by Anne Mather
The water beyond the beach was dazzling. It was tinged with gold now, its blue-green brilliance reflective as it surged towards the shore. Helen had already found that its power could sweep an unwary bather from her feet. Its smoothness was deceptive, and she had learned to be wary.
Fortunately, there was a shallow pool in the grounds of the villa where the youngsters could practise their strokes. They’d both learned to swim while they were living in Singapore, and although their skills were limited they could safely stay afloat. Helen had spent most of yesterday morning playing with them in the pool. Tricia had gone into Bridgetown, to look up some old friends.
‘Helen!’
Henry’s distinctive call interrupted her reverie, and, turning her head, she saw both children standing on the veranda, waving at her. They were still in their pyjamas, and she got resignedly to her feet. Until it was time for their afternoon nap, Tricia expected her to take control.
‘Have you been for a swim?’ asked Sophie resentfully, as Helen walked along the veranda to their room. She pointed at the damp braid of streaked blonde hair that lay over one shoulder. ‘You should’ve waked us. We could have come with you.’
‘Woken us,’ said Helen automatically, realising as she did so how quickly she had fallen into the role of nursemaid. ‘And, no. I haven’t been for a swim, as it happens.’ She shooed them back into their bedroom. ‘I had a shower, that’s all. That’s why my hair is wet.’
‘Why didn’t you dry it?’ began Sophie, then Henry turned on his little sister.
‘For God’s sake,’ he exclaimed, ‘give it a rest, can’t you?’ He flushed at Helen’s reproving stare. ‘Well—she’s such a stupid girl.’
‘I’m not stupid!’
Sophie responded loudly enough, but her eyes had filled with tears. She always came off worst in any argument with her brother, and although she tried to be his equal she usually lost the battle.
‘I don’t think this conversation is getting us anywhere, do you?’ declared Helen smoothly. ‘And, Henry—if you want to make a statement, kindly do so without taking God’s name in vain.’
‘Mummy does,’ he muttered, though he’d expected Helen’s reproof. ‘In any case, I’m hungry. Has Maria started breakfast?’
‘I doubt it.’ Helen started the shower as the two children began to unbutton their pyjamas. ‘She hasn’t arrived yet, as far as I know.’
‘Not arrived?’ Henry sounded horrified. ‘But I want something to eat.’
‘Then we’ll have to see what she’s left in the fridge,’ said Helen calmly. ‘Now, come on, Sophie. You’re first.’
By the time the children were bathed and dressed, Helen had already refereed a dozen arguments. Anyone who thought having children of a similar age automatically meant they would be company for one another couldn’t be more wrong, Helen reflected drily. In some circumstances it might work, and she was prepared to accept that there must be exceptions, but Henry and Sophie were in constant competition, and it didn’t make for amiable dispositions.
To her relief, Maria had arrived and was making the morning’s batch of rolls, when they arrived in the kitchen in search of breakfast. ‘Morning, Miss Gregory,’ she greeted Helen with a smile. ‘You’re up and about very early.’
‘I guess it’s because I still haven’t got used to the fact that it’s not lunchtime already,’ replied Helen. She rubbed her flat stomach with a rueful hand. ‘It’s the hunger that does it. We’re all ravenous!’
‘Well, sit down, sit down. I’ve a batch of rolls in the oven that’ s almost ready. Why don’t you have some orange juice, while you’re waiting? Or there’s some grapefruit in the fridge, if you’d prefer it.’
‘I don’t want grapefruit,’ said Sophie, wrinkling her nose, but Henry only looked at her with contempt.
‘I do,’ he declared, though Helen knew he didn’t like it. ‘You’re just a baby. You still drink milk.’
‘I drink milk, too,’ said Helen firmly, before it could deteriorate into another argument. ‘Would you like orange juice, Sophie? That’s what I’m going to have.’
‘Mmm,’ Sophie was off-hand, until she saw her brother’s face when Helen put half a grapefruit in front of him. Then she gave him a mocking smirk, and sipped her juice with exaggerated enjoyment.
Helen was helping herself to a second cup of coffee when Tricia appeared in the kitchen doorway. She wasn’t dressed yet. She was wearing a trailing chiffon négligé, and her reddish hair hadn’t been combed and stood out around her head. A tall woman, whose adolescent athleticism hadn’t continued into adulthood, Tricia had a constant battle to remain slim. It was a fact that she resented and which caused her some irritation. She regarded the little group around the table now without liking, and when Sophie would have slid off her chair and run to greet her mother she waved her back.
‘D’you have any aspirin, Maria?’ she asked, with a weary tilt of her head. ‘I’ve got the most God-awful headache. It must have been that seafood you served us last night. Are you sure it was fresh?’
It was hardly the way to gain Maria’s sympathy, and before the woman could make any comment, Helen pushed back her chair. ‘I’ve got some paracetamol,’ she offered. ‘It’s good for headaches.’ Particularly hangovers, she added silently, recalling how Tricia had drunk the best part of two bottles of wine the night before.
‘Oh, have you?’ Tricia turned to her with some relief. ‘D’you think you could bring them to my room? I think I’ll stay in bed this morning.’
‘But you said you’d take us into town this morning,’ Henry protested, not yet old enough to know when to keep his mouth shut, and his mother turned on him angrily.
‘What a selfish boy you are!’ she exclaimed. ‘Always thinking of yourself. Perhaps you’d like to spend the morning in bed as well. It might make you realise I’m not doing it for fun.’
‘Oh, Mummy—’
‘I don’t think Henry meant to upset you,’ put in Helen hurriedly, earning a grateful look from her young charge. ‘Why don’t you go back to bed, as you say, Tricia? I’ll get the paracetamol, and then bring your breakfast on a tray. I’m sure you could manage a croissant, and Maria’s brought some mango jelly and it’s delicious.’
‘Well…’ Tricia adopted a petulant air. ‘That does sound nice, Helen, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to eat anything. My head’s throbbing, and I’m sure I’m running a temperature. I may have to call the doctor if it doesn’t let up soon.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Helen could sympathise with her. Having a headache in a hot climate always seemed so much worse. The light was so bright, for one thing, and there seemed no escape from the heat.
Tricia sighed. ‘Perhaps if you brought me some coffee?’ she suggested. ‘And a little orange juice to wash the tablets down. Oh—and maybe a lightly boiled egg, hmm? And do you think you could find a slice of toast?’
‘Leave it to me.’
Helen ushered the other woman out of the room, before she could remember the threat she’d made to Henry. Then, when Tricia was safely installed in her bedroom, she returned to the kitchen to find Maria grinning broadly.
‘Just a lightly boiled egg,’ she declared wryly. ‘And some coffee and some orange juice and some toast…’ She paused to give Helen a wink. ‘Did I miss something?’
Helen wouldn’t let herself be drawn. All the same, it wasn’t the first time Tricia had spent the morning in bed. When they were in London, she had seldom seen her employer before lunchtime. If Tricia wasn’t attending some function or other, she rarely got up before noon.
When the tray was prepared, she collected the paracetamol from her room and delivered it in person. Tricia was lying back against the pillows, shading her eyes with a languid wrist, which she removed when Helen came into the room.
‘Oh, there you are,’ she said. ‘What have you been doing? I’ve been waiting ages.’
‘Just five minutes,’ Helen assured her, depositing the legs of the tray a
cross her knees. ‘Now, if you want me, I’ll be on the beach. I’m going to take the children to search for shells.’
Tricia shuffled into a sitting position, and reached for the orange juice. ‘Well, don’t be long,’ she said, swallowing the tablets Helen had given her with a mouthful of the juice. ‘You’re going to have to go and pick Drew up from the airport. I can’t possibly do it. His plane is due in just after two.’
Helen stared at her. ‘But that’s this afternoon. You’ll probably be feeling perfectly all right by then.’
‘I won’t. I never feel all right until the evening,’ replied Tricia firmly. ‘And driving all that way in these conditions—well, it’s simply out of the question.’
Helen took a breath. ‘He’ll be expecting you to pick him up,’ she said carefully.
‘Then he’ll be disappointed, won’t he?’ Tricia regarded her testily. ‘My God, you’re almost as bad as Henry. Does no one care that I’ve got a migraine? I can’t help it if I’m not well.’
‘No.’ Helen moistened her lips. She’d already learned that there was no point in arguing with Tricia when she was in this mood. ‘Well—will you take care of Sophie and Henry, then? I don’t think Maria is willing—’
‘Can’t they go with you?’
Tricia stared at her impatiently, and Helen realised she wasn’t being given a choice. She couldn’t leave the children to look after themselves. But it was almost an hour to the airport, and Sophie, particularly, didn’t travel well.
‘Can we leave it until nearer lunchtime?’ she suggested, hoping against hope that Tricia might have changed her mind by then. She’d have thought her employer would have been keen to see her husband again. It was several days since they’d come away.
‘I expect you to go and meet Drew,’ Tricia informed her inflexibly, and Helen couldn’t help thinking that there was no sign of the frail invalid they had encountered earlier. ‘Must I remind you that if it wasn’t for me you might not have a job? Let alone a well-paid one in enviable surroundings.’
‘No.’ Helen felt her colour deepen. ‘I mean—yes. Yes, I do appreciate it.’ She turned towards the door. ‘I’ll-tell the children.’
‘Good.’ Tricia attacked her egg with evident enthusiasm. ‘Just so long as we understand one another, Helen. I don’t like pulling rank here, but it really had to be said.’
CHAPTER TWO
MATTHEW AITKEN lounged behind the wheel of the dust-smeared Range Rover, waiting for his assistant, Lucas Cord, to emerge from the arrivals hall. He was getting impatient. The plane from New York had landed more than twenty minutes ago, and as Fleur had been booked into a first-class seat her luggage should have been cleared some time ago.
It was hot where he was sitting. There was little shade at this time of day and, despite the air-conditioning in the vehicle, which had been working fairly adequately on the journey to the airport, a prolonged period of waiting was causing the heat to rise. The annoying thing was that he wouldn’t have been here at all if his phone hadn’t been out of order. He’d discovered that when he’d tried to call New York that morning, and as he needed to speak to his publisher rather urgently he’d had no choice but to try elsewhere.
In consequence, it had made sense to continue on to the airport. Lucas had offered to make the call for him, but he’d wanted to speak to Marilyn himself. It was so much easier to deal with the matter personally. And the delay in the completion of the manuscript was his problem.
All the same, he disliked giving Fleur the impression that he had nothing better to do than come and meet her. It wasn’t as if he was even eager to have her here. But she was still his sister-in-law, even if his brother was no longer around. Chase’s death at the age of forty-two had been such a bitter blow.
Which, of course, was why the latest manuscript hadn’t been completed. Although it was eight weeks now since Chase’s fall, he was finding it hard to work. Dammit, he thought irritably, what had Chase been thinking of to attack his opponent so recklessly? It wasn’t as if he was an amateur. He’d been playing polo for almost thirty years.
Fleur, of course, had been devastated. When he’d seen her at the funeral, he hadn’t doubted that it was a blow to her, too. She had been dressed all in black and oozing tears, and he’d had to feel sympathy for her. For the first time in his life, he’d pitied her. He couldn’t believe even she could have wanted Chase dead.
But as he sat there in the Range Rover, with sweat dampening the shirt on his back and his bare thighs sticking to the leather seat, he couldn’t help remembering that he hadn’t always felt so charitably towards her. He’d been only sixteen when his brother had brought Fleur to live with them. The fact that she had still been married to her first husband at that time hadn’t sat too happily with their father either, but Chase had been mad about her, and somehow they’d all settled down.
It was just as well his own mother hadn’t been around, Matthew reflected drily. Emily Aitken had died of a rare form of cancer when he was ten, and until Fleur had come to live at the ranch their housekeeper, Rosa Cortez, had been both wife and mother to the three men.
Fleur had changed all that. In no time at all she was giving Rosa orders, telling his father what to do, and bullying Chase into doing whatever she wanted. His father hadn’t liked it but he was a mild man, more at home with temperamental horses than temperamental women, and at least he could escape into the stables whenever he felt like it.
Of course, the horses their father bred were what had enabled Chase to become the successful sportsman he had been. The Aitken Stud was famous throughout the United States, and enthusiasts came from as far afield as Argentina and Europe to buy the spirited stallions he produced. It was a lucrative business, and for all Matthew had been so young, he had had no doubt that Chase’s wealth had been a goodly part of his allure. Fleur had liked spending his money too much to have been attracted to a poor man, and he’d sometimes wondered what her first husband must have been like, and whether he had been wealthy, too.
Fortunately, during the early years of their marriage, he, Matthew, had spent most of his time away. College, and then university, had enabled him to avoid the image of his big brother being turned from a laughing, confident man into a grovelling supplicant. Whatever Fleur had, Chase had certainly been hooked on it, and Matthew had preferred to stay out of their way whenever he was at home.
He had been twenty-two when Fleur tried to seduce him. He remembered the occasion vividly. Chase had been away, playing a match in Buenos Aires, and his father had been attending the horse sales in Kentucky. Matthew wouldn’t have been there at all had it not been for the fact that he was attending an interview the following day in Tallahassee. The editor of the Tallahassee Chronicle was looking for a junior reporter, and Matthew had been hoping to get the job.
At first he hadn’t believed what was happening. When Fleur had come to his room, he’d assumed there really must be something wrong. It was when she had complained of being so lonely and started to shed her satin wrap that he’d comprehended. And, although his hot young body had been burning, he’d succeeded in throwing her out.
However, he hadn’t been able to hide the fact that she’d aroused him, and Fleur had seen his weakness as a challenge. At every opportunity she’d let him see how willing she was to be with him, touching him with clinging hands, bestowing longing looks.
Matthew had been sickened by it. It wasn’t as if there had been any shortage of women his own age, ready and willing to satisfy his every need. But not his brother’s wife, he’d assured himself disgustedly. Dear God, he’d thought, if he ever got that desperate, he’d go out and buy a gun.
Not that his attitude had deterred Fleur. On the contrary, she’d seemed to find his resistance very appealing. It became a point of honour with her to succeed, and not until he threatened to tell Chase did her provocation cease.
Of course, that was a dozen years ago now, and Matthew had long stopped worrying about his brother. His own career—first as
a newspaper columnist, and then as an overseas reporter working for an agency based in New York—had broadened his mind, and he was no longer surprised by anything people did. Working in war-tom Lebanon and South-east Asia, he’d become inured to man’s inhumanities to man. The problem of a sex-hungry sister-in-law seemed small indeed, when compared to the struggle between life and death.
Besides, in his absence, Fleur and Chase had appeared to reconcile any differences they might have had. They had both grown older, for one thing, and Matthew’s different lifestyle had reinforced the barriers between them.
Then, five years ago, Matthew had written his first novel. A lot of it had been based on his own experiences in Beirut, and, to his amazement, it had been an immediate success. Film rights had been optioned; in paperback it sold almost five million copies. He’d become an overnight celebrity—and he’d found he didn’t like it.
That was when he had had the notion of moving out of the United States. He’d always liked the islands of the Caribbean, and the casual lifestyle of Barbados suited him far better than the hectic social round of living in New York had ever done. When his second book was completed, he had it written into the contract that he was not available for subsequent publicity. He preferred his anonymity. He didn’t want to become a media hack.
But, to his astonishment, like Fleur when he’d rejected her, his public found his detachment as intriguing as she had done. Avoiding talk-shows and signing sessions made no difference to his sales. His books apparently sold themselves, and curiosity about his lifestyle was rife.
All the same, it was a lot harder to reach him at Dragon Bay. The villa, which he had had erected on the ruins of an old plantation house, had excellent security features, and Lucas Cord—once his sound technician, but now his secretary-cum-assistant—made sure he wasn’t bothered by any unwelcome guests. Matthew supposed he’d become something of a recluse, only visiting New York when he needed stimulation. He seldom invited women to Dragon Bay. He wasn’t married, and he had no desire to be so.