by Anne Hampson
‘Don’t look so troubled,’ broke in her brother gently. ‘By all means take the week off. Mary won’t mind at all; she likes the desk work as you know, and if you hadn’t come along I’d probably have asked her to accept the post.’
‘Thanks a lot, Phil,’ returned Clare gratefully. ‘Now I can keep her company. She’d be lonely on her own.’ But the following morning Clare had something else to do and she asked Mrs Weedall if she could amuse herself for about an hour or so.
‘Of course, Clare, dear,’ she answered with a smile. ‘I’ve brought my photograph albums with me so I’ll sit and look through them. I have such lovely snapshots of you and dear Frank—what a handsome couple you were! I’ll be sitting here, on the terrace, so you’ll know where to find me.’
Clare went off immediately to visit Luke at Silver Springs. The grounds sparkled in the sunshine, the fountains creating rainbow cascades as they stole colours from the sun. Clare looked around, her heart feeling dead at the idea of a detestable girl like Stella Wesley becoming mistress of all this. What was the matter with Luke that he couldn’t see through her? With Clare herself he had always been more than ordinarily perceptive. Clare could only conclude that the girl’s beauty was the draw.
She began to walk briskly on towards the house, then realised that Stella was with Luke. They were talking as they stood on the verandah which fronted the main living-room of the villa. Clare stopped, her heart jerking, then dropping right down into her feet. There was really no need for her question, she decided and, turning, would have made her escape but Luke caught sight of her flowered dress an instant before she managed to dodge behind a wall.
‘Clare!’ His voice halted her and she turned, her head held proudly, her eyes brittle and cold. ‘What is it?’
He seemed concerned, she thought, watching him come down the steps of the verandah, leaving a frowning girl behind him. ‘I didn’t know you had company,’ returned Clare stiffly. ‘It was nothing important—’
‘It must have been, for you to have come here to see me.’ He was towering over her and as always she knew the pull of his magnetism, the attraction which, she now realised, she had never known in her relationship with Frank, much as she had loved him.
‘It’s nothing, really,’ she was desperate to get away before the bitter tears of jealousy and regret filled her eyes, reflecting what was in her heart, ‘I’ll probably see you tonight—or sometime,’ she added casually.
But he was shaking his head in a determined gesture, ‘Wait a minute and I’ll be with you—’
‘Your visitor—’ Clare was so close to tears that her voice broke in the middle. ‘You can’t leave her, and in any case, it was nothing important. I’ll talk to you again sometime!’ And with that she hurried away, convinced that he would neither call her back nor follow her, not with Mrs Wesley being there, a witness to it all.
The tears fell readily once Clare was away from Silver Springs, running unhindered down her face. It was plain that Luke and his old flame were intending to take up where they had left off, and Clare knew exactly what she must do: return to England with Mrs Weedall.
A few hours after her brief visit to Silver Springs Clare was on the lawn with Mrs Weedall when suddenly the older woman said, ‘Here’s Phil’s friend—’
‘Luke!’ Clare’s heart gave an uncomfortable little jerk as she saw Luke striding towards where they were sitting in gaily-coloured loungers, Clare clad only in a bikini.
‘He appears to be coming to speak to you,’ said Mrs Weedall in her customary monotonous voice. ‘I think I shall go in and take a rest, Clare, dear, for I’m never comfortable in that man’s company.’
Luke reached them and for a space his eyes roved Clare’s scantily-clad figure, lingering on the enchanting curves before moving to her face, a touch of sardonic amusement curving his mouth as he noticed her heightened colour. Then he spared a glance for her companion, and obviously feeling it was incumbent on him to be sociable he tried to chat with her, but it was a fitful conversation interspersed with embarrassed pauses on Mrs Weedall’s part, and at last she faltered apologetically, ‘I think I shall take a rest— er—if you’ll excuse me . . . ?’
Luke’s eyes followed her for a moment, a frown darkening his eyes. ‘I thought I’d come along to see why you paid me the honour of a visit to Silver Springs.’ He was in white shorts, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to the elbows. Deeply bronzed, and with the muscles of his strong limbs rippling, he seemed more attractive to Clare than ever. He was looking down at her, waiting for an answer.
‘It was nothing important, Luke. As a matter of fact, I just thought I’d take a stroll and I found myself at your gate. . . .’ Her voice trailed off to an embarrassed silence as she noted his expression, aware that he knew she was lying.
‘Come off it, Clare,’ he chided, casually taking possession of the lounger vacated by Mrs Weedall. ‘You had something of importance to say to me and I demand to know what it was.’
‘Demand?’ she repeated, eyes sparkling.
‘What was it?’ he asked patiently.
‘I’m no longer willing to say what I intended saying,’ she responded stubbornly and saw his mouth compress into a thin and angry line.
‘You changed your mind because Stella was there—is that it?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘What do you mean, perhaps? Either it was or it wasn’t.’
‘Please don’t be so persistent,’ she begged. ‘I really mean it when I say I’ve changed my mind.’
He made an exasperated little exclamation but realised by Clare’s expression that to continue his questioning would avail him nothing. And so he changed the subject, his eyes sliding momentarily in the direction taken by Mrs Weedall, ‘Your guest appears to be settled in.’
Clare breathed a sigh of relief and answered, ‘Yes, she likes the island, and especially the hotel. We’ve given her one of the best rooms and she’s very happy in it.’
‘Happy?’ with a sceptical lift of his straight dark brows. ‘That woman’s never been happy in the whole of her life.’
‘Of course she has. She was never like this when Frank was alive.’
Luke drew a breath but said nothing, and after a space Clare thanked him for being so civil to Mrs Weedall. ‘I feared at first that you were thinking of being unpleasant with her— especially when you said you’d sort something out.’
‘I meant to sort something out,’ he admitted tersely. ‘I intended to find a way of telling her outright that she was ruining your life, that it was time you forgot all about her dead son and began living again.’
Clare asked him curiously, ‘What made you change your mind?’
‘Pity,’ he admitted. ‘She’s a most unhappy woman, and I’ve no patience with her; nevertheless, I’m still sorry for her—’ He broke off, shrugging his shoulders. ‘I suppose, basically, I’m soft.’
Clare had to smile at a statement like that! ‘I’m glad you could feel pity for her, Luke. You’ll understand a bit better now, won’t you?’
‘No,’ he denied abruptly. ‘I won’t.’
It was Clare’s turn to change the subject. ‘How is everything going regarding the new project?’ She would now be taking no part in it, she thought sadly. Perhaps Luke would ask Mrs Wesley to do it for him.
‘Going well.’
‘I’m glad.’
‘You’re very cold,’ he said.
‘I hadn’t noticed.’ She wanted him to go and yet, paradoxically, she desperately wanted him to stay with her, to speak gently to her, to look at her with that softened expression she had come to know so well.
‘What’s wrong?’ His voice did seem a trifle softer, she thought, a little lump rising in her throat. ‘Why don’t you tell me, Clare?’
There was a curious ring to his voice, a sort of expectancy, an eagerness, and if it had not been for the fact that he had been giving Mrs Wesley his attention lately Clare could almost have believed that he was eagerly waiting for her t
o say she loved him. And so she decided to ask the question, although not in the forthright way she had at first intended.
‘It was merely an interest in your association with Mrs Wesley,’ she began when he interrupted her, eyes alert.
‘You came over to Silver Springs to talk about Stella?’
‘No, of course not,’ she lied, and hoped she sounded convincing. ‘I’m not telling you what I came about.’
‘All right,’ exasperatedly and with a frown. ‘Well, you were saying, you’re interested in my association with Stella. What is it you want to know—whether we are thinking of going steady again?’
Clare moistened her lips, contriving to appear casual as she said, ‘You were enjoying yourselves last evening.’ She coloured, wishing she had not broached the subject after all. It was Luke’s manner that had made her do it, because she desperately wanted to know if he was serious with the girl.
‘Yes, we were,’ he admitted reflectively. And he seemed far away as he added, ‘We talked about old times. . . .’ His eyes flickered to hers but she had averted her head. Words were too difficult to summon for a space but eventually she was able to say, ‘You could forgive her for—for what she did? She married someone else, you said?’
His face was impassive as he replied, ‘Yes, I have forgiven her.’
‘You feel nothing—no grudge whatsoever?’
‘None,’ he replied in that same impassive tone of voice. ‘One cannot harbour a grudge forever.’ He paused, examining Clare’s expression. ‘What makes you look at me like that?’ he inquired. ‘There’s surprise on your face as well as puzzlement.’
‘I suppose I’ve gained the impression that you’re not the forgiving type—’ Her voice was hollow because she was fighting tears. ‘Obviously I was mistaken.’
Luke remained silent and she glanced up. He said quietly, ‘I intend to go to Windward Cay tomorrow, Clare. Is it possible for you to come with me?’
You want me?’ she said, her beautiful eyes disbelieving.
‘Who else?’
‘But—you’ve just said that Mrs Wesley—that you and she might—’
‘Stella is pleasure, this is business, I never mix the two. In any case, it happens to be you who is helping me, not Stella.’
Clare felt a pulse tingle, and as she looked steadily at him she was desperately trying to read what was in his mind. ‘You still want me to help you, even though you are thinking of—of marrying Mrs Wesley?’
‘What difference does that make?’ he inquired, avoiding her gaze—a very strange circumstance, thought Clare, considering his habit of always looking directly into her eyes when speaking to her.
‘Well . . . none, I suppose. But she might not like it.’
For an instant his eyes hardened but when he spoke his voice was pleasant enough. ‘I never allow anyone to interfere in my business, Clare. I’ve engaged you to help me and my decision stands.’
Her first instinct was to refuse Luke’s offer, telling him of her decision to return to England and that, therefore, she would not be assisting him after all, but she stopped herself. For the idea of a full day with Luke on an uninhabited island was so tempting that it overshadowed all else. She found herself saying, a smile on her lips, ‘Yes, Luke, I’d love to see your island. It means leaving Mrs Weedall on her own but she’ll not mind for one day. I expect we’ll be back in time for dinner?’
Luke’s eyes had hardened slightly at her mention of Mrs Weedall, but he obviously decided not to voice what was in his mind. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘we shall be back for dinner.’
They went off very early the following morning and for Clare it could have been an idyllic sail if only she and Luke were as they were before the arrival on the island of his old flame. But now the shadow of the girl lay within Clare’s vision and she was depressed. However, she was determined to be as happy as she could be under the circumstances and she chatted with Luke, making suggestions for the decor of the hotels and noting with pleasure that he was always favourably impressed.
‘I knew instinctively that you would have excellent taste,’ he said, a smile in his eyes that sent tingles of pleasure along her spine. ‘I’m excited about the whole project, Clare, feeling sure we have something unique that was needed a long time ago.’
‘It’s a wonder no one thought about it,’ mused Clare, a sigh of contentment escaping her as she gazed at the lovely island to which they were heading. A gem set in a sea of blue and gold and emerald green, its coconut and travellers’ palms waving in the breeze, and the one low hill lush and green. Its lake gleamed in the sun, its long beaches were pink-tinted, and darker where the sea lapped their silent shores. Clare found herself forgetting Stella Wesley, and in fact everything except the thought of a day alone with Luke on this lovely island in the sun.
He had had a picnic hamper put up and after they had spent a couple of hours exploring, and Luke had shown her exactly where each of the hotels would be located, they found a place on the shore and ate delicious sandwiches washed down with fruity white wine. Strawberries and cream were served to her from sealed jars, and coffee from a flask.
‘That was lovely.’ Her smile shone up at him as he stood above her. Clare had taken off her shoes and Luke stared at her feet. Her dainty toenails were painted a delicate shade of honey-peach which matched her tan and Luke watched in some amusement as she moved her feet, relishing the delicious experience of talcum-soft sand between her toes.
‘You’re just a little girl, aren’t you?’ he said, and her heart caught because it seemed that his voice was tender, and because he was looking at her as she wanted him to, and because his hand had sought hers, covering it strongly, his thumb caressing. But as the day wore on her spirits began to sink, for Luke had not attempted even to kiss her, much less make love as she had fully expected him to. True, there was a great deal of work—making notes, putting forward suggestions for discussion, planning the gardens.
‘Well, Clare, I think we’ve done a good day’s work.’ It was a quarter to five. He was looking at her, a half-smile on his lips. ‘It’s time we were getting back to Flamingo Cay.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed flatly, ‘it is.’
Luke, his expression unfathomable, picked up the hamper and carried it to the jetty where the launch was moored. Somehow she had felt that in this visit to Windward Cay, she would be able to make Luke notice her again . . . to win him back from Stella Wesley, but she had done nothing. The opportunity had been lost . . . or perhaps it had never been there at all.
Chapter Ten
It was two days later that Mrs Weedall told Clare she was considering a prolonged stay on Flamingo Cay. ‘I like it so much,’ she added, with her usual thin smile. ‘And I have you, which is so nice for me, Clare, dear. I’ve been so much alone and now everything’s changed. Do you think that Phil can arrange for me to have a room for about three months?’
Three months! Consternation looked out from Clare’s eyes. She recalled last evening, when Luke had again dined alone with Stella Wesley, giving her all his attention, obviously very happy to be with her. It still amazed Clare that he could not only have forgiven her but was willing to marry her after what she had done to him. Marry . . . ? He had not actually said he was intending to marry her but when Clare had mentioned it he made no denial. ‘Do you really want to be away from Frank’s grave for that long, Mrs Weedall?’ Clare inquired at last.
‘I’m hoping that Simon will look after it. He did promise.’
‘It’s a long time—and we have the busy season coming,’ added Clare as the thought occurred to her. ‘We might be booked up.’
A small hesitation and then, ‘Perhaps, dear, if that were the case, I could share your room? Is it big enough for another bed?’
‘I—I—’ Clare shook her head, frowning. It would be unbearable to have Mrs Weedall with her every night. ‘I never did like sharing,’ she said apologetically. ‘I read before going to sleep and the light would disturb you—’
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��Not in the least, dear,’ interrupted Mrs Weedall, smiling. ‘I too read in bed so your light would be no problem.’
Clare moved uneasily. She felt she was being caught in a net from which she would have the greatest difficulty in escaping. What must she do? She could not deliberately hurt Frank’s mother, and yet, if she put her first then she herself was going to be even more miserable than she was now. And the other thing was that she wanted more than anything to return to England as soon as possible. She had not yet mentioned her decision to Phil, but she had no doubt that he would be let down by her giving up the post of receptionist. Mary would readily take her place.
‘I’ll pay for a room if there’s one available, naturally,’ Mrs Weedall was saying. ‘Why not see if there is one, dear, before we discuss the possibility of my sharing yours?’ She looked anxiously at Clare, whose pity leapt instantly to the forefront of her mind. What a desperately lonely woman she was! And it was not her fault if she dwelt all the time on her misfortunes, she just happened to be made that way, and people like Luke and Phil should try to understand. ‘I know you have your job, Clare, dear,’ continued Mrs Weedall, ‘and I know you can’t be with me during the daytime—except perhaps for lunch,’ she added on an optimistic little note. ‘But there would be every evening, and we could sit and talk about Frank. . . .’ Her voice trailed off to silence and a tinge of colour stole into her pallid cheeks. She and Clare were on the terrace and Clare twisted her head to look up into the narrowed gaze of the man who was scarcely ever out of her thoughts.
‘Luke,’ she began when he interrupted her, speaking to Mrs Weedall. ‘Did I hear you say you were staying for three months?’
‘I’d like to,’ answered Mrs Weedall feebly.
‘And you expect Clare to spend every evening with you?’
‘She would want to be with me.’
‘You’re sure?’ He came forward unhurriedly to take possession of a chair opposite the woman he was talking to. Clare noticed the steely glint in his eyes, the harsh set of his jaw and something made her ask, ‘How long have you been there, Luke?’