by Anne Mather
‘Good, good.’ His father nodded. ‘What with one thing and another, I’ve been neglecting my duties.’
‘You mean I have,’ said Matt drily. ‘And the girl’s arrival is just another complication.’
‘But I understand you find her quite fascinating,’ remarked Jacob quietly.
‘Ah. You’ve been talking to Amalie.’ Not for the first time Matt resented his sister’s interference. ‘We met Rachel on the pier, after I’d checked out the Bellefontaine.’
‘Rachel?’ His father arched dark eyebrows, a mirror image of his son’s.
‘All right. Ms Claiborne, then,’ said Matt sourly. ‘A rose by any other name…’
‘You think she’s an English rose?’
Matt knew Jacob was only teasing him, but after this morning’s encounter he couldn’t respond in kind.
‘Where is Amalie?’ he asked instead, changing the subject. ‘She’s promised to be in for dinner. She wants to talk to me. About her allowance, I assume.’
‘She’s about here somewhere,’ muttered his father vaguely. He still hadn’t attuned himself to leaving the family finances to his son. ‘Tell me about this girl. Sara’s daughter. Is she as attractive as her mother?’
‘She’s nothing like Sara,’ said Matt, not wanting to talk about the two women in the same breath. He flicked the papers lying on the desk. ‘How are you getting on with your book?’
Jacob had been writing a history of the island for as long as Matt could remember. But since his stroke it had proved beneficial as a means to stimulate his attention. With Matt taking control of the running of the plantation, and the charter operation as well, Jacob had had plenty of time to review his notes.
The older man shrugged now. ‘I haven’t been in the mood for it today.’
Matt picked up a picture of a horse-drawn carriage that was to be included in the illustrations. ‘That’s a pity,’ he said, putting one picture down and picking up another. ‘These are really good.’
Jacob said nothing and, realising he couldn’t avoid the subject entirely, Matt relented. ‘You’re not worrying about my relationship with Sara, are you?’
‘Is there something I should worry about?’ Jacob’s eyes were shrewd. ‘You care about her, don’t you? How could I object to that?’
‘I don’t know.’ Matt spoke broodingly. ‘And Diana?’ His stepmother had a right to an opinion. This was her home, too.
‘Diana’s far too busy arranging this year’s music festival,’ said her husband drily. ‘In any case, she knows you have your own life to lead. We can’t control who you choose to invite to Mango Key.’
Mango Key was Matt’s own house that was situated on the other side of the plantation, near the ocean. He’d used to spend a lot of his time there. But since his father’s stroke, and the increased responsibilities that had put upon him, he was spending more and more time at Jaracoba. Not that he minded. He loved the old house that would one day be his.
He scowled now. He’d been so sure he knew what he was doing. But since meeting Rachel the situation had changed. Why would she come out here, obviously looking for her mother, unless she had a very good reason? What had Sara told her family before making this trip to renew her acquaintance with him?
God knew, it was years since he’d seen her. He’d been a boy of barely nineteen when they’d first met in New York. He’d been in his first year at Princeton University, and his initial reaction to the older woman had been mixed.
Even today he wasn’t sure if he really liked her. Loved her? Perhaps. But that was suspect, too. Sara had always been brittle, and now she was bitter. He had the feeling she thought the world owed her a living. That she resented the way her life had turned out.
Whereas Rachel…
But he didn’t want to go there. He had no right thinking about Rachel, and she was certainly not someone he intended to discuss with her mother.
However, he would have to tell Sara that her daughter was on the island. That was the least he could do for either of them. He’d put off mentioning it to Sara for days, hoping—probably stupidly—the situation would resolve itself.
But it wasn’t going to, and the sooner Rachel confronted her mother and left the island, hopefully taking Sara with her, the better it would be for all concerned. Whatever Sara said, she couldn’t stay here.
His scowl deepened. He wouldn’t want her to.
Rachel refused to look at the mark on her neck when she got back to the hotel. In retrospect, the scene had been so embarrassing the last thing she needed was a reminder of it.
But then, next morning, she looked into the bathroom mirror and saw it before she remembered what had happened. A dark stain against the still-pale skin of her throat, it was unmistakable. Anyone seeing it would know exactly what it was.
Which had probably been his intention, she thought, touching the mark with tentative fingers. It was hot and it was tender, and it wasn’t going away.
If he’d bitten her anywhere else it wouldn’t have been half so noticeable. With the slight tan she was acquiring it might have blended in. Not that he’d considered her feelings when he touched her. And the memory of his teeth, moving against her skin, could still bring a shiver of apprehension skimming down her spine.
Dear God, the man was dangerous. But she’d known that. He’d seduced her mother away from her father and now he was attempting to seduce her. He was a predator, as his tattoo announced, totally without conscience. And with all the savage grace of a tiger.
She blew out a breath and reached determinedly for her toothbrush. There was no use crying over spilt milk, as her grandmother used to say. She had to stop fretting about what had happened and concentrate on her reasons for being here. She still hadn’t found her mother. That should be her primary concern.
The trouble was, when she’d had the opportunity to find out more about Matt she’d blown it. Her own lack of confidence in herself had ruined the chance she’d had.
If only she wasn’t so aware of him. But she wasn’t used to dealing with a man who could so easily use her own hangups against her. Let’s face it, she thought disconsolately, she wasn’t used to dealing with a man, period. Particularly not a man like him, who possessed such a raw sexual appeal.
With the mark on her neck blatantly proclaiming its origins, Rachel decided to leave her hair loose this morning. She could hardly cover up with a high-necked sweater, even if she’d brought one with her.
A cropped pink vest and the short pleated skirt she’d worn on her first morning on the island were hardly confidence building. But then, when she’d left England she hadn’t known who—or what—she was going to be dealing with.
Slipping wedge-heeled sandals onto her feet, she opened her door and stepped out onto the landing. It was still quite early, barely eight o’clock, but her body was taking longer to adjust to the five-hour time difference than she’d expected.
There was no one about. Apparently even her neighbours weren’t up yet. She started towards the stairs and then halted abruptly. The double doors she’d seen Matt coming out of were just along the gallery. If it was his suite of rooms, might her mother be staying there?
It was worth a try, at least. If the doors were locked, so be it. But if they weren’t…
They weren’t. But when Rachel gripped the handle and opened one of the doors her disappointment was intense. Far from being the cosy love-nest she’d envisaged, beyond the doors was a large office, with printing machines and fax machines and filing cabinets, and a row of desks complete with computers.
Thankfully no one was about at the moment. It was obviously too early for the staff to be working. But she could imagine how embarrassed she’d have been if she’d had to confront a dozen curious faces.
Closing the door again, she hurried away, reversing her steps and heading back towards the stairs.
The lobby was blessedly familiar territory. ‘Good morning, Ms Claiborne,’ called the receptionist on duty, and Rachel acknowledged the gre
eting with an automatic smile. Evidently the staff were encouraged to remember the names of the visitors. Probably to promote an illusion of intimacy between themselves and the hotel guests.
Breakfast, thought Rachel, trying to focus on the morning’s routine. Then another trip into town on the unlikely off-chance that she might run into her mother. And if that didn’t work she was just going to have to ask Matt himself.
She wasn’t looking forward to that event. He might not even come into the hotel today. Of course the taxi driver had said the Brodys owned most of the island, so surely it must be possible to get a phone number, at least?
‘What in God’s name are you doing here?’
Rachel had been heading towards the terrace restaurant when the irate yet absurdly familiar tones arrested her progress. With a feeling of disbelief, she turned on her heels to face the woman who was hurrying to catch up with her.
Her mother!
Who was barely recognisable, even so. In cream flared pants and a flowing smock, a long scarf in orange chiffon floating carelessly about her shoulders, Sara Claiborne looked much different from the woman who’d raised her. Her dark hair, which had been lightly threaded with grey, was now a startling shade of copper. She’d always been an attractive woman, but now her looks were enhanced with eyeshadow and mascara, her full lips painted a glossy shade of crimson.
She looked younger, too, but harder. Obviously she felt it was what she had to do to keep a man like Matt Brody.
Rachel felt sick. She’d wanted to find her mother, but not like this. And it was obvious that the older woman was decidedly less than pleased to see her.
‘Mum…’
Rachel managed to get the word out, but when she went to give her mother a hug Sara Claiborne resisted the attempt.
‘Come on,’ she said shortly. ‘What’s going on here, Rachel? Oh, don’t bother to answer that. I can see it in your face. Your father sent you. I should have known he wouldn’t be able to keep his nose out of it.’
Rachel gasped. ‘He was worried about you, Mum,’ she whispered in protest, glancing anxiously around the lobby, sure that their conversation was being monitored by a dozen pairs of eyes.
‘So he sent you here to spy on me, is that it?’ Sara seemed to have no such worries. Her lips twisted. ‘Really! That man is beyond belief.’
Rachel stared at her in astonishment. Then, with another glance about her, she said, ‘Can we continue this in a less public place?’
‘Why?’ Sara was aggressive. ‘I’m only speaking the truth.’
Rachel shook her head. If she’d ever pictured the scene where she found her mother, it had certainly been much different than this. Sara was in the wrong here; it was she who should be apologising to her husband. Instead of which she was accusing them of spying on her.
‘Look, Mum—’
‘No, you look.’ Sara spoke tersely. ‘I want you to go back to England, Rachel. I don’t want you here. And as for the way you’ve been hanging about the Brodys…’ She spoke contemptuously. ‘I don’t know what your game is, but you’re not going to succeed.’
Rachel’s jaw dropped. ‘I haven’t been “hanging about the Brodys” as you put it,’ she protested. ‘I’ve just been trying to find you, that’s all.’
Her mother used her scarf to fan her flushed face, and then fixed her daughter with a piercing look. ‘That’s not what I hear from Matt.’
From Matt!
Rachel swallowed back the bile that rose into her throat at this accusation. She couldn’t believe it. Matt had been reporting on her to her mother. Had Sara known she was here all this time without even bothering to pick up the phone?
‘Well, you’re wrong. He’s wrong,’ Rachel declared now, her cheeks burning at the insult. She was surprisingly near to tears, and that infuriated her. ‘As for Daddy sending me here—what did you expect, Mum? You run off to the Caribbean to meet a man we don’t know, without even telling us when you’re coming back.’
‘I may not come back.’
The words were spoken quietly enough, but their impact was terrifying. Sara’s eyes left Rachel’s face and drifted thoughtfully round the lobby. It was as if she was looking for someone, and for the first time Rachel wondered how she’d got to the hotel. Had Matt brought her? Her skin crawled at the prospect. She wanted desperately to escape to her room. She wanted to stay there until her mother had gone.
Which was ridiculous, in the circumstances. Dear God, she’d been trying to find her mother. And now she wished she hadn’t. This woman was nothing like Sara Claiborne. She seemed totally self-absorbed, totally self-possessed. She was indifferent to her daughter’s—and her husband’s—feelings. It was as if the real Sara Claiborne had vanished and left this total stranger in her place.
Rachel caught her arm, unable to prevent herself from reacting to such a bald statement. Besides, she wanted to be sure she had her mother’s attention before she spoke.
‘What do you mean?’ she exclaimed. ‘You might not come back? You have to. Surely you don’t honestly believe you can stay here?’
‘Why not?’ Sara’s eyes were distant now. ‘I love this island.’ She hesitated a moment, and then said slowly, ‘I think the only times I’ve been really happy in my life is when I’m here.’
Rachel took an involuntary step backwards. ‘You don’t mean that.’
‘Oh, I do.’
‘But what about Daddy?’ She bit back the words, And me, but they were tacitly implied just the same.
Her mother clicked her tongue. ‘Oh, Ralph,’ she said dismissively. ‘You must know that your father and I have been having problems for some time.’
‘No!’
‘We have.’ Sara’s voice was flat. ‘Ever since your father decided not to retire last year. I only agreed to sell the house and move into that poky apartment because he’d convinced me that it would give us more time and money to spend on holidays and travel. Instead of which he still goes off to work every morning, doing what he wants to do, and I don’t even have a garden to distract me.’
Rachel blew out a breath. ‘And have you told Daddy this?’
‘Only a hundred times.’ Sara’s lips twisted. ‘But he won’t listen to me, so why should I listen to him?’
Rachel tried to think. Something else her mother had said suddenly came back to her. ‘Have you been to St Antoine before?’
‘When I was younger.’ Sara was evasive. ‘As I say, I love it here. I feel younger here.’ Her eyes turned back to Rachel’s. ‘Is that such a bad thing?’
Rachel didn’t know how to answer her. The trouble with being in the middle of something was that you could see both sides. But, whatever her mother said, she couldn’t see any future for her with Matt Brody. Her hand strayed guiltily to the bite on her neck. Not when he didn’t consider anyone but himself.
‘Anyway…’ Rachel had been quiet too long, and her mother was getting impatient. ‘I don’t really care what you think. I suggest you get on the phone and book yourself a flight back to England. If your ticket isn’t viable I’ll sub you, if you like. Just leave me alone to deal with things my way.’
‘But, Mum—’
‘And you can stop calling me Mum all the time. While I’m here, I’m Sara. That’s what Matt calls me and I like it.’
Rachel didn’t have an answer. And with a casual wave her mother swung on her heel and started towards the door.
‘Don’t blame me for wanting a life, Rachel,’ she called back over her shoulder.
But Rachel had already turned away.
Chapter Seven
RACHEL spent the rest of the day in a state of raw confusion. There was no more need for her to go looking for her mother, but that was hardly a relief. And she still didn’t know where Sara Claiborne was staying.
After drinking several cups of coffee in lieu of breakfast, she went up to her room and changed into a swimsuit and shorts. She couldn’t go home, whatever her mother had said. Not yet. Not until she knew whether Sara was
serious about staying here.
Going downstairs again, she bought a magazine at the hotel kiosk and settled herself in a lounge chair by the pool. She knew she ought to have rung her father, but she hadn’t the first idea what she was going to say to him. It was really up to her mother to sort out her own problems, although the woman she’d met earlier didn’t appear to have any that Rachel could see.
The whole situation was a nightmare. Watching holiday-makers splashing about in the pool, Rachel envied them their freedom. Her situation was so uncertain. And it was all Matt Brody’s fault.
Despite her worries, the day passed remarkably quickly. She didn’t eat any lunch. But she did buy two mugs of the delicious island coffee from the poolside bar.
She used the sunscreen she’d bought liberally, but her skin still prickled. She knew she was overdoing it, but somehow sunburn seemed preferable to the torment of her thoughts.
She hadn’t had a dip in the pool yet, so in the late afternoon she slipped off her shorts. Then, refusing to feel self-conscious, she crossed the tiled apron surrounding the pool and gazed down into the water.
The smell of the swimsuit reminded her irresistibly of Matt, and she wished she’d brought more than one suit with her. Despite rinsing it thoroughly when she’d got back from the beach, it still retained the tang of the sea.
The pool itself was almost empty. Most of the guests had gone up to their rooms to prepare for the evening ahead. Only two younger children were playing at the shallow end. Rachel had the deeper end to herself.
It looked very inviting and, taking a deep breath, she stretched out her arms and dived into the water. It wasn’t exactly cold, but it wasn’t warm either. The sun had only heated the surface. Deep down, she felt the chill sting her burning arms.
She came up gasping and swam swiftly from one side of the pool to the other. That felt better. The physical exertion warmed her limbs, and she swam back and forth a couple of times before returning to cling onto the rim.