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  He surveyed her with cool detachment

  "And just what do you want out of life, Samantha?"

  "A lot of things you wouldn't even begin to appreciate," she retorted sharply.

  "However, first and foremost I want a divorce!"

  "Are you planning to marry someone else?"

  She cursed inwardly as she felt her cheeks redden beneath the narrowing gaze from his piercing blue eyes. No, she wasn't—not at the moment, anyway— although she had no intention of telling him so.

  "If. . .well, if l am thinking of getting married again, it has absolutely nothing to do with you," she said firmly.

  "Oh, no?" Luke laughed sardonically. "If you want my consent to a divorce, I think you'll find that—as your present husband—it has everything to do with me!"

  MARY LYONS is happily married to an Essex farmer, has two children and lives in an old Victorian rectory. Life is peaceful—unlike her earlier years when she worked as a radio announcer, reviewed books and even ran for parliament in a London dockland area. She still loves a little excitement and combines romance with action and suspense in her books whenever possible.

  Books by Mary Lyons

  HARLEQUIN PRESENTS

  763 —DANGEROUS STUNT

  779 —LOVE'S TANGLED WEB

  796 —MENDED ENGAGEMENT

  828 —ECLIPSE OF THE HEART

  908 —PASSIONATE DECEPTION

  938 —ESCAPE FROM THE HAREM

  1002—HAY FEVER

  1144 —STRANGER AT WINTERFLOODS

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  Harlequin Presents first edition May 1989

  ISBN 0-373-11171-1

  Original hardcover edition published in 1988

  by Mills & Boon Limited

  Copyright © 1988 by Mary Lyons. All rights reserved.

  Cover illustration copyright © 1989 Tony Meers.

  Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without

  the permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  ® are Trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries.

  CLS 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Printed in U.S.A.

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER ONE

  'Hurricane?' Samantha frowned, interrupting her pre-flight check of the Cessna's fuselage. 'Are you sure, Leroy? I haven't heard any reports that Hurricane Hannah is likely to be coming our way.'

  The mechanic shrugged his shoulders, swiftly un­coupling the flexible gasoline pipe from the aircraft, and winding it back on to the tanker containing the high octane fuel.

  'I don't reckon there's any need for you to worry, Miss Ward.' A reassuring grin spread over his dark face as he glimpsed the apprehension lurking in the depths of her wide green eyes. 'I ain't heard nothing official. It's only my old granny up to her prophesying again—that's all!'

  'You rotter! You really had me worried for a moment,' Samantha laughed, giving the rudder a waggle as she resumed her inspection of the small twin-engined aero­plane. 'Your grandmother seems to enjoy spreading doom and gloom. According to her, life here on Antigua is nothing more or less than a modern version of Sodom and Gomorrah! Didn't she forecast that the world was definitely coming to an end, some time last July?'

  'Yeah, but as she says—everyone's entitled to one little mistake!' Leroy chuckled, jumping up into the cab of the tanker and giving a friendly wave as he drove away across the tarmac.

  Bending down to check the undercarriage, Samantha was still smiling as she rose and put on her sunglasses to look up at the wide expanse of clear blue sky over Vere Bird Airport. It was a perfect day for flying. There wasn't a cloud in sight, and only a slight breeze to disturb the fiery cloud of burnished, copper-coloured hair which tumbled down about her shoulders. Glancing idly over at a white, unmarked Hawker Siddeley executive jet as it touched down and taxied across the tarmac, her gaze swept on towards the large, American Airlines Boeing which had landed some time ago.

  'Come on. . .come on!' she muttered, watching im­patiently as the last of the passengers descended from the plane and made their way over to the airport buildings. It was frustrating to know that there was nothing she could do to speed up the arrival of the two people she was expecting. Even if they weren't likely to be subjected to Customs inspection, her in-transit pass­engers still had to wait alongside everyone else to claim their baggage in the Arrivals Hall.

  It was beginning to look as if she'd made a mistake in listening to the desperate plea of Mike Donald, the local manager of Caribbean Air Transport—known around the islands as CAT—when she had flown into Antigua this morning. With two of his aeroplanes tem­porarily out of commission, one undergoing routine maintenance, and the other waiting for some vital spare parts from America, Mike had been a worried man.

  'You know how it is, Samantha. It's the beginning of the high season out here, and if we default on this con­tract with the big travel companies, they won't hesitate to give their business to some of the larger outfits, like Carib Aviation or LIAT. So, how about being a real good pal, and taking a couple of tourists in your plane when you fly back to St Pauls this afternoon?'

  Since it was Mike who had first taught her to fly, she hadn't felt able to refuse such a reasonable request, and there was no doubt that the fee for transporting his pass­engers would come in very useful. However, being a 'real good pal' was one thing—waiting around for over an hour with no shelter from the blazing sun was quite an­other! It was maddening to be stuck here on the concrete runway, especially as she could have been back on the island by now, and trying to bring some sort of order into the chaotic affairs of the Hamilton Plantation Hotel. Despite working in the hotel office until very late last night, Samantha still hadn't managed to make any headway in sorting out the confusion. It was beginning to look as if Aunt Emily hadn't attempted even the simplest bookkeeping, let alone kept a proper set of ac­counts, for the last ten years. However, fretting about the amount of work to be done wasn't going to get her anywhere. She would just have to hope that nothing had gone drastically wrong since she'd left this morning.

  Samantha sighed. Trying to run the hotel while Aunt Emily was in hospital, and the need to constantly re­assure her aunt that it wasn't going to rack and ruin in the absence of that formidable woman, seemed to be taking up every spare moment of her time; time that she ought to be giving to her own business. Although she had full confidence in the girls running her gift shops on the nearby islands, they couldn't be expected to manage everything. It had meant a great deal of hard, exhausting work over the last four years to achieve her present satisfactory turnover, but it was a heavily com­petitive business and one she couldn't afford to neglect for too long.

  It wasn't that she minded the ext
ra amount of work and effort involved in running the small hotel. It was nothing when set beside the strong bond of love and gratitude she felt for the autocratic, elderly woman who had provided the only real, stable home life that Samantha had ever known. If only Aunt Emily could be persuaded to take the opportunity of her enforced stay in hospital to have a good rest, and concentrate on getting well. However, the chances of that happening were just about zero! Samantha thought wryly, recalling the visit to her aunt earlier this morning.

  'You've got to get me out of this damn place—or I'll go stark staring mad!' Aunt Emily had demanded, angrily brushing a forceful hand through her short, wiry hair, which had once been the same fiery colour as Samantha's, but which was now a pure white halo framing her strong, hawk-like features.

  'Oh, come on, Aunt Em—you know I can't do that.' Samantha gazed sympathetically down at the slight figure in the large hospital bed. 'You've had a very nasty fall, and a broken hip is no joke—especially not at your age.'

  'Nonsense! I'm not a day over sixty-five. . .'

  'Seventy-two!'

  '. . .and I'm as fit as a fiddle,' her aunt continued, blithely ignoring her niece's dry interjection. 'God knows, I've already broken most of the bones in my body one way or another, so what does a hip-joint matter?'

  'It's no good glaring at me like a ferocious tiger,' Samantha retorted. 'I don't blame you for feeling fed up, but it's a super hospital and you're getting the very best care and attention.'

  'But the hotel . . .

  'There's nothing you can do about the hotel at the moment,' Samantha said firmly. 'Here you are, and here I'm afraid you'll have to stay, until you're back on your feet and the doctors say you can return to the island.'

  'Doctors!' The older woman snorted. 'Everyone in this place seems far too young. Even my surgeon looks as if he's only just started to shave—practically fresh out of the egg and still got the yolk on him, if you ask me. So, what's he likely to know about anything?'

  Samantha sighed and prayed for patience. She loved her aunt very much, but it didn't blind her to the fact that Emily Ward was a fiercely autocratic and difficult old woman at the best of times. Unfortunately, now that she was virtually confined to her hospital bed, she was fast becoming a holy terror.

  'Your doctor knows enough to be one of the most highly qualified surgeons in the Caribbean, and you know that you shouldn't be smoking one of those filthy cigars,' Samantha said briskly, reaching over to remove the cheroot from between her aunt's thin, bony fingers.

  'That's all I need. . . an ungrateful niece taking away the only real pleasure I've got left in life.' Emily Ward gave a heavy sigh, closing her eyes as she Say back against the pillows. 'And a visit yesterday from that pansy boy­friend of yours didn't make me feel any better, I can tell you,' she grumbled.

  'Who. . .? Gerald. . .?' Samantha looked at her with exasperation. 'It was very kind of him to call and see you, and he's certainly not a "pansy"!'

  'Hmm. You could have fooled me. I knew his grand­father, and he was just the same—a rich, idle layabout.'

  'You're being very unfair,' Samantha said curtly. Gerald Robarts might be rich, but he was far from idle, as her aunt knew very well. Sailing that huge yacht of his around the world for the past two years hadn't exactly been a soft Occupation. And just because he had decided to berth his boat in English Harbour for the past few months, well. . . it certainly didn't mean that he de­served to be called a layabout. The plain fact was that her aunt had taken an instant dislike to Gerald, and their subsequent meetings had done nothing to dispel her animosity.

  The older woman fixed her niece with a beady eye. 'Getting serious about him, are you?'

  'Not really, I. . . '

  'He wants to marry you, doesn't he?'

  'Weil. . .'

  'Does he know that you're still married to another man?'

  Samantha's cheeks flushed. 'Well, I haven't exactly. . .'

  'Hah! I thought so. Has it occurred to you that Luke might well have something to say about this romance of yours?'

  'It has absolutely nothing to do with Luke!' Samantha snapped angrily. 'And I'm not having a "romance" with Gerald. We're just good friends, that's all.'

  'Oh, yes? I wonder where I've heard that old cliché before?' the old woman muttered sarcastically.

  Samantha sighed, and prayed for patience. 'Come on, Aunt Em. You know as well as I do that, after four years on my own, the question of my so-called marital status is nothing but a mere technicality. If I haven't got around to getting a divorce, it's. . . well, it's just because I've been too busy, that's all.' She moved over to fill her aunt's glass with some orange juice. 'I know you don't like him, but Gerald's really far too nice to have upset you like this. So, what's the real problem? Did you have a bad night?'

  'Not too good,' the older woman admitted reluc­tantly. 'All the doctors can do is to mutter some tommy-rot about elderly bones taking longer to knit. It's been two weeks and they still can't—or won't—say when I can go home. How on earth am I supposed to run the hotel from here?' she added irritably.

  'The simple answer is that you're not. The hotel is running like clockwork, so all you have to do is to relax and give your hip a chance to mend.'

  'Clockwork. . .? Hah! I may be old, but I'm not senile!' Emily Ward gave a harsh bark of laughter. 'And if you hadn't been so darn proud—not to say downright stubborn—and had let me ask Luke for enough money to do up the hotel, I might not be lying here and worry­ing myself sick.'

  'Oh, no. . .' Samantha groaned. 'You're not going on about that again, are you?'

  'Certainly I am,' her aunt retorted. 'Not only is Luke Brandon as rich as Croesus, but he and I always got along well together. You might not want to have any­thing to do with your ex-husband, but I don't have any scruples about getting my hands on some of his money! God knows—as far as he's concerned, it wouldn't mean more than a few cents from the petty cash.'

  Samantha's lips tightened. 'I've had my say on that subject, and there's no way I'm ever going to change my mind. Now, for heaven's sake stop worrying about the hotel. I've got everything under control.'

  'Humph. . .!'

  Samantha had ignored her aunt's grant of derision, determined to maintain the fiction that ail was well. What else could she do? she asked herself for the umpteenth time, leaning against the Cessna's wing and staring blindly across the tarmac at a large jet preparing for take­off. She didn't suppose that she had fooled Aunt Emily— not for one minute!—but there was nothing to be achieved by relating the fact that the ancient generator had broken down again. Or that Thomas, the tempera­mental chef, had taken a bottle of rum to bed with him last night, and had been still out for the count when she had left this morning. In fact, considering the general run-down condition of the hotel, it was a mercy that nothing more drastic had happened since her aunt's accident.

  Not for the first time during these past few weeks, she found herself fervently wishing that Aunt Emily had sold Hamilton Plantation Hotel years ago. Named after Alexander Hamilton, who was supposed to have lived there when a young boy on the island of St Pauls—a fact that Samantha privately thought didn't bear too much scrutiny!—the hotel was set beside a long white sandy beach. The old grey-stoned plantation house, which formed the main part of the hotel, was sur­rounded by palm trees which also sheltered and gave shade to the twenty small guest bungalows scattered around the grounds between the main house and the sea. It was an idyllic situation, and she had always supported her aunt's resolute refusal to consider selling what was, to all intents and purposes, their home. However, it was swiftly becoming clear to Samantha that not only was the hotel running at a loss—and had been doing so for the past three or four years—but that Aunt Emily was now becoming too old and infirm to cope with the mounting problems.

  Her aunt had been right about the crying need for extra finance—there was no doubt that the place needed to have a fortune spent on it. However, since there was no hope of either of them being
able to lay their hands on the amount of money required, there wasn't much point in thinking about it. As for the suggestion that she should go cap in hand to her ex-husband. . .? She'd rather die than face that sort of humiliation! When she had walked out on Luke Brandon, she had also left behind in his grimly austere New York apartment all her clothes, furs and jewellery—even her wedding ring. She hadn't needed or wanted his money and possessions four years ago, and she certainly didn't need or want them now! Besides. . .

  The sound of an approaching vehicle brought her abruptly back to the present, and she looked up as a small van screeched to a halt beside the Cessna. A slim, dark girl, wearing the blue and white CAT uniform, threw open the passenger door and jumped down on to the tarmac.

  'Hi, Sam. Sorry we're late,' she called out, turning to help an elderly couple out of the van and into the aero­plane, before directing the driver to stow their luggage in the aircraft hold.

  Samantha grinned at Natalie, Mike Donald's assist­ant, as the girl ducked under the wing and handed her a clipboard. 'You can tell Mike that I'm planning to give him a hefty kick in the shins! After standing out here for over an hour, I was just about to send out a search party.'

  'It wouldn't have done you much good if you had.' Natalie gave her a wry smile. 'Mrs Thomson is a very sweet old lady, but after I'd spent almost half an hour trying to find a suitcase she insisted was missing, she suddenly remembered that she hadn't brought it with her, after all!'

  'One of those days, huh?'

  'You're so right,' the other girl groaned with feeling. 'Thank goodness you agreed to help us out.'

  'Hang on a minute.' Samantha frowned down at the passenger list on the clipboard. 'I thought I was only supposed to be carrying two passengers—Mr and Mrs Thomson. So, how come the number has suddenly grown to four?'

  'Oh, yes. We're sorry about that, but we only got the telex this morning, and. . .'

  '. . .and your boss can't stand the thought of empty seats on an aeroplane!' Samantha added with grim amusement. 'Well, if Mike expects me to stand out here, twiddling my thumbs and waiting for this "Miss van de Burgh and companion" to turn up, he's definitely got another think coming!'