The Turtle Run by Marie Evelyn

just might surprise you and snap it up myself.’
    Becky was amazed: Richard looked like he had all the purchasing power of a beach bum.
    â€˜I wouldn’t be surprised if you tried,’ said Matthew, sounding bored.
    Becky pretended to study a picture of a beach, which looked similar to every other postcard featuring a beach. It would have been intriguing to know why a bit of land was such a sought-after prize. What trophy could have the pair circling each other like a couple of wary prizefighters? But she was hardly on terms friendly enough with either to ask.
    The girl from the car-rental agency waved at Matthew and, as soon as he went over to see her, Richard Carrington sidled next to Becky. ‘Well, Miss Thomson, if you find the company too dull, I’ll be happy to take you out and show you the sights.’
    She smiled a non-committal smile.
    â€˜And don’t let that slave driver take advantage of you. Bajan laws are strict about employers giving time off to their employees.’ He giggled. ‘Well, nowadays, anyway. If he gives you a hard time, tell me – and I’ll come round and trash his office or something.’ He looked round quickly but Matthew was still confirming details with the car agency woman.
    Richard gave Becky a cheerful smile. ‘Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll have a great time and we will bump into each other soon.’
    â€˜Will we?’ said Becky, amused at his conviction.
    â€˜It’s a small island.’ He laughed and breezed off in his shorts and flip-flops.
    His hair, Becky noticed, was almost as long as hers and someone ought to tell him to shave and tidy himself up a bit. But he seemed nice enough – harmless, at any rate.
    â€˜Well,’ said Matthew, appearing behind her. ‘I suppose I ought to congratulate you.’
    She stared at him, mystified. ‘Congratulate me – what for?’
    â€˜For attracting the scion of one of the richest families in the West Indies – not just in Barbados; they own real estate in many islands. And you did it within an hour of your arrival. That’s got to be a record. How did you manage it?’
    Becky heard the sarcasm in his voice, the unpleasant insinuation that she, barely off the plane, and with this talent he was convinced she possessed for self-advancement, had assessed that the guy who looked like a tramp wasn’t really a tramp at all.
    â€˜How did I manage it?’ she repeated. ‘Easily. I thought because he was dressed like a beach bum, and sounded like a beach bum, he must be heir to the largest chunk of real estate in the whole West Indies so I gave him the come-on, as you could hear.’ She looked at him, defiantly. ‘Can we go now?’
    He held up his hands. ‘Sorry, you’re right; he does look like the beach bum he is. And, yes we can go.’
    He relieved her of her rucksack and when they reached the car held the door open for her. She got in, put on her seatbelt and looked stonily ahead.
    He put her rucksack in the boot, got in the driver’s side and spent a minute studying the dashboard.
    â€˜How far away is the house?’ said Becky, really meaning how long did they have to share the car journey.
    â€˜Quite a way, I’m afraid. The parishes are almost at opposite ends of the island.’
    â€˜Parishes?’ Her father hadn’t mentioned those.
    â€˜The island is divided into parishes. We’re in Christ Church at the moment, right on the south coast, whereas we have to drive up north to the parish of St Lucy. That’s where the house is.’
    â€˜OK,’ said Becky. ‘Let’s get going.’
    They left the airport in silence. As they picked up speed a pleasant breeze was drawn into the car and she relaxed a little. She was finally getting to see her father’s favourite island.
    The lanes – shortcuts she supposed – they were bowling along were hedged by emerald fields of a