Journey to an Island Read online

  Journey to an Island by Hilary Wilde

  Mia had journeyed out to the Seychelles Islands to search for the mother she had never known. But soon her quest began to be obscured by the even more urgent problem of what to do about her hopeless love for Gideon Eastwood.

  Printed in Canada

  First published in 1967 by Mills & Boon Limited, 50 Grafton Way, Fitzroy Square, London, England.

  © Hilary Wilde 1967

  Harlequin edition published September,1967

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the Author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the Author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

  The Harlequin trade mark, consisting of the word HARLEQUIN and the portrayal of a Harlequin, is registered in the United States Patent Office and in the Canada Trade Marks Office.

  CHAPTER ONE

  "THIS must surely be the happiest day of your life," the tall, powerfully-built man said in an odd voice.

  Mia looked up and saw the sceptical amusement in his grey eyes. His was not a handsome nor an ugly face, but it was striking. His nose was hawk like, his chin square. His hair was short, thick and dark. But it was his eyes, his grey eyes that never stopped staring at her that were striking. He seemed much bigger and more virile close to, his lean wiry body seemed to throw out a strange magnetism. Mia had the oddest feeling—that suddenly every other person in the room had vanished and they were completely alone.

  "It most certainly is," she replied quickly, her voice stiff.

  Mia was nineteen, tall, slender with honey-brown hair. Not pretty, but most people turned to look at her. Perhaps it was her eyes, unexpectedly green. On the third finger of her left hand was her engagement ring, given her that day by Ian Yates, the man she had known and loved all her life. This ball was being given by his parents to introduce her to their friends. Of course she was happy, she thought, suddenly annoyed with this arrogant man.

  He had done nothing else but stare at her ever since he walked through the big oaken door into the lofty hall, with its white pillars decorated with golden roses to match the deep yellow carpet, and the chandeliers throwing scintillating light on to the beautiful and colourful clothes of the women guests. He had taken his place in the long queue of guests as they advanced slowly down towards the reception line, there to be greeted by Ian's parents, and introduced to Mia.

  Every time she glanced down the line, he was staring at her, a strange, narrowed, searching stare—inscrut-

  able, a little unnerving. She had felt nervous enough before, but he made it a thousand times worse. She fiddled restlessly with the heavy ruby ring that kept sliding down her finger so that she was terrified it might slide off—or fidgeted with her hair, worried lest it collapse and shame her. Once he met her eyes and gave her an amused, rather contemptuous smile, and she had had the strange feeling that it pleased him to know he was making her feel uncomfortable.

  Of course she was happy, she thought indignantly. Shouldn't she be? And then, glancing up at the silent man by her side, she admitted to herself the truth.

  She was not happy. Everything—but everything, had gone wrong and the little pinpricks of that day had mounted.

  The first pinprick had been the ring. Even as she had exclaimed at the beauty of the ruby, her heart had sank and she had wished Ian had asked her which was her favourite jewel. Unfortunately she loathed rubies. In addition, it was much too elaborate a style for her liking. And too expensive.

  "It's too beautiful ..." she had begun, and Ian had kissed her.

  "Nothing is too good for you," he had said.

  And she had known in her heart the truth : Ian had not chosen the ring, nor had he paid for it. The Yates had chosen the sort of ring they considered suitable for their only son's fiancée.

  Her gown had been another pinprick. Mia had already chosen hers, a simple but elegant cream brocade, but Mrs. Yates had said—again most charmingly—that white and cream were for brides, and had insisted on buying the dress Mia was wearing. It was indeed beautiful, the sort of gown film stars wear to make an "entrance".

  Cyclamen-pink silk, it shimmered and shone as she moved. Empress style, it had a very low neckline and a high waist, the silk falling in pleats to the ground. Her father had smiled rather wryly and called it "eye-shocking", but when she told him she hated it and would refuse to wear it, he had been shocked.

  "You can't be so rude, darling. Mrs. Yates is being kind," he had said.

  Mia had managed to smile tolerantly, but she had known that he was wrong. It had not been kindness on Mrs. Yates' part but fear lest their son's fiancée should disgrace them by wearing a gown that did not scream money.

  So Mia had stood there under the bright lights, growing every moment more miserable, more uncertain of her future. Ian was the only man in her life. She had met him as a child and always loved him, but when, six months earlier, he had suddenly asked her to be his wife, and she had said yes without having to pause and think, she had never realised what marrying a Yates would mean. It had begun when Ian joined the family firm of stockbrokers and started to be groomed as a young executive. Mia knew that now she, too, was being groomed—to be a young executive's wife ! Ian had changed so much, become more ambitious, earnest, always talking about the importance of "friends". Only that day he had told her that a very important man was coming to the ball.

  "Gideon Eastwood." He had said the name reverently. "He's a millionaire. He inherited half his fortune and the other half he made himself. Brilliant, he has terrific contacts.

  Now if only I could land him as a client, my father would be so pleased ... So, darling, be especially nice to him," Ian had begged.

  Glancing at Ian's mother, statuesquely tall and dignified, tightly-corseted and perfectly made-up, in a gown that matched the roses on the pillars, Mia wondered if she could ever be like Mrs. Yates. Or, what had suddenly become even more important, if she wanted to be like her.

  Ian's father was stockily-built, with snow-white hair and a bland smile He and his wife were perfectionists, and that night, for the first time, Mia had wondered if she could ever satisfy them.

  It had been as she was thinking this that Ian had nudged her gently, whispering significantly : "This is

  the man ..." and she had looked up into the cold grey searching eyes of the man who had stared at her.

  "I'd like you to meet my fiancée, Mr. Eastwood," Ian began, then went bright red. "Mia, I mean, I'd like to introduce . .." his voice had petered out unhappily as Gideon Eastwood took charge.

  "I wish you every happiness, Miss Barton, and I congratulate you on your good fortune, Yates," the tall, arrogant-looking man said smoothly, his voice deep, his words slightly pedantic, Mia thought.

  She was startled to realise suddenly that she disliked him Was it because of his voice that sounded as if he was accustomed to shouting orders and having people leap to obey them?

  "This must surely be the happiest day of your life," he had added, and she had known then that he was mocking her.

  But why? Why?

  Ian was talking fast, too fast, about nothing. Looking at them both, Mia was struck by the complete difference in the two men. True, Ian was only twenty-four whereas Gideon Eastwood must be in his mid-thirties, but Ian looked even younger with his round cheeks, cerulean-blue eyes and that sweet shy smile, whereas Gideon Eastwood had an air of self-confidence, a look of success.

  "When do you plan to marry ?" he asked.

  Mia lifted her pointed chin. It was a little habit of defiance she was not aware of.

  "In six months," she said coolly.

  Gideon
Eastwood went on staring at, her and she fidgeted, feeling her new shoes pinching her toes.

  "I beg your pardon," he said unexpectedly. "Was I staring?"

  "You have been ever since you arrived," Mia said coldly, and heard Ian's little gasp of dismay. She realised she had sounded rude, so she smiled. "I was afraid my hair was falling down," she added lightly.

  She could feel Ian relax by her side as Gideon Eastwood laughed. "On the contrary, it looks well-disciplined. I apologise for my rudeness, Miss Barton. The

  trouble is I seem to know your face. You know how it is when you meet someone with a face you recognise yet you can't pinpoint who the other person was ..."

  Ian laughed, a little too loudly, Mia thought. She turned to smile at him reassuringly and thought how young he looked and unsure, so very different from this arrogant man who was precariously balanced on the edge of being pompous, she thought. She knew that in a crowd, all eyes would be turned on Gideon Eastwood. Not only for his size, or for his handsome elegance in his dinner jacket, tailored trousers, and red cummerbund, but because of his air of assurance. Was it his money that gave him that, she wondered, or his success? Ian had said he had many interests, his biggest being that of ship-building.

  "May I dance with your fiancee?" Gideon Eastwood asked, glancing at the few guests there were left to be spoken to.

  Ian beamed, "Of course. She's a wonderful dancer, Mr. Eastwood."

  Mia frowned slightly. Surely Gideon Eastwood should have asked her first, she thought. After all, for all he knew, she might hate the very idea of dancing with him.

  Then she saw Ian's anxious eyes and so she smiled at the tall man and led him through the lavishly-decorated hall to the ballroom.

  "This is quite a house, isn't it?" he asked, his hand under her elbow lightly.

  "Yes, it is," she said stiffly. She agreed with his unspoken comment that it was a ghastly house, but she also owed loyalty to Ian. "The sort of house the glossy magazines love."

  Gideon laughed. "Yes, and the elegantly-clad hostess is photographed, in a terrifically expensive dress, arranging the flowers that have already been done by a florist."

  Mia found herself laughing, for it was a perfect description. "It's designed for what is called gracious entertaining," she said, quick to jump to Ian's parents' defence. But definitely not the kind of house you could

  live in, she thought. And certainly not the sort of house she and Ian would have.

  Gideon stood still and looked at her. There was an oddly derisive smile on his face as if he knew she did not want to dance with him.

  "Shall we ... ?" he asked.

  As she moved into his arms, Mia shivered. It was only a momentary, quick reaction, but it startled her. She only reached his shoulder and she kept her head bent so that he could not see her face. It disturbed her, that small electric shock. She had never experienced such a feeling before.

  She was surprised how good a dancer he was. Infinitely better than Ian, who was often clumsy in his movements. Gideon Eastwood danced as if he enjoyed every moment of it—just as she did.

  She racked her brains trying to think of something to say. She wondered why she felt like this. Her father, although a country vicar, had many distinguished friends and Mia was used to meeting them and talking easily. But tonight there seemed to be an anchor on her tongue or a fog round her brain. She could not think of a single opening remark. What do you talk to a millionaire about? she wondered. His money? His yachtscars—possessions? Do you talk of the weather or politics? If only she could think of one intelligent thing to say ... It meant so much to Ian.

  "You live near here ?" Gideon Eastwood asked casually.

  She looked up at him "About three miles away. My father is vicar of Hawbridge. That's a small village, one of the few we've left near London."

  "You don't look like a country girl."

  "But I am," she said quickly, her cheeks slightly red. "I love village life—hearing the local news, meeting people who've known me all my life."

  He smiled. "How very different from my life. My real home, if you can call it that, is on an island in the Indian Ocean. I go there whenever I can, but most of my life is divided between London, New York, Paris and Berlin. I get around ..." He gave a strange, lop-sided grin which seemed to soften his hard face. "At heart," he went on, "I'm a sailor.

  My family have always built ships and I'm the same. If I could, I'd live at sea."

  She studied his face thoughtfully. It was bronze with suntan, yet he lived in cities. She wondered how he kept looking so full of life and virility.

  "But surely," she said without thinking, "you can do what you like? I mean I believe you're very rich .. ."

  He gave a rueful smile. "I have responsibilities."

  The music stopped and he walked back with her to the hall, but Ian had vanished Gideon Eastwood hesitated, gazing intently at the face lifted politely towards him.

  "Where did you meet Ian Yates?" he asked abruptly.

  If Mia was startled, she managed to hide it. "The Yates used to live in Hawbridge before they built this house. I've known Ian all my life."

  "I see ..." he said thoughtfully, and went on staring at her.

  She wondered how she could get rid of him, tactfully and without offence. She wished he would stop staring at her in that way. It made her feel uneasy.

  It was as if he read her thoughts. "Please forgive me," he said. "I'm staring again, aren't I? I suppose I should do my duty and ask a few ladies to dance. May I have another dance later?"

  She danced most of the evening, passing from one pair of masculine arms to another.

  She laughed and talked, and occasionally Ian would smile at her as he danced by and she knew his parents were pleased with her.

  But the whole time Gideon Eastwood seemed to dominate everything. It began to annoy Mia so much that she felt if she heard his name again she would scream. No one could be as perfect as Gideon Eastwood appeared to be !

  Everyone asked her what she thought of him. Deftly she avoided a direct answer, saying he danced well, seemed an interesting man. Everyone talked of Gideon Eastwood's wealth, of his international fame, for apparently he excelled at everything : flying, skiing, deep-sea diving, cricket, rugby, tennis ...

  his ability was never-ending.

  Dancing briefly with Ian, Mia voiced her feeling. "He's too perfect to be true," she said crossly. "Isn't there something he can't do ?"

  Ian looked shocked. "Don't you like him? He told Father I was lucky to win such a beautiful, intelligent girl."

  Mia caught her breath. Of all the sarcastic ... ! She bit back angry words. It was fortunate that Ian's father had not recognised Gideon Eastwood's sarcasm, she thought.

  "Everything seems to be going well," she said, to change the subject.

  Ian beamed and tightened his arm round her. "It is. You're doing wonders, darling. I'm so proud of you. So are the parents. I can always tell when my father's pleased."

  Mia stifled a sigh. It was a good party, she supposed, if you liked this kind of party. She didn't. Yet Ian had told her over and over again that they would have to entertain like this if he was to make any good contacts.

  "The personal touch," he had said, sounding eerily like his father, "is so very important."

  As the music stopped, Gideon Eastwood came to their side.

  "May I ?" he said to Ian, and took Mia into his arms. They had danced once round the room when he said, "I've been talking to your father. He's a wonderful man."

  Mia looked up, her face changing, becoming almost luminous with happiness for a moment, her eyes shining.

  "He is," she agreed warmly.

  They danced in silence and then Gideon glanced down.

  "I'm feeling hungry. How about something to eat?"

  he asked. "Can we find somewhere to sit?" he asked.

  They went to the buffet table and helped themselves,

  finding two chairs in a small alcove, under the wide staircase. They were not
alone and yet shut off from other people, and Gideon said it would do.

  "I'm not a dancing man, though I enjoy it very much when I do," he said, and turned to stare at her. "Is Ian?"

  Mia hesitated. "Not really. He does it because—" "His mother tells him to ?" Gideon asked.

  It was like a splash of ice-cold water on her. She was so shocked she could not speak.

  "I ..." She stared at Gideon.

  He moved his hand impatiently. "Don't look so horrified—all I mean is, it's a social thing with him, isn't it ? his duty etcetera? Now, you—you love dancing, don't you ?"

  Mia nodded. "Yes. Once I dreamed of being a dancer," she told him, surprised at herself, for few people knew. "I . I was good at ballet and . .."

  He took the empty plate from her hand and put it down on a nearby table. "Then why aren't you a dancer?" he asked with a smile.

  She saw that he had not forgotten that she had asked him why he wasn't a sailor ! "I, too, have responsibilities," she said.

  "Touché," he said, putting back his head to laugh.

  Glancing at the groups of people standing and talking, Mia saw Ian's mother glancing at her, nodding her head gently in approval.

  "You see," Mia went on, "my mother died when I was thirteen. Dad was heartbroken and I knew I could never leave him. I've done my best, but I don't think a daughter can ever be the same as a wife."

  Gideon looked at her. "I wouldn't know, never having married."

  How had such a man managed to stay single? Mia wondered. She judged him to be in his early thirties.

  "Tell me, how did you come to get mixed up with this crowd?" he asked, waving his hand towards the other guests.

  Startled by the contempt in his voice, she said, "You don't like this kind of party ?"

  "Good grief, of course not. And neither do you, that's—"

  "Why come, then ?" she asked, irritated by his voice.