tapping the tips of her fingers together as though in applause. ‘Harry, you can join my team any time. Nail and head. Seems Miss Ranelagh left our island
this morning, went through Wade International on the early flight to London via New York.’
He took a deep breath of satisfaction and with every breath found his strength being slowly restored. ‘So, what do you reckon, Delicious? That I may not be an arsonist and murderer after
all?’
She smiled, nodded. ‘It’s possible.’
‘Then I’m free to leave Bermuda.’
An ember of provocation flickered behind her eyes. ‘Don’t be in such a damned hurry, Harry. This is a great island we have. Do a little healing here.’ Then the slightest but
most meaningful of pauses. ‘Be happy to show you some of it.’
‘That would be great, Delicious, in another life.’
He spoke softly, and the ember in her eyes died as she realized he wasn’t a sole agent. ‘Some other life, then, Harry. But don’t go rushing into it, OK?’
‘What flight did you say Miss Ranelagh caught?’
‘Early one.’
‘How early?’
‘Nine-thirty. As I said, she changed in New York. Didn’t wait for the direct flight. Must have been in a hurry.’
‘I’m sure she was. Do me a favour, will you, Delicious – no, two?’
‘Tempt me.’
‘Call the nurse. I need to get myself sorted.’
He bit his lip to stifle the pain as he hauled himself into a sitting position on the side of the bed. There wasn’t much to hide his modesty; she had noticed. He challenged her with his
eyes; she threw it straight back at him. ‘And that second favour, Mr Jones?’
‘Call those nice guys and gals at British Airways. I need to change my ticket, fly home before the weekend. Without any penalty. You could pull a little rank, ask them to do that,
couldn’t you?’
‘I suppose you’ll be wanting an upgrade next.’
‘Make that three favours.’
She burst into laughter. ‘You and I would make a good team, Harry. You ever come back on the island, you let me know. Spend a little time. Play good cop, bad cop.’
‘And I bet you can be a very, very bad cop, Delicious.’
‘Seems you’re never going to find out.’
Their eyes held and tangled, their imaginations dancing in another life.
‘What plane you want to catch, Harry?’
‘First thing tomorrow.’
‘Hot damn, she must be really worth getting back to.’
‘She is.’
But, even as he raised her, it wasn’t Jemma he had so much on his mind as Susannah Ranelagh. If she had caught the nine-thirty flight there was no way she could have set the fire herself.
She had neither the time nor the motivation. No, there was someone else in all this, someone who wanted him dead. It wasn’t Susannah Ranelagh, but she would surely be able to point him in the
right direction.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It had been a long flight, stretched by the need to change at JFK, every moment filled with the cackling of demons. Susannah Ranelagh was familiar with demons: they’d
been an integral part of her Irish upbringing in the hills around Lough Leane, instructed by the priest and exaggerated still more by her own narrow-minded mother. At one point in her younger days
she’d even considered escaping from the fires of Hell by retreating to a convent but that had never been a realistic option. She’d never been able to open her heart or close her mind
sufficiently to accept God. It was the same with men. When she’d arrived at Oxford she’d been determined to lose her pent-up innocence and had set about it as much out of intellectual
curiosity as physical need, and had quickly identified a Classics scholar in his final year for the purpose, but the experience had left her desperately unfulfilled. Too little finesse, too much
thrashing of limbs, and all that inevitable Catholic guilt. Susannah Ranelagh wasn’t by any means a prude but she was intensely private and self-contained. She was also stubborn and had
persevered through a succession of
this morning, went through Wade International on the early flight to London via New York.’
He took a deep breath of satisfaction and with every breath found his strength being slowly restored. ‘So, what do you reckon, Delicious? That I may not be an arsonist and murderer after
all?’
She smiled, nodded. ‘It’s possible.’
‘Then I’m free to leave Bermuda.’
An ember of provocation flickered behind her eyes. ‘Don’t be in such a damned hurry, Harry. This is a great island we have. Do a little healing here.’ Then the slightest but
most meaningful of pauses. ‘Be happy to show you some of it.’
‘That would be great, Delicious, in another life.’
He spoke softly, and the ember in her eyes died as she realized he wasn’t a sole agent. ‘Some other life, then, Harry. But don’t go rushing into it, OK?’
‘What flight did you say Miss Ranelagh caught?’
‘Early one.’
‘How early?’
‘Nine-thirty. As I said, she changed in New York. Didn’t wait for the direct flight. Must have been in a hurry.’
‘I’m sure she was. Do me a favour, will you, Delicious – no, two?’
‘Tempt me.’
‘Call the nurse. I need to get myself sorted.’
He bit his lip to stifle the pain as he hauled himself into a sitting position on the side of the bed. There wasn’t much to hide his modesty; she had noticed. He challenged her with his
eyes; she threw it straight back at him. ‘And that second favour, Mr Jones?’
‘Call those nice guys and gals at British Airways. I need to change my ticket, fly home before the weekend. Without any penalty. You could pull a little rank, ask them to do that,
couldn’t you?’
‘I suppose you’ll be wanting an upgrade next.’
‘Make that three favours.’
She burst into laughter. ‘You and I would make a good team, Harry. You ever come back on the island, you let me know. Spend a little time. Play good cop, bad cop.’
‘And I bet you can be a very, very bad cop, Delicious.’
‘Seems you’re never going to find out.’
Their eyes held and tangled, their imaginations dancing in another life.
‘What plane you want to catch, Harry?’
‘First thing tomorrow.’
‘Hot damn, she must be really worth getting back to.’
‘She is.’
But, even as he raised her, it wasn’t Jemma he had so much on his mind as Susannah Ranelagh. If she had caught the nine-thirty flight there was no way she could have set the fire herself.
She had neither the time nor the motivation. No, there was someone else in all this, someone who wanted him dead. It wasn’t Susannah Ranelagh, but she would surely be able to point him in the
right direction.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It had been a long flight, stretched by the need to change at JFK, every moment filled with the cackling of demons. Susannah Ranelagh was familiar with demons: they’d
been an integral part of her Irish upbringing in the hills around Lough Leane, instructed by the priest and exaggerated still more by her own narrow-minded mother. At one point in her younger days
she’d even considered escaping from the fires of Hell by retreating to a convent but that had never been a realistic option. She’d never been able to open her heart or close her mind
sufficiently to accept God. It was the same with men. When she’d arrived at Oxford she’d been determined to lose her pent-up innocence and had set about it as much out of intellectual
curiosity as physical need, and had quickly identified a Classics scholar in his final year for the purpose, but the experience had left her desperately unfulfilled. Too little finesse, too much
thrashing of limbs, and all that inevitable Catholic guilt. Susannah Ranelagh wasn’t by any means a prude but she was intensely private and self-contained. She was also stubborn and had
persevered through a succession of
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