Chapter 2

Once they were settled in the sleek silver Porsche and heading down the road toward French Leave, Peter Knight and his daughter began to relax in each other's company a bit. There is something permissive and seductive about a Caribbean Island, particularly one like Eleuthera, where the brilliant semi-tropical sun and the absence of pressure invite one to shed cares, clothing and convention. This was Peter Knight's home ground now, and he assumed the role of confident host and tour guide--though the principal charm of Eleuthera is the absence of commerce and people such commerce attracts. Indeed, French Leave is the only tourist attraction. There isn't much to "see" except the coral-studded sea and several miles of pristine, white coral sand dotted with lush tropical vegetation.

Davie couldn't get over the contrast between Eleuthera, where the temperature was 78 degrees and they passed only a few Bahamian natives along the road and an occasional car, and New York City, where the temperature had been a bone-chilling 27, and the thousands of faces that passed her were all uniformly gray and cheerless. She pulled off her sweater and slithered down in the black leather seat of her father's sports car, letting the warm island breeze blow her shining dark hair away from her face. She closed her eyes and let the hot sun beat on her smooth fair skin, feeling as though the weight of the world had been lifted from her young shoulders. Peter Knight stole a glance at his little girl, noting again how much of a woman she had become in three years. Her full ripe breasts strained against her prim white blouse. She had kicked off her shoes and socks and her bare legs were smooth and slender beneath her pleated shirt. He had to remind himself that Davie was no longer a child and he couldn't treat her as one now. He also had to remind himself that she was his daughter.

"Did you have a nice chat with Trish Byers?" he suddenly asked. Davie opened her eyes and looked at her father, "Oh yes, Daddy. She's so understanding. Really a nice woman. And so pretty, too. She's a dish!"

"Yes, Miss Byers is quite attractive. But I'm sure she knows that."

"She thinks you're quite something yourself."

"Ohhh?" Knight reacted with surprise, though he knew that the stewardess seemed to have the hots for him. But he felt she probably had the hots for most men; she seemed like the kind of woman who couldn't get enough cock. That's what he didn't like about her. He liked a woman who was more selective, who was harder to get. There was no challenge with a dame like Trish Byers--except to keep your pants up! Still, she could probably give a guy the fuck of his life. She was one hot cunt all right. As for her "brother," Peter didn't like tile cut of the kid's jib. He doubted that tile mop-haired youth really was her brother, though he might he. He didn't want his tender daughter mixed up with either of them, though he didn't know how to tell Davie that without arousing suspicion in her mind. Besides, the kid had had enough controls from her bitch mother. He wasn't about to start putting clamps on her the minute she arrived. He would see to it that every moment would be beautiful and memorable for Davie. He knew now that he wanted her with him always. He desperately hoped that she would want that too.

About a mile behind, a red MG was cruising along the two-lane road with its two blonde passengers. Randy Ferris sat behind the wheel of the sports car, his faded skin-tight jeans showing a huge bulge in the crotch where his rock-hard cock was straining to be free of its denim prison. It had grown to gargantuan proportions under the skillful and incessant manipulations of the blonde stewardess beside him. His brown hand was under her beige miniskirt and he was massaging the wet slit of her pussy with his middle finger.