flight, then a water taxi, then a sea plane. Now a dust-covered cab with a smiling man in a loud shirt at the wheel was bumping her along an unmade-up road. She was so exhausted she could barely keep her eyes open.
‘Do you know how many islands there are in the Caribbean?’ Annie had asked her excitedly before she left New York. ‘There are thousands. Saba and St Eustatius, the Virgins, then there’s Andros and North Bimini in the Bahamas, and-’
‘And your point is…’ interrupted Layla impatiently.
‘My point is, a person could lose themselves there and never be found. You could stash your money in Belize or Panama, get yourself a luxury yacht, live on it, cruise around. Get lost for ever.’
Layla had been looking at the maps, she knew Annie was right.
I would kill for a shower, she thought. She felt grubby, sweaty. It was so hot, there was no air-conditioning in the taxi. She peered outside, blinking with gritty eyes, and saw an azure sky, a stretch of white beach zip past, people strolling, no hurry, no problems, palm trees bent nearly double by the breeze, and the sea. She stared at it, a vast shimmering turquoise expanse that she longed to dive into to cool down.
The taxi came bumping to a halt. She fumbled for her purse, paid the driver. Clambered from the car while he went round the back and got her case out of the boot. The warm breeze tossed her hair into her eyes. She dragged it back, looked around her. There was nothing here.
‘Hey!’ she said to the driver. ‘Where…?’
But he was already back behind the wheel, slamming his door closed, gunning the engine, driving away in a cloud of dust. That was when she saw the huge black-haired man standing near a rickety pontoon, wearing shorts and a green polo-shirt. He saw her, and came lumbering over to pick up her case.
‘Miss,’ he greeted her.
Layla felt like she wanted to kiss him. ‘Sandor! Hi.’
‘This way,’ he said, and she stepped out on to the pontoon over the swirling sun-speckled clear waters, tiny bright fish dancing inches below her feet, Sandor following on behind. The taxi roared away.
Layla looked ahead, shielding her eyes from the hot glare of the sun. There was a forty-foot schooner moored out in the deeper waters of the bay. And there was a man stepping out of a small rowing boat at the end of the pontoon. He was wearing cut-off denim shorts, nothing else. His blond hair was bleached almost white by the sun and the wind, and his tall muscular frame was tanned and fit. He gazed along the pontoon, saw her standing there. His laser-blue eyes met hers, and Alberto started to smile.