Treacherous Longings. Anne Mather

already, propping up the bar and filling the air around them with the aromatic smoke of a rather doubtful tobacco. A radio was tuned to a calypso station, and Zeke himself was serving his customers. He looked cheerfully in Quinn’s direction when he came in, his mouth widening knowingly as he saw his empty glass.

      ‘You want some more of that, Mr Marriott?’ he enquired, indicating the glass, but although Quinn was tempted he shook his head. He had the suspicion that Zeke and his cronies encouraged visitors to partake rather too freely of the local spirit, and then got a good-natured enjoyment out of the hangovers they cultivated. Quinn had no desire to spend tomorrow nursing his head and, setting his glass on the bar he accepted a Mexican beer instead.

      ‘Dinner be ready pretty soon,’ Zeke declared, running a damp cloth over the counter. ‘You hungry, Mr Marriott?’

      Quinn grimaced. In truth, he was tired. Back home, it was already well after midnight, and although he’d tried to doze on the plane from London weariness, and a certain sense of anticlimax, was getting to him. This wasn’t the way he had anticipated this assignment to go, and the knowledge that the initiative had somehow been taken from him niggled at his conscience.

      Why hadn’t he challenged her when she’d spoken to him? Why hadn’t he admitted, there and then, that he had come here to find her? She was probably suspicious, so why hadn’t he told her? Instead of making some inane remark about enjoying a rest?

      But, ridiculously enough, she had been the last person he had expected to see at that moment. His mind had been full of the problems he faced in trying to find her, and meeting her on the quay like that had left him feeling stunned. Much like the first time he’d seen her. She’d stunned him then as well...

      He gave an inward groan. How could he have been such an idiot? She’d completely mangled his brain. He’d stood there feeling as immature and callow as the youth he used to be, and by the time he’d pulled himself together she’d gone.

      ‘Going to get some scuba-diving in while you’re here, Mr Marriott?’

      Zeke’s enquiring voice brought him out of his reverie, and, realising he was being rude, Quinn made a determined effort to gather his scattered wits.

      ‘I—why, maybe,’ he conceded, still not sure how best to handle this. He knew Hager had made no secret of his enquiries, but Quinn preferred a more subtle approach. If Julia was living anonymously on San Jacinto, she had her reasons. And until he’d had the chance to talk to her—properly—he’d rather not advertise why he had come.

      He tried to remember everything Hagar had told him. He’d said he’d been told there was no Julia Harvey living on the island, but that there was an Englishwoman, who might have been mistaken for her. Unfortunately, he hadn’t said what she was called. Just that she wasn’t who they were looking for, so he’d abandoned the search.

      Of course, Hector had been of the opinion that whoever Hagar had spoken to had been lying. That you couldn’t remain hidden all these years without having an efficient means of defence. Oh, God! Quinn’s lips twisted. What if Neville had actually met the lady without recognising her? She certainly looked nothing like those old pictures. But he wouldn’t like to be in Hager’s shoes if Hector found him out.

      ‘South Point,’ Zeke put in helpfully now. ‘That’s where you’ll find the best diving. Harry—that’s Harry at Harry’s Hire ‘n Dive—can give you all the gear you need. You’re planning on hiring a Moke, aren’t you? You’ll need one to get around.’

      ‘Oh—I guess so.’ In truth, Quinn hadn’t given a lot of thought to how he was going to get about the island.

      ‘I thought so.’ Zeke gave him an approving nod. ‘Another beer, Mr Marriott?’

      * * *

      In spite of the conviction that he wouldn’t sleep, Quinn actually slept very well. He opened his eyes the next morning feeling considerably rested, and apart from a slightly muggy head there were no unpleasant after-effects of the rum punch.

      A shower in the tiny bathroom disposed of the mugginess, and by the time he’d pulled on narrow black jeans and a matching T-shirt he felt ready to face the day. He even felt more optimistic this morning, though he had yet to decide what his next move would be.

      One thing was certain: whatever Julia had thought of his behaviour the night before, he was no longer the impressionable teenager he had been ten years ago. She might believe she could still intimidate him—and who could blame her?—but she would soon realise that he was a man now; he wasn’t so easily dazzled. Besides, his experience of women was more extensive these days. He was certainly not the idealist he’d been before.

      He phoned Susan before going down for breakfast. Although it was only seven o’clock in San Jacinto, it was lunchtime in London, and he caught her at the apartment, before she left for Courtlands.

      As soon as his mother had learned what he was planning, she had insisted that Susan spend the weekend with them. Quinn suspected that part of Lady Marriott’s insistence was due to a desire to hear more about it than the little he’d told her, and, if Susan was still in Suffolk when he got back from the Caribbean, she was fairly assured that he’d come and fetch her. And incidentally tell his mother what had happened on his trip.

      Isabel Marriott was still endearingly loyal where Julia was concerned. She had always defended her decision to drop out of the limelight, and although she had been disappointed that she hadn’t been taken into Julia’s confidence she had always maintained that the younger woman must know what she was doing.

      ‘It must be a man,’ she had confided to Quinn wistfully, unaware how that news had affected her son. ‘It’s always a man, darling, when someone like Julia abandons her friends and family. What other reason could there be? I just wonder who he is.’

      Which was why Quinn had felt bound to tell her what he was doing. And, like her son, Isabel had had reservations as to the propriety of his mission. She was of the opinion that if Julia wanted to remain anonymous she should be allowed that privilege. She had never liked the part of his work that placed him in the category of investigator. She’d have been far happier if he were like his brother, Matthew, content to breed his fox-hounds and supervise the estate.

      ‘Darling!’ Susan answered his call at the first ring, and he felt a momentary sense of guilt for not having made the call the night before. But after seeing Julia he’d been in no mood to be sociable, and he’d consoled himself with the thought that it had really been too late. ‘Did you have a good journey?’

      Quinn assured her that he had, and then went on, ‘I’m just about to go down for breakfast. It’s a beautiful morning, I’ve got a view of the Sound from my window, and the temperature’s in the seventies already.’

      ‘Lucky you!’ Susan’s tone was just faintly hostile. ‘I wish I could have gone with you.’

      ‘So do I,’ agreed Quinn smoothly, though that wasn’t strictly true. But they’d had this argument before, and it was easier to be sympathetic when there was no chance of her taking him at his word.

      ‘Do you mean it?’

      Evidently the distance had mellowed her mood, and Quinn took the opportunity to work on it. ‘Of course I do!’ he exclaimed. ‘But it is a business trip, Suse. I don’t expect to have much free time. Hector wants me back in the office on Wednesday.’

      ‘I suppose.’ Susan sounded philosophical now. ‘So, have you had any success with your enquiries?’

      ‘I only got in last night,’ declared Quinn evenly, aware of the equivocation. ‘Um—when are you leaving for Courtlands?’

      ‘In about half an hour, I think.’ Susan paused. ‘Will you ring me there later?’

      ‘Well, maybe not today,’ said Quinn evasively. ‘I don’t know where I’ll be, do I?’ That, at least, was true. ‘I’ll try and ring at this time tomorrow. If you’re out, I can always leave a message.’

      ‘Where