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The main house of the lodge appeared to have survived the storm without any damage. It was lucky. Devastation abounded everywhere else.
Half of the roof was missing from the hut where all the game paraphernalia was stored, a yellow cordon already erected around it. A tree had fallen onto the roof of the dining hut and had cut straight through it like a hot knife slicing through butter. Everywhere the eye could see lay scattered debris.
But it was at the jetty that the real destruction had occurred. Pascha’s yacht, the beautiful vessel due to take Pascha back to Puerto Rico later that day, and her ticket home in five days, had toppled over in the storm and beached on its side.
* * *
Pascha held onto his temper by a thread.
Were the fates conspiring against him? How else to explain the run of luck, all of it bad, that had blighted him the past couple of days?
Until Emily had stolen into his office, everything had been running smoothly. Marat had been too taken with the number of zeroes on the buy-out offer to look closely into the provenance of RG Holdings. Not that it would have mattered if he had. So complex was the structure disguising Pascha’s involvement, he was certain it would withstand any vigorous scrutiny. And yet...there was always room for doubt. Marat was lazy but there was no telling how deep his lawyers would dig.
There always existed the possibility something could go wrong.
Emily, who had kept her distance while he’d spoken to his staff, joined him and gave a sympathetic grimace. ‘Is it salvageable?’
‘It’s on its side and filling with water as we speak. The chances of getting a crew here within the next few days to attempt a rescue are remote at best.’
‘So what happens now?’
He dragged a hand down his face. ‘I don’t know.’
He moved away from her, crossing over to Luis, who was speaking on his mobile phone. When he got a minute, he would get his charged. For the moment the yacht was taking all his attention. Once he’d got this sorted he would go back, check the dozens of messages that would undoubtedly have piled up and call Zlatan, his lawyer. One thing at a time. Right now it was the loss of his only means of getting off the island that was his priority.
‘Any news?’ he asked Luis when he disconnected the call he was on.
‘The soonest we can get a boat to you is likely to be two days. The other islands took a real battering—the few boats that aren’t destroyed are needed to get the injured to the mainland hospital.’
One consolation Pascha could take was that none of his staff here on Aliana had been injured. They’d all escaped with a solitary scratch between them.
He nodded curtly. ‘Keep trying,’ he said, doing his best to keep his tone moderate. He could easily pull some strings and get any number of boats to come for him from the mainland. If he were to do that, he could be off the island within a couple of hours. But the real issue was the coral reef. The local islanders knew it well, knew which sections were safe to sail through and which would rip the hull to shreds. Outsiders, the yachtsmen that could come to his rescue, did not. To call them would be to place lives at risk.
For the first time he cursed his refusal to build a landing strip or heliport on the island. He hadn’t wanted to destroy the qualities that made Aliana Island so special. It just went to prove that sentimentality got you nowhere.
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ Emily asked quietly, appearing at his side.
‘Speak to Valeria. At the moment, it’s all hands on deck.’ He shook his head at the inappropriateness of his comment. The deck of his yacht was submerging by the minute.
It suddenly occurred to him that Emily would want to hear news of her father.
‘Let’s go to my hut and check my phone for messages.’
However much he would like to blame her—blame anyone—none of this mess was Emily’s fault.
There was nothing else he could do here at the jetty. The clean-up was under way. The storm had knocked the power out but the generators were working and would keep them going for at least a fortnight.
They made the short walk to his hut in silence.
He unlocked the door and held it open for her. Her petite figure brushed against his as she passed.
His jaw clenched.
With everything that was going on, the adrenaline pumping through him—the urge to bury himself in her softness, even if just for a short while—was strong.
Instead he sucked in a breath, plugged his charger in and turned his phone on. It lit up immediately, two dozen beeps ringing out in rapid succession.
He listened to his voicemail messages first. Six missed calls: two from his lawyer, one from his PA and three from James. He listened to the latter first.
