Summer Lightning (2 page)

“Oh no,
please
.”

She bit the words off—they had escaped before she could stop them. As his eyes met her bright, troubled ones his expression became less hostile.

“Not right away, of course. Having made the journey you’ll want to see something of the island. It’s charming now, in spring—quite the best time of the year. And I promise you the architecture and antiquities will amply repay you for any inconvenience you may feel you’ve been put to.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Of course, your expenses during your stay will be my responsibility.”

Her chin lifted again.

“Thank you, that won’t be necessary.”

He looked at her with that infuriating gleam of humor.

“I happen to think it will.”

The stewardess walking down the aisle with an armful of glossy magazines, saved Chloe from having to reply. She chose one at random and leafed through it unseeingly.

“Back again from your jaunt to London?” the girl said archly.

“I only went over for an evening lecture—hardly a jaunt, Miss O’Malley,” .he answered pleasantly. The girl laughed as if she didn’t believe him.

“Want a magazine?” she offered.

“No, thanks. I’ve got some work to do.”

The work lasted him a good hour and a half, during which he made notes absorbedly and ignored Chloe’s existence. She sat looking out of the window at the endless expanse of cloud and simmered with indignation. Her pleasure in the flight was ruined; she could hardly wait for it to be over and done with.

She tried to read. She tried to doze. But she was far too vividly aware, in every nerve, of her irritating neighbor to do either.

I
detest
him, she told herself. But just then the stewardess brought them their meals on plastic trays. Professor Vining abandoned his work, and laid himself out to be agreeable. He explained in detail what she must see and do in Malta. He was attentive, courteous, companionable. She found herself capitulating without a struggle.

At long last the warning “Fasten Your Safety Belts,” flashed in red at the end of the plane.

“If your ears hurt as we go down, clench your teeth and swallow hard,” Dominic Vining advised Chloe.

She surprised him by a little spurt of laughter. His black brows shot up.

“Even though you’re going to send me back, I’m excited,” she explained. “New places, new people, things happening always excite me. A sort of champagne feeling.”

Had she been looking at him then, she might have detected a flash of something not unlike regret in his eyes.

Guided by its winking red light they came down at Luqa airport, in Malta, some time after midnight.

In the darkness it was much like any other airport, except that not far off there was an enormous baroque church outlined in lights, above which fireworks exploded in golden geysers and fountains and stars, and gave off formidable bangs.

“It’s a religious
festa
,” Professor Vining explained. “You’ll soon discover that in Malta religion is the butter on the dry bread of everyday life. Nearly every date in the calendar is its patron saint’s day for some Maltese village. Which mean a
festa
with street decorations, processions of priests with parasols and holy images, flower heads strewn underfoot, music and above all, fireworks and petards.”

A rocket exploded loudly into a white puffball overhead as he spoke, making her jump nervously.

“They fire them from the rooftops to scare away the devil,” her mentor told her with a grin. “After a bit you won’t even notice them.”

Very likely, since I won’t be here,
she thought wryly. A pang that really hurt told her how desperately she wanted to stay.

They separated for the customs formalities. When the officials were through with her, she found that he had vanished.

He reappeared almost at once.

“Ah, here you are. All clear?”

“I think so.”

“We’d better book you in at the Felicia for what’s left of the night. I’ll drive you there and fix it. I live out at Medina, in the center of the island. I’d intended to take Fairfax out there for the night, and on to the dig, which is over in the southwest of the island, tomorrow. He would have lived in camp with the others, of course. As it is...”

He broke off with a shrug of his shoulders.

The color flamed in her cheeks again, but she swallowed her resentment and said coolly enough, “Thank you. I’ll go and tell them about my luggage.”

He nodded, and watched the slim figure in its neat gray suit, and the long beautiful legs, with involuntary approval as she moved away from him.

Pretty girl
,
he was thinking.
Walks well. Got poise and plenty of spirit. I like a woman with spirit. But she’s much too much of a woman to let loose on the dig. A nuisance having to send her back. It means delay—but better that than trouble later on.

Outside, weary passengers were piling into a big bus. A small, plump, dark-skinned man whom Chloe took to be a Maltese was stowing her suitcase into the trunk of a powerful-looking car.

“Please get in.” Professor Vining opened the door for her. When she was settled he tucked a blanket around her knees.

“Although it’s spring, the nights are still at bit chilly. Warm enough?”

“Yes, thanks.” Her chin was snuggled down into the collar of her big camel’s-hair traveling coat. She felt relaxed and comfortable.

But when he got in beside her she found herself thrilling again to his nearness. In a panic she tried to laugh herself out of it. This—love at first sight—was teenage stuff. Something she didn’t believe in when she read about it in romantic novels.

Somehow, though, she didn’t feel like laughing. It was as if something—it had happened in a flash, like summer lightning—had taken possession of her, creating a strange, exciting confusion of feelings...

Oh, nonsense. All this on account of a handsome stranger who can’t wait to send me back to where I came from
, she thought with sudden impatience as they roared off into the night, which was moonless, starry and dark in a velvety sort of way.

She could see little but occasional flat-topped dwellings and odd trees, caught in the tunnel of the headlights. There were really very few trees; it seemed a featureless landscape of flat fields roughly divided by stone walls.

Now they had reached a village or small town. They were moving down a long, dark street between high cream buildings. It was shrouded in silence, sleeping, mysterious seeming, with only a few mongrels and gaunt skittering cats astir.

Soon she caught a glimpse of water and the outlines of ships, anchored in a sort of creek that ran inland between quays lined with more tall buildings. They swooped down to a wide stone archway, soared up a rise and passed an area of geometric flowerbeds.

Now they were skirting the cavernous entrance to a walled city. Valetta, Chloe guessed. In a moment they pulled up beneath the portico of a deluxe hotel.

“Behold the Felicia, the pride of Malta,” said Dominic Vining, breaking a long silence.

Chloe put the blanket aside and got out of the car. He said brusquely, “Go on in,” and held the door open for her.

The ornate foyer hummed with people off the plane and uniformed bellhops. A harassed reception clerk was allotting rooms and keys. The bellhops ran around briskly with baggage and ushered people into the elevators.

Evidently Professor Vining was well-known here. He took charge and achieved quick results for Chloe. Within minutes she was going up with him in an elevator. At the door of her room he handed her its key, and waited till a bellhop brought her cases.

“Better try to get some sleep now,” he advised. “I’ll come tomorrow to discuss arrangements with you.”

“Thank you.”

“You’ll need to fix your return flight right away, or you may find yourself held up. Reservations aren’t all that easy to get. Will ten o’clock suit you?”

“Of course.”

She spoke casually, as if it didn’t matter one way or the other. But it did matter. She felt sick with disappointment.

He held out his hand, and she took it. His clasp was warm and very firm. He was looking down at her with what seemed like approval—thankful, she supposed wryly, that she wasn’t making a scene.

She watched his tall figure till it disappeared between the doors of the elevator. She didn’t want to be in love with him, she told herself firmly. A flash, a moment of high tension—and then nothing. It was too instantaneous to be real, lasting. And too one-sided...

She was more tired than she had realized.

Her last waking thoughts were that tomorrow morning she would be seeing him again; that he couldn’t really mean to send her packing without a trial; he couldn’t be so unfair, so stupidly prejudiced, so uncivilized.

“I simply won’t believe it,” she said aloud into the warm darkness of her room. As if the sound of the words reassured her, she drifted at once into sleep.

CHAPTER TWO

Not till the chambermaid knocked and brought in her early tea, and pulled back the curtains to reveal scintillating sunlight and cool, crisp air, did Chloe stir.

“Oh, thank you. What time is it?”

“Seven o’clock, madam.”

“What is your name?”

“Mariucha, madam.”

Black hair, black eyes, pomegranate red cheeks, wide smile showing perfect teeth. Nice. Much nicer than her godmother’s old Hester with her morning complaint about the weather and her bunions, thought Chloe sleepily. Mariucha smiled again and left her.

Patting back a yawn, Chloe poured out a cup of tea and sipped it enjoyably. She pulled a thin dressing gown around her and stepped out onto her own little balcony.

“O-oooh,” she murmured on a sigh of delight.

There below her lay the fabled Grand Harbor of Malta, its winding, many-inleted surface smooth and pearly in the morning light. Lion-colored rocks surmounted by lion-colored fortifications of towers and bastions, some castellated, some picturesquely crumbling, rose steeply around its shores.

Units of the fleet rested in it, and trim launches laid foaming tracks between them and the quays. A cruiser backed with infinite care out of a creek.

Up the main fairway crept a liner, shrinking a little amid all this naval grandeur. It was pursued by an avid pack of painted
djaisas
—the water taxis of Malta—propelled by standing oarsmen like gondoliers.

As Chloe watched, a little breeze sprang up. Small waves made bold to slap the warships and the sun struck sparks off the ruffled water. It was an enchanting scene.

Reluctantly, vexed that her time to enjoy it was to be cut short by a man’s tyrannical whim, she turned and went indoors to bathe and dress.

After breakfast she wandered out into the sparkling sunshine to explore the hotel’s flowery gardens.

There was color and rich greeness all around her. The sky was flawless blue, birds twittered in the trees, a boxer dog came to greet her with a quiver of his stumpy tail and turned to pace sedately beside her.

She ought to have felt happy; instead she was strangely ill at ease. She longed for the meeting at ten o’clock with Dominic Vining, but dreaded it even more.

When he came, what line should she take? Should she protest again, argue, even forget pride and dignity and plead to be allowed to stay? Or should she be wise and go tamely back to London before her heart became more deeply involved?

She couldn’t make up her mind. She could only wait and let events take their course—and hope.

At five minutes to ten she stood waiting in the foyer, outwardly cool and poised, but with butterflies fluttering inside her.

When ten had struck, he hadn’t arrived. Instead, the doors opened to admit a rough-haired, clever-looking young man with thick-lensed spectacles and an agreeable expression.

After a glance around the foyer he came straight over to her.

“Miss Linden?”

“Yes.”

“Good morning. I hope they made you comfortable?”

“Very, thanks.”

“Good. I’m Mark Tenby, one of Vining’s team. His personal secretary, actually. He was delayed by a telephone call from Valetta, and sent me on ahead to make his apologies. He shouldn’t be long.”

He was eyeing her with candid admiration, thinking how fresh and charming she looked in her trim suit and crisp, coral pink blouse. He liked her bright hair, her slim grace, her voice.

“I say, isn’t it just too bad that Dominic has this thing about not having women on a dig?” he burst out irrepressibly.

She couldn’t help laughing.

“It’s perfectly absurd. It’s medieval. I’m furious about it really,” she declared. “But there isn’t much to be done, is there, except retire gracefully?”

He nodded rueful agreement. “Not,” he qualified loyally, “that he hasn’t had good reason to feel as he does.”

She waited, dissembling her eager curiosity, for him to explain.

Instead he said, “Excuse me a minute. I’ve just seen somebody. It’s my younger brother. And good heavens,
Louise
!”

He had left her and was greeting a good-looking young naval lieutenant and a tallish, auburn-haired woman whose age Chloe put at thirty-two or three. She was very thin, and in her exquisite pale shantung dress and spike-heeled shoes, had the bizarre, improbable elegance of a fashion drawing.

“Mark, my dear!” Her voice was a vibrant contralto. She made play with a pair of large, sparkling eyes, the color of seawater. Her heart-shaped face, with blunt nose and curly mouth, had a mobile brilliance.
She’s no beauty,
Chloe thought,
but she’s devastating al
l
the same. Devastating—and probably dangerous.

She heard Mark Tenby say, “What on earth are you doing in Malta, Louise?”

Louise’s laugh was as deep as her voice.

“My pet, can’t you guess? I’ve come to visit my elusive cousin by marriage. Also to cast a proprietorial eye on Santa Clara.”