by Anne Mather
Nevertheless, he was cursing himself for the way he’d behaved at Juno’s. It wasn’t good enough to say Rachel had got under his skin—although she had. The truth was, he’d wanted to go a hell of a lot further than he’d permitted himself. And then only a massive effort of will had held him back.
He wasn’t supposed to handle the merchandise, he thought bitterly. She was a guest at the hotel, and he’d had no right to touch her. Particularly knowing who she was. But his desire for her had got the better of him—or almost. He couldn’t remember ever feeling such an attraction for a woman before.
Which was crazy, in the circumstances. She’d evidently come out here looking for her mother, and she wouldn’t thank him for keeping information from her. But Sara had her own reasons for keeping their relationship a secret, and it wasn’t really his place to interfere with her plans.
Nonetheless, it bugged him. It would be so much easier if Rachel knew who he was. But then, unless Sara changed her mind about being honest with her daughter, Rachel herself would want nothing to do with him. She would probably be horrified that he’d touched her at all.
Dammit!
He flung the vehicle through the gates of his family’s plantation, barely skimming the stone posts as he accelerated past. An avenue of banana trees and coconut palms swept unnoticed by the open windows of the Range Rover, the fragrant scents of the orchids that grew beside the river as commonplace to him as the beautiful plantation house that stood at the end of the drive.
He brought the car to an abrupt halt beside the row of garages. Once these buildings had housed the carriages his ancestors had owned, and his father still retained a horse-drawn buggy that he occasionally used about the estate.
Caleb climbed out gratefully, and Matt pulled a wry face as he handed over the keys. ‘I know, I know,’ he said. ‘You’re glad to be back in one piece.’
Caleb’s lined face broke into a grin. ‘Fastest trip from town I ever made,’ he replied humorously. ‘Even your daddy never went faster than fifty miles an hour on those roads.’
Matt shrugged. ‘What can I say? I’m a better driver than he is. Only don’t tell him I told you.’
Leaving the old man laughing, Matt turned away from the garages to approach the house. Massive oak trees shaded the front of the building and Matt vaulted up the steps to the wraparound porch whose roof was supported by a dozen elegant pillars.
Double doors stood wide to the enormous hallway beyond, its polished boards gleaming from a thousand rubbings. Pale aqua-coloured walls created an atmosphere of lightness, the larger windows his father had had installed adding to its airy grace.
To the right of the hall double pocket doors gave access to a spacious morning room. And beyond this another door led into the library, which these days served as his father’s study as well. To the left, a grand dining room led into a high-ceilinged sitting room, with his stepmother’s music room at the back of the house.
Although it was already late afternoon, Matt made his way to his father’s study. Giving a light tap on the door, he entered the room that Jacob Brody had made essentially his own. Although the stroke he’d had three months ago had left him partially paralysed down one side of his body, he was gradually regaining the use of his limbs.
Jacob was seated on a chaise-longue near the open window when Matt came into the room. He’d evidently been working, because his desk was covered with papers. But exhaustion had got the better of him, and he was taking a well-earned rest.
His eyes had been drooping when Matt entered the library, but they opened wide when they saw his son. ‘You’re late,’ he said, attempting to sit up straight despite the weakness in his lower spine. ‘Did you see Carlyle?’
‘Yeah, I saw him.’ Matt dropped into the chair at the other side of his father’s desk. ‘He’s going to send the shipment out when the next supply boat arrives. That way it will go straight to Kingston and pick up the cargo ship from there.’
‘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 some
one 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 hang-ups 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 greeting 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!’