The House on Flamingo Cay by Anne Weale

the wharf yesterday and this morning, she would not have supposed that he possessed such a thing as evening kit. Was it possible ...? Oh, no, of course not! Just because he had been kind enough to take her over to the beach and had seemed to like her, it was going too far to imagine that he had come to the dance to see her.
    “Hello, Sara.”
    Suddenly, as they were passing close to the tables, she heard his voice and stopped short.
    “Oh ... Stephen.” She wondered when he had spotted her and how he had got round the room so quickly as it was some distance from where he had been standing before. “Peter, this is Stephen Rand. Stephen, Mr. Laszlo.”
    “Good evening. Do you mind if I cut in on you, Laszlo?” Stephen said coolly.
    Glancing from one to the other, Sara realized with a prick of discomfort that not only did the two men know each other but that there was a mutual hostility between them. For a moment she thought that Peter was going to object. Then, with one of his formal bows, he relinquished her hand and said tonelessly, “Of course. I will see you presently, Sara.”
    “You look quite startled. Surprised to see me?” Stephen asked, as he slipped his arm round her.
    “Well ... yes, I was,” she admitted. “What are you doing here?”
    “Can’t you guess?” His smile, and the way he drew her closer against him, made her pulses quicken. “How did the lunch party go?” he asked.
    “Oh, it was quite good fun. I—I almost didn’t recognize you out of sailing clothes,” she said shyly.
    “I had a surprise myself. I certainly didn’t expect to find you dancing with Laszlo.”
    “We met him at the yacht. Why don’t you like him?”
    “I don’t actively dislike him,” he said drily. “But he’s not a very suitable companion for you.”
    “Why not?” she asked gravely.
    He was about to reply, when the lights began to dim and the music ended with a flourish.
    “It’s time for the show to start,” he explained, shielding her from the crush as the dancers began to hurry back to their tables.
    Sara had supposed that they would rejoin the Stuyvesants and she would have to explain how she had met him, but he steered her to the other side of the room and secured two chairs which would give them an excellent view.
    Presently the lights were extinguished entirely and, for a second or two, the room was plunged into blackness. Then, at a clash of cymbals, a single flame-red spotlight lit the centre of the floor and two gleaming tawny-skinned figures leapt into the circle of brilliance and acknowledged the burst of applause. Then, as the clapping died down and they stood motionless, facing each other, the first slow beat of a drum came out of the darkness.
    Of all the lithe, indolently graceful West Indians whom Sara had seen since her arrival, these dancers were the most handsome. The man was not tall, but he was magnificently proportioned with powerful shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist. The oil on his muscular torso gave his skin the lustre of copper and he wore tight white cotton trousers, cut short at the swell of his calves. The girl must have been of mixed blood as her features were more delicately modelled than those of the negro, and she had a mass of silky black hair cascading over her shoulders. She wore a tiny glittering bodice of emerald sequins and a length of vivid green silk was bound round her slender hips to fall open on one burnished brown thigh.
    It was she who began the dance. At first, only her shoulders moved, then her hips, then her arms. Gradually, as the beat of the drum grew stronger, her slim brown feet began to stamp the polished parquet and she edged closer and closer to the man until they were almost touching. There was a second drum beating now, and soon a third and fourth, and still the girl swayed and postured and stamped while the negro stood still and unblinking.
    Then, so suddenly that there was a murmured reaction from the audience, he lunged to catch her.