by Sandra Field
How could she not have?
Ruefully she smiled at the iridescent turquoise patches on the wings of the nearest butterfly. After that night in Paris, it had been years before she could bring herself to wear turquoise again. But now she did. In fact, her new swimsuit was also iridescent turquoise, and fit her like a glove.
She looked very good in it, she thought smugly, and went indoors to change.
She was going to have a wonderful time here. All on her own.
Seth scowled at his reflection in the mirror of his cottage. He looked godawful. He certainly looked like he could do with a good dose of R&R. What better place to get it than at the White Cay Resort?
He picked up his razor, running it over his face. The wound that furrowed his ribs was healing, although too slowly for his liking. It itched like crazy under the tape. If he could rid himself of the nightmares that all too often plagued his sleep, he’d be more or less okay.
Dinner, he thought. He wasn’t in the mood for formality. The Tradewind Room would do fine for tonight. Nor was he in the mood for conviviality, so hopefully he wouldn’t know anyone here. If he kept to himself for a couple of days, he could go back to the rat race refreshed.
He ran a comb through his thick blond hair and left the cottage, glancing with pleasure at the long stretch of pale sand and the impossibly blue sea. But as he entered the foyer of the restaurant, his heart sank.
“Seth,” Conway Fleming said cheerfully. “Wouldn’t have expected to find you here—not enough action.”
“I came here to get away from it,” Seth said, not very tactfully.
Conway laughed heartily. “Don’t we all! Do you know Pete Sonyard? Sonyard Yachts…and his wife Jeannine.”
Seth dredged up what he knew about the builder of the world’s fastest yachts, and discovered Jeannine was an authority on the history of the Caribbean islands. As for Conway, Seth had known him, off and on, for years; he was well regarded on Wall Street, and known as a serious patron of the arts. As the conversation gathered momentum, Seth started mentally rehearsing how he was going to get a table to himself.
Then he saw the woman.
She’d just pushed open the door to the foyer. She had on a brief red dress, her hair a silky fall of raven-black. Her legs were bare and slender, her feet in ridiculously high-heeled red sandals. Her skin seemed to glow in the warm rays of the setting sun.
She was incredibly beautiful.
She glanced behind her, then held the door wider for a mother and two little children to enter. The boy had black hair like hers. He looked up, asking her something; she crouched to answer him, taking off her dark glasses, the dress drawn tight across her thighs. The boy tugged at her hair. She said something that made him laugh, and glanced up at his mother, the line of her throat making Seth’s heart thud in his chest.
How long since he’d felt such instant and imperative lust?
Too long. Much too long.
She and the two children made a delightful tableau, he thought painfully, and across the room heard her laugh. Husky. Undeniably sexy. As she stood up, smoothing her dress, his blood pressure jolted up another notch. The dress was sexy, too, all the more so for being so sophisticated. It was sleeveless, the neckline and armholes square-cut; just above the hem, small squares had been cut out of the fabric, hinting at the skin beneath.
With one final remark to the little family, the black-haired woman turned and headed for the Tradewind Room. She hadn’t even glanced his way. Infuriated that the intensity of his gaze hadn’t caused her to as much as turn her head, Seth heard Conway say, “Gorgeous, isn’t she?”
“You know her?”
“Who doesn’t?”
“I don’t,” Seth said. Her face and body were unforgettable, let alone her air of confidence and poise, along with the genuine warmth she’d shown the little boy. She was stunning, he thought, and knew he wanted to meet her very badly.
Maybe, finally, he’d gotten over that debacle of eight years ago.
“I’m surprised you’ve never run into her, Seth,” Conway remarked. “You have an interest in classical music, don’t you?”
Seth did. A fledgling, but very genuine passion for something he’d connected with only a couple of years ago, through his old friend Julian in Berlin. He frowned. “What’s that got to do with it?”
“That’s Lia d’Angeli,” Conway replied. “Darling of audiences and critics alike—not to mention the press and the makers of CDs. I’ll introduce you.” Raising his voice, he called, “Lia?”
She looked over, saw Conway and smiled spontaneously. Her eyes were dark, Seth saw, almost as dark as her hair. Both her lips and her nails were a fire-engine red. It was a very generous and voluptuous mouth, he thought, his own dry. She said warmly, “Conway! How lovely to see you.”
Lia had known Conway for nearly six years; his foundation in support of the arts had permitted her, four years ago, to purchase a Stradivarius violin, which had enriched her playing immeasurably. For Conway, she’d even give up her precious solitude. For one evening, anyway.
He leaned over and kissed her European fashion on both cheeks. “Let me introduce you to some friends of mine.”
She glanced over at them, prepared to like them as much for Conway’s sake as for their own, and heard him say, “Pete and Jeannine Sonyard, from Maine. And Seth Talbot, who’s based in New York. Lia d’Angeli, the violinist.”
Seth Talbot was standing there. Right in front of her. The late sun was gilding his blond hair, while his green eyes were fastened on her. The shock hit Lia with the force of a tidal wave. As the color drained from her face, the polished mahogany floor swayed and dipped under her feet. Seth, she thought frantically. It can’t be. Oh God, get me out of here.
With all her strength she fought for control, willing the floor to stay firmly under her feet where it belonged. But to see him again, after so many years…briefly she closed her eyes, praying that she’d wake up and find this was nothing but a bad dream.
“Are you all right, Lia?” Conway asked in quick concern, taking her elbow in his hand.
“Yes…sorry. Too much sun today, I guess.” With a huge effort she produced a smile for the Sonyards. “I flew from Helsinki to Toronto yesterday. A lot of dirty wet snow in Helsinki, and a downpour in Toronto—I don’t recommend visiting either place in April. Do you blame me for lying out in the sun the minute I got here? But I must have overdone it.”
She was babbling, she thought. Normally she rarely talked about the weather, there were too many other more interesting things to discuss. Jeannine laughed, making a commonplace remark about Maine’s climate. Lia’s eyes skidded sideways, met Seth’s and winced away again.
He said with a pleasure that sounded entirely genuine, “I’m delighted to meet you, Signora d’Angeli. I have all seven of your CDs, and I’ve played them many times.”
Shock and dismay were usurped by a torrent of rage that almost incapacitated Lia. How dare he act as though they’d never met before? As though she’d never written him two letters eight long years ago telling him about his impending fatherhood? “I’m flattered,” she said with icy precision, and watched his jaw tighten at her rudeness. Deliberately allowing her voice to warm, she asked, “Conway, how long are you staying?”
Conway was looking understandably puzzled; he knew her well enough to have witnessed her unfailing courtesy to those who were interested in her playing. “Until tomorrow afternoon,” he said. “You’ll join us for dinner this evening?”
“I’d like that very much,” Seth interposed.
You would, would you, Lia thought vengefully. Too bad. Not for one hundred Strads would she sit at the same table as Seth Talbot, whether they made small talk about the weather or discussed her legato. Because, of course, he’d now repudiated her twice. Eight years ago and right now. Just as if the two of them had never spent the night in each other’s arms, and just as though she hadn’t gotten pregnant as a result. She stretched her mouth in a smile that felt
utterly false. “I’m afraid I must decline. I’m dining in the Reef Room tonight, I only came in here to look around.”
Seth was looking at her quizzically. “We’ve never met, have we, Signora d’Angeli? I can’t imagine how I’ve offended you.”
She should have known he wouldn’t take her bad manners lying down. Not the internationally known Seth Talbot, who in the last eight years had made more money than an entire orchestra earned in its lifetime. It was on the tip of her tongue to say sweetly, But Mr. Talbot, have you forgotten how we made love on the balcony of a hotel in Paris? Or the two letters I sent you afterward, mentioning the minor problem of my pregnancy?
Although it would have given her great satisfaction to have said all this, Lia bit the words back. If Seth Talbot wanted, once again, to deny her existence, she should let him do so. That way she’d keep him out of her life. Preserve her privacy, as she’d done so strenuously for so long.
She said mendaciously, “I don’t think we’ve ever met before, Mr. Talbot. But you remind me very strongly of someone I’d much prefer to forget…please forgive my lack of good manners.” There. She’d given an excuse for her rudeness without publicly embarrassing him by telling the truth. Turning to Conway, she added, “I’d love to meet you tomorrow for breakfast, if you have the time.”
Conway bowed gallantly. “I always have time for you, Lia. Eight-thirty here in the foyer?”
“Wonderful,” she said and smiled at the Sonyards. “Please excuse me.” Then she made the mistake of glancing at Seth. He was staring at her, his brows knit, a look of such genuine puzzlement on his face that she could have slapped him. The man should have been an actor, not the head of a giant corporation.
Calling on all her self-control, she said lightly, “I’m going to be late for my reservation, I must go. Enjoy your evening.”
“Until we meet again,” Seth said in a clipped voice.
That’ll be never if I have my way, thought Lia, turning on her heel and leaving the foyer as though she had nothing more important than dinner on her mind.
She didn’t have a reservation in the Reef Room; she only hoped they’d have room for her. Not that she was the slightest bit hungry.
Another wave of anger surged through her. Her heels tapping sharply on the stone path, she walked between banks of plumbago, frangipani and hibiscus. Until Seth Talbot had crossed her path, she’d been looking forward to her solitary meal in the Tradewind Room. How dare he act as though he’d never laid eyes on her before? How dare he? And then to have the gall to ask how he’d offended her. The bastard. The cold-hearted, irresponsible bastard.
Her steps faltered. It was her own child who was the bastard. Her beloved Marise.
Whose eyes were the green of a summer meadow. Just like Seth’s.
Once Lia had realized, eight years ago, that Seth had no intention of answering her letters, she’d made it a policy never to speak about her personal life to the media; so Marise’s existence, although generally known, only rarely emerged in print. She’d been fortunate in that she’d put on very little weight during her pregnancy, and had had a dressmaker who’d expertly masked the gentle bulge of Lia’s belly with Empire waistlines and concealing panels of stiff fabric. She’d had to miss two concerts. That was all.
As her due date had approached, Lia had cashed in half the bonds her parents had left her and, using them as security, had bought a small, but very lovely old farm in the country eighty miles from Manhattan. The bank had come up with the mortgage and a local carpenter had done the renovations. Her daughter had been born in the little hospital five miles down the road.
She’d hired a nanny. She’d bought a car. She’d made a life for herself and her child. The farm had become home, giving mother and daughter a very necessary stability.
Despite his betrayal, she hadn’t allowed Seth to derail her life. But neither had she been able to forget him. For one thing, every time she looked into her daughter’s eyes, Lia saw him. For another, she’d never replaced him. Not once, in eight years, had she felt pulled toward a man the way she had been toward Seth. So her bed had remained empty, and her heart untouched.
Passion, once experienced in all its overwhelming power, couldn’t easily be duplicated. That had been one of the lessons Seth had taught her. That, along with the disillusion and wariness of the deeply wounded.
What was she going to do? She could leave the island tomorrow morning on the resort’s helicopter, pleading a family emergency. Nancy, Lia’s nanny, wouldn’t be happy with her; it was vivacious, dependable Nancy who insisted Lia have a few days a year all to herself.
If she left, she wouldn’t have to face Seth again. Breakfast with Conway, and then she’d be gone.
Seth was going to seek her out. He’d said as much, and he wasn’t a man for idle words. How long would they be together before he spoke about the past? More important, how long could she keep her fury to herself?
Her fiery temper had gotten her into trouble more than once in the past. She couldn’t risk it here, not with Seth. There was too much at stake. Because she wasn’t going to let him near her daughter, not for anything. He’d done nothing to earn such a gift, and everything to desecrate it.
But if she ran for the farm with her tail between her legs, she’d be the loser. She needed this holiday desperately, for she was returning to a killer schedule of concerts and recording sessions. Why should she leave here just because Seth Talbot had turned up out of the blue?
He didn’t want anything to do with her. If he had, he could have contacted her at any time in the last eight years.
Standing in the warmth of a Caribbean sunset, Lia snapped off a single bloom of hibiscus and defiantly tucked it behind her ear. She was going to march into the Reef Room as though she owned the place, and eat her way down the menu. Then she’d go to her cottage and read one of the books that had been sitting on her bedside table for the last six months.
Seth Talbot wasn’t going to ruin her holiday.
But neither was he ever going to meet Marise.
CHAPTER SIX
A BIRD was screeching in the bushes next to the cottage. Seth turned over in bed and stared blearily at the clock radio. In bright red numerals it said 0545: numerals that were just as red as Lia d’Angeli’s dress. Ouch, he thought, and buried his head under the pillows. The first bird had been joined by a second; it sounded like full-blown domestic warfare was being waged two feet from his open window.
He’d stake his brand new red Porsche that Lia had been planning on eating in the Tradewind Room until she’d seen him. Then she’d changed her mind prestissimo. He tried to block out the image of her crouched by the door, making a little boy laugh. Or the way her long black hair waved to her shoulders, gleaming like satin. Her skin was like satin, too, he thought, and felt his groin harden in instinctive response.
Trouble. That’s what she spelled with her lustrous dark eyes and sensuous, red-painted mouth. Big trouble.
He didn’t need that kind of trouble in his life. Why couldn’t she have gone somewhere else for her holidays? Somewhere a long way from here.
Knowing sleep was out of the question, Seth turned on the bedside light and reached for the novel he’d started a couple of days ago. But he couldn’t concentrate on the plot, and kept having to flick back through the pages to see who was who.
Impatiently he put the book down. It hadn’t been the birds that had woken him; it had been a nightmare, one that seemed totally out of place in this luxurious setting.
The images were still fluttering at the edge of his vision: miserable shanties, burned villages, refugees displaced with only what they could carry on their backs. He’d seen it all only a few days ago in a rebel-torn area near Africa’s equator. It was the children who had gotten to him. Orphaned children, weeping. Starving children beyond tears. A newly dead little boy, his mother wailing her sorrow…what were his troubles compared to that?
As always, he’d done his best to see that the money his foundation
was channeling into the area went straight to those who needed it; in the course of which he’d run foul of a gun-happy rebel and a bullet had plowed across his ribcage. He was just lucky the guy’s aim had been off.
No matter what he did, one thing was obvious. Single-handed or with the help of his admirable staff, he couldn’t stop the war or stamp out the root causes of the poverty…those went far beyond the reach of one man, no matter how rich or how well-meaning.
Oddly enough, among Seth’s primary emotions as he’d flown home had been a searing realization of the aridity of his own life. Sure, he had friends, good ones, scattered all over the globe. But otherwise, he was detached. Uninvolved. He could tell himself he was the inevitable product of the disastrous marriage between his mother and father. Blame his need to be a loner on them. But wasn’t he, when all was said and done, poorer than any of those close-knit families he’d seen struggling to survive under a tropical sun? They at least had each other.
Who did he have?
No one. With a disgusted grunt, Seth heaved himself out of bed. Despite his sore ribs, he was going swimming. Afterward, so he wouldn’t bump into Conway and Lia d’Angeli, he’d order room service: a calorie-laden breakfast of all the things that were bad for him, like bacon and hash browns. He needed this holiday and he was darn well going to enjoy it.
While the swim woke Seth up, breakfast made him drowsy, so he slept for nearly an hour in his lounge chair on the shaded, breezy deck of his cottage. Waking midmorning, he decided he had just enough time to join the boat that should be heading out to the reef for some snorkeling. Grabbing his gear, shoving his dark glasses on his nose, Seth set out for the dock.
The boat was ready to leave. Its sole occupant, other than the guide, was Lia d’Angeli, wearing a dazzlingly white cover-up over her swimsuit, her hair bundled under a wide-brimmed sunhat. Because she was chatting with the guide, she hadn’t seen him.