Burning Embers Page 10

  “Your father, my child, believed in what you call rubbish as much as us Africans, so don’t be fooled. He died because he believed.”

  Coral was not listening anymore. She rose and quickly slipped into the black one-shoulder goddess gown she had chosen for the evening. Her mind was made up. She would go to Rafe on her way to the party and see how she could help. After all, it was because of her that he was lying there, maybe fighting for his life.

  While driving to Whispering Palms, she tried to make sense of her feelings. Since the trip to the desert island, her brain had been surging with a sea of contradictory thoughts about Rafe. Even though she could not help blushing at the memory of his body brushing against hers and the instinctive response that had ignited her own body before she had come to her senses, it was not the erotic images of the man that seemed to grip her the most. For it was not the slick, irresistible charmer who had touched a sensitive cord deep inside her, despite the warnings of her rational mind. It was the other side of him that was most attractive: the man she had met on board the ship; the one who had picked her up so caringly when she was hurt; who had leaped to her rescue without hesitation when she had been threatened by danger, putting his own life on the line; the man she could sense beyond the sexual predator.

  Rafe was different from Dale, different from almost any man she knew. Sure, she had been strongly drawn to the American tycoon. At the time, she had even imagined that what she felt was love. How could she not have? Dale’s personality had been so compelling. He was so sure of himself, so handsomely arrogant, that he had bulldozed a path into her life and swept her off her feet.

  Coral was not a young woman of her time. She may have grown up in the “free love” of the sixties, but she didn’t see herself as the typical modern woman who had been created by the Age of Aquarius. She had spent most of her formative years, both in Africa and at boarding school in England, sheltered in some way or another from the real world. At twenty-five, she was still a virgin — one of very few, as far as she knew, in her class at the photography school in London. Some of them were even taking the contraceptive pill, even though they weren’t married. Dale had been surprised, even a little shocked, when Coral had insisted that they wait until after the wedding to make love. He’d found her inexperience rather frustrating. “We’ll soon put that right, honey,” he had said with a bored drawl. “There’s nothing magical about sex — it’s pure animal instinct. I’ve never understood what all the fuss is about!” Looking back, his comment seemed rather coarse and unromantic, but Coral had not dwelled on it at the time. He had certainly not awoken any part of her sensual nature, and while she admitted she was naïve in matters of the heart, she was definitely not frigid, as Dale had implied when she refused him. Again, images of Rafe’s tanned and muscled body swam into her mind, and she struggled to dismiss them, concentrating on the road ahead.

  She turned into Whispering Palms and started her zigzag up the steep, winding avenue of trees that gave the property its name. The house, perched high on stilts at the edge of a remote bluff overlooking a healthy sisal plantation, appeared positively eerie in the fitful moonlight. From what she could make out, it was a simple two-story block, completely surrounded by a gallery, with a makuti palm-leaf thatched roof and slender wooden posts supporting it at the eave line. Not a single light shone from its full-length windows. It looked deserted. Great — that was just what she needed.

  She took an uncertain step out of the car into the smoky darkness. The night was still and warm. The threatening beat of drums had ceased, but the stillness of the countryside was just as unnerving. What was she doing here? He may not even be here. Or then again, he may be in the house, helpless while awaiting assistance. The idea of him lying there, weak and disabled, was enough to stifle any remaining misgivings about coming tonight.

  Coral started up the wooden stairs. Almost immediately she heard barking, and within seconds, Buster was leaping out of the darkness.

  “Quiet, quiet now, Buster,” she cried out with grateful relief as she recognized the familiar Australian shepherd. The dog barked again twice — friendly little barks of recognition this time — accompanied by a great deal of tail wagging. “Good dog,” she said as she patted him gently, “good dog. Now lead me to your master…Where’s Rafe?”

  The bright little fellow ran up the stairs, leading the way round the gallery and into a dimly lit room.

  Rafe was stretched out on a divan in a far-off corner of the vast room, amid shadows and solitude. She tip-toed her way to him, holding her breath, afraid to violate his privacy. Silently standing over him, she watched him sleep — a lion in repose. For a fleeting second, she glimpsed something heartrending in the pained expression of his features. Was it her imagination? Still, for the time being, Coral would never forget the way he looked at that moment in the mellow light, exposed and unguarded. She found herself wanting nothing more than to be close to him, to protect him from the nightmares that seemed to haunt him.

  Rafe opened his eyes, and she panicked, uncertain how he would react to her presence there. He closed his eyes and opened them again, running a hand through his thick black hair and over his face, unsure, as though in a dream. “What are you doing here?” he finally managed to say in a voice still thick with sleep.

  “May I…sit down?”

  When he signaled her to go ahead, she sat on the edge of an armchair, facing him. They were silent. Coral shifted awkwardly in her seat.

  “I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, staggering to his feet. “I haven’t even offered you a drink.”

  “Thank you, I won’t have anything.” Her voice was almost inaudible.

  “Come now, since you’re here you’ll keep me company, won’t you?” He ambled over to a cabinet and turned on the light before taking out two small glasses and a bottle. “Crème de menthe…”

  “I’ve never tasted it. I don’t drink much apart from wine.”

  “You’ll like this. It’s a lady’s drink.”

  She noticed he was now fully awake, relaxed, in total control of himself. He poured himself a double shot of scotch from a bottle that had obviously been his companion for the past few days. He took his place on the divan opposite her and sipped the amber liquid quietly, assessing her through his dark eyelashes.

  “You look very elegant tonight. Going or coming from somewhere interesting?” he asked, the familiar playful smile floating on his lips. He glanced at his watch. “Ten thirty already…By the way, you haven’t told me to what I owe the honor of your visit. What can I do for you?”

  She coughed to clear her voice and swallowed hard before blurting out, “I…I…I’ve come because I was concerned about you, and also I want to apologize for causing you such trouble and for being so rude to you. I’ve said some horrible things to you. I feel guilty. I heard you were unwell…in danger, I mean, and…”

  Rafe gave a sad, disenchanted laugh. “Of course, many of the things you said were true. I won’t deny it. You see, Coral, guilt does not run with the flock, it chases after it like the shepherd’s dog. I suppose I’ve done a few rotten things in my life. I must have taken more than my fair share. God says: ‘Take what you want and pay!’ Perhaps now I am paying.” He leaned his head against the back of the divan and shut his eyes, appearing tired and worn.

  She felt an impulse to put her arms around him and imagined smoothing out his brow, erasing with her lips every little crease and those dark rings she noticed under his eyes. But she sat there, glued to her seat by his presence and by the surprising power of her emotions.

  “Don’t feel sorry for me,” he said, seeming to mistake the concern he read in her eyes for pity.

  “I don’t.” Coral shook her head, feeling a little flustered. “But you look so weary. Have you recovered from those bites?”

  “Yes, I’m okay now. It took a couple of days longer because I thought I’d been attacked by a puff adder, when all the time it had been a Kiko snake. I should have recognized it even though it
’s very similar to the adder, but darker. It’s quite common in this part of the world. Its poison is much more potent than that of an adder, and that’s where I went wrong. But luckily I have the antidote in my cupboard, and it’s fine.”

  “I’m very relieved that you’re safe.” She smiled at him for the first time.

  “You mustn’t worry about me — you mustn’t worry about anything. It’s very kind of you to have come by. I’m deeply touched,” he whispered.

  She smiled again, more demurely this time, relieved that he bore her no grudge. “I think I ought to leave now.” She rose to her feet a little uncertainly.

  “I will accompany you.”

  He walked her to the car with Buster on his heels. She was just about to get into it when he placed a hand on her arm. She turned and raised her head a little, her lips parted. His mouth came down, tender and gentle, only lingering briefly on her cheek. She breathed in quickly. “Good night, Coral, and thank you,” he said quietly, endearment in the tone of his voice.

  For a long moment, they looked into each other’s eyes. Her heart was beating very fast. Something inside her was beginning to quiver, a heated sensation that she now recognized immediately. He was beginning to have that effect on her. She knew she must leave without delay before she actually threw herself into his arms and made a fool of herself. “Good night, Rafe,” she whispered, and climbing into the old Buick, she started for home.

  Coral felt no desire to go clubbing tonight. She wanted to be alone; for some reason the idea of partying with her friends had lost its appeal. She wondered what it was about this man’s company that confused her so. The fascination had been there from the first time she had set eyes on him, but it was the thought of him being in danger, seeing him lying there vulnerable, and most of all the fact that he bore no grudge for the grief she had caused him, that kindled a strange flame within her and made her look at him with newly awakened eyes. He was definitely a womanizer, but so had her dear father been, and that hadn’t made him a bad person. And as far as she knew, at least Rafe wasn’t committed to anyone. Everybody had a weakness, and Rafe’s was clearly women. That made him a seducer, not the monster Aluna painted him to be, she told herself.

  * * *

  A few days later Coral was finishing a late lunch downstairs on the veranda, helping herself to a last cup of coffee before her usual siesta in a hammock tied among the shady branches of a frangipane tree. As she was alone, she had perched the radio on the table next to her, and Simon and Garfunkel’s “Bridge Over Troubled Water” came on, giving her a pang of sad amusement at how it matched her mood. All morning she had been on one of her outings to the beach, secretly hoping to bump into Rafe, and now she allowed herself to feel a little disillusioned by her failure.

  Juma appeared and handed her a note. The stamp on it was local, and the handwritten address indicated this was a personal missive, not a business one. Perplexed, Coral tore the envelope open. Her heart leapt as she read the bold signature at the bottom of the page before her eyes devoured the brief note.

  Enclosed are six tickets for a show by the Kankan Dancers, a French Guinea troupe that is touring Kenya and will be performing tomorrow at the Golden Fish for one night only. It would give me great pleasure if you and your friends would do me the honour of being my guests. I look forward to your acceptance.

  Yours sincerely, Rafe.

  Coral tried to contain her excitement as she went to the phone and rang Sandy to tell her about the show. Unfortunately, Sandy was leaving the next day for Barbados, and the other members of their crowd were either out of town or involved in the annual charity ball at the Mombasa Yacht Club on Saturday night. As she put the phone down, Coral tried to suppress the growing disappointment and frustration she felt, gradually replacing the earlier thrill of anticipation. She couldn’t ignore her desire to see Rafe again, and every time she had been on the beach she had listened for the Australian shepherd and his master. Rafe’s note had been most opportune, and now she would have to decline his invitation.

  Coral made her way to the front of the house and sat on the steps of the veranda. She encircled her legs with her arms and rested her forehead on her knees, deep in thought. Somehow she would find a way of attending the show, even if it meant going to the nightclub on her own. In the meantime, she decided to go to Whispering Palms and deliver the answer to Rafe’s invitation herself.

  She went up to her room to shower again, wash her hair, and change. A couple of hours later, clad in tight white jeans and a multicolored halter top that set off her golden tan, she skipped down the stairs, breezed through the front door into the garden, and flew straight to the car, trying to calm the excitement that radiated through her at the thought of meeting Rafe again.

  It was nearly half past four when Coral arrived at Whispering Palms. The sun was still high, but the heat of the day had died down and the air was cooler. The house in daylight was quite different from the desolate impression she had gotten the night before. Built into the hillside, it looked down on the Indian Ocean in the distance across acres of sisal — the perfect place to enjoy panoramic views of stunning sunsets and dramatic storms with the incessant strumming of the cicadas in the background. Now she could see columns and repeated arched architectural details that dressed up the structural support for the roof, giving the property an elegant grandeur devoid of all ostentation, which fitted its owner’s personality to perfection.

  To Coral it was as though she had suddenly entered the forbidden Garden of Eden, lush with brilliant flashes of tropical flowers and tumultuous vegetation. Tropical wilderness had joined in, mixing and blending form and color with the artful genius of nature. She spotted Rafe ahead of her at the entrance to the house. Coral pulled up on the gravel drive, a little way from the building, and got out.

  Rafe had his back to her, hands deeply thrust into his pockets. Broad shoulders and rippling muscles were outlined under his red T-shirt, with his narrow hips clad in the most revealing pair of jeans. He was totally absorbed in conversation with one of the plantation’s workmen, so he did not hear Coral approaching until she was almost upon him. He turned abruptly, caught unaware, and she thought he flushed a bit under his nut-brown tan.

  Rafe dismissed the worker with a few words in Swahili, all his attention now focused on his visitor. “Hello.” He grinned, his eyes flickering appreciatively over the neckline of her revealing top.

  Coral brought a self-conscious hand to her throat as the dark gaze drifted to her bare shoulders, silently appraising her. She raised her head slowly and looked directly at him. “I’ve come to apologize,” she said, trying to steady her voice. “Unfortunately I’m forced to decline your kind invitation for tomorrow night. My friends are either away or taking part in the Mombasa Yacht Club charity ball.”

  Her face felt suddenly hot as the gold in his eyes intensified, burning into hers as though trying to read her most secret thoughts. “That settles it for your friends then,” he said. “Shall we say that we’ll first have a quiet, al fresco dinner here at seven, before I take you off to the Golden Fish for the show?”

  “I didn’t say I could come,” she ventured, trying to sound casual.

  The piercing gaze fixed her now with contained amusement. She was aware he was entertained by her little ruse. Coral glared at him. She was tempted to turn down his offer, but she refrained, realizing she would kick herself afterward for being too proud and over-sensitive. Wasn’t his reaction what she had hoped for when deciding to come to Whispering Palms with her answer? Coral had been transparent, and Rafe had applied the same cunning, playing her at her own game. Touché, she thought and nodded her assent.

  “Splendid,” he said with unrestrained satisfaction. He smiled at her — a sweet, unassuming smile. “I’m about to do the rounds of the plantation. Would you care to accompany me? I’d like to show it to you.” His tone was cajoling, his eyes secretly pleading.

  She felt herself once more trapped in his charismatic aura; he did not
need to plead. She was only too happy to stick around, visiting his plantation or otherwise. “Yes” — her reply was almost a whisper — “yes, I’d love to, thank you.”

  The sun was still warm on their faces as they walked down a well-kept path to the plantation, side by side, nearly touching. Rafe’s fingers momentarily brushed against Coral’s, and she thought he was about to seek her hand, but then he withdrew it. Coral was already aware of the lean masculine body only inches away, and this fleeting contact sent her senses into a new spin. Scented flowers of jasmine, wisteria, and roses climbed around stone arches and pillars that formed the romantic walkway, casting delightful shade and light onto the paving. The stone, he told her, had been imported from the Burgundy region of France. There was a flowering cactus in bloom in a small crevice as they passed the rock garden. “That’s beautiful,” Coral exclaimed as she stretched out her hand to touch the fleshy surface of the thick leaves.

  “Don’t!” Rafe grasped her hand. “It’s innocent looking, but ‘il ne faut pas se fier aux apparences — all that glitters is not gold,’” he said, tightening his grip, his face shining with hidden mischief. “There are thousands of invisible spikes on that apparently smooth surface. They’re hell to take out, as they’re very difficult to see.” Finally, he released her hand, and Coral found herself immediately missing its warmth.

  The plantation was an impressive sight. Neat parallel rows of sisal plants extended as far as the eye could see. The red of the loose, sandy soil and the green of the long, spiky leaves set under the azure-blue sky were like a vibrant painting. Workers were busy loading bundles of those leaves into light railway trucks, undoubtedly transporting them from the field to the processing factory.

  “This land was derelict when I bought the estate eight years ago,” Rafe said. “Today it is one of the leading sisal plantations in Kenya, I am proud to say. Most of the ropes and agricultural twine you find in this country are made from our plants, as well as insulation for houses and countless other things.”