Echoes in the Dark
Gayle Wilson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my cousin Ann, who loves a good Intrigue. I hope this one qualifies.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Caroline Evans—Her past is shrouded in the mists of amnesia.

Julien Gerrard—The walls of his emotional fortress are threatened by a woman who is heartbreakingly familiar, a woman those every action echoes in his darkness like a ghost.

Andre Gerrard—Darkly handsome and openly sensuous, he is also very sure of his abilities to attract.

Suzanne Rochette—Caught by her loyalties between two brothers, what role does she play in the events unfolding on the island?

Paul Dupre—Suzanne’s lawyer, he is the link in Paris who ties them all together.

Prologue

“Give me the keys,” he said, the patient humor evident in the deep voice. The faint accent ran like an echo through his English.

When she ignored his command, he caught her wrist, and the sight of dark, tanned fingers against the paleness of her arm caused a reactive tightening of her stomach muscles. She watched, mesmerized, as he slid his fingers up her inner wrist. She could tell by his eyes that, as always, he knew exactly the effect his touch had. She resisted the memory of the pleasant roughness of those fingertips moving over her breasts earlier tonight when he had coaxed her to dress and join him at the reception she had just disrupted.

She took a deep breath, fighting the hunger that his hard body could always evoke. It was so easy for him to manipulate her. She was so ready to do whatever he asked because she loved him and she wanted him. God, how she wanted him. She shook her head to destroy the images produced by the remembrance of his familiar possession. If she allowed him to touch her, she would lose the anger, and he would win.

“Let me go,” she ordered, punctuating her command with a sudden jerk against the strong hand that held her prisoner.

Perhaps the element of surprise made her successful or perhaps his desire not to hurt her made him loosen his hold. Suddenly she was free, running again toward the Mercedes convertible he had given her. She opened the door and, slipping into the driver’s seat, tried to insert the key into the ignition.

Her trembling fingers failed in the first attempts, and by the time the engine finally roared to life, he had moved into the passenger seat beside her.

She glanced at his face and saw he was still amused. Her temper, never under any reliable control, especially lately, reacted predictably. No one had ever angered her as he could, with only a look or a word. The blow she ineptly directed at his face fell harmlessly against the hard forearm he raised between them.

“Kerri,” he protested, laughing, and again caught her wrist. His reflexes were so much faster than hers, honed by years of activities that demanded speed and dexterity to escape the constant threat of injury.

“Why are you so angry? What have I done this time?” he asked, still smiling.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know. ‘What have I done?’ I can’t believe you can ask that. You couldn’t take your eyes off her.”

“Is that what this is all about?” he asked, laughing, relieved. “Of course, I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She was practically nude. A palace reception and the ambassador’s wife shows up in something most women wouldn’t wear to bed.”

“She seemed to think you liked it well enough. She certainly wanted you to get a good look. A very good look. A close-up.”

His only answer to that accusation was the quick upward slant of his beautifully molded lips, but this time he controlled his laughter. He reached to run his knuckles gently down the slim column of her throat, knowing it was futile to argue with her in this mood. She slapped at his hand and moved as far away from him as the confines of the car would allow.

“Have you slept with her? Have you slept with every woman in the country? Every damn woman in the whole damn world?”

She hated the hysteria she could hear building in her voice, wished she could control the ridiculous accusations, the same accusations that she had made too many times in the past weeks. One minute she wanted to cry and rage at him, and then, perversely, she wanted to bury her head against the elegant dark dinner jacket and vent all those frustrations. Even she didn’t know what she was crying about or why she couldn’t seem to stop these bitter scenes.

Eventually he would tire of the ranting denunciations. Just as he would tire of having to explain to her his world of art and music and literature. She knew so little of those things, and he knew so much, she thought with despair. The gap between their backgrounds seemed too wide to bridge, no matter how hard she tried. Deep in her heart she knew that their time together was flashing by in an ever-increasing spiral, fueled by her jealousy and her endless insecurities. She knew it, but she didn’t seem to be able to do anything about slowing that inevitable destruction.

He tried to pull her into his arms, and she wondered why she resisted what she wanted so desperately. He brushed tendrils of sun-streaked blond hair out of the tracks of her tears. She turned her face to rest against those caressing fingers and saw pain in the lucid blue depths of his eyes. Then he masked what was reflected there with the downward sweep of thick, coal black lashes, so that when he looked up at her again there was only concern and, as always, the reassurance of his love.

“No, I haven’t slept with her,” he said resignedly. He lightened his voice deliberately. “But you’re right. This is my fault. Everything is my fault. The fact that you are only nineteen and very pregnant and very far from home. All of those things are my fault.”

His voice softened seductively, and his thumb teased slowly along her bottom lip. “And I am delighted to take full responsibility for them. We should be at the villa, watching old movies. I could massage your back and show you how much I love you. I shouldn’t have brought you tonight—”

“Because you’re ashamed of me. Ashamed to be seen with a cow in a tent while everyone else—”

“Kerri, for God’s sake, stop this. You’re not a cow.” He laughed suddenly at the ridiculous comparison to her graceful body, and at the sound, she raised her eyes to focus on his, to launch another round of vitriolic bitterness, but the look of tenderness on the spare planes of his face arrested the impulse. “You are so beautiful it’s all I can do not to make love to you in public,” he whispered. “All night I’ve wanted to run my hands over you, to touch our son. To hold your breasts. So full. God, so sensitive...”

He stopped, the impact of those memories blocking his throat. He couldn’t believe she didn’t know how he felt. How could she not know after all this time?

“Why don’t you know how I feel?” he asked, pain darkening the timbre of his voice. “I don’t know what else to do. Nothing I do or say seems to be enough. Tell me what you want from me, Kerri. What do I have to do to convince you?”

For the first time she heard despair in the voice that always before had been gently patient, tenderly amused at her tantrums, loving, caressing. With her fears, she was destroying what they had, and she knew it.

She looked up to reassure him, to tell him how much she loved him, adored him, thought she couldn’t live if she lost him.

Perhaps the answering tenderness in her eyes made him think that it was over, a display of fireworks like all the other scenes, bright and intense, but fleeting when confronted with his concern. Perhaps he regretted letting her see what these emotional outbursts did to his control. Whatever the impulse that produced his next words, it was a mistake.

“And a tent?” he repeated, smiling at her. “Believe me, my darling, if that’s a tent, it is the most beautiful, and probably the most expensive, one in the world. Not that it wasn’t worth every franc. You look—”

“You bastard,” she hissed at him, suddenly and unreasonably furious again. “You told me to buy something special for tonight. I didn’t want to come. They all hate me, and it doesn’t matter what I put on. I’m still going to look like a cow. And then you tell me I’m too extravagant.”

“I don’t give a damn what the dress cost. I don’t care what you spend, and you know it.”

She could hear anger beginning to thread through the rich darkness of his voice, the accent thickening as it did when he became emotional. As it always did when he made love to her.

“This is insane,” he said, bitterly. “Everything I say you pounce on. You wait for me to say something you can use against me. There’s no way I can win,” he finished, turning away from her to look out the windshield.

“And God knows you have to win,” she mocked, another familiar battleground. “God knows your whole damn life revolves around winning. All the little games. You have to be the best. You always have to win. Well, you certainly won the prize this time. And you’re stuck with it. Is that what’s wrong? You’ve begun regretting this particular trophy, haven’t you?”

“Only at times like these,” he said quietly, a contrast to her fury, and he didn’t look at her.

It was what she had dreaded. And expected. Finally he’d said it. She didn’t acknowledge how long it had taken her to goad him into it. Another self-fulfilling prophecy.

She slewed the Mercedes out of the parking place, leaving a trail of smoking black, and pushed the accelerator to the floor. The car fishtailed in response, and as she corrected the movement, she felt him reach across to find and buckle her seat belt. It took him several attempts, but he was successful, despite her fist beating ineffectually against his hands.

He leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. He trusted her driving. He had taught her how to drive on these mountain roads himself. Repeating the lesson, instructing, demanding, until he was sure enough of her competence to present her with the car that was now speeding toward the first series of hairpin turns that led away from the palace terraces.

She touched the brake, anticipating, as he had instructed her. She felt the difference in the response, the sponginess of the pedal, but then the car was into the curve, and she concentrated on guiding it smoothly through the series of switchbacks. As soon as she reached a relatively straight stretch of road, she touched the brake again, more strongly this time, recognizing that the speed of the car was approaching a level beyond her competence.

He would have been able to handle the rocketing vehicle, smoothly and nonchalantly, she thought bitterly. Nothing ever challenged his sure control, his hard certainty. She had never seen him at a loss. Years of privilege, blue blood and too much money insulated him from the fears people like herself faced every day.

In the midst of that familiar litany came the realization that the brake was having no effect on the downward plunge of the Mercedes. There had been no perceptible slowing in spite of the fact that she was practically standing on the pedal.

“Julien,” she said, and the panic in her voice made him open his eyes, pulled him from the contemplation of how he had mishandled tonight, from the regret he felt over the pain he had caused her.

“Julien!” This time she screamed, begging for his competence against the rush of the wind, and as her eyes sought his face, she lost control of the car. The right front tire touched off the pavement and the steering wheel jerked from her hands. It spiraled against the frantic reach of his fingers, but by then it was too late.

The Mercedes plunged off the sheer drop of the curve and almost to the bend below, its downward hurtle stopped only as it caught between two of the trees that lined the twisting mountain roads. Caught and held. She was strapped inside by the seat belt that he had fastened only moments before, but the wrenching deceleration threw him from the convertible to the road below.

* * *

HE NEVER KNEW how long he was unconscious. He awoke to the smell of gasoline and absolute silence. He wiped ineffectually at the blood obscuring his vision, and then his only thought was to find her.

The brutal journey was agonizing in the darkness. He was never sure that he was crawling in the right direction, guided only by the smell and then by the soft crackling that he had thought at first was the metal of the car expanding against the forces that had left it a twisted ruin.

It was not until he was close enough to feel the heat that he knew he was wrong. What he had heard was the fire that had begun to lick around the shattered Mercedes.

He had been calling her name for a long time, willing her to answer him. Finally his long fingers found the handle of the door, and he used it and his desperation to pull himself up in spite of his shattered leg. As he reached for the seat, hands groping to find her in the pitiless blackness, the explosion rocked the night, throwing him to lie once more against the gravel of the road below.

This time he didn’t awaken even as careful hands loaded him into the ambulance. It would be a very long time before he was again aware of anything at all.

Chapter One

“I‘m sorry, but she’s extremely insistent. She has something she wants to show you, something she’s sure you’ll want to see.”

The secretary watched the ironic smile of his employer, but he knew better than to apologize. That was the unforgivable sin—to apologize for the references one made quite naturally, and so he hurried on with his story.

“We’ve all tried, but she’ll speak to no one but you. She says it’s personal. She’s clutching some sort of package wrapped in brown paper, and she won’t budge. Short of having her thrown out bodily, I don’t know what else to do.”

The man seated behind the massive desk could hear the frustration. His secretary didn’t deal well with unexpected interruptions to his schedule. He sometimes wondered who was really in charge here, but because he cared so little, he let his staff’s efficiency carry him effortlessly through the long days. There was no longer any challenge in running the businesses he had pulled from bankruptcy only three years ago. Everything in his life was too well-ordered, the wheels all turning smoothly, oiled by his efficient employees, his soft-spoken servants and, most of all, by his money. At least the old woman offered a break from the routine. That, of course, was why Charles was so annoyed.

“There’s nothing that can’t be put off the few minutes it will take to listen to whatever she has to say. Ask Rachelle to bring in a tea tray. And if it’s private, there’s no need for you to remain. Show her in when the tea arrives.”

“But—”

“That will be all, Charles. Thank you for attempting to handle this. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

He waited until the door had closed behind the retreating secretary. Only then did he remove his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose and then briefly massaging his temples. He could feel the beginnings of a headache. He hoped that Rachelle would include his afternoon coffee with the tea. He closed his eyes and rested his head on his hands, elbows propped against the gleaming mahogany desk.

When he heard the door, he opened his eyes and put the glasses back on, standing up to turn toward his visitor. Her hesitation was obvious, but Rachelle’s friendly voice urged her forward, and finally they advanced across the parquet floor, their footsteps echoing hollowly in the quiet elegance of the room. When Rachelle had seated her in the chair before his desk, he, too, sat down and waited. It was not until she had been provided with a cup of tea, his own coffee poured and placed, fragrantly steaming, on his desk, and the door closed behind Rachelle that he spoke.

“They tell me that you have something to show me,” he said softly, working to keep the amusement out of his voice.

She rustled the package in her lap, until, with trembling hands, she succeeded in freeing whatever it contained from the wrappings. As he waited for her to speak, the silence stretched too long between them. Finally her voice quavered into the sunlight of his expensive office.

“Then you don’t recognize it? The jeweler assured me it belonged to you. I tried to sell it, but he wouldn’t buy it. He said it belonged to the Duc d’Aumont and that you would perhaps pay me more than its value to recover it,” she suggested hesitantly. “He said it’s very old.”

“They didn’t tell you,” he said softly, and she sensed somehow that it was a question.

“I don’t understand. Tell me what?”

“If you are showing me something I’m expected to recognize, we’re both doomed to failure,” he said gently. “You see, I’m blind.” He could say it quite naturally now, after all these years. He could even smile to reassure her.

“Of course.” Her voice was relieved. His lack of response was not a lack of recognition. “I should have known from the glasses, but they didn’t tell me. It’s so bright in here, I didn’t think. I suppose I envied you their protection against the glare.”

He laughed easily and stood to adjust the shade behind him, dimming the painful brightness. There was no fumbling in his movements, so that she found herself watching those sure fingers in amazement.

“They won’t complain. They think that would remind me that I can’t see,” he said, smiling at her. He could hear the answering laughter from across the desk and, judging his movements carefully by that sound, he reached across its expanse and held his palm open before her. She laid the locket she had guarded these years against the outstretched hand, and the long, dark fingers closed around the delicate golden chain.

He sat down, carefully examining the object she had placed in his hand. As his fingers traced the shape of the entwined hearts and then the roughness of the faceted emeralds that outlined them, she could almost read his emotions by the play of the muscles in his jaw, by the involuntary tightening of his lips and the effort to swallow against the sudden constriction of his throat.

She wished she could see his eyes. She needed so desperately to know if he would be willing to pay what she intended to ask, but the dark glasses were a barrier she couldn’t penetrate.

“Where did you get this? My God, how did you—” he asked finally, his hands no longer deftly examining the locket, but one locked hard around it. She could see only a small fragment of the gleaming links between those clenched fingers.

“I intended to tell you that she gave it to me, but that’s not the truth. I stole it. I didn’t think there was any reason... She didn’t need it. I thought someone should have some good of it, and we had nothing. But then I was frightened. I was afraid that if I tried to sell it, someone would know I’d stolen it. She was dying. Stealing from a dying woman—that’s something God won’t forgive me for, although I’ve prayed for her soul every day. And for the baby. I thought that might make up for the wrong I did,” she said piously, hoping to convince him of her remorse.

She looked up to read his reaction, and at the look on those handsome features, she was really frightened for the first time. She had decided years ago that she was going to hell for what she had done, but this man looked as if he might already have been there, might already have tasted that punishment. She wondered if he would have her arrested, imprisoned, and all this long journey would have been for nothing.

“It’s my grandson. Maybe that’s a punishment for what I did, but it’s too hard. He’s just a little boy, a baby.” She knew she was making no sense, but his stillness was confusing her. She had expected anger, was ready to deal with that, but not this terrifying stillness.

“Where was she when you took this?” he asked, calmly enough, but she was somehow aware of the effort it took him to achieve that control.

“With the nuns, the Sisters of the Sacred Heart,” she said. She had thought he might have known that, but she could see its impact on his face and knew the information was a surprise. “I helped deliver the baby. It was too early and she was— I don’t know what she was. She never said anything, not even during the labor. Most women cry or scream, but she...there was nothing there, behind her eyes. The baby was too small, so fragile. The nuns and I did what we could, but when I left, I knew he wouldn’t live.

“They left me alone with her while they went to get the doctor and while they worked with the baby, but she just lay there. They couldn’t stop the bleeding. I knew she was going to die. I’ve seen too many like that. The doctor couldn’t have gotten there in time to stop it. I took the locket. I’m not a thief, but she was dying. I thought...”

Her voice whispered into silence. She waited for him to speak and finally he did.

“Your grandson?”

“Cancer—and the doctor bills are so high. Perhaps if there’s money, they’ll do something for him. He’s only a baby.”

“How much?” he asked. She watched his hand reach for the button that would summon his secretary.

“The jeweler said it was very old. I thought—” But the opening door and the secretary interrupted whatever she intended to ask for.

“Get her out of here,” he said softly from across the desk. “Give her whatever she wants, but get her the hell out of here and find my brother. I don’t give a damn where he is or what he’s doing. You tell him I want him here now. Tell him he has some questions to answer. Some questions about my wife. And my son.”

The old woman was as frightened by the cold voice as she had been when she thought he might call the police. She realized suddenly that the olive complexion of the hovering secretary had blanched to a sickly gray. She knew he would be obeyed, and in spite of her fear, she began to recalculate what she would ask. Whatever she wants, he had said. She was already going to hell. What did it matter? Her mind was busily reconsidering her request as the secretary hurried her from the office, wiping his brow with the handkerchief he had pulled from his pocket. She hardly noticed how much his hands shook. She was too elated by the success of her morning’s work. It had all been so easy.

* * *

“I DON’T WANT another lie. I want to know why you told me she died in that car. Why you’ve let me think all these years that if I had only reached her sooner, if I had been a little quicker— You’ve let me live with that. Now I find she didn’t die there. She died at the convent. She died, giving birth to my son, alone. She bled to death, alone.”

His cold voice paused to bank the emotions that were clearly threatening the icy control. “Why was she carried to the convent? My God, one of the finest medical facilities in the region was only a few miles away. I was carried there and lived, despite...” He stopped because they both knew what his condition had been.

“I want an explanation for this entire pack of lies you’ve fed me all this time, and damn you, Andre, it had better be a good one. I swear, I could kill you for letting me believe I let them die.”

“I thought that would be easier than the truth,” his brother’s voice spoke quietly. Julien could hear the bitter resignation behind the calm answer. “I knew how much it would hurt you to know the truth.”

“Hurt more than the belief that I let my wife and son burn to death? What truth could have twisted my guts all these years more than that?”

“No one blamed you for her death. No one could believe you’d even reached the car in your condition. The idea that you’d failed her was only in your head. She was the one driving, too fast, as she always did. Everyone at the reception had seen the beginnings of that tantrum, and, of course, she’d been drinking.”

“She didn’t drink. She was pregnant.”

“Maybe that’s what she told you, but she had. Too many people saw her. Several came forward at the inquiry. She was drunk and angry and she killed her child and almost killed you. The only fault is hers. I never knew you blamed yourself. If I had known, I would have told you a long time ago, but I thought it would be kinder to have you believe—”

“Kinder to believe that she burned to death? My God, Andre, what could have been worse than that?”

“That she killed her son, blinded you and then walked away. She chose to leave. At least—”

“Are you telling me she wasn’t injured?” he interrupted. “Are you trying to tell me she just walked away from the wreck?”

“She tried to get help,” his brother’s voice said, attempting, he thought, to be fair. “She tried to flag down a car, but they thought she was drunk. Someone found her wandering down the road. She had a head injury. She was disoriented. She thought you were dead. They brought her to the hospital, but when she found out you were alive and so badly hurt, and that she’d left you there... She was so frantic that they thought, for the baby’s sake, she should be taken somewhere where she could be cared for. I don’t know who thought of the convent, but it seemed the best solution. She didn’t want to leave you, and she was in no condition to wait through the hours of surgery. She needed to be under observation, but when they tried to make her leave you, she got hysterical. Finally they gave her a shot, a sedative, and she was taken to the convent. Perhaps that was a mistake—”

Andre paused, took a deep breath and then admitted, “As it turned out, it was, of course, a terrible mistake, but everything was so confused, and she’d shown no signs of going into labor. It was far too early. Moving her seemed to make sense at the time.”

Andre stopped. Julien could hear the sigh, but he had to know it all.

“Go on,” he said bitterly into the silence. “Tell me about my son’s death. Explain that lie.”

“The baby was born prematurely. There at the convent. By the time the doctor arrived... He said it wouldn’t have mattered. Even if they had been in hospital, they couldn’t have saved the baby. It was too early. The baby was stillborn. I swear to you that’s the truth.”

“And then? Did my wife bleed to death there where you’d sent her? Is that what you’ve been afraid to tell me all these years. That she died because she wasn’t where she could get medical attention? Was that your decision, Andre?”

There was no answer for a long time and he waited, impassive now. Was it less painful to believe that the fault had not been his? Less painful to picture her gradually sinking deeper into a bloodless lethargy from which not even the doctor, when he arrived, could save her? Better than the images of the fire and the smell of the gasoline?

Even now he couldn’t stand the smell. It was like the smell of a hospital. He couldn’t enter one. It brought it all back again: the agony of the burn tank, the struggle to walk again, to cope with the blackness of his world that had threatened so often to drown him in its dark depression.

“She didn’t die.”

The words interrupted his return to the hell of those memories, and he felt his heart take a great leap as he realized what Andre had just said. He forced himself into stillness and waited, and finally his brother continued.

“She recovered. I don’t know where the old woman got the idea that she was dying. She recovered more rapidly than anyone believed possible, but she was very young and strong. She came to the hospital to see you as soon as she was able. I’ll give her that. She had good intentions, but...I suppose the shock was too great. You were so terribly hurt, and there was no response for so long. When the doctors told us the full extent of the injuries, she blamed herself, of course. She damn well should have,” Andre said harshly. “That stupid bitch and her everlasting tantrums. She put you there, and as soon as the doctors told us the truth about your condition...that you were blind and probably would never walk again. That you—”

“I know what the doctors said,” Julien interrupted. He allowed himself to ask only when the angry voice had been silent a long time, “And when she knew?”

“She left. She left the note on your bed, in an envelope with my name on it. She couldn’t live with what she’d done. She couldn’t live with you as you were going to be. As soon as you came out of the coma, she realized that you were going to live, to know what she’d done. I could have killed her, Julien. I swear if I’d found her, I would have. The damned coward did what she did and then left you to—”

“So you let me believe she died?” the passionless voice interrupted again.

“You woke up convinced she was dead. All your questions were about her death, about whether she’d suffered. The doctors were so concerned about you, not just the physical injuries, but— I didn’t know what to do, what would be kinder to do, so I just said nothing. I’m guilty of that, and I admit it. I chose to let you believe that she died, rather than to know that she blinded you, killed your son and then walked away. All those months I watched you struggle through the pain, I hated her. I never tried to find her because I knew I’d kill her. I could kill her now.”

He could hear the conviction in the quiet voice.

“Do you swear to me that this is, at last, the truth? Do you swear it, Andre?”

“It’s the truth. Why would I lie to you after all this time? Perhaps I made the wrong decisions, but at least I tried. At least, I didn’t run away.” Seeing the pain in his brother’s dark face, Andre whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

Julien took a deep breath, forcing himself to calmness. “I think it’s best that we don’t talk about this again. It’s very painful for me, Andre. I hope that what’s been revealed today won’t be mentioned again. Will you agree to that?”

“Of course. I’ll do whatever you want. I never intended to hurt you more. You were already—”

“I know. Let it go. There’s nothing you can do after all these years. Let me learn to deal with this. It’s simply a different ending to an old story. Now if you’ll forgive me...” The words were polite dismissal, and in spite of so many things he wanted to say, Andre was forced to recognize that what had been said was enough for the moment, all that the man who sat so calmly in his prison of darkness could deal with, and so he left.

When the door closed, Julien rose and went to stand by the window. He removed the dark glasses and raised his face into the warmth of the sun, trying to think about what he needed to do, and none of the possibilities were pleasant.

* * *

THE INTERVIEW HAD GONE more easily than she had anticipated. The elegant and expensive office had intimidated her at the beginning, but the lawyer had been very kind. He had gone over her résumé with polite interest, not even glancing at the letters of reference she’d handed him. She had been sure that she wouldn’t be called in when she had seen the mob in the outer room. The women waiting there had looked as formidable as the suite of offices they all had been asked to come to for the interviews.

She had dressed carefully, but her suit was not of the same quality that several of the applicants who had entered his inner sanctum before her had worn. However, he had never even glanced at her suit or the carefully polished shoes, her only pair of real leather ones. He had been far more interested in her background, in whom she had worked for and her education. Her limited schooling was another weak point she had attempted to present in as strong a light as was possible. Then he had asked the question she had dreaded from the beginning.

“There’s a time period here that is unaccounted for professionally, Ms. Evans. If there’s a problem, then it is far better to let us know now than to have it turn up in our later investigations. The truth is always better coming from your own lips,” he said gently, like her grandfather.

She smiled at the sudden mental comparison to the old man who had instilled in her his values. He had tried so hard to make her whole, to repair the ravages of her parents’ failures. He had given her the only home she had ever known, a sanctuary from that pain in the small, peaceful village he had taken her to. Simply thinking about him gave her courage, so she was able to answer calmly, “A problem? As if I were dismissed for failing in some way to satisfy my employer? That sort of problem? Then, no, I assure you that’s not the explanation.”

“And?” he said, waiting.

She should have known she wouldn’t be able to fob him off. The gray eyes were also, like her grandfather’s, far too shrewd. She had never been able to hide from the old man’s keen insight. He had seen into the depths of her soul. If only he had been there when she finally came out of the long darkness, she thought again with regret.

“I was ill. For a long time. An illness caused by depression.”

The lawyer spoke only when it was evident she had nothing else to add. “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to bring back unpleasant memories. I apologize for forcing you to talk about that time.”

“It’s all right. There are no unpleasant memories of ‘that time.’ No memories at all—” She stopped, and then tried to explain the unexplainable. “Whatever caused the depression, whatever trauma, I’ve forgotten. Blocked or repressed it, the doctors said.”

“You’ve never remembered?” he asked softly, wondering if this was the key to what he had been ordered to do.

“My childhood. Growing up.” She paused, the bleakness of the memories that had returned affirming that the ones her mind still denied must be much worse. She continued finally, telling him a truth she never talked about. “Then...” she whispered, “there’s just a void. Whatever happened to cause that blackness, I’ve never remembered, and now they believe I won’t. My mind doesn’t want me to.” She didn’t tell him about the punishing headaches that were the price she paid for trying to delve into that emptiness, to find those lost memories.

Instead, she forced herself to speak more strongly, with a confidence she was far from feeling. “As you can see, that was a long time ago. All my references are since that period. My amnesia doesn’t affect my work. It’s better, perhaps, that I can’t remember whatever happened.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again, and she thought that he did regret forcing the painful admission.

“I’ve learned to expect the question. Some interviewers assume...all sorts of things. Being fired and wishing to hide it is only one of the scenarios they imagine.”

“Have you had so many interviews? Your skills seem more than adequate.”

“No one seems to need a permanent bilingual secretary whose skills are, by today’s standards, as we both know, merely adequate. The larger corporations are looking for someone whose training covers a broader range of computer knowledge. My training was of a different sort.”

“Yet it seems very suited to the position we have in mind. Not one of the other applicants I’ve seen today has a Swiss finishing school in her background.”

“I spent five years there. Not that it’s done me much good,” she admitted, smiling. “Most people think that only means I’m qualified to be some minor diplomat’s wife and not much else.”

“Or someone’s social secretary,” he suggested, and she knew then he was seriously considering her for the position. She dared, for the first time, to hope.

“I haven’t done that before, but I’m sure I can.” She was pleased that she could hear the conviction in her own voice.

“There are, however, several conditions that you’d have to consider if we decide to offer you the position.”

“What kind of conditions?” she asked carefully. She had known there was a catch to this. It had smelled too good to be true, had smelled from the beginning of fine leather and old money.

“For one thing, it would mean a relocation. My client lives on an island in the Îles des Saintes. It’s a rather isolated situation for someone as young and attractive as you.”

“Excuse me,” she said, smiling at him again. “I told you my education had been lacking in all but the social skills. The Îles des Saintes?”

“They are part of the Lesser Antilles. You would be working on one of the smaller islands, privately owned by Madame Rochette’s family. She’s living there to recover from the recent death of her husband, after a prolonged illness. You would be not only her secretary but, I suppose, a companion. She’s not so many years older than you, I should imagine.” He glanced at her résumé and then at her face, and she saw the swiftly hidden surprise.

“I’m twenty-five,” she said quietly, knowing that she looked older. Something in her eyes, people often told her, not intending to be unkind.

“Then more than I believed, but still the difference between thirtysomething and twentysomething isn’t so great,” he said. “Would you be willing to relocate for an unspecified time? Or do you have commitments here in Paris that would make that impossible?”

“I have no commitments, no ties of any kind. I am literally the most uncommitted person you are ever likely to meet.”

She laughed softly at the reality of that, and when she saw he didn’t understand, she shook her head to reassure him.

“I’m sorry. That’s not really funny.” She realized she was about to blow it, to miss this opportunity, so she tried again. “I’m very interested in the position. I would have no problem in relocating, and I think your client will find I have the skills to handle her social correspondence and her companionship. I hope I’ll have the opportunity to meet her and convince her of my qualifications.”

“I’m sorry. I thought you understood that I’m to make the decision. Madame Rochette prefers not to return from the Caribbean. I’ll be in touch, whatever the outcome of the other interviews. Thank you for your time.”

“Thank you. I hope...” She paused, trying to keep the desperation hidden. “How long before you’ll have reached your decision?”

“We’ll decide within the next few days. I have your number.”

She could think of nothing else that she might tell him to convince him of her qualifications, so she rose, walking from his office with the grace taught at that expensive finishing school her grandfather had finally rescued her from.

The solicitor tented his fingers, appearing to study the file before him, but his mind was on what the woman had told him. He knew she was perfect. It all fit. However, the one who would have the final say on that had not yet been consulted, so he pushed himself to his feet like an old man and moved to the open door that she had apparently never noticed in the deliberate dimness of the office.

His client was seated in a high-backed chair just beyond the open doorway. The solicitor walked around the chair and stood for a long time facing the tall, dark figure. The smile that played around those lips was not a display of pleasure or amusement. He wondered again about the purpose of this search that had involved his staff now for more than a year.

“Well?” he asked finally and watched the smile broaden.

“You’ve done very well, Beaulieu, very well, indeed.”

“She fits every qualification you gave me. Will she do? Is she what you wanted?”

“She is exactly what I wanted.” The man in the chair controlled the triumph in his voice with an effort. “You understand the necessity of complete confidence.”

“That’s always our policy. You’ve depended on us in the past. Have we ever given you cause to question our integrity?”

The listener could hear the stifled anger in the lawyer’s voice, but he was paying him enough to put up with a few insulting questions. It was vital that no one should be able to trace her here or to him.

“Does she look like the picture I gave you?” he asked suddenly, surprising himself by his curiosity. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer, but when it came, it was only what he had expected.

“Their mothers couldn’t tell them apart,” the solicitor said. There was no pleasure over the success of the search in his voice, only regret for the woman. He had found himself liking her quiet, self-effacing humor. He didn’t, however, ask any of the questions that stirred darkly in his mind. That wasn’t part of his job. He had done what he had been paid to do, and any misgivings he had he would keep to himself, but he didn’t envy the woman he had found. He already knew far more about all this than he wanted to, far too much for his own peace of mind.

Chapter Two

The flight to Guadeloupe had been restful. There was something to be said for flying first class and being waited on. It was an experience she thought she could grow accustomed to. All she needed were a few more opportunities to try it, she thought in amusement.

The call had been unexpected in spite of the approval she had sensed in the lawyer’s attitude. She had learned in the past few years not to expect anything good. She would have rejected that thought as self-pitying, would never have consciously allowed it to form, but it was true, and it colored her view of the world. The offer of this job had been, to her, truly a miracle.

She watched the islands unfold below the plane in a seemingly endless chain of green dots rimmed with the white pearl of surf against an iridescent shimmer of blues. The scene looked like something out of a travel film, except she was here. She was to be the social secretary to a wealthy widow whose family owned an island. She smiled at the image of herself in that setting, but the reflection in the plane’s window mocked her doubts. She certainly looked as if she belonged.

She had put her long, sun blond hair up today and had worn more makeup, in hopes, she supposed, of making a good impression. She had even bought a new dress—an emerald linen, very businesslike, except for what it did to the green of her eyes. There would never be anything businesslike about her eyes.

She had followed to the letter the lawyer’s instructions about what to pack. She had also read the friendly note from her future employer so many times the paper threatened to come apart at the folds. It had been reassuring, warm and inviting. Of course, Madame Rochette had been under no obligation to write at all, so the gesture seemed to indicate that she would probably enjoy their relationship as much as she hoped. She tried not to, but she found that she was, indeed, hoping that this all would work out to be as pleasant as it seemed.

The lawyer had given explicit instructions about arrangements for reaching the island, including travel from the airport, ferry times, an endless list of minutiae that she also intended to carry out to the letter. She was surprised to find, however, that when she came through customs and presented her passport, there was an immediate flurry of officialdom that led her eventually to the door of a private office while her escorts went rushing off to find her bags. She followed their instructions, entering the office to find it occupied by someone quite different from the officials she had encountered so far.

“Ms. Evans?” he asked, unfolding his long body from the leather chair. He had been reading a newspaper, comfortably invading someone else’s office with a tall, cool-looking drink within arm’s reach. A tropical-weight tan jacket draped broad shoulders and fell loosely to his narrow hips. The lean length of the legs below was emphasized by the skintight and well-worn jeans he wore. His hair was darkly curling and long by current standards. It fell below the collar of the jacket, but on him it looked right, finished the picture of a man who was perfectly at ease with the persona he had chosen, perfectly suited for the tropics. He was, of course, deeply tanned, the contrast as sharp between the crystal blue of his eyes and the dark gold of his skin as it was between the flash of white, even teeth in the smile he gave her.

“You are Caroline Evans?” he said. “My reputation won’t stand an attempt to pick up some strange woman at the airport.”

I’ll just bet it won’t, she thought, but she smiled, extending her hand to reassure him. “I’m Caroline Evans.”

“Andre Gerrard,” he said. His handshake was pleasantly firm and brief. “My sister asked me to meet you. Our transportation arrangements can be a little confusing for someone not born to boating everywhere. She asked me to take you to the island. I have my boat and can have you there, resting from your journey, much quicker than if you wait for the ferry. I hope that’s all right. I have identification,” he said, perhaps seeing the hesitation in her face.

“Since Madame Rochette didn’t mention her brother’s name, I don’t suppose that would help. Besides, it seems that everyone here knows who you are. The cooperation of the airport staff should be recommendation enough of your credentials. I don’t think they’d contrive to help you kidnap ‘some strange woman.’”

The laugh that broke from him was rich and full, and its ease touched a chord somewhere deep inside. She liked men who were unselfconscious enough to laugh like that. She found herself studying the laugh lines around the blue eyes and realized that he was now simply smiling at her scrutiny.

He’s probably used to having that effect on women, she thought. He certainly has the right equipment. And knows it. And knows how to use it. And I am a cynic, she chided herself, smiling, but he took the smile caused by that admission as an answer to his own. By that time, her bags had arrived, and there was no more time for conversation.

When he handed her into a Porsche, she wasn’t surprised. It wasn’t new, but classic, lovingly cared for, and he drove it well. They didn’t talk against the force of the wind. Eventually she took the pins from her hair and let it whip in tangling strands around her face. Not very businesslike, but what the hell. He’d been sent to pick her up, and she’d had no choice in her means of transportation. She’d attempt repairs once they reached the island.

The boat, too, fitted her image of the man at her side. It was sleek and fast, not new, but again classically styled, wood with brass fittings. She knew nothing of boats, but recognized the money and time it would take to care for something like this.

He controlled the boat with the same unthinking competence he had used to handle the convertible while the salt air finished the disorder of her careful hairdo. He had handed her in and out with that strong brown hand, and as she walked up the steep steps from the landing, she could still feel the strength in those steadying fingers tingling against her palm.

He had held her hand a fraction of a second too long, and she tried to ignore the long-forgotten messages such a gesture evoked, but she was attracted. She was honest enough, with herself at least, to admit it. She couldn’t remember when she had been so attracted to a man, and the irony of that thought wasn’t lost on her.

She took a deep breath as they neared the top of the stairs and the beginnings of the flagstones of the patio that stretched behind the modern house that commanded the summit of the island. It was nothing like the ancient family estate she had imagined. Instead it was sleek glass and cypress, but it was as imposing in its size as her imaginary mansion.

She shivered involuntarily, wondering where the sudden chill had come from in the warmth of the tropic sun. She must have paused because she felt his hand in the small of her back, a gentle movement of its thumb against her spine.

“It’s all right. Don’t be nervous. We’re very informal around here. It’s the ambience of the tropics, I suppose. All this lushness,” he reassured. When he laughed, she glanced up into that beautifully masculine face to find a look of real compassion for her nervousness. “No one’s going to eat you. I promise. No big bad wolf.”

She smiled at her foolishness and, unconsciously straightening her shoulders, started across the wide expanse of the patio. He followed, easily carrying both her bags, which he set down just inside the room they entered through the French doors. They waited a moment for their eyes to adjust to the pleasant dimness, so she missed the rise of the figure from the long coral couch across the room. The woman was halfway across the gleaming quarry tile, her hands extended, before she was clearly visible.

“Caroline? Of course. I was quite specific in my instructions. I wanted someone young and attractive and fun. I really do need help with those endless letters. God knows, I’m weeks behind, but that wasn’t my prime motivation. I just wanted someone to be friends with. I hope we will be. I’m Suzanne Rochette.”

By that time she was there, but instead of taking Caroline’s outstretched hand, she pulled her into a quick hug and then held both her shoulders to study her features.

Caroline’s first impressions were jumbled by the unexpectedness of the greeting. Nothing was as she had anticipated. The figure before her wore jeans as aged as her brother’s, a faded T-shirt and was barefoot.

Even given the ambience of the tropics her brother had talked about, the attire seemed strange for such wealth. Of course, she knew nothing about that. Who was she to judge? She realized that something was expected of her, so she smiled into the friendly blue eyes and was rewarded with a quick squeeze of those small, almost tomboyish hands on her shoulders.

“I’m so glad you’re finally here,” Suzanne said, smiling.

“I’m very glad to be here and very grateful that you chose me. I’m looking forward to helping you.”

“Well, I didn’t really choose. Paul did that, but I already feel that he made the perfect selection. Has Andre treated you nicely? I have to warn you. He is much sought after and far too sure of his attractions. He’s really a nice boy, but take everything he says with a grain of salt. It’s all too practiced. That’s not his fault, of course, but regrettably true.”

During the monologue on her brother’s character, she was guiding Caroline to the couch she’d been occupying when they arrived. Caroline glimpsed the genuine amusement on her brother’s face and was relieved that this, apparently, was an old joke between them, not something directed at her attraction to him, which she hoped hadn’t been that obvious.

“I’ll remember that,” she said, smiling. She glanced at Andre who winked at her and gently swatted his sister’s bottom.

“How am I going to succeed in luring young lovelies if you persist in warning them off? You’re supposed to be on my side.” He dropped a swift kiss on the blue-veined temple exposed by the dark gamin cut of his sister’s hair. “Why don’t you let me show Caroline upstairs for a rest. She’s had a long journey and would probably like to change and lie down before dinner. You can finish destroying my character later tonight.”

Suzanne released her hand and nodded. “You’re right, of course. I’ll finish my book, and we’ll talk after dinner. Slacks are fine. We only dress if there are guests. I’m very glad you’re here,” she finished, reaching to touch her lips gently to Caroline’s cheek.

“I’m very glad to be here.” Caroline’s answer was sincere, and she felt the prick of tears behind her eyes. She couldn’t have imagined a warmer greeting than she had been given. It was balm to the tension that had held her since the plane had touched down. “Thank you. I’ll see you at dinner, then.”

“Somebody will come for you so you won’t get lost. We eat around eight. If you’re hungry now, I can have something sent up. I didn’t think to ask if you’d had lunch.”

“I’m fine. I ate on the flight. I’ll be ready by eight.”

She smiled again into the friendly blue eyes and followed Andre up the stairs. He had retrieved her bags, and she found something reassuring about that, as well—about his carrying them himself instead of summoning some hovering servant. All her preconceptions and fears were dissolving in the ease of their welcome.

“I think you’ll like your room. Suzanne spent days deciding where you should be. You’re close to her, of course, and it looks down on the garden pool. The surf here is dangerously strong, so I wouldn’t advise swimming in the sea, but the pool is available at any time. There are light switches for the atrium in every doorway. I thought you might prefer looking out on the sea, but those rooms are too far from Suzanne to satisfy any urge for a quick nighttime conference, so she decided on this one.”

The suite was beautifully appointed, but not at all formal. The colors were the muted greens of the waters closest to the shore and the creams of the surf. The decorator had used a shell motif sparingly in the border and spread. Andre opened the floor-to-ceiling louvered windows, and the garden that the house surrounded was just below, lushly planted around the pool. The tiles of the pool were navy, the richness of its dark depths contrasting the sparkle of the sun on its surface and the colors of the flowers that surrounded it.

“It’s so beautiful,” she said, breathing in the fragrance of the blooms that were wide and drooping in the afternoon heat.

“I’m glad you like it,” he said, apparently assuming her comment to refer to the room rather than the tropical paradise she supposed he was too accustomed to even notice anymore.

“I like it very much. Thank you for everything, especially for taking time to meet me personally. I was a little concerned, despite all Monsieur Dupre’s careful instructions.”

“You’d have managed. Everyone’s very friendly. I wanted to meet you. It was my pleasure.” He smiled, the blue eyes warm.

The silence grew between them. She wondered if his words had been intended to convey the attraction she was attributing to them or if, as his sister had said, he was simply so practiced at flirtation that he did this intimate smile and meeting of the eyes automatically.

“Well,” he said finally, “I’ll let you rest. I’ll see you at dinner. I’m looking forward to seeing you at dinner.”

There could be no mistake about the intent of the fingers that closed gently around her hand and raised it to his lips. They barely touched the skin, but the warmth of his mouth and the gentle breath he took before he released her hand was electric. The current flared briefly in his eyes before he turned and retreated across the thick, foam green carpet.

When he had closed the door behind him, she looked out into the richness of the garden again. She shook her head in a slow, deliberate, negative movement and then closed the doors against the reflected glare of the pool.

She slipped out of the linen dress that had already begun to wilt in the heat and humidity. She hung it carefully in the cedar-lined closet and removed her heels and hose. Turning back the thick spread, she lay down against the cool, lavender-scented sheets that seemed vaguely comforting and, because she had slept so little the night before, she drifted easily into sleep.

* * *

“I TAKE IT our guest has arrived?” The quiet voice was carefully emotionless, but Suzanne knew Julien well enough to read a lot that he intended to hide.

“She’s here, all right. I just don’t understand why she’s here. What possible purpose do you believe allowing her to come here will serve?”

She ran her small hands across the broad shoulders and massaged the tension she could feel in the strong column of his neck. He rolled his head in response to the release that her fingers were kneading into the tight muscles, but he didn’t answer her question, just as he had refused to explain his reasons from the beginning.

“Why? Why? Why are you putting yourself through this?” she asked, her small fist pounding an emphasis to each question against the corded muscles of his upper arm until he caught her hand and held it still with the tensile strength of his. His thumb massaged her knuckles, and he laughed.

“Expiation,” he said, and his voice was rich with the laughter that still lurked behind the word.

“Expiation?” she repeated, pulling her hand free. “Expiation.” This time it wasn’t a question. “Are you sure that’s the right word? Are you sure that’s what you mean?”

“What word do you think I mean?” he asked, still amused by her anger.

“Retribution,” she whispered, wondering as she had from the beginning if it were possible he had not told her the truth.

“Like some Old Testament injunction? An eye for an eye? Is that what you expect?”

“I don’t know what to expect. I thought I understood you. I thought I knew you, and then...” She shook her head in frustration.

“I need to understand why...after all these years...” The deep voice faded, unable to put into words what he felt.

“You always tried to understand. God, Julien, sometimes...”

The taut mouth relaxed at her anger for his sake, and he smiled. “Because there’s always a reason. I just have to determine what it is.”

“I don’t want her here,” she said, knowing the other was an argument she couldn’t win. “I don’t like this. I don’t want any part of it.”

“But it’s too late for that. She’s here. We’re here, and I think we need to find out what this is all about. Don’t you? Don’t you really believe that it’s time to finally finish whatever this is?”

“Is that what you intend? To put an end to it?”

She ran her hand through the dark hair that curled against her fingers. She rested her palm against his temple and finally bent to lay her cheek against the ebony curls. His lips curved again into a smile in response, and he raised his hand to touch the small, comforting fingers.

“Expiation,” he repeated. “I told you.”

“I just don’t want you hurt again,” she said.

“She can’t cause me pain. I promise you that. I don’t think—” he began and then paused.

“What?” She raised her head, moving so she could see his face. “What don’t you think?” she asked again and he smiled at her.

“I don’t think I want to talk about this any longer,” he answered truthfully, “but I don’t want you to worry. Let me worry about what’s going on. It’s not your concern.”

“You know that’s ridiculous. I don’t understand what you’re thinking. Talk to me. Who is she?”

“I don’t know who she is, but I damn well know who she’s not,” he said harshly, bitterly, and then deliberately modified his voice to hide the anger. “I promise you, that’s all I know. What Paul told us. Nothing else.”

“And in spite of that, you’re still...”

But she watched as his eyes moved away from her face to the sound of the surf that pounded against the volcanic rocks below the deck on which he was sitting. When he shook his head against her questions, she knew he had told her all he intended. She moved her hand down the back of his head, touching his neck again, and then silently, on bare feet, she left him to contemplate alone whatever it was he was planning.

She had never been able to change his mind, not once he’d decided on a course of action, and obviously he’d decided what to do about the woman who had just arrived.

“Expiation,” she whispered, and went to look up the word, to verify that it meant what she thought. In spite of her accusation, he would never use the wrong word. He was far too careful. When she found it, it meant exactly what she had thought, so she was left to wonder still what he planned.

* * *

CAROLINE WAS ASLEEP when the maid tapped lightly on the door. She awoke instantly in the tropical darkness, disoriented for a few seconds.

“Mademoiselle,” the maid spoke from beyond the doorway, “Madame asks that you join the family for dinner if you’ve rested enough.”

“Of course. I overslept. Please tell them I won’t be long, and then, if you would, come back for me?”

“Of course, mademoiselle.”

She felt drugged, too deeply asleep, but she knew that she had to rise and dress. She ran her fingers tiredly through the tangled strands of her hair, realizing with dismay that she hadn’t even unpacked.

She pulled one of the suitcases onto the bed, rummaging until she found a pair of white slacks and their matching top. They were slightly wrinkled, but surely everyone would expect that. She slipped them on with a pair of white sandals and pulled out her makeup bag to repair the ravages.

She wished she had time to remove her old makeup and start over, but she hated making everyone wait. She brushed her hair to untangle it and could feel the effects of the salt air. She left it loose, worrying that it might be too casual, but at least it was quick.

She was ready when the maid returned. She followed her down the long hall and the wide, freestanding central stairs into the room she had entered today, a room whose long windows looked out now only on dark sky and sea and moon.

Suzanne rose gracefully and took her hand. “You look rested. Did you manage to sleep?”

“I probably have sleep creases. I was still asleep when the maid knocked. I’m so sorry I made you wait.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Suzanne reassured. “That’s one art you learn in this climate. It’s fatal to hurry. No one does. We’re one drink ahead of you. What would you like?”

“Juice, soda, whatever you have. Nothing alcoholic,” Caroline requested, following the small figure to the bar.

Suzanne had changed into a turquoise silk jumpsuit that fit every curve of her perfectly shaped body. She made Caroline feel as tall and gawky as she had always felt as a teenager.

“A teetotaler,” Andre said, laughing. “We make our living here making rum, and you’ve invited a teetotaler.”

“Andre,” his sister chided, handing her a glass full of ice and some sort of mixed juices. It was very refreshing, its cold tartness chasing away the last of the grogginess.

She knew they were wondering if she had a problem with alcohol. Most people who didn’t drink at all were either alcoholics or had strong feelings about the use of spirits. She fell into neither category, but she couldn’t think how to phrase any explanation of her situation that would fit into this casual atmosphere.

She simply sipped her drink, watching Andre fix two Scotch-and-waters. He carried one to the fourth occupant of the room who had been sitting so quietly that she hadn’t noticed him in the low lighting. He had chosen the most shadowed corner, and she wondered suddenly if that might have been deliberate. It had certainly afforded him the opportunity to study her without her being aware of his scrutiny.

Suzanne spoke at her elbow, “You haven’t met my older brother. He’s the patriarch, the one who keeps us all in line. Come and meet Julien.”

Their footsteps sounded unnaturally loud against the stone tiles of the floor. She wondered suddenly if that’s why Suzanne had been barefoot this afternoon, to avoid this echoing parade across the room.

“Caroline, I’d like you to meet my favorite brother.”

They both heard Andre’s soft laugh behind them, but Suzanne ignored his response to her provocation and continued her introduction. “Julien, this is Caroline Evans. I’ve invited her to be my secretary and companion while I’m here.”

Caroline’s thoughts that night after she had gone to bed all concerned her stupidity in not putting it together sooner. The dark, aviator-style sunglasses in the dimness of the room. Andre’s solicitude with the drink. She hadn’t yet realized the reason those things were necessary. She had simply extended her hand and waited.

Suzanne reached out and took her hand quite naturally and, holding it gently in her own, lowered their joined hands between them as if they were such close friends they couldn’t bear to be apart. She smiled into Caroline’s eyes to banish the embarrassment, but they both knew that somehow the man who sat so quietly in that shadowed corner was perfectly aware of what had just happened.

He was very like his brother, as deeply tanned, with the same strong, squared chin and darkly curling hair. He was, perhaps, even better looking, his features more classically shaped. It was difficult to tell behind the dark glasses.

His tone was completely neutral when he spoke, his voice deep and rich, his English only slightly accented. Since she had expected him to address her in French, as the others had naturally done, his decision to greet her in her native language seemed a nice gesture.

“Ms. Evans, I’m delighted you’ve consented to join us here. I hope you’ll enjoy your stay. I doubt that even Suzanne’s social correspondence will totally occupy your time. Please feel free to enjoy the islands. If you need anything, I hope you’ll ask. Andre will make an excellent guide, and if I know my brother, he’ll be more than willing.”

“Thank you,” she said quietly, still embarrassed by her faux pas, “but I’m here to work, to help your sister. I don’t think I’ll have time to play tourist.”

“Andre will probably insist you find time. He’s already been extolling your beauty,” he said. Realizing that comment demanded some explanation, he continued softly, “I hope you’ll forgive my curiosity which, I admit, prompted his comments. We don’t usually discuss our guests, but a brief description helps me to visualize someone I’m meeting for the first time.” The dark glasses were focused somewhere beyond her left shoulder.

“I don’t mind. Especially since your brother chose to be very flattering. I’m looking forward to staying here. Your home is very beautiful.”

“And not at all what you expected,” he suggested. His lips lifted into a slight smile, and something about that movement caused a flutter inside her already nervous stomach.

“No,” she managed. “To be truthful, I’d expected a much older house.”

“The original house was destroyed by Hurricane David. Not a very romantic name for a storm, and that house was very romantic, steeped in history and haunted, I’m sure, by several well-authenticated ghosts. I built this house to replace it. It’s about ten years old.”

“You don’t miss the other at all.” Suzanne laughed. “He hated it. He couldn’t wait to design and build this one. He talked for months about what the site demanded and stresses and forces and who knows what else. I don’t know how the workmen ever got anything done with him adjusting every beam and pillar.”

“You’re an architect?” Caroline asked unthinkingly and knew by the tension, by the sudden movement of the small hand that finally released hers, the error she had made.

“Not anymore,” he said into the uncomfortable silence that fell in spite of their well-bred politeness. “I finance houses. I invest in companies that build them, but I don’t design. Not anymore, Ms. Evans.”

His voice had softened on the last, and she could almost hear the effort he made to speak naturally when he continued, a change of the awkward subject her remark had forced. “Suzanne, if you’ll take me in to dinner?”

He rose too suddenly, unaware perhaps of how close they stood to his chair or still bothered by the insensitivity of her comment. He moved so quickly that her instinctive step backward unbalanced her, and she grasped the nearest object to keep from falling. The solidness of the muscle under the navy silk shirt was reassuringly steady. She quickly regained her balance, releasing his arm as if she’d been scalded.

“I’m sorry,” he began, his words conflicting with her own agonized apology, so that they both stopped and waited.

“It was my fault,” she said finally, knowing she was blushing.

“I don’t think so, Ms. Evans. I hope you’ll forgive my clumsiness. Suzanne?”

He fitted his hand around his sister’s upper arm, and she led the way to the small table that had been set on the patio.

The meal was long and the atmosphere relaxed. The food was simple and delicious, a mixture of French and Creole dishes that reminded Caroline of New Orleans. The conversation flowed easily with Andre and Suzanne bearing the burden, seemingly without any conscious effort.

The man at the head of the table said little, and Caroline wondered if that were because his full attention was required for the process of eating. She was fascinated by the movement of his long brown fingers against the array of crystal and china. He never made a mistake. There was no clink of misplaced glass or fork, no need for the use of the napkin. She would never have known he was blind, she thought, not from this.

She wondered how long since he’d lost his vision. Less than ten years. She thought of those long years of darkness and wondered if he had ever been as laughingly sensuous as Andre, as confident of his power to attract. He was still, in spite of the dark glasses that hid the sightless eyes, a very attractive man.

At the realization that she had been watching those lean, tanned hands, she dropped her gaze to her plate and tried to concentrate on the story Andre and Suzanne were telling together, running over each other’s best lines. Something about a visitor to the original house who had been a sleepwalker. It was an old routine they had obviously used often in the past to entertain, but, although she laughed when they finished, she had lost the thread. Eventually, a relaxed silence fell over the group.

“Why don’t you take Ms. Evans to the deck and show her the surf,” her host suggested to his brother. The glasses moved toward her face when he explained, “You can hear it even from this side of the house. It’s a sound that will become as familiar as your own heartbeat, but the first sight is awe inspiring.”

Suddenly, she knew she didn’t want him pushing Andre to entertain her. It wasn’t necessary, and it was somehow insulting.

“Tomorrow,” she said, rising. She hoped she wasn’t being rude, but she was tired, and she wanted to sort out the impressions of the crowded day. “If you don’t mind, I think I’m going to turn in. I was up very early this morning, and in spite of the nap, I still feel the effects. Forgive me, please, and good night.”

Both men had risen automatically, but it was the older who again commanded.

“Of course. Andre, would you show Ms. Evans to her room? I hope you sleep well.”

“Good night, Caroline,” Suzanne spoke, still curled comfortably in her chair. “I’ll see you tomorrow. We’ll get started on the endless grind. I’m really very glad you’re here.”

Caroline followed Andre through the French doors and across the tile to the stairs. Neither was aware of the angry voice that spoke behind them on the patio.

“What the hell are you playing at? Blindman’s buff? Take you in to dinner.” Suzanne’s voice was rich with ridicule. “I almost threw up. My God, Julien, what kind of act was that?”

He laughed in the darkness and stood, holding out his hand for her. She finally took his fingers, and he pulled her up. They walked arm in arm to the edge of the patio, but she wasn’t the guide this time.

“I thought it was wonderfully affecting. A moment full of poignancy. Personally, I was deeply touched,” he said, smiling, but the mockery was all self-directed.

“Damn it, Julien, you explain what you’re doing, or I swear I quit. I swear I’m on the next flight to Paris. You almost knocked the poor girl down.”

“The poor girl?” he questioned softly. “I thought you didn’t want her here. I thought your sympathies were all for me, your concern.”

“When I think you need it. Not when you’re putting on some helpless blind-man routine for the tourists.”

“And how did the tourists respond?” he said softly. She knew suddenly from something in that carefully emotionless voice she was used to reading how much he wanted to know about their guest’s reaction to his blindness, and to know that, he needed her help.

“She did all right. I’d say she even...”

“Even what?” he asked finally when she refused to go on.

“She watched your hands. At dinner.”

“And?”

She could feel the tension in the hard body beside her, leaning lazily against the stone railings of the patio.

“She was all right. It didn’t make her nervous. As a matter of fact, I’d give her an eight, maybe even a nine.” They had devised the code years before, rating reactions to his blindness.

They didn’t speak for a long time, and in the silence she could hear the surf booming against the rocks. Like a heartbeat.

“Take me up to bed, Suzanne,” he said softly, hugging her small body close.

“You go to hell, you bastard. You always get your way. You go to hell,” she said.

She could hear his laughter following her inside and up the stairs to her room. She didn’t know why she was so angry with him, but thinking about that dark laughter, it was a long time before she slept.

Chapter Three

Caroline awoke suddenly in the cloying darkness and sat upright in the tangled sheets. A nightmare. It had been so long. The stresses of the day, she supposed. She took a deep breath and found she could smell, almost taste, the salt, the flowers from the garden below, the heat of the sun leaving the tiles beneath her windows.

It had been a mistake to leave them open. She was gathering the energy to climb out of the clinging sheets and close them when she heard it again. The sound that had dragged her, panting and shivering, from a too-sound sleep. The faint mewling cry of a newborn. She had heard babies cry through the years, and none of them ever sounded like this. So lost. So sick. As the last echo died, she buried her face in her hands. Not again, she prayed. Not again, dear God. Please, not now.

She waited, hoping, and after so many long dark minutes that she had begun once more to breathe, deep shuddering breaths of relief, the wail whispered again. Not through the open windows, but from the hall outside her room.

She had the door open before the sound had stopped, but in the darkness of the long hall she had no idea of its direction. Here there was no echo to guide her. It had stopped as soon as she opened the door, not fading into the blackness, but cut off.

She cried out against the unfairness of it. Realizing where she was, she pressed both hands against her mouth, attempting to suppress the racking sobs that always left her exhausted, incapable of any rational thought. Not again, she begged, feeling the blackness of her fear close around her.

“Caroline,” the voice spoke softly beside her, “what’s wrong? Why are you crying? What’s happened?”

She tried to regain control, to answer his concern, but she was too far into the panic the dream always caused.

Finally hard masculine arms enclosed her, offering the timeless comfort of human closeness that penetrates even the deepest hysteria, and she leaned into the warmth, the alive solidness of his chest. She let him rock her gently until the sobbing eased. Until the blackness retreated again to a manageable distance. She could smell the cologne he used and, underlying that, the scent of his body, warm and hard against her cheek. That evidence of life and sanity overwhelmed her with gratitude, so that she rubbed her face against the smoothness of his chest, turned her head to savor the reality of muscle and skin.

She was aware of the deep breath he took, and then he turned her face up to his and touched her trembling lips with his own. She wanted that touch. Her mouth opened automatically under the invasion of his tongue. She was surprised at the depth of her desire. She of the frozen emotions, the frigid indifference, wanted the lips that were moving over hers so skillfully, evoking memories that made her knees weaken and her hands clutch his shoulders.

He broke the contact, lifting his head, trying to see her face in the moon-touched darkness of the hallway. “What’s wrong?” he asked again, gathering her close.

She swallowed against the dryness. “A nightmare,” she whispered.

“That must have been one hell of a nightmare,” he said, smiling. “Not that I’m not grateful. Do you have these often?”

She was aware of the sexual teasing, the gentle invitation cloaked in the question, but she shook her head, still held safely against his body. “Not in such a long time. I thought they were gone. It’s been so long.”

They both were aware of the trembling despair of the last phrase, and his arms tightened comfortingly.

“You’re just tired—a long flight and then a bunch of strangers, maybe some of us stranger than others,” he teased gently. “Just tired.”

She began to breathe against the rhythmic caress of his hands moving soothingly over her back. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she had been asleep, still dazed from her exhaustion.

There was no sound now in the hallway. No sound from her open door but the boom of the surf against the rocks. His brother had been right. It was becoming a familiar background, as comforting as the hands against her spine. She was enfolded in its sound as Andre was enfolding her in his arms, arms that felt hard enough to protect her from any nightmare.

Embarrassed, she moved finally out of their circle, and he let her go. There was enough light now to see the smile he directed at her. She touched his face, unable to express the gratitude she felt.

“I’m all right. I promise. It was just a bad dream.”

“It’s almost dawn. Do you want me to stay with you?”

“Why were you up?” she whispered.

“I’m going to Marie Galante. To the distilleries. I told you we make our living here producing rum. That’s my domain in the many provinces of the family businesses. Julien runs everything else, but this is mine. I usually leave at daybreak and come home midafternoon. Suzanne told you how we operate in the tropics. The heat makes everything else impossible. But if you want me to stay—”

“Of course not,” she denied, pushing the tangled waves of her hair back from her face. “I’m fine. Really. And you’re probably right. Just too much happening at one time, too much excitement. My life is usually very dull. I hope you won’t tell Suzanne. I’d hate for her to think she’s employed some kind of neurotic.”

She regretted the word as soon as she’d uttered it. She didn’t know why she’d used it, hated the sound of it between them, but he only laughed.

“Everybody’s neurotic about something. Comparatively, I think nightmares rank fairly low. Stop worrying. Why don’t you try to sleep? There’s still a half hour or so of darkness. You’ll feel better if you lie down and relax.”

She smiled and nodded, although in the dimness of the hall she doubted he saw the gesture. “I think you’re right. And thank you.”

“My pleasure,” he said softly. Finally he turned and walked away.

She stood a moment longer until the silence drove her back to the open doorway of her room. The windows were still open, and the lightening gloom of the tropical false dawn drew her to stand beside them and look out. She knew she couldn’t go back to sleep. She knew that instead she would lie listening for the sounds that would signal the past had once again overtaken her, so she stood, blocking all thought, simply watching the gathering light.

She saw someone enter the garden and thought at first it was Andre, but the body was wrong, the chest too deep, the shoulders too broad for Andre’s tall leanness.

As he moved toward the pool, she saw that he wore only a pair of black bathing trunks that fitted his narrow waist and hips like a second skin. She had always hated the European styling, but somehow it was right for him, outlining the tight muscles of his buttocks and emphasizing his masculinity, the almost concave stomach, the strong thighs. She felt like a voyeur, but she watched, unable to move from the windows as he walked without hesitation to the edge of the pool and dived into the dark depths. There was none of the uncertainty he had shown in his movements last night.

He swam a long time, until the sun touched the sky into real dawn, and she wondered how he could know that. He pulled himself from the edge of the pool and used the towel he had flung down beside it to dry his hair and his face. She realized suddenly that he wasn’t wearing the dark glasses. She wanted desperately to see the color of his eyes, but the light was too faint and the distance too great.

He looped the towel around his neck, moving again with the quick, sure stride back across the tile of the garden and into the open doors. She swallowed, wondering about the emotion that churned her stomach and tightened painfully against her temples. She rested her head against the louvers of the windows and felt, but didn’t understand, hot tears gather and begin to trace down her cheeks.

* * *

SHE AND SUZANNE WORKED a long time from the seemingly endless list of names and addresses. The dictation was rapid and spotty, her employer trusting Caroline to fill in suitable expressions of gratitude for kindnesses that Suzanne enumerated in the beginning of each letter. They worked until lunch, which they ate alone. She hadn’t expected Andre to return, but she wondered about Julien and found herself listening for him, looking at the doorway throughout the meal.

They ate this time in the small breakfast room because of the midday heat. She didn’t ask, and Suzanne offered no explanation for her brother’s failure to join them, chatting instead about the tourist attractions that she insisted Caroline wouldn’t want to miss, the dinner party for a few old friends on Monday night and the fact that tonight was the servants’ night out.

“They go back to attend Mass in the morning. I’ve tried to get Julien to build a chapel and get a priest. I swear it would be worth it not to have to worry about Saturday night supper and Sunday’s meals. I’m afraid they’re never much. The cook leaves salads, and we snack. Julien cooks sometimes if the mood strikes him, but not me. I hate to cook.”

Suzanne was curled again in the comfortable chair that, like those around the patio table, was more armchair than dining chair. No wonder meals stretched pleasantly long after everyone had finished eating. They were sipping iced coffee, and because of the afternoon sunlight and Suzanne’s laughing voice, she had lost most of the tension of the dawn, relaxing again in the undemanding companionship her employer offered.

“Julien?” She questioned the last comment in surprise and watched the telltale realization break across the heart-shaped face before her.

“He does it very well,” his sister said finally, with a decidedly Gallic shrug.

“I’m sure he does. He seems to do everything well. I saw him swimming this morning.” She thought that perhaps Suzanne’s open nature would lead her to give some background about her brother, but for once, Suzanne didn’t answer. She drank her coffee instead, and when she looked up, it was to find the green eyes waiting.

“You haven’t asked. It’s all right. Everyone does. Some people even have nerve enough to ask him, and he tells them.”

The silence stretched for the first time into discomfort between them. Finally Suzanne broke it, resignation and something else Caroline couldn’t identify coloring her voice.

“Julien lost his sight six years ago in an automobile accident in Monaco. He was very badly hurt, besides the blindness. His recovery took almost two years of rehabilitation. There are still lingering effects, although he makes sure that no one is aware of them. Whatever my brother suffers, he covers very well. He’s open about his blindness because that’s not something he can hide, but not the other. He’s a very private man, very closed. He wasn’t. He was...”

“Like Andre?” Caroline asked into the brittle pause.

“Andre?” She could hear the surprise in Suzanne’s voice at that thought. “I suppose he was in a lot of ways. He was athletic, really a daredevil. His leisure activities were all dangerous: racing—cars and boats, polo, flying, even skydiving. He was never hurt, never injured. He was too good, too quick. It’s so ironic that after all the years of those things, he was instead...destroyed in the way he was.”

“Destroyed?” Caroline questioned, rejecting the finality of that choice of words. “Surely not.”

“What he was,” Suzanne amended. “How he was. Funny. Clever. Passionate. Relaxed. Like Andre, but stronger. You always knew you could depend on Julien to have control. He was so sure of everything.” She took a deep breath, raising blue eyes to study Caroline’s face before she continued.

“He’s so different now. Contained and careful. I know he has to be because...” Her voice faded, and then she continued, almost thinking aloud now. “He hates to grope, to stumble, hates to look blind. He hates his blindness, but he never says that. He won’t express his anger and resentment. I always thought that if he would express it, say how he feels, it might ease. If he did, however, he’d have to blame her, and he’s not ready to deal with that.”

“I don’t understand. Blame who?” Caroline asked. She became aware of a growing tightness at her temples. She even put her hand up to rub against the beginning pain as she waited.

“Julien’s wife was driving. Drunk and angry at some imagined slight. I never met her. I was too occupied here with my own marriage, with Edouard’s illness, and Julien never brought her to the island. Andre says she was like a child, a spoiled brat when she didn’t get her way. God knows how Julien put up with her. Love is blind, I suppose.”

Suzanne stopped suddenly, raising stricken eyes. “I can’t believe I said that, but he was. Blind to her faults. She wrecked the car and walked away without a scratch and then walked away from him. She just left him to deal with all she’d done to him.”

When the words finally stopped beating inside her head, Caroline lowered her face against the coolness of her glass to fight the rising nausea. She didn’t understand why the story had upset her so. The images formed in her head by Suzanne’s words had pierced her, like the nightmares always did, and she was glad when Suzanne stood and dropped her napkin beside her plate.

“I can’t write another one of those damn notes. Let’s give it a rest. We’ll start again in the morning. I think I’ll ride in with Andre when he takes the staff back to Terre-de-Bas. Until then, I’m going to sleep. We should take lessons from the Spanish. They know how to deal with long, hot afternoons. Think you can entertain yourself for a few hours?”

“Of course. I’ll be fine. I may get some sun by the pool if that’s all right.”

“Be careful. You’ll burn before you know it.”

“I’ll use screen. I just feel so city white.”

“I know,” Suzanne said, smiling, “but I fight the urge. Sun hats and beach umbrellas for me. Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve discovered an age spot or two. Why don’t men get those? God, it’s so unfair.”

They laughed together, the tension suddenly evaporating, and then Suzanne climbed the long staircase to the upstairs rooms.

With Suzanne’s departure, the quietness of the house closed around her. She found herself wondering where he was. She shook off the thought and climbed the stairs herself to change into the pale pink swimsuit she had brought with her, another item on the lawyer’s precise list.

She looked down on the pool when she was dressed, feeling the inviting pull of the waters. Everything was going to be all right. She just needed to relax and fit in. Forget this morning. The nightmares would fade as they had before. She had simply been too tired, overstimulated.

She touched her lips, remembering the feel of Andre’s mouth against hers and, instead of the pleasure she had felt this morning, she remembered the familiar emptiness. The long years’ emptiness.

* * *

IN THE COOL SHADOWS of his office Julien heard the sounds from the pool. He knew it wasn’t Suzanne, so he walked to the window and listened to the movement of the waters. He knew by the sounds when she had stopped swimming, had walked up the steps at the shallow end and found one of the loungers. He even heard and identified the ritual of opening the lotion, the replacement of the bottle on the tile beside the chair.

He found himself imagining her fingers moving against her arms and legs, against her neck, her breasts. “She can’t hurt me,” he had told Suzanne, and in those images he knew that for the lie it was. He leaned, as she had, against the window and for the first time allowed himself, almost against his will, to remember.

* * *

“ARE YOU SURE you don’t mind if I leave you?” Suzanne questioned as she slipped her feet into her sandals. “Julien’s here, and we’ll be home before dinnertime, I promise. Knock on his office door if you need anything. He’s really a very nice man, doesn’t bite or anything.”

“I’ll be fine,” Caroline reassured. “I’m going to address the letters we got through this morning, so Andre can take them to mail tomorrow. Don’t worry.”

“I just need to pick up a few things and get out of the house. Unless you want to come with us?”

Caroline shook her head, knowing the invitation was only a polite afterthought. She had been hired to do a job, not to join in family outings.

* * *

SHE WORKED A COUPLE of hours in Suzanne’s small office and didn’t realize until she heard the rain how dark the sky had become. The coming storm was clearly visible from the long windows that looked out on to the patio. She was surprised to notice that all the furniture had been removed.

The flagstones stretched gray as the roiling clouds, and the wind pressed strongly enough against the long glass of the windows to rock them in the wooden frames. She thought briefly about the open boat and wondered if they would return now in time for dinner. She walked back to the office to finish sealing the last of the envelopes, wondering where she should leave them so Andre wouldn’t miss them. She wished she’d asked Suzanne.

By the time she reentered the living room, she had to turn on one of the lamps against the growing darkness of twilight and the storm. The wind and rain beat against the glass, and she watched a moment. She wasn’t afraid of storms. They were elemental and always made her feel strangely alive, turned on to the power they created.

She decided on a quick shower before dinner to wash the pool’s chlorine out of her hair. When she entered her bedroom, she opened one of the long windows, but the wind was too strong, blowing the rain in a fine mist over the carpet. She stood a moment, raising her face into the force of the storm, and then she closed the window and turned on the low light beside her bed.

* * *

JULIEN WAS STANDING by the sink in the kitchen when he heard the upstairs shower begin. He lowered his head and listened to the pounding of the wind and rain against the glass. He touched his watch to feel the time, and finally he walked to the box against the outside wall. His hand moved unerringly to open it and find the handle he sought. He pulled it, waiting before he walked back to the sink.

He concentrated against the growing noise of the gale, and he could still hear the water from upstairs rushing down through the pipes. He walked then to the clock above the doorway to touch the face. The slight vibration of the electric motor that drove the hands was still, and in spite of his determination, he found himself hurrying to the stairs, climbing too quickly to lean against her door.

He wondered again at his own motives, but since he had listened to Paul Dupre’s description, he had known that this moment would come. Finally he would confront her. There had been no doubt in his mind from the beginning that what would happen tonight was inevitable. He breathed deeply to calm his trembling fingers before he knocked.

She had stood a long time with her eyes closed under the hot spray of the shower, feeling it relax a tension she hadn’t even been aware of.

Enough, she urged herself mentally. This is something you’ve conquered. Enough.

The soft knock was an interruption, and she opened her eyes to blackness. She fumbled briefly for the controls of the shower and, in the sudden silence when the water stopped, she heard him call her name.

“Ms. Evans? Are you all right?”

She groped for her towel and dried her face and hair before she wrapped it sarong fashion to answer the repeated knock.

“I’m all right. I was in the shower. What happened to the lights?” she asked, adding unnecessarily, “The lights are out.”

“I know,” he said, his amusement at her explanation clear even through the barrier of the door. “I have a computer that talks. Suddenly it stopped talking to me, and I realized you must be in the dark. It’s the storm. We have our own generator, but this happens too often. I thought you might like to come downstairs.” He waited, and then he said into the silence, “If you’re afraid.”

The door opened suddenly, moving away from his fingers, and he could smell her. The same soap, the same shampoo, Kerri had always used. God, how could she know that? He closed his eyes behind the lenses of the dark glasses, but that didn’t stop the tightening of his groin, the painful engorging that even her smell, after all these years, could cause.

“I’m not afraid,” she said. “I like storms, but I would like to come downstairs. If you’ll wait while I get dressed.”

“Of course,” he said. He wondered if she could hear the tightness in his voice. “Do you need any help?” he asked seriously, and heard her laugh.

“I’ve been dressing myself a long time. I think I can manage.”

“So had I,” he said softly, a rebuke against her amusement. When he spoke again, he had lightened the darkness. “But if you get it wrong, I certainly won’t notice.”

This time he smiled when she laughed. She closed the door, and he smiled again in satisfaction and leaned against the wall to wait.

It wasn’t long before the door reopened. He could hear the movement of whatever she wore against her body, could smell her fragrance. For the first time, he was uncertain about what he had planned to do, so she was forced to stand in the open doorway waiting. He could hear her breathing, and finally he spoke.

“There’s a proverb for situations like this,” he said.

“But you’re not, surely, going to say it,” she answered, her voice calm and unembarrassed. He was surprised to feel her fingers close around his upper arm. He pressed them against his side and wondered if he could do this, if he still wanted to. He guided her, without speaking, to the stairs and loosened her fingers from around his arm to place her left hand on the railing. He was surprised when she touched him once more, gripping his sleeve.

“Don’t,” she said into the darkness. He could hear, for the first time, unease in her voice. “Don’t leave me.”

“I’m right here. I just thought the railing might be easier. I have you.”

She moved down the stairs beside him, but he felt the deep breath she took when they reached the bottom.

“I don’t think I could do that,” she said softly. He didn’t respond, didn’t want to form an answer, because he understood. He hadn’t thought he could, either. He had—out of necessity and because he had had no choice.

“Are you hungry?” he asked instead.

“Shouldn’t we wait for the others? Suzanne said they’d be back.”

“I don’t think that now, with the storm, they’ll try it. Maybe later if it clears, but not with that going on.”

They listened to the force pushing against the house, the movement of the long panes of glass between them and the wind.

“Then, yes,” she said, “I’m hungry.”

He led her to the kitchen. With each step she relaxed into his guidance, surer now with following his movements. He didn’t hesitate, and she felt again a kind of admiration for his cleverness in conquering the dark world he’d been forced into.

She was gently deposited on a tall stool near the island that she knew dominated the center of the modern kitchen.

“Let’s see what’s here.”

She heard him open the refrigerator and begin removing lids and placing containers on the counter.

“I just thought,” he said suddenly. She heard him open a drawer and the brush of his fingers over the contents. She couldn’t tell what he was doing, until the flare of the match allowed her to watch him light by touch the wick of the candle he’d found. The soft glow moved out against the darkness. She took a deep breath when he turned to bring the candle and its holder to the island.

“That’s better,” he said, as if the light were for him also. She smiled at the satisfaction in his voice.

“Much better,” she agreed. “Dinner by candlelight.”

When he moved back to the counter to fix whatever he’d found for their supper, she carried the candle and her stool across the narrow space that separated them. He stopped what he was doing when he became aware of her nearness.

“I want to watch,” she said, “or help, if you like.”

He carefully cut the long loaf he’d found in the pantry into two halves with a knife that moved easily against the bread.

“I think it’s safer if you watch. I like doing this, but I’d hate to miss and ruin our dinner. Your fingers are safer in your lap, Ms. Evans,” he said, and she could see the quick slant of his smile in the candlelight. His rejection of her offer didn’t slow the preparations his hands were making.

“Caroline,” she corrected and watched the sudden stillness of his fingers.

“Caroline,” he repeated before he went back to the sandwich. She lapsed into silence, enjoying the swift dexterity of his hands against the items he’d placed on the counter.

When it was finished, he used the knife to cut the sandwich into two equal parts, which he lifted onto the plates. She carried them to the island and sat on one of the stools.

His fingers found the neck of one of the bottles that rested in the wine rack above her head, and she watched as he carried it to the counter and poured two glasses. When he held hers out to her, she took it. He found the stool with one hand and pulled it to the island, and she moved one of the plates in front of him. She watched him sip the burgundy, but she sat hers down untouched beside her plate. Even the smell would nauseate her.

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