Burning Embers Page 8

  “Yes, it is celebrated as a night club and draws le tout de Mombasa,” Sandy declared.

  “What are we all drinking? Sundowners, ladies?” Henry asked, leaning into his pocket for his cigarettes. The hostess then took their orders while the men settled for traditional White Cap Kenyan beers. Gentle strains of bossa nova music wafted through the room as Henry offered Coral a cigarette.

  “No thanks.”

  “So, you’re doing an article on Kenya, eh?” said Henry, squinting at her through his cigarette smoke.

  “Yes, that’s right, and doing some photography too.” Coral noticed with irritation that Henry’s smile was decidedly patronizing. “And the chances are it’ll be the basis for a documentary,” she added, trying to disguise the note of defensiveness in her voice.

  “Well, my dear, anyone trying to cover what’s going on in this country at the moment has their work cut out for them. I’m afraid to say Africa isn’t the country it was.”

  “Kenyatta’s certainly stirred things up, that’s for sure,” Fiona piped in, lighting up her own cigarette. “The tourists were flocking in. Last year, we’d never been so busy in the office.”

  “Bet that’s all changed since the Mboya assassination, though, hasn’t it?” said Peter, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray. Coral noticed that the twitchy young man had already smoked two cigarettes since they sat down. “Tribal politics has escalated. Kenyatta’s not exactly running a democracy, and people are afraid.”

  “Well of course, the old settlers have the most to lose and are bound to be afraid of the new order,” said Jack quietly, sipping his beer.

  Bonnie chimed in: “My papa says we have a few more years at most. My grandparents had a dream of creating a little piece of England here. That’s all finished now.”

  Coral added, “Just because that dream is finished doesn’t mean that we cannot be part of the new dream, the new Kenya, where everyone has opportunities.”

  “Ha! The new Kenya?” Henry interjected. “The British should never have pulled out of Africa. Africa for the Africans? Look at the mess we’re in now. The tribes are killing each other, and it won’t be long before they start murdering us in our beds.”

  “Oh, pipe down, Henry.” Sandy threw him an exasperated look. “The whole world is becoming more violent. It’s a sign of the times.”

  Coral had to agree with her friend. The world did seem to be a more violent place. Only last year a fan had been stabbed to death by a Hells Angels gang at the Rolling Stones concert in California, and there was that grisly business with the Manson murders last summer. Young people were dying of drug overdoses; even Brian Jones had been found dead in his swimming pool. Was this the end of the Age of Aquarius?

  As if reading her mind, Fiona tried to lighten the mood a little. “Perhaps Lennon and Yoko Ono need to climb back into bed again, in that case, and give peace another chance!” They all laughed, and Coral smiled, relieved as the conversation moved on to The Beatles and whether this would be the year they split up. Coral looked round the room again. The music had changed to Fausto Pappeti’s seductive saxophone, and as she relaxed into her chair in appreciation, she felt Sandy nudge her arm.

  “I love this place, don’t you? When the owner took it over a few years ago, it was an ordinary night club with very mediocre décor and a rather ordinary show. He completely gutted it and rebuilt it. Such vision and imagination. He’s really brought it to life and made it quite an extraordinary club.”

  “Who owns it?” Coral asked, her curiosity roused by her friend’s words.

  “A belated European settler, a Frenchman,” volunteered Bonnie, who had been earwigging. She raised her eyebrows so that her eyes appeared even more saucer-like. “Some sort of a business-man-cum-artist, I think. He’s really brought a French brio and sophistication to the place, don’t you think? It looks like a real labor of love.” Bonnie gazed around the room in admiration.

  “It’s cool, airy, and sparkling — a complete reflection of the woman that inspired it,” remarked Jack with a smile. His words were greeted with general laughter.

  “Ah, yes! The fascinating and sensual Morgana.” Fiona cast a wry look at her partner.

  “Cherchez la femme, no?” Henry added with a smirk. “Behind every successful man is a woman, d’you think?”

  “You’ve all got sour grapes,” said Sandy, who seemed annoyed at her friends’ attitudes. “You can’t fault his place, you can’t criticize Morgana either, so you sneer…It’s very easy to mock, much more difficult to build something from nothing.”

  “Don’t get huffy, Sandy dear,” Henry interjected. “We’re only joking. Besides, we forgot that Mr. de Monfort is a good friend of yours.”

  De Monfort, thought Coral as she felt her pulse quickening. Raphael de Monfort? Could she be in the lion’s den?

  “Well, we may not be able to fault this place, and the beautiful Morgana may be beyond reproach, but that doesn’t seem quite the case where our Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance is concerned.”

  “Oh, stop being facetious, Henry,” Sandy said. “This is a childish discussion. Besides, at least at this nightclub, he doesn’t tolerate people lolling around smoking themselves into a stupor with grass, or dropping LSD, like most other nightclubs round here.”

  Ignoring her, Henry went on. “Let’s face it. The man has a dreadful reputation where women are concerned. Only a few months ago, he was shot at by the furious husband of one of his many mistresses. Served him right, too. Rumors have it that she was an old flame of his. He fled the country…that’s why he hasn’t been seen here lately.”

  “Well, he’s here tonight,” retorted Bonnie.

  Coral had paled at Henry’s words. “Where?” she managed to utter. She was burning more than ever to set eyes on the artist who had painted her with such emotion, intuition, and realism; the entrepreneur whose fantasy had created this magical place; the man who had caused her father so much grief.

  “I noticed him at the bar when we came in. I can’t see him now. He’ll be back once Morgana comes on stage. He very rarely misses her show.”

  “I don’t blame him,” joked Peter. “She’s rather ravishing.”

  “I’ve had quite enough of this conversation,” said Sandy. She looked angry, Coral thought, but the others didn’t seem to care.

  “Isn’t Raphael an archangel’s name?” she asked.

  “Archangel, my foot,” Henry scoffed. “More like his nickname: ‘Rafe.’ Hardly anyone calls him Raphael now. Rafe has stuck, and it suits his rakish personality much better, don’t you think?”

  “I do wish you’d stop all this nasty gossiping,” said Sandy as she eyed Coral uneasily. “Anyway, you don’t know that all these stories about him are factual.”

  “Oh, yes, they are, trust me. At the time, the scandal was carefully hushed up; only snatches of the incident were leaked out. He ran away and has just come back. No doubt he hopes society has a short memory.”

  “Hopefully, this would have served him as a lesson,” Fiona piped in.

  “My dear, leopards don’t change their spots.” Henry was beginning to warm to his theme. “He’ll be at it again in no time, if he’s not already.”

  “I really don’t care for your venomous tongue, Henry,” Sandy snapped. “Rafe is a friend of mine, and I will not sit here and listen to you tearing him to bits.”

  “Oooh, touchy, aren’t we? Holding a torch for the Frenchman?”

  Bonnie nudged him. “That’s enough, Henry. What will Coral think of us?”

  Sandy suddenly forced some joviality. “Absolutely! Come on. We’ve had far too much talk. I’m starving. What does everyone want to eat?”

  Coral barely touched her food. The lobster salad she had ordered looked and tasted delicious, but she had lost her appetite. She felt anxious and excited.

  The lights in the room were now dimming, as those on stage became brighter. Members of the Tarabu Orchestra silently took their places at the far end of the dance flo
or. Soon after, hesitant notes, an insinuation of liquid melody, floated across the night club. With a sudden, dramatic rolling of drums, Morgana made her entrance.

  At first, Coral had a vision of a shimmering comet that flashed across the stage. When she became accustomed to the woman’s costume of glittering spangles, she saw that Morgana possessed the warm, dusky beauty of the women of the Middle East. So diaphanous was her skin, it appeared as if a golden light illuminated the design of her features, which were molded to the perfection of an ancient cameo. Her great, dark eyes flashed provocatively, and her thick, raven hair hung loosely to her waist, forming a dramatic black cloak around her shoulders.

  The opening rhythms of the orchestra seemed to turn Morgana from a statue of marble into a living virago. The strips of voile that constituted her skirt alternately flared out then rolled themselves around her legs at every turn and twist, showing off and enhancing each curve of her beautiful figure. She was like a goddess and must have been conscious of her terrifying beauty; Coral had no doubt that the woman’s movements ignited the senses of all the men in the audience.

  As Coral detached her gaze from the dancer, she caught sight of her elusive stranger. She thought at first that she was hallucinating, but after closing her eyes for a brief moment, she had to face facts: Her stranger from the ship was there, sitting at the bar, sipping what she guessed was neat scotch.

  Even before Fiona’s husky voice had whispered in her ear, “There he is…de Monfort. The man in the white jacket, sitting at the bar,” Coral had guessed the truth.

  For a second, everything around her was turning: the dancer, the tables, the walls. What chaotic emotion the simple presence of that man aroused in her. He was looking at Coral, too, with a brooding but slightly dazed expression. Clearly he hadn’t expected to see her there tonight.

  Morgana had also noticed Rafe. She slowly danced her way toward him, but her professionalism ensured that her movements betrayed no emotion. Her face alone burned with passion, and her eyes, steadily fixed upon the man she apparently loved, were afire.

  Morgana began quite obviously to dance for him alone. Coral remembered Dale telling her about this kind of thing happening in nightclubs in North Africa, where belly dancers chose a particular man for the evening and showered him with attention. She had wondered at the time if Dale himself had ever experienced one of these private dances. Coral watched as Morgana leaned over Rafe, brushing him with her black mane, jingling the silver bracelets on her wrists with her feline gestures. The Frenchman watched her, a slight smile on his face, but the look in his eyes remained detached and sad.

  “It looks like the exotic Morgana is welcoming the boss back, tonight.” Henry leaned back in his chair, smirking as he took a swig of his beer.

  Coral couldn’t stand it any longer. Henry’s chippy comment was the last straw. “I need some fresh air,” she whispered to Sandy. “I’m going for a short walk in the garden.” As she made her way through the crowded room, she could feel Rafe’s gaze following her, and that was enough to make her want to flee the place.

  Outside, the night was balmy to perfection, with the heady scent of jasmine in the air. Coral walked along the path that skirted the edge of the cliffs. She could hear the lull of breaking waves directly below, while the sky above her twinkled with the light of a thousand stars.

  She felt deeply disturbed. Everything seemed clear now. Rafe de Monfort’s interest in her on board the ship, his elusiveness at the port fearing a confrontation with Robin, Aluna’s fears and warnings, and even that day on the beach…

  How foolish, how incredibly naïve she had been. Feeling disillusioned and angry, she suddenly hated the man who had made her feel so indescribably ridiculous.

  “What can one dream of in front of the ocean? Of a departure or an arrival?” The voice that she knew she would never forget came from behind her. Damn it, he had followed her outside.

  Coral turned to face the man who had hurt her father and who perhaps had the power to hurt her too, if she let him. She recoiled instinctively as she was confronted with the implacable gaze boring directly into her own eyes.

  “Good evening, Monsieur de Monfort.” Her icy voice belied the turmoil she felt.

  “I see that I’m not an absolute stranger to you anymore.”

  “Yes, and your reputation has preceded you as well,” she said.

  “Ah…come now, don’t be afraid of the devil. He isn’t as devilish as people make out. Don’t look so alarmed, young lady. I’m not a werewolf, even though in some mud huts parents threaten their children with me.”

  He gave a short, flippant laugh. She had the impression he was mocking her, and at that moment her temper got the better of her. At the sound of his laugh, all her suppressed feelings of shock and anger bubbled up to the surface — she had been deceived by this man who had seemed so kind and caring on the ship, by this man who had caused her father so much pain by betraying him with her stepmother, who Aluna tried to warn her about, of whose reputation she had heard plenty in the gossiping jibes of her companions tonight, leaving her feeling like an idiot. And then seeing Morgana dance so seductively for her lover — the man who had made Coral feel like no other man had done before…Before she could stop herself, her hand came up and slapped him across the face. “You’re the most pathetic of parasites,” she heard herself exclaim, “a leech that feeds on other people, and I despise you, Rafe de Monfort, for what you are and for what you’ve done in your mean little life.” She was trembling not only with fury but also with amazement at her own behavior. Where had that come from? Coral always had a quick temper and a wounding tongue, but she also knew in her heart of hearts that there was more to her outburst than met the eye. Leaving him there, she turned on her heel and strode off.

  * * *

  Rafe’s gaze followed Coral’s slim figure until it had disappeared into the Golden Fish. He lit a cigarette and remained awhile on the cliffs, lost in thought watching the phosphorescence of the ocean beneath him and the familiar stars in the dark sky. The shadow of a rueful smile played around his lips as he rubbed his cheek, which was still hot from Coral’s slap. So, Walter’s little girl had grown up into an impulsive, passionate woman. He wasn’t surprised; he had painted enough of Walter’s photographs of her to guess at Coral’s fiery nature: the flame was there in the shining blue eyes, the rebellion in the tilt of her chin, even in the earlier snapshots.

  Before he had even set eyes on her, Rafe had found Coral’s face intriguing to paint because of the mixture of strength and fragility he saw in her — the vulnerability and innocence as well as the passion that not only the artist in him sensed, but the man too. Walter had talked so much about his little girl, how engaging and unusual she was as a child, always running wild, looking for adventures with the local African children. Year after year, Rafe had followed the progress of Coral’s character through her letters that Walter had shared with him, and those not so silent pictures, and gradually he had fallen for his muse.

  And now she was here. He had immediately recognized her on board ship. When dawn broke and the two of them had been alone on deck, Rafe had watched as Coral’s face emerged out of the shadows, revealing her delicately carved features. It had been a shock to see her in the flesh; her beauty and presence was even more striking in real life. Although everything about her spoke of gentle innocence, he was now struck by the seductive edge to her beauty and found her much lovelier than he had initially thought.

  Translucent, fragile, and pure, her looks evoked the sylphs of northern legends — but most of all, he was conscious of her eyes. At first, he had only noticed their brightness, their dimension, and their infinite depths. Now, they told him more, so much more. And faced with this young woman, the man who, during his weathered, tarnished life had met an endless stream of women he could sum up at a glance, found himself confused and disconcerted.

  A hand pinched Rafe’s heart, and his eyes clouded. Could the idealistic, platonic love he had nurtured for h
er portraits turn into something deep and even more wonderful: the salvation to his jaded life? But how could a man with years of baggage behind him aspire to be with such innocence and purity? And how could Coral ever be interested in Rafe when general society condemned him for, among other things, disloyalty to a man who was adored and respected by everyone and who had lent him a helping hand? Her own father, no less. Coral had everything going for her: beauty, a promising career, money, and, by the looks of it, courage and character. Surely her heart was already engaged, and she wouldn’t spare him a thought? Anyhow, as she’d said, his reputation had preceded him. And if he should try to defend himself to her…to what end? She would never believe him, and in any case, he had too much of a past for her to take on. No, it would be wrong to attempt to see her again or to entertain thoughts about things that could never be.

  Rafe looked at his watch. It was getting late; he must return to the club. He sighed — a deep, heavy sigh — and threw away his cigarette butt, crushing it roughly with pent-up frustration.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Two weeks had passed since the night at the Golden Fish — two long weeks during which Coral had attempted to forget Rafe de Monfort, Morgana, and all the nasty gossip. Most of all, she wanted to repress the memory of her irrational behavior toward the man they called the Frenchman. Now that she was able to stand back and be more objective, her intuition told her she had judged him too rashly, overreacting in the heat of the moment and allowing herself to be carried away by her emotions.

  She had not seen Rafe again, and though she had attempted to drive him from her mind, her thoughts frequently drifted back to him. Despite what she had heard about Rafe, their few encounters had revealed him to be attractive, likeable, and even kind. Could he be that manipulative? Charming was the word. “Charming as the devil” went the saying, and Aluna had said he was the Devil with a capital D. And yet something in his attitude puzzled her. Was it his reserve or the sadness that, despite the charming smile, filtered through the fortress it seemed he had built around himself? Still, he had hurt her father badly, and by the sound of it, he was an unscrupulous philanderer; Walter Sinclair had not been his only victim. It was best to stay clear of him and of his dangerous games.