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‘Look, Papa, I’d really rather not prolong this discussion, if you don’t mind. I’m bone-tired, and I’d really like to get home. I’ll phone you and Mom later, if there’s any news. OK?’
‘OK.’ The old man seemed to sense that his son was nearing the end of his tether, and he backed off. ‘I’ll expect to hear from you later, then.’
‘Yes, later,’ said Alex gratefully. ‘Ciao, Papa. And—thanks for calling.’
Outside again, Alex breathed in deeply the cooling air of late afternoon. As the sun sank in the sky, the city streets became cool canyons of shade, and, in spite of his internal turmoil, Alex couldn’t prevent the sense of relief he felt to be back on the island. Increasingly hectic though Honolulu was becoming, it was his home, and he loved it.
Carlo didn’t do him the injustice of bothering to ask if he had learned anything new. He knew that if Alex had heard anything he would have told him, and he remained silent as his employer drove north along Kapahulu Avenue. The roads around the capital were busy with a mixture of tourists and home-going commuters, but, once beyond the city’s limits, Alex could relax. The powerful Mercedes would have eaten up the miles, but he kept it within the speed-limit. He was in no real hurry to reach home, whatever he had told his father.
He took the main highway across the southern flank of the island, and then drove north again along the coast road. The scenery here was spectacular, but although Alex saw the long golden stretches of sand, with the pale aquamarine water creaming on the shoreline, he was in no mood to appreciate them. He was remembering his daughter’s fear of her mother’s moods, and that without Mama Lu to intercede on her behalf she was vulnerable.
The Conti estate lay just beyond the Waiahole Valley, where orchids and anthurium blossoms grew in such profusion. It was a farming area, with fruit orchards and quiet meadows grazed by handsome horses, defying the hand of the developer. But Alex’s home was on the seaward side of the road, and the curving track that led from Kamehameha Highway resisted any efforts to infiltrate his privacy. Besides, at the gates to the estate he employed a very efficient security staff to ensure that no unwelcome visitor got in. The pity of it was, he thought now, that they had had no jurisdiction to prevent anyone from getting out.
A lush jungle of palms and wild hibiscus formed a natural barrier between the private road that led to the estate, and the manicured lawns beyond. Alex noticed that the white flowers had come into bloom in his absence; combined with the more familiar red blossoms of the hibiscus the effect was startling. Like blood on white linen, he reflected fancifully, and then dragged his thoughts from the precipice where they were heading. Virginia wasn’t going to defeat him, he told himself grimly. But the knife turned just the same.
Kumaru, his house—the house that had once belonged to his father, but which Alex’s parents had moved out of when Vittorio had retired—stood on a rise, with the ocean at its back. It had been Alex’s home for as long as he could remember; firstly as a much-loved only child, and then later, after his marriage to Virginia, they had occupied the self-contained wing that his father had had built on to the main building. Alex suspected that his mother and father had not originally intended to move out of their home. But circumstances had changed their minds. Although they had never criticised Virginia in his presence, it had become increasingly obvious that the two households could not exist side by side. Virginia had made no secret of her dislike of his parents, and, although they loved their only grandchild, when Vittorio had given up his active role in the corporation they had moved into a smaller house, nearer the city.
The house itself was a long, sprawling, ranch-style dwelling, with most of the rooms on the ground floor. But, as the house was built on sloping land, a lowerground floor gave space for what had used to be his mother’s garden room, a sauna and gymnasium where Alex expunged much of his frustration, and a play-room for Maria. Mama Lu’s quarters were there, too, next to the play-room. The old Hawaiian woman, who had been first his nurse and was now Maria’s, also acted as unpaid housekeeper, for Virginia had never been interested in looking after her family. It was all ‘too boring’: her words, not his. Besides, why should she bother about such things, when that ‘stupid old woman’ was perfectly willing to do it?
Things had changed a lot since the days when his mother had taken a pride in supervising the running of her home, Alex thought now, bringing the car to a halt on the pebbled forecourt. Although she had been a haole, or a newcomer to the island, having been brought up in New England and coming to the island for the first time when she married Vittorio, Sonya Conti came of good middle-European stock. In consequence, she had never been prepared to leave her household in the hands of servants. She had been there, ever vigilant, caring for her home and her family, creating the comfortable ambience her husband had needed after a day at the office.
Not so Virginia. Alex had invariably been greeted by some complaint about himself, or Maria, or one of the servants, and her ever-present craving for excitement had soured the whole atmosphere of the house. Indeed, were it not for the fact that she had taken with her the one person Alex loved more than anyone else in the world, he might have welcomed her disappearance. Though, he conceded wearily, knowing what he did about her mental condition, he doubted he could have abandoned his responsibilities completely. Family ties were too strong, and his upbringing had been such that he would not, in all conscience, have left her to her fate.
Now he thrust open his door to get out, but before he could pull his jacket from the back seat a small baldheaded man came rushing out of the house. Dressed in baggy black trousers and a dark green mandarin jacket, his olive-skinned face alight with animation, he came crunching across the pebbled drive towards the car. It was Wong Lee, Alex’s steward and Mama Lu’s husband, and Alex felt his stomach tighten at the probable cause for his excitement.
‘Padrone!’ he exclaimed, skidding to a halt beside the car. ‘Padrone, you have a visitor.’
Alex endeavoured to control his quickening heartbeat. ‘A visitor?’ he echoed, as Carlo, too, got out of the automobile. ‘What kind of a visitor?’
‘What kind of a visitor?’ Wong Lee’s eyes registered his confusion. ‘What kind of visitor were you expecting?’
‘The padrone was not expecting a visitor,’ snapped Carlo shortly, his superiority of service giving the edge of impatience to his voice. ‘What the padrone means is—is his visitor on business, or pleasure?’
‘Thank you, Carlo, I can handle this,’ Alex inserted swiftly, sensing the potential for conflict and in no mood to encourage it. The fact that Mama Lu was still apt to spread her favours rather freely sometimes created other problems, and, although both Carlo and Wong Lee were in their sixties, sexual rivalry knew no age limit. ‘Who is the visitor, Lee?’ His palms felt damp. ‘Is it someone from the mainland?’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Wong Lee, giving Carlo Ventura a triumphant look. ‘She says she’s Mrs Ginia’s cousin. She says Mrs Ginia invited her to come visit.’
Alex’s brows descended. ‘Virginia’s cousin?’ he echoed disbelievingly, and then, before either Wong Lee or Carlo could make any further comment, he tossed his jacket over one shoulder and strode towards the house. Virginia’s cousin, he brooded as he mounted the two shallow steps that led up to the veranda. He couldn’t remember Virginia ever mentioning any female cousin, and he was pretty sure he hadn’t met her at the wedding. The marriage, which had taken place in London, had been a fairly large affair, it was true, and it was possible that there had been cousins of Virginia’s there that he had never been introduced to. But, as far as he knew, Virginia’s mother had been an only child—much the same as Virginia, he reflected now, with similar characteristics—and her father had supposedly died in the dim and distant past. Indeed, so far as Virginia’s relatives had been concerned, they had been rather thin on the ground, and the majority of the guests had been friends and acquaintances, and his own rather large circle of relations.
So, who was this woman? he wondered grimly, tossing his jacket on to a polished Japanese chest in the hall, and raising questioning eyebrows at Mama Lu, who had heard the car and was making her own, less energetic way to greet him. At something approaching two hundred and fifty pounds in weight, the elderly Polynesian woman was not disposed to hurry anywhere, and Alex had sometimes wondered at her apparent irresistibility to both Carlo and her husband. In Alex’s estimation, she could have crushed either of them between her massive thighs, but evidently he was not privy to her undoubted sexual attractions.
Now, however, he was not in the mood to consider such anomalies, and when she opened her mouth to say, ‘There’s a lady waiting to see you,’ Alex cut her off unceremoniously.
‘I know,’ he said, breathing deeply. ‘Who is she, and where is she?’
‘Well … she says she’s your wife’s cousin,’ murmured Mama Lu, glancing towards the louvred doors that led into the parlour. ‘I put her in there.’
‘Thanks.’
Although Alex knew that the old woman would have liked to accompany him into the parlour, his tone was dismissing, and Mama Lu knew it. But as she turned away Alex saw her reddened eyes, and, realising she was as upset over what had happened as he was, he made a rueful gesture.
‘I’ll let you know why she’s here as soon as I find out,’ he promised, and Mama Lu’s fat cheeks wobbled a little as she summoned up a tearful smile.
‘Shall I make some tea?’ she suggested, and, although tea was the last thing Alex needed, he nodded.
‘Yes,’ he said, guessing she needed something to do. ‘That’s a good idea.’
Mama Lu inclined her head, and ambled away towards the kitchen as Alex took hold of the handles of the doors. Then, forcing away the uneasy feeling of impending disaster, he slid the doors aside.
The young woman who was waiting for him was standing by the windows. Which meant she had probably observed his arrival, he thought grimly, giving her plenty of time to prepare for this meeting while he was still on edge at learning of her presence in his house. Was that why she appeared so calm and composed now, when only hours before she had been the one who had lost her temper? he wondered warily. For it was the woman from the airport, Alex saw instantly. The redhead who had been having the argument with the girl at the car rentals desk. The woman who had attracted his unwilling attention long before he had known who she was—or who she claimed to be.
CHAPTER TWO (#ud298bcb1-932c-536c-a945-1eb1cfaf61cb)
ALEX was nothing like her expectations. From Virginia’s description, Camilla had imagined a man in late middle-age, with a balding pate, and a paunch. A man who was mean and cruel, more concerned with making money and running his business empire than with taking care of his young wife. He had married her because he’d needed a wife to provide him with an heir, Virginia had written, and after making her pregnant he had eschewed his responsibilities. Consequently, she was left alone and neglected on this isolated country estate, desperate for company, desperate for a friend.
And, of course, all that could be true, she conceded now, steeling herself to meet his dark-eyed gaze without flinching. Just because he was younger than she had expected, and infinitely better looking, was no reason to doubt that his character was every bit as black as Virginia had painted it. The trouble was, it seemed that Virginia wasn’t here, and now Camilla felt like the protagonist and not the defender.
‘You’re … Virginia’s cousin?’ he enquired politely, and Camilla, who had told the lie in order to get beyond the gates of the estate, felt a faint trace of colour invade her pale cheeks.
‘Not—not exactly,’ she admitted, wishing Virginia had not chosen today of all days to absent herself from the estate.
‘Not exactly?’ Alessandro Conti’s dark brows ascended towards the dark swathe of hair that dipped on to his forehead. ‘Either you are, or you aren’t. Don’t you know?’
‘My name is Camilla Richards——’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’ His drawl, which had echoes of the west coast of America in its depth and resonance, was attractive, but she refused to be diverted. ‘Um … Virginia … and I went to school together. We’ve known one another for … for over fifteen years.’
Alessandro Conti’s expression didn’t alter. It was still cold, and watchful, and infinitely suspicious. It made Camilla feel as if she had done something unforgivable by coming here, and she began to believe that Virginia had not been exaggerating.
‘So—you’re not my wife’s cousin,’ he said at last, and Camilla reluctantly shook her head. ‘Then do you mind telling me what the hell you are doing here?’
Camilla swallowed. ‘Well, really——’
‘Well, really—what? Did Virginia send you here, is that it? Did she tell you to get in here by whatever means you could? What does she want? Are you her messenger? Because if so I should tell you, Miss Richards——’
‘No!’ Camilla broke into his angry tirade with a denial that fairly trembled off her tongue. ‘No, of course Virginia didn’t send me here! I don’t know what you’re talking about. Virginia invited me to come. I’m her guest. And … and when your … your bloodhound at the gate refused to allow me to come in I said I was Virginia’s cousin, because it seemed the only thing to do!’
Alessandro Conti’s eyes narrowed. ‘D’you want to run that by me again? You say—Virginia invited you here?’
‘Of course.’ Camilla held up her head proudly, becoming aware, as she did so, that the knot she had secured so confidently in the hotel in Los Angeles that morning, was rapidly loosening, and fiery strands were beginning to tumble about her nape. ‘We … we went to school together, as I said, and when she wrote and told me——’
‘Told you what?’
‘That … that …’ Camilla faltered. She could hardly tell him exactly what Virginia had said, but at the same time she had to give some reason for her precipitous arrival from London. ‘She—er—she said why didn’t I take a holiday in Hawaii? That … that it would be fun to … to talk over old times. I … I naturally thought you knew about it.’
‘Me?’
Alessandro Conti pointed towards his chest, and Camilla couldn’t help noticing the shadow of hair and skin beneath the fine material of his shirt. The shirt was made of silk, she thought, and it encased a broad chest and muscled biceps, the cuffs rolled back to reveal hair-covered wrists. Like the dark trousers that covered his legs, and moulded the undeniable evidence of his sex, it had obviously been made by an expert hand, and in one aspect at least, she guessed, Virginia had not been mistaken: her husband was obviously a wealthy man.
‘Me?’ he said again now, shaking his head. ‘You thought Virginia would have discussed it with me?’
Camilla licked her dry lips. ‘Yes.’
‘Then you obviously don’t know your … friend … very well,’ he declared harshly. ‘Exactly when was this invitation issued? And what do you propose to do now?’
Camilla frowned. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I said——’
‘I know what you said.’ Nervousness had made her defensive. ‘Are … are you implying that I can’t stay here?’
The look he gave her was incomprehensible. ‘You expect to stay? Now? In the present circumstances?’
Camilla gave a helpless little shrug. ‘What circumstances?’
‘The fact that Virginia’s not here,’ declared Alessandro Conti impatiently. ‘I understood someone had told you that.’
‘Well—yes.’ Camilla was confused. ‘But … she’ll be back, won’t she?’
‘Will she?’ He took a couple of steps nearer to her, and all at once she was aware of her own vulnerability in the face of this tall, daunting stranger. ‘You tell me. When will she be back?’
Camilla swallowed. ‘Well—I don’t know exactly, of course. La … later today, I suppose.’
‘Later today?’ He was barely an arm’s length from her now, and, although she kept telling herself that he had no reason to suspect her of any wrong-doing, his attitude was so strange that she inwardly retreated.
‘I … don’t you expect her back at any time?’ she stammered, resisting the impulse to raise her hands in front of her. For God’s sake, what had she said? He was acting as if she herself were responsible for Virginia’s absence.
There was a pregnant silence while she fought the urge to put some space between them, and he studied her face with those dark, disturbing eyes. And then, almost dismissively, he told her, ‘Considering that Virginia disappeared almost a week ago, I should say it was highly unlikely that I’d expect her back today, wouldn’t you?’
The room she had been shown to was unlike any room Camilla had occupied before. As a fairly successful solicitor, working in Lincoln’s Inn in London, she had used her fairly generous salary to travel all over Europe, and on one occasion she and a friend had even ventured as far as Sri Lanka for a holiday. But no hotel room had ever compared with the luxury of this apartment in Alessandro Conti’s house, and, although she didn’t want to be, she was impressed.
And why not? she thought ruefully, after the incredibly fat Polynesian woman, who had originally admitted her to the house, had left her alone. She might consider herself moderately sophisticated, but she wasn’t used to split-level rooms, with velvet carpets on the upper level and polished floors strewn with expensive Chinese rugs on the lower. She wasn’t used to beds the size of a small football field, or ceilings with curved fanlights, angled so that there was no danger of being dazzled by the sun.
Not that the sun was a problem right now, she had to admit. On the contrary, darkness had fallen with an unexpected swiftness, and, although she was sure that the view from the veranda outside the room would be equally spectacular as what she had found within, the velvety blackness outside her windows was almost opaque. But she could hear the ocean murmuring somewhere beyond the terrace, and in spite of the unexpectedness of all that had happened she couldn’t prevent a prickling sense of excitement.
After all, she was here, on Oahu, just a few miles from the world-famous Waikiki Beach which Rupert Brooke had described so evocatively all those years ago. She had never been so far from home before, and, although Virginia’s disappearance was worrying, Camilla wouldn’t have been human if she hadn’t felt some stirring sense of communion with her surroundings. Hawaii was one of those places that everyone dreamed of visiting at some time in their lives, and from what she had seen of it so far it lived up to every one of her expectations.
Which was more than could be said for her host, she admitted unwillingly. Alessandro Conti had proved to be the exact antithesis of the impression Virginia had created in her letter, and it wasn’t easy to ally what Virginia had written with the man she had met. Oh, she knew appearances meant little. In her work she had had to learn to distinguish between a clever lie and an un-clever truth, and sometimes the most unlikely story proved that life was often stranger than fiction. And she had no reason to disbelieve the things Virginia had told her. Nothing Alessandro Conti had said had given her any real reason to doubt his culpability. On the contrary, she was quite prepared to believe he could be violent on occasion, and there had been a moment during their conversation when she had felt threatened. Yet, for all that, she was uneasy with the situation, and it wasn’t just because Virginia wasn’t here.
But where was she? she wondered, turning to view her two suitcases, placed side by side on a long cushioned ottoman at the foot of the enormous bed. She was here, as Virginia had requested—no, begged—but Virginia, and her small daughter, had apparently run away.
It didn’t make sense. Why would Virginia invite her here and then disappear? Why would she imply that she was virtually kept a prisoner, and then leave the island without telling anyone where she was going? And why take Maria with her? The little girl’s father was obviously worried sick about his daughter. That much she had gathered. As to his feelings about Virginia’s disappearance, they were less easy to interpret. She thought he was worried about his wife, but there was something else, something he wasn’t saying, but which his words were telling her. Perhaps Virginia was right. Perhaps he did regret marrying her. Perhaps if she had attended the wedding she would not be so perplexed now.
But she had been in Italy when Virginia had married Alessandro Conti, and in any case after they’d left the private girls’ school they had both attended their lives had diverged. For one thing, Camilla had only attended the expensive boarding-school because her godmother had paid for her to do so when her own parents were killed. Mr and Mrs Richards had died in a climbing accident in Switzerland when Camilla was ten, and, although for a while her godmother had found it amusing to play nursemaid to her orphaned god-daughter, eventually the inconvenience of having to make arrangements for baby-sitters every time she had wanted to go out had begun to pall. In consequence, at the age of thirteen Camilla had been despatched to Queen Catherine’s, and she had remained there for the next five years.
Virginia’s circumstances at that time had not been unlike her own, and she supposed that was why the two of them had become such friends. Virginia’s mother—her father was never talked about—was one of those brittle women who spent their lives relying on other people to support them. Camilla supposed Virginia’s mother had had some money once, but that had long since been squandered on expensive clothes and other luxuries that outwardly showed she could hold her own among the social élite with whom she claimed parity. Virginia’s school fees, like Camilla’s own, had been paid by some long-suffering older relative, but by the time Virginia left school her mother was in real financial difficulties.
In consequence, Virginia had been expected to recoup the family fortunes by marrying well, and, although Camilla would have hated such a responsibility, Virginia had seemed perfectly resigned to her fate.
That it hadn’t happened as swiftly as her mother could have hoped had been made apparent when Camilla met her friend for lunch, about a year after leaving Queen Catherine’s. By this time Camilla had been anticipating her second year at university, and although it was a struggle financially she was determined to get her degree. Although she’d still occasionally seen her godmother, and would be eternally grateful to her for being there when she’d needed her, she’d had no intention of sponging on her again. With her grant, and the additional cash she earned by working at a fast-food restaurant in the evenings, she had been keeping her head above water—just—and, if her life hadn’t exactly been glamorous, at least it was satisfying.
Virginia, meanwhile, had changed from the rather free and easy teenager she had been at school. Camilla hadn’t wanted to believe it, but already her friend was beginning to speak like her mother, and there was a sharpness to her personality that had not been there before. In addition to which the differences in their lifestyles had created a gulf between them, and, while Camilla was interested in what her friend had been doing, Virginia had a totally different set of values.
Of course, Camilla had made excuses for her. She knew it couldn’t be easy living the kind of brittle existence that her friend’s mother found so appealing. Virginia wasn’t like that, not really; at least, Camilla had never thought so. And if she did seem self-centred now, it was probably just a front. It was Virginia’s way of handling a difficult situation.
It was another two years before they had met again, and then only by chance in Bond Street. By this time, Camilla had achieved her hard-won degree in law, and was having an equally hard struggle in finding some firm of solicitors willing to give her a chance to get her articles. Until she had spent at least two years working as an articled clerk in a solicitor’s office she could not begin to call herself a lawyer, and, in those days of high inflation and unemployment, it wasn’t easy.
Virginia, however, had been jubilant. She’d insisted they went into a nearby wine-bar that she knew, and over champagne cocktails, which Camilla had paid for, she told her friend that she was getting married. A certain wealthy Argentinian polo-player was her constant escort, and both she and her mother were planning a Christmas wedding.
Camilla had been suitably enthusiastic, although the prospect of her friend’s marrying some South American playboy just because he was incredibly wealthy had filled her with unease. Virginia might appear to be on top of the world, but there was a distinct edge to her brilliance, and Camilla hadn’t been able to help noticing she seldom looked her in the eye for more than a few seconds. And she was so thin, almost unfashionably so, if that were possible. And talking of a glittering future about which she hadn’t seemed convinced.
Of course, there was nothing Camilla could have said to dissuade her, and nor did she try. She was rapidly coming to the conclusion that the Virginia she had known at Queen Catherine’s might not have been the real Virginia at all, and although she blamed the girl’s mother it wasn’t really all her fault.
However, Virginia’s Christmas wedding had not materialised. A month later the wealthy Argentinian polo-player had eloped with an American model, and although Camilla was not involved she’d felt tremendous sympathy. She guessed how humiliated Virginia must have felt, and wished there was something she could do.
But there wasn’t. She knew no one who might remotely meet Virginia’s demands so far as a husband was concerned, and the idea that her friend might realise the futility of the life she was leading, and find some other way to assuage her needs, was no longer even a possibility.
And then, nine months later, out of the blue, Camilla had received an invitation to Virginia’s wedding. Not to the Argentinian playboy, of course. He had long since married his American model, and was presently in the process of adapting to fatherhood. No, Virginia’s husband-to-be was an American businessman, Alessandro Conti, and after the wedding they were to live at his luxurious estate in Hawaii.
It had sounded like a dream come true, Camilla had to admit, except that she herself knew nothing about this American businessman. He was not someone whose face had appeared in the British tabloid press, and Camilla had assumed that was because he was not considered sufficiently newsworthy to warrant the kind of gossip status accorded more photogenically viable personalities. She supposed that was where she had first got the idea that Alessandro Conti must be some kind of Howard Hughes figure: wealthy perhaps, but too old to enjoy camera notoriety.
The fact that she now knew how wrong she had been didn’t alter the fact that Virginia had married this man, probably without knowing very much about him beyond the fact that he could keep her—and her mother—in the manner to which they had both become accustomed.
However, her chance to see Virginia’s proposed husband for herself had not materialised either. The precipitate arrival of Virginia’s wedding invitation had coincided with her own annual holiday, and by the time she had returned to London the wedding was over, and Virginia departed for pastures new. An interview with her mother, brought about by the fact that Camilla had not known where to send the handmade lace tablecloth she had brought back from Italy as a wedding present, had elicited an address in Oahu, but apart from a hurried note of thanks they had shared no further communication. For six years!
And then, just like the invitation to her wedding, Virginia’s letter had arrived without warning, sent on to Camilla’s present employer by one of the clerks in the office where she’d used to work. Evidently, Virginia had listened to some of what Camilla had told her, and although she had not remembered her address she had remembered where she worked.
Which was just as well, Camilla thought now. She had moved twice since those early days at Farquahar and Cummings, and there was every possibility that a letter sent to her previous address would have gone astray. Or perhaps it would have been better if it had, she reflected with some cynicism. At least then she would not have had to read Virginia’s impassioned prose, or flown out to Hawaii at the drop of a hat with the distinct impression that she was on a mission of mercy.
For Virginia had said some pretty damning things about this husband of hers in her letter. For one thing, she had implied that he was mistreating her, and Camilla had been half afraid she would come here to find her friend covered in bruises. The marriage had been a mistake, Virginia had stated passionately, the words she had used bringing her thin, agitated face to mind. Alex—she had called her husband Alex—didn’t care about her; she doubted he ever had, and she was going mad with no one to talk to. Could Camilla come to Oahu? She knew it was an imposition, but she had no one else. Her mother had apparently been taken ill some time ago, and was presently being cared for in a nursing-home in Surrey, and Virginia couldn’t burden her with her troubles. Please come, she had pleaded. For old times’ sake. She would be forever grateful.
But now Camilla was here, and Virginia wasn’t. For some reason—some final humiliation, perhaps—she had abandoned all hope of deliverance and run away, taking her daughter—Alessandro Conti’s daughter—with her. Camilla thought it was probably just as well she had taken the child with her. Otherwise, given what Virginia had told her about him, she might well have suspected her husband of being involved in her disappearance. After all, Alessandro Conti, by his own admission, had known nothing of the letter Virginia had sent to England, and so far as he was concerned there was no one who might question her absence. The servants were obviously devoted to their master, probably because he paid them well to be so, Camilla decided uncharitably. They wouldn’t raise a finger to help their mistress. Indeed, there seemed a distinct lack of concern for Virginia’s safety from everyone, including her husband. They wanted her—and the child—back again. But not, apparently, because of any great affection for her.
Camilla shook her head. It was hopelessly confusing, and she was finding it increasingly difficult to hold at bay the headache that had been plaguing her ever since Mama Lu, if that really was her name, had admitted her to the house. She wanted nothing so much as to lie down on the enormous bed and give way to the after-effects of prolonged jet lag, but instead she was supposed to wash and brush up, and join her host for supper. After convincing himself that Camilla really had no more idea of Virginia’s whereabouts than he had, Alessandro Conti had summoned the Polynesian woman again, and had had her show their guest to this apartment. Apparently he had decided that she should be offered their hospitality for tonight at least, and Camilla had been left alone, to unpack her suitcases and take a shower.
Shaking her head a little bewilderedly now, Camilla picked up her handbag and rummaged about in the bottom for the strip of aspirin tablets she kept there for emergencies such as this. Breaking the foil, she popped two tablets in her mouth, and then looked about her for something to swallow them with. There was no obvious container for the purpose, and, realising she could get water from the tap, she walked into the adjoining bathroom Mama Lu had indicated.
She stopped short then, momentarily stunned by its luxurious appointments. As well as a smoked-glass shower cabinet, there was an enormous sunken bath with whirlpool jets, and twin hand-basins of lime-green porcelain that matched the other fitments. Once again, there was a bulging skylight overhead, but right now the room was illuminated by long strips of light concealed above the smoked-glass mirrors that lined the walls.
It was all a bit too much for her to cope with at the moment, and, collecting a smoked-glass tumbler from beside the array of bathroom accessories and cosmetics that were arranged in a hand-woven basket between the basins, she filled it from the tap and swallowed a mouthful of water along with the aspirin tablets. Then, setting the tumbler down again, she stood for a moment studying her reflection in the mirror above the basin.
She looked tired, she thought critically, but that wasn’t really surprising. Yesterday she had flown from London to Los Angeles, a journey of some ten hours, and this morning she had caught a delayed flight to Honolulu, which had added another five and a half hours to her travel time. That, combined with a ten-hour time change, made staying awake at any hour of the evening a distinct effort. After all—she glanced at her watch—her body-clock was still working, at least partially, on British time, and right now it was about five o’clock in the morning in London.
The Polynesian housekeeper had told her that Mr Conti usually ate his evening meal at around nine o’clock, which gave her plenty of time to take a shower—or a bath, if she chose—and rest for a while before having to face him again.
Which was just as well, she reflected, pulling the remaining pins out of her hair. The expensive perm she had had before leaving England had not tamed her hair, as she had hoped, and now it tumbled about her shoulders, an uncontrollable mass of crinkles. Of course, the sea air on the journey from the airport hadn’t helped. After reading about the sophistication of American cars she had expected the taxi to have air-conditioning, but if it had the driver had found no use for it. He had driven along with the windows wide open and the invading breeze had been as destructive as it had been welcome. What Alessandro Conti must have thought of her, she couldn’t imagine. Even her suit was crumpled, and, together with the lines of fatigue around her rather pale eyes, she looked altogether unprepossessing.
