeuvred the Chiton alongside a rough, naturally formed shelf of rock.

"Oh, I'm not. But it is rather stark," she said without looking at him, "and there doesn't seem to be anything." "The only beach is at the other side, but this is the only possible anchorage - and not too good at that," he explained. It was quite a while before he seemed satisfied that Chiton's anchor and fenders were safely secure. Then he led her along the rough shelf of rock and warned her to watch her step. It took almost half an hour to pick their way along the treacherous path that hung sheer above a dark, unfriendly- looking sea. When the way widened and gave way to a broad incline of boulder-strewn rock she saw the beach and felt the disappointment Matt had expected. Instead of the white coral strand of Kalinda this beach was coarse and rugged, so dark it was almost black, and it was dominated by two strange pinnacles of rock that rose from the sea at the far side of the bay. They were like two giant, misshapen figures, Christie thought, as though they were guarding their silent island. Silent! Her brows narrowed and she restrained a shiver. That was the odd thing nagging at her. Luna was so silent it was unnerving. No birds cried, no leaf stirred, even the sound of the sea seemed muted. "It's completely barren. Remember its name," Matt said, as though he sensed her shiver. "Yes, but what happened? Was it ever green and inhabited?" she asked. "If the legend is true, it was Eden." "Eden?" She halted and stared at the bleak scene with incredulous eyes. "Never! It must have "been thrown out of the sea in some

dreadful eruption. Like that Greek island -1 can't remember its name." "Santorin," he said, resuming his slow pacing. "Then what is the story ?" she asked. "All races, no matter what their creed or colour, have their own theory or belief in the origin of creation," Matt said slowly. "The south seas are no exception, and each group of islands has its own lore. The pandanus is common to most of them as the Tree of Life, as is the belief in a Great Being who created first man, then woman, in the world He created out of the void. And each tribe has its own version which is the true one. The Tamautoans believe that it was here it took place, and Au made the earth bring forth its bounty. There were no ills, and no evil until Nau and Neia partook of the Forbidden Tree, and Au in His anger plucked the sun from the sky and drove them out into the darkness. The island became barren, and until Au relents the people will never regain their paradise." "And those are the symbols." He stared at the two gaunt rock figures. "One can almost see them fleeing, and stopping to look back at what they had lost." She shivered, and Matt took her arm. "Do you want to climb to the crater?" She hesitated, and he said, "Most visitors do. You can see the whole chain of islands stretching like a green necklace on the sea." Later she was to wish she had declined. Matt was plainly indifferent on his own account, he had seen it before, but a reluctance to return to the boat, which meant the turn towards the end of the day, made her take this way of prolonging the outing. It took them two hours to climb three-quarters of the way, by which time Christie was tiring

and thirsty. Matt stopped, declining to attempt the final, hardest part of the ascent, and they sat on a ledge, silent, looking over a sea like blue lead. The islands were visible, though not as clearly as from the summit, Matt said, and the silence was even more unnerving. Christie did not demur when he decided they had rested long enough and it was time to go down. The descent was accomplished considerably quicker than the ascent, but not quickly enough to beat the clouds racing westward in pursuit of the sun. The leaden hue of the sea was broken by choppiness now, and Matt's eyes held a worried glint as they watched the storm signs gathering. He began to hurry Christie, but they were only halfway across the beach when the rain started. She saw his concern and shook her head. "I'm not scared of getting wet. The sun will probably be out again before we get back to the boat." "Not this time." "It's going to be a bad one?" She scrambled up onto the rock shelf and instinctively drew close against the side for what little shelter it afforded. .Before he could reply the elements gave her her answer. A sheet of lightning, the like of which she had never seen before, ripped across the skies and a thunder-clap exploded with a force that made Christie recoil with shock. The echoes boomed within the very rock under Christie's feet and as though it had in actuality rent the heavens apart the deluge poured down. Blinded and stunned, she crouched back against the rock face, holding her hands to her ears. From earliest childhood her one terror had been thunderstorms, and this was a thunderstorm of a ferocity she'd never known.

"Come on - move!" Matt seized her arm to propel her on. "There's no shelter here." His grip hurt her arm, but she did not feel it. Trying to shake off her paralysis of fear, she forced herself to move into the teeth of the. storm. It seemed to take hours instead of the twenty minutes it took to fight their way along to where they had left the boat. And then the new fear as she stumbled thankfully into the small heaving shelter of the cabin. She turned frightened eyes to Matt. "Will we make it back home all right? "In this? Are you serious?" The wild gusts swept back into the cabin as he ducked outside. "We'll have to sit it out." His last words were carried faintly above the roar of the storm, and another wildly illogical fear sent her hurtling out of the cabin. Supposing he got washed overboard... His tall figure loomed, blotting out the grey light, and he gestured impatiently. "Stay under cover, for heaven's sake, in case..." Was it the same unspoken fear as her own? He did not voice it as he closed the hatch and dropped the bundle of oilskins on the bench. "Have you got any wraps or anything in that bag?" he demanded. She shook her head, and he sighed impatiently. "Neither have I. And apart from a pair of swim shorts that look as though they belonged to Davy Jones your uncle left nothing in the lockers but these. So you'll have to make do with them." She was trying to dry off with a small hand towel that was already soaked from her hair alone. When she looked at him and then blankly at the bundle he said brusquely: "The sooner you get those wet things off the better."

He had already stripped off his own shirt, was squeezing the moisture from it and spreading it over a locker. She hesitated, a mass of inhibitions warring within her, yet strangely enough distrust of him was entirely missing. He was ignoring her, apparently taking it for granted that common sense would make her obey, and hunting through the cabin lockers. Slowly she picked up the bundle and shook out one somewhat voluminous coat. Only one. "What about you?" She looked at the broad strong expanse of his naked shoulders and bit her lip. "I'll survive." He did not look up. At last she turned away and peeled off her waterlogged blouse. The wisp of a bra underneath was equally soaked, and transparent with it, she suspected, resignedly shedding it and huddling into the oilskin. It felt ice cold and clammy, horrible, when she'd wriggled out of the rest of her clothes, but fortunately she had bought talcum that morning when she shopped and it helped to give an illusion of dryness. It was something of a feat, under cover of the heavy folds of the waterproof, but at last she finished in a faint cloud of floating talc and fastened the snappers. Her sandals were soggy, and with a resigned air of thoroughness she kicked those off as well and turned round. Matt was looking at her, his mouth curved in a sardonic grin. "Little Miss Modesty! I just wish you could see yourself." Her own mouth twisted, but not in a smile. "I can well imagine it," she said tartly, rolling up the sleeves until her fingers appeared at the ends. "Uncle Noll was over six feet tall."

"And about three wide. Wider than you!" He moved past, catching her waist in a pincer-like grip that took in yards of surplus oilskin. "Cheer up. It might blow over before dark." "It's nearly dark already." She knelt on the bench and peered through the port. "Do you think it's going off?" "No." It had been only a brief lull, or perhaps her preoccupation with getting dry had diverted her attention. The fiery sheet illuminated the sky again, and instinctively she tensed for the roar that would follow. "Sitting waiting for the worst isn't much use if it scares you. Supposing you see what you can rustle up in the way of a meal." Although food was the last thing she wanted at the moment she got up obediently and set about 'rustling'. It was lucky that she had bought fruit and provisions that morning, and there was fresh water aboard, but there the luck ended. There was a tiny galley, a cubicle barely big enough to stand in, at the end of the cabin, but the butane cylinder was missing so there was no way of cooking or making a hot drink. "I guess I should have remembered to remind you about that," he said ruefully, "but the need didn't seem likely to arise." "But why should you remember?" she said quickly. "It was my responsibility really, not yours. You did enough to look after it for me, as well as trying to teach me not to be such a dumb landlubber." His brows flickered. "I don't recall ever dubbing you as such." "No." She sighed and nibbled another biscuit. "But you must have thought it sometimes."

Another lightning flash sent its eerie radiance into the cabin. When the thunder subsided into the comparative quiet of the lashing gale and drumming rain Christie said uneasily: "What time is it? My watch has stopped." "Going on nine." She slowly wound and adjusted her wristwatch, the tight knot of tension still gripping her. "Can you sail at night, Matt?" "It depends on conditions." He took a deep breath. "I'd better tell you. I'm afraid we're stuck here till daylight." She gasped. "Till tomorrow! You mean we've got to stay here all night?" "I see no other way." He looked at her horrified expression and his own was grave. "There's no sign of it moderating yet." "Yes, but ..." She swallowed, and her face was paling. "Matt, it isn't all that far." The cabin floor tilted, and she caught at the bulkhead grip to steady herself. Matt started to speak, but his words were drowned as the Chiton heaved violently and there was an ominous grinding sound on her port side. Christie braced against the shuddering motion and stared at Matt with alarmed eyes. "Is - is she breaking away? That rattle! I can feel her moving." "The tide's running high. That was the fender. But I'll check." His head and shoulders were outlined against the night, then disappeared as he ducked out on to the deck. Christie suppressed her

tremors as she waited for him to reappear. Memories were flooding back of the first two days out on the Vulcania. The mountainous seas, the ship buoying and wallowing like a great porpoise despite her stabilizers, most of the passengers so sick they wanted to die.... It would be like that now, perhaps worse, outside this small rough haven. She had been crazy even to suggest to Matt that he might put to sea. When he slammed back into the cabin, his hair and shoulders glistening with rain, she handed him the towel and stayed silent. "She's holding okay." He glanced at her wan face. "I think we'd better get organized for the night and make ourselves as comfortable as possible." "There's not much room," she said in a small voice. It was true. The Chiton, with her shallow draught and glass observation section which made her so ideal for reef work, her auxiliaries for speed boost, and her trim looks, was a fabulous boat, but from the comfort aspect she was lousy. Her living quarters were cramped and ill-equipped, and when Christie's uncle had had her fitted he had paid more attention to his sporting and business activities than his creature comforts. There was fishing gear, seawater tanks to accommodate his catch, and a quite well stocked drinks cupboard. But there was no fuel for cooking - the galley had never been used for its intended purpose, by the look of it - the blankets were missing from the bunks, and all but one of the light bulbs failed to work and had never been replaced. Obviously Uncle Noll had never entertained aboard the Chiton, and obviously he had cared no more for his own comfort afloat than ashore on the island. An exhaustive search produced little of what Christie wanted most dry clothing. An old sailcloth jerkin came to light, along with a canvas sheet which would be better than nothing as a makeshift bunk

covering, and - ludicrously, Christie thought - a dog-eared pack of playing cards. "We can always play Patience," Matt said ironically. "As long as it isn't strip poker," she said bitterly, wishing with all her heart that she'd equipped the Chiton with a few changes of clothing and the means of making a cup of tea. But how could she have foreseen an event like this? "This thing's so beastly and clammy inside." "Are the things dry yet?" he asked. She got up to check, although it was only a short while since she had rearranged the drying garments. "No, they're still damp," she said dispiritedly, turning back. "You do take a lot of room, you and your tent," he teased as she squeezed past in the confined space. "I don't!" "You do." He drew back, grinning. "Mind you don't take off." She saw the dancing glints in his eyes and a constriction gathered in her throat. It choked her with its ache, her eyes stung with sudden tears, and she felt small, useless and utterly ridiculous. She could no longer riposte with anger or sarcasm when Matt started to tease. It was as though she had lost all vestige of her protective shell and acquired instead the fragile skin of vulnerability. Every word, every look from him had the power to wound, and he had never seemed so possessed of that power as at that moment. A fierce surge of anger and emotion possessed her. "I wish I could!" she cried, pushing past him and snatching at her things. "But I can't! Oh, get out of the way!"

He looked startled. "Hey, its not my fault." "I never said it was - and go away!" She tried to shield herself away in the galley as she struggled feverishly to don still damp garments. Her once sparkling white cotton pants were dull and limp, the zip refused to function in her impatient fingers, and she swore furiously as she yanked impotently at it and at last gave up. Her shirt stuck to her arms as she rammed them into the sleeves, but at least it had almost dried. She tugged her comb through her hair, disregarding the pain of her own angry actions, flung the oilskin on the floor, and then stood with her back to Matt and her shoulders stiff with despair. Her anger had spent itself and that dreadful void claimed her, when there was no escape from him, herself, or anything else. She had to do something, say something, and there was nothing to do or say - except face up to an unbearable situation. In the cabin behind her Matt stood still, all trace of amusement wiped from his face. His brows drew together, then he stepped forward. "Losing your temper won't help, Christie." "I'm not!" "Nor will getting into damp clothes." "I couldn't care less! I wish -" The heavens crackled, with a fury that made hers mute and pale in comparison. The Chiton gave a heave as though her anchor would tear itself out of its rocky bed, and Christie lurched forward helplessly. Her grab to save herself did not miss, but it brought her elbow in violent contact with the edge of the galley partition. The pain drew a gasp from her and the tears that wouldn't stay back any longer.

"All right. All right." Matt's hands reached out and pulled her against him. He enfolded her within a shelter that nothing would have made her leave and pressed her face against his shoulder. "You're scared of storms, aren't you?" "I -1 can't help it," she choked. "There's nothing to be ashamed of in fearing hell let loose." He stroked her hair as though she were a frightened child and his voice was low. "I've seen strong men blench when they've met the Pacific's fury." "Yes, but it's so silly." "No, it isn't. It's only very human." He held her a little away from him and looked down into her woebegone face. "Now I think you should try and get some sleep, little one." "I don't feel sleepy," she sniffed, and dabbed at her eyes, reluctant to come out of his arms. "It doesn't matter. Curl up and rest." Bitterly ashamed of her lapse, she sought to regain control and sat down obediently on the bunk. "Go on, down you get." Matt stood over her, and when she curled her feet up he put the sailcloth jerkin and the canvas over her. She lay wide-eyed, watching him switch off the light and turn to the opposite bunk. But he did not lie down, merely drew up his knees and leaned back against the bulkhead, his dimly seen profile alert. "Aren't you going to rest?"

"No." "But you'll be dead tired." "I'll get over it," he said laconically. She lapsed into silence, watching the luminous play of the water reflected on the wall above Matt's head. The lightning flashes were still unnerving, but her fear was not so great now and she was conscious of only a deep weariness that wasn't in the least unpleasant. She could not remember closing her eyes, but when she suddenly found herself wide awake she sat up sharply, realising she had been asleep for some time and something had wakened her abruptly. She listened, hearing, no reverberation of thunder and no drumming of rain on the cabin roof. It was much darker now, and she strained her gaze across, seeking the comfort of just seeing the outline of Matt. Then her heart plummeted; he wasn't there. Her mouth dry, she flung back the canvas and swung her feet to the floor. The Chiton still rose and fell with the accompanying sighs, creakings, groanings and slapping sounds which Christie had not yet learned to identify. "Matt...?" she called fearfully. "Okay - I'm here." His dark shape loomed and brushed against her. "I was just checking the slack on the anchor - the tide's running out now." "Oh." She retreated back to the edge of the bunk. "What time is it, Matt?"

"Just after three. You've had quite a good sleep." "Mm, I didn't think I'd slept so long." A shiver ran through her and she pulled the jerkin round her shoulders. "It sounds as though the storm's over." "The worst is, but the wind's pretty fresh." He moved to the opposite bunk and swung his legs up into his former position. She heard his slight movements as he lit one of his rare cigarettes and settled back. The warm glow of his lighter flame snapped out into darkness and he said: "You can settle down again." She nodded, but did not move. The lowest ebb of the night had affected her and she was trembling with cold. The chill damp of the sea had permeated everything and the warm clamminess of several hours' sleep in damp clothing had long since evaporated, with the inevitable result. She stood up and rubbed her arms, trying to instil warmth and at the same time dispel the stiffness from her limbs. "What's the matter?" "Nothing, just the shivers." The end of his cigarette made a glowing arc, then stilled. "You shouldn't have got up. Wrap up. It'll soon pass." She murmured a small response but stayed standing, reluctant to settle down again. She leaned forward to peer through the port, seeking a sign of dawn in the sky. But it was too soon and the inky blackness outside made her shiver again. She said, "Aren't you cold ?" "No. It isn't cold outside. The wind's warm."

"I'm frozen." She tried to laugh and thrust one hand out towards him. "Want a cold mitt if you don't believe me?" His hand brushed, missed, then found hers and held it in a beautifully warm clasp. "You are frozen." He sounded surprised. Retaining his hold on her, he leaned sideways and groped for the ashtray fitting. The sparks danced as he extinguished the cigarette and said: "Where's that other mitt, you cold little morsel?" With the same calm air of patience as when he comforted her at the height of the storm he drew her down beside him and gently chafed her icy hands. And while he did so he talked in the same easy detached manner of the Chiton, of it in comparison to his own boat, and of the bigger boat he hoped to buy some day. Christie listened. Outwardly she was as calm and relaxed as he, but inwardly her air of detachment was as nil as it was possible to be. She no longer shivered with cold, only with a warm delicious trembling of joy that had its centre in her heart and radiated its delight to the very tips of her every nerve- ending. "Are you asleep there?" he asked suddenly. "No, just thawing out." "Having rediscovered a very ancient principle?" "What?" He shifted his position, freeing one hand and putting it round her to draw her into a more comfortable position. "That the best source of warmth is the human body."

She was now curled in the crook of his arm, resting against him, and it was only the merest step to let her head go against his shoulder. But she dared not take that small step lest she destroyed this warm wonderful bliss. This was only another instance of the sheer unpredictability of Matt Denham. He could be arrogant, brusque, sardonic, impatient... this was the first time she had known him so tender... He sighed and the slight rise of his chest was a communication. To delay the moment of being unceremoniously pitched back she yawned: "It's awful to be too lazy to move?" "Isn't it, you little sinner!" But he made no move to release her, and from under the shadow of her lashes she looked at the hand still resting over hers on her lap. It was a strong hand, well shaped, the fingers long with nice nails, the wrist broad with dark hairs starting a shadow that went up the tanned forearm. A hand that held skill and gentleness as well as strength... "You know, you're very trusting, little one." The softly spoken words jerked her out of the small daydream. "Is there any reason why I shouldn't be trusting?" she said in a whisper. His voice deepened on k note of laughter. "I should say there are dozens. But there's at least one." "You mean I shouldn't trust you? " "Perhaps. Aren't you afraid I'll take advantage of your trust?" ' She knew he was laughing inwardly, that the badinage was about to start. "You wouldn't," she said flatly.

She felt his deeply indrawn breath. "Oh, and how can you know that?" "Because it's amusing you at the moment to play the universal uncle, that's why." There was a long pause, then, "So that's it." There was another pause and the tension began to gather in her, a faintly warning tension that she knew she should heed but didn't want to. "It'll soon be dawn," she said with a false air of brightness. "With the reckoning?" "I think we've had the reckoning." "Have we?" His hand left hers. It came up and touched her hair, tangled in it, and tilted her face upwards. "I thought I'd already made my feelings perfectly clear regarding this universal uncle business." "You made quite a lot of things clear," she said in an Tin- natural voice. "Maybe not clear enough. Do you still trust me, Christie Irvine?" She could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek, but her own breath didn't want to function. It was caught somewhere round her hammering heart, escaping in tiny feathers against her parted lips. She whispered stubbornly: "Yes, I still trust you." "You crazy little -!" The words were lost as his mouth found hers, in a long sweet kiss that sent her senses spinning.

Somewhere within her a desperate little voice was crying that she had proved her point and he had taken her challenge, and Matt Denham was the last man to play with. It tried to tell her that he was still detached, his kiss uncommitted, and it was time to tip the balance back to humour. But it was too late. Her arms were already stealing round him and the other dormant force was crying its wild response to the sensuous warmth of his shoulders under her hands. The tension gave in her as suddenly as though it had snapped and her body melted to the lean hard pressure of him. His mouth moved across her cheek, then back to reclaim her lips with a fierceness that robbed her of breath. She was trembling when he drew back and looked down at the pale blur of her face, mercifully veiled in the shadows. His own breathing was ragged, but the touch of his fingers was controlled and deliberate as they feathered a long, slow caress from her temple to the small throbbing pulse in her throat. There the caress stilled, as though considering that small pulsing betrayal, then slid home to the slender curve of her breast. "Have I disillusioned you, Christie?" he said softly. A strange calm had come to her. Her eyes as enigmatic as his, she slowly drew his caressing hand away and into the prison of her own. She raised it, touched her lips lightly to the back before she said quietly: "I could ask you the same question, Matt. I wonder if you would answer it." "I think it would be best if I didn't," he said after the briefest of pauses. "And it would also be best if we didn't get any ideas."

He stood up and flicked on the light. Ignoring her instinctive gasp of protest, he studied her flushed face and overbright eyes, and a certain grimness came into his expression. Almost insolently he bent down and planted a hard kiss square on her mouth. "Let's just say that you're a very kissable girl, Christie, and leave it at that!"

CHAPTER VII ONCE again Matt had resumed complete mastery. He turned/his back on her as though nothing had happened, left her sitting there, and settled himself full length on the bunk she'd previously vacated. He pulled up the cover. "I want two hours' sleep. Wake me at six. Not a minute before or a minute after." He took off his wrist watch. "You can put this on, seeing that your own never seems to function accurately." Struck into silence, she took it and looked helplessly at its solid masculine lines before she fumbled with the stiff fastening. When she looked up he had disappeared under the canvas, except for the thick ruffled darkness of the top of his head. But his voice was quite clear. "Don't leave the boat. Don't touch anything. And try not to fall overboard." "I'll try to remember all that." She instilled as much sarcasm as possible into her reply, but there was no further response from him-. She curled her feet up under her and leaned back; she had a great deal to think about. A glance at the black luminous dial of Matt's watch told her that she had full two hours in which to do that thinking. So he thought she was a kissable girl, did he! The reminiscent curve of her mouth held a touch of irony, however. A certain little incident intruded its memory to temper the delight of that kissable foray of his. How would he have liked it if she had wiped her hand over her mouth and started to talk about evidence? Suddenly restless, she uncurled herself and after a glance at the sleeping form across the cabin she stole quietly out on deck. It was still dark, the water calm now in its soft musical plashes against the

hull of the Chiton. She crept up forward and knelt up on her favourite perch in the bows. Some of the wild exhilaration of newfound love and its so recent sequel was beginning to settle as certain aspects began to occur to her. She had evaded his leading question about disillusion as skilfully as he had parried hers. But what was his answer? There could be no doubt about her own answer, even though torture wouldn't drag the admission from her, unless.... It was different with Matt. He was the only man in the world she wanted to make love to, and he was the only man whose love- making she would want in her whole life. But was he attracted to her? Christie stirred, a tremor that had nothing to do with coolness passing over her. Even the thought of Matt Denham was enough to set her heartbeats quickening. But supposing he thought she would let any man friend kiss her like that, caress her... Abruptly she sheered from the question and set about making herself as fresh and neat for the new day as circumstances permitted. After a wash and brisk rub-down she felt better, more assured, and as she combed her hair she was almost able to persuade her reflection that she hadn't fallen for Matt Denham after all. She was imagining it all. What with the ghastly storm and being stranded, and soaked, and being chilled and miserable in damp clothes. There was every excuse for getting a bit irritable, below par, not being able to take his chaff, and ... The hand wielding the comb stilled in mid-air and the eyes in the mirror darkened with their secret. He must like her a little bit. He - he couldn't be utterly impervious to the awareness of her when he Christie began to comb again with small fierce tugs and her lips parted on a tiny sound that was halfway between a laugh and a sob. She was being silly. Why did he bother to kiss her? Especially when

she was such a mess! Last night she must have looked like a shipwrecked rat or something... By the time she woke Matt she had succeeded in shutting her mind to such disturbing introspection. In his turn he seemed quiet and somewhat thoughtful. He stroked his chin and muttered something under his breath, presumably about the shadow round his jawline and the annoying lack of a razor. "You could grow a beard - save all that shaving lark," Christie suggested brightly. "Like Santa Claus?" Wisely, she kept a discreet silence until he had freshened up. Two hours wasn't much sleep, and the breakfast menu wasn't exactly wildly exciting. Matt groaned when she offered him choice of papaya or banana, fruit juice, and oatcakes. "I bought some tinned sausages if you'd like them cold," she said. But he didn't want cold tinned sausages; he wanted a good oldfashioned English breakfast of bacon and egg and tomato and fresh toasted bread and Oxford marmalade; a breakfast which was sadly unattainable, even in Tamautoa, where the cuisine, with a few exceptions, was strictly local. "Come on - let's get back," he said briskly. A sense of normality was restored once they got under way. The sea was calm under a pearly mist and the breeze was just strong enough to be pleasantly invigorating. However, the signs of the night's havoc were visible; fronds, brushwood, torn blossoms, bobbing coconuts caught in the floating patches of debris.

"Somebody's suffered worse than we did," Matt remarked, idly leaning over the side and trying to grab one of the nuts. She nodded, watching the nut elude his outstretched fingers. "I hope it didn't wreck my roof again," she murmured. "That had occurred to me," he said rather grimly. Her remark hadn't been made with any real fear, but she began to wonder if indeed the storm had done any damage on the island. She was relieved to see that everything seemed quite normal when Chiton negotiated the tricky entrance through the reef and passed into the calm of the lagoon. She brushed the spume from her face and stood silent while the shore rushed towards them. Matt tied up at the landing stage and helped her ashore, then handed out her belongings. The firm sand felt strangely hard underfoot and she realised she had spent the best part of sixteen hours aboard the boat. Somehow it seemed longer, as though she had been away from the island for weeks. Matt showed no signs of any such fanciful notions. When they reached the point of divergence he slowed his steps only briefly. He gave her hair a friendly tug, murmured: "See you anon," and strode off towards the green bungalow. Christie stopped. Disappointment chased over her face before she moved on. What had she expected? she asked herself wryly. That he would pause to take lingering farewells? Make plans for lunch, the Test of the day? Be just a little more explicit than "See you anon"? The little house was exactly as she had left it the previous morning, yet there was an indefinable difference in the atmosphere that struck her the moment she entered. Loneliness? She frowned as she dumped her bag on a chair. It was almost as though she no longer belonged...

During the past weeks she had adjusted quite easily to living alone. It was partly that primitive living was a challenge, and this combined with the novelty of actually having a beach and a lagoon at her own front door, the excitement of discovery and the sheer beauty of the island had more than carried her over the period of adjustment. She had missed her family but not pined for them; her thoughts had rim happily along the lines of all the things she had to remember to tell them when next she wrote. By the time she had got over the snags and organised her little house she had got used to living alone. Because all the time she had known that Matt Denham was only a few minuses' walk away. But what if he hadn't been there? she asked herself in the light of her new self-knowledge. Would she have been so determined to stay... ? When she had swum and changed and had something to eat the time started to stand still. The brilliance of her lodestar was revealed at last and it was a dreadful temptation to put on her hat and go sauntering casually along the beach - a saunter she had taken so often, but which instinct forbade her to take now. She resisted the temptation for most of the afternoon, then with secret glee found a way of cheating pride. It was a naive little pretence really, hunting out some of the books Lonnie had given her. Well, she'd read them. It was a shame to throw them out and they were certainly rough, tough men's reading meat... The telltale quickening of her heartbeats beginning, she jammed the big straw hat on her head and stepped out on the veranda. Then she saw the white arrow across the lagoon and an exclamation of dismay escaped her. The launch was heading for the landing stage and in it was Melanie Haydon, cool, poised and beautiful in pale rose silk, and a great cartwheel- of a hat in a flawlessly matched shade. She said something to the boatman and then turned to make her way with undulating grace along the beach.

"Destination Denham!" Christie said between clenched teeth, watching Melanie's progress with furious eyes. She returned indoors and flung down the books. How could she have forgotten about Melanie? One of Matt's conquests, Lonnie had said. And what are you? she asked herself angrily. A prey to the sheer agony of jealousy, she paced the room. Just where did the sultry Melanie fit in Matt's life? He never mentioned her. But then he never mentioned any woman. Ten minutes later Christie couldn't bear the see-sawing emotions a moment longer. In her bedroom she hauled out every article of wearing apparel she possessed and selected the only dress she had with her which could compete with pale rose silk. Christie's dress was coral. It contrived to look soft and feminine and demure at the same time as it clung with delicate emphasis in exactly the places it should. It also, to her delight and surprise, enhanced her new deeper skin tones to a vibrancy it had never done previously. Hair up sleekly, lipstick and eye make-up only with this pink-brown tan, the tingle of perfume - why should she take a back seat just because Melanie decided to call? With only gallant youth and instinct as her aids Christie walked with fast beating heart along to the green bungalow, her casual air giving no clue to the turmoil within her, she walked boldly through the louvre double doors as she called out a light announcement of her arrival and pretended a very creditable surprise at the sight of Melanie. "I'm sorry, Matt - I didn't know you had company." She smiled at him. "I just came to bring these."

For a moment he eyed her, the line of his mouth enigmatic as his gaze made a swift but comprehensive survey of a somewhat different-looking girl from the one he had parted from earlier that day. There was the tiniest of flickers at one corner of his mouth, then it vanished. He said carelessly, "Thanks - just shove them over there. Like a drink ? " "Yes, please." "And how is the shell business going?" asked Melanie with a bored show of politeness. "Very well," said Christie, accepting her drink and making herself at home in the cane chair by the window. " It must have been an expensive bit of fun." "It's been worth every penny." Christie's head was high and proud. "Actually, it hasn't been expensive. The cost of living is so little here I can hardly believe it. No rent, no rates, no fuel bills. Very few expensive temptations in the shops." "And very little of anything else." The older girl leaned back and crossed slender shapely legs. "I wish my father's term was over, but we've another year before he's recalled." Christie shrugged and gave her attention to her drink. Matt stayed silent, and Melanie looked at him over Christie's head. She said with deceptive sweetness: "I suppose you haven't exactly encouraged Christie to be sociable." His brows went up. "You forget, I'm not here to be sociable. So I'm not exactly in touch with the social circle." Melanie accepted the mild rebuke without apparent pique. She turned to Christie. "Did you ever take Jean Chalmers up on her invitation?"

"Well, no." Christie hesitated, not sure where this inquisition was leading. "I only met her once, just for a few minutes, and I wasn't sure if it wasn't one of those casual invites people drop. Well, you know how it is. I can't get over to Tamautoa very easily. Anyway, the time simply flies." "Yes, so it seems." Melanie's brows narrowed. "The European community isn't very big here, you know, and we tend to be a little conventional over our social customs. A casual invitation to drop in on anyone means exactly that; at any time." She paused and smiled slightly. "I'm surprised that Matt hasn't pointed it out to you." "Pointed what out?" Christie glanced at him, but he gave a shake of his head, as though to say: Leave me out of this! "Well, your choice of friends has been somewhat outlandish," Melanie said softly. "To say nothing of the way you're living over here. After all, you're very young. It's caused quite a few raised eyebrows among the older residents." "What!" Christie almost laughed, but she was too indignant. "They ought to get a time machine and go to London. Anyway, what's wrong with my friends? You can only mean Matt." "No, I don't mean Matt." "Then why don't you say that you mean Lonnie and Ben?" Melanie did not reply, but the graceful movement of her shoulders said a great deal. Christie said firmly: "I like Lonnie and Ben. They were kind to me when I came. Anyway, they're fun. And they're dead straight." Melanie gave a mirthless smile. "I could think of at least two people who wouldn't agree with you."

"I take people as I find them." Christie lapsed into unfriendly silence, well aware that Melanie's dislike was about on a par with her own but unable to make the artificial pretence of social pleasantly. After a moment Melanie said softly: "Have I said something I shouldn't? I didn't intend to offend you." "It's all right," Christie said, not very graciously and aware of the frown taking shape between Matt's brows. She forced a bright smile. "Maybe I should throw a party one night. Coconuts and leis and moonlit bathing in the lagoon." Melanie smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. She changed the subject and began to ply Christie with questions about the London scene. However, when Matt told her that the launch had returned to collect her, she said with disarming friendliness that Christie must spend a day on the main island as her guest. It was impossible to refuse and with a firmness Christie distrusted, the arrangement was made for the following day. "I'll fix it with Sammy now for him to pick you up here at ten tomorrow morning. Okay ? " Christie nodded, and Melanie turned to Matt. "How about you joining us as well? I thought we might take her to Kuniya Pool after lunch." Matt shook his head. "Count me out. I lost enough time yesterday." The significance of this remark failed to register with Christie as the other girl said: "Oh, yes, the storm. Wasn't it awful?" "Yes, we got stranded at Luna, of all the places to be stuck!" Melanie was instantly alert, and then, to Christie's secret dismay, the story of the trip came out. Admittedly it was in Matt's most clipped

and cool phrases, but something came into Melanie's eyes as she looked thoughtfully at the younger girl. "It's a good job you had Matt with you," she said after an appreciable pause. "The boat's waiting," he cut in. "We'll see you to it." Melanie walked just one step ahead as the trio strolled the short distance to where the launch waited. Melanie carried her hat, and the moonlight lent her svelte figure a pale luminance. She bade them a charming goodnight and got into the boat, apparently unperturbed that her evening with Matt had! suffered a certain disruption. "Tomorrow, then." She waved, and the launch drew away to become an arrow tip of light on the silver surface. "Well," Matt turned, "I may as well see you back as well." "Oh yes - but I've left my things." He said nothing, until they entered the inky shadow of the bungalow. There he rested his arms on the veranda rail and said: "In you go and collect them, then." Was he in a hurry to get rid of her} she wondered as she slipped indoors. He'd been rather withdrawn tonight. Was he mad? But his manner remained enigmatic as she rejoined him and they set off along the beach. He did not speak at all until they reached the ramshackle little house with the crown of thatch. Then he turned a long, considering glance on her and inclined his head. "You look a bit different from the half-drowned sea- urchin of last night." "Mm," she looked down, "feels a lot different too."

"I suppose that dress calls for a goodnight kiss." "Just the dress?" "I shouldn't define the motive too closely, little one," he said as he drew her into his arms. If his first kiss had been paradise this one was heaven. To have to strain up on tiptoe against him and glimpse the great enigmatic moon over his shoulder before her lashes shielded her eyes... When he broke the kiss she was weak and light-headed. The moon shadows were etching his face with mystery, touching only the high planes of his features with silver. She slipped out of his arms and said unsteadily: "It's been a lovely evening, but I - I hope I didn't upset Melanie." "Would you lose any sleep if you did ? " "Well - yes, of course." She bit her lip over the outrageous little fib and hesitated. "Are you coming in for a drink before you go back?" "Do you think I should?" Uncertain of what she read in his tone, she shook her head. "I don't know -1 just wondered." For a moment he stayed silent, then he touched her shoulder lightly. "I think you've made your point, little one." While she watched with wide eyes he raised his hand in a laconic salute and loped back into the night. ***

When she chose to be so, Melanie Haydon was an impeccable hostess. She was waiting behind the wheel of a small stylish twoseater when Christie arrived at the main island the following morning. She drove fast and with a certain panache that aroused Christie's secret envy, stopping outside a large white villa that nestled between the woodland slopes and the beach at the far end of the bay. The Haydon section of the beach was private, the garden huge, and the interior of the villa rather like Melanie herself - dressed in faultless taste and that faint aura of seclusion that made Christie feel she should only walk round it and admire. Mr. Haydon was not at home that morning and Mrs. Haydon was a small fragile woman with the fading traces of the same rich dark beauty of her daughter. She was pleasant to Christie over a superb lunch, but vague, talking of her girlhood in New Zealand and people of whom .Christie, naturally, had never heard. "Darling,, Christie hasn't a clue who you're talking about," Melanie said, on at least two occasions. Mrs. Haydon looked hurt and Christie was glad when the meal was over, delicious though it was with foods which had obviously been imported and refrigerated. The Scottish raspberries and cream melted in the mouth, as did the tiny petits pais which accompanied the duckling. "Mummy's a bit of a bore when she starts about her youth," Melanie said afterwards as they set off to meet Jean Chalmers, "but she thinks nobody ever lived since." "I thought she was very sweet," said Christie in cool tones, and Melanie gave her a sharp look. "You haven't heard it all about fifty times before," she said pettishly. She dug her foot hard on the accelerator and the car leapt forward.

Although Christie had been in the area for several weeks she had seen nothing of Tamautoa but the airstrip, the hotel, and the huddle of the town along the waterfront. With Jean Chalmers, a quiet pretty young woman a little older than Melanie, and two young men called Richard and Brian, one of whom a visitor and the other working as assistant to Jean's uncle, Dr. Chalmers, she saw most of what the island had to offer in the way of tourist sights. There was only one road. It ran halfway round the island and came to a dead end some half a mile from the Kuniya Pool. This was the main spectacular, as Brian termed it, and certainly it was both beautiful and impressive. Water welled from a mountain spring and tumbled some sixty feet to a huge pool worn through the ages by the force of the fall. Ginger blossom, plumeria, a kind of frangipani, and wild orchid flowered in profusion all around and a heavy creeper curtain hid a natural stairway of rocky steps at one side of the pool. It was romantic, a perfect spot for sharing the picnic hamper Jean and the two men had brought, but for Christie something was missing. Her thoughts obstinately refused to stay far from Matt Denham and she could not help picturing the scene "and the day if he had been present. But then Melanie would certainly have annexed him, she thought wryly, brushing a persistent insect off her arm. So she was not entirely regretful when it was time to leave. If she wasn't too late back she could call in to tell Matt about all he had missed. The pleasant little daydream was still with her when she thanked Mrs. Haydon for making her so welcome and got into the car. But rather to her surprise Melanie did not drive straight down to the waterfront. She slowed the car halfway along the road and drew into a small clearing that faced across the bay. At Christie's questioning glance she smiled.

"We've a bit of time in hand before your boat's due. I want to talk to you." "About what?" Christie composed her hands in her lap, already wary. Melanie secured the handbrake and turned till she faced the younger girl. "Don't you think you're making a bit of a fool of yourself over' Matt Denham ? " "Me?" Christie gasped. "Just exactly what do you mean by that? And what right have you to say it, anyway?" "I thought you would take that attitude," Melanie said smoothly. "But somebody ought to tell you. Don't you care at all about your reputation ? " Christie gasped again. "What do you mean? My reputation? How dare you!" "Listen, and try to see sense. This isn't London. What can you expect if you go and live on a small island where the only other person is a man? A young English girl living in a beachcomber's shack! Don't you realise that everyone here is talking about you?" "People will talk anywhere!" Christie cried. "And I haven't heard of anyone talking. Jean didn't behave as though she thought I wasn't decent." "Jean is much too shy to say anything to you," Melanie returned brusquely, "and if you'd tried to make friends among the right people here instead of those two dreadful traders we might have stopped you making such an idiot of yourself." "You visit Matt. Often," said Christie, after a shocked pause while she marshalled her defence. "Why is it different for you?"

"I'm not living there, that's the difference. And my father happens to be a friend of Matt's family." Melanie's mouth hardened and a pitiless light came into her eyes. "You're making things very embarrassing for Matt, you know." "I don't believe it." Christie was beginning to tremble inwardly, but she kept her voice steady. "Isn't he the best judge of that?" "In this case - no. Because all men reach a point where circumstances and a silly young girl can make them lose their sense of proportion. If he had taken my advice in the first place this would never have happened." "What do you mean? What advice?" "That he buy you out, for whatever that crazy business of your uncle's was worth. The only thing worth -" "Listen," Christie flared, "just leave my uncle out of this. He wasn't a beachcomber and he was a very good man with a decent philosophy in life, which is more than you have. Why can't you mind your own business? It has nothing to do with you where I live or what I do. For that matter what does it have to do with you where Matt lives? Or does it?" Suddenly a dreadful possibility had occurred to her and she put her hand to her mouth. Melanie wore no ring and Matt had never mentioned ... Melanie couldn't ... "You're not engaged to him, are you?" she whispered. The slightest of smiles curved Melanie's red mouth and its hint of cruelty was quite plain now. She shook her head slowly. "How could I be?" she said softly. "Didn't you know?"

"Know what?" Christie's face had lost all its colour as she stared with dreadful fascination at the other girl's triumphant eyes. "Matt has two sons." "Two sons!" Melanie nodded. "The eldest is at boarding school, I believe, and the other is about seven." Christie found her voice. "I don't believe you/' she choked. "It can't be true." "But I'm afraid it is true." "He never said so! He never told me!" Christie twisted her hands together until the knuckles shone white. She heard Melanie's voice as though from a great distance: "Matt rarely talks about himself or his family. And I'm sure that you, naive as you are, must have realised that he never wanted you on the island in the first place." "Two sons!" Christie said brokenly, feeling as though a bomb had been exploded behind her and unable to grasp that it wasn't some dreadful nightmare. She turned a blind gaze to the lovely mocking face. "You mean that Matt is - is a married man?" Her eyes cold and implacable, Melanie nodded, and without another word calmly set the car into motion.

CHAPTER VIII AFTER the shock came numbness. Christie remember little of getting out of Melanie's car and boarding the launch for the return journey, or of sorting out the coins to pay the boatman and his asking her something. But it seemed it was not more coins he wanted and she nodded mechanically and made blindly for home. Matt was married. She stared at the bright oval radiance of the lamp until it filled her whole vision and the lonely little room dissolved away around her. Why had she never given a thought to the one vital thing that should have come first? And why had Matt never once given her the slightest cause to suspect that he wasn't free? With the listless movements of an automaton she made her preparations for the night and crawled into bed, too sick at heart to eat and wanting only to pass from numbness to the oblivion of sleep. Sleep did not come. Instead, the numbness dissolved and the pain began. All that night she tossed restlessly, trying to hate Matt, trying not to care, despising herself for her weakness. Now that she looked back on her folly she remembered the early days, Matt trying to warn her- off, his impatience and arrogance. That was the reason, she thought miserably. He was so big-headed, so sure of his attraction, he'd been wary of getting involved. And she must have seemed painfully naive and inexperienced. It had probably amused him to see her won over despite herself. It seemed that the dawn would never come. When at last the first light stole into the room she threw back the coverlet and got warily out of bed to face the decision that had to be made.

Melanie was right; she couldn't stay here. And she couldn't face Matt. There was only one answer; go home. Suddenly a rush of homesickness and longing for her family brought a lump into her throat. If only she could close her eyes and open them to see her mother standing there against the background of the familiar living room with its happy overlay of untidiness, inevitable in a family with a young boy and a teenage sister, which her mother constantly bewailed while her father smiled and agreed without listening. He never really listened, and her mother secretly loved the family's untidiness, Christie realised with a sudden new insight. Because her father had reached the stage of placid content, and the untidiness meant her mother's young loved brood was still safe under her wing. All except me, and it'll never be the same again, Christie thought sadly. "I'll go back, and they'll all be the same. But I'll be different." Hardly realising she had murmured the thought aloud, she forced her mind to the practical aspects she had to consider. But two hours later she had done nothing but wander round the little house, picking things up and putting them down again, trying to make herself start the miserable business of packing up. What was she going to do about all her uncle's stuff? She couldn't ship it home. Apart from a few small things there was little of value, except that of sentiment. As for the boat and the diving gear and other tackle ... she would leave that for Matt. Perhaps his sons might like them ... Lonnie and Ben would help her to get rid of the rest. Yes, Lonnie would help her... She sat down again and stared into space... The soft footfalls on the veranda brought her springing to her feet in panic Matt! She looked round wildly, seeking escape, then the strange voice called her name and amazement froze her expression as she saw the boatman outside. "You ask for boat, missy," he grinned. "Boat all ready."

It seemed the answer she most needed. That was what he had asked her last night; if she wanted the boat this morning. And she hadn't even registered what he had said. Hurriedly she grabbed her hat and bag and ran out of the house. She had no clear idea of what she was going to do when she reached Tamautoa, or how she was going to fill in her day. The only clear impelling force was the need to avoid Matt Denham. It was unfortunate that she should encounter Jean Chalmers within a few minutes of arriving, and Jean happened to have an hour to waste. Christie had never realised how difficult it was to appear bright and carefree when the world has suddenly disintegrated into heartbreak, especially when the other person was almost a stranger, rather shy in making conversation, and yet so nice-natured that the effort had to be made. They sat on high stools and drank soda-fruits, until Jean looked at her watch and slid down. "I'll have to get back, I'm afraid." She hesitated, then smiled. "I do wish you'd come and spend a day with us. I'd have asked you before this, but our amusements must seem so tame to you. There's so little to do here except swimming and sailing and I'm not very good at either. So just whenever it suits you..." Christie knew the invitation was vague only because of diffidence and she felt guilty as she thanked Jean and kept her own response vague. To refuse and say she was going back to England would inevitably entail further explanations - explanations to which her composure was not equal. Her steps dragged as she turned them' towards the store. If only Lonnie didn't ask questions ... Greetings over, she announced with creditable calm that she was leaving.

Lonnie evinced none of the surprise or curiosity for which she was prepared. He merely nodded, and glanced at Ben. "We reckoned you wouldn't stay on long after Matt left." She couldn't repress a startled exclamation, and Ronnie grinned, "All good things come to an end, don't they? Are you taking the same flight? " "No!" She sank down on a chair. "It has nothing to do with him. I want you to help me dispose of everything as soon as possible and -" "Ain't you coming back?" Ben took his feet off the desk and sat up. "You mean you're leaving for good ? " "I'm leaving for good. It's -" She stopped until the betraying tremble of her mouth steadied. "When's the next flight out?" "You've missed it - the Hopper went this morning. Hey!" Lonnie's face sobered and he bent down to peer into her face. "What's got you ? Is something wrong ? " The temptation to pour out the, whole story was very strong. They would pet her and sympathise, and do everything they could to smooth out her way, but she couldn't tell them. For all she knew men might gossip among themselves as much as women did, and the last thing she wanted was any further conjecture about herself and Matt. She said, "Nothing's the matter. But - but I have to go back some time. When's the next flight?" "Ten days' time." "Ten days? Oh, no!" Her face fell. "Nothing before then?" Lonnie shook his head.

She sighed. "It'll have to do. Will you fix it for me?" He nodded again, and there was a faintly worried look in his eyes when she counted out her travellers' cheques and ordered supplies to last her another week. But the worried look was replaced by puzzlement when she paused and turned back as she was about to depart. "Please, don't tell anybody - not anybody - that I'm leaving. Promise?" Why she had suddenly had that impulse to demand secrecy she did not know, unless it were a small vain defence of pride in the face of Melanie Haydon. Meanwhile, she had ten days to exist through, and by the time that first one was over she knew her hopes of avoiding Matt were doomed. He was lounging on the veranda of the bungalow when the launch cut through the moonlit radiance of the lagoon that evening. She saw his tall figure silhouetted against the amber light over the veranda and braced herself for the meeting as she saw him coming down the beach, heading her off. "Had a good day?" he asked. "Or rather - two good days?" "Yes, thank you." His brows drew together. "All right?" he said rather sharply. "Of course - why shouldn't I be ? " "That's what I'm asking," he said equably, and touched her shoulder. "Come on, I'll mix you a chaser before you turn in." The refusal came instantly to her lips, then as quickly she retracted it. If he chose to walk home with her and indulge in a game of question

and answer she would not be able to escape him, whereas a quick drink here and it would be easier to take a quick leave... She did not go indoors or sit down but remained on the veranda, leaning on the rail and gazing at the slow silver kaleidoscope of ripples playing across the lagoon. Presently he came out and gave her her drink, then stood at her side and rested one hand on the rail. He said, "You're very quiet." "Am I?" Her breath shuddered out and she took a sip of her drink. "When are you going home, Matt?" He moved slightly. "In a couple of weeks. I've been here nearly three months. The long vacation's over and I have to get back for the new term. Then I've a lecture tour coming up in a couple of months' time," he added. She nodded, and her fingered tensed on the rail. "Your wife will be pleased. She must miss you." "What?" The exclamation sounded both startled and angry. She said tautly: "Three months is a long time." "Just what do you mean by that? " he demanded. "Just what I say. But I - I -" her voice broke and she averted his face. "I wish you'd told me yourself. It - it would have stopped me making such an idiot of myself." Despite her efforts at control her mouth was trembling so much she could hardly get her words out, and the nails were biting into the palms of her clenched hands. She made herself look directly at him. "No wonder you told me not to get any ideas about you."

For an ageless moment he was silent, then he said roughly : "Tell me, Christie, just what do you wish I'd told you myself?" Her eyes flashed with bitter tears. "Heavens, Matt! Do I have to spell it out? I -1 wish I could have met your wife. I'm sure she's charming. Why didn't you bring her for a holiday? And your two sons - are they like you? You must be proud of -" Her voice broke and she knew she couldn't take much more. She took a gulp of her drink and rested her shaking hand on the veranda rail while she fought to regain control. Matt's mouth had gone white at the corners. He caught her shoulders and pulled her to face him, heedless of the spilling glass. "Who told you this?" For a moment she looked wordlessly at him, her face drained of all colour. Then his angry features blurred, shimmered and distorted as the unshed tears brimmed and came free. "Does it matter?" she choked. "But - but stay away from me, Matt. I I -" Without finishing her words she thrust the glass blindly into his hand and ran frantically into the darkness. *** If she had cherished any fears that her final plea to him would be ignored they were futile. There was no sign of him the following day, and on the third day of misery she glimpsed him only once, far out on the reef at low tide. Numbly she returned to the sorting out of her uncle's books, packing those she wanted to keep into a big crate Lonnie had brought over for this purpose the previous evening. Her wrist irritated her, where the almost forgotten insect bite from the day at Kuniya Pool had become red and swollen. She dabbed calamine lotion on it, only to scratch it

with fierce impatience a few minutes later when the lotion failed to soothe the imitation. It was not till later that she noticed the tiny spot of dried blood and realised she had broken the skin, but at least the unbearable itch had disappeared. When she had finished the book sorting she was uncertain of what to do next. With a full week remaining before she left she could not do much more packing, and a strange reluctance made her postpone stripping the walls of the sea things that hung on them. One moment she decided she would take all the decorative branches of coral, the lovely lampshade of window- pane oyster shell, and various pieces of native handicraft. Then she would change her mind and decide to take nothing at all, nothing that would remind her of the joy and the anguish of these few brief weeks on a coral paradise. She spent the whole of the Saturday with Lonnie. He took her on a boat trip to a neighbouring island where the copra was produced. She saw the long racks where the nuts hung to dry in the sun, the island chief welcomed her to the village where smiling children put flowers in her hair and about her neck, and where she tried bravely to drink kava the traditional way - in one gulp - and wondered if her throat would ever function again after the fiery pepper spirit. She was much more entranced by the gracious custom of sharing the coconut cup, sip by sip in turn, and for a brief while the dull heavy weight of depression was lifted a little. There were no storms, no mishaps, and the big trader was the ideal companion in her present state of mind. He looked after her without seeming to do so in that lazy way of his that was born of long experience of the islands. He didn't want to talk all the time, yet his silences were companionable. But when he had gone and she was alone again, facing the prospect of another long silent night, she felt a heaviness and lack-lustre mood close round her. Her head was aching and she slept badly, plagued by

a raging thirst which no amount of water would assuage. It must have been the kava, she thought dully, huddling down again after draining another full glass of water. When morning came she felt no better. She took two aspirins and went down to swim, hoping that it would refresh her. But it didn't, and she felt so ill she had come out of the water and sink down on the soft sand until the dizzy spell passed. At last she got up and went unsteadily back to the house, trying to dispel the malaise with willpower. It was nothing. It would probably pass off if she didn't eat anything and kept out of the sun. By noon she Was forced to give in. She took two more aspirins and crawled into bed, to lie shivering under the covers and praying that the aspirins would take effect' soon. They must have done, for she fell into a heavy sleep and did not wake until dark. The room swam when she got up on to her feet and went to light the lamp. It took a long time. The lamp seemed to float away from her and she could not make the match connect with the wick. At last she succeeded and gripped the table with unsteady hands. Her right arm felt like lead, her whole body felt on fire, and she ached abominably all over. It was when she attempted to sponge her face that she saw the wavering red line of inflammation running up her arm. The insect bite had harboured poison. She tried desperately not to panic, to think clearly, but the blind instinct of survival would permit only one frightening thought; that she had to get help. She remembered little of the nightmare hours that followed, of the painful journey along the beach, reeling against a wind that felt like ice against her burning skin and stumbling over every hollow and ripple in the sand. Of thrusting against the door of the green bungalow and Matt's astonished face as she put out her hand and

gasped out her plea for help, and the green blur of his shirt rushing towards her as she crumpled helplessly forward. He caught her in time, tried to understand the semi- delirious explanation she was trying to make, and his mouth went grave as he felt the burning heat of her skin. The pictures and sensations she recollected after that were very disjointed. She remembered quite clearly his giving her a drink and covering her over, pressing her down with firm hands and refusing to let her throw off the covers. Then he receded and she heard him talking urgently to someone who wasn't there, and there was a blankness until she felt someone touch her. Voices were talking, talking about getting the boat, and then they stopped again. A strange face hovered over her and she felt surprise. What was Ben doing here? But it wasn't Ben after all. Ben didn't have that thick silver hair ... like a halo ... A needle slid into her buttock and she closed her eyes, but its stab was lost in the other big ache that racked her whole body. She must have slept after that, for a long time, because she had dreams. She was on Luna, the island that was taboo, and she was trying to run along its black beach because the boat was floating away and taking Matt with it. But it wasn't Matt in the boat. It was Melanie and she was smiling, racing the boat away and leaving her where no one would ever find her. She opened her eyes and saw Melanie, and tried to cry out, then Matt and the man with the silver halo were there instead, holding out a drink that tasted like nectar in her cottonwool mouth, and suddenly she didn't feel afraid any more; she could go to sleep and the pain would be gone... It was the scent that woke her, the drifting evanescent scent of frangipani, almost as though she could capture it before it faded on the soft freshness of air wafting against her face. Her eyes opened, looked slowly round the pale green walls, the louvre doors beyond the foot of the bed, the shutters that were open to the morning and the fresh pleasant currents of air that were bringing the scent from the

mass of frangipani on the corner table, and lastly to the grave features of the man looking down at her. Matt said quietly: "So you've decided to wake up at last." She moistened her lips and moved her head. "Where am I?" "You're still in my place." She gave a tiny nod, needing time to co-ordinate past and present. After a moment or so she said: "How long have I been here?" "Two days." "Two days!" She jerked up and he put his hand on her shoulder, pressing her back against the pillow. "Take it easy. You've had a pretty rough passage, little one." "But two days!" She subsided weakly. "Was it all from that tiny little bite?" "Not entirely." Matt straightened. "Dr. Chalmers reckons you infected it yourself through scratching it, but you'd also picked up a bug. It took a bit to sort the two out." She lay silent again, digesting this, then said: "I remember him now the man with the silver halo. He gave me an injection and told you he was winning." "He was here most of the night. We were going to take you across to the clinic, but the strait was a bit rough, so he decided against it." He paused. "What else do you remember?" "Not very much, except..."

"Except what?" he said gently. "Nothing." Her eyes dulled with sadness and she turned her head away. "I had the most ghastly nightmares." "They're over now. Go to sleep for a little while, then perhaps you'll feel like something to eat." He touched for forehead with a cool hand and like an obedient child she closed her eyes. The room was empty when next she awoke. Everything was much clearer now, and she made her first tentative efforts to sit up. Already feminine instinct was conscious of dull, tangled hair and the thin, dry-skinned aftermath of illness. She brushed her hair back, tucking it behind her ears, and gave a start as she saw the garment in which she was clad. Wonderingly she fingered the soft cream silkiness of Matt's shirt and her eyes grey sober. It was beginning to occur to her just exactly what Matt's caring for her had entailed during the past fortyeight hours of semi-consciousness. When he came in a little while later she was still sitting there, her fingers twisting the small pearl buttons, and she could not look up. He put the tray on the bedside table and sat down on the edge of the bed. "How about breakfast?" "Mm," she looked at the bowl of milky cereal and the small egg in the blue eggcup and bit her lip. "Matt... was Melanie here?" He nodded. "She came to offer her nursing services, but I -" he hesitated, "I don't think she quite realised the difficulties. I sent her away." Christie nodded. She kept her head bent. "I - I'm sorry you had to you got landed with me. I - I don't want to make any trouble."

"Trouble?" His brows narrowed. "It's been no trouble. We're just thankful that we were able to cope with it and get you better." "I - I don't mean that - though it must have been a lot of bother having to -" She took a deep breath. "Matt, she won't tell your wife ? I mean she won't say that I - ? " "Christie, be quiet. You must eat something. And then we'll talk. Now eat," he commanded in a less gentle tone. "Or shall I spoon-feed you ?" "No." She sighed and slowly began to eat the cereal which was sweet with glucose. When she had eaten almost all the egg and started to drink her first cup of tea for three days he moved the tray and pulled a chair alongside the bed. He said: "I can't let you go on with this mistaken impression, even though in some ways it might be better if I did. I'm not married, Christie. Not now. My wife died five years ago." Incredulity struggled with several other emotions in Christie. "But she said you were! She said you - at least..." Her voice tailed off as every word of the conversation that was indelibly printed in her memory came back. She herself had said that Matt was a married man; Melanie had simply nodded and let her believe it. "She told me you had two sons -" "Which is perfectly true." "- and let me go on assuming that you were married." Christie's voice quickened with anger at the other girl's smooth treachery. "She told me everybody was talking about me, that I'd no thought for my reputation, and - Oh, how could she? And I believed her. I -"

"Yes, I know." Matt sighed. "I began to realise something odd had happened, and if you hadn't rushed off in tears the other night I would have told you; There's no secret about it." He stood up and moved to the window, standing there with his back to her. "Janice my wife - caught 'flu during a bad outbreak that winter. She got it very badly and none of us suspected that she had a heart weakness. It was so sudden we couldn't believe it." "I'm sorry, Matt," she murmured after a few moments. "Yes, but -" He stopped and moved towards the door. "Here's Dr. Chalmers." The silvery-headed doctor was delighted to find his patient so improved, but his smile vanished when she said she would like to get up. There was no getting up for Christie until her temperature was back to normal. "But isn't it?" she asked. "It isn't, young lady." He looked at her from under heavy silvery brows. "And what's more you're to stay quiet. No excitement. Do you know what your legs are made of just now ? " "No." She had a desire to giggle. "What?" "Best quality rubber. So you behave yourself. Keep her in order, Matt." He nodded, his expression unsmiling, and went out with Dr. Chalmers. When he came back he had some books in his hand. He put them on the bed and moved away. "You heard what he said. Now I have some writing to do. You'll have to amuse yourself until lunchtime."

"Yes." She smiled at him, aware of a happiness that was giving more strength to her than any medicaments could. "I'll be good." She selected a book and lay reading, quietly content, until lunchtime. But he did not stay very long, and she lay drowsing through the long afternoon, watching the shadows deepen outside. The frangipani was falling, and she was idly building a flower pattern of the fallen petals on the coverlet when Matt returned. He had brought her a drink and as he turned away she caught at his hand. "Please stay for a little while," she pleaded. He hesitated, and she gazed up at him with appeal in her wide eyes, not relinquishing her clasp on his fingers. For a moment he stared down at her and his expression was troubled. Then unwillingly he sat down on the edge of the bed and placed her hand gently on the fold of the bedcover. "It's no use, you know, Christie," he said quietly. "It's better if I don't." ""What's no use?" She pretended misunderstanding. "I've hardly seen you all day and it's lonely without anyone to talk to." He regarded her with a level gaze. "But you don't want me merely to talk to you." Her heart turned over. "But I do. Honestly." "A woman's honesty!" His mouth curved wryly. "Listen, little one, you're a very sweet little girl, but it would be better for both of us if you didn't get any more ideas about me. No - hear me out," he said quickly when she would have protested. "It probably sounds big-headed, and I suppose I shouldn't say it, but you have to remember that I'm a lot older than you and I've seen what

natural attraction can do. I've been married, Christie. I know the signs." "Am I flashing them so brightly?" she asked in a voice that was meant to be pert but came out unevenly. "You don't need to flash them," he said quietly, and leaving her to make what she could of that he went from the room. The silence was disturbing after he had gone. Christie lay back uneasily, the. brief happiness at learning the truth behind Melanie's guile gradually waning as it was borne on her that Matt had no intention of coming near her that evening. I could die for all he cares, she thought, then instantly despised herself for the infantile; thought. The slowly growing conviction that Matt did like her a bit more than he was prepared to admit slowly withered as the hours slipped away. Everything she might need was to hand. Tissues, a jug of fruit juice and a tumbler covered with a cloth, a tin of plain biscuits, books, her bag, all the paraphernalia that invariably cluttered an invalid's bedside. From her bed she could see the rays of light from the next room spilling across the veranda. Suddenly they went out and she tensed expectantly. But there was no sound of footsteps, only the splashing sounds from the shower room, then long silence. She stared into the darkness and faced the truth. She'd made a complete fool of herself over Matt Denham. She'd even been foolish enough to let him see that she cared. At first she had amused him, but now he was getting wary. He didn't want to be involved and he had done everything but spell it out in capital letters. Well, it would all be over in less than a week;,, he would never see her again, so there could be no more ideas to get about him. In fact, was there any

reason to presume any further on his hospitality? She could go back to her own place and look after herself. To think was to act with Christie. Her heart hardened with bitterness, she did not risk her emotions playing havoc with common sense again. Alert for any sound, she sat up and cautiously put her feet to the floor. Rubber legs! She almost gasped as she tried to stand up and a certain respect for people who knew what they were talking about sobered her. But her unsteady limbs held her and she began to search for her clothes. Where the devil had the brute put them? Tears of weakness came into her eyes as she hunted in vain, and failure merely served to increase her determination to be done with Matt Denham. No shoes? She would go barefooted.. No clothes? The towelling robe in the shower room would do. It wasn't far. There was nobody to see. She could return it later when she had salvaged a bit of her pride. She clutched the large robe tightly about her and tiptoed to the veranda door. Still not a whisper of sound except for her own quickened breathing. Praying that a board wouldn't squeak, she eased the door ajar and slipped out. About six paces to the steps and Too late she sensed she was not alone. She almost fainted with shock as the iron grip fastened round her arm and Matt's voice hissed: "What the hell do you think you're doing?" "I - I -" Her throat contracted. "Let me go! I'm going back. I'm okay now and I can-" "You little idiot!"

The iron grip relaxed, only long enough for him to seize her with both hands. Heedless of her struggles, he carried her bodily back to the bedroom and dropped her on the bed. He slammed the door shut and stared grimly at her small crumpled form. "Are you crazy?" he gritted. "Or don't you care what happens to you?" His anger stabbed like a knife. She pressed her arm over her eyes to blot out the sight of his grim face and wished she could curl up and die. "Christie!" "Go away!" She knuckled at her eyes and dug her fingers into the pillow. "Why didn't you just let me go ? ". Matt brushed his hand across his brow and the angry line of his jaw flickered. "For heaven's sake don't weep! Tell me to go to hell, but don't -" With a smothered exclamation of despair he touched the dark tumbled hair and smoothed it back from her brow. "Believe me," he said in a low-voice, "the last thing I want is to hurt you." "It's a bit late to say that." She turned under his hand and lay listlessly, spent by the storm of emotion, and stared up at the ceiling with unseeing eyes. For a moment he watched her, then he said sharply: "Don't, Christie. Don't look like that!" "I can't help it." Her lips barely moved. "Oh, go away, Matt, before before -1 can't fight any more." His mouth worked and he reached down to her. "How can I?" he said soundlessly, "when I'm as much to blame for -"

"No -" she faced blindly into his shoulder, "it isn't your fault. It-" "Don't - you've been ill." He tangled gentle hands in her hair while he tried to halt the broken utterances. Beside his . voice she heard the steady measured ticking of his wrist- watch, racing away the seconds in time to her heart. He said softly against her ear: "It won't always be like this, Christie. Believe me, I know." "I'm - I'm trying to. Oh, Matt -" She moved convulsively and raised a stricken face. "I was going away. I didn't mean to-" Almost despairingly he silenced the trembling mouth with his own, with small tender kisses that gave without seeking any return. She clung to him instinctively, surrendering frail resolve to the cry of a bruised heart for balm. Knowing only this blind need for comfort, Christie was now oblivious to the danger of which Matt was only too aware. Basically still innocent, she forgot her warm young body under the parting robe and the invitation it could construe. Still more she forgot what she might be costing Matt - until with a strength almost brutal he gripped her shoulders and buried his face in her hair. "Don't do that!" he muttered thickly. "I'm only human, Christie." She gave a deep shuddering sigh. "Why should I pretend any more ? You know that I love you -1 can't help it." The soft whisper of her lips against his throat made him groan. He thrust her away. "That's the trouble. You don't." "But I do." A strange calm had come over her. She met his shadowed gaze. "How do you know what I feel?" "It isn't love, little one, whatever it is. And there's no future in it."

"I know." She was quite steady now. "You've made that clear from the start. But I'm not asking you for my future. I'm not trying to trap you into - into marriage. Not if you don't -" "Trap me!" he interrupted. He closed his eyes despairingly. "Your very innocence is a trap. Listen, Christie. You're not in love with me. You're in love with love. With the idea of living here, playing at primitive house. Can't you see the reality? You're enchanted by the pagan magic of a coral isle - and that potent effect the tropics can have on a man and a woman. Don't break your heart over it, Christie. It can happen to anyone. I just happened to be the man on the spot." She drew the folds of the robe closer. "You mean that I'd have fallen for any man, just because he was a man?" "Something like that." Her mouth curled bitterly. "Don't kid me, Matt." "I'm not trying to." But he avoided her eyes. "You're too nice a child." "Maybe, but I don't think you really believe that." "You're too damn right - I don't!" He jerked away from her. "The trouble is I took too long to find that out. But it doesn't make any difference, Christie." .For a moment she was silent, perceiving the tenseness betrayed in the set of his broad shoulders and the brooding lines of his profile. Just for these fleeting moments she held the power to get through to him, and with the same new wisdom that discerned this she knew that power was doomed to brief life. She said slowly: "Will you tell me one thing, Matt - if I promise to forget it? "

"You don't need to ask," he said flatly. "The answer's no." "Is it? I'm not asking you if you could ever love me." "What are you asking me, then?" "If you like me as a woman as well as a person." "Oh, Christie, what's the-?" "No, hear me out, please. I have to know," she said steadily. "When you - when you kissed me - it wasn't just kissing me and holding me because I was a girl? Because I was there? You say that I'd have fallen for any reasonably attractive man if - if there'd just been the two of us. But it isn't entirely true." "Isn't it?" "No. If it had been, say, Lonnie Teyburn ... I could never have fallen for him just because he was the only man around." Matt smiled unwillingly. "You didn't have a very wide field to choose from, did you ?" ' "It wouldn't have made any difference if there'd been a thousand attractive men, all wildly rich and handsome, and fun to be with." He smiled again. "Is that the kind of man you were looking for?" She sighed, the brief mood of calm suddenly gone. "You're deliberately not trying to see it my way. I'm trying to make you understand that I must know this one thing, or I'll never have pride and peace of mind again. Matt, would you have kissed and made love to any girl, just because she happened to be there, and because I know that it's different for a man? He doesn't have to be in love with her."

The amusement had gone from his face now. He stayed silent so long she turned her head and looked up at him, her face still wan and darkveiled with the shadows of illness. She tried to smile, but her mouth quivered as it curved. "I don't think you'd better answer that, after all." Slowly he came back to the bedside. "But I think I must. I'd be a brute if I didn't honour your courage and honesty with equal honesty. In this case," he went on quietly, "the answer is no, and so that should give you the other answer I am not prepared to put into words. I never had any intention of indulging in a casual affair with you which leaves only the other alternative, the only natural alternative from your viewpoint." Christie tried to keep her hands steady, clasping them together over the little bunched-up part of the coverlet her fingers had twisted in the material. From what seemed a long way off Matt's words dropped into the silence. "I'm thirty-six, Christie. I have two large sons aged ten and seven. David is almost as tall as you and Pete soon won't be far short. They're quite a handful. You're still in your teens with all the time in the world ahead of you to find out about living and what - and whom - you want from life. When - if I start an affair with a woman it'll have to be with marriage in mind. That's why you have to believe me when I say there's no future in loving me. It just wouldn't work out, and I like you too much to hurt you or destroy your illusions." She lay very still, the ache of loss heavy round her heart, yet strangely exalted because she knew at last that Man was not totally indifferent to her, nor had she been mistaken in her judgement of him; the deep sincerity he had revealed had proved it. She said slowly: "You would have destroyed them if you hadn't been honest with me. You know, Matt," she went on reflectively, "at one time I wouldn't have dreamed of talking like this to any man - telling him

all the things I shouldn't tell him, being honest, but it's different with you. Or is it me? I seem to have become a different person since I came to Kalinda. When I look back I feel as though I'm looking back at another life." "That's all part of it, Christie." He bent over her and very gently kissed her brow. "Go to sleep now. When it's all over you'll forget - when you go back to being the real Christie Irvine."

CHAPTER IX THE moment Christie dreaded had arrived. Matt picked up the lid of the crate and reached for the hammer. "Is this everything?" She nodded, not trusting herself to speak, and he said, "Sure? You seem to be leaving an awful lot of stuff." She walked round the partly denuded room, touching things, looking, and shook her head. "I'm going to leave it exactly as it is." "In case you ever come back?" "No, I'll never come back." She tried to laugh. "I shall think of it gradually crumbling away. The big spiders will spin their webs and the green will start to grow over it, and I shall know when it's all gone - like a dream." Abruptly she snatched up a handful of blossom and fern from the big shell he had once given her and threw it into the crate. The pink blossoms seemed to shrink, as though already they had begun to die, and her shoulders trembled. "Don't put the shell in - I'm taking that with me." "Christie ..." his voice was low. "It won't always be like this. You will forget." He touched her shoulder and she whirled round. "Don't be kind to me, Matt, or I'll start making a fool of myself." She ran wildly into the other room, from there to the lean-to kitchen, and then into the long store shed beyond, making a pretence of checking she had hot forgotten anything, although she had already wandered round and round several times during the past three days prior to the final departure. When she came back she was a little more composed

and Matt was standing on the veranda, the crate fastened and labelled in readiness for dispatch by sea., "The boat's coming. Are you ready?" "Yes - but I want my sun-specs." "Here they are - Christie, I wish you'd let me see you safely aboard the plane." "No, I'd rather you didn't. Lonnie will see to my luggage and he's going to send the crate off for me." She was stiff and tense, checking her bag for purse, passport and plane ticket, determined that she was going to be strong and independent. "Just as you wish, little one." He picked up her case and stood back, giving the laconic little gesture that she knew so well. She saw the launch slowing to nose alongside the landing stage and the burly figure of Lonnie vaulting lithely ashore. Only moments alone with Matt were left. "Well," she took a deep breath and thrust out her hand, "thanks for helping me with the gear, and - and -" She met his gaze and it was fatal. The nonchalant little farewell speech she had rehearsed over and over in her mind disintegrated and flew to the four winds. She choked, "You will write? And send me a photograph? You won't forget?" "I won't forget - though I'm a lousy letter-writer." He put gentle hands on her shoulders and shook them a little. "I won't forget you have a good trip." "Yes." She heard the thuds of Lonnie's footsteps and disengaged herself. "Goodbye, Matt - good luck."

It was all over in a few minutes. The men whipped her stuff aboard, the engine throbbed, and a gap of water was growing ever wider, bringing the same dreadful sense of finality as on the day that seemed so long ago. Only this time there was no unknown awaiting her, and part of her was staying for ever with the tall figure who gave one slow wave before he walked back up the beach, out of her sight and her life for ever. She was thankful that there would be little time to waste in Tamautoa. Only for a quick farewell of Ben and then the drive straight to the airstrip on the other side of the island. The Hopper, as the local inter-island plane service was affectionately known, already had quite a full quota of passengers. There was the usual friendly exchange between pilot and regulars, and the delay while a. lastminute search was made for a missing consignment of livestock. The crate of chickens turned up at last, in the charge of one diminutive child, and the Hopper made encouraging sounds as it prepared to take off. The stout, middle-aged woman sitting next to Christie had started from Fiji very early that morning after transferring from her flight from England. She was travel-weary and querulous, which was understandable, but unfortunately for the captive Christie wedged on the hard narrow seat beside her she was also extremely garrulous.. The Hopper was the immediate source of her discontent, coming very low in the comfort rating after the comparative luxury of a VC 10, as was the irritation of the frequent stops as the Hopper wheezed down to each small island on its route. The fact that for many of these islands the Hopper was the sole link with the outside world did not seem to occur to Mrs. Amelia Bane. But at last she exhausted her peeve and expanded into confidence. Christie listened patiently while Mrs. Bane talked on and on, untouched by the faintly patronising air in the stout woman's manner. She was on her way to spend a long holiday with her son on a small

island Christie had never heard of but which apparently was proving the source of a hitherto unsuspected mineral wealth. Her son was the kingpin around which the developing company had evolved. He had got on. He'd built a villa that had everything, and he had plans to develop the island in other ways. He was building a hotel. After all, if his company was bringing the business there he wasn't going to let some property shark get in under his nose. And when the airstrip was enlarged the bigger planes would be able to come in. But she didn't like his wife. He should never have married an American girl. She couldn't stand Americans. They were... Christie sighed, feeling obliged to point out that she had met two American girls on holiday the previous year and found them great fun. "Maybe..." Unwillingly Mrs. Bane conceded the point. "When you get to know her she'll probably be very sweet," Christie said automatically. Mrs. Bane nodded, but she wasn't convinced. She turned a sharpeyed glance on Christie, seeming to see her for the first time, and said: "You look young to be all this way out on your own. Are you touring ?" x

The inquisition began, and short of actual rudeness there seemed no way of avoiding it. She answered as briefly as she could, but she was no match for Mrs. Bane. "Really'. How extraordinary." Mrs. Bane's eyes rounded. "But of course you couldn't dream of staying there. Your uncle must have been an odd sort of person to - What was that?" 'That' was sudden bucketing of the aircraft, followed by change of engine note. "A bit of an air pocket, I think," said Christie, culling

from overheard comments remembered from her previous journey on the Hopper. "It'll be all right." "I should hope so." Mrs. Bane breathed again. "If I'd known it was going to be like this I'd -" She stopped, as did the other mingled sounds' in the long cabin. The silence was so unnerving it took a second or so to realise that the engine had also stopped, as though to listen. Sheer panic suspended movement, everything, until the splutter and roar shuddered through the aircraft. Then the uproar broke out. People grabbed at anything as they were flung about helplessly. Mrs. Bane was screaming. The crate of chicks slid down the centre gangway and from somewhere behind Christie there was the crash of breaking glass. Elsewhere an authoritative voice was shouting, trying to make itself heard, and the next moment the plane miraculously righted itself. The shouts succeeded in surmounting the melee, and a big man thrust the chicken crate away from the door to the cockpit. "Don't panic!" he bellowed. "Fasten your belts and get your heads down. Now!" The noise of fear started again. Some of the passengers tried to obey, others were petrified with fright, and somewhere a small child sobbed wildly. "Shut up!" yelled the big man. "We're going down for a forced landing. Okay, lady," he saw Christie trying to help Mrs. Bane to fasten her belt and bent over to help, "just sit tight. We ain't ever lost a passenger yet and we don't aim to start now." "It - it sounds all right now," Christie said through white trembling lips. "Is it -"

"But it isn't. It's the injector - that's why we've got to get down." The big man spoke quickly, moving on down the plane. The nightmarish moments seemed to last for ever while the plane lost height rapidly and the blue rushed up to meet it. There was utter silence now as the ashen-faced collection of humanity waited for the dreadful impact it was sure must come. When it came, with a roar and rush that must split them all asunder and a darkening of the cabin, Christie put her hands over her head and waited for the engulfing blackness. It did not come. The light flowed back, the sensation of pressure in her ears gave way to a strange floating feeling, then the grinding and tearing shuddered through the under-carriage but without any sense of personal injury. "God! We've hit the bleeding razor-back! God Almighty -" The string of profanities flowed from the big man and struck fresh fear into the hearts of the shocked passengers. Christie struggled with her belt, her thought at one with that of everyone else; to get out while she was still in one piece - if she was still in one piece. Mrs. Bane was lolling towards her, and for a terrifying flash she thought the woman was dead. Then she felt something else, and before she could react Mrs. Bane let out a shriek. "I'm drowning! The water's coming in! Let me out of here!" It was true; the floor of the cabin was aswirl with sea-water. The big man was shouting again, the only way he could main- Jain any control over the situation, and somehow his message got through. He moved down the cabin, ascertaining that there were no serious injuries, then told them the truth. Attempting to land on floats in the lagoon of an atoll, impetus had carried the plane on to a submerged reef. The plane was now sitting like a stranded duck on a shelf

covered by a foot of water. There was no need to panic. They wouldn't sink. It was just a matter of waiting for a rescue party to arrive and take them off. But they must stay put; they were safer in the plane than in trying to take to the inflatable dinghy. There were emergency rations on board; no one need feel alarm yet. But he did not tell them that the pilot had suffered a dislocated shoulder and the radio had fluked out. It was Christie and a young Malaysian engineer who first found out. The big man had done his best for his partner, but the injured pilot was in considerable pain. "Is there anything I can do? I've a scarf that would make a sling," she offered. "No," the big man shook his head. "I got the joint back. Just keep the others from worrying now they've settled down. I've put up a distress flare and we'll be missed by now, so we've just got to hang on." Slowly Christie went back to Mrs. Bane and not very sympathetically reported that there was no hope of any lunch forthcoming. A certain cameraderie had grown up among the passengers by now. Having discovered there was no immediate danger they were inclined to sit it out philosophically. Four men had got a poker school going in the tail, the Tamil mother soothed her baby, Mrs. Bane was in need of nourishment, and plaintive cheeps came from the crate of chicks. The worst enemy was the sun. Even with the plane doors forced back to their fullest extent to let in as much air as possible the fuselage trapped the heat and sent the temperature soaring. ' It was four hours before rescue appeared, and when it did it was helpless. The big man was the first to spot the outriggers on the

horizon and a cheer went, up from the poker school when he called out the news. But the tide was now at its lowest ebb. The canoes could only gather in a semi-circle, unable to approach near enough to take off the stranded passengers. Some of them wanted to leave the plane, to wade across the reef and swim for it, but the big man was adamant. The reef was a treacherous network of razor-like ridges, and the black fins cutting through the water a short distance away settled the argument. It meant more hours of discomfort in the cramped, cabin, but it was preferable to the company of the sharks... The sun was turning to scarlet fire when Christie stumbled at last on firm ground again. She had reached the state of stoicism when being carried aloft in the arms of a giant brown- skinned Melanesian islander with a smile so white it dazzled was just part of her day, along with a skimming journey into the sunset, sitting in the bows of the long canoe propelled at a cracking speed by flashing brown arms that gleamed like oiled silk as they wielded the paddles. It was almost worth it all to quieten Mrs. Bane, she thought with an inward giggle that bordered on hysteria, but when Mrs. Bane recovered ... Mrs. Bane recovered more quickly than Christie expected when she eventually found herself high and dry in the only accommodation Aramura could offer. But it was the home of the rescuers and therefore the natural destination. The Traders' Hotel was exactly what its name implied, but the traders for whom it catered had long since become hardened to the vicissitudes of an island that still drowsed in the ambience of the days when it had been a calling post for the tall ships plying from the Indies. It had been awakened for a brief, rude spell during the Pacific hostilities of the nineteen- forties; with the coming of the peace Aramura went to sleep again, jogging along on copra and ignoring the ugly concrete landing base left by the receding tide of war. There were eighteen people from the plane and the Traders' Hotel had five bedrooms and no bathrooms. It also lacked a chef, and in the

way of human nature the thankfulness of the unlucky eighteen changed very soon to dissatisfaction with the clapboard and corrugated iron shelter in which they would have to wait until arrangements for emergency transport were made. Mrs. Bane sank down in a chair in the lounge and looked at the wilting potted palms with disfavour, but it was nothing to the disfavour with which she discovered that she would have to share a room with Christie and the Tamil woman with the baby. Christie was exhausted to the point of collapse, but she tried to soothe her, realising that under her peevishness Mrs. Bane was a badly shaken woman. The proprietor did his best. He conjured forth a meal of baked bonita and taro, and there was no shortage of liquid refreshment. Afterwards, the party gathered in the lounge and waited hopefully for the big man. "First thing in the morning," he assured them when he returned from his long session with the port authority. "Yes - we sent all your messages," he held up his hand to stem the babble of requests that met him. "Now if you'll take my advice you'll get some sleep, folks. There's nothing more we can do." All during that long uncomfortable night Christie lay silent and sleepless. Unsuspected weakness from the recent illness had taken its toll, but it paled into insignificance against the other ache which nothing in the world except time would ease., The Tamil baby was fretful, and listening to the young mother gently hushing it Christie thought of the tiny chicks suffocating in the heat of their prison; and with the jumbled medley of memories she thought constantly of a man who had taught her to unlock the secrets of herself - only to take away the key. As sleep stole into the hot, airless room to claim all but one of the weary occupants Christie looked into a future without Matt Denham and wept at last - the silent, dry-eyed grief of lost love and despair.

*** Despite the big man's assurances it was nearing noon before the longed-for speck glinted in the sky and materialised into a flying boat of the Pacific air-sea rescue service; The big man went out to greet the two men in braided caps and white uniform who emerged and took them into the dining room of the hotel where the party had assembled with their possessions. Spirits had lifted like magic, smiles appeared and jokes were bandied among the men, but it wasn't quite as easy as they hoped. To start with they were being returned to Fiji, where their normal flight would be resumed on a specially chartered plane. Mrs. Bane was enraged. She didn't want to go back to Fiji. She'd just come from Fiji. She wanted to go to Manea and nowhere else. And she wanted to know what they were going to do about it. They were very patient. They reasoned with her, they explained that their function was to rescue, not to complete the schedules of commercial airlines, much as they sympathised with the inconvenience suffered by the victims of mishap. At last they grew weary. Perhaps Madam would prefer to complete her journey by boat. There were freighters, inter-island steamers, the copra boats... it could be arranged... Madam gave in, not very gracefully, and at that point the young Tamil woman with the baby suddenly decided that she could not face being airborne again for a very long time, if ever. She would wait, she would go by the boat, but take wings again - never! The big man looked harassed, and Mrs. Bane forgot her pique and turned motherly. She sympathised with the young mother and told her that after this sample of flying efficiency she'd think twice before she ever entrusted herself to a one- eyed airline like this one. There

was a great deal more in this vein and the big man chose to ignore it while he conferred with the Malaysian, who, it seemed, was not coming with them and had made his own arrangements to leave Aramura. The big man then turned to the unsuspecting Christie and delivered the last shock she ever expected. Apparently she wasn't going with them, either! "Orders, Miss Irvine - you are Miss Irvine ?" She nodded dumbly, sure it must be a dreadful mistake. In vain she argued, pleaded, appealed to the two air-crew standing by, who looked rather worried. "Don't panic," said the big man. "Everything's arranged. I got the check list from control this morning. You and Mr. Lim are to wait behind. Your transport will be along later." "Yes, but why?" she said frantically. "I don't understand." "Neither do I, lady." The big man was beginning to look as though he'd had enough of the whole business. "I just take the orders. And don't wander off. Stay in the hotel until you're called. Understand?" The air-sea rescue men were beginning to betray signs of impatience. At a sign from the younger one the big man said, "Right, let's go," and the passengers began to collect their luggage and straggle outside to the waiting tender. All except Christie and the Malaysian engineer. About to turn away the older of the two airmen hesitated, catching sight of Christie's wan, uneasy expression. He came over to her. "Not very happy with the idea, are you? But there's no need to be scared. You won't be forgotten."

"I hope not," she said in a small voice. "You're the only one for England, aren't you?" She nodded, on the point of a final plea to him to intercede and insist on taking her along: But no such idea seemed to occur to him. He touched her shoulder. "That's why. It's to save you going back over and losing a day. Like the engineer chap. I gather he's carrying some vital spare part to some mining installation out on Manea. There's a chopper coming for him." "And me?" He grinned. 'It'll be a new experience for you. It's only a short hop from Manea up to Papeete. Then you're almost home." Almost home! He meant she was back on the route of the international airlines. But she was almost beyond grasping time and distance any longer. "You'll actually save two days this way." He grinned, trying to cheer her. "It's still yesterday back in Fiji." She managed a smile, too weary to reason out the tricks of time caused by the International Date Line which invisibly severed the Pacific from north to south, and he gave her a comforting little wink before he hurried in the wake of the others. The hotel felt empty and alien when they had gone. She tried to subdue the tremors of unease that started again the moment the plane took off and resigned herself to another enforced wait. The Malaysian had gone off somewhere and so had the two small crates he was delivering. But he couldn't have left! He hadn't boarded the plane and there was no other way he could have departed. The stretch of waterfront held few craft, most of them somewhat

dilapidated, and one in particular, an ancient cabin cruiser, looked as though it hadn't put to sea for years. She opened the magazines Mrs. Bane had bestowed on her, trying to put fear out of her mind, and frowned. Mr. Lim was going to Manea; wasn't that the island Mrs. Bane was bound for? Why hadn't they included her in the arrangement? It was a disturbing thought... After a meal she didn't want but took because it made a break in the monotony, she had reached the frame of mind when she would have welcomed even Mrs. Bane like a long- lost friend. Suddenly she couldn't bear another moment spent in the depressing atmosphere of the hotel lounge. She felt as though she knew every blister in its drab green paint and every drooping frond of its despondent palms. The swarthy-faced proprietor was nowhere to be seen - since lunch she might have been the Only being in the place - and after banging the bell three times without response she gave it up and wandered outside. As an island paradise Aramura had never got off even with the starters, not compared to Kalinda, and indifferent to whether she explored to left or right she turned to face the sun and walked along the length of the deserted waterfront. It did not reach far. The dirt road petered out into scrub and the jetty palings sank into the dark tangle of a mangrove swamp. She retraced her steps, past the hotel and along a narrow, overgrown track through the trees. Almost immediately she came to the old landing field. She paused on the verge and then walked across. It seemed unlikely that anything would ever land on it now. In places it was completely overgrown. Elsewhere great cracks had appeared in the concrete and in one place a tree was growing through. At the far side a concrete blockhouse stood, and in its shadows the rusting outer hulk of an engine lay half buried in coarse fern. And near the forgotten relics of long-past battle were the incongruous contrasts of blossom, delicate, fresh and mute in nature's innocence but potent in

their invocation of the senses. Christie knew she would never escape the unbearable nostalgia the scent of frangipani brought her ... Abruptly she turned and hastened back to the track by the sea, following it aimlessly until she came to the beginning of the palm groves, and here was the first indication of order and activity she had found on the island. The drying racks, the copra sheds, the fleet of outriggers and in the distance the native village... She stayed where she was, sitting on the ridge banked by roots and sandy fern, cooling off before she set off back to the hotel. When she heard the noise above it did not register instantly, then she started out of her melancholy and leapt to her feet. The helicopter was coming down fast, hovering over the trees and then sinking out of sight as she began to run back along the beach. It must have landed on the old airfield after all. And she wasn't there. Oh, fool! she cried under her breath as she rushed frantically up the rise to the track. Oh, God, she thought, how far did I come? Her heart was thudding like a piston and perspiration soaked through her thin blouse. The blind, aimless perambulation had carried her far farther than she had realised and she was forced to slow her running feet while she gasped air into her breathless body. She was within a hundred yards of the clearing when the 'copter rose. Stricken with horror, she watched it ascend like some great fantastic insect from another world. Her eyes dilated with disbelief, and she shouted out, starting to stumble forward, until she realised the futility of it and came to a halt. When she reached the gaunt bulk of the blockhouse she put her hands against the rough cool concrete and pressed her forehead against them. It couldn't have happened! It couldn't have come and gone so

quickly, in the space of a few minutes. It just couldn't be true. That she was stranded again, and it was entirely her own fault. At last she stirred. The walk back to the hotel was like moving through the realm of a dreadful nightmare. None of it was real; the irritating cloud of insects that her hot clammy skin seemed to draw like a magnet, the pall of moist humidity that sapped all vitality from her, leaving her body an empty husk from which all desire to fight had drained, -the peeling ramshackle lines of the Traders' Hotel shimmering like a mirage that might dissolve if she touched it... No, it was all a dreadful fantasy spun by fate to torment her, even to the final cruel hallucination of a voice she would never forget. The dimness inside the hotel was like a dark veil after the glare outside. Her eyes wouldn't focus fast enough to let her see while Mart's voice said calmly: "I'm beginning to think you're accident-prone, my little pagan."

CHAPTER X THE hazy shape of him took outline, depth, and cleared. "Matt!" she gasped, unbelieving. "Is it really you?" "Why don't you come and find out?" He stretched out a hand, but she was already there, homing to the hard enduring security of arms that gathered her to safety while the incoherencies tumbled like a spate long imprisoned. "- and I thought it had gone without me." She moved her head convulsively, pressing her face closer against the broad warm heaven of his chest. "I didn't know what I was going to do, and I'll have missed my big flight, and -" "And the whole world had forgotten you? Poor Christie," he ruffled her hair, "you do believe in punishment." "I couldn't help it!" Suddenly aghast that once again she was surrendering her foolish heart where it wasn't wanted, she pulled away. The dream was over; its fabric was sturdy and very substantial, but it wasn't for her. She swallowed hard. "Sorry - I didn't mean to go all emotional again, but -" She took a deep breath and summoned a shaky smile. "You were the last person I expected to see." "Was I?" There was an enigmatic note in his tone. He put one hand under her chin, pinching it in the vee of finger and thumb and turning her face up to the light. "Are you all right? You didn't get hurt when it came down?" "No - it was a miracle. Some people got bumped and the pilot dislocated His shoulder." Still captive, she tried to be casual. "It was a bit scarifying at the time, but..."'

Abruptly he released her and stepped back, glancing in the direction of the bead curtain screening the recess that led to the staff quarters. Christie moved as well, her voice quickening with urgency. "But you haven't told me how you knew. How you - did you come in that helicopter?" "In a minute." He did not turn. "I need a drink, and by the look of you so do you. What's this place got to offer?" He banged the counter bell and a shadow moved behind the bead curtain. The swarthy-faced proprietor came through as though he had been hovering there ail the time and looked stolidly at Matt. Matt ordered two whiskies, ignoring Christie's protest at his choice for her, and took her arm. Firmly he steered her to the only modicum of privacy at a table beyond the arched section of the long room. The slats of light penetrating the closed shutters of the window cast shadowy bars across his head and shoulders, but the grimness round his mouth was discernible as he gestured towards her glass. The amber spirit tilted wildly as she lifted the glass with shaking fingers. Even now she was afraid to take her gaze far from him lest it wasn't all real after all and he melted into the dusky, sterile shadows behind him. She took a small mouthful and choked on a giggle. "Is this shock treatment or are you trying to get me sloshed ? " "No. I'm trying to do something about the reaction that's due to set in any moment." "Mine or yours?" She was taut and on edge now, her eyes brilliant and her voice thin and strained. His mouth compressed. "Don't talk. Drink that and get some colour into your cheeks."

She was too emotionally possessed to notice that his calm was also controlling a certain degree of his own stress. She sighed and obediently sipped the spirit, beginning to feel the warmth and stimulation almost immediately. Matt drained his own glass and went back to the counter to bang the bell and collect a Second round. This time he brought a chaser for himself and a cordial for Christie. He set them down on the table and spoke before she could get in with the question still hovering on her lips. "The chopper's coming back for us, but he'll be late. He's taking that engineer to Manea first, so we've several hours to kill." He picked up his glass. "I think you ought to get some sleep." "Sleep!" She jerked up. "Do you think I could sleep now after - after -?" She shook her head vehemently, then caught at her breath as a certain little plural he had used began to register in her overwrought brain. She said raggedly, "But it won't work out. I mean he'll have to take us separately. Otherwise, how will you get back?" "Same way as I came." It made no answer and she sighed wearily, knowing she couldn't bear to face the parting all over again. She looked steadily past his shoulder, hanging on to the brief courage that the whisky had stiffened. "Listen, Matt, if you've got some mad idea of coming all the way to Papeete to see me safely off there's no need. It - it's very kind of you and - and - but there's no need. You don't have to feel any responsibility for me just because I - I got a bit silly over you back on the island." Her voice began to ebb, and she rushed on, knowing if she once let herself stop and look at him she would be lost. "After all, we - agreed that it was best forgotten About, and - so why did you bother?"

She did not know that her haunted eyes held an infinitely more telling message than the brave little assurances. To fill the painful silence after the ebbing words she seized the glass and gulped down the thick sweet cordial. Then she forced herself to meet his eyes and repeat: "I mean it. You shouldn't have bothered, Matt." "I couldn't stay away." His voice sounded flat, yet oddly distorted, and she was aware of a throbbing in her temples that was the drum of her own pulses. She wanted to say something, hurt him, shout at him that she couldn't take any more of this limbo in which he held her captive, even as he remained inviolate behind a barrier she could not penetrate. He said in the same distorted nuances: "I went through hell last night, worrying and wondering where you were. Wondering if anyone was looking after you, if you were hurt, miserable, frightened ..." He drew in a deep, uneven breath. "I blamed myself for driving you away. If I hadn't... That's why I had to come." Somewhere unseen a door opened. A faint air tremor eddied through the building, stirring the bead curtain to tiny staccato rattles. The small sounds faded and left a deathly stillness that induced a feeling of suffocation in Christie. It pressed round her, keeping the wild angry surge pent in her so that he misted in the blind despair blurring her vision. Then the paroxysm found release and she stumbled to her feet, clenching small brown fists on the table. "Well, you shouldn't!" she blazed. "If you went through hell what do you think I went through? Nobody drove me away! Nobody, do you hear? Last of all you!" The chair tipped behind her and poised motionless on two legs before it toppled. But she did not hear its crash as she bolted for the stairs and tore blindly up to her room. The door crashed shut after her inward flight and plunged her into darkness. She blundered across to

the tightly shuttered window and cried aloud as she stumbled into an obstacle. The shutter catches were high up, and stiff and unwieldy under her trembling fingers. She struggled and thrust fiercely at one side and suddenly it flew open, the impetus almost pitching her forward. She grabbed at the other one and for the second time the door flew back with a force that made it tremble in its ramshackle frame. Matt crossed the room in three strides and seized her shoulders. He swung her round with a single angry movement and held her fast in a grip so hard it bruised. "Stop it!" he jerked. "Can't you see why I came?" He was almost shaking her and all the hidden strength of him threatened to break the bonds of control. Small sobs of pain escaped her and he gave a despairing groan. "Why are you so vulnerable? So small I could break you in my two hands - while I try not to hurt you. It frightens me. I look at you and I know the . world has never hurt you - until I did. It makes me-" "No!" She made a last desperate effort to thrust him away, pressing her hands against his chest. "I told you, don't be sorry for me. And for pity's sake don't feel guilty. I'm not ashamed because I love you," she whispered brokenly, "and I don't blame you because you can't give me your love in return. But pity's the last thing I want!" "You still can't see, can you?" he gritted. His arms dragged her hard against him and he began to kiss her with a violence that forced her head back helplessly. It was no kiss of tender prelude, rather the kiss of climax, as though some long-pent vital force could no longer be contained. She could only hold on to swimming senses and wait until the storm was spent. When at last the bruising pressure slackened she was dazed and shaken.

He pressed her face into his shoulder, stroked her hair with hard, rapid strokes that gradually slowed, and took a long shuddering breath. "I'm sorry, little one - I didn't mean it to be quite like that." The lowspoken words whispered into her hair, and his hands were tender now. "You're too precious to me - that's why I had to come. Because although I was strong enough to send you away for the sake of your own happiness I wasn't strong enough to sacrifice my own." She felt the rise and fall of his breathing, and the thud of a heartbeat that raced with her own. Incredulity stirred in her, faltered, and began to soar into something she still dared not believe. Slowly she raised her head, to meet the dark intensity of a hunger she had never yet glimpsed in a man's eyes. "Yes, I came to take you back with me, for always." He cupped his hands round her face and tilted it up. "Will you come?" "You mean - you mean you want me to belong to you?" She could barely whisper the words, still unsure that it wasn't all adding up to some appalling misunderstanding. "You mean that I do mean something to you, Matt? " The dark intensity did not waver, except to soften into the expression she had yearned to read there. He inclined his head and the touch of his fingertips communicated their love. "You'll never know how much, my little one -1 didn't realise just how much until I heard that the plane had come down. But it's got to be for keeps - are you sure ?" She bowed her head. "I've never made any secret about my feeling for you. You were the one with the doubts, Matt."

"Because I couldn't believe that a few short weeks could ever be long enough to form the foundation of an enduring love," he said softly. "Certainly not to justify risking your future happiness." She was silent, and he released her with a lingering drag of his hands from her shoulders. "We have to face it, Christie, no matter how dearly we love each other - No, hear me out," he interjected quickly when she started to speak. "Don't make it any more difficult for me to see things straight for both our sakes. Can you pull up roots, Christie? Not just for a little while, but possibly for always? Because my life lies here now." "I think I pulled them up the day I set sail from Southampton," she said evenly. "No," he contradicted. "You set off without a care in the world to seek new horizons and excitement. The restlessness of youth impelled you, not any thought of transplanting your life. And you knew it was all still there, a loving family, home, all the things that added up to the fabric of your life. All still waiting if the time came when you needed them. Can you leave them all, without regrets?" For a moment she stayed still, then she went slowly to the window and stared out over the darkening sea. At last she said in a low voice: "The answer's yes - if you love me enough, Matt." "And there's one other important thing that has to be remembered, Christie," he said in the same quiet tones. "I know. Your sons, David and Pete." She swung round and faced him. "You're not sure of what they'll say, how they'll react to a stranger taking their mother's place. That's what worries you, isn't it, Matt?"

"Not entirely. Can you take on a ready-made family, Christie? Another woman's children?" "I don't think that's exactly the question you are trying to ask," she said after a pause. She looked at him with sober eyes. "I think you're trying to say will I love them as though they were my own. Can I bring them the love they need. I can only say that I'll try, Matt. That I'll try to make up to them for what they've lost - if they'll try to love me. And if you'll help me to understand them - with your love." "I don't think you're going to need my help," he said softly, and held out his arms. She went into them, to the whispered exchange of endearments, to the joy of a kiss surrendered to at last without doubt or anguish. Touching the firm line of his mouth with the first tentative seeking of love, she said softly: "You know so much about me - how I felt about you almost before I knew it myself. But you never even seemed to care if I was there or not - at the beginning I think you would have actually thrown me off the island if I'd given you half a chance." "Because I think I knew right at the beginning what was going to come. I'll be honest - I didn't want to risk losing my heart to a slip of a girl who didn't come up to my shoulder, who looked like a tenyear-old urchin one minute and then turned before my eyes into a provocative child-woman who had no notion of the power she held behind that prickly temper and gallant honesty. I'd had a vaguely formed idea that one day I might marry again, but the vague shadow at the back of my mind of the woman I'd fall for didn't remotely resemble you." "Does our dream lover ever resemble the real thing?" she said wonderingly. "I loathed you at first," she giggled, "but I couldn't give in until I'd defied you and proved that I wouldn't go just because of

you. Then suddenly you began to accept me and I -" she stopped, still aware of shyness not entirely overcome. "I know when it happened." His arms were locked tightly round her waist and his eyes teased. "It was the day - or rather the night we were stranded aboard the Chiton, wasn't it?" She avoided his eyes, and suddenly he drew her close again. "That was the night when I really saw the danger signals. I wasn't very kind to you that night, was I, little one ?" "Weren't you?" His mouth curved in wry smile of recollection. "I couldn't tell you at the time, but you definitely came off the victor that night." "I did?" She nestled her cheek closer. "It didn't seem like it at the time." "No, I tried deliberately to scotch what I thought couldn't be more than an adolescent rave -" "You big-head!" "- by giving you a taste of disillusion. But it didn't work." "Didn't it? I've forgotten," she said innocently. "No? I think you remember very well. I made a pass at you which in those particular circumstances would make it quite plain to any girl just exactly what it was likely to lead to. But you didn't do any of the things I expected. You didn't pretend outraged innocence, or go all coy, putting me off to lead me on, which is a feminine trick most men despise - unless they're merely out for the fun of it. Instead you reversed the tables very neatly, with a dignity that made me ashamed

of trying to destroy your trust, and yet. with a gentleness that couldn't damage the most sensitive of masculine pride." She was silent, remembering that night and the anguish of her thoughts with a pang of tenderness. Instinct had known even then that it would take a great deal to shake her trust in' him. Some day she would tell him of how near he came to making her question the ideals she had always held, but the other thoughts were crowding in, the eternal desire of a woman to be told she is loved and tell of her own love in return. And there was the answer he had never given her regarding a certain proposition he had once mentioned. She looked up, voicing it then, and he shook his head, releasing her to. get out his cigarettes and light one. The small action was deliberate, to bring a breathing space to overcharged emotions. He opened the other shutter and said slowly: "Part of it was because of the move afoot to declare Kalinda a protected island, to preserve it unspoilt and protect its rare marine life. The preservation society to which I belong would have bought you out as far as the shell trading business was concerned, but allowed you to visit the island whenever you wished." He paused, turning to face her. "I also had the idea of bringing the boys out for a few weeks, to see your reaction. But after second thoughts I decided against it. I was still unwilling to acknowledge the implication of where it was all leading." "Yes," she rested her hands on the window ledge and looked down, "and there was Melanie, with her flower arrangements in your house. I saw you kissing her outside the hotel one night." "Did you?" Matt laughed softly and his hands stole round her from behind. "Are you going to be jealous of every woman I ever kissed?" "No - as long as you never kiss any of them again."

"Have you lost your trust in me after all ? " "Melanie was a bitch!" She turned abruptly within the circle of his arms and regarded him with anxiety. "You didn't really see her as the ideal woman you could marry?" Matt tipped up her chin and his old sardonic grin flashed. "She only wanted a flirtation. She's bored, and she knew the rules." "You mean she made her own!" "Yes, she did." His mouth went grave, and with a sudden fierceness Christie put her arms tightly round him. The half smoked cigarette went out of the window as Matt bent to her mouth. With a sigh of ecstasy Christie abandoned herself to his love, returning his kisses with an ardour that leapt like wildfire from the flame he had lit within her. Time and space ceased to exist, until abruptly he put her from him. "No - not here, my darling heart." His voice was rough with unsteadiness. "I can't take any more of being within an ace of possessing you. I want you very much at this moment - too much." "I want you too." She turned away reluctantly from the smouldering desire in his eyes. "I never knew that I could feel like this - this wanting to belong." "Now you understand why I fought to stop this awakening coming too soon. I wanted you to be sure of your heart - and I wanted to know my own - not bring you heartbreak." "I love you so much,' Matt," she said simply.

"I love you so very much." He moved to the door and held out his hand. "Come on, my little pagan heart. We've a lot of plans to make, and a journey to take - this time together." "Together," she echoed softly as she ran joyously to put her hand and her life into his and take the first wonderful steps into their future. What was it that Mrs. Allen had said? That human beings, not places and possessions brought life's hurt and happiness? How true was the old lady's sightless wisdom. For hadn't she found in Matt her greatest anguish - and her greatest happiness ...?