An All-Consuming Passion

by Anne Mather

  Morgan regarded her resignedly. ‘You won’t give it up, will you?’

  ‘Do you want me to?’ Holly couldn’t resist the taunt.

  ‘You know I do.’

  ‘All right. Let’s talk about something else. Would you like me to give you a résumé of my activities since I came to the island? Just to put my father in the picture?’

  ‘You can tell him yourself,’ said Morgan flatly. ‘You did get his telegram, didn’t you?’

  ‘I think this is where I came in,’ said Holly, pushing back her chair and getting to her feet. ‘Do you mind if I skip coffee? I suddenly have the most annoying heada——’

  His fingers caught her wrist as she would have left the table, curving strong and brown about her skin. They crushed the sensitive pulse that beat with increasing irregularity against his palm, and dug into the flesh that protected the network of veins.

  ‘I mind,’ he said, looking up at her with dark impatient eyes. ‘Holly, this isn’t going to work.’ He expelled his breath on a sigh, and its wine-tainted warmth swept over her. ‘I’ve been here more than twenty-four hours and we’ve hardly touched on the reasons why I’m here.’

  ‘I’m tired,’ said Holly, making a perfunctory effort to free herself. ‘And—and I do have a headache. It was very hot in Charlottesville this afternoon and David Parrish’s maubi didn’t help.’

  Morgan frowned. ‘Maubi?’

  ‘It’s a drink they make here on the island. It’s not supposed to be alcoholic, but I think it is.’

  Morgan’s nostrils flared. ‘And who is David Parrish? A boyfriend?’

  ‘A boyfriend?’ Holly couldn’t prevent a gurgle of amusement from escaping her. The idea that David Parrish, who must be sixty if he was a day and portly with it, might be considered a boyfriend, was just too ridiculous to ignore.

  ‘Who is he then?’ enquired Morgan, his tightening grip warning her that he did not find her humour at all amusing. Holly winced.

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to know,’ she retorted, gazing down at her steadily whitening hand. ‘You know, if you don’t let go of me soon, my fingers may just drop off.’

  Morgan’s eyes dropped to his possession of her wrist, and, noticing the reddening above his fingers and the bloodless state of her hand below, he relaxed his grip. But he did not let her go, and as the life-giving fluid flowed back into her veins, she had to suffer the agony without being able to ease it.

  ‘Tell me about David Parrish,’ he said, his thumb moving almost absently over the back of her hand. ‘I gather he’s not the reason you don’t want to leave the island. Who is he? One of the other teachers at the school?’

  ‘He keeps a store in Charlottesville,’ muttered Holly unwillingly, half afraid that, if she refused to answer him, he would tighten his grip again. Already, she was sure there would be a bruise on her arm tomorrow, and she had no desire for another demonstration of his undoubted strength. ‘He’s old and fat and—married.’

  Morgan seemed to become aware that he was stroking the back of her hand, and released her. ‘Old and fat, and married,’ he echoed drily. ‘A damning accusation! Do I detect a more personal allusion?’

  Holly hesitated, rubbing her wrist. Now that she was free, the desire to leave him was not as strong. ‘You know that’s not what I meant,’ she mumbled sulkily.

  ‘Do I?’ Morgan lay back in his chair, regarding her with unexpected indulgence. ‘I expect I am overweight, too.’ He rubbed his midriff reflectively. ‘Middle-aged men usually are.’

  Holly sighed. ‘You don’t look middle-aged and you know it.’

  ‘But I am middle-aged,’ retorted Morgan, swinging forward in his seat again and meeting her startled gaze. ‘I’m forty-one, Holly; almost forty-two! That should mean something to you. I’m old enough to be your father, more than old enough! And believe me, you wouldn’t like it if I started taking you seriously.’

  Holly sniffed. ‘You’re a lot like my father, too, aren’t you, Mr Kane?’ she responded, a suspiciously husky note in her voice. ‘He doesn’t have any emotions either. How do you regard feelings, I wonder? As an unnecessary weakness?’

  ‘Oh, God!’ With a groan of frustration, Morgan got up from his chair and confronted her. ‘You couldn’t be more wrong! I have feelings; of course, I have. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be letting you put me on like this.’

  ‘Put you on?’ she echoed, and he nodded.

  ‘Okay,’ he said wearily. ‘We won’t discuss your father’s wishes tonight. You’d better go to bed. If you have got a headache, I don’t want to be held responsible for making it worse.’

  Holly quivered, wishing she could take back her reckless words. She didn’t really have a headache; and if Morgan was prepared to wait until tomorrow before bringing up her father’s invitation, she would just as soon stay here and talk to him.

  But she couldn’t say that, not and run the risk of being called a liar. Instead, she had to take her dismissal gladly, and be grateful for the time to consider what his tantalising words had meant.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  MORGAN kicked off his training shoes and walked slowly down to the water’s edge. It was early—very early—and the air was as sweet and crisp as a good wine. On the horizon, the clouds were turning through dark blue and amber to palest yellow, the line of the ocean reflecting the colour of the sky.

  Closer at hand, dozens of tiny sand crabs scuttled out of his path and a group of sea-birds squabbled over the remains of a turtle washed up by the tide. Scavengers, he thought; every continent had them. And not all of them animal, he reflected, recalling the scramble for shares on the floor of the Stock Exchange.

  Sighing, he threaded long fingers into his hair and pushed it back from his temple. He would not think about Andrew’s orders right now. It was too early in the day to start wondering how he was going to make Holly agree to the situation. He half wished today was yesterday and he could escape again for a few relaxing hours.

  He should have brought his swimming gear, he mused regretfully, looking down at the stained white trousers which had been his only concession to his destination. But then, he had not expected to be here longer than a couple of days and, because he had anticipated a hostile welcome, he had brought a minimum of clothing.

  It hadn’t been so bad the previous day. He had sailed the dinghy clear across the bay before stripping off his clothes and diving over the side. The water had felt so good against his hot skin, and it had been his first experience of swimming in the raw.

  He glanced consideringly at his watch. It was only half past six. He doubted Holly would appear for hours yet, knowing that today he was not going to be put off with any more excuses. The steepness of the cliff protected all but a narrow strip of beach from prying eyes. If he undressed in the shadow of the overhang, who was likely to see him?

  Before he could succumb to second thoughts, Morgan pulled the knitted cotton shirt over his head and dropped it on to the sand. Then he unzipped his trousers and stepped out of them, peeling off his briefs and tossing them on to the small pile, too. He ran into the water, plunging head first into the waves. He swam strongly away from the beach, not stopping until he felt sufficiently safe from exposure. There was always the chance that one of the servants might see him, and he had no desire for Holly to learn he had been caught in embarrassing circumstances.

  He turned on to his back, feeling the strengthening heat of the sun warming his pleasantly chilled body. It was delightful to allow himself to drift with the tide, and he gave no thought to any possible dangers until there was a splashing in the water close beside him.

  Immediately, the realisation that there could be sharks in these southerly waters brought him jack-knifing to a position where he could tread water. Jerking his head round, he ascertained that there were no suspicious fins lurking anywhere about him, and he was just about to abandon his search when a sleek wet head surfaced beside him.

  ‘Holly!’ he exclaimed blankly, as her arm came up to sweep her hair
out of her eyes, and she laughed.

  ‘Did I frighten you?’ she taunted, using lazily circular motions of her hands to keep her afloat. ‘I’m sorry. I thought you were Samuel.’

  Morgan recovered himself with an effort, unavoidably aware that she was as naked as he was. The curve of her bosom gleamed dully beneath the blue-green water, that part of her body so much paler than the honey-gold tan of her limbs.

  ‘Do you usually swim with Samuel?’ he enquired tersely, conscious of a totally unreasonable sense of outrage, and she shrugged.

  ‘Sometimes. But, he doesn’t swim in the nude—in case you’re interested.’

  Morgan tensed. ‘Why should I be interested?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Her lips parted provocatively. ‘But you are, aren’t you?’

  Morgan forced himself to sustain her challenging gaze. ‘If I’m concerned, it’s because of what your father would think if he knew,’ he retorted shortly. ‘You want me to treat you as an adult, yet you persist in behaving like a child.’

  ‘How?’ Holly’s eyes widened indignantly. ‘By swimming in the way we were intended?’ She paused a moment, and then added insinuatively, ‘As you’re doing.’

  The darker circles that defined the peaks of her breasts were outlined distinctly as she turned and started to swim easily towards the shore. And to Morgan’s intense frustration, he felt his own involuntary reaction. ‘For Christ’s sake,’ he berated himself savagely, plunging down into the water, so that the chillier depths cooled his heated blood. Andrew would have a fit if he knew what he was thinking. The girl was deliberately trying to provoke him, he knew that. And he had played directly into her hands by giving in to a wholly uncharacteristic impulse.

  Nevertheless, he could not prevent his eyes from turning in her direction when she reached the beach. He was simply checking to make sure she was not intercepted, he told himself impatiently, as she stepped proudly out of the water, but it wasn’t altogether true. Even from a distance, her spine, and the downy curve of her buttocks were infinitely disturbing, and he would not have been human if he had not found them good to look upon.

  She had apparently left a towel on the sand, and now she lifted the buttercup yellow folds and wrapped them about her. Then she turned and looked at him, revealing that she had been aware of his appraisal all along.

  ‘Don’t you have a towel?’ she called, having observed his pile of clothes, and Morgan wondered if she intended confiscating his belongings, just to get her own back.

  ‘No,’ he shouted in return, wishing he had reached the beach first. ‘It’s all right. I don’t need one.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ she retorted. ‘You’ll wet all your clothes. I tell you what—I’ll put your clothes on, and leave the towel for you.’

  ‘No——’

  But Morgan’s immediate denial was ignored. He watched with blank impotence as Holly shed the enveloping towelling and stepped into his trousers, knotting the belt about her waist before reaching for his shirt.

  ‘What do you think?’ she called, doing a pirouette for his benefit, and Morgan’s teeth clenched.

  ‘I’ll see you later,’ he muttered, not loud enough for her to hear, and with a gurgle of enjoyment, Holly sauntered away towards the steps.

  Morgan did not see Holly on his way up to his room. To his relief, he did not see anyone, and he breathed a sigh of satisfaction when the door had closed behind him. Even so, he did not shed the towel until he had ascertained that the bathroom was empty. Then, he stepped swiftly into the shower cubicle, securing the catch before turning on the jets.

  It was good to rinse all the salt from his body, and he stood for some time in the spray, allowing the needle-sharp power of the water to massage his skin. It had a soothing effect, and by the time he emerged to wrap a clean towel around his hips, he felt less aggressive about Holly’s intervention.

  She had not returned his clothes, however, and he was just thinking he would have to wear the trousers of his suit when he saw the sawn-off denims on the bed. There was a note beside them which read:

  These are Samuel’s, but he says you can borrow them. At least, until you can buy a pair in town. I would have lent you some clothes of my father’s, but I’m sure you wouldn’t have liked it when they slipped down off your hips.

  Morgan’s mouth drew down sardonically at her deliberate reference to her father’s girth. Andrew was overweight, there was no denying it, but it wasn’t really kind to imply that her father’s waist was wider than his hips. And how could he wear Samuel’s trousers? he asked himself impatiently. Size-wise, there might not be much to choose between them. But he was here on business, and knee-length denims were not the attire of someone who wanted to be taken seriously. What the hell had she done with his own trousers? Why couldn’t she simply have returned his clothes to him? It wasn’t as if she needed to wear them. Judging by her appearance last night, she had plenty of clothes to choose from.

  With a feeling of irritation, he started towards the wardrobe to get his suit, and then took a second look at the denims. The idea of wearing someone else’s trousers was not appealing, but they were newly laundered, and he was not attracted by his alternative. With a sigh, he dropped the towel and thrust his legs into the jeans, hauling them up over his narrow hips. Dear God, he thought, as they moulded the powerful muscles of his thighs. He couldn’t wear these, they were almost indecent.

  He sighed, surveying his appearance in the long mirror of the wardrobe. The trousers barely covered his hips, exposing his navel and the start of the hair on his stomach. For the rest, he was relieved to see no obvious thickening of the flesh below his rib-cage, even though that morning’s swim had left the muscles of his midriff protesting. And because of his dark colouring, he did not look too anaemic, he thought, his frequent trips to hotter climes supplementing his natural skin tones.

  Even so, the idea of appearing in public in such outrageous gear was a powerful deterrent. He wouldn’t put it past Holly to have arranged the whole thing, he thought irritably, which was a little unfair considering he had set the scene himself. Nevertheless, it was two days since he had left London, and he had to get down to the purpose of his visit. Going about in the kind of clothes more suited to a Caribbean holiday might look more casual, but it was not the way Andrew would expect him to conduct his business.

  A tap at the door stilled his hands before they could unfasten the metal button that secured the waistband. Guessing it was Holly, come to survey her handiwork, Morgan was not amused, and his harsh, ‘What do you want?’ contained none of his usual amicability.

  ‘You want I should bring your breakfast upstairs, Mr Kane?’ came Lucinda’s aggrieved tones, and Morgan uttered an oath. Striding to the door, he jerked it open, and not until the housekeeper’s lips formed a round ‘O’ did he realise he had forgotten what he was wearing.

  ‘Lucinda, I——’

  ‘Well, don’t you look nice?’ exclaimed the black woman, interrupting him. ‘Them’s Samuel’s trousers, ain’t they? Holly said as how they would fit you, and they do.’

  ‘Hardly,’ said Morgan drily, aware of the stain of embarrassment in his cheeks. ‘I—er—I think they’re too tight, don’t you? But it was kind of your son to——’

  ‘They’re not too tight,’ Lucinda protested. ‘Denim’s like that. Straight after washing, it needs a little time to wear in.’ She paused. “Course, if you don’t think they’re good enough …’

  Morgan’s smile was forced, but inside he was seething with resentment. Holly might not have arranged this situation, but she was sure as hell taking advantage of it, he thought. Why else would Lucinda come knocking on his door at half past seven in the morning, when the previous day he hadn’t taken breakfast until a couple of hours later?

  ‘Well,’ he said narrowly, ‘if you think they look all right.’

  ‘I do.’ Lucinda nodded her head and gave him an old-fashioned look. ‘So long as you’ve got it, flaunt it, isn’t that what they say?’ sh
e chuckled. ‘I’ll have the pancakes on the table in fifteen minutes.’

  Morgan closed the door behind her with a controlled click. If he could have got his hands on Holly at that moment, he was sure he would have choked her. Now he was committed to wearing the bloody things! he thought angrily. Either that, or lose Lucinda as a possible ally.

  It didn’t altogether surprise him to find Holly waiting for him at the table. She had evidently taken a quick shower, too, for her oval face was gleaming with good health, and her hair had none of the stickiness associated with salt water. She had shed his shirt and trousers in favour of a white, sleeveless vest and thigh-hugging Bermudas, and she looked up at him with some amusement as he came into the room.

  ‘They suit you,’ she said, surveying his appearance with some satisfaction. ‘Leastways, the cut-offs do. I’m not so happy with your choice of top.’

  ‘Your opinion isn’t that important to me,’ retorted Morgan shortly, taking his seat at the table. ‘You may have noticed, I didn’t come prepared for a long visit. And you appear to have filched my only informal attire.’

  ‘Lucinda’s washing them,’ said Holly carelessly, propping her chin on one hand and regarding him thoughtfully. ‘Couldn’t you do without a shirt? Lots of people do.’

  ‘All male, I hope,’ remarked Morgan drily, unable to deny the wry insertion, and Holly smiled.

  ‘Usually,’ she ackowledged, ‘although there are beaches on the islands where people do go topless. It’s not exactly encouraged, but what can the authorities do?’

  Morgan assumed an interest in the napkin he was spreading on his lap to avoid a response, and Lucinda’s appearance with a huge plate of pancakes negated the necessity. The dish of fresh berries she placed on the table, together with a jug of maple syrup and another of cream, demanded an acknowledgment, and Holly licked her lips in anticipation. ‘Is it me or Mr Kane you’re hoping to fatten up?’ she exclaimed, as the housekeeper set a pot of coffee at her elbow. ‘You know I adore pancakes, but they really are too rich.’