Silver Fruit Upon Silver Trees

When the telephonist answered, Sophie said: “Were you ringing me? I’m afraid I was – in the bathroom.”

“Miss Hollister?” asked the telephonist politely.

Sophie crossed her fingers. “Yes.”

“There is an extension in the bathroom, Miss Hollister,” the telephonist advised her smoothly. Then: “We have been trying to locate you. There’s a gentleman in the foyer waiting to see you. A Mr. St. Vincente.”

St. Vincente! The name threatened to destroy all her new-found confidence. And he was here, in the foyer! She had not expected him to come without calling first.

Managing to keep her voice calm, she said: “I – I see. Er – I’ll come down. Gi – give me five minutes.”

“Very well, Miss Hollister. I’ll tell Mr. St. Vincente you’ll be down directly.”

“Thank you.”

Sophie replaced the receiver and looked down at the simple cotton dress she was wearing. Was this the sort of garment Eve might have worn to meet her grandfather for the first time? Or ought she to change into something a little more formal? She shrugged. Eve would not want her to behave any differently from usual, and the pale blue dress looked cool and attractive against her pale skin.

With a sigh she rose to her feet and walked to the dressing table, examining her face in the mirror there. Her cheeks did look very pale, and her grey eyes seemed to be reproaching her for what she was about to do. But it was too late now. She was here. She was committed.

At the end of the rubber-tiled corridor outside her room, a row of lifts gave access to the ground floor. A dark-skinned West Indian boy smiled at her when she chose to enter his small cage and commented cheerfully upon the weather as they descended the six floors between them and the foyer.

When she walked into the foyer she was trembling, but she had to go on. She crossed to the reception desk covertly examining the men she could see standing about in groups or singly, but none of them seemed old enough to be Eve’s grandfather.

The receptionist of the moment was a slim young Indian who smiled encouragingly at Sophie when she approached him.

“I’m – I’m Miss Hollister,” she said in a low voice. “I understand there’s someone waiting to see me.”

“Oh, yes, Miss Hollister.” The young man nodded. “Mr. St. Vincente is waiting for you in the Kingston Bar.”

“The Kingston Bar,” echoed Sophie faintly. “Where – where’s that?”

“Through the archway, miss. You’ll see the sign on your right.”

“Oh! Oh, thank you.”

Sophie nodded her thanks and turned away from the desk. The Kingston Bar! Hardly the place she would have expected an old man to wait for his long-lost granddaughter, but that was hardly her affair. And how on earth was she to recognize him?

She walked to the archway the young Indian had indicated and looked about her. There were several illuminated signs directing guests to the various different facilities of the hotel and the one indicating the Kingston Bar was easy to find. Everything about the hotel breathed the kind of luxury she had never until now experienced, and the Kingston Bar was no exception. Even at this early hour of the evening there were a number of guests partaking of pre-dinner drinks in the secluded booths set between trellises of climbing plants, vivid with flamboyant blossom. The bar was artificially lit by old ships’ lanterns which cast a shadowy gloom into certain corners inducing an intimate atmosphere, while the bar itself was strung with coloured lights which glinted in the shiny black face of its Trinidadian tender.

Sophie looked down again at her unsophisticated cotton dress. She should have changed, she thought unhappily. After all, it was almost dinner time and the women she could see were all dressed with the ultimate amount of care.

She looked about her helplessly. Where was Eve’s grandfather? Surely he ought to have been waiting near the entrance to the bar, watching for her. But there was no one near the entrance, no one who appeared to be alone at all except a dark man seated on a tall stool at the bar with a tall glass of some amber-looking liquid before him.

Even as her eyes lingered on him the man turned his head and looked her way and a shiver of pure apprehension ran through her. He was easily the most devastatingly attractive male she had ever seen in her life, although she realized there was something cruel in the thin line of his mouth and a sardonic appreciation of the effect he had upon women in the cynical depths of his eyes. They were strange amber-coloured eyes, reflecting the colour of the liquid in the glass he raised to his lips, and they moved over Sophie with insolent consideration.

She looked away from him quickly. She was not used to being assessed in that manner and she didn’t like it. Where on earth was Brandt St. Vincente? Why didn’t he come forward and introduce himself? Surely if he was here, he could see her standing there obviously waiting for someone?

The man at the bar slid off his stool, swallowed a mouthful of his drink, made a casual comment to the bartender and then walked toward her. Sophie’s pulses raced alarmingly, and she half turned away. Heavens, she thought in dismay. He thinks I’m on the lookout for a man!

“Eve?” The attractive male voice spoke somewhere near her temple.

She gasped and spun round again. The man from the bar was standing negligently before her, one hand brushing the jacket of his immaculate dark brown silk suit aside to rest on his hip just above the low waistband of his trousers, his other arm hanging casually at his side. Close to he was even more disturbing than before, and Sophie could hardly formulate the words she wanted to say. His hard body, lean and muscled, was only inches away from hers, his lazy intelligent eyes were regarding her with vague mockery, and he emanated an aura of latent strength and virility.

“I – I think you’ve made a mistake –” she was beginning, when he interrupted her.

“You are – Eve Hollister, are you not?” he queried, dark eyebrows lifting sardonically.

Sophie stared at him. “Well – yes, I’m Eve Hollister. But – but who are you?”

He straightened. “My name is Edge St. Vincente. Surely my father mentioned me.”

“Edge –” Sophie brought herself up short. “You were – I mean – you’re my mother’s brother?”

“I believe I have that privilege.” She had the feeling he was enjoying her consternation.

“Then – then are you the – the Mr. St. Vincente who – who is waiting for me?” Eve could scarcely take it in. This man was Edge St. Vincente, the brother of Eve’s dead mother, the man Eve had described to Sophie as being a widower of middle age!

She shook her head. Edge St. Vincente wasn’t middle-aged. She doubted he was much over thirty-five, and she had the feeling that the experience in those strange amber eyes of his had not been put there by his wife.

CHAPTER TWO (#u4fbee9f2-7067-598c-8708-2b6d243974a0)

“THAT is correct,” Edge St. Vincente was saying now. “Who were you expecting?”

Sophie gathered her scattered wits. “I – I thought – my grandfather –”

“Oh, I see.” Edge inclined his head. “Well, no. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but my father seldom visits Port of Spain. He doesn’t care for the – er –” he glanced round expressively, shrugging, “– the atmosphere of the place.”

“I see.” Sophie pressed her hands together.

Edge returned his attention to her, studying her intently, bringing the hot colour to her pale cheeks. “So you’re Eve. You don’t look much like your mother.”

Sophie tried to return his gaze. “I suppose I must take after my father.”

“I suppose.” His expression had become brooding. “Well –” He looked towards the bar. “Shall we have a drink?”

Sophie hesitated. “I don’t – drink much.”

“Don’t you?” Again the dark brows were lifted. “I thought all newspaper women enjoyed the social side of their work.”

“Newspaper women?” Sophie was really shocked now and she couldn’t hide it.

“Yes.” Edge turned back towards the bar and she had perforce to fall into step beside him. “You are a reporter, aren’t you? Or is that some other Eve Hollister?”

Sophie felt shattered. In one sentence Edge St. Vincente had destroyed the whole image Eve had so painstakingly built around her. They ought to have realized that a family like the St. Vincentes would not accept a stranger into their midst without first checking up on her. But how much checking up had been done? And by whom?

She chanced a swift sideways glance at her companion. He seemed relaxed enough. There had been no censure in his remark. But how could she tell? All her old fears came to haunt her. She should not have given in to Eve; she should not have agreed to come. She ought to have known that she could never get away with it.

They had reached the bar and Edge indicated that she should take one of the tall stools while he attracted the attention of the barman. Sophie climbed on to the stool with some misgivings, trying desperately to think of some reply to make.