Pleasure Island (22 page)

‘Perhaps we should open the boxes,' he said casually. ‘I think it's time.'

Elaine's eyes flickered with relief. He wasn't angry with her.

‘Ok,' she agreed, ‘I'll do it tomorrow night.'

‘Grand,' he said.

‘Fancy a swim before lunch, dear?' he asked.

‘Why not,' she said, a little surprised by the sudden suggestion. Marty wasn't much of a swimmer.

McKenzie stood and Elaine duly followed suit.

‘Ladies, first,' he gestured with a florid bow.

‘It's the perfect spot for it, at least,' she remarked, looking out onto the small, sheltered cove where they had moored for lunch. There wasn't a soul insight. ‘The water looks divine.'

‘Doesn't it,' he agreed.

The butler watched from his assumed position as the pair abandoned the dinner table he had so carefully and lovingly prepared earlier. His vision was becoming a trifle blurred from the sweat that was dripping into his eyes, causing them to sting, and he felt a touch lightheaded. He needed some water, to take off this damned, heavy, woollen, coat-tail and loosen his bow tie. He was beginning to feel rather unwell and somewhat unsteady on his feet.

‘I'm terribly curious to know what's in the boxes, Mart,' Elaine said with her back to her husband as she untied her sarong and made her way to the edge of the boat, peering over the steps that led down into the inviting crystal-clear water below. Her husband followed close behind. ‘Rupert Deyton has been asking me about them and I genuinely couldn't give him an answer. Told him I had no idea myself which is true.'

‘Well, you know what they say about curiosity, dear,' he said, raising the silver cloche and smashing it down onto the back of her head with considerable force, watching as her skull exploded, a deep burgundy pool of liquid quickly forming on deck. There was a look of genuine surprise and despair etched onto Elaine McKenzie's face as she half-turned to look at her husband before falling sideways into the water.

‘It killed the cat,' he said calmly.

McKenzie made his way back to the table, popping the last hors d'oeuvres into his mouth before replacing the cloche back on top of the silver platter and wiping his wife's blood and brains from the rim with a starched white napkin. Sighing, he turned to the butler, only he wasn't there. His eyes darted across the boat.

‘Ah!' he said, spotting him. Poor bastard had passed clean out in the heat dressed in all that heavy livery and was lying in a hot sweaty heap on the deck. Still, this made things much easier all round.

‘Sorry about this old chap, nothing personal,' he said to him as he took the man by the wrists and began dragging him towards the edge of the boat and straining to roll his dead weight over the side, ‘but you look like you could do with cooling off.'

‘
W
hat
are
you doing
, Angelika?' Rupert watched her as she manically searched the cabana, pulling back the shutters and rifling through the closets.

‘I don't know exactly,' she replied, shortly. ‘Looking for cameras, I think.'

Rupert shook his head. This place had sent them all round the twist.

‘Well, I highly doubt they'd be under the bed,' he mused as she scrabbled about on all fours, searching the mattress.

‘So, where do you suggest I look, Columbo?'

Rupert snorted softly.

‘Look, I realise things have been a little … odd since we've been here, but aren't you taking this all a little too far? I mean, spy cameras? Whatever McKenzie's reasons for this madness, filming us without our permission … well, it's a very serious criminal offense. Even a man like McKenzie wouldn't do something so insane. He'd never get away with it. Besides,' he said, pouring himself a finger of Scotch, ‘why on earth would he want to film a bunch of no marks like us?'

‘Speak for yourself,' she shot back. ‘Anyway, you said it yourself: the man's a control freak, a maniac …'

Angelika noted the whiskey glass in her husband's hand. It was 10.30 am. Rupert was worried about something; in all their married life she had never seen him imbibe alcohol before lunch. He clocked her staring at his glass.

‘It's enough to turn a man to drink all this –' he gestured around him to nothing in particular ‘– and all this secret camera talk is making me nervous, Angelika, so please stop it. Anyway, I'm on holiday.' He drained his glass and poured himself another.

‘If you've nothing to hide, then there's nothing to be worried about,' she said. ‘And I have no idea why McKenzie would want to secretly film us but I'm convinced that's what he's been doing.' She padded defiantly across the wooden floor in her bed shorts and white vest, her nipples visible through the cotton fabric. Her long hair was messily piled high onto her head and her face make-up free and lightly tanned. It was no surprise Nate found her attractive really, Rupert thought objectively; she was the antithesis to his high-maintenance fake wife. A woman like Angelika would be a refreshing change, he imagined. Funny how people always seemed to want the opposite of what they already had. He swallowed his Scotch and closed his eyes as the fiery liquid hit his empty stomach and spread its warmth throughout his churning guts. He hoped to God Angelika wasn't really onto something with this whole camera debacle. If, and he held onto the word hopefully, her suspicions had grounds then someone somewhere would have seen
everything
. The very idea made him want to gulp back the entire bottle of single malt in one hit.

‘I may go fishing today,' he suddenly announced. ‘There's really not much else we can do until the phones are back up and running, which Elaine has said will be any day now. May as well make use of what's on offer while we can.'

‘And how will you go fishing without a boat?'
The boat
… damn it, she just couldn't locate inside her mind; it was so frustrating. ‘Don't you think it's odd that there are no boats here on the island, not even a fishing one, especially since McKenzie collects the damn things. You'd have thought he'd have one of this yachts moored here at least, something to take us all out on and impress us.'

‘I don't know, Angelika,' he answered sharply, sick of all her questions, ‘perhaps he meant to, perhaps the storm prevented it, or perhaps you ought to stop being so damned paranoid and asking so many questions. Anyway, I was thinking of navigating the rocks down by the beach, they go quite a way out, I'm bound to get a catch eventually.' The idea of some peace and solitude appealed to him. He would grab some fishing gear, request a packed lunch and finish this bottle of malt while he was at it. It was becoming an increasing struggle to look his wife in the face. Besides, he wasn't sure he could stomach another day of Mia Manhattan's supercilious remarks and knowing smirks. The fear of the woman opening that great gate of hers had him on tenterhooks the whole time and he couldn't relax. Jesus, he looked forward to going home, getting back to reality, back to hiding behind a mask of middle-class respectability. He was even looking forward to making a return to the courtroom, not to mention the bloody polo playing field where by rights he should've been in the first place.

‘Suit yourself,' she said, ‘I think I'm going to go on a little trek around the island again. I haven't been up beyond the house yet, on the north side. It's the only part I haven't seen.'

‘Looks pretty baron to me,' he said, ‘nothing but rock and brush.'

‘I'd still like to check it out, see what's up there. I may have missed something.'

‘Rather you than me, Poirot.' Rupert's eye was drawn to the black box on the kitchen table. It had been sitting there on the shiny marble kitchen counter almost mocking him since their arrival and he'd had a terrible feeling from the beginning that whatever was inside it was not going to make for a happy discovery. Perhaps he would take it down to the beach with him and throw it off the rocks, yet his own curiosity, he knew, would prevent him from doing so. He took another sip of Scotch, only he wasn't convinced that it was helping. If anything it was facilitating his maudlin thoughts and burgeoning ill ease. If they could just make it through these last few days without any more drama, then he would never complain about anything again. Not even his wife. What had happened here on the island would stay here with it when they left and with a bit of luck he would never be confronted with any of it ever again. He comforted himself in the knowledge that soon this experience would simply be a distant memory, with the exception perhaps of one remissible sin – that he would
not
forget, though it would be a whole lot easier if he could forgive himself for it. The sketchy encounter with Raj flashed up inside his mind once more, of the man's strong, soft hands and glistening lips as they'd wrapped themselves around his …

‘Do you think it's a good idea to go trekking alone?' he said, shaking the memory from his head. ‘It's not as if you can call anyone should you run into difficulty. And you'll need to take plenty of water.'

‘Careful, darling, you almost sounded as if you cared then.'

‘I do care, Angelika,' he said. And although he knew he might not show it as he should, he wasn't lying.

Angelika was preparing herself to shower now and had wrapped herself in a robe before stepping out of her bedclothes. Although Rupert had seen her naked body more times than she could count she suddenly found herself feeling more self-conscious than usual around him. Something had shifted between them, an uncomfortable distance she could not explain.

Rupert, a touch inebriated now, followed her into the en suite and stood behind her as she began to wash her teeth over the ornate mirrored basin with one of the state-of-the-art electric brushes. If he could just force himself to desire her again, make love to her and
feel
something …

‘What are you doing, Rupert?' She looked at him in the mirror as he slipped the robe from her shoulders, exposing her nakedness. ‘You're drunk!'

‘So what?' he said as he ran his fingers down her arms.

Angelika was shocked; this was the first time her husband had displayed any intimate intensions towards her in over two years. As little as a few weeks ago she would've welcomed such attention with open arms, and legs, but now she wasn't so sure.

Willing his erection on, Rupert closed his eyes and thought of Raj as he parted his wife's thighs. She did not stop him but instead watched his face carefully in the mirror as he entered her from behind, moaning in pleasure until she too closed her eyes and followed suit. After a moment he turned her around, lifting her by the buttocks into the shallow basin and she wrapped her legs around him, arching her back, releasing her long hair from her top knot as he began to kiss and nibble her small breasts, caressing her neck with his hand as he pushed himself into her, harder, building momentum, his breathing deep and shallow in time with hers.

‘Oh, go ... yeah … yeah …' she found herself softly saying, her orgasm building as she watched the defined, thigh muscles working in his legs, ‘fuck me …'

Only she wasn't really talking to him; she was imagining her husband was Nate Simmons, that it was
his
body pressed against her own causing her to groan with pleasure,
his
lips around her nipples, her legs around
his
strong, taut abs …

Pulling her down onto all fours upon the soft sheepskin rug in the en suite, Rupert held her by the waist as he slid into her from behind once more, only it wasn't Angelika he was entering with increasing frenzy, it was Raj. It was Raj's dark cocoa-butter skin he felt beneath his fingertips. It was the scent of Raj's masculine sweat that he could detect lingering in the air between them. He felt Angelika's body buckle beneath him as she came in a crescendo of short sharp bursts, her muscles contracting around him, squeezing. He was close himself now, the power of his orgasm almost paralysing him as it finally took hold.

‘Ahh, yeah, that's it … you bad boy … you dirty, fucking bad boy …'

Angelika froze, wondering if she'd heard him correctly.

‘What was that you just said?' She sat upright, her heartbeat refusing to slow down. Rupert was hyperventilating, beads of sweat dripping from his brow. Thinking of Raj had made him come like a train.

‘What?'

‘“You bad
boy
”?
That's what you just said to me … “you dirty fucking bad
boy
”!'
'

Rupert panicked, his post-coital euphoric rush evaporating rapidly like liquid nitrogen.

‘Did I? I'm sorry,' he apologised, ‘I … I was talking to myself. I meant
I'm
a bad boy …
I'm
a dirty …' His voice trailed off. The moment had passed and reality hit him like a wrecking ball. Angelika blinked at him as she reached for her robe and quickly covered herself up. She wasn't entirely sure what had just happened, but she didn't feel particularly good about it.

‘I'm taking a shower,' she said quickly, which he rightly translated as ‘please leave immediately'.

Rupert stood, awash with self-loathing and made to leave but turned to her at the last minute.

‘I'm sorry, Angelika,' he said.

‘What was that?' she called out, pretending she hadn't heard him; she was already in the shower, washing the scent of him from her skin. She felt strongly that whatever had just taken place between them during those few minutes of spontaneous passion shouldn't have. It had felt so wrong, so disconnected. While physically present, spiritually she had been somewhere in her mind,
with
someone else. And what was clearly evident was that so too, it seemed, had her husband.