Caribbean Desire

by Cathy Williams

  She dully gave details of her name, address and telephone number, mentally trying to work out what she was going to do.

  Alistair, when she went to see him, had no solutions to the problem. He shook his head ruefully and gave her a brief lecture on the popularity of flights out of the island during the peak season.

  He didn't sound in the least bit sorry that she would not be able to leave immediately. There was a distinct glint in his eyes when he told her that they would be able to do some work on the book after all.

  'I can't stay indefinitely, Grandfather,' Emma interrupted him gently. 'It's too awkward.'

  'Awkward?'

  Emma looked at him impatiently. Hadn't she explained it all to him only a few hours before?

  'With Conrad.'

  'He'll be leaving by the weekend,' Alistair informed her. 'Going back to work. The business can't run without him forever, you know.'

  'Of course not.'

  Emma digested this bit of information with a sinking feeling. She hadn't given it much thought, but of course Conrad would be going back to run his companies. Companies didn't just run themselves. They needed someone at the helm. He had already had long enough on the island. Why hadn't she thought about it before? He wouldn't be around, even if she remained here.

  Wasn't that just perfect? she told herself, fighting to look pleased with the news.

  'Good. I'll cancel my provisional booking and we can get on with the book.'

  The phrase 'take up where we left off sprang to mind, but it seemed so pitifully inadequate that Emma refrained from saying it.

  'Good.' Alistair smiled at her in a way that suggested that the conversation was over, and Emma left the room, dawdling on the way back, wondering whether the sun and sea would be so wonderful without Conrad somewhere in the background.

  She realised with gloomy resignation that when he wasn't around she felt as though a piece of her was missing.

  What a state of affairs for her to have become entangled in. She tried to console herself with the truism that time healed everything. Love would be no exception. In a year's time, she told herself, things mightn't look so bleak, and maybe there would even be someone else around, someone to take Conrad's place.

  With a frustrated groan she acknowledged that he had probably spoilt the rest of mankind for her. He had given her something: the bitter-sweet taste of true, burning love. Who could ever provide any kind of replacement for that? One of those well-intentioned colourless men who formed part of her social set? Fat chance!

  At least she was doing the right thing in not giving in to him. She told herself to start feeling a little more pleased with herself.

  The sight of crumpled clothes, half packed, was just what she couldn't face. She shoved them out of sight on to the chest of drawers and lay down on the bed, covering her face with her hands.

  There was a knock on the door, and without bothering to get up Emma mumbled, 'Come in.' Esther, she thought irritably. She didn't want to see anyone, not even kindly Esther. She just wanted to be on her own, to filter everyone else out until those thousands of images of Conrad that filled her mind had been subdued.

  She uncovered her eyes, ready to ask Esther if she could come back later on to do the bed, and saw Conrad lounging against the door-frame, looking at her.

  He looked alert and watchful, his black hair neatly combed away from his face. He was wearing a pair of faded jeans which emphasised the length of his legs and a pale short-sleeved shirt.

  'What do you want?' Emma sprang out of the bed, flushing at the vulnerable position in which he had found her.

  Didn't he know that she didn't want to see him? That he was the last person that she wanted to face? Obviously not. You did the right thing, she told herself sternly. He's untrustworthy, never mind how he looks.

  'We have to talk.'

  'What about?'

  Her voice sounded cracked, and she cleared her throat, moving across to the dressing-table and perching on the stool. She would feel more composed the further away she was from the bed.

  As though reading the train of her thoughts, Conrad raised one amused eyebrow and proceeded to take her place on the bed.

  'About last night, and about what happened on the boat.'

  Emma licked her lips which suddenly felt dry.

  'We have talked,' she said as casually as she could. 'We talked about it then, and I don't see any point in rehashing the subject. There's nothing more to be said.'

  'I think there is.'

  'Well, we'll have to agree to differ.'

  'Not if I can help it.' He was staring at her in a way that unsettled her. What was it she should remember? Why, she thought frantically, should she be feeling pleased with herself?

  She stared back at him, not knowing what to say. A prickle of heat started at her toes and worked its way through her body, until she was burning all over.

  'Anyway,' she said stiffly, 'I'd prefer it if you left my bedroom.'

  'Why?'

  'Because you're invading my privacy,' she said in a tight voice.

  'Maybe that's my intention.'

  Emma looked at him with alarm. 'That might well be your intention,' she said in a colourless, precise voice, 'but it's not mine. I don't want my privacy invaded, least of all by you.'

  'Why not? Are you afraid of what you might do, despite all your good intentions?' 'No!'

  'Methinks,' he said with wry accuracy, 'the lady doth protest too much.'

  'I don't care what you think!'

  'Come a bit closer and tell me that.'

  Emma remained resolutely where she was. 'Go away. We have nothing to talk about.'

  'All right, then, I'll come a bit closer to you. If the mountain won't come to Mahomet, et cetera, et cetera.' He edged himself off the bed, and moved across the room before she had time to take refuge somewhere a little further away.

  'Don't try and escape,' he said, reading her mind, and gripping her wrist. Before she could find a suitable retort, he swept her off the stool and carried her struggling to the bed, depositing her ungracefully on it and lying next

  to her, his arms around her so that she had no room for manoeuvre.

  'All right, Mr Strongman. Here I am. You've got me into a position that I can't escape from, and God knows what sort of satisfaction that gives you! If you want to talk, go ahead. Just so long as you leave this room when you're finished, because I don't want to have anything to do with you.'

  'You don't mean that.'

  'I do!'

  'Then why,' he asked with frightening insight, 'are you shivering? If you meant that, you would be lying there as obedient as a mouse and about as responsive.'

  Emma stared at him mutinously, hating her body for betraying her.

  'Tell me why you don't want anything more to do with me. Answer me that, and I'll leave.'

  'Fine!' He wanted to know, then she damn well would tell him. 'You accused me of being a gold-digger,' she said bitterly. 'You had the nerve to insinuate that I was only here for what I could get, when you are hardly an innocent in that area yourself!'

  He looked at her with an impatient frown. The man's acting skills, she thought, were beyond compare.

  'What the hell are you talking about?'

  'Don't try and pretend with me!'

  'For God's sake, woman,' he ground out, 'get to the point of this. I haven't got the faintest idea what you're on about. And I'm dying of curiosity.'

  'When Sophia called that day to leave that message with you,' she said stiltedly, 'she filled me in on something that hadn't even crossed my mind.'

  'Go on.' His voice was soft and menacing, and Emma looked at him warily, wondering whether her confession was such a hot idea. Somewhere at the back of her mind, a vague doubt flitted across. What if Sophia had been

  wrong? What if Conrad had no interest in Alistair's money? She ignored it.

  'Alistair's money,' she muttered grudgingly. 'She told me that it was common knowledge that you stood to inherit Al
istair's money...' Her voice wavered, as the puzzled frown gave way to one of derisive comprehension.

  He was beginning to follow the gist of what was about to come, and from the looks of it it didn't thrill him.

  'Common knowledge with whom?'

  'She said...'

  'And you believed her.' He looked at her with disgust and stood up.

  'Wouldn't you, if you had been in my place?' she asked defensively.

  'No. Because I would have used my little grey cells and worked out that any such suggestion was preposterous.'

  'It's not preposterous! It makes sense.'

  'Oh, yes? Then perhaps you could fill me in on your line of reasoning.'

  The nagging doubts about the validity of Sophia's statement were getting stronger, especially when she looked at the thunderous expression on Conrad's face. Anger and scorn blended together, neither of which were doing anything at all for her confidence.

  'Why else would you have been so angry at the thought of my being here?' she asked feebly. 'And after you knew about me, why did you make love to me? You were trying to seduce your way into Alistair's money because... because...'

  The words died on her lips. Now that she had spoken them, she was overcome with a desire to take them all back.

  It was too late for that, of course. The distaste stamped on his face filled her with the growing horror that not only had she been wrong, but also totally off target.

  She looked at him bleakly, wishing that the ground would suddenly open and swallow her up. She could cope with his anger, his teasing, his insinuations, but his loathing was unbearable.

  'You stupid little bitch,' he said in a cold voice. 'Did it ever occur to you that I was angry at the prospect of your being a gold-digger because I had seen it happen once before to Alistair, and because I love him and feel protective about him? And did it ever occur to you that I made love to you because I wanted you? Not,' he bit out, 'that you can possibly accuse me of seducing you, because the feeling at the time, if I recall, was entirely mutual!'

  His words lashed her like invisible whips, hurting her in a way she would not have thought possible.

  'Also,' he continued relentlessly, 'if you had used that brain of yours, you might have realised that I don't need Alistair's money. I have quite enough of my own!'

  'Yes, I guess so, but...' She looked away miserably.

  'But nothing! You jumped to all the wrong conclusions because it suited you!' He turned towards the door, glancing around when his hand was on the knob, if it's of any interest to you,' he said scathingly from over his shoulder, 'I knew that Alistair had a granddaughter anyway. He told me years ago. I never suspected that the granddaughter was you when you showed up here, but I knew of your existence. I've always known where Alistair's money would go, and I've never given it a thought.'

  'Why didn't you say?'

  'Believe it or not, I didn't think it was relevant. I didn't think that that narrow little mind of yours would work in that direction anyway.'

  'You're hardly pure, driven snow yourself!' Emma said in a high, shaky voice. 'You had no qualms about accusing me of something I wasn't guilty of!'

  'Don't try and justify yourself by using that argument.' He looked at her with distaste. 'All I can say is that if you believed that of me, then, lady, I was way off target with you. As far as I'm concerned, you're now in the past tense, and my only regret is that I ever had anything to do with you in the first place!'

  He left the room, closing the door quietly behind him, and she could hear the sound of his steps echoing on the wooden floor before he descended the stairs.

  Then a dead feeling seeped through her, leaving her too numb to cry, too numb to do anything except stare at the ceiling.

  She had misjudged him, and he was right, there was no way she could justify her distrust. She had been an utter fool to have ever listened to what Sophia had told her.

  She had believed it because she had wanted to. She had used the knowledge to try and shore up her own defenses against him because she had been frightened by the power of her love and by her vulnerability to it.

  He didn't love her, and in some weird way she'd thought that she might fight her own love for him by believing the worst of him.

  God, how wrong she had been! She still loved him with every ounce of her being, and now not only did he not like her, but his lasting memories of her would be ones of loathing.

  She buried her face into the pillow and began to cry.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Emma awoke to a feeling of disorientation. The room was in blackness, and she realised that she must have fallen asleep.

  She didn't have the energy to get out of bed, even though the clock reminded her that it was nearly seven and only thirty minutes away from dinnertime. She didn't much feel like eating either.

  She remained lying where she was, making no effort to fight off the misery gnawing away at her insides.

  Conrad detested her. That one thought filled her head and beat away in her mind like the repeated throbbing of a drum. He had left her room with the stamp of disgust on his face, and she had no doubt that she would never lay eyes on him again.

  The prospect filled her with anguish, and the anguish glued her to the bed, because all incentive seemed to have left her.

  She should be relieved at his decision, she knew that. He might have left, she told herself, believing the worst of her, but at least he had left and she would no longer have to fight the feelings that assailed her every time she looked at him or was in his presence.

  Hadn't she convinced herself time and again that her love for him would never be returned? In which case it was much better that he was out of sight, because out of sight might one day be out of mind.

  Even if she had not believed a word of what Sophia had told her, even if that disastrous conversation be-

  tween herself and Conrad had never taken place, things would not have been so dramatically altered.

  After all, the fact still remained that she was in love with him, fiercely, passionately and hopelessly in love with him. And he wanted her because he fancied her. The two feelings were poles apart and she had always only been the one who stood to lose.

  The truth was, if she was going to be honest with herself, that she would not have been satisfied with lust instead of love, and he had no responsibilities towards her. He was as free as a bird, and any fool knew that birds didn't stay in one place for very long.

  He might not have been in love with Sophia, but he had been engaged to her. She, for heaven's sake, had had more of a hold over him.

  No, things had worked out for the best. That sour taste in her mouth and the gaping despondency in her soul might try and convince her otherwise, but her head would always protest.

  She gazed mournfully at the clock, watching the time tick by, knowing that she should rouse herself and go downstairs, but her body felt like lead, and she could feel her eyelids beginning to droop again.

  She reluctantly yielded once more to the panacea of sleep.

  She awoke suddenly, with the feeling that someone or something had awakened her.

  Her eyes took a while to adjust to the darkness, and then she made out the shadowy form of Conrad, sitting on the bed, looking down at her with an expression which she couldn't quite make out.

  She sat up hurriedly, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.

  'You!'

  'Yes, me,' he said drily.

  'What are you doing here?'

  'You brought me back.'

  He smiled a slow, wry smile and Emma felt her heart skip a beat, then another as he raised his eyebrows and looked at her ruefully.

  ' Me?'

  'Yes, you. You're a witch, I know that now. You cast a spell over me and I found that, however angry you made me, I couldn't leave.'

  She looked at him, her eyes wide and questioning.

  'But you had left!' she protested, the lingering smile on his lips bringing a flush of colour to her cheeks. 'When you walk
ed out of this room you told me that you were sorry you ever met me, and that you didn't want anything more to do with me!'

  'I guess I made a mistake.'

  He stroked her hair, and leaned forward to kiss her on her forehead. Emma sank back with a dizzy feeling against the pillows.

  Nothing changed the fact that, whatever he was saying to her now, and however appealingly he said it, he still only wanted her. But as his lips descended to meet her own she closed her eyes and decided just to savour this one kiss. The battle would wait until after that.

  She kissed him with restless passion, enjoying his low moanings as he moistened her neck with his mouth.

  His hand slipped smoothly underneath her white T- shirt to caress the full soft swell of her breasts.

  With a mammoth effort, she pulled away from him, and said in a low voice, i can't. You may think me silly and gauche, but I can't make love to you when I know that you don't love me in return.'

  Conrad gave a soft, delighted chuckle, in return?'

  'Well, yes.'

  'Are you saying that you love me, Emma Belle?'

  She flushed and looked away. What was the point of trying to deny it? She had fallen into her own trap, and maybe it was better that she told him anyway.

  'I love you, Conrad,' she muttered under her breath.

  'I beg your pardon? I didn't quite catch what you said just then. Something about love...?'

  She glared at him, and said in a loud voice, 'I love you! You annoy me, you bewilder me, you make me feel as though I have no control over myself, and I love you for it! Is that loud enough for you?'

  'Loud and clear.'

  She had thrown all caution to the winds, and she didn't much care any longer. She didn't care if he didn't return her love, it only mattered that he knew how she felt, that she had been honest with him.