by Penny Jordan
Bending to plug in her hair-dryer, she frowned again, her mind on the letter she had recently received from her solicitor. As she had only been married to her husband for a year before she left him, there could be no divorce without his consent for five years after the date of their marriage. It was now two years since she had left him; that meant she had another two years to wait before she could divorce him. She wielded her hairbrush angrily, making her scalp tingle. As she had made it plain that she had no plans to remarry, the two-year wait should not prove too onerous, her solicitor claimed, but until she was completely and legally free Autumn felt as though she were still held in thrall to the past. That she could never again recapture the innocence she had once had, she did not dispute, but while her marriage continued to exist, even if only on paper, it was like an open wound deep inside her, refusing to heal, festering and spreading its poison through her life. She knew her reasoning was illogical, but her desire to be free possessed her to the extent that she felt as though she were in limbo, unable to get on with the business of living until she had finally severed herself from the past. No one but herself knew how she felt. When she had walked out on her marriage she had locked the door on her memories and thrown away the key. Her mouth compressed. Two more years. How was she to endure it? Beg and plead to be set free? Her mouth twisted bitterly. No way!
The cyclamen silk emphasised her tan, the vivid colour making her hair seem fairer, her eyes more intensely blue, and the thin fabric clung seductively to her long, slender legs; the brief camisole top revealing the full taut swell of her breasts.
People dressed casually on St John’s and Autumn slid her bare feet into high-heeled cyclamen sandals, spraying herself lightly with Opium, before adding a slick of lip-gloss to her mouth. In a face that was delicately modelled with high cheekbones and an almost fragile jawline, she thought her mouth too wide and full. It was only since coming to London that she had discovered that men found it sexy, and she had gone through a stage of wearing only the palest lipstick as she tried to detract from its appeal. Now she had come to terms with her own sexuality. She no longer cared how others viewed her; only how she viewed herself. Her own self-respect was more important than the opinions of others.
The thin silk whispered provocatively against her legs as she stepped outside into the dense darkness of the tropical night, alive with sounds that seemed to echo the pulsing beat of the sea against the shore.
As she opened the door of Alan’s bungalow, Sally smiled up at her over Alan’s head. Alan himself was sitting on the edge of his chair; the posture a familiar one, his mind and body totally engrossed in the man seated opposite him. The electric light was unkind, revealing the stress in his eyes, but didn’t stop him from looking as alert as a terrier at a rat-hole, as he talked quickly, gesticulating, proffering the papers stacked neatly on the table in front of him.
Sally was drinking a rum punch, and poured one for Autumn, who took it with a smile. A large jug of the punch stood on the table, and as Sally leaned forward to top up Alan’s glass Autumn had her first glimpse of the man sitting opposite him.
Recognition and fear welled up inside her like sickness. She was shaking so badly that she had to clasp her hands together to hide their trembling. Thick dark hair curled down over the collar of a pale silk shirt, a jacket lying discarded next to its owner, his back lean and muscled beneath the thin covering.
Alan had stopped talking and was listening carefully. Autumn felt as though she had strayed into a nightmare. She had no need to listen to that cool, incisive voice, shredding all Alan’s carefully balanced arguments; its every inflection and intonation was as familiar to her as her own. If she listened hard enough she could even hear the faint contempt lacing the words.
‘You say everything would have been fine if it hadn’t been for this hurricane,’ he was saying to Alan. ‘But surely hurricanes and tropical islands are something that automatically go together and must be allowed for?’
Alan flushed darkly, his voice conciliating as he mumbled a reply.
How well she knew that hard, ‘I’ve got you in a corner,’ tone, Autumn thought numbly. And what would follow. Alan wouldn’t be allowed to escape until his arguments were relentlessly decimated. Her sickness grew and she wanted badly to run, and then Alan looked up and registered her presence, wariness and relief struggling for supremacy as he stood up and drew her forward.
‘Autumn, let me introduce you to Yorke Laing, head of Laing Airlines.’
She could tell from Alan’s eyes that although he was trying hard to pretend he did not, he knew quite well who Yorke was, and she acknowledged the introduction with a cold smile, extending her hand for the briefest second.
‘Yorke.’
She was not going to be part of the pretence. She knew that Sally was staring at her, and felt relief that her friend at least had not been a party to this charade.
She didn’t need to meet Yorke’s cold green eyes to know the expression she would find there; she had seen it too often before. His face wasn’t strictly handsome. It was too rugged for that, too male; the harsh symmetry of bones and flesh mirroring his nature and attitude to life. Dear God, Autumn thought hysterically. Alan had baited his line for a ‘big fish’ and he had caught one with a vengeance, but what had he used as bait. Her?
Yorke’s eyes slid over her with cool insolence, stripping away the silk suit and laying bare the flesh beneath, but Autumn forced herself to withstand it, her own eyes cold and contemptuous. There had been a time when that look had been sufficient to set her body on fire; but in those days she had seen only the sexual awareness and not the coldness which lay beneath it.
Women had been standing in line for Yorke from the first day he wore long trousers, and there wasn’t a thing he didn’t know about their minds or bodies.
‘Look, we’d better get over to the restaurant,’ Alan said quickly. ‘We can have a drink over there and talk later, when we’re all feeling more relaxed.’
He was standing up as he spoke, and Autumn walked out of the bungalow without a word, ignoring Sally’s puzzled eyes. She could feel Yorke looking at her, and she used the smile experience had taught her was a far more effective weapon than any amount of irritation or embarrassment. It was so cold and bitter that it normally froze off even the most ardent and thick-skinned Don Juan. On Yorke it was like using paper to ward off a forest fire; his glance consumed her, destroying her barricades, warning her of what was to come, but she gave him another of her cold little smiles and turned away from him to Alan. Behind her she could hear the breathless excitement in Sally’s voice as she answered his deep-toned questions. Even Sally, fathoms deep in love with her Richard, was not proof against Yorke’s sexuality.
Alan closed the door of his bungalow and turned to Yorke to make some comment about arranging for him to see over the grounds, and Sally used the momentary diversion to murmur curiously to Autumn, ‘What gives? I detected a definite undercurrent in the bungalow just now, and when you saw Yorke you looked as though you’d seen a ghost.’
‘No such luck,’ Autumn muttered bitterly, taken off guard when Yorke loomed over her, his teeth white in the velvet darkness.
‘What a devoted wife you are, my love,’ he murmured dulcetly, loudly enough for Sally to hear. ‘And when I’ve come all this way to find you…’
He turned back to Alan and Sally gaped in bemusement.
‘Was I hearing things, or…’ she broke off when she saw Autumn’s pale face. ‘My God, Autumn, he is your husband, isn’t he?’
Such was Yorke’s power that even though Sally knew what her marriage had done to her, she could still look at her with perplexed eyes, and was no doubt thinking she must have been a fool to leave him, Autumn thought on a ragged sigh. But who was she to blame Sally? Hadn’t she been just as bemused—once? She loitered behind the others deliberately, glad that the path through the gardens to the Five Fathoms restaurant was barely wide enough for two people. At first when she saw the white flash
of a dinner jacket she froze in alarm, thinking it was Yorke, but he was in front of her, his arm resting protectively on Sally’s waist as he helped her to negotiate the twisty path.
‘I’m sorry about this, Autumn,’ Alan muttered, falling into step beside her. ‘It was a hell of a thing to do to you, but he didn’t give me much alternative. When he was first introduced to me I had no idea he was your husband. He’d been recommended to me by my merchant bankers and he seemed enthusiastic about the island. It wasn’t until he’d discovered just how bad things were that he started to put the screws on. He told me if I didn’t fix up this meeting he’d make sure I wouldn’t come out of this mess with ten pounds to call my own.’
‘So you simply caved in and threw me to the wolves?’ She tried to keep the shaken anger out of her voice, but it was impossible. When she had first seen Yorke in the bungalow she had thought she must be hallucinating; that it was all part of the dreadful nightmares that used to torment her in the early months after she left him. There had never been any question of him wanting her back—he had wanted the marriage to end just as much as she did herself. When she had left him she had reverted to her maiden name, simply because she couldn’t bear to retain anything that might remind her of him, and as far as she knew he had never made any attempt to trace her, so why this, now?
‘Come on, it isn’t as bad as all that,’ Alan said gruffly. ‘He just wants to talk to you, Autumn.’
Autumn ignored him.
‘You knew who he was all the time,’ she accused. ‘All the time you were giving me that “be nice to him” bit, you knew!’
‘He made me promise to say nothing. I tell you, Autumn, he would have ruined me if I hadn’t agreed. And still might. Look, I know I’ve no right to ask this of you, but St John’s means one hell of a lot to me; not just financially… and he has the power to make or break it.’
‘Come on, you two,’ Sally called back to them. ‘Stop dawdling!’
Yorke barely glanced at Autumn when they arrived at the restaurant, but she was aware of him with every breath she drew. Why had he gone to such lengths to find her? Did he want a divorce? Her heart thudded against her breastbone and she glanced at his shuttered profile, her palms slightly damp. If that was the case, surely he wouldn’t seek her out in person?
And Alan. He really was unbelievable. Surely he must be able to see that she couldn’t stay on St John’s now? But he didn’t see, she thought tiredly. He was so wrapped up in his business that he saw only that, and Yorke had made use of the fact.
The Five Fathoms restaurant was something of a showpiece; the restaurant itself was below ground, having been excavated out of the volcanic rock, at the opposite end of the bay from the main hotel complex.
Inside it was the last word in luxury, stretching out below the seabed; one huge illuminated glass ‘window’ looking out on to the undersea world of the coral reef, teeming with tiny fish and live coral. Clever lighting and engineering had turned the sea outside into an ‘aquarium’ and through the glass ‘window’ the diners could watch the ceaseless play of underwater life, while they ate and danced.
The atmosphere in the Five Fathoms was more sophisticated than in the dining room attached to the main hotel, and guests tended to dress more formally and make a visit to the Five Fathoms something of an occasion.
The head waiter came forward to greet them, and although he recognised Alan, it was to Yorke that he turned automatically, to ask if he had any table preference.
By common consent they opted for one quite close to the dance floor, but with excellent views through the ‘window’, and as the muted strains of the resident steel band filled the silence, Autumn tried to relax. Now, the numbness which had followed her initial recognition of Yorke had given way to delayed shock, and she was glad of the dim atmosphere of the restaurant, tensing as she anticipated Yorke’s attention being focused upon her.
She had underestimated him, she decided several minutes earlier. He was dividing his time impartially between Alan and Sally, making Sally laugh as he related some anecdote. Autumn stared stoically down at her wine glass. The days were gone when she would vibrate to those soft tones, like a well tuned instrument to a master player, sexual excitement erupting at a mere look, the slightest touch enough to send her into a frenzy of need.
At thirty-four Yorke looked little different than he had done three years ago when she first met him. His body beneath the immaculate dinner suit was still lithe and firm, his hair dark and thick, and his face taut and alert. He looked lean and predatory, the fierce competitiveness that drove him, apparent in his expression. Yorke was a man who admitted no equal; no contenders for the things he considered his.
He had learned about life in a hard school, Autumn reflected. His father had abandoned Yorke and his mother when Yorke was six, rejecting his son in favour of the daughter his mistress had given him, and that rejection was something Yorke had never forgotten nor forgiven. During their marriage Yorke had mentioned his father only once, and that had been when Autumn question him about him. He had been a haulage contractor with a profitable business, but in his will he had made it plain that neither Yorke nor his ex-wife were to receive anything from his estate, and Yorke had bitterly resented this further confirmation of his rejection.
With the benefit of hindsight, Autumn had come to see that Yorke’s driving ambition was as a direct result of this rejection; his desire to succeed a deep-seated need springing from a bottomless well of bitterness; but the knowledge had come too late. And Yorke had succeeded. His hugely successful independent airline was now world-renowned.
The waiter brought the lobster Autumn had ordered as a starter, but she could only pick at it. Ever since she left Yorke she had been armouring herself for the moment when she must confront him again, but now fear tingled along her spine as he raised his head and glanced assessingly at her.
What did he want? Her nails dug into the palms of her hands as she tried to steady her racing pulses.
The others were ready for their main meal, and Autumn pushed her lobster aside barely touched.
‘Something spoiling your appetite?’ Yorke asked smoothly.
She smiled coolly back, glad of the surface sophistication the last few years had brought. At one time Yorke had been able to destroy her fragile defences in three minutes—just as long as it took his expert lovemaking to send her body into heated rebellion against her mind. She had once thought that he loved her, but she had come to realise that hatred was closer to what he actually did feel, and in the end their marriage had become an unendurable hell, while her mind fought against his undeniable mastery of her body.
It was plain that both Alan and Sally had fallen completely under Yorke’s spell, just as she had once done herself, but now she could see through the charming shell to the man beneath and she ignored him when he smiled at her, concentrating purely on surviving the evening unscathed.
At one point while the two men were discussing business, Sally leaned across the table and said enviously to Autumn, ‘I love your outfit. Every other woman in the place is longing to scratch your eyes out and all the men are wondering what you’re like in bed.’
Autumn felt the colour burn up under her skin. Normally Sally’s forthright manner didn’t bother her, but on this occasion her eyes slid automatically to Yorke, her tongue wetting her top lip in nervous dread.
‘Yes, what are you like, Autumn?’ Yorke mocked softly. ‘It’s so long that I’ve practically forgotten.’
‘You’d find me very disappointing.’ Autumn stared at him, deliberately holding his eyes and then letting her own drop as obviously over his body as his glance did over hers. She had found it to be quite an effective ploy in the past. Men might say that they were all in favour of equal rights, but they still thought some rights belonged to them alone.
Yorke wasn’t the slightest bit abashed; indeed he returned her look with deliberately insulting thoroughness, and Autumn, who had seen forty-year-olds flustered under the loo
k she had given him, knew that he had turned the tables on her. She turned away, ostensibly to speak to Alan, but in reality to give herself an opportunity to recharge her emotional batteries.
Merely being in the same room as Yorke drained her of energy; he was like a force-field, destroying everything that threatened his own supremacy.
André, the chef, had surpassed himself with the food, but Autumn was barely aware of what they ate. Other couples drifted on to the dance floor and she found her stomach muscles contracting in nervous dread. She could not dance with Yorke. She could not bear to be held close to him; the mere thought was enough to make her feel physically sick.
At her side she could feel Alan watching Yorke anxiously. Worrying about the future of the island, no doubt, but when he asked her to dance with him she hadn’t the heart to refuse.
The steel band were good and Autumn had danced with Alan often enough for them to make a well matched couple. The small dance floor was quite crowded, and they were on the far side of the room from their table, and yet the moment Yorke and Sally joined them Autumn was unbearably aware of their presence, the tiny hairs on the back of her neck prickling warningly.
When the music slowed to a more romantic beat, Autumn suggested to Alan that they sit down.
‘Still not forgiven me, have you?’ he asked wryly, his hand on the small of her back as they went back to their table. ‘I honestly didn’t have any choice. Do you think if I hadn’t agreed it would have prevented him from coming out here? He’s a man who’s used to getting his own way, Autumn.’
‘You could have warned me,’ she replied evenly. ‘I’m leaving Travel Mates, Alan. I can’t stay on after this.’