Justin’s heart beat fast as a man emerged from the hatch behind her. It could only be Humphrey Matlock. He double-checked with the folder. The man looked bigger and heavier in the flesh. He was at least six foot two and his black hair, greying at the temples, was thick and glistened with hair oil. He wore dark glasses, had a cigar clamped between his teeth and wore a light alpaca suit and open-necked shirt. Bingo! They were all here.
Dahlia stood in front of a line of boys ready to take the luggage. Justin giggled with pride. She was a stunner, Dahlia, tanned to a dark gold, wearing a demure YSL black dress, neat black ballet slippers, her dark hair coiled severely at the nape of her neck. Justin observed the way the Baroness ran her eyes over Dahlia, struggling to ascertain who she was. Since when had a housekeeper looked like this and worn such elegant clothes?
‘Welcome,’ Dahlia said, ‘to the Paradise. I am Sir William’s housekeeper.’
Buggies were waiting to drive them up to the house, leaving the luggage to follow with the boys. The sun beat down and they fanned themselves as they drove the long way round to take in the wondrous gardens, eventually pulling up at the main entrance. There Justin stood in the doorway.
‘Hi there, folks,’ he said, grinning at the Baron and Baroness.
‘He seems at home,’ said the Baron to his wife, as they passed into the hall.
‘According to the magazine clippings we were sent, he designed the place. Remember how much we liked his villa in France? Met him at one of Sylvina Lubrinsky’s dinner parties.’
The Baron raised his eyebrows. He had not wanted to accept the invitation, especially after insulting William and even more so after his withdrawal from their business transactions, but his wife had insisted. They were in financial trouble and perhaps a new deal could be negotiated with William.
The next buggy held the Hangerfords and close behind them came Matlock and Angela. They were discussing the gardens. The Matlocks were avid gardeners — or, at least, avidly capable of instructing their gardening staff. Neither of them had ever seen such opulence, though, quite so many rare blooms in such profusion.
Dahlia arrived in the foyer in time to introduce them to their personal maids. Ruby for the Baron and Baroness, Kiki for their son Max, Nina for James Matlock, Ella for the Hangerfords, and Dahlia herself for the Matlocks. The curvaceous Ruby, with her wide brown eyes and long hair, wore a simple white linen tunic, white shoes. Kiki was darker, almost six feet tall with beaded hair that sparkled around her head. Her sister Nina was stockier, with the muscular build of an athlete. Ella was the shortest, with a square, masculine body, wide shoulders and strong hands, whose strength she demonstrated by picking up a large carry-on bag belonging to Daphne Hangerford. ‘This way, please,’ she announced, her voice deep.
Last but not least was Kurt, in white shorts and tight T-shirt. He was the type to make any teenage girl swoon. Any adult woman with any sense would bypass him fast.
The Baron and Baroness passed covert looks to each other as they were led to guest suite three. Ruby opened the massive oak doors to reveal inside a male servant awaiting their orders, a tray of iced drinks already laid out on their private veranda. The Baron accepted a glass of chilled vintage Krug champagne, while his wife poked around, noting the fridge stocked with caviar and chilled wines, and fresh fruit piled on iced platters. She grabbed one of the magazines left for her perusal then saw the folder titled ‘The Paradise’. It gave details of the facilities: the gymnasium, masseurs, the beauty treatments, the cinema, beautifully drawn maps of the island, which highlighted the sporting facilities and the beaches and coves. She carried it to her husband on the veranda and sat next to him.
Sipping his Krug, the Baron could hardly take it in. No hotel or private residence he knew could match the island’s outrageous luxury.
‘Well!’ she said softly. ‘Sir William certainly knows how to put on a good show. The place feels more like a hotel than a private residence.’
‘You complaining?’ said the Baron, irritated by her need always to find fault. But for once she wasn’t and by now they had both been silenced by the stunning view.
Their son Max had been allocated one of the bungalows and he loved it. Initially he had not wanted to join them on holiday, hardly relishing the thought of being hemmed in on an island with them both. He had spent little time with his parents during his childhood: he had been sent away to school at an early age and his holidays had been spent in the care of nannies as his parents jetted around the world. But when he had come into adolescence, they had suddenly wanted to have him constantly at their side. His mother found him especially useful, using him as her walker when she was invited to a function that his father would not attend. At these events she monitored what he wore, to whom he spoke, what he ate and drank, and never gave him an opportunity to move from her side, a protective diamond-studded wrist resting firmly on his shoulder at all times. She would laugh and tease him about being the man in her life, and God help him if he so much as glanced in the direction of any young female his own age: his mother would immediately run through the girl’s social background and her unsuitability. As a result, Max was naïve and shy at eighteen, having only a fleeting knowledge of the opposite sex.
Suddenly James Matlock jumped over from his veranda next door and strolled into Max’s bungalow suite. ‘It’s fucking mind-blowing,’ he said, looking around. Max flushed as James opened the fridge. ‘We can get really pissed,’ he exclaimed, and laughed.
The boys had met on one or two occasions before, and had sat next to each other on the plane; Max had been reduced to tongue-tied shyness, as James talked about the girls he hoped to get his hands on. Unlike Max he was well experienced, and enjoyed broadcasting the fact in a loud whisper.
‘I’ve got my own maid,’ Max said, nodding to the bedroom to indicate to James to mind his language.
‘So have I,’ James said, winking. ‘You want to do a tour?’ he asked, going back out on to the veranda.
Max followed. ‘Okay. But perhaps I should see my parents first.’
James shrugged, he had no intention of getting a lecture from his old man. He climbed back to his own quarters.
Max found himself alone with Kiki, who passed him a menu. ‘All you have to do, sir, is request the time and state where you’d like to eat — the beach, sun deck, here in your room, wherever — and your order will be brought to you. Dinner is served in the dining room from seven thirty until ten.’ Max smiled shyly, wondering if he should tip her. ‘May I suggest, sir, I put some sun block on you, especially on your shoulders? It’s very dangerous to go without at this time of the day.’
Max hesitated, but Kiki gestured for him to go into the bedroom where she had already set up a padded massage-table covered in soft white towels with a tray of oils.
In the adjoining suite James was already lying on his veranda while Nina rubbed sun-oil over his back and shoulders. He had a hard-on, feeling her strong hands smoothing on the sweet, perfumed oil, her big breasts sweeping over his back. He reckoned this was going to be the best holiday of his life. Nina leaned in close, letting her breasts slide up his arm. ‘If you need any extras, sir, you only have to ask,’ she said.
‘Extras?’ he repeated dumbly.
‘Intimate massages. I am here to see that you are totally satisfied.’