W
arring thunderheads muscled one another about out over the aquamarine Atlantic. The western skies were lead-blue and getting blacker. Seabirds mewled and swooped overhead. Bermuda Weather Service had forecast gale-force winds later in the day, with moderate to heavy chop in Hamilton Sound. Seas were expected to be running six to ten feet offshore, increasing to twelve to fifteen later in the day.
An exciting day to be offshore, Hawke thought, missing his pretty little twenty-six-foot sloop,
Gin Fizz.
Wind never bothered him much at sea. As an old sailor once put it, the pessimist complains about the wind; the optimist expects it to change; the realist adjusts his sails. “Reef in a blow” was one of Hawke’s favorite life mottos, and so far, it had served him well. Today he would put it to the test.
The approaching storm front was moving east-northeast, approaching Bermuda at twelve miles an hour. The temperature had fallen at least ten degrees since he’d left Teakettle on his motorcycle. He was wearing only his scuffed boat shoes with no socks, old khaki trousers, a grey Royal Navy T-shirt, and a faded blue wind cheater. Aboard the Norton on the coast road, it was cold as hell.
Eyeing the approaching squall line, he estimated perhaps an hour before the full force of the oncoming storm made landfall. He twisted the handlebar grip and leaned into the lefthand turn. Traffic was light, police presence was invisible or nonexistent, and if it continued, he could arrive at his destination on time and dry as a bone.
Hawke, pushing his treasured Norton motorcycle hard, was racing east along Harrington Sound Road. To his left now, there were whitecaps frothing in the small inlet locally known as Shark’s Hole. The little bay was swollen like a blister, bulging. As he leaned into a turn, the first drops of rain stung his face and hands like angry bees. Then, just as suddenly, the rain stopped, and the sun returned, warm on his face and turning the world green and gold again.
This road would lead to the causeway, round the north side of the airport, and from there out to the tip of St. George’s and his destination, Powder Hill. It was Tuesday. He had a one o’clock appointment with Asia Korsakova. He had no idea why he was going. Perhaps to tell her he’d changed his mind about the portrait. That was one of the reasons he told himself he was going. There were many others better left alone.
Suddenly, he was aware of another motorcycle hard on his tail. He darted a look over his shoulder and saw the rider accelerating, closing the gap. He had long, matted dreadlocks whipping around from beneath his black helmet. Hawke thought he caught a glint of gold chain at the fellow’s neck. One of King Coale’s riders, the Disciples of Judah? Entirely possible, he decided. The bike behind him was a red Benda BD 150. At 150 cc, it was the most powerful engine legal on Bermuda. But his machine, as the Jamaican would soon learn, was no match for the ancient Commando.
Hawke grinned and slowed his bike, allowing the Rastaman’s Benda to close within a few yards. He looked back at the rider and saw him smile, the sun catching the trademark gold teeth that filled his mouth. Hawke smiled back, then opened the throttle on the Norton. The acceleration was explosive, and he surged ahead, reaching the next turning along Harrington Sound flat out, probably doing eighty miles an hour. He braked, caught the apex perfectly, and accelerated again, quickly winding it up to ninety.
Rounding a wide bend, he came up suddenly behind a slow-moving taxi, filled with tourists headed for the airport. He swung out and around without slowing, passing the Toyota van and rapidly coming upon the turn for Blue Hole. The airport and his intended route to the east end of St. George’s were to his right.
Rather than bear right, however, Hawke swung left, racing up the improbably named Fractious Street. A few hundred yards later, he veered into the small petrol station looming up on his right. He braked hard, tires squealing, and tucked in behind a large commercial van topping off at the pump. He waited for his tail to appear.
“Lost him,” Hawke said to himself five minutes later, having seen no sign of the Disciple. He was almost disappointed. He wanted to know what these fellows wanted to know. When he had the time, he intended to find out. Find this King Coale and have a little
tête à tête.
He backtracked and was soon racing across the narrow two-lane causeway and bridge that spanned Castle Harbour. At the opposite end of the bridge lay the island of St. George’s and Bermuda’s airport. A big Delta 757 was on final at the field, roaring just above his head as he negotiated the roundabout that would spin him off toward the easternmost tip of St. George’s.
H
OODOO SMILED AS
Hawke stepped aboard the launch. There was none of the security business this time, no pat-downs, wands, or metal detectors at the shore station; there was only a friendly greeting and a tip of the hat from the launch man who had been waiting at the dock when Hawke arrived.
“How do you do on this lovely day, sir?” Hoodoo said, leaning on the throttles and getting quickly up on plane. Across the water, Powder Hill seemed to hover, sunlit, a brilliant parrot-green isle against a backdrop of deep purple skies.
“Well, and you?” Hawke replied.
“Can’t complain, sir.”
“Hoodoo, isn’t it?”
“It is, Mr. Hawke. Pleasure to see you again.”
“And you,” he said, extending his hand. The man took it, and his handshake was strong and dry.
“Storm on its way, sir. Bad one, I’m afraid.”
Hawke nodded and said, “I’m curious, Hoodoo, and perhaps you can help me.”
“I’ll try, sir.”
“What do you know about the Disciples of Judah? I only ask because they seem to have taken an unhealthy interest in me. Following me about all over the damned island.”
Hoodoo looked at him a beat too long and said, “Jamaicans. Bad magic. Bermudians hate the Jamaicans, but what can you do, sir? We all brothers, right?”
“Ever hear of a Jamaican chap named Coale? King Coale?”
“Don’t recall that name. I steer clear of that bunch. I urge you to do the same.”
Hawke thanked him and kept his thoughts to himself for the rest of the short voyage to the island of Powder Hill. As the island grew larger, the knots in his stomach tightened. He knew he was on a fool’s errand, but by God, he was nothing if not a willing fool.
The feelings Hawke had for Anastasia Korsakova were about as unambiguous as a grizzly bear in a brightly lit kitchen.
H
awke arrived at Half Moon House, said good-bye to Starbuck, the estate caretaker, and watched the green Range Rover disappear up the muddy lane that wound into the banana grove. The little crescent bay beside her pretty stone house was riffled with whitecaps. Unlike on his last visit, the artist-in-residence was not waiting for him up on the verandah. He ducked under the portico, entered the cool darkness, and tiptoed up the wooden staircase. He paused on the landing a moment, waiting for his heart to cease its pounding.
Hawke had been deeply in love only once. He had married a beautiful woman whose name was Victoria Sweet, only to have her die in his arms on the steps of the wedding chapel. She had haunted his dreams for years but, thank God, no longer. He was alone. The depression had faded over time, leaving only sad remnants. There was not even a ghost left now to drift with through the remaining years. He could stretch out his arms as far as they could reach into the night without fear that they might brush a silken shoulder. He—
He decided the hell with it and entered Asia’s studio. He found her with her back to him, perched on a blue wooden stool before an easel. She was using a broad brush to cover a large canvas with white gesso.
She was all in white, a low peasant blouse pulled down around her shoulders and a long white cotton skirt that fell to her ankles. Below a hem embroidered with coquina shells, her tanned feet perched on a rung like a pair of small brown birds.
“Asia,” he said from the doorway.
In that split second before she replied, he noticed that the hair on his forearms was standing on end, ionized by the waves of heavily charged particles swimming through the airy room; he saw that there was a wide verandah beyond all four sides of the high-ceilinged room, and a paddle fan spun lazily above, French doors were flung open all around, and the tall louvered shutters, banging about in the freshening breeze, gave out to the surrounding banana groves, whipping to and fro in the fresh breeze like a vast undulating mass of torn green flags.
Blades of sunlight slashed through the gathering storm clouds, filling the room with shining golden light. She glanced at him briefly over her shoulder and returned to her easel. But in that instant, her eyes had spoken.
I see you. You have registered. Anything is possible.
“Mr. Hawke. So you came after all.”
“I wasn’t expected?”
She swiveled on the stool to face him, rearranging her skirt so that now her twin brown knees were visible.
“Frankly, no. I didn’t think you’d show.”
“I need the money, remember.”
She smiled. “Fancy a drink?”
“How did you guess? What have you got?”
“Rum.”
“Love some.”
She nodded, put her brush down, and walked over to a small sideboard that served as a drinks table. Her hair was pinned up on top of her head, stray gold ringlets on her forehead and a single one coiling beside her pink cheek.
“No ice,” Hawke said. “Neat.”
She poured out two fingers of Black Seal into a crystal tumbler and handed him the short glass.
He put it to his lips and drank the rum at a draught, then held out the glass.
“Another?” she asked.
“Hmm. One for the road.”
“Leaving so soon?”
“I meant it metaphorically.”
She laughed as she poured the dark rum and looked at him with fresh eyes. “Are you funny as well as insanely good-looking, Mr. Hawke?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“What a terrible waste you are, Alex Hawke,” she said after a long moment. “If you had two nickels to rub together and weren’t so…otherwise inclined, you could have every woman on this island.”
“I don’t want every woman on this island.”
She looked away, gazing out at a lone bird, unnaturally white, winging away over the tumult of green banana trees, fleeing the approaching storm. “I’m going out there for a cigarette. Be ready when I come back.”
“Ready?”
“On the chaise. Naked.”
“Ah.”
She slipped off the stool without another word and went outside. Hawke stood where he was, watched her standing at the rail, a white silhouette against the darkening skies, her back to him, smoking, the wind whipping the thin skirt around so that it clung to the shape of her clearly naked hips and buttocks, downpour threatening, heat lightning blooming inside the boiling clouds, the rumble of distant thunder drawing near. From a garden somewhere, the perfume of gardenias came floating in with the sweet breath of approaching rain.
He sipped his rum and noticed that the iron railing, peeking through the bougainvillea, was filigreed with rust.
Hawke was standing just as she’d left him when she returned.
“Something wrong?” she asked, taking a deep pull on her cigarette and expelling a cloud of blue smoke.
“No.”
“What is it, then? We’ll only have this beautiful light for a short while.”
“Role reversal.”
“What?”
“You do it.”
“Do what?”
“Exactly what you told me. Naked. On the chaise.”
“
Me
? You must be joking. Really. Or quite mad.”
“Yes, you. Do it. Now.”
She walked over to a chest of drawers and angrily stubbed out her cigarette in the large ashtray on top.
“Listen, Mr. Hawke, I don’t know who the hell you are or who you think I am. I am a professional artist. I don’t derive any erotic pleasure from my subjects. I try only to paint the truth of them. Now, if you—”
“So, I’m a subject, is that it?”
“Of course. What did you think? That I had some other—”
“Asia. Don’t talk. Just do what I say. The blouse first.”
She looked at him, hands balled into fists, eyes ablaze.
For a moment, he thought she might rush him, strike him, rake her fingernails across his cheek, pound his chest. But she didn’t. Rather, the anger fled, and she gave him a smile, skeptical, tolerant, languidly amused. She slowly lowered her head and began to unbutton the row of tiny pearl buttons down the front of her blouse. There were a lot of buttons, and Hawke saw that her slender fingers were trembling.
“You are full of surprises, aren’t you, Mr. Hawke?” she said, fumbling with the buttons.
“You have no idea.”
“I was fairly certain you went the other way.”
“You mean there’s another way?”
She laughed, her eyes afire. She was beyond caring which way he went, she realized. Far beyond.
Hawke, his own eyes never leaving her, went over to the stool. He picked it up and placed it beside the Balinese chaise. He sat on the edge of the stool and took a sip of the rum, feeling it burn down into his gut. She finished with the buttons and stood with her hands on her hips, the cotton blouse agape.
“What are you waiting for?” he said. “Take it off, Asia.”
She pulled the blouse off and dropped it to the floor, suddenly looking up at him with a glance akin to defiance but edging closer to something deeper in the heart. She was wearing no brassiere. Her breasts were full and alabaster pale against the mocha brown of her deeply tanned stomach, arms, and shoulders. The rosy nipples were hard, erect in the damp coolness of the room. Pointing at him.
He looked at her for a long time, passion beating inside him like a second heart.
“Now the skirt.”
She lowered her head again, reaching behind her with both hands to unbutton the skirt. She let it fall to the floor, where it puddled around her feet. She stepped out of it and kicked it away with one foot.
Her finely muscled legs were long and lean and brown. There was a thatch of curly gold between her smooth thighs.
He tore his eyes from her body and said softly, “Look at me, Anastasia.”
She complied, holding his steady gaze. Then she cupped her right hand beneath her left breast, holding it as if in offering, closing her eyes, caressing herself, running a finger over one protruding nipple, then pinching it, kneading it roughly between her thumb and forefinger.
Her mouth was open now, but he could see her nostrils flare as she inhaled through her nose. Her left hand was drifting downward over her belly.
“I want to…” she said in a small voice.
“Yes,” he said.
She reached between her legs. Two fingers disappeared into the already glistening flesh between her now parted brown thighs. Her head fell forward again, and she swayed slightly, a low moan escaping her lips. Hawke watched her, deeply moved by the very sight of her. Stirred, he felt himself growing harder and straining with the need for her but wanting to prolong the intensity of this moment, preserve desire, stay perched on the knife’s edge of it forever.
A savage bolt of lightning struck in the banana grove, very close to the house. For an instant, the room filled with blinding white light. Even the crackling air around them smelled singed, burnt. Hawke felt a slight ache in his heart, caused, he thought, by the bolt. A deafening thunderclap came a second later. The wind had roared up to gale force, and with it came the rain at last, a drenching downpour, hard and slanting almost sideways. The louvered French doors were banging wildly on their hinges. Hawke reached out and stroked her cheek.
“Stay there, please. Don’t move.”
“I’m cold.”
“I’ll close the doors.”
He went around the room and locked the shutters one by one. On the west side, it was difficult to get them closed, the howling wind was now so strong. When it was done, he went back to her, standing close, crowding against her, his face smiling down at her.
He crooked one finger beneath her chin, lifted it, and kissed her upturned lips, parting them with his tongue. She turned her face away, her breathing shallow and quick.
“You are so beautiful,” he said. “Just as you are. Just at this very moment. Unforgettably beautiful.”
“Alex.”
She retreated a step and pulled the tortoise-shell comb from her hair. Tresses fell to her shoulders in a tangle of dark golden curls. She looked at him, seized the thin grey cotton of his shirt in one fist, and yanked it away from his chest, the old shirt ripping away easily, now discarded, and then her hands were at his belt buckle, not trembling now but furious, whipping the leather strap away and ripping his trousers open, pulling them down with her as she fell back against the chaise and sat there before him, looking up with wide eyes at the upright declaration of love or lust or whatever the hell he so obviously had in mind. It no longer mattered to either of them. They were simply locked together, trapped inside the same storm.
She leaned forward and touched her lips to the tip of him, then took a deep breath and touched him lightly with her darting tongue, first tracing a small circle, then lapping at the length of him, licking him, no longer ladylike, just greedy and hungry and thirsty, her lips moving over the taut veins, marveling at the steely flesh so soft and yet so hard. She pushed her head forward, flattening her face against him, and felt his hands at the back of her head, his strong fingers entwining themselves in her hair, guiding her movements.
“Asia,” he murmured, and she heard him from her submerged depths, heard, too, the raindrops beating hard against the roof and shutters as the storm finally broke wide open overhead, heard fierce winds screeching around the eaves, a tumult of thunder crashing somewhere above, not far above, and she lay back against the ruby silk cushions, hooked one long leg over the arm of the chaise, and waited for him.
“You certainly could have fooled me, Mr. Hawke,” she said, laughing, catching her breath, and beckoning him toward her with a curling index finger.
Skin on skin, he moved on her, his weight suddenly upon the length of her, a hardness probing first outside, rubbing against the drenched lips, then pushing deep inside her as she cried out and raised her hips, realigning them, and then he was within her, fully, searching for more and more of her, as if there were no limit to this seeking.
A groan rumbled from the back of his throat, and then his hands were beneath her, clenched, gripping, cradling, willing her to come with him to the next level, too strong to wait, too gentle to force her, his mouth finding hers, crushing her lips, and then his head thrown back in abandonment and surprise as he felt her nearing and then reaching the moment, both of them crying out as the shutters at the foot of the bed were suddenly ripped open by the tearing wind, and the hard slanting rain came down upon them like a waterfall.
“Oh, God, Alex.”
He looked down at her lovely face, quizzically, and saw her smile, breathless and panting, and heard something resembling laughter bubbling up from inside her, as she shook her head from side to side, her face full of delight and wonder, blinking the streaming raindrops from her eyes.
“We’re getting drenched, you know,” Hawke said, his face buried in her hair, his lips pressed against her ear.
“Don’t worry, darling, this can’t last forever.”
“It can’t?” Alex Hawke said, raising his head and smiling down at her, wanting her again already.