her eyes. All she could do was to lie rigid with fury against his knees and seethe with impotent rage. It was even impossible to avert her face as her chin was cupped in his palm and, at the least movement, his fingers tightened against her jaw. And it only intensified her fury to know that this was precisely the climax which her instinct had warned her to avoid.
But his kiss, when it came, was not what she had expected. His lips brushed lightly and briefly over her cheekbone, and then, with a stifled laugh, he pushed her back into a sitting position and reached to retrieve her hat.
“You needn’t have panicked, poppet,” he said carelessly. “But that little ordeal may wake you up to some realities. You’re still in the junior league when it comes to coping with wolves.”
“ Oh !” Sara snatched back the hat, and choked on a rush of scalding retorts. “I—I think you’re the most abominable person I’ve ever met,” she burst out, finally.
And then, with a glare that should have reduced him to a crisp, she turned and marched back along the shore.
Mrs. Stuyvesant was alone when she reached their picnic place.
“I thought you were with Stephen, honey,” the American woman said. “Connie and Angela have just gone over the ridge.”
Sara bent over her beach-bag. “Have they? I think I’ll have a swim,” she said, her voice still unsteady.
“You know, I think this is every bit as romantic as the South Seas,” Mrs. Stuyvesant said dreamily. “It’s certainly a lot more accessible. Connie’s talking of buying up one of these cays and building a beach-house.”
“Oh, really. Excuse me.” Sara disappeared behind the canvas screens that formed a changing place and tugged at the zipper of her shorts. Her heart was still beating in great heavy thumps and her fingers were all thumbs.
Stephen was still far down the beach when she waded into the sea. After a while, swimming in the placid turquoise lagoon within the protective reef, she began to calm down. It was useless to go on raging. Men like Stephen Rand were impervious to snubs or disdain: to give vent to her outrage would only increase his amusement. No, the best way to deal with him would be to shrug off the whole maddening incident as if it had been a triviality. That was how she should have dealt with it at the time, she realized reluctantly. Instead of looking petrified and witless, she ought to have behaved with the utmost composure. That would have shaken his arrogance! Well, it was too late to retrieve her most serious error, but at least she could foil any further diversion he was expecting to derive.
Presently she saw her sister and Conrad coming back. They were holding hands and Angela was laughing at something he had said to her. The sound carried out over the water and made Sara feel a surge of distaste. Suddenly she wished that Aunt Dorothy had never left them the money, that they were safely back in London. There, if nothing else, she had felt her life was reasonably under control and that she was capable of dealing with all the likely eventualities. The weeks had sometimes been a little monotonous, but at least they had had some purpose and formed a pattern.
But here in the Bahamas, where everything had a kind of Technicolor unreality, there was neither purpose nor pattern—unless one accounted the pursuit of pleasure as an adequate motive for existence.
When Sara came out of the water, Stephen was back. By a tremendous effort of will, she forced herself to look at him and to return his quizzical glance with an untroubled smile.
Later, when it was time to return to the launch, she allowed him to hand her into the dinghy without a sign of the effect on her. Yet now, even that casual physical contact made her throat tighten.
It was a little before six when they returned to New Providence. A newly arrived cruise liner was lying in the harbor, and as they passed the outer wharf, they could see that it was the Caronia.
With the skill
But his kiss, when it came, was not what she had expected. His lips brushed lightly and briefly over her cheekbone, and then, with a stifled laugh, he pushed her back into a sitting position and reached to retrieve her hat.
“You needn’t have panicked, poppet,” he said carelessly. “But that little ordeal may wake you up to some realities. You’re still in the junior league when it comes to coping with wolves.”
“ Oh !” Sara snatched back the hat, and choked on a rush of scalding retorts. “I—I think you’re the most abominable person I’ve ever met,” she burst out, finally.
And then, with a glare that should have reduced him to a crisp, she turned and marched back along the shore.
Mrs. Stuyvesant was alone when she reached their picnic place.
“I thought you were with Stephen, honey,” the American woman said. “Connie and Angela have just gone over the ridge.”
Sara bent over her beach-bag. “Have they? I think I’ll have a swim,” she said, her voice still unsteady.
“You know, I think this is every bit as romantic as the South Seas,” Mrs. Stuyvesant said dreamily. “It’s certainly a lot more accessible. Connie’s talking of buying up one of these cays and building a beach-house.”
“Oh, really. Excuse me.” Sara disappeared behind the canvas screens that formed a changing place and tugged at the zipper of her shorts. Her heart was still beating in great heavy thumps and her fingers were all thumbs.
Stephen was still far down the beach when she waded into the sea. After a while, swimming in the placid turquoise lagoon within the protective reef, she began to calm down. It was useless to go on raging. Men like Stephen Rand were impervious to snubs or disdain: to give vent to her outrage would only increase his amusement. No, the best way to deal with him would be to shrug off the whole maddening incident as if it had been a triviality. That was how she should have dealt with it at the time, she realized reluctantly. Instead of looking petrified and witless, she ought to have behaved with the utmost composure. That would have shaken his arrogance! Well, it was too late to retrieve her most serious error, but at least she could foil any further diversion he was expecting to derive.
Presently she saw her sister and Conrad coming back. They were holding hands and Angela was laughing at something he had said to her. The sound carried out over the water and made Sara feel a surge of distaste. Suddenly she wished that Aunt Dorothy had never left them the money, that they were safely back in London. There, if nothing else, she had felt her life was reasonably under control and that she was capable of dealing with all the likely eventualities. The weeks had sometimes been a little monotonous, but at least they had had some purpose and formed a pattern.
But here in the Bahamas, where everything had a kind of Technicolor unreality, there was neither purpose nor pattern—unless one accounted the pursuit of pleasure as an adequate motive for existence.
When Sara came out of the water, Stephen was back. By a tremendous effort of will, she forced herself to look at him and to return his quizzical glance with an untroubled smile.
Later, when it was time to return to the launch, she allowed him to hand her into the dinghy without a sign of the effect on her. Yet now, even that casual physical contact made her throat tighten.
It was a little before six when they returned to New Providence. A newly arrived cruise liner was lying in the harbor, and as they passed the outer wharf, they could see that it was the Caronia.
With the skill
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