Love's Ransom

by Dana James

Genres: Women's Fiction; Romance; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Zanthi normally enjoys her diplomatic work as Assistant Secretary at Jumelle's Government House. But strange events on the Caribbean island are troubling her. The unexpected arrival of land surveyor Garran Crossley only adds to the puzzle. Zanthi's hard-won calm is shattered when he announces she will be travelling with him to the jungle interior. Despite his blunt outspoken manner she senses there is much he isn't telling her. Can she trust the deepening attraction between them? Trust him?

Release date: July 4, 2013

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 149

Sample

Chapter One

Zanthi turned from the computer screen and smiled as her PA set a tea-tray down on one corner of the vast, crowded desk. ‘Margaret, you read my mind.’ Leaning back in the swivel chair she stretched, bare brown legs out in front of her and her arms high above her head, to ease the stiffness in her shoulders.

Tropical sun streamed in through the long windows filling the high-ceilinged room with the golden light of late afternoon.

‘It’s almost four-thirty,’ Margaret Blaine reminded her. With thirty years’ experience in the workings of Government House, a memory like an elephant, and a mouth as tight as a clam, she was invaluable to Zanthi.

‘What?’ Dismayed, Zanthi bolted upright in her chair and stared at her watch. ‘It can’t be.’ She pulled her short-sleeved top of black and white striped cotton away from sweat-dewed skin. ‘When will the air-conditioning be working again?’

Margaret glanced at her watch. ‘By six this evening, according to Dennis. But he didn’t look all that confident.’

Zanthi made a wry face. ‘Terrific.’ She stared at the files and papers covering her desk. ‘I’ll never get all this finished today. I can’t work on tonight because of the dinner. This is my third official function this week.’

Margaret set the fine bone-china cup and saucer down within Zanthi’s reach. ‘Couldn’t you get out of it just this once?’

‘I wish.’ Zanthi pushed her slim hands through honey-brown hair cut close on her neck and gilded by the sunlight. She shook her head. ‘But it’s not possible. Tonight’s dinner is to launch the new mountain road scheme, and His Excellency has assigned me to look after this visiting surveyor. Apparently the entire project depends on him approving it.’

Lifting the cup, she cradled it in both hands and rested her elbows on the desk. ‘I’m to introduce him to the Ministers of Finance and Public Works and their ladies then hang about while they all make polite conversation. I also need to have read up enough background to be able to show an intelligent interest in his work. Then, making sure he circulates, I must provide him with anything he asks for in the way of introductions and information.’

With a sympathetic smile Margaret gathered up the files and newly typed letters from Zanthi’s “out” tray. ‘I’ll take these up to Sir James for signing.’

Zanthi nodded. ‘Would you? I’d really appreciate it. Most of them are official: from the Assembly to the Home Office. But some are personalised. Perhaps, if you could – a tactful reminder of which is which?’

Margaret nodded. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll make sure he knows.’ Glancing over her shoulder at the door, she leaned towards Zanthi, lowering her voice. ‘I know it’s not my business but I’m going to say it anyway. Lieutenant Benham isn’t being fair. Not that you aren’t capable of doing the work. Of course you are. But the way he’s piling all this extra onto you is never right.’

Although Zanthi and her immediate superior were on first-name terms, she had never heard Margaret refer to the ADC by anything other than his rank and surname, a sure sign of her disapproval.

Draining the last of her tea Zanthi replaced the cup on the saucer and handed it to her PA. ‘Margaret, that was a life-saver. Paul’s been tied up with errands for the Governor. He even apologised.’ With a shrug and a patronising smile, but that was Paul. She knew he was using her commitment to her job for his own convenience. And they both knew there was nothing she could do about it.

Margaret snorted, her short, plump figure clad in neat navy skirt and cream silk blouse puffing up like a pigeon. She patted the regimented silver waves of her stiff perm. ‘Making up to her ladyship is the truth of it,’ she muttered.

‘Margaret!’ Zanthi was startled, not by what Margaret had said, but the fact that she had said it. It was a standing joke among everyone connected with Government House that it was easier to squeeze blood from a stone than worm a secret out of Margaret Blaine. For this soul of discretion to drop such a remark revealed deep concern that resonated in Zanthi.

There were always rumours buzzing around Government House. But, rushed off her feet, Zanthi had not had time, let alone the inclination, to take much notice.

Earlier that week, she had unexpectedly come upon the ADC and the Governor’s wife in a corridor. The rosy flush on Lady Fiona’s plain features and the misty luminosity in her eyes had surprised her, then caused a twinge of concern. Her first thought was how different Lady Fiona looked. Her second was, what is Paul up to? But both had been pushed aside by her arrival at the Governor’s door.

The fact that Paul had come to her office a short while later, full of his usual banter, and once again asked her out, had helped dispel her brief uncertainty. As always she had turned him down.

‘If His Excellency gave as much time and attention to his wife as he does to that blessed garden,’ Margaret muttered, worry deepening the creases between her brows, ‘Lady Fiona wouldn’t be running the risk of making a fool of herself.’

‘But surely Paul would never –’ Zanthi looked up at her PA. ‘I don’t believe it. He’s a by-the-book man. He would never do anything that might jeopardise his career.’ She shook her head. ‘Honestly, Margaret, can you imagine him taking such a risk?’

‘You’re right. He wouldn’t. So he must be pretty sure of his ground.’ Indignation tightened Margaret’s mouth. ‘I’m telling you, Zanthi, he knows exactly what he’s doing. And he’s making the time and opportunity for it by dumping most of his work on you.’

Zanthi felt guilt bubble up. She hadn’t realised how potentially serious the situation had become. Still hoping that Margaret had somehow misread it, she sought another explanation.

‘Look, Paul is a charmer. It’s as natural to him as breathing. Perhaps her ladyship feels flattered. Maybe she’s playing up to him as a joke.’

‘Lady Fiona? I don’t think so.’ Margaret’s expression was that of someone who had walked in something unpleasant. ‘Lieutenant Benham can turn on the charm all right. He’d put a tap to shame. I’m not worth his notice. But I know his type, and I’ve been watching. He only bothers if there’s something in it for him.’

Zanthi studied her. ‘All right, Margaret, what do you know that I don’t?’

As the PA leaned closer, Zanthi caught a faint whiff of Devon Violets. The simple, old-fashioned scent Margaret bought over the internet was such a stark contrast to her air of conspiracy that Zanthi almost smiled. But she was too fond of her assistant to risk hurting her feelings. And the potential consequences should Margaret be right meant this was no laughing matter.

‘The Governor’s term of office finishes at the end of this year.’ Margaret spoke softly, urgently. ‘The new Governor will appoint his own ADC. Lieutenant Benham is an ambitious young man who intends to move on from here with excellent references and a promotion, and he’s not leaving anything to chance.’ She finished with a knowing look.

Zanthi gazed at her in disbelief. ‘You’re joking.’

Margaret shook her head firmly. ‘No, I’m not. Lieutenant Benham is 32. Lady Fiona is 54 years old. If she didn’t have Selma to dress her she’d look like a bag-lady. And not even her closest friends would call her pretty. So, you tell me, what reason other than ambition could Lieutenant Benham have for playing up to her?’

Instinctively Zanthi lowered her voice to match that of her secretary. ‘Do you think Sir James knows?’ Her forehead furrowed as her mind ranged back over her recent meetings with the stooped, sparely built man, whose clipped speech and brusque manner hid a kindness which had endeared him to the islanders, and whose rare smile could light up a room.

Margaret hesitated a moment. ‘I doubt it. But you know His Excellency: he’s a diplomat. It wouldn’t matter how angry or upset he was, he’d never show it.’ Again her hand strayed to her hair, patting the immaculate waves as if for reassurance. ‘Sir James has – well, to put it kindly, he’s seemed a bit … out of touch in recent weeks. Surely you must have noticed?’

Zanthi pushed her chair back and walked over to the window which was opened top and bottom to catch any cooling draught.

Folding her arms, she leaned one shoulder against the frame and gazed out on to the immaculate lawn. Mowed as smooth as an emerald carpet, it was edged with clusters of flowering shrubs. Their purple, yellow and cyclamen-pink flowers were splashes of vivid colour amid the rich green foliage and provided jewel-bright contrast to the cool shadows of the coconut palms.

‘I wish I could say you’re imagining it. But you aren’t, and you’re right,’ she admitted. ‘At first I thought maybe he was just tired. But if he wasn’t well his valet would have told Lieutenant Benham, who would have told me. The same applies if the doctor had been sent for. I’d have heard.’

‘Well, something is preying on his mind,’ Margaret said. ‘If he’s not ill, and he doesn’t know about Her Ladyship and Lieutenant Benham, what else could be bothering him? Something to do with the island?’

‘I wondered about that as well,’ Zanthi shrugged. ‘But according to his reports to London everything is fine.’

‘Do you believe that?’ Margaret’s gaze held concern.

‘I’d like to, but no, I don’t. And before you ask, I’ve got no evidence. It’s just a feeling, but –’ She stiffened, her attention caught by a movement in the shadows at the far side of the garden. ‘Who’s that?’

The PA hurried to her side. ‘He’s not staff,’ she announced with certainty. ‘Where’s Dennis? It’s his job to make sure no unauthorised person gets into the private areas.’

The corners of Zanthi’s mouth tilted briefly. ‘Our ex‑Marine sergeant is probably regaling tonight’s cadet guard of honour with tales of his exploits in some jungle or Arctic waste.’

‘Arctic wastes indeed,’ Margaret sniffed. ‘He’s another one could do with keeping his mind on his job.’ Clasping the files and correspondence to her firmly upholstered bosom, she marched to the door. ‘What’s the point of security if just anyone can walk in? I’ll give him what-for when I get hold of him.’

‘Our uninvited guest?’

‘Dennis,’ Margaret’s tone was grim.

‘He’s already terrified of you.’

‘Not terrified enough. Or we wouldn’t have strangers in Sir James’s garden.’ She hurried out, the door closing behind her with a sharp click.

Zanthi turned once more to the window. The man certainly wasn’t a burglar. Nor did he have the half-apologetic, half-defiant air of a tourist who had lost his passport and been sent up to Government Office to obtain a temporary replacement.

As he emerged fully from the shadows and stood at the edge of the lawn, scanning the building with a slow, sweeping glance, he appeared perfectly relaxed. Pulling her blouse away from her hot skin, Zanthi rubbed the back of her neck where tension had tightened the muscles.

He had removed the jacket of his beige lightweight suit and was carrying it slung over his shoulder hooked on one finger. His shirtsleeves were turned back halfway up deeply tanned forearms. His collar was unfastened, his tie pulled loose. Tall, dark-haired, broad-shouldered, and long-limbed, he started across the lawn with a fluid stride and at an angle which, within seconds, would take him out of view.

Where was Dennis? Or Sir James’s chauffeur? Or even Lieutenant Benham? Didn’t Zanthi have enough on her plate without having to deal with intruders? He might well be harmless. He might even have an excuse for coming to Government House. But he had no right whatsoever to be wandering around unescorted.

Zanthi whirled from the window and ran out of the office, down the short corridor and across the hall, her sandals slapping against the tiled floor. Bursting through the glass door and onto the flagged path, she stumbled to a breathless halt, narrowly avoiding a collision.

The man looked down at her. His black brows were almost straight, but the left one had a curve which gave him an air of quiet irony. ‘Is there a fire?’ His voice, a deep, throaty bass, reminded her of distant thunder.

At five feet eight, Zanthi had always thought of herself as fairly tall, but she had to tilt her head backwards to meet his gaze.           

Fringed with black lashes his eyes were the colour of dark chocolate and observed her steadily without a trace of embarrassment.

A broad deep forehead, strong straight nose and well-defined cheekbones added to the overall impression of solid strength. Only his mouth, wide and mobile with a slightly fuller bottom lip, hinted at the possibility of gentleness and humour.

‘No. That’s not why –’

‘Oi, you there!’ Dennis’s bull-like roar cut across Zanthi’s flustered explanation as he pounded towards them.

‘Please excuse me, miss …?’ The stranger paused, the curved brow rising in enquiry.

‘Fitzroy,’ Zanthi responded automatically.

‘It appears I’m wanted.’

‘You shouldn’t be here,’ she said, trying to regain control of a situation which seemed unaccountably to be in his hands.

‘On the contrary,’ he replied quietly. But before she could ask him what he meant, he added, ‘I believe I hear your telephone.’

Zanthi glanced over her shoulder. As she turned back he was already walking away to meet Dennis. Furious at the ease with which he had distracted her, and torn between joining Dennis for the pleasure of seeing the man taken down a peg or two and the possibility that her phone might indeed be ringing, duty won, and she quickly returned to her office.

As she reached the door, she could hear the bell. Dashing in, she snatched up the receiver. ‘Good afternoon, Assistant Secretary’s office.’ How could he have heard it? The door had shut behind her. The husky tones of the Governor’s wife came down the line.

‘No, ma’am, Lieutenant Benham isn’t here at the moment.’ Zanthi glanced at her watch. ‘I’m expecting him within the next half-hour. Yes, ma’am, I’ll tell him.’ Zanthi replaced the receiver, her expression thoughtful.

Sitting down she rested her elbows on her desk and pressed her fingertips to her temples, releasing her weariness and growing confusion in a deep, shuddering sigh.          

During drab winter days in England when even the air felt cold, grey and lifeless she had dreamed of Jumelle: picturing Atlantic rollers driven by the north-east trade winds crashing onto the rocky eastern shores and foaming over black volcanic sand that glistened like a star-spangled night sky. In contrast on the western coast the limpid, turquoise waters of the Caribbean lapped endless beaches of powder-fine, white sand shaded by tall coconut palms. But now that she was home again, nothing was as she had imagined – hoped – it would be.

Her work wasn’t the problem. She loved her. . .