‘What is it?’
‘I know you put Assad up to buying my company. You can call it off.’
Miles bristled. ‘Simon is his own man,’ he said. ‘This is a business investment. It’s nothing to do with me.’
‘Miles, you’re lying.’
He looked thoughtful and then nodded. ‘I’ll have a word.’
‘Thank you. I appreciate it.’
There was a discreet cough behind them. ‘God, I can’t believe you’re actually talking business,’ said Philip, walking in with two drinks.
Miles stood up, hearing his cue to leave. ‘Remember, you two. If you want time out after all this, pick a hotel. Call me on my cell and I’ll sort it for you.’
‘Thanks, Miles,’ said Sasha. ‘I mean it.’
He looked at her quickly, then nodded and walked away.
Philip smiled into his Pepsi. ‘I leave you for two minutes and you’ve got Miles Ashford’s balls in a vice.’
‘I’m battered and bruised but I’m not brain-dead,’ she said, pulling herself slowly up on the pillow. ‘He was feeling weak. I used my moment to gain the commercial advantage.’
‘You never stop,’ he said, perching on the bed and taking her hand.
‘My hero.’ She grinned.
‘Is a mistress of the universe allowed a hero? I thought feminism had killed them off.’
‘We’re allowed to make an exception for heroes as cute as you.’ She held his hand and sighed. ‘Is it true I can leave hospital in a couple of hours?’
‘I think the doctor wants to take one last look at you and then you can be discharged.’
‘Then get me back to reality as soon as possible, wherever that is.’
Philip looked down into his drink. ‘Were you being serious about what you said at the hotel?’
‘Sorry, I’m a bit fuzzy about stuff at the moment. Which bit?’
‘What you said about that night at my flat. How you wished you had said yes.’
‘Phil, we’re in hospital. This isn’t the time to talk about that.’
She felt flustered. It must be the medication. Or the heat. She was Sasha Sinclair. Always in control. An independent woman in charge of her future. Except that when she thought about the future, she wasn’t entirely sure about anything any more. Whether she could keep her stake in Rivera. Whether she wanted to keep her stake, or whether she should sell up, ship out and take her considerable talent and fortune to a new business, a new challenge. The only thing about her future she felt sure of was that she wanted Phil Bettany in it, and that was what was scaring her the most. Not the crazed killer or the mercenary with his arm around her throat or the terrible consequences of that one dark night. No, what was scaring her was love.
A side door took Miles out on to a back street. He closed his eyes and inhaled the hot, dusty air. He was glad Sasha was all right; it had been important to him somehow. Now he just had to take care of Michael Marshall. Fraud. Attempted murder. Possibly a nice secure mental hospital would be the best place for him. Either way, Miles had wasted years of guilt on that boat boy. But now it was over. He would push the Fairmont deal through as fast as possible and bury the whole episode next to that non-existent body. He certainly knew he would never set foot on Angel Cay again. At the end of the alley, the main street looked bright and he walked towards it, stepping out into the sun feeling light, happy and back to full strength. Nothing like a gun to your head to pep you right up, he thought with a smile. No, he felt good. In fact, the last seven days was already beginning to feel like a simple irritation. That was the key to life. Let problems wash over you. And if they wouldn’t wash, screw ’em. There was always another deal to be done.
Grace sat on Catseye Beach, running the oyster white sand through her fingers as she stared out to sea. She was glad she had chosen to stay on Angel Cay once the police had left. Miles had volunteered to accompany them back to George Town to fill in the blanks, which everyone said was nice of him. Grace, however, knew her brother well enough to guess that he had an ulterior motive. He certainly wouldn’t want Michael Marshall – or whatever his name was – shooting his mouth off, telling his side of the story in open court. People would have to be paid off, ears whispered into, hands shaken. She laughed to herself. She could imagine her brother at the pearly gates, trying to cut a deal with St Peter. No, whatever happened, Miles would never change and there was actually something quite comforting about that. The island, however, would never be the same. The innocent, idyllic paradise of her youth was long gone, but at least they had found some peace again, which Grace wanted to enjoy one last time before it was finally sold.
Ahead of her, the clear waters stretched out towards the horizon and blended seamlessly with the sky, which was so cloudless and blue it was almost impossible to believe that yesterday a storm had circled the island. How fluid life was. How quickly things could change. She thought of the moment she had caught Julian with Olivia. And the phone call from Miles telling them a body had been found on Angel Cay. It had been like stepping on to rotten floor-boards and falling into a deep, dark well.
But that was life, wasn’t it? Things jolted you from your comfortable groove and put you on to a different track, but it wasn’t always a bad thing. She was free of her loveless relationship and she was back on the island she never thought she’d see again. Although the last twenty-four hours had been a surreal nightmare, it had been the most liberating time of her life. There would never be an absolute finality to what had happened on that hot summer night in 1990, because Grace knew she could never forgive herself for leaving the body. But there were plenty of positives in the situation. The boat boy wasn’t dead. Miles hadn’t killed him. Her father hadn’t covered anything up.
It was too late to mend that relationship, but life was full of possibilities. There was still time to work on Olivia – even Miles.
And then there was Alex. Squinting in the sun, she could see him waving at her as he came down the dusty track from the house. Giving him a lop-sided grin, she walked up the beach to meet him.
‘A plane is coming for us at four to take us to Nassau, which gives us an hour to kill. Where are you going to take me, Ashford?’