Read Online Then You Hide by Roxanne St. Claire - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Roxanne St. Claire
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gesture feel so unnatural and stiff. Another one of Mary Louise Porter’s legacies. “And thank you.”
Stella took the hug and returned it with ten times the strength. “When will I see you again?”
“If I don’t hook up with one of the day trips to Dominica or Guadaloupe, I’ll be on the dock in Gustavia when this ship arrives. You have my word.”
Stella sighed, cupping Vanessa’s face. “I don’t like it, dolly, but all right. I’m here if you need me. Though I know, I know: you don’t need anybody.”
“I need Clive.” More than ever. “And that’s why I’m doing this.”
It had nothing to do with the man who’d shaken her world upside down. Nothing.
The minute Vanessa rumbled the rented Jeep into the over-the-top and under-the-radar elegance of the Four Seasons Resort in Nevis, she knew that if Clive had been to this island, he’d been here.
Clive Easterbrook didn’t do quaint, precious, historical, or natural, which wiped out the Victorian gingerbread houses, the museums, forts, and excursions up the side of the mountain and into a rain forest she’d just spent a few hours searching. But this, she thought as she flipped the keys to the valet, drinking in the elegance and ambience, this place would appeal to Clive.
He loved nothing as much as the smell of big, fat, colossal sums of money, and the Four Seasons reeked of it. And if he’d been traveling with a new man, as he’d implied in one of his texts, it would be a man who would stay here.
Buoyed by that certainty, she headed toward the deck, where a sparkling infinity pool spilled into a waterfall, surrounded by clusters of palm trees and rows of white Haitian-cotton-covered chaise longues.
Strains of jazz floated on citrus-perfumed air. No steel drums for this set, no tiki bars or hot tubs. Just soft music and bubbling water and the occasional sound of laughter from the tanned, moneyed guests.
Oh, yeah. Clive would be at home here.
She took a seat at a softly lit bar under a classic thatched roof, and instantly a cocktail napkin was in front of her.
“Good evening, madame.” The island native bartender’s voice lilted with accented English as he touched his slim brass name badge. “I am Henry. What can I get you to drink on this beautiful tropical night? Something cold, with spicy island rum and sweet juice?”
“Just water, thank you.”
While Henry poured mineral water over ice and added a garnish, she retrieved her picture of Clive. It had been examined by at least twenty more people in the last few hours. One said he thought he’d seen Clive but didn’t remember when or where; one winked and said he wished he’d seen Clive. Two guys at a place called Papaya’s thought he’d been there, but they’d been so drunk that night, they couldn’t be sure. The rest gave her the blank stare she’d come to know all too well.
When the bartender served her water, she launched into her speech. “I’m looking for a friend of mine who’s been on vacation in the islands.”
Taking the picture, he tilted it toward a flickering candle. “A Four Seasons guest.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “He might have stayed here.”
“That wasn’t a question.” He looked up. “I’ve served him several times.”
“You did?” She practically shot off the barstool. “When?”
“A week or so ago.” He smiled at the picture and handed it back to her. “Very amusing man, from New York.”
Hallefreakinglujah . “Yes, he’s funny and from New York.”
“A stockbroker,” the bartender added with a gleam of pride at knowing his customers so well.
“A hedge-fund manager, but that’s close enough.”
“Drinks gimlets and loves Diana Krall,” he continued, as though it were a game.
“Loves every song she ever sang. Oh, I am so happy!” She dumped her bags on the next stool and settled in. “I was beginning to think no one in the entire Caribbean had actually spoken to Clive.”
“Clive?”
“Yes,” she said.
Stella took the hug and returned it with ten times the strength. “When will I see you again?”
“If I don’t hook up with one of the day trips to Dominica or Guadaloupe, I’ll be on the dock in Gustavia when this ship arrives. You have my word.”
Stella sighed, cupping Vanessa’s face. “I don’t like it, dolly, but all right. I’m here if you need me. Though I know, I know: you don’t need anybody.”
“I need Clive.” More than ever. “And that’s why I’m doing this.”
It had nothing to do with the man who’d shaken her world upside down. Nothing.
The minute Vanessa rumbled the rented Jeep into the over-the-top and under-the-radar elegance of the Four Seasons Resort in Nevis, she knew that if Clive had been to this island, he’d been here.
Clive Easterbrook didn’t do quaint, precious, historical, or natural, which wiped out the Victorian gingerbread houses, the museums, forts, and excursions up the side of the mountain and into a rain forest she’d just spent a few hours searching. But this, she thought as she flipped the keys to the valet, drinking in the elegance and ambience, this place would appeal to Clive.
He loved nothing as much as the smell of big, fat, colossal sums of money, and the Four Seasons reeked of it. And if he’d been traveling with a new man, as he’d implied in one of his texts, it would be a man who would stay here.
Buoyed by that certainty, she headed toward the deck, where a sparkling infinity pool spilled into a waterfall, surrounded by clusters of palm trees and rows of white Haitian-cotton-covered chaise longues.
Strains of jazz floated on citrus-perfumed air. No steel drums for this set, no tiki bars or hot tubs. Just soft music and bubbling water and the occasional sound of laughter from the tanned, moneyed guests.
Oh, yeah. Clive would be at home here.
She took a seat at a softly lit bar under a classic thatched roof, and instantly a cocktail napkin was in front of her.
“Good evening, madame.” The island native bartender’s voice lilted with accented English as he touched his slim brass name badge. “I am Henry. What can I get you to drink on this beautiful tropical night? Something cold, with spicy island rum and sweet juice?”
“Just water, thank you.”
While Henry poured mineral water over ice and added a garnish, she retrieved her picture of Clive. It had been examined by at least twenty more people in the last few hours. One said he thought he’d seen Clive but didn’t remember when or where; one winked and said he wished he’d seen Clive. Two guys at a place called Papaya’s thought he’d been there, but they’d been so drunk that night, they couldn’t be sure. The rest gave her the blank stare she’d come to know all too well.
When the bartender served her water, she launched into her speech. “I’m looking for a friend of mine who’s been on vacation in the islands.”
Taking the picture, he tilted it toward a flickering candle. “A Four Seasons guest.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “He might have stayed here.”
“That wasn’t a question.” He looked up. “I’ve served him several times.”
“You did?” She practically shot off the barstool. “When?”
“A week or so ago.” He smiled at the picture and handed it back to her. “Very amusing man, from New York.”
Hallefreakinglujah . “Yes, he’s funny and from New York.”
“A stockbroker,” the bartender added with a gleam of pride at knowing his customers so well.
“A hedge-fund manager, but that’s close enough.”
“Drinks gimlets and loves Diana Krall,” he continued, as though it were a game.
“Loves every song she ever sang. Oh, I am so happy!” She dumped her bags on the next stool and settled in. “I was beginning to think no one in the entire Caribbean had actually spoken to Clive.”
“Clive?”
“Yes,” she said.
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