He shook his head as if to clear it. “Never mind,” he said curtly. “I'm not sure it's relevant, any more."
She gave him a pale smile. “Very likely not.” If it was a repetition of what he had said before on Sheerwind, then nothing would be gained by raking over the ashes.
Ethan looked around the room again, as if searching for inspiration. “I like what you've done here,” he said. “Do you have a fancy for old houses?"
She said, “I didn't particularly go hunting for one. But this was reasonably priced, and although it's small, it had a huge kitchen that I've converted into a workroom, and a scullery that makes a perfectly adequate kitchen, big enough for my needs."
“Workroom?"
“I do a lot of work at home. Fabric painting and tie-dyeing. Janice started me off, and I've done a sixteen-week full-time course in fabric art since coming to Auckland."
“So some of the stuff in the shop is yours?"
“Most of the clothing is made from my fabrics. But the sewing is done by a team of three women who work out of their homes."
“May I see the workroom?"
“Sure.” She would never, she thought sadly, be able to shake off the ghost of his presence. But it was already too late. She took him through to the former kitchen and showed him the bolts of material, large pots for dying, and jars of powdered colour. A long table held frames in different sizes on which she tautened silk for painting. Inspecting a shelf holding paint, brushes and fixatives, Ethan peered at a large jar of white crystals.
“Salt,” Celeste said, at his enquiring look. “Sprinkled on the wet paint, it gives some lovely marbled effects. And that,” she added, as he picked up the bottle next to it, “is alcohol. It repulses colour and makes light spots surrounded by deeper pigment."
“Interesting,” he murmured. “You've come a long way in a short time."
“It's a very small business,” she admitted. “But it's thriving, and I was lucky to find an outlet in the shop. Eventually I should do quite well."
“Aunt Ellie says you're a part-owner of the shop."
“Yes. I sold the house."
“If you need money any time, Celeste..."
“Not from you!"
His mouth went tight. “It's Alec's money. He would have expected—"
“I don't want Alec's money,” she said tensely. “He left it to you."
“Celeste—"
“I said, keep it!” She pushed past him and led him back to the other room, where she turned to face him. “For the first time in my life I'm independent,” she said. “It's a good feeling. I want to stay that way."
Ethan thrust his hands into his pockets, his shoulders hunched. “Okay. Just remember that it's there if you need it."
“You're very kind,” she said formally. “Thank you."
He looked rather fed up, she thought. He said, “I think it's time I left. I'll contact you again."
Slightly surprised, she saw him to the door. As she opened it and he made to step past her, he swung around, and before she could gauge his intention, he had a hand behind her head and was bringing his mouth down on hers.
It was a brief kiss, but hard. When he stepped back he looked down into her shocked eyes and said, “We're relatives, after all. I'll see you.” And then he was gone.
And that was that, she thought blankly as she closed the door after him and leaned back against it. Nothing resolved, nothing said, really. She got the definite impression that he had come ready for some sort of showdown, and then...
The phone call had thrown him off his stroke. Not just the interruption, but the nature of the call. He had asked if she was dating, and seemed put out by her answer.
Well, that only confirmed how right she had been to leave Sheerwind—and Ethan—when she had.
“I'm going to the Legal Society ball,” Celeste told Sandra. “Grant suggested I could wear something that I've done myself, make a sort of walking advertisement of it. Do you think you could do the sewing? It has to be ready by the eighteenth."
Sandra entered into the project with enthusiasm. She was, Celeste had discovered, talented at drafting original patterns, and together they worked out a design that had both simplicity and flair, an almost ethereal dress with a tiny draped bodice and flowing handkerchief skirt, made in finest silk chiffon, the colours so subtly changing from flame red to palest pink to a hint of the softest of greens, that it was impossible to tell where one ended and the next began.
Celeste tried not to think about Ethan, but when he came into the shop again exactly a week after the first time, she felt a mixture of relief, gladness and trepidation.
“I come with an invitation,” he informed her. “Aunt Ellie wants us both to have dinner with her one evening."
She knew that Aunt Ellie avoided the telephone because her hearing problem made using it something of an ordeal, so it wasn't surprising that the invitation had come through Ethan. She said cautiously, “When?"
“Any night that suits you,” Ethan answered. “I'm easy, and she says she'll fit in with whatever we decide."
So there was no question of pleading another engagement. And she wouldn't like to hurt the older woman by refusing. “All right,” she said. “What about Thursday?"
“Fine. I'll tell her. And I'll pick you up with a taxi at about six, okay?"
“I can find my own way."
“It's no trouble,” he assured her. “I have to pass by your place."
She didn't know where he was staying. “Are you at a hotel?"
“With a friend."
It crossed her mind to wonder if the friend was female. The thought gave her a strange sensation.
Someone came into the shop, and Ethan said, “Six o'clock, Thursday,” and sauntered out.
“You've put on weight, girl!” Aunt Ellie beamed. “About time, too. Doesn't she look better for it?” she demanded of Ethan. “Definitely.” Celeste was wearing a plum-coloured skirt with matching shoes, and a sage-green blouse that she had painted herself, using both salt and alcohol techniques to give it a striking pattern. Over it she had a striped jacket that picked up both colours and also featured purple and red. The eye-catching outfit showed up her pale, shining hair, and she wore it with casual elegance. “She looks gorgeous.” Ethan grinned.
“What?” Aunt Ellie glared at him.
“I said, she looks gorgeous!” he told her loudly.
“Hmmph. Well, get her a sherry or something while I fix things in the kitchen,” Aunt Ellie instructed.
“Can't I help?” Celeste asked her, remembering to pitch her voice to a decibel level the older woman could hear.
“No, you stay and entertain Ethan,” Aunt Ellie ordered her, and marched out of the room.
Ethan poured sherry from a bottle in a corner cabinet into two glasses and handed one to Celeste.
“Well?” he said. “Entertain me, then."
“What would you like?” she enquired sarcastically, sinking onto a fat, floral-covered sofa. “A song-and-dance act?"
He laughed, and seated himself half facing her. “I can think of better things,” he said, still smiling, and raised his glass to her.
He was flirting with her, and a frisson of apprehension inside her mingled with a bubble of delight.
“Don't be frightened,” Ethan said rather gently. “I'm not going to leap on you and tear you limb from limb."
“I have wondered,” she said, regarding the liquid in her glass, “if that wasn't exactly what you had in mind. Metaphorically speaking."
Ethan shook his head. “Have you really not been in contact with Steven since leaving the island, until you got his letter?"
Celeste took a quick sip of her drink. She felt herself tense in anticipation of his reaction. “Once,” she said, looking away from him. “I phoned him before I left Sydney. He ... came to my hotel.” She glanced at him, daring him to make anything of that. There was a frown line between his brows, a smouldering light in the navy blue eyes, but he just nodded as th
ough to encourage her to go on.
“We talked,” she said. She didn't say so, but they had talked in a deserted hotel lounge, over cups of coffee. She had only phoned to say goodbye to Steven and give him a forwarding address, in case he needed to contact her over Alec's papers. He had asked to see her, and with nothing to do now except wait until it was time to leave for the airport, she had agreed.
Steven had seemed a little distracted, she thought, and he had been rather insistent that she try to recall if there was any other place that Alec might have left documents or disks relating to his work.
“I can't think of anywhere,” she told him. “Honestly, everything he had has been sorted, and I'm sure that Ethan would have given you anything that you could use."
He sighed. “Yes, I guess so."
“Is there a problem, still?"
“You might say that,” he said, baffled. “I'll just have to go through the lot again. Maybe I've missed something. How are you?” he asked, forgetting that he had already made the expected, perfunctory query. “I mean, really?"
“Recovering,” she told him. “I'll be fine."
He said, almost unwillingly, “Celeste, do you think Alec was ... quite himself, before he died?"
“I think he hadn't been for some time,” she said softly. Watching his troubled face, she made a decision. “He did commit suicide, you know."
Oddly, he looked almost relieved. “I ... suspected it,” he said. “In fact, I was pretty sure."
“Why?"
“Well, you know that field trip that we'd just got back from? There was a fair bit of clambering about rocks and stuff that Alec of course wasn't able to take part in, although he was brilliant at deciphering what we'd found. The final day of the trip we were late getting back to camp. Alec had broached a bottle of whisky before we arrived. We made it a bit of a party in the end, but he'd had a head start on the rest of us. In the early hours, everyone else had gone off to bed, and he and I polished off the last bottle between us. I've never known him so talkative. He began telling me about his early expeditions—fascinating stories. I was riveted. Then he went on to say how he felt about ... the way things were now—then, I mean. How he couldn't keep up anymore, and he was going to be pushed off the peak by ... people like me. He said his work was his life, and if he couldn't do it anymore, he couldn't go on living. And a lot of stuff like that. I thought it was the drink talking. Then when ... when the accident happened, I wondered. But there didn't seem any point in dragging it up."
“There wasn't,” Celeste said. “But thank you for telling me."
“I had the feeling,” Steven said, “that maybe you need to know that it wasn't because of anything to do with you. He never mentioned you the whole time. Just his work and how he'd loved it as he loved nothing else.” He flushed then. “Sorry, I probably shouldn't have told you that. Maybe that makes it worse."
Celeste shook her head. “It's okay. I knew anyway."
“Yeah. I guess you'd know him better than anyone."
“Celeste?” Ethan was saying. The frown had intensified.
“Sorry. I was thinking. Steven wanted to know if there was any other place Alec might have kept notes. I wasn't able to help him. He must have suspected even then that there was no more."
Aunt Ellie bustled in, pulling an apron from her substantial waist. “Dinner!” she announced. “Come along, you two, before it gets cold."
She was a superb cook. As Ethan told her, it would have been a crime not to give all of their attention to the moist pink smoked marlin served with asparagus spears, the creamy curried soup garnished with the finest grated carrot, the pork served with tiny potatoes and baby kumaras, and a sauce that Aunt Ellie said proudly was made to her own secret recipe.
“It's wonderful!” Ethan assured her, speaking carefully into her ear. Celeste added her tribute, but looked doubtfully at the chocolate mousse and whipped cream that followed, saying, “Honestly, Aunt Ellie, I don't know if I can eat any more."
Her hostess scowled. “Eat it up,” she bellowed, as though addressing a recalcitrant child. “It'll do you good."
Celeste met Ethan's eyes and hastily looked away. It wouldn't do if the two of them burst out laughing and had to try to explain the joke—loudly—to Aunt Ellie.
The dessert was so light it melted on the tongue, and Celeste managed to do it justice in the end. Aunt Ellie inspected the empty dish approvingly and said, “There! I told you."
“Yes, you did,” Celeste agreed meekly, not at all sure what exactly the older woman meant.
“You've blossomed since Alec died,” Aunt Ellie said, staring at her fixedly. “It's usually a mistake to marry someone nearly twenty years older."
Celeste flushed, and Ethan began to look rather austere. Quite unabashed, Aunt Ellie ploughed on. “Never much of a man for women anyway. Didn't understand them. Even his stepmother said she found him difficult to know. Used to worry her."
“It did?” Ethan said, his brows shooting up.
But she obviously hadn't heard. “Don't think he was cut out for marriage, really. Blame his father for that. After Ann left them ... gave the boy too much attention, in a way. Always wanted his son to be the best at everything. Said ambition never did anyone any harm. Too pushy, I thought. Told him so once. The man Ann left him for, of course, was one of those tycoon fellas. Had the Midas touch. Always thought that had something to do with it, you know. By the time his father married again, mellowed a bit on the subject of women, it was too late to do Alec any good. Not that he was ... like that,” she added trenchantly. “Was he?” she suddenly demanded of Celeste, who shook her head, trying to control her expression. “Mm. Thought not. Well, he's gone and that's that,” Aunt Ellie finished, with an air of washing her hands of the problem. “And you needn't poker up like that,” she admonished Ethan. “I've only spoken the truth, young fella."
Ethan's face relaxed into wry humour. “Yes,” he said. “You always do."
Aunt Ellie looked from him to Celeste and back again. “Girl needs a social life, you know. She works too hard."
Celeste said, “Aunt Ellie, I have—"
“Why don't you take her out, Ethan? Do her good. Both of you. Go on.” She sat back with an air of pleased expectancy, as though she had just invented sliced bread and was waiting for someone to butter it.
Celeste's cheeks were scarlet, and Ethan said in a shaking voice, “Good idea, Aunt Ellie. I intend to."
Celeste's eyes flew to his face. He was humouring the old lady, she thought. He had made no such suggestion to her.
They helped Aunt Ellie wash up, and had some coffee, leaving on the dot of ten when she consulted the clock and said, “Well, I hope you've enjoyed your evening...."
Assuring her that they had, Ethan called a cab. When it arrived, he handed Celeste in, and seating himself next to her with his head back, he blew a long “Whew!” at the ceiling.
“My sentiments exactly,” Celeste said, and began to laugh.
Ethan joined in. “I'd forgotten,” he gasped, “what a human tornado she is."
“She's wonderful,” Celeste said warmly. “But so embarrassing!"
“I wasn't embarrassed."
“I was!"
“I noticed. Not so sophisticated as you'd like to pretend, are you?” He turned his head to study her with smiling curiosity. He had a mad urge to take her in his arms. So he folded them instead, before he said, “When can I take you out? Would you like dinner? A show? A film? Or dancing? There must be nightclubs in this town where people dance."
“You don't need to."
“Didn't you hear what I told her? She jumped the gun on me, that's all."
“Why should you—"
“Because Aunt Ellie will interrogate me—both of us. And hound us until we can tell her we've had at least one date."
Celeste shuddered. “So she will."
“Is the prospect that terrible?” Ethan asked drily.
“No, of course not. I just don't think you sh
ould be forced..."
“Nobody is forcing me. Okay?"
Celeste shrugged. “If you say so."
They went to a film, a multiple Academy Award winner that they agreed was less good than its publicity. To make up for it, Ethan suggested they try another outing a few nights later. “Aunt Ellie,” he said solemnly, “will want a blow-by-blow description. We can't let her down."
She refused to go dancing, afraid of what being held close to him might do to her equilibrium. He said, “Ever been to Theatre-sports? It's supposed to be great fun. Sunday night, I believe."
It was great fun, a complicated version of the old game of charades played by teams of actors and turned into a very funny spectator sport, with cheering and booing from a packed theatre, and judges who deliberately provoked boisterous audience reaction.
“I haven't had such a good time in years!” Celeste told Ethan as they made their way out of the theatre.
He smiled at her even as she caught herself up, wondering if he would see the remark as a reflection on his stepbrother. His arm came about her shoulder, and he kissed her on the lips. Her mouth was soft and warm, and for a moment he held it under his, tempted ... so tempted. Then he pushed her gently away as someone close by whistled and hooted.
When he left her at her door he brushed her cheek with his lips and said, “Thank you. I had a great time, too."
Chapter Sixteen
Celeste climbed into bed and lay wakeful in the darkness. “I don't understand,” she muttered to herself. “I don't understand him."
Sometimes she passionately wished that he had kept away, but the thought of his going again wrenched at her heart. She didn't know if she could bear it.
Ethan had said she was a different woman each time he met her after a long absence, but he seemed to have suffered a sea-change, too. He had, according to Aunt Ellie's instructions, taken her out. And treated her with what appeared to be affection, although every moment they were together was mild torture for her. On one level she loved being in his company, felt twice as alive when he was near, and desperately wanted more. And yet, that was exactly what she had left the island to avoid—finding herself enmeshed in her love for him with no hope of escape. There could be no lasting happiness in a passion that was so intertwined with distrust, with anger—and with guilt.
A Guilty Passion Page 20