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When no one appeared, she’d decided to take the matter into her own hands. This was certainly not a submissive thing to do, but what other choice did she have, with a well-spring of desire attacking her every day, and the reminder of that raw sexuality of submission physically burned into her flesh and the bracelet an even more visible reminder.
“Sir!” she stood at the front of the rental hut, waving to the young man inside, who was eating an island rice dish and drinking Dr. Pepper. He turned around, and with eyebrows raised, set his meal aside and walked forward.
“I need to hire a boat and driver to take me to Marquis Island.”
“We no rent boats for island.”
“Oh, but you do. I was there before.”
The small brown-skinned man shook his head. “No go there. Private island.”
“Please, it’s just a run-down old estate. I’m a photographer, she held up her high-priced digital camera. I’m scouting the place for a photo shoot.”
“No, can do that, Lady. No one goes there.”
“Please. I pay well…”
He shook his head again.
“Maybe a fisherman, or someone with a pleasure boat?” she nodded toward the maze of boats behind her. “You know someone?”
“No, ma’am, no fishermen go there. Island bad news. Old man drown there last year. It’s all closed down now.”
“Please!”
He shook his head and Laney turned away, sighing miserably. To charter a plane to St. Martina only to be turned away was not what she expected, so she struck out on her own to speak with the boat owners and fishermen…certainly there was someone who could help her. She worked her way along the wharf, asking around and getting no results, until a middle-aged sailor wearing a white cap, and about to set off in his thirty foot sailboat, directed her to a fishing boat, and a fisherman at the far end of the farthest dock, closest to the bay and the ocean beyond.
“He sometimes goes that way. He’s been looking in on the island since the old man died.”
“The old man?” Laney wondered aloud. “Would that be Archibald Devane?”
“Yeah, that was his name,” the friendly fellow smiled.
“Well, thank you. I appreciate the information.”
Laney took off down what seemed to be oldest of the docks, which was a little rickety now. She stepped carefully to avoid the broken boards. Her heart fluttered excitedly when she finally spotted a man on the boat at the end of the dock. She moved on unwaveringly until she was standing behind the fisherman. He couldn’t have seen her with his back to him as he bent over a tangle of fishing nets at the bottom of his boat.
“Sir!” she tried to stir the fellow. “Sir! May I speak with you?” She raised her voice so it would rise above the sound of cawing gulls and a boat engine that nearly drowned out her voice.
She waited and was about to try again, when he suddenly turned around. Laney jumped back startled, staring into a much younger face than she anticipated. He wore baggy shorts, a faded purple t-shirt and a pair of sturdy boots. He couldn’t be more than forty, and was likely more her age of thirty-two. His face sported two maybe three days growth of beard and his short hair was in need of a trim. For just an instant, Laney had the distinct impression that the face of a Wall Street banker lay underneath his scruffy visage. And the way his pale grey-blue eyes lit into her, she was momentarily shaken.
“What can I do for you?” he asked, turning back to his work, focusing his attention on the fishing nets.
“I was told that you might be able to take me to Marquis Island.”
“You mean Lower Gull Isle,” he came right back.
“No, I mean Marquis Island.”
“Yeah, well the old man died,” he said, as he shifted a net from one side of the boat to the other, “and the pretty resort is pretty much a ruin now.”
“But you could take me there?”
“Yeah, maybe. The owner doesn’t much like people poking around, but they do.”
Laney waited for him to speak again, but he continued his work, ignoring her.
“So, what can I pay you? It’s very important that I return there.”
