Margaret Mayo - Reluctant Hostage

A broad smile broke out on her face. She was worrying for nothing. Warwick wouldn’t have paid her so much attention if he had been attracted to Rebecca. Everything was suddenly wonderful. ‘I can’t believe it!’ she said excitedly. ‘What a small world it is.’

‘A small world indeed,’ he agreed. ‘It looks as though we’re going to see a lot more of each other than you thought.’

Libby was so estatically happy that she did not notice the hardness that had entered his eyes, or the sudden tension in his body.

The journey took no more than twenty minutes along a good fast road, but by the time they got there it was completely dark. No long-drawn-out dusks here; once the sun went down it was dark within minutes.

Puerto Colon was a man-made marina, flanked by bars and boutiques, restaurants and palm trees. Ships were anchored in regimented rows, and the whole scene was floodlit. The water looked bottle-green in the artificial light and the wind slapped ropes against masts in a musical melody. People strolled and watched and laughed, and Warwick led her along a pontoon to a boat which was the last in a line.

The Estoque was large and imposing, painted white or some other pale colour—it was difficult to tell in the electric light. Inside was a huge saloon where the steeringwheel, radar screen and a host of other very impressivelooking equipment occupied one corner. There was velvet seating in a relaxing dove-grey, a deep-piled ruby carpet, a table, a bookcase, a drinks cabinet. It wanted for nothing. But there was no Rebecca!

‘Your sister is out most evenings,’ Warwick said unconcernedly. ‘It’s too early yet for her to be back. Do sit down. Can I get you something to eat, or a drink perhaps, while you’re waiting?’

‘No, thank you,’ Libby answered quietly. She felt shy of this man on his home ground, an inexplicable shyness that was at odds with the feelings she had entertained earlier. Perhaps it was because they had been cocooned together on the plane, so that there was no escaping him? The intimacy enforced. Now, with space between them, she could think rationally.

He sat opposite, looking at her with a quizzical expression in his eyes. ‘You look nothing like your sister.’

Libby gave an inward groan. Here it came—the disparaging comparison she had been used to all her life.

‘Rebecca’s beauty is superficial, yours comes from deep down inside.’

Beautiful? He was saying she was beautiful?

‘You have an inner serenity that reflects itself in your demeanour and your lovely eyes. You’re quite right to wear very little make-up; you don’t need it. Your sister slaps it on like layers of paint. It’s enough to put any man off.’ Libby’s heart beat uncomfortably fast at these compliments. ‘You’re a lovely young woman, Libby. I find it difficult to believe that you’re related to Rebecca. Yes, very difficult; there’s no comparison between you. What are your parents like? Whom do you take after?’

Libby shrugged, his flattery, the soft expression in his eyes creating havoc with her senses. Simply looking at him, listening to his deep, sexy voice was enough to melt her bones, and she knew that if she got up she would be unable to stand. It was a whole new experience.

‘My mother had the same pale complexion as me, though her hair was golden like Rebecca’s.’

‘Is your mother no longer alive?’ he asked softly, noting her use of the past tense.

‘She died three years ago.’ Libby’s face clouded at the painful memory. Alcoholic poisoning, the doctor had said; Libby preferred to think it was a broken heart.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said compassionately. ‘And your father?’

She compressed her lips, wishing he weren’t asking all these questions. ‘He’s dead too. Nearly eight years ago he had a fatal accident at work. My mother never got over it.’

Libby would never forget the day her mother had been brought the news of Jim Eaton’s death. A freak accident, they’d told her, a one-in-a-million chance. Mary Eaton had collapsed, and was inconsolable; she did not want to live without him, and over the years she had turned more and more to the bottle for comfort, leaving the running of the house to Libby.

Rebecca had been ten when her father died, wayward even then, becoming even more uncontrollable without his firm supervision, and, with the death of her mother when she was almost sixteen, she would listen to nothing Libby ever said. ‘I’m grown-up now,’ she’d declared haughtily. ‘Who are you to tell me what to do?’ She’d only ever turned to Libby when she was short of money.

Once the police had called at the house, saying that Rebecca had taken part in a robbery from one of the local big houses. Libby had nearly gone out of her mind with worry until it had transpired that Rebecca had not been involved at all—that a girl with a grudge against her because Rebecca had stolen her boyfriend had deliberately tried to get her into trouble. Fortunately Rebecca had an excellent alibi, but it had nevertheless been a worrying time for Libby.

She was fortunate that in her job as a self-employed, mobile hairdresser, either going out to clients’ homes in her battered Mini, or using their own front room as a salon, she had been able to spend a lot of time looking after her mother, and always tried to be at home when Rebecca came out of school. Every penny she’d earned had gone into the house—or to Rebecca!

‘So you two girls were left alone? What sort of an upbringing did you have? Were your parents strong on discipline?’

Libby shot him a sharp glance at this unexpected question, feeling sure it had something to do with Rebecca. Or was she being too sensitive? ‘My father was, yes,’ she admitted. ‘He was very old-fashioned in his attitudes. My mother wasn’t so bad, but once he died she had no interest in anything. She was broken-hearted. It was left to me to bring up my sister. Do you think she’ll be long?’

‘I’m sure not,’ he said reassuringly, and, after a moment’s pause, ‘I see now why you’re so different. Rebecca would appear to take after your father. She has very strong convictions, and probably rebelled over what she saw as his totally outmoded views, whereas you are as soft and sensitive as your mother, and, although you did your best after she died, Rebecca went very much her own way.’

He was so uncannily accurate that Libby wondered whether Rebecca had told him about their home circumstances.

‘No, your sister hasn’t said anything,’ he assured her, almost as though she had asked the question out aloud. ‘Please, let me pour you a drink.’ Without more ado he walked across to the drinks cabinet. ‘Gin? Campari? Bacardi?’

‘Just a tonic water, please,’ she said. Unaccustomed to alcohol, she feared it might go to her head. It was all very well feeling attracted to him on the plane, where there had been safety in numbers, but here, with just the two of them, she could find herself in an uncomfortable situation. And she was still stunned by his summing up. Was he able to judge all people so accurately?

He looked surprised by her choice, but nevertheless filled a glass with ice and a slice of lemon and poured the tonic over it. With a flourish he presented it to her. ‘For you, señorita , one very special drink.’

Libby took it from him with a smile, feeling the power that emanated from him to her as their fingers touched. He seemed in no hurry to move away. ‘Aren’t you drinking anything?’ she asked, surprised to hear how breathless she sounded.

‘But of course.’ He turned and poured a generous measure of whisky into a glass and then resumed the seat he had been sitting in earlier.

As the minutes passed Libby began to get more and more restless, constantly looking at her watch. It was almost midnight now, and still no sign of Rebecca.