To Play With Fire

  To Play With Fire by Flora Kidd

  "You didn't know about her, did you?"

  No, Tory hadn't known about Magnus's daughter until she arrived in the Caribbean to work with him. Carla had been a surprise. And yet, Magnus being married didn't matter; Tory was content to worship him from afar. But with Denzil Hallam, the handsome, arrogant man she'd found impossible to avoid, it was completely different. He aroused new feelings in her—all of them sensuous and exciting! And Denzil wanted more than simple affection—much, much more.

  PRINTED IN U.S.A.

  OTHER harlequin Romances by FLORA KIDD:

  1058—NURSE AT ROWAN BANK 1122—WHISTLE AND I'LL COME 1191—LOVE ALTERS NOT1265—STRANGE AS A DREAM 1471—WHEN BIRDS DO SING 1503—MY HEART REMEMBERS 1540—THE DAZZLE ON THE SEA 1573—LOVE IS FIRE 1602—REMEDY FOR LOVE 1640—IF LOVE BE LOVE 1663—THE CAVE OF THE WHITE ROSE 1684—THE TAMING OF LISA 1732—BEYOND THE SUNSET 1774—THE LEGEND OF THE SWANS 1796—GALLANTS FANCY 1833—THE PAPER MARRIAGE 1865—STRANGER IN THE GLEN 1907—ENCHANTMENT IN BLUE 1977—THE DANCE OF COURTSHIP 1999—THE SUMER WIFE 2056—THE BLACK KNIGHT

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  Original hardcover edition published in 1977 by Mills & Boon Limited

  ISBN 0-373-02146-1

  Harlequin edition published March 1978

  Copyright ©1977 by Flora Kidd. All rights reserved.

  Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xero-graphy, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher. All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention The Harlequin trademark, consisting of the word HARLEQUIN and the portrayal of a Harlequin, is registered in the United States Patent Office and the Canada Trade Marks Office.

  CHAPTER ONE

  TORY smelt the island before she ever saw it. Her sensitive nose picked up the fragrance of many flowers and spices wafted towards her on a warm breeze which ruffled the blue sea.

  Eagerly she scanned the hazy horizon. Suddenly the haze shifted to become a cloud which lifted and was whisked away as a gauzy handkerchief is whisked away by the hand of a magician, to reveal the blue-grey slopes of a flat-topped mountain towering over the rolling green countryside of the island of Airouna.

  The cloud gone, the sun shone more brightly out of a cobalt blue sky. The sea changed colour from slate blue to a deep turquoise, pinpointed with silvery light; a light which increased in power and became a hot bright glare so that Tory was forced to find her sunglasses and put them on.

  Through the tinted lenses she was able to make out details of the island. A white lighthouse stood on a point of land, and beyond the point a wide bay opened up rimmed by sparkling white sand overhung by lush tropical vegetation. At the head of the bay was a cluster of white red-roofed buildings backed by a hillside covered by forest. As the ferry boat which had brought her from Antigua swept into the bay, Tory saw other buildings curving round one shore half-hidden by the torn-umbrella shapes of palm trees and the delicate feather-branches of casuarinas.

  The ferry's engines slowed down as it approached a big red navigation buoy which moved up and down - on the waves with a slow stern majesty. Carefully the ferry rounded the buoy and gathered speed again, pass-

  ing a black sailing schooner which was taking advantage of the off-shore breeze to run out to sea, its sails shimmering in the sunlight. Tory had a glimpse of its cabin roof bright with yellow paint, of the man at its wheel, his legs braced against the heaving deck, his dark-skinned face split by a wide grin as he raised a hand in greeting to someone on the ferry. Then the schooner had gone, its wide wake making a smooth path of flat water.

  The entrance to the harbour of Port Anne lay between two points of land crowded with buildings. Most of them were the original warehouses built by English merchants in the eighteenth century. Painted white, with round-topped doorways, rectangular upper windows edged by brightly painted shutters, and with steeply sloping roofs of red pantiles, their shabby elegance was offset by the crude angular design of modern concrete buildings which clustered behind them.

  Since the harbour was crowded with fishing boats and small pleasure craft the ferry had some difficulty in approaching its berth, but after a great deal of shouting by captain and crew, of reversing and advancing of its engines, it bumped against the stone wall of the wide wharf at last.

  There was a small group of people standing on the wharf waiting for the ferry and beyond them Tory could see a wide road skirting a square planted with circles of grass edged by borders of bright flowers and shaded by graceful Royal palms

  `Tory, Tory!

  Hearing her name being shouted, she looked down at the group of people again. A man who was wearing conventional khaki shorts, a white shirt and a floppy white sunhat was waving to her. She recognised him at once. He was Dr Magnus Jarrold, director of the Airounian Botanical Gardens, famous botanist and

  one-time professor of the science at the university at which she had taken her degree, whose summons had brought her to work for him as an assistant botanist on this Caribbean island.

  Feeling a surge of excitement because she had arrived at last, Tory waved back, then turned quickly, intent on finding her luggage and going ashore. In her hurry she walked straight into someone who was passing along the deck behind her. It was like colliding with the rock of Gibraltar. Breath hissed out of her as the violence of the collision jarred her from head to foot.

  'Oh, I'm sorry,' she gasped as she regained her balance by clutching hold of his brawny bare forearm. 'I'm afraid I wasn't looking where I was going.'

  'Obviously you weren't or you wouldn't have walked into me. I'm not exactly wraith-like.'

  He certainly wasn't. Although not much taller than herself, he gave the impression of being big and solid. His voice had a hard cutting edge to it as if he were used to giving orders and its accent, though different, was as English as her own.

  Withdrawing her hand from the man's sun-bronzed forearm, she looked up into hazel eyes which were deep-set between dark lashes under thick dark eyebrows : eyes which flickered and danced with a bright wicked light. Under the right eye was a greenish-looking bruise, and above the right eyebrow a pad of white lint was held in place over some sort of wound by strips of sticking plaster. He looked as if he'd been in a fight.

  His hair was dark brown, thick and curly, close-cropped, and grew in long sideburns down his lean cheeks.

  Under a gaily-patterned open-necked short-sleeved shirt his wide shoulders were hunched because he was resting on wooden crutches, and Tory felt a twinge of

  conscience as her glance travelled downwards over long legs clothed in white cotton pants to the sandalled right foot which was being held clear of contact with the deck.

  Now she remembered seeing him come aboard at Antigua. He had arrived in a taxi at the wharf from which the ferryboat had left. The captain of the ferryboat had greeted him like an old friend with a laughing ribald remark which had been answered by an equally rude, succinct observation which had made Tory's ears tingle with embarrass
ment because she was not accustomed to hearing such forthright language.

  'I hope I didn't hurt you,' she said now in an effort to ease the twinge of conscience. He was standing directly in front of her, blocking the entrance to the ferryboat's saloon in which she had left her luggage.

  `You didn't, I'm glad to say,' he replied coolly, his bright glance roving over her boldly. 'With that corn-silk hair your eyes should be cornflower blue. Are they?'

  She stiffened. The nerve of the man, thinking he could make personal comments just because she had walked into him! He was obviously the bold buccaneering type who didn't hesitate to make a pass at a woman, given the slightest opportunity. Well, he was going to learn that his daring tactics were wasted on her! She was immune to openly-admiring glances and frank comments about the colour of her hair.

  `No, they're not, they're grey,' she snapped, hoping that he would take a hint from the coldness of her voice and move out of her way.

  But he stayed right where he was and seemed more amused than ever.

  `Now's that's a pity,' he drawled. 'You see, I've always wanted to know a woman with yellow hair and blue eyes. Apart from the eyes you look as if you'd suit my purpose admirably.'

  'What purpose?' she demanded, intrigued in spite of her resolve to freeze him.

  'I'm looking for a woman with whom to share my bed and board,' he said outrageously. 'A woman like you.'

  Only the facts that he was on crutches, had a black eye and a cut above his eyebrow saved him from having his face slapped by Tory's large well-shaped competent hand. Controlling herself with a great effort, she said between her set teeth,

  'You're either drunk or crazy. Now will you please move out of the way so that I can go into the saloon to collect my luggage?'

  He didn't move, nor did he look ashamed.

  'I admit to having had a couple of drinks since I came aboard, but I'm not drunk,' he said clearly, 'and I'm usually considered to be more sane than most people around here. Why you should consider me to be drunk or crazy just because I'm honest I can't understand, but I'm glad to hear you're going ashore here. It means that for once the powers that be are on my side and we were fated to meet.'

  The remark jolted her and she flicked a wary glance `in his direction. He noticed and his sudden grin was a startling white flash in his wind-burned, dark face.

  'Aha, that struck a spark,' he scoffed softly. 'Like many women you're a fatalist.'

  `No, I'm not,' she flashed. 'I believe each one of us is in control of our own lives.'

  'Will you be staying long on the island?'

  'I've come to work here,' she snapped.

  'That's a surprise. Anyone meeting you?'

  'Yes.'

  'Who?'

  It's no business of yours,' she seethed. 'Now will you

  please move. I'd like to get off this boat before it departs for the next island.'

  'Oh, there's plenty of time. No one hurries in the islands—that's something you'll have to learn and accept if you're going to live here. You might as well tell me who's meeting you, because I'm going to find out anyway when I go ashore here too,' he said coolly.

  Tory had the strangest feeling of being trapped in that moment of time, as if she would stand there for ever feeling the hot sun scorching her skin, hearing the soft lilting cadence of West Indian speech and song as the crewmen unloaded supplies from the boat to the wharf, knowing that Magnus was waiting for her yet unable to join him because she was being held prisoner by a rude, overbearing ruffian.

  Dark as he was, with those wickedly glinting eyes, his big shoulders hunched over the crutches, he seemed like one of the ruthless marauding pirates who had once dominated the seas around the islands and who was determined to hold her hostage. She saw him as immovable, rock-like, coming between her and Magnus, preventing her from meeting the man for whom she had left country, family and friends as well as a safe job.

  'If you don't let me pass at once I'll scream for help,' she cried out, driven to desperation by a feeling of panic.

  Amusement fled from his face. It left his eyes as dear and as hard as an eagle's. Involuntarily she stepped backward from him, and his mouth twisted cynically.

  'There's no need for you to back away. I'm not going to touch you, even though you should be given a good hiding for what you've just implied,' he sneered.

  'I wasn't ... I didn't intend to imply anything,' she defended. 'I just want to pass, please.'

  'And I was just showing a friendly interest in a newcomer to the island,' he retorted. 'Okay, you can pass. I'm sorry I bothered.'

  He swung out of her way. Released, Tory scurried past him without a word of excuse. The brief clash of personalities had made her quiver with indignation. He was sorry he had bothered, was he? She felt she would choke with the anger which surged up like sickness as she realised how deftly he had turned the tables on her by making out that she was the offender because she had rejected his offer of friendship.

  Now that the ferryboat was at rest and there was no passage of air through its ventilators, the saloon was oppressively hot. Feeling sweat break out on her skin as she hurried, Tory found her cases, picked them up and lugged them out and along the deck to the gangway. By the time she stepped off the gangway on to the sun-baked stones of the quayside her blue-flowered cotton dress was soaked with sweat at the armholes and she was wishing she had taken the time to put on the sunhat which was in her canvas holdall.

  But Magnus was there, his hands outstretched in greeting, his light blue eyes smiling at her from under the brim of the floppy hat. All was right with her world again, so she dropped the cases, placed her hands in his and leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek.

  'Tory, my dear, how wonderful it is to see you!' he said as he returned her kiss. His voice was just as she remembered it, soft and gentle, with the slightest of guttural accents because he was Danish by birth.

  'It's wonderful to be here at last,' she replied sincerely. She glanced round at the colourful scene; brilliant blue water, sparkling white walls, glowing red roofs—under the bright tropical sunshine everything seemed more intense, more vital. 'I can hardly believe I'm here,' she said. 'Oh, Magnus, you've no idea how glad I was when your letter came. I was beginning to think ...'

  'That I'd forgotten about you,' he put in gently. 'I know, and I regret the delay, but it wasn't my fault.

  Because it was a government appointment there were certain formalities to go through. But now you're here and I'd like you to meet my daughter Carla. I hope you and she are going to be friends. Carla, this is Tory Latham.'

  His daughter! Tory hoped she wasn't showing that his announcement had shattered her. She stared at the small dark-haired girl whom he drew forward. Olive-skinned and black-eyed, Carla was wearing a simple sundress made from colour-splashed white cotton which left her back bare to the waist and plunged low at the front to give glimpses of dusky-skinned rounded breasts.

  Her smile feeling strained and false, Tory held out a hand in greeting, but Carla did not seem to notice it and after a brief casual nod looked past Tory at someone or something beyond her. At once the slanting, opaque black eyes lit up with pleasure.

  'Denzil!' she called out. 'Oh, look, he's on crutches. Daddy, don't go yet, I want to ask Denzil what he's been doing to get hurt.'

  'Carla, never mind ...' Magnus broke off and shrugged his narrow shoulders helplessly as his daughter disregarded his protest completely, and danced off in the direction of the gangway down which the dark man was swinging on his crutches.

  Magnus turned back to Tory, a slightly wry smile pulling his mouth sideways.

  'She's very impulsive, and to tell you the truth I'm worried about her. She's seventeen and has just discovered men.' He sighed heavily and his forehead puckered anxiously; Tory wanted to smooth it. 'The man you see over there on the crutches is one man I wish she had never discovered,' he added in a discouraged way.

  'Who is he?' asked Tory, turning her back on the

  a
pproach of Carla and her recent tormentor.

  'Denzil Hallam—at least that's the name he goes by here on Airouna,' replied Magnus.

  'You sound sceptical,' she observed.

  'I am. He is, I believe, a fellow countryman of yours, but that is all that is known about him, even though he's been here about seven, years.'

  'What brought him here?'

  'The story goes that he turned up here in a small sailing sloop which he claimed he'd sailed across the Atlantic single-handed. He was ragged, half-starved and had no money to speak of, yet by the end of a year he'd taken over the management of the small marina and yacht-chartering business which is in the bay. In return for a berth for his sloop he worked there when he first came, skippering yachts, his own included, which were hired by tourists to cruise about the islands. Under his management the business has grown and the fleet of charter yachts is now one of the largest in the islands; it attracts tourists from all over the place. Consequently Hallam is very popular with the Government's department of tourism, but I wouldn't trust him as far as I can see him.'

  'Oh. Why not?'

  'He has a ruthless way of doing things, drives a hard bargain. And then his reputation with women isn't very good. He's taken up with one or two young women since I've been here, then dropped them quite heartlessly, so I'm told.' Magnus glanced over her shoulder, looked slightly embarrassed and bent forward to whisper. 'I'll tell you more about him later.'

  Tory turned. Carla and the dark man were very near.

  'Hello, Hallam,' Magnus said with an obvious effort to be cordial. 'You look as if you've been living dangerously as usual. What happened?'

  Denzil Hallam's thick eyebrows tilted mockingly, and from under the hard brim of the white-topped yachtsman's hat which now covered his dark hair, his eyes glinted with unkind mirth as he stopped to lean on his crutches and look at Tory. Then his glance drifted away from her to Magnus and his hard mouth curled scornfully at one corner.

  'I was crewing on a friend's yacht up north last week. We were racing and were caught by the tail end of Hurricane Enid. The wind stood the yacht on her ear, and reducing sail on the foredeck was a slippery business. I got off pretty lightly with a few bruises and a sprained ankle,' he replied coolly.