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  'Relax—they'll be here in a minute,' Natalie said, pointing towards the Hawker Siddeley executive jet, which had landed earlier.

  Samantha turned to gaze at the distant figures of a man and a woman, standing beside the sleek white aero­plane while their luggage was unloaded. Idly following their progress as they began to walk across the concrete runway towards the Cessna, she slowly stiffened, her gaze narrowing as she peered through the shimmering haze of the fierce sunlight.

  Surely that couldn't be. . . ? No, of course not! It simply wasn't possible. . .

  The colour draining from her face, her stomach gave a sudden lurch of fear and apprehension, her pulse racing out of control as the two people drew nearer. Rigid with shock, it was some moments before her stunned mind was able to comprehend the evidence of her own eyes. And then she knew, with an absolute and sickening cer­tainty, that there was no possibility of a mistake. There, turning his tanned, arrogant face to smile briefly at his blonde companion, was Luke Brandon—the very last man in the world she had ever expected, or wanted, to see.

  'Oh, my God. . .!' she whispered, helplessly clutching the clipboard to her breast, as if to ward off the evil eye.

  'Mmm. . . my sentiments exactly!' Natalie giggled, standing on tiptoe to peer over the wing, her eyes de­vouring the lithe, masculine grace of the tall dynamic figure approaching the aeroplane. 'Oh, boy—now that's what I call a real man!'

  Paralysed by shock, it was a few seconds before Samantha was able to pull herself together. 'Quick, you've got to help me!' she hissed, grabbing hold of the other girl's arm and dragging her back against the plane's fuselage, well out of sight of Luke and his companion.

  'Hey! What's suddenly come over you?' Natalie grumbled. 'I was only saying. . .'

  'You can say anything you like, just as long as you make sure that man doesn't get into the aeroplane for five minutes, OK?' Samantha demanded urgently, only too well aware that it was a matter of seconds before she was likely to be confronted by her ex-husband.

  Natalie stared at her in puzzlement. 'I thought you wanted to take off as soon as possible. So why. . .?'

  'Never mind the "whys and wherefores",' Samantha snapped. 'I'm only asking you to keep that damned man on the tarmac for a few minutes, that's all. Why don't you drop a suitcase on his foot, or chat him up, or. . . or do the dance of the seven veils, if necessary,' she added wildly. 'Just as long as you manage to distract his attention.'

  'OK, OK—calm down!' Natalie grinned, running her hands down over her hips to straighten her skirt. 'I don't know what's going on, but if you want me to "chat up" that gorgeous man—no sweat, honey. It'll be a real pleasure!'

  Her heart pounding like a sledge-hammer, Samantha waited until the girl had gone around to the other side of the aircraft, before leaping up on to the wing and jerking open the door by the pilot's seat.

  Feverishly searching the confined space—Oh, help! Where on earth was it?—she finally located the old baseball cap she occasionally wore when flying. Ig­noring the startled glances of Mr and Mrs Thomson, she threw herself down into her seat, quickly scooping up her long red hair and jamming the cap down on her head.

  Whether her rough and ready attempt to disguise herself was going to work would be very much in the lap of the gods. But there had to be a good chance that Luke wouldn't recognise her, she thought, turning up it her collar to hide her neck and pushing her dark glasses firmly down on her nose, especially if she made sure that all he saw of the pilot was her back view. Besides, he would hardly be expecting to meet the wife he hadn't seen for four years on the tarmac of an airport in the Caribbean—and certainly not at the controls of an aero­plane! It was only after she had run away from Luke, and with the entrancing prospect of having the use of her aunt's private plane, that she had decided to have the lessons which had led to her gaining her pilot's licence two years ago.

  She had to swallow quickly, fighting against a bubble of hysterical laughter at the thought of her ex-husband's reaction to her baggy white overalls, and the fact that her feet were encased in an old pair of sneakers. The immaculately clothed Luke Brandon, who regularly ap­peared in the list of the top ten best-dressed men in America, would have had an apoplectic fit if she'd ever waltzed down Fifth Avenue attired like this!

  Oh, lord! She had to pull herself together—and fast! Her teeth seemed to be clattering like castanets, her hands shaking as if she had St Vitus's dance as she swiftly closed the door beside her and adjusted her harness. If she didn't watch out, she was going to have this plane yawing all over the sky, and that would endanger not only the lives of her passengers, but also any other aircraft in her vicinity.

  Desperately trying to banish from her mind the trau­matic effect of Luke's sudden appearance, Samantha forced herself to concentrate on the routine pre-flight checks. It was only when she was in contact with the control tower, and she felt the aircraft move slightly as Luke and his companion came aboard, that her voice faltered slightly. However, there was so much to do during the next ten minutes that it wasn't until they were airborne and flying high over the blue Caribbean Sea that she was able to begin thinking about her predicament.

  She hadn't checked the hotel register this morning, but she couldn't recall seeing anything about—what was the woman's name?—Miss van de something-or-other? And she certainly would have noticed a booking for Luke! Samantha settled back in her seat, feeling some of the tension draining out of her body. Her ex-husband—well, they might be technically still married, but he was definitely 'ex' as far as she was concerned— was undoubtedly booked into one of the hotels on the other side of the island. So, providing she managed to avoid any contact with him when they landed, and kept a very low profile for the next two weeks, there was a good chance of avoiding him altogether.

  The rhythmic drone of the plane's engines was helping to calm down her confused emotions, the noise also pre­venting her from hearing anything more than a faint mumble as the passengers chatted together. For the first time since she'd set eyes on them, she found herself wondering about the woman with Luke. She had been too shocked at his sudden appearance to take much notice of his companion, but from the little she could remember, it looked as if Miss What's-her-name fitted the usual pattern of Luke's girlfriends—tali, blonde and very, very cool. Although, now she came to think about it, Luke had certainly changed his habits. From all she had known of him, both before and during their brief marriage, he had never willingly taken a vacation. It had always been business—first, last and in between. Even on their honeymoon in Europe, when she had suggested that they might break their tour of the capital cities and stay at a quiet beach resort, he had given her a brief, incredulous smile before going off to yet another of his interminable business meetings.

  It wasn't all Luke's fault, of course. If she hadn't been so distraught over her father's unexpected death, and so young and pathetically naive, she'd have known that she wasn't able to cope with the Luke Brandons of this world. In the event, their marriage had proved to be a disaster. She had been eighteen when she'd married him, and when she walked out a year later, she'd felt more like a hundred and two.

  The distant sight of a green, palm-fringed island brought her unhappy thoughts back to the present. There was no aircraft control on St Pauls and, after circling the short runway, she brought the Cessna down in a landing that was, embarrassingly, somewhat bumpier than usual. Well, considering Luke's completely unex­pected arrival, it wasn't surprising, Samantha consoled herself as a member of the airport staff ran forward to open the rear door of the aircraft. Keeping her face well averted, and waiting until the passengers had disem­barked, she taxied the plane over to the small hangar at the edge of the field.

  During the flight, she had wondered just how she was going to manage to leave the airport without being seen by Luke, but in the event it proved to be no problem. After locking up the plane and securely fastening the doors of the hangar, she took advantage of the shelter provided by a scrub hedge forming
part of the airport boundary. Carefully skirting the large hut which served as the main terminal building, Samantha stuck her head into the window of a small office, and after a quick word with one of the Customs and Excise staff, she jumped into her mini-moke and was soon speeding off down the road to the hotel. Home and dry! she told herself ten minutes later, laughing at her fears as she strode through the hall to reception, where she was promptly and swiftly brought back down to earth with a bump.

  'Oh, yes, Mizz Ward. We surely do have some new guests arriving today.' Susie, a local girl who worked in the hotel part-time, gave her a dazzling smile. 'I took the call yesterday afternoon, and I just knew you'd be pleased, 'coz we's now full up.'

  'But why on earth didn't you write their names down on the booking form yesterday?' Samantha hissed through clenched teeth.

  'Oh, Mizz Ward, you knows my spelling ain't too good. So, I just waits till this morning and asked Lester, the barman, to do it for me.'

  As she struggled to control an almost irresistible urge to slap that beaming smile off the stupid girl's face, Samantha realised with a sinking heart that she was well and truly in a mess.

  Staring, almost mesmerised, at the entry on the regis­ter, the names 'Miss van de Burgh and companion' seemed to be etched in fiery capitals as they leapt off the page towards her. And it didn't take a very high IQ to know exactly who '. . . and companion' was going to turn out to be! she told herself with grim foreboding.

  An hour later, Samantha stood beneath the shower, almost groaning with pleasure as the cool sting of the water revived her tired body. What a day it had been— and it wasn't finished yet, she reminded herself harshly, cursing under her breath at the realisation that she had very little time or space for manoeuvre. Of course, she'd done what she could to alter the staffing arrangements for the evening. Luckily, Penny Bird, her aunt's young manager, had agreed to show Luke and his girlfriend to their respective bungalows, and, after bawling out the chef for last night's drunken orgy, Samantha had finally managed to escape to sanctuary in the old sugar mill.

  Turning off the shower and wrapping her slim form in a fluffy towel, Samantha unhooked the hairdryer fixed to the wall of the bathroom and began to blow-dry her long red hair. At least she was safe here—for the moment, anyway.

  Restored with loving care by Aunt Emily, the old building had been presented to Samantha when she had returned to the island four years ago. Built by an eight­eenth-century plantation owner, it had originally pos­sessed huge wind-vanes which had turned the wooden cogs and iron rollers, whose function was to crush the sugar cane once grown on Hamilton Plantation Estate. Now, its machinery long gone, there was just the one big, circular sitting-room open to the rafters high above, the soaring height and space of the building scarcely impeded by the galleried bedroom which was all that remained of the original second floor, and whose access was via an open mahogany staircase fixed to the side of the circular wall. The bathroom, and the small kitchen, which led off the main sitting-room, were modern and essential additions to the old building. They might have been incongruous in such a setting had not Aunt Emily carefully sited the doors beneath the gallery on the far wall to the main entrance, where they remained largely unnoticed and unseen by the casual visitor.

  The sugar mill itself, while only a few yards away from the main plantation house, was completely hidden from sight by a grove of breadfruit trees, underplanted with frangipani and bougainvillaea. It was the only per­manent home of her own that Samantha had ever pos­sessed and, when she had returned to the island following the disintegration of her marriage to Luke, much of her misery and unhappiness had been assuaged by the blessed peace and serenity of its ancient stone walls.

  However, it was no good thinking she could stay hidden here for very long. With Luke and his girlfriend apparently booked into the hotel for the next two weeks, she really had to come to some sort of decision.

  To anyone who didn't know Luke, it would seem quite ridiculous of her to be in such a state of nerves, just because of her ex-husband's sudden arrival on the island. However, those who worked in or had anything to do with Wall Street could tell a different story. The Brandon Effect was what the newspapers called it: the way companies and even well-established institutions would allow themselves to be taken over, caving in without a fight the moment that Luke, in the guise of Brandon-Phillips International, appeared on the financial hor­izon. Following his uncle, James Phillips', unexpected and early death from a heart attack, and the subsequent epic power struggle for control of the financial con­glomerate which comprised Phillips International, Luke had swiftly and ruthlessly expanded his empire; his pro­gress to fame and ever-increasing fortune littered with the debris of those who didn't understand his com­pulsive urge to win—at whatever cost. Too young to know any better, Samantha now saw that she must have been one of the few people who had ever tried to stand up to him, but even she had been defeated by his refusal to compromise, or to admit that there might possibly be another point of view to that of his own.

  It hadn't been like that at the start of their relation­ship, of course. Luke had seemed so wonderful, so. . . 'Forget it!' she told herself roughly. There was nothing to be gained by trying to recall her brief, fleeting mo­ments of total happiness. When she had walked out on her marriage, she had locked the door on her memories and deliberately thrown away the key. There was absol­utely no point in trying to resurrect something that was dead and buried. She'd be much better employed in trying to decide how to cope with the situation in which she now found herself.

  She could, of course, pretend that Luke was a com­plete stranger, and treat both him and his girlfriend as she did the rest of the guests, in a cool and friendly manner. That would be the sophisticated, worldly ap­proach, but even after four years she wasn't at all sure that she possessed that amount of sophistication!

  On the other hand, Luke had never made any effort to follow or get in touch with her after she'd run away— and with his contacts, it wouldn't have been too hard for him to find out exactly where she'd gone to ground. Not that she had expected him to. She had hoped, indeed she had relied on the fact that there was no way he would ever have forgiven such a blow to his self-esteem. So, maybe there was a chance that he would leave the island as soon as he discovered her role in the hotel. And if not. . .?

  Switching off the dryer, and brushing out her long hair, Samantha knew that she simply didn't have whatever it took to face two long weeks of Luke's for­midable presence. 'You're nothing but a yellow-bellied coward!' she told her white-faced reflection in the mirror, and, despite the obvious truth in the statement, it didn't alter the fact of her overwhelming need to put as much distance as possible between herself and her ex-husband. There was only one obvious solution to her problem, and that was to get away from the island as soon as she could. It was too late to try and arrange anything to­night, especially since she was going to have to be on duty overseeing the dining-room and kitchen. But if she could persuade Penny Bird to hold the fort for a few days, she might be able to come up with some sort of answer.

  Preoccupied with trying to solve the problem of exactly where to go to escape Luke, she slipped on a thin, white silk robe and walked slowly through into the sitting-room.

  A moment later she stiffened like a wary cat, rigid with a sense of impending danger. A thin thread of tobacco smoke drifted across the dark room, but before the familiar scent reached her—even before her hand moved towards the light switch—she instinctively knew the identity of the tall figure standing in the shadows by the window.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The background whirr of the ceiling fan was the only sound to disturb the long, heavy silence as Samantha stared across the room at her husband. Her green eyes were glazed with shock and consternation, and it was some moments before she was able to try and pull her scattered wits together.

  'How. . .how did you get in here?' she demanded huskily.

  'That's not a very intelligent question, Samantha
,' Luke drawled, stubbing out his thin cigar on a nearby ashtray. 'I came in through the door, of course. I did knock,' he added smoothly, as she opened her mouth to protest. 'But if, as it seems, you were under the shower, you obviously wouldn't have heard me. Don't you think that it might be more sensible, in this dangerous age, if you were to fit a lock to your front door, hmm?'

  'Don't worry! If it will keep you out of my home, I'll make sure that I see to it—first thing in the morning!'

  'A very sensible decision,' he agreed, giving her a cool smile—a bland assumption of overwhelming superiority which she had always found extremely irritating.

  Oh, God—here we go again! Samantha gritted her teeth as she watched the tall, elegant figure who was now walking around the room, regarding his surroundings with considerable interest. Despite their long separation, it seemed that she and Luke had only to be in each other's company for five seconds, and then: wham. . .! They were right back to square one, resurrecting their old roles of authoritarian teacher versus rebellious pupil. But she'd finally broken out of the mould, she quickly reminded herself. She didn't have to put up with his lectures any more, nor his maddening air of condescension.

  'This old sugar mill is really very charming,' he mur­mured, picking up a cushion to examine its cover more closely. 'Is this an example of the local batik?'

  'Yes.'

  'It's very attractive,' he added before tossing it back to join the others on the couch.

  'Yes, it is,' she snapped impatiently. 'However, I don't for one moment imagine that you've come all this way just to discuss the arts and crafts to be found on this island.'

  He gave her a dry, amused glance from beneath his heavy eyelids. 'You're quite right, I haven't.'

  'So, why are you here?'