The House on Flamingo Cay by Anne Weale Page A

But, with split-second timing, she had darted out of his reach. Four times he tried to grasp her elusive figure and each time she whisked away and snapped her fingers at his clumsiness. But the fifth time she was not quite quick enough, and with a single fluid sweep that must have taken weeks to perfect, he caught her up in his arms and tossed her high into the air. From then on, the performance was a spectacular combination of wild dancing and superb acrobatics. And then, when it seemed impossible for the drums to beat faster and louder, or for the two whirling figures to keep up the frenzied pace, the man seized the girl by one ankle and swung her up on to his shoulder. For a moment longer they stood in the fiery glow, the man’s chest heaving with exertion and the girl still balanced above him, her black hair damp now and tangled. Then the drums stopped beating, the spotlight went out and the act was at an end.
    “What did you think of it?” Stephen asked, when the main lights had been switched on again and the outburst of clapping had diminished.
    “It was very good,” she said warmly. “Are they local people?”
    He nodded. “But Elena has a Spanish strain, as you could probably tell. I believe her grandfather came from Cuba.”
    “Are they married?” Sara asked.
    “No—just partners.” He gave her a curious glance. “What makes you think they might be?”
    She made a gesture of uncertainty. “I’m not sure. I suppose because she had such confidence in him. One mistake, and she could have been killed—or at least very badly hurt.”
    “It isn’t really as risky as it looks, and they’ve been doing it since they were youngsters.”
    “All the same, I shouldn’t want to be flung around like that,” Sara said with conviction.
    She glanced across the room, but she could not see the others, and she wondered what Angela was making of her absence, and if Stephen, too, would be dubbed an unsuitable acquaintance.
    Soon the light dimmed again and the next act was announced—this time a trio of calypso-singers. The cabaret lasted for about half an hour and the dancing began again.
    “I don’t think I shall be out for an early swim if we don’t go to bed till two,” Sara said wryly, as they moved into a slow waltz.
    “How about driving up to the pine barren tomorrow afternoon, then?” Stephen asked.
    “It sounds lovely—but I don’t know what Angela is doing,” she said doubtfully.
    “Do you have to go where she goes?”
    “Well, not exactly—but she usually makes most of our plans.”
    “Perhaps I’d better present myself to her,” he said, smiling. “Whereabouts is your party?”
    “They were over there before the cabaret. Stephen ... you aren’t a water-skiing instructor or anything like that, are you?” she asked, on impulse.
    His mouth curved with amusement, but it seemed to Sara that his eyes narrowed slightly.
    “I’ve taught people to ski—but not professionally,” he said casually. “Why do you ask?”
    “I ... I just wondered.”
    She waited, expecting him to tell her what he did for a living. But whether he knew that she was curious and chose to ignore it, or whether he merely missed her unspoken question, there was no means of telling.
    As Sara had expected, the Stuyvesants received him with their usual cordiality and Angela was coolly polite. But at least she did not seem to feel the instinctive antagonism that she had evinced towards Peter Laszlo.
    “Are you here on business or a vacation, Mr. Rand?” Mrs. Stuyvesant enquired, with American directness.
    “I live here,” Stephen explained.
    “You do? Well, now isn’t that interesting. Then you’ve had experience of these terrible wind storms that someone was telling me about today.”
    “The autumn hurricanes? Yes, they can be a bit uncomfortable.”
    Mrs. Stuyvesant laughed. “Now if that isn’t just the most typical example of your British way of understating everything! Why, I was told that the wind sometimes