Chapter 22

He didn't trust himself to stay with her after what had happened, so Quatre piloted and landed his own jet in Barbados. He was disgusted with how he had treated her, angry with her for allowing it. Jamila's mother deserved more respect than to be treated like a whore. Although a part of him knew that Dorothy had goaded him, he should have shown more self-restraint. But his emotions had been running on high for months, were still simmering even after he had boiled over. Their wrestle on the desk, while gratifying one way only served to stoke the fires at the root of their problems. And when passion had died down, Dorothy lashed out at him with an angry accusation that had hit him dead center after what they had just done.

She didn't understand his feelings, or that he had a right to be angry. When she had first told him about the baby she had lost, he had been more concerned for her feelings, but he had plenty of time to think of how unfair she had been to him in keeping it secret. Dorothy had kept her secret for years and expected him to forgive her, but she wouldn't even give him a day to prepare her for the shock he was still trying to cope with, that Jamila was their child. She left him when he needed her, just as she had run out on him five years ago. At least then he could keep track of how she was, but the last six months he had been worried sick about her welfare. If her foolish behavior in Monte Carlo were any example, he had good reason to worry about her.

Quatre left the jet first and waited for her to climb down the steps. She had put on her sunglasses so he couldn't see her eyes, and the wide brim of her hat was shading her face.

The weather was hot and humid, so Quatre guessed that a storm was brewing. "I hope you got some rest."

She didn't respond, but stood rigidly staring at him from behind the sunglasses. Quatre didn't bother speaking again, but indicated with the sweep of his arm the direction to the car. They didn't have to wait for any luggage to be unloaded. He had none beyond the briefcase containing his work and everything he had pilfered from her room that was of any value.

The car dealership owner waiting for him, and the man was grinning from ear to ear because he was selling the most expensive car on his lot without haggling over the price. Dorothy stood by with her back to them, and when he had the keys, she settled into the car without a word. Quatre climbed into the sportscar with her and put down the top, then tossed the briefcase in the back.

When he put the keys in the ignition, she remarked, "I don't have any clothing, but then I don't suppose I need any."

Quatre didn't respond. Her acerbic remark hit him in that place where he felt deep remorse for how he had treated her five years ago. He started the car and sped away from the airport, but he didn't head directly to the beach house. He pulled to a stop at the first salon he saw, then turned to look at her. "Get your hair done. I want it back the way it was." He reached out to flick her dark hair. "This disgusts me."

She pulled off her sunglasses to glare at him. "Why? Does it remind you of someone? Sadirah Barak, perhaps?"

Dorothy was too perceptive. "Are you going in on your own or do I have to carry you and hold you down?" he asked through gritted teeth.

She jerked open the car door. "I'll spare us both the embarrassment."

He watched her march stiffly to the door, throw it open and then disappear inside. Quatre waited in the car, first making a call to the beach house to be sure it was ready for their arrival, then pulling open his briefcase and flipping through reports while glancing inside the salon from time to time to be sure she wasn't attempting an escape. Dorothy seemed to be resigned to whatever he had planned because she sat with a chemical wrap on her hair as she flipped through a magazine. She probably thought that he would release her at some point if she cooperated, but he had no intention of doing so whether she did or not.

When she left the salon over an hour later, her hair had returned to its original color. The stylist had given her an attractive style, but Quatre would miss the long, silky strands that had fallen victim to her various disguises.

"Pay the woman," she snapped when she settled in the car. She raised a brow. "I seem to have misplaced my cash."

Taking the car keys with him, Quatre went into the salon, and ignoring the gawking women, he paid the stylist ten times her posted rate, then left the salon with several pairs of eyes following him. Dorothy didn't say anything more, not even when he pulled to a stop at the same boutique at which he had purchased her clothing five years ago. She merely held out her hand, and he slapped a plastic card in it. He didn't insult her by following her into the boutique to approve her purchases. And she didn't spend much time on the excursion. Less than ten minutes had elapsed before she left the boutique with several bags, which she tossed in the back.

Frowning, he looked from the bags to her, then asked, "Did you try anything on?"

"Why? I plan to spend my time on the beach getting a tan. If I remember correctly, a bathing suit is optional. I grabbed a few things in case you decided to take me dancing."

Another jab, another pang of conscience. "I think we'll be staying at the beach house."

"I'm not surprised."

Her tone was insulting in its insinuation. When they arrived she would realize how mistaken she was in his intentions, but until then he would suffer her taunts in silence. Fortunately, she didn't say anything more as he drove them to the beach house. He had purchased the property before he left Barbados five years ago and hadn't returned since although a caretaker lived nearby and saw to its upkeep. Stepping out of the car, he could hear the waves crashing against the shore although the oppressive heat made the air stagnant.

Throwing open the door, she stepped out, then noticed another car in the drive, and she was turning, probably to ask him about it, when the door to the beach house opened and Jamila flew down the few steps. She paused in front of Dorothy, her innocent face turned up to her, looking in wonder at the woman she knew was her mother. Quatre prayed that Dorothy wouldn't say or do anything that would hurt Jamila.

Dorothy put a shaky hand to her chest as she stared down at Jamila. Neither said a word, then Dorothy gulped for air and pushed past Jamila to hurry into the beach house.

Jamila watched her go, and when she turned back to him, he was saddened to see her eyes glistening with tears. Quatre closed the distance between them and swept her up into his arms. She rubbed her face on his shirt, then forced a smile to her lips as she raised her head for his kisses to her cheeks.

He was afraid that Dorothy had hurt her feelings, but Jamila said, "Miss Dorothy is not happy to be here."

"No, I don't think she is." Quatre saw Rashid step out of the beach house, a questioning lift to his heavy brows.

"Well," commented Quatre, "At least I found her."

"I am sure, Master Quatre, that the story would be amusing."

"Not at the moment," he assured him. "I hope you don't mind getting a room in town. I think we need to spend some time alone, the three of us."

Rashid nodded and came down the steps, then put his hand on Quatre's shoulder. "I think she needs you just as much as you need her."

He chucked Jamila under the chin. "Be a good girl, Missy Jamila."

"I'm always a good girl," she announced with a sly smile.

Rashid was chuckling as he walked to the other car. Quatre watched him drive away, then looked at Jamila. "We're on our own now." Setting her on the ground, he reached into the car and pulled out the bags from the shop and his briefcase. Jamila took one of the bags although she seemed to have difficulty dragging it up the steps, but she refused to give it up when he tried to help her.

"Did you get something for me?" she asked as she fished around in the bag, pulling out the brightly colored clothing and tossing it on the floor.

Quatre was about to tell her to stop when he noticed that Dorothy was standing in the doorway leading to the verandah, her eyes on the mess that Jamila had made. Jamila sensed her presence too, and she turned a horrified gaze to Dorothy. Quatre had little doubt how Sadirah would punish her, so in Jamila's mind, the word 'mother' was synonymous with physical pain.

Without a word, Dorothy slipped out the door, her step clipped, her body rigid. Quatre watched her disappear from view, then he realized that Jamila was sniffling, and turning, he saw that she was trying to fold the clothing she had spilled onto the floor.

"I didn't mean to make Miss Dorothy angry," she said tearfully.

Quatre didn't know what to say, but he knew that he felt Jamila's hurt as keenly as if it were his own. Instead of responding to his daughter, he headed to the door through which Dorothy had gone. She had reached the edge of the verandah and had one foot on the steps to the beach before he caught her and grabbed her arm.

"I want to talk to you!"

She spun around and tore her arm from his grasp. "I am going to the beach!"

The clouds overhead had darkened, and a distant rumbling warned of the approaching storm. "I can take whatever you say or do to me, but I won't allow you to hurt Jamila."

Dorothy was clenching her fists tightly at her side as she glared at him. "How could you do this to me? How could you bring me back here?"

Her hurt and anger was so strong that he could feel it. "I had hoped that we could work out our problems here."

"By bringing me to this place?" Tears gathered in her eyes, and she looked so much like Jamila a few moments ago, that he was moved to comfort her, but Dorothy took a step back from him. "You have no idea how I felt! For the first time, my life had some meaning, and then it was taken away! Over and over again, you give me hope, and then you take it back! I gave you my trust; I gave you my love, and all I have received in return is pain!"

He wanted to tell her that he hadn't meant to hurt her, but he had originally picked her up so that he could use her like a toy and toss her aside when he was through. Quatre was disgusted by the man that he had been. "I didn't expect it to turn out like this." He hadn't expected to fall in love with her.

She was breathing heavily, trying not to cry and failing as the tears dripped from her lashes. "I wish...I wish I had never come to Barbados! I wish I had used some common sense and told you to go to hell when you found me! My life was better when I was alone! What do I have now? I don't even have my dignity left! You took that away from me too!"

"What about Jamila?" he asked desperately. He could live with her rejection because he had earned it, but Dorothy needed Jamila as much as Jamila needed her.

"I can't be her mother! I once thought that I could, but my right to raise her was taken away. She'll always be Sadirah Barak's daughter!" Turning, she hurried down the steps and he watched her kick off her shoes and walk onto the beach. The wind whipped her hair, and drops of rain pelted her, but she did not turn back. She went to the shore and sat down, drawing up her legs and hiding her face in the arms she wrapped around them. The rain began to pour down, but she didn't move.

Knowing she wouldn't accept his comfort, Quatre went back into the beach house. Jamila was sitting on the floor where he had left her, and she was crying too. If he thought crying would help, he might join her. What made him think this would work? They probably needed an army of psychologists to sort through the mess.

He reached down and lifted Jamila, and holding her close, he sat down on a gliding chair by the window where he could keep an eye on Dorothy as he rocked Jamila. His daughter cried silently for several minutes until he felt her relaxing in his arms, and he realized that she had fallen asleep. But he continued to rock her, wondering what he could do to make things right.

Dorothy had never felt so miserable in her entire life, even more so than when she realized that her mother didn't love her or when she discovered that Quatre was going to marry another woman. The sadness she felt at losing her baby even paled in comparison to how she felt now. She wanted something from Quatre that he didn't seem able to give. She loved him and he didn't even realize it. He wanted her for Jamila's sake, but at the moment, Dorothy didn't feel that she could stay with him, not even for Jamila. Some day he would meet a woman and fall in love, then Dorothy would have to endure the pain all over again. Quatre made no promises to her, gave her no reason to believe that he loved her. She didn't want the same empty marriage that her parents had.

By the time the storm had passed, Dorothy felt physically as miserable as she did emotionally. She watched the clouds drift away, and just as the first rays of the sun broke through, she heard a soft voice behind her.

"I'm sorry, Miss Dorothy."

Dorothy turned, and pushing her soaking, bedraggled hair from her eyes, she saw Jamila standing a few feet away. Her heart ached to see the uncertain look in her blue eyes, her defeated posture. Had she looked this way in the presence of her mother? Dorothy had wanted a better life for her own daughter, and yet she was deliberately putting distance between them.

"I'm the one who should be saying that," Dorothy finally said. "I am sorry that I missed your tea party."

Jamila sniffled, and Dorothy turned away as she felt another wave of tears. She didn't want Jamila see her at the bottom of this pit she had fallen into. "I understand, Miss Dorothy."

Dorothy put her hands to her own face and tried to stop her tears. A four-year-old girl shouldn't be able to understand.

She felt her small hands on her shoulders, then Jamila pressing her face against her back. "I want to call you Mama," she heard Jamila say, almost in a whisper as if she were afraid to say it.

The clouds had moved away and the sun was shining when Dorothy turned and brought Jamila around to sit in her lap. Her dress was sopping wet, but Jamila didn't seem to care as she put her arms around Dorothy's neck and pressed her face against her bosom.

"You are angry at Papa," said Jamila softly. "Papa is very sad."

Dorothy held her close as she watched the sunlight shimmering on the water. "I wanted you very much, Jamila," she said as she ran her fingers through her silky hair. "When you were inside me, I made so many plans, had so many dreams for our future." It wasn't fair that greedy, selfish people had wrenched her life away from her.

Jamila looked up at her, her eyes wide with wonder. "I was inside you?"

Dorothy couldn't help smiling. "That is where babies are when they are first growing."

"If I have a brother or a sister, will it be inside you too?"

She wasn't quite sure how to answer that question considering the state her relationship with Quatre was in. After what had happened on the jet and the fact that her birth control had worn off months ago, she could already be pregnant again. The thought actually gave her a warm feeling although she chose to attribute it to the warmth from the sun. She couldn't possibly be so foolish as to want to have another tie to Quatre Winner, could she?

"We will have to wait and see," she finally told Jamila who was patiently waiting for her answer.

"Are you going to stay with us?" asked Jamila shyly as if she feared the answer.

Ten minutes ago Dorothy knew the answer, but holding Jamila in her arms now, she wasn't sure. Rather than answer, she said, "We are all wet. Maybe you should get a bathing suit on and we can swim."

"I don't have a bathing suit. Mrs. Brown didn't pack me any clothes. Rashid said I could get some later."

"Well, I guess we'll have to go shopping." Putting Jamila on the ground, she stood, then reached down to pull her up and prop her on her hip as she walked back to the verandah. "I noticed a shop for little girls on the way here." Dorothy hadn't wanted to notice it, but she had and thought of Jamila when she did. "We will tell your father; perhaps he will want to come with us." More than likely it would be just to make sure she didn't run away with his daughter.

"Papa is sleeping," Jamila told her.

Dorothy decided not to wake him, so she quietly took one of the bags of clothing, and after changing out of the wet clothing she had first put on many hours ago in Monte Carlo and combing through her hair, she went through Quatre's briefcase to find her own money. He had left the keys to his car on the table. If he had really wanted to keep her from running away, he should have been a little more careful. Jamila seemed to think of sneaking around as a game, so she didn't say anything to alert her father and they were able to leave without him waking.

There was no other vehicle so she had no choice but to drive Quatre's new toy. On the way to town, Jamila complained as much about Dorothy's slow driving as Dorothy did about Quatre's choice in cars. Dorothy could drive just as fast and recklessly as Quatre, but she certainly wasn't going to do that with Jamila in the front seat of what amounted to a professional racecar. Her first stop was not the boutique, but a hotel on the edge of town, and she asked the desk clerk if Rashid were staying there. When she discovered that he was, she requested that the clerk to call him down to meet her.

Rashid was both surprised and obviously anxious to see her alone with Jamila. "Miss Dorothy? Are you going somewhere?"

She frowned at him. "A boutique up the street. Jamila doesn't have any clothing."

"Does Master Quatre know you are here?"

"Papa is sleeping," Jamila announced.

Dorothy smiled at Rashid's discomfiture. "I suppose I shouldn't have left him alone," she commented aloud.

"He would be more concerned about Missy Jamila's safety." Obviously Rashid was afraid Dorothy was kidnapping her daughter.

"We are going shopping, and afterwards we are returning to the beach house where we hope to swim for a bit. I was going to invite you and your gun to go shopping with us." Although the trouble on L4 was over, Jamila was still an attractive target for kidnapping. "And your car," she added as an afterthought.

Relieved that Dorothy had innocent motives for being with Jamila, Rashid didn't hesitate in joining them. He seemed to be quite at home watching them shop. As Jamila picked out clothing, Rashid told Dorothy that Sadirah usually selected all of Jamila's things and that he had seen Sadirah deliberately refuse anything that Jamila wanted. Dorothy guessed that Sadirah was trying to drive any spirit out of the girl she had claimed as a daughter. While Dorothy did choose most of Jamila's clothing, she also allowed Jamila to choose some of her own although she had guided her choices with just the right comments. Only one extremely ugly hat with huge plastic flowers slipped by and Dorothy guessed that Jamila was testing her. Jamila insisted on wearing it immediately. Although it was hideous, Dorothy thought Jamila was adorable in it. Their next stop was the same shop she had visited earlier when she had purchased clothing that she would rather not wear in front of Jamila. This time she let Jamila help her shop, and left sometime later with a suitable wardrobe for the time she would be on the island.

After shopping, they stopped at an ice cream parlor where Dorothy purchased cones for the three of them, then she asked Rashid to drive them back to the beach house in the luxury sedan. Quatre could get the Ferrari back later, that is, if no one mistook the keys being left in the ignition of the unlocked car with its top down as an invitation to borrow it indefinitely. Rashid didn't comment although Dorothy thought she heard him chuckle as they drove away. Jamila waved good-bye to the car.

When they arrived back at the beach house, the door banged open almost immediately and Quatre stood in the doorway. Dorothy would characterize him as a wild man in a panic until his gaze fell on Jamila and he was visibly relieved.

"Where have you been?" he asked hoarsely.

"Shopping," chirped Jamila as she took the small bag that Dorothy handed her. "I got a swimsuit."

Dorothy pulled a few other bags out and handed some to Rashid. "I bought myself a swimsuit too." She was almost amused to see Quatre blush.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and stepped aside to let them pass into the house, and Dorothy heard him question Rashid about his car. Dorothy was glad that her back was to him so that he couldn't see her smile when he asked Rashid to drive him into town to get it. Dorothy and Jamila were already on the beach when she saw him appear on the verandah. As Jamila dug in the sand near the shore, Dorothy stretched out on a towel. If Quatre had any objection to her modest one-piece bathing suit, he didn't say so when he had come to stand over her.

"My car is gone," he announced with a perplexed frown.

Dorothy lowered her sunglasses to look at him over the rims. "Sorry. I guess I was careless." She pushed her sunglasses back up so he couldn't see the amusement in her eyes as she struggled not to smile.

"I suppose it will turn up." He fell silent. Dorothy guessed that he didn't know how to take her sudden change in mood. After her earlier outburst, he didn't know where he stood in her life. Dorothy didn't really know either.

Quatre looked away from her to watch Jamila and Dorothy followed his gaze to see her drag a plastic bucket of water from the shore to her sloppy castle. She dumped the water into the moat she had created, then stomped her foot in frustration when the water splashed over and dissolved the castle. Throwing down the bucket, she sat in the middle of the mess she had made and attempted to make a new castle.

"I think she needs some help," remarked Dorothy. "Do you know anything about sand castle construction?"

"I suppose I could give her a few pointers." He wasn't dressed for the beach, and Dorothy recalled that he didn't have any suitcases of clothing to take from the jet. He kicked off his shoes, pulled off his socks and rolled up his tailored trousers, then walked away unbuttoning his shirt and letting it fall on the sand. As he pulled off his undershirt, she lowered her sunglasses to watch him and wondered when he had time to work on sculpting his body. When she realized that she was ogling him, she pushed her glasses up and turned quickly onto her belly. There was enough heat from the tropical sun without starting a fire from the inside, especially when he knew how to work it to his advantage.

Listening to Quatre and Jamila speaking Arabic, she soon grew frustrated because she couldn't understand a word, then bored before she dozed off for some badly needed rest. Suddenly she was shocked awake by a dousing of water, and sitting up, gasping, she saw Jamila dash away giggling, swinging her plastic bucket. She looked over her shoulder and stumbled over the elaborate castle Quatre must have created while Dorothy slept. Dorothy took advantage of her accident to hop up and hurry to grab her before she could regain her footing. Jamila shrieked as Dorothy swung her up and splashed into the water, then dropped her. When she surfaced, Jamila was laughing.

Dorothy felt so much at peace splashing about in the water with her daughter, that she was afraid she was dreaming. But turning around to look toward the house, she saw Quatre sitting at the table on the verandah paging through papers. His blond head raised and their gazes locked for a moment. That uncertain look in his eyes was part of no dream.

Jamila tugging on her hand made her looked away. "I'm cold." She stood shivering in the water, hugging herself.

Dorothy led her from the water, snatched up her towel from the sand and shook it out before wrapping Jamila in it. "Let's take a shower and dress for dinner. Do you think your father can cook?"

Jamila chattered as much as she giggled. "Silly, Mama. We have a cook."

Her information proved to be correct. By the time they had showered and changed into dresses, the table had been set with a full meal, probably by the same phantom servant she had glimpsed five years ago. Quatre must have had some clothing left in the closet from another visit because he was wearing a casual, loose shirt and pants in the style of his colony. He glanced briefly at Dorothy, but he went to Jamila first to pick her up.

"You look lovely," he said after kissing her cheeks. She was wearing a simple blue sleeveless dress with sandals, far from the frilly, fancy dresses that Sadirah Barak had dressed her in as if she were a doll. And Dorothy's silk flower print blouse and skirt didn't match her daughter's at all.

"I like my new clothes," Jamila told him. "I picked them all."

Dorothy turned her head as she smiled about her fib. She noticed the bouquet of white roses and candles on the table as well as a bottle of wine. All was right in the world in Quatre Winner's mind. He'd gained a mother for his daughter and now he was setting out to get a woman in his bed. She had no intention of being that easy.

"The flowers are pretty, aren't they Mama?" Jamila asked after Quatre had pushed in her chair.

He headed toward Dorothy, but she pulled out her own chair and sat before he could get around the table to her. "They are very pretty, Jamila."

Without missing a beat, Quatre picked up the bottle of wine. "Would you like a glass of wine, Miss Dorothy?"

"Can I have some?" asked Jamila as she held up her glass.

"I'll pass on the wine," Dorothy responded to him, then looked at Jamila. "I don't think that you are allowed to drink wine."

"Miss Dorothy is right." He put the bottle down and took the seat opposite Dorothy at the table. Jamila sat on the side between them. By her huge smiles as she looked from her father to Dorothy and back again, she was in heaven. Dorothy didn't do or say anything to spoil the evening for Jamila although her thoughts often drifted to the past when Quatre had so artfully seduced her. With hindsight, she could marvel at her own naiveté, but she knew deep inside that she had wanted what he had been offering. But she was on guard tonight. What happened on the jet was a mistake that she shouldn't repeat.

When the meal came to an end, Rashid emerged from the shadows to take a yawning Jamila to her bed, but before she left, she threw her arms around Dorothy and held her tight. Dorothy sensed that Jamila was afraid she would disappear and she deeply regretted the pain she had put her through. After kissing the top of her head, she whispered in her ear that she would see her later.

Quatre didn't say anything until she had been gone for several minutes. The sun had set while they were eating, and with the only light from the stars and the candles, Dorothy steeled herself against any smooth talk that would pave a path to his bed.

"I've never seen Jamila so happy," he began.

"Did Sadirah Barak name her?" interrupted Dorothy.

He seemed taken aback by her abrupt question, but after just a slight hesitation he answered. "Sadirah didn't name her. Jamila was three months old before I first saw her, and I gave her the name."

Dorothy was glad because if Sadirah had named her she would insist that her name be changed. She wanted to erase anything connected with Sadirah Barak. Dorothy already knew she would have to work hard to make Jamila trust her as a mother, especially after the horrible experience she lived through with the only mother she had known. "I want to spend more time with her."

"I think it would be good for her." For several moments he didn't say anything and Dorothy wished she hadn't refused a glass of wine. She could certainly use one now, as the tension between them grew tighter. Then he said, "I'd like you to be part of her life, a permanent part of her life."

She guessed the point he was trying to make, but the route he was taking gave her a sick feeling inside. "I am her mother. I am already a permanent part of her life."

"I think we should get married."

Dorothy stared at him through the flickering candlelight. "Is that a proposal, Mr. Winner?" If the dishes hadn't been cleared from the table, she probably would have flung her plate at him. How could he say something so casually as if he were hiring her for the position of nanny?

He shifted in his chair then asked, "Do you mind if I smoke?"

"Yes," she answered. "I do mind." If she couldn't have a glass of wine - and she was too proud to get one now - then she didn't want to see him light up a cigar that was probably laced with hashish. "You didn't answer my question. Am I required to make a response to your suggestion?" She was trying not to let her temper rise.

"I would like for us to be a family," he said by way of explanation.

"We don't have to marry for us to be a family," she pointed out. If he loved her, he would say so now.

But he didn't. "I don't want that kind of loose family tie."

She felt pain in her chest. "I see. Well, I suppose we could marry." He seemed relieved until she added, "But I have some conditions."

"Conditions?" He sounded confused.

"Given the state of our relationship, I don't think it is fair to bring another child into this situation." She forced herself to give him the terms that were most repugnant to her. If he agreed, then she was doomed to the same miserable marriage as her parents. "I'll marry you, but I will be your wife only in public."

Quatre's brows drew together. "That is not acceptable."

Dorothy stood. "That is my last offer." If he didn't say something to give her hope, then she would have to realize that he didn't love her.

They stared at each other in silence, and then Quatre pulled out his golden cigar case, pulled one out, and as he flipped open the lighter, he said, "I guess we are at an impasse." He snapped the case shut.

"Not at all," she said, looking at him through the haze of his smoke. "I never said that I wanted to marry you."

"Will you at least spend the week here? I won't force my presence on you. I have properties to check on so I will be busy."

"While you are gone, I'd like you to think about letting me take Jamila for a few months."

Quatre sighed as he blew out smoke from his cigar. "Is this how our life is going to be?"

"We don't have a life. I have a life and you have a life. Jamila will have a place in both."

"I'm not going to argue about this. Do what you want." He threw down his cigar case and stalked off the verandah and down to the beach to smoke.

Dorothy turned and headed into the beach house, but she almost bumped into a huge body and realized that Rashid had witnessed the entire exchange. She felt a little embarrassed although she realized that Rashid probably witnessed many of Quatre's personal moments.

"You are making a mistake," Rashid told her softly.

"I won't marry a man that doesn't love me."

"He loves you."

If he did, he would say so, but he hadn't so what conclusion could she draw? She pushed past Rashid and went into the room she had occupied five years ago. Jamila was already sleeping in the bed, and since Dorothy felt restless, she kicked off her sandals and paced the dark room, then stopped at the window to stand at the edge to watch Quatre pace at the shore. The large, dark form she recognized as Rashid's approached him, and for several minutes they had an animated conversation that she couldn't hear because of the distance. Quatre ended it by throwing up his arms and walking away.

Dorothy left the window and put on the pajama top and shorts she had purchased on her second shopping trip, then slipped into bed with Jamila. As she lay in the dark, she kept alive the hope that he would come to her and tell her what she wanted to hear. But as minutes drifted into hours, she finally gave up and cuddled Jamila to her.

When she awoke in the morning, Quatre was already gone.