by Anne Mather
It was frustrating not to know, but for the present he had to contain his curiosity. Besides, he did have other problems to contend with. Not least the fact that other eyes were following their progress around the room, with varying degrees of speculation; particularly those of his sister, who could scarcely contain her indignation.
When she could eventually stand it no longer, and came stomping across the room to join them, Luther Styles at her heels, Reed steeled himself for the worst. ‘I knew this would happen,’ she exclaimed, dismissing Helen’s presence with a contemptuous glance. ‘But you wouldn’t listen. You let him come here, when I expressly asked you to forbid it. And now look what’s happened! It’s a total fiasco!’
‘Not entirely, Vicki,’ drawled Luther Styles, apparently seeking to pour oil on troubled waters, though Reed noticed his eyes lingered longest on Helen. ‘Is this your son’s young lady, Wyatt? I bet you wish you were twenty years younger.’
Reed controlled his temper with an effort and introduced them, but Victoria was fidgeting beside him, and he had to placate her. ‘Jon is over twenty-one, Tori,’ he essayed tautly, wishing he could hear what Luther was saying to Helen. ‘I can’t ban him from his own home, as I’ve said before.’
‘But this is not his own home,’ hissed Victoria violently, so angry about what had happened that she was not keeping her usual eye on her protégé. ‘Reed, I don’t ask much of you in the normal course of events, but I did ask you to speak to him—’
‘I did speak to him,’ said Reed heavily, his voice growing increasingly devoid of expression. ‘Tori, this is neither the time nor the place to conduct an inquest. I agree, it would have been better if Jon hadn’t come. But he’s here now, so why don’t you make the best of it? He’s your nephew, isn’t he? Doesn’t it occur to you that some of his publicity could rub off on you?’
Victoria blinked, opened her mouth as if she was going to say something, and then closed it again. He could see she was thinking about what he had just said, and mentally arguing the pros and cons of it. And why not? he thought grimly. It was not a half-bad suggestion. It was amazing what the brain could come up with in moments of extreme aggravation.
‘You know,’ she said, after a moment, ‘you could have a point. I mean, I was quite pre pared for some of these Press people to scarcely give us a mention, but now that Jon’s here…’
Reed sighed. ‘Precisely.’
‘All the same…’ Victoria’s fluttering gaze suddenly took in the fact that Luther and the young woman her nephew had brought to the party were having what appeared to be an intimate conversation, and her expression hardened. ‘All the same,’ she repeated, revealing her annoyance, ‘it might be a good idea if you were the one to suggest the idea to Jon, Reed.’ She determinedly took Luther’s arm. ‘Come along, my dear,’ she added, ignoring Helen completely, ‘I want to introduce you to my nephew. He’s quite a celebrity, you know. Well, here on the island, at least,’ she finished damningly.
Reed expelled a weary breath. He had to go with them. Having set the wheels in motion, he had to make sure it didn’t end in another unholy pile-up. ‘Will you excuse me?’ he said, turning to Helen, with a rueful grimace. ‘I think it will be safer if I speak to Jon.’
Helen was looking anxious again. ‘There won’t be a row, will there?’ she asked, her eyes following Victoria’s progress, and Reed hoped he was not being too optimistic when he shook his head.
‘I think Jon’s too much of a professional for that,’ he remarked, realising he was delaying the moment when he would have to leave her. ‘Anyway, thanks for showing me round the exhibition. I did enjoy it.’
She seemed to hesitate, and he guessed she was debating whether to say she had enjoyed it, too. But why the hesitation? He could have sworn that for a few minutes there she had actually dropped her guard with him, and there was no doubt she had spoken more freely than she had ever done with him before. For God’s sake, what had Jon told her about him? he wondered. He was beginning to think he must have been painted as some kind of middle-aged lecher of the first order. What other reason could she have for looking at him that way?
‘I—enjoyed it, too,’ she admitted at last, and Reed knew how it felt to be damned with faint praise. ‘Um—I think your sister’s waiting for you,’ she added. ‘Perhaps you’d better go, before something awful happens.’
‘You mean it hasn’t?’ Reed remarked drily, and saw the faint colour that rose in her cheeks at his words. What on earth was she thinking? He shrugged. ‘Oh, well,’ he declared, glancing ruefully across the room, ‘I suppose you’re right. Sorry about Victoria. You’ll just have to accept that we’re not your conventional sort of family!’
CHAPTER FIVE
WHICH WAS SOMETHING of an understatement, thought Helen the next morning, as she showered before joining Jon and his family for breakfast. There was nothing remotely conventional about Reed’s fathering a child he didn’t even know existed, or in not remembering the girl he had once been so intimate with.
Helen sighed. The memories just went round and round in her brain, in a never-ending spiral. And, in spite of the fact that she had decided she couldn’t hold Jon responsible for his father’s actions, the situation hadn’t improved. Oh, she had considered all the alternatives, before deciding she had to stay here. She had thought of pretending that Alexa was ill and asking for her, but in those circumstances, she knew, Jon would have insisted on accompanying her back to England, and what would she say then, when he discovered it was all made up? Besides, it wasn’t wise to invent an excuse like that. Lies of that sort had a habit of coming true, and Alexa was far too dear to her to risk wishing an illness on her.
Another idea she had considered had been to pretend that Alan Wright had sent a message, via her parents, asking if she could come back right away. As she had phoned her parents, and Alexa, the day after their arrival, it had been a viable proposition. But Jon knew Alan, too, and if she made up some story that he had sent for her, she would have to invent another set of lies for Alan, to induce his assistance.
And then, there was Alexa herself. How could she explain to her daughter why she didn’t want to stay with Jon’s family? Apart from a natural reluctance to be separated from her mother for a fairly long period of time, Alexa had been quite excited about the trip, particularly as Jon had told her that maybe one day she could visit the island, too. When Helen spoke to her on the phone, the little girl had been full of questions about what it was like, and where they were going, and Helen would have had to have had a heart of stone not to respond enthusiastically.
So, here she was, she thought wryly, prepar ing to face her fourth day at Palmer’s Sound. And after last night’s little altercation, she was not exactly looking forward to seeing Victoria again. In spite of the fact that Jon’s intervention at the exhibition had been turned to her advantage, Victoria had still been less than friendly when they arrived home. So far as she was concerned, Jon’s motives in attending the party had not been excusable, and she had lost no time in telling him so, once the paparazzi were not around to report on the event.
For her part, Helen had wished she had never heard of the exhibition. No matter how she might argue that Jon had used her to annoy his aunt, the fact remained that she had been the one to show interest in the exhibition. And it wasn’t until she had come face to face with Reed that she had realised that history could repeat itself.
Dear God, she should have known better. The idea of entering any art gallery where Reed Wyatt might be present should have made her run a mile. But, the truth was, she had seen the exhibition as a way of avoiding Jon’s father. She had had no way of knowing that he would be in attendance. So far as she had been concerned, it was an opportunity for her and Jon to spend the evening alone together, visiting the exhibition first, and then dining at one of the many restaurants that were available in the city.
Of course, she might have suspected Jon had an ulterior motive. He had certainly been in good spirits as they
were chauffeured into town, and although he was usually cheerful he had been exceptionally so. It was obvious he would jump at any chance to irritate Victoria, and the opening of her gallery was too good an occasion to miss.
All the same, if she was honest, Helen had to admit it was not Jon’s, or Victoria’s, behaviour which was troubling her now. It was her own. Meeting Reed like that, allowing history to repeat at least a part of that night in London, had left her feeling unnerved, and strangely disorientated. She hadn’t wanted to spend any time with him, but she had; and, what was worse, there had been times when she had actually enjoyed his company.
Lord!
Stepping out of the shower now, Helen took one of the fluffy cream bath-sheets from the rail. Then, towelling herself vigorously, she made a determined effort to dispel the sense of panic her thoughts had incited. For heav en’s sake, she told herself fiercely, what was so dreadful about admitting that Reed Wyatt was still an attractive man? Attractive physically, that was, she amended. His character wouldn’t bear such close examination. Nevertheless, if a man like him set about to be charming, she would have had to be less than human not to respond to it. And she had found herself only too human once, where he was concerned. So why assume that he must suddenly have grown horns and a tail?
Because of what he had done! Because of the callous way he had done it! her emotions argued desperately. All right, objectively Reed was a physically good specimen—for his age, she appended maliciously. And it was obvious she wasn’t the only woman to think so. That blonde he had been standing with, when they arrived at the party, for instance—oh, yes, she acknowledged bitterly. She had noticed him as soon as she had stepped into the room. But, anyway, she, the blonde, had been gazing at him as if he were the most tasty item on the menu, and Helen’s jaw tightened at the thought that she might be his current mistress. For she was sure Reed would have a mistress. A man like him—a man as sexual as him—was bound to have some woman, somewhere. Just because he had never married again was no reason to assume he was celibate. No. There had to be someone, and it was probably someone like her.
She was dry now, Helen discovered, the heat of her body obviously assisting in the process, and she dropped the towel disgustedly. And, as she did so, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the long mirrors that lined the wall above the bath. She looked pale and tight-lipped, she fretted impatiently, the brightness of her hair only accentuating the whiteness of her skin. Even two days on the island had added little to her colouring, the faintest trace of redness over her shoulders and forearms, and on the upper half of her thighs, the only indication she had spent any time in the sun. Of course, she had to be careful. Her skin was very sensitive—unfortunately—and she had to apply a liberal amount of screening lotion to prevent herself from burning. But even so she and Jon had spent most of their time outdoors, and he was already looking as if the holiday was doing him good.
But it wasn’t doing her much good, she thought frustratedly. At least, it didn’t feel as if it was. She was constantly on edge; constantly at the mercy of her nerves; and increasingly aware that she was not as invulnerable as she had thought.
Endeavouring to put her fears about the night before aside, Helen opened the walk-in wardrobe, and put her mind to deciding what she was going to wear. It would have to be shorts, of course. Everyone wore shorts, of one sort or another, and she was grateful that her legs could stand the exposure. For the rest, she had found T-shirts or cotton tops were the regular accompaniment, with usually a bathing-suit worn underneath, to cover all eventualities.
Forcing any negative thoughts aside, Helen admitted, on reflection, that there had been times during the past couple of days when she had been able to forget her circumstances. For instance, Jon owned a motorbike, and he had taken great pains to show her the rest of the island. Although cars were limited to one per family, to avoid the obvious congestion that unlimited motoring would bring to the narrow roads, tourists were able to hire motorbikes and scooters, too, and, riding pillion behind Jon, Helen had felt just like a tourist.
And she had seen a lot. Somerset Bridge—which was quite a beauty spot; the little town of St George’s—with its ritual enactment of the ceremony of the ducking stool; and Gibbs Hill Lighthouse—from where it was possible to see the individual islands that made up Bermuda, with their linking causeways and sun-splashed coves. They had swum in Warwick Bay, and Horseshoe Bay, and visited the underground caverns at Leamington. Jon had even taught her how to go snorkelling, and, although she wasn’t too keen on the rubber mouthpiece, she had to admit she had seen a lot of colourful fish.
So, she chided herself firmly, as she plaited her hair into a single braid, there was no real reason why she shouldn’t relax and enjoy herself. In fact, if you looked at the situation from another angle, it was Reed, not herself, who was the unlucky one. After all, he had forfeited any rights to a little girl any parent would be proud of, and she was enjoying his hospitality. Whereas when—if he realised who she was, he would probably die of shock.
Or would he? Once again, Helen’s doubts resurfaced. If he ever did remember who she was, how would she explain the situation to Jon? But equally how could she confide in him, when it was his father who had robbed her of her youth? There was no doubt it was an im possible dilemma, and there was little wonder that when she was in Reed’s company she found it difficult to behave naturally. And yet, yesterday evening…
Determinedly putting that particular incident aside, she thought instead about the exhibition. Looking at it objectively—if that was possible—she had enjoyed seeing the paintings, and there was little doubt in her mind that Luther Styles was going to be very successful. His work, particularly his portraits, had a depth of feeling not often found in someone so inexperienced. Reed—Reed? Well, dammit, she had to acknowledge his existence, didn’t she? So—Reed—had said that Victoria had found him by the harbour in St George’s, sketching portraits for the tourists. But she had recognised his talent, and with her help and encouragement he had been able to set up his own studio.
Even so, despite the evidence to the contrary, Helen sensed that Victoria’s interest in Luther extended far beyond that of a philanthropic patron. Indeed, it was possible she had opened the gallery because of him, and although she was inadvertently helping other painters, no one could deny that he was her favourite.
For her part, Helen had found him amusing, but arrogant. She didn’t like people who were so full of their own importance, and there was no question about the fact that Luther was vain. She was so much more used to Jon, who took his success as a pop musician very casually, that she had found the other man lacking in humility, and she wondered if Victoria really knew what he was thinking.
Deciding she had spent enough time worrying about someone who evidently didn’t care for her, Helen took a last look at her appearance before leaving the room. Navy shorts, and a navy and white striped midi top, looked reasonably attractive, she thought, and at least the conservative colours helped to minimise the paleness of her skin. Some bright colours, she had found, accentuated the fact that she didn’t tan.
Leaving her suite of rooms, she hesitated a moment before walking along the landing towards the stairs. Jon’s room, she knew, was several doors away from her own, down a couple of stairs, and along a narrow passage. It was actually in a round tower that formed one corner of the house, and although Helen had seen it she was loath to venture there uninvited. Besides he might get the wrong impression, and the last thing she needed was a complication of that sort.
Nevertheless, she wished she knew if he was up. This was the time of day she liked least, when there was always the possibility of facing Reed alone. So far, she had been lucky. Because of the time change, Jon had been up early both mornings they had been here, and, although Reed and his sister had been present at the breakfast table, Reed had tactfully read his newspaper and Victoria had buried her nose in a pile of correspondence. No doubt finalising her plans for opening the gallery,
Helen thought now, with hindsight. Which was another reason why she hoped that Jon was up.
She went lightly down the stairs, her rubber-soled boots making no sound on the carpeted treads. It was easy to think she was alone in the house, she reflected fancifully. It was so big for two people—or four, now that she and Jon were here.
In the hall below, streaks of sunlight from the vaulted dome above her head cast bars of sunlight over the marble. Bars of sunlight! Helen grimaced. They weren’t bars, they were simply shafts of brightness. No doubt a psycholo gist would have a field day with that particular interpretation.
The morning-room where they usually ate breakfast was situated at the back of the house, overlooking the blue-green waters of the Sound. And, although Helen had gradually become accustomed to the fantastic view from the morning-room’s windows, the colour of the sea was something she found continually enchanting. And this morning was no exception. Which was just as well, as it provided the only distraction from the startling realisation that only Reed Wyatt was seated in his usual place at the table.
‘Good morning,’ he said, putting his paper and his napkin aside, and getting to his feet as she came unwillingly into the room. ‘Did you sleep well?’
‘Er—fine,’ she muttered, after acknowledging his greeting. She glanced awkwardly over her shoulder. ‘Um—where is everybody?’
Reed shrugged, his shoulder muscles moving easily beneath the apricot knitted silk of his polo shirt. The shirt, beige shorts and scuffed trainers were all he was wearing, and for a moment Helen could only stare at him in confusion. She was so used to seeing him in the dress shirts and ties he wore to his office that his casual gear caught her unawares, and it took her several seconds to comprehend that it was Sunday.
‘At a guess, I’d say Victoria was sleeping off the effects of too much champagne,’ he replied wryly, as she suddenly realised she was staring and switched her attention elsewhere. He paused, and then went on quietly, ‘As for Jon-don’t you know?’