Dominic's Child. Catherine Spencer

features impassive, he replied in the melodious island accent that Sophie found enchanting, “Sadly, we have not. The ocean currents beyond the reef, you understand, and the sharks...” His shrug, half Gallic, half native Caribbean, would have been comical at any other time. “We do not expect to find her, monsieur.”

      “Her parents will find that very difficult to accept.”

      “I understand. S’il vous plaît...” He extended a pale palm in the direction of a trio of rattan chairs grouped beneath one of the many whirling ceiling fans. “Perhaps we could talk where it is cooler and more private?”

      “How is it,” Dominic asked when they were seated, “that no one thought to question my fiancée’s ability to handle one of the hotel sailboats alone? It strikes me that the staff must bear some responsibility for her death.”

      Inspector Montand’s gaze flickered beseechingly in Sophie’s direction. She looked away and stared at an arrangement of tropical fruit on a side table, unwilling to help him out of what she knew to be a difficult spot.

      The plain fact of the matter was that, practically from the moment she’d set foot on St. Julian, there had been any number of warnings leveled Barbara’s way, and from more than one source, too.

      It is not customary for unescorted ladies to behave so freely with employees, mademoiselle...

      Barbara, you can’t appear in public in that bikini! You’ll offend the locals...

      Mademoiselle, it is unwise to venture alone at night into the old section of town...

      But Barbara had willfully ignored them all and instead seemed driven to excess in everything she’d done. She’d flirted outrageously with every male in sight; she’d partied with a frenzy that bordered on desperation. And, most recently, she’d taken to staying out all night, slinking back to the room she shared with Sophie just as the sun was rising. Her behavior had been downright embarrassing—not to mention downright odd for a woman supposedly in love and soon to be married.

      Not that there hadn’t been reason to question Barbara’s devotion to her fiancé before then. “Dom’s a wonderful catch,” she’d boasted during one of her first conversations with Sophie. “Daddy says he’s one of the few men who can afford me. Of course, he indulges my every whim, which is just as well because that’s the sort of thing I’ve been used to all my life and I’m not about to settle for anything less just because I’m married.”

      Then she’d flashed her dazzling smile and shrugged as though to say she knew she sounded like a spoiled child but underneath she was really a charming, mature adult. As, indeed, she could be when it suited her. How else had she managed to wheedle Sophie into allowing her to tag along on the trip to the tiny island of St. Julian, a few hundred miles off the northeast coast of Venezuela?

      Dominic’s fingers rapping irritably on the glass-topped table brought Sophie back to the present with a start. “Well, Inspector, don’t you agree? My fiancée didn’t know one end of a boat from the other. As for raising a sail—the mere idea is absurd! She should never have been allowed—”

      “As it happens, Monsieur Winter, Mademoiselle Wexler was not alone. According to hotel personnel who spoke with her on Wednesday morning and arranged for her to use the boat, she was accompanied by a member of the staff, a young man quite skilled at handling small craft such as the Laser.”

      “Then why the hell isn’t he here now, answering my questions, instead of leaving you to do it?”

      “Sad to say, he, too, was lost.”

      “Doesn’t say much for his so-called skill, does it?” Dominic snapped.

      The inspector shrugged apologetically. “The trouble appears to have been that they took the boat beyond the reef on the windward side of the island. Quite apart from the fact that a Laser is not meant to be sailed in the dangerous currents sweeping in from the Atlantic, it is also impossible for a person on shore to notice so small a vessel in distress. I am afraid that neither your fiancée nor the young man she hired as her crew showed very good sense when they chose to ignore the posted signs along that stretch of coast.”

      Dominic looked as if he might argue the point, then clamped his lips shut and glanced away. Sophie breathed a quiet sigh of relief. She would not have liked to be the one to corroborate what the chief inspector was trying so delicately to convey: that Barbara had invited her own disaster and was, perhaps, responsible for another person’s death, too.

      At length, Dominic turned back and this time leveled his bleak gaze on Sophie. “Where were you while all this was going on?”

      “In the middle of town, photographing the water gardens outside the former governor’s residence.” Determined to let her better self prevail no matter how much he provoked her, she laid a sympathetic hand on his arm. “Mr. Winter—Dominic, I know it’s hard not to want to lay blame on someone, but Barbara’s death truly was an accident and the sooner you accept that, the sooner you’ll begin to heal.”

      He shook her off as if she were an annoying little lapdog begging for favors. “It was an accident that could and should have been avoided. What was this employee thinking of that he sailed outside the reef to begin with?”

      “I imagine because Barbara insisted he do so,” Sophie said, exasperation winning out over tact and lending a decided edge to her voice. “She could be very persuasive when she wanted something, as I think we both know.”

      He dismissed the observation with an impatient shrug and turned back to Inspector Montand. “Have you called off the search?”

      “Oui, monsieur. There is little point in continuing. The windward coast is extremely treacherous.”

      “I’ll reserve judgment on that until I’ve seen the place for myself. This afternoon.”

      The police chief nodded deferentially. “I will arrange for you to be taken there.”

      “No need.” Dominic cut him off with an autocratic wave of the hand and favored Sophie with another inimical glare. “You’re reasonably familiar with the island, I take it?”

      “Yes, I—”

      “Then you can come with me.”

      Not “will you?” or “would you mind?” and certainly not a hint of a “please”. Just another order, rapped out and expected to be obeyed without any regard for the fact that, for reasons that almost made her blush, she might not wish to be thrust into his company like this.

      But he was not a mind reader, praise the Lord, so as much to put a speedy end to this whole sad business as to accommodate him, she stifled a refusal and said instead, “Of course.”

      “Where can we rent a car?” He ran a finger inside the collar of his open-necked shirt. “Preferably one equipped with air-conditioning.”

      “We can’t—at least not the sort you have in mind.”

      “What? Why not?”

      “Except for a very few registered government vehicles, there are no cars allowed on the island.”

      “You mean that open contraption decked out in flowers that brought me from the airport—”

      “It’s called a jitney. And it’s one of only two on St. Julian.”

      An exasperated breath puffed from between his lips. “Then what’s the alternative? Riding bareback on a donkey and waving a straw hat in the air?”

      Chief Inspector Montand’s posture, which would have done credit to the French Foreign Legion at the best of times, stiffened perceptibly. Sophie flung him a commiserating glance before saying mildly, “There’s no need to be offensive, Mr. Winter. St. Julian might lack the sort of sophistication you’re used to at home, but its other charms more than make up for that. We can take one of the mini-mokes provided by the hotel. It’ll be more than adequate. The island is quite small.”

      Except for the