Pleasure Island by Anna-Lou Weatherley Page B

but I don’t want to be up for a ten stretch either, you understand?’
    McKenzie swallowed back his burgeoning irritation. This was his show; he was the puppet master, the director. He didn’t care to be questioned. The arm had been an accident pure and simple, the best laid plans and all of that; but it was just a minor problem, nothing McKenzie couldn’t handle in a heartbeat. Their lack of faith, however, displeased him immensely. McKenzie needed, no, he demanded full compliance and unwavering praise and loyalty from everyone he was in contact with, lest his fragile ego be challenged or broken.
    â€˜Relax gentlemen,’ he said measuredly, ‘we have a surgeon waiting. He’ll be good as new once he’s finished with him. It’s an open fracture, not heart surgery.’
    He almost felt the palpable relief from down the line. ‘I have to say though I’m somewhat disappointed; I was of the mind-set that you would welcome such an unexpected twist. I mean, now is not really the time to have an attack of moral conscience. Besides, isn’t this what you signed up for? A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to study the human condition when faced with adversity and moral dilemma. …?’
    â€˜I don’t like surprises,’ the American said flatly. ‘We’ve got to remain in control.’
    â€˜Well, in that case please accept my sincerest apologies.’ Like hell . The Yank was a deviant. He wanted tits and ass; McKenzie could tell. But he wasn’t the only one of the Super Eight that needed pleasing in this pantomime.
    The line sizzled like a snare above the silence that followed.
    â€˜So, what is next?’ A French accent finally broke it, or perhaps German; he couldn’t quite tell.
    â€˜What would you like to be next?’
    â€˜Let’s get this party started properly, shall we? No more playing, how you say, silly buggers ?’
    â€˜Yes … but before all that you need get that goddamn boy seen to, pronto.’ The American was insistent.
    McKenzie smiled thinly, though his telephone guests could not be aware of this.
    â€˜Like I said, relax. The rescue plane is already on its way.’

10
    M ia Manhattan had regained full consciousness but as yet did not feel strong enough to stand. Instead she had dragged herself through the sand and debris over to where her very young lover was lying. His face was pale as a ghost’s. She had not noticed the injury at first.
    â€˜Joshua darling, wake up. Come on now …wak–’ She spied his arm and horror attacked itself to her aorta, nausea rising up through her intestines and threatening to spill out over her expensive designer kaftan, what was left of it. ‘Oh dear God, no … oh, no, no, noooooo .’ She collapsed onto his body, her chest heaving with gut-wrenching sobs, a primal scream rising from deep within her.
    â€˜Help!’ she screamed, alerting the others who had gathered by the plane wreckage, ‘Somebody hellllllp !’
    â€˜Mia’s awake,’ Rupert remarked deadpan as her urgent screams rang out across the sand like a ship’s horn.
    Nate made his way over towards her, practically dragging a tearful Billie-Jo with him.
    â€˜He’s hurt.’ Mia was sobbing as they approached. ‘His arm. … dear God. This is all my fault … all my fault. Is he going to die?’
    Nate knelt next to her on the sand and placed a hand around her shoulder as Billie-Jo stood back, too fearful to go any closer, her stomach lurching, eyes unable to deviate from the bloody stump that was protruding through his skin. Nate didn’t like to see a woman cry, least of all an older woman. He felt Mia’s vulnerability as he put his arm around her, and something else as he held her: the need to protect her.
    â€˜It’s OK,’ Nate reassured Mia, as she had clung onto him, ‘Shhh, it’s OK.’ He couldn’t, however, answer her