Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous collection of fantastic novels by bestselling, much loved author

ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the

publishing industry, having written over one hundred

and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than

forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance

for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,

passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!

I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

Dangerous Rhapsody
Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

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

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THE offices of Thorne Chemicals stood in a mews off Cromwell Road. A tall, imposing building of concrete and glass, its many floors reached greedily towards the sky, as though proclaiming by its height its undoubted individuality and prosperity. A uniformed commissionaire patrolled the flight of shallow steps which led up to the wide expanse of glass panelling in which were set the swing doors giving on to the entrance hall. Emma felt sure this worthy individual considered her a more likely candidate for the staff entrance just around the corner, but she gathered together all her small store of confidence, and mounting the steps she pushed open the swing doors and entered the building.

She was immediately conscious of the pile carpet into which her shoes sank luxuriously, and looked across its jade green width to a low, dark reception desk, behind which a striking blonde was seated. Her skilfully darkened eyebrows rose at Emma's entrance, and she seemed surprised at the intrusion. Emma swallowed hard, and crossed the carpet to the desk.

‘I have an appointment with Mr. Thorne, for eleven o'clock,’ she said.

The blonde consulted her appointments book. ‘You are Miss Harding?'

Emma nodded. Now that she was actually here, her knees were starting to feel weak again, and she hoped they would not give out on her. Oh, lord, she thought wildly, why had Johnny had to get her into this awful situation?

The blonde was using the inter-communication telephone on the desk, and Emma, coming back to awareness of the present, heard her speaking to Damon Thorne's secretary. There was the usual inter-change of names and appointment times and then the blonde replaced her receiver and turned to Emma.

‘Mr. Thorne's secretary is sending someone down to take you up to his suite,’ she said, in cool, aloof tones. ‘Sit down for a moment, won't you?'

She waved a careless hand in the direction of several comfortable chairs, placed at intervals, and then returned to her perusal of a sheaf of papers which had presumably been her occupation before Emma's arrival.

Emma seated herself nervously on the edge of one of the red and white armchairs, and drew off her gloves meticulously, wondering however she was going to find words to conduct this interview. It was all very well for Johnny, staying blithely out of the way and leaving all the dirty work to her, but even he could have had no idea of the desperate torment of the situation into which he had thrust her, or surely he would have thought before asking her help in so doing shifting the burden of his guilt on to her shoulders.

In his simple reasoning, the fact that Emma had been on more than friendly terms with Damon Thorne several years ago was sufficient to warrant her intervention on his behalf. But neither Johnny, nor in fact anyone else, had ever known the whole story so far as she and Damon Thorne were concerned, and therefore could not know that she was the last person Damon Thorne was likely to grant favours to.

Emma, now, looked round the luxurious entrance hall, saw the line of electrically operated lifts, and wished that whoever Damon Thorne's secretary was sending to, so to speak, ‘collect’ her, would hurry up and do so. Waiting was agony for her nerves, and she had been terribly nervous to begin with. Why, oh, why had Johnny been stupid enough to get himself into this mess?

She glanced at her watch. She had been waiting a little over ten minutes already. However long was he going to keep her waiting? She looked hopefully towards the receptionist, but she seemed unaware of her existence, and had now transferred her attentions to buffing her nails with an instrument from her manicure case.

Emma sighed. Was this a tactical attempt on Damon Thorne's part to intimidate her? Although he could not be aware of the reasons for her request to see him, had he guessed her appeal was not of an impersonal nature?

The whirring of the lift heralded the arrival of a tall, slim youth, who looked expectantly round the entrance hall, his eyes lighting on Emma's small figure. He advanced towards her, smiling.

‘Miss Harding?’ he asked, and when Emma nodded and rose hastily to her feet, he said: ‘Won't you come this way, please?'

The lift elevated them smoothly to the top floor of the building, where Damon Thorne's suite of offices was situated. In addition to the usual business premises, he had a furnished penthouse apartment on this floor, which he used for the informal entertaining of guests. Emma knew this. She had once been in his apartment, although then she had used the private lift which gave access to the hall of his apartment.

Today, the lift gates opened revealing a long, red-carpeted hall-way, with many doors opening from its wide expanses, and the steady hum of electric typewriters in a nearby room indicated that this was the business side of the floor.

The young man, who had introduced himself in the lift as Jeremy Martin, led Emma along the corridor to the far end, well away from any discordant sounds, and into the comfortable office occupied by Damon Thorne's private secretary, Jennifer Weldon. She had been Damon Thorne's secretary in the London office for over ten years and Emma felt sure she must have recognized her name, as she could not have been unaware of their relationship almost eight years ago when Emma had been given free use of his private line.

‘This is Miss Harding,’ said Jeremy Martin, as he ushered Emma into the room.

‘Thank you, Jeremy,’ said Jennifer Weldon, giving the young man a wintry smile, and then, as he withdrew, she rose from behind her desk, and looked carefully at Emma.

‘Good morning, Miss Harding,’ she said coolly. ‘Mr. Thorne will see you now, but I should warn you that he is an extremely busy man while he is in London, and his next appointment is at eleven-fifteen.'

Emma retained a little of her composure. She would not allow this elegant female who was Damon Thorne's secretary to intimidate her as she was obviously trying to do.

‘My business with Mr. Thorne should not take very long,’ she replied, almost as coolly as the other woman. ‘Shall I go in?'

Jennifer Weldon gave a sleek bow of her head, and Emma knocked with trembling fingers on the heavy door leading to Damon Thorne's office.

His deep voice called: ‘Come', and Emma went in, and firmly closed the door in the secretary's face.

She was in a large, businesslike room, with dark blue carpeting, and heavy blue drapes at the wide windows which gave a panoramic view of the city. Set square in the centre of the carpet was a massive mahogany desk, littered with papers and several telephones. A tray of drinks was on a side table, while the walls of the room were lined with bookshelves packed with books, mostly scientific and technical tomes, with polished hide covers and gold lettering.

But it was the man behind the desk, who rose politely at her entrance, to whom Emma's eyes were drawn, as she tried in those first few minutes to assess any changes in his appearance. Seven and a half years was a long time, and she had only seen occasional pictures of him in the papers which did not do him justice.

Damon Thorne was a man in his early forties who looked younger. He was a big man, broad and thick set, with very black hair which was only slightly tinged with grey. His face was strong, rather than handsome, with deep set green eyes, and a full, almost-sensual mouth. Yet he was a man whom women found attractive, without the added allure of his undoubted wealth and position in society.

His eyes had narrowed at her entrance, and his thick blackes lashes veiled the expression hidden in their depths, but his smile was rather cynical and his tone was mocking, as he said:

‘Well, well, Emma. It's been a long time.'

Emma twisted her gloves together, and attempted to walk, with some dignity, across the floor towards the desk. To her, he had changed little, and as always she found his personality electrifying.

‘Good morning,’ she said, omitting to give him a name. She did not really know whether she ought to call him Mr. Thorne, or Damon as she had used to do.

Damon Thorne walked round his desk, and drew out the chair opposite his own, and indicated that she should sit down. Emma did so, afraid that if she did not, her legs might give out under her.

‘Can I offer you a drink?’ he asked, and when she shook her head: ‘Coffee, perhaps?'

‘No, thank you. I … er … you must be wondering why I'm here.’ She studied the ovals of her nails intently.

Damon Thorne returned to his seat, but instead of sitting down he reached for a cigar from the box on his desk, and lit it, watching her speculatively as he did so.

‘Yes,’ he said, at last, when his cigar was lighted and giving off a delicious aroma of Havana tobacco, ‘I must admit I am rather curious.'

Emma forced herself to look up at him. ‘It's Johnny,’ she said flatly. ‘He seems rather to have got himself into a mess.'

Damon Thorne seated himself and lay back lazily in his seat, surveying her sardonically. ‘Is that so? You mean your brother Johnny, of course.'

‘Of course.’ Emma nodded.

‘Go on.'

Emma sought about for words. To say what she had to say blankly would a complete admission of Johnny's guilt, whereas in actual fact he had been the victim of his own driving compulsion. But how could she convey that to this apparently unsympathetic business tycoon? Damon Thorne, whose companies occupied premises in many of the larger countries of the world, and who had always worked ruthlessly for anything he wished to achieve? He would never understand or condone weakness in any of his staff, and her brother, who worked in the accounts department of this very building, had found his salary inadequate to cover the demands his losses at gambling made.

But this was not the whole pathetic story. Johnny had found a way to borrow money from the company, and for the past six months had supplemented his salary by this method, always hoping for that elusive big win to put things straight. Once embarked upon this course, he had not dared tell his sister, and she would not have known now had it not been for the fact that there was to be an unexpected mid-year audit of the books, and even supposing Johnny had had the money to return, which he had not, there was no time to adjust the accounts to hide his embezzling.

So he had appealed to Emma, and she, knowing that unless something could be done her brother faced a heavy fine or imprisonment, or both, and dismissal from his job, had been forced to agree to speak to Damon Thorne on his behalf.

Her hesitation had not gone unnoticed, and Damon Thorne leaned forward now, and said: ‘I suppose your brother's difficulties have nothing to do with the fact that the mid-year audit begins next week.'

Emma's head shot up, and she looked at him squarely, seeing the mockingly amused expression on his dark-tanned face. There was something about his remark that caused Emma to stare at him uncomprehendingly for a moment. There was no surprise on his face, no look of dismay or concern. It was almost as though he knew more about it than she did.

She put a hand up nervously to the swathe of heavy black hair, which curved confidently in towards her neck at shoulder length, and then withdrawing her hand, she looked unseeingly at one of the cream-coloured telephones. Her long lashes veiled her eyes, as she pondered his acute perspicacity, or previous knowledge.

She was aware of him rising from his seat, and crossing to a side table where a percolator of coffee bubbled invitingly. He poured her a cup of coffee, added cream and sugar, and then brought it across to her, setting it down on the desk in front of her.

‘Here,’ he said unceremoniously. ‘You'd better have that, after all. You look as though you could use some.'

‘Thank you.’ Emma's voice was stiltedly polite. She lifted the coffee cup almost automatically, and sipped some of the delicious liquid.

Damon Thorne seated himself on the edge of his desk quite near her, looking down at her thoughtfully. Then he shrugged, and said:

‘All right, Emma. I'll make it easy for you. I know all about brother John's discrepancies in the books.'

Emma's cup clattered into its saucer, ‘You do!' she gasped. ‘And you've let me sit here in agony, wondering how on earth I was going to tell you!’ Her earlier nervousness was temporarily banished by the wave of pure anger which swept over her.

He smiled derisively. ‘Come, come, Emma,’ he said smoothly. ‘You couldn't blame me for that. After all, whether I know or not is immaterial. The situation remains unchanged.'

He was right, of course, Emma thought wearily. She ought to have guessed that Damon Thorne's senior accountants were hardly likely to have been duped by a very junior member of the staff like Johnny. And rather than tell Johnny, to his face, the discrepancy would be reported higher and higher until Damon Thorne himself heard of it. It must have amused him enormously to have her come here begging for leniency on Johnny's behalf, although as yet she had not mentioned what might happen to her brother.

‘So what now?’ she asked, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice. His nearness disconcerted her; when he had been around the other side of the wide desk she had managed to fool herself into believing he was merely Johnny's employer, to whom she had come to ask for help. But now that he was here, only inches away from her, all the unforgotten memories of their association came flooding back to her. Had she really once been able to control this strong, powerful man? Had he once held her in his arms and pressed that now-contemptuous mouth to her willing lips? And had she really spent hours alone with him, wrapped in his arms, loving him?

A wave of hot colour swept up her cheeks, and she bent her head hoping he would not notice. Whether he did or otherwise, he refrained from commenting, but said:

‘I imagine your presence here denotes your desire to save your brother from a public exposal.’ He pressed out the remains of his cigar in the ashtray. ‘Why should you suppose I might help you?'

‘I didn't suppose any such thing,’ said Emma tremulously. ‘Johnny asked me to see you. I … I couldn't refuse. Not when I knew what was at stake.'

‘Of course not.’ He rose to his feet, and paced round his desk. Dressed in a dark business suit, and a white shirt visible above his waistcoat, he looked like a stranger again. Which was just as well, she thought, breathlessly.

‘I should tell you that when I was informed of your brother's embezzlement', Emma winced at the word, ‘I knew at once it would only be a matter of time before you asked to see me. Knowing you as I do, or rather perhaps knowing your character as I do, I guessed you would be coerced into something like this. I also know your brother rather well, and his weakness for gambling has not gone unnoticed. It was on the cards that you would be involved, and as you see, I was right.'

Emma shrugged her slim shoulders. ‘I should have known better than to appeal to you,’ she said quietly. ‘After all, you have nothing to thank me for, and I rather think you might enjoy the unpleasantness Johnny is going to have to stand.'

Damon Thorne's fist slammed angrily on the desk. ‘Damn you,’ he swore furiously, aroused by her quiet dismissal of him. ‘You have no cause as yet to make any judgments on me!'

Emma rose to her feet. ‘Why? Are you going to help us, after all?’ She was sure he was going to say no, and now she didn't care what he said to her. She just wanted to get out of the office as quickly as she could, before her minute store of composure deserted her and she burst into tears. She had tried. Johnny couldn't deny that. And she had failed abysmally.

Damon Thorne came back round the desk, and looked down at her piercingly. ‘Yes,’ he said forcefully. ‘I am going to help you, but at a price.'

Emma's legs gave way, and she sank back down into her chair. Her relief was so great, she did not at first take any notice of his qualification. She sought the clasp of her handbag, and opening it she looked inside for her cigarettes. She felt she needed one.

But before she could take out the packet, he lifted an onyx cigarette box off his desk and offered it to her. She took a cigarette gratefully, and allowed him to light it with his gold lighter. When she had inhaled deeply, and allowed her nerves to relax a little, the full implication of his words came flooding back to her. She looked up at him, puzzled, and shook her head.

‘I … I don't understand. Naturally, Johnny will repay every penny of the money he took.'

‘The monetary angle of all this is of concern to the accountants, not to me.’ His voice was curt.

‘But what other price could we pay?’ She was baffled.

‘Not “we”,’ he replied softly. ‘You.'

Emma stared at him. Then she got to her feet shakily, and moved away from him involuntarily. For what possible purpose did Damon Thorne want her? Surely, after all this time, he could not still …

‘No,’ he said harshly, as though reading her thoughts. Don't imagine for one moment that I'm even remotely interested in you sexually!'

He said it contemptuously, his mouth twisted, and Emma felt something inside her curl up and die. His eyes flickered appraisingly over her, insolent in their intensity, as though discounting the unknowingly appealing picture she made in her slim-fitting dark green suit, and white blouse. Although she was not a beautiful girl in the strictest sense of the word, her eyes were huge in her small, piquant face, and her mouth was full and generous. It certainly could be said she was more than pretty, she was attractive.

‘Then what do you want?’ she asked, twisting her gloves. ‘I'm a nurse, not a secretary.'

Just at that moment, a telephone pealed on his desk. Reaching forward, he lifted the receiver and said: ‘Thorne. What is it?'

He spoke for a moment, it was a technical matter, and Emma took little notice, but then as that call ended, the inter-communication system to one side of his desk buzzed. Swearing softly to himself, he pressed down a button. ‘Yes?'

Jennifer Weldon's voice was cool and modulated. ‘The secretary is here from the Ministry, sir,’ she said. ‘His appointment is for eleven-fifteen and it is already eleven-twenty.'

Damon Thorne glanced at the gold watch on his wrist. ‘Tell him I'll be another fifteen minutes yet,’ he said uncompromisingly.

‘But, Mr. Thorne …'

‘Tell him, Miss Weldon.'

‘Yes, sir.'

He flicked up the button again. Emma had composed herself. The initial shock of his decision was wearing off but he still had not told her why he needed her.

He looked across at her. ‘As you were saying,’ he said, smoothly, as though uncaring of the fact that he had just made the minister's secretary wait for personal reasons. ‘You're a nurse, and it's in that capacity that I require your services.'

Emma swallowed hard. ‘I see.’ Although she didn't see at all. Could he possibly be ill? He didn't look ill, but he might be suffering from one of those awful diseases which revealed no noticeable symptoms at the beginning. She felt a trifle sick.

Damon Thorne returned to his own side of the desk and lit another cigar. Then, when Emma refused to sit down again, he said:

‘You must know I've been married.'

Emma nodded. Of course she knew. Had he not married Elizabeth Kingsford only weeks after their separation? And had not the knowledge torn her apart?

‘Well, I have a daughter, Annabel. She's six and a half.’ Emma nodded again. She knew this also. Despite their separation she had sought information about him avidly.

‘Something you may not know, something we have not publicized, is the fact that she's blind.’ He watched the reactions she gave; the widening of her eyes, the compassionate curve of her mouth. ‘When her mother was killed in the car crash, Annabel was with her. Elizabeth was driving too fast, the corner was too sharp, Annabel received a blow on her head, and when she regained consciousness, she couldn't see. It's as simple as that.'

Emma shook her head. ‘I'm sorry,’ she said inadequately. ‘Will she ever see again?'

‘Specialists think it may be possible, I haven't their faith.’ He spoke heavily. ‘In any case, it's too early to tell. She's too young for any major surgery to be performed on her. I wouldn't agree to that.’ He shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘So that's the problem. The nurse-companion who has been with Annabel eighteen months now, since the time of the crash, is leaving to get married. I need a new companion for the child. I dislike strangers in my home; you, at least, would not be that. Is it agreed?'

Emma felt bewildered. She needed time to think about something like this. To go and live in the same house as Damon Thorne, to see him often, to care for his daughter; it was the last thing she wanted to do. But what choice had she? Either she did this, and saved Johnny imprisonment, or she refused and Johnny would have to take his chances.

‘I … I have a job,’ she said, prevaricating. ‘I'm a staff nurse now. I expected to be a Sister by the end of the year. I don't know what to say.'

He smiled his derisive smile. ‘Oh, I think you'll agree,’ he said callously. ‘After all, if you don't, things are going to be pretty unpleasant for your brother.'

‘You're despicable!’ she exclaimed hotly, unable to prevent herself.

‘Cynical is the word,’ he said mockingly. ‘And if I am, you have only yourself to thank, haven't you?'

Emma turned away, unable to look at him any longer. He didn't know what he was saying; he didn't know what he was asking.

‘It seems I have no choice then,’ she said, in a low voice. ‘I … I shall have to give my notice in at the hospital. They'll expect a month's notice …'

‘Give them a fortnight,’ he said, abruptly. ‘I'll pay your salary in lieu of the other two weeks. If there are any complaints refer them to me.'

Emma swung round. ‘You think money can buy everything!’ she cried angrily.

He shook his head. ‘I know it can't,’ he said seriously. Then shedding the mood, he continued: ‘I don't know why you're behaving so angrily. You ought to be grateful to me. Instead of spending the rest of the winter in this cold climate, you'll be basking in the sun in the Bahamas.'

‘The Bahamas!’ Emma was astounded.

‘Of course. I live there now, didn't you know? Well, perhaps you wouldn't at that. Like Annabel's health, it's not for publication.'

CHAPTER TWO

WHEN Emma returned to the flat which she shared with Johnny, he was waiting for her. Since their parents’ death four years ago, they had lived in this small flat near Earl's Court, for their old home had had to be sold, and they had not been left with a great deal of money.

Johnny rose from the couch on which he had been lounging at her entrance, and stared piercingly at her.

‘Did you see him? Is he going to let me get away with it? Have you managed to persuade him that it wasn't my fault? What did he say?'

Emma shook her head wearily. ‘Johnny,’ she exclaimed. ‘Let me speak. You want to know so many things all at once. Yes, I saw him. No, you won't have to face a court case …'

‘Oh, Em, Em darling!’ Johnny lifted her bodily into the air and swung her round excitedly. ‘I knew you could do it. I just knew it!'

Emma sat down on a chair and lit a cigarette with hands which were not quite steady. Her brain still would not assimilate itself to the proposed change in her circumstances. On top of all her own difficulties there was the added problem of Johnny himself. Although he was twenty-six, a year older than herself, he had always seemed much younger, and it had been Emma who had borne the brunt of of any unpleasantness he had got himself into. To imagine herself leaving him, going to live thousands of miles away from him where she would be unable to see that he ate regularly, that he bought enough clothes that he did not drink too much.

Johnny was also smoking now. He waltzed round the room, holding his cigarette between his teeth. ‘Em, you're a marvel!'

Emma sighed. ‘You haven't heard everything yet,’ she said dryly. ‘Even Damon Thorne wants something for his money.'

Johnny halted abruptly. ‘What could he possibly want? Apart from his money back, of course.'

‘He wants me. At least, he wants my nursing experience. His daughter Annabel requires a nurse-companion. That's his price.'

Johnny shrugged and grimaced. ‘Oh, well, that's not so terrible, is it? I mean, working for Thorne you won't be underpaid, will you? I thought at first you meant …’ He stopped. ‘Why the long looks? Nursing for him will be a darn sight easier than slogging away in that hospital of yours.'

Emma stared at him as though seeing him for the first time. ‘Honestly, Johnny, you really are the limit! You know perfectly well that I enjoy my work, and I was due for promotion. I don't want to give it all up to go play nanny to a small child. But you don't care about me at all, do you? Just so long as you get away scot free!'

Johnny looked uncomfortable. ‘Don't be like that, old girl.'

‘Don't call me “old girl”,’ she cried angrily. ‘Anyway, you may not be so pleased with yourself when I tell you that I shall be leaving England. Annabel lives in the Bahamas. Damon Thorne has a house there, on one of the Cays not far from New Providence.'

‘What!’ Johnny was disturbed now. ‘But what about me … the flat?'

Because the hospital where Emma worked was close by the flat, she had been able to spend all her free time there. She was virtually Johnny's housekeeper, and did all the cooking and cleaning, the shopping and mending. She had not minded; since Damon Thorne there had been no men in her life of any consequence, and Johnny had come to rely on her completely.

‘I'm sorry,’ she said now. ‘But that is the price we have to pay. Either I agree to Damon's request, and go out to Sainte Dominique to take charge of Annabel, or you go to prison, it's as simple as that.'

Johnny clenched his fists angrily. ‘How typical of him to impose conditions,’ he exclaimed pettishly.

‘Johnny! You were the one to get us into this mess,’ replied Emma, unable to prevent herself defending Damon Thorne. After all, his conditions were not exactly stringent.

‘I know, I know. You needn't keep reminding me. But it's typical of him that he should do something so utterly despicable so that I suffer whatever happens.'

‘Oh, Johnny!'

‘Well, it's true, isn't it? Good lord, there are plenty of agencies in London where he could obtain a nurse or companion or whatever he wants with twice as many qualifications as you have for taking care of the kid. How old is she? She can't be more than six. It's positively ludicrous. Why does he want you? Why couldn't he just let me pay the money back and be done with it?'

Emma shook her head. ‘I know nothing more than I've told you. I don't know why he wants me, from his attitude I should say he positively despises me.'

‘There you are, then. He's merely taking you to spite me.'

Emma sighed. ‘Well, whatever his reasons are, we have to accept them. I don't suppose you're prepared to go to prison to spite him, are you?'

Johnny bent his head. ‘No,’ he grunted disagreeably. ‘And how long do you expect to be away? What will I do after you've gone?'

‘I don't know, Johnny, I honestly don't know. It worries me just as much as you, believe me.'

‘What are the arrangements, then? He decided this pretty quickly, didn't he?'

Emma bit her lip. ‘Oh, lord, I forgot to tell you. He already knew what you'd done. He was expecting me.'

‘The swine!’ swore Johnny furiously. ‘I might have known nothing could go on in those offices without his knowing everything about it!'

‘Well, it makes no difference really. It saved me a lot of explanations, that's all. We must just accept it.’ Emma slipped off her shoes, and then glanced at her watch. ‘Gosh, it's almost one. I have to be back on duty at two, and I have my resignation to write out, too.'

Johnny moved about restlessly. ‘When do you leave?'

‘In a little over two weeks, I believe. His secretary is going to contact me and give me all the details. I suppose I'll have to buy some summer clothes – after all, it may be January here, but it's very warm in the Bahamas all year round.'

Johnny made a disgruntled gesture. ‘Just imagine,’ he muttered. ‘I'm stuck here and you're going to be have the time of your life.'

Emma, who had risen to her feet, swung round on him. Without her shoes she was only a little over five feet in height, but as Johnny was only five feet six himself it was not noticeable. ‘You really are the most selfish person I've ever met,’ she exclaimed hotly. ‘I don't particularly care where I'm going; I wanted to stay here – my friends are here, my work is here. Do you honestly imagine some isolated island, even if it is situated in a marvellous climate, can compensate for the things I'm going to give up? And most of all, how do you think I feel about living in Damon Thorne's household, as a member of his staff, subject to his commands?'

Johnny had the grace to look a little embarrassed at last. ‘I suppose it will be pretty grim. After all, the life in Nassau is hardly the life you're going to be leading, is it? I'm sorry, Em. I guess I was a bit callous. I shall just have to get my meals out and take my laundry to the laundromat.'

‘Yes,’ said Emma slowly. ‘So long as you do that. For goodness’ sake, don't go around looking like a tramp, just because I'm not here to look after you.'

Johnny grimaced. ‘I'm not a complete idiot, you know. But what about my job? Am I still employed, or not?'

‘He says you can stay on, although naturally the amount you took will be deducted in weekly instalments from your salary.'

‘Naturally,’ muttered Johnny glumly. ‘Oh, well, that's that, then.'

Emma glanced at him, and then turning away walked into the bathroom. She had to change, and there might just be time to snatch a snack in the hospital canteen before she was back on the ward.

During the next two weeks Emma did not give herself time to dwell on the reasons behind Damon Thorne's demand for her services. Her days were full with her work, and with obtaining the necessary clothes and documents which would take her to Nassau, and at night, if she could not sleep, she took a sleeping pill and refused to consider the consequences.

The staff at the hospital were naturally curious about her sudden resignation, and she had had to let it be known that she was taking up a post with Damon Thorne's household in the Bahamas.

‘But, darling,’ her friend Joanna Denham had exclaimed, ‘didn't you once know him rather well? I mean, his name is certainly familiar. Isn't he that American property millionaire you once ran around with?'

Emma had stifled her embarrassment, and replied airily: ‘He's only half-American, actually. His mother was English. And yes, I did used to know him, but not … awfully well.'

Their relationship, hers and Damon Thorne's, had been in the days before Joanna came to the hospital. She could only have heard gossip and Emma had no intention of illustrating their association. Instead, she made it sound as though they had merely been acquaintances.

‘Well, anyway,’ Joanna continued, ‘I think you're doing the right thing. Working in a hospital is all very well, but I'd give anything for a bit of sunshine myself.'

Emma had let her resignation sound as though it was her decision, and not the result of coercion. Her one regret was that the Matron of the hospital had had such faith in her, and now it looked as though she was ungrateful for all the Matron had done for her. But it was impossible to explain, without involving Johnny, and after all, this was wholly for his benefit.

The night before she left the hospital, the nurses threw a party for her, and afterwards they went back to the flat for a final nightcap. Apart from Emma and five other nurses, there were two medical students, two housemen, Johnny, and Martin Webster, a friend of his.

They were a noisy crowd, and Emma thought regretfully that it would be a long time before she enjoyed herself so much again. They put on the record player, and danced to records, and teased Emma about the kind of life she was going to have. They all seemed to envy her, and Emma was beginning to think that it might not be so bad after all. Damon Thorne was hardly likely to be around much. He was too restless a man, too concerned with the power of his empire. And it was quite a way from London to Nassau, even in these days of fast travel. It wasn't so far from New York, of course, but she doubted his capacity for finding an island entertaining for long.

She was in the kitchen, making coffee, when the doorbell rang. Johnny went to answer it, thinking it might be one of their neighbours coming to complain about the noise. But instead, Damon Thorne stood on the threshold.

Emma had come to the kitchen door, to see what was going on, and when her eyes met those of Damon Thorne's her heart almost stopped beating.

Johnny stepped back, and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Are you coming in, Mr. Thorne?’ he asked sardonically.

Damon barely glanced at him, but stepped past him into the lounge. His bulk seemed to dominate the room, and the girls and boys stopped dancing and watched him.

‘Can I see you for a minute, Emma?’ he asked, his eyes surveying the debris of full ashtrays and empty glasses.

Emma bit her lip. ‘I … well … as you can see, there's a party going on,’ she said awkwardly. ‘Couldn't it wait until the morning?'

‘I'm afraid not. The kitchen will do.'

He crossed the room, the others stepping back to allow him passage as though it was his right, and Emma grimaced to herself and stood back into the small kitchen. Damon followed her in, and firmly closed the door behind him, leaning back against it. Immediately, they could hear the others begin talking and laughing again, and Emma relaxed a little.

‘What do you want?’ she asked, untying the apron which she had worn over her orange pleated dress.

Damon's eyes travelled the length of her body, and then returned to rest on her mouth for a moment, unconsciously disturbing Emma's emotions. Despite his age, there was more power and vitality emanating from him than from any of the younger men in the other room, and beside him they seemed almost youthful and unsophisticated and very inexperienced.

Then he shrugged, and drew out his cigar case. ‘Actually, I came to assure myself that you were keeping your side of the bargain,’ he remarked casually, and in so doing arousing Emma's annoyance. ‘Johnny will have told you his mistakes have all been rectified.'

‘He hasn't mentioned it,’ replied Emma shortly. ‘In any case, I have no doubt that you've kept sufficient evidence to implicate him should I do anything to baulk you at this stage.'

‘You're so right,’ he said mockingly. ‘However, I gather this is in the nature of a farewell party. I called round earlier to see you, and when I could get no reply I happened to bump into one of your neighbours who was only too willing to supply me with the details.'

‘How convenient for you,’ said Emma. ‘Well, is that all?'

‘Not quite. I'm leaving for Hong Kong in the morning. That's why I'm here tonight. I shan't see you again before you leave. Miss Weldon tells me you have all the necessary literature and you know my cousin Chris will meet you in Nassau.'

‘Yes.’ Emma's voice was flat.

‘Good.’ He nodded and straightened. ‘Don't look so miserable, Emma. I guarantee you won't find life boring. Sainte Dominique is near enough to New Providence to provide as much entertainment as you could find anywhere in England.'

Emma's eyes flashed angrily. ‘You won't accept that I might prefer this cold, dull island, will you?’ she exclaimed. ‘To me, London is home. I don't want to go to the Caribbean, however glamorous you make it sound.'

He smiled derisively. ‘What shows your ignorance of such things,’ he remarked lazily. ‘In this, as in other matters, Emma, you think you know best. Do you really believe that still?'

Emma's cheeks burned painfully. ‘Please go,’ she said, in a muffled voice.

‘With pleasure,’ he nodded, and swung open the door.

After he had gone, Joanna came to Emma's side.

‘Is that your new employer?’ she cried in astonishment.

Emma nodded.

‘But, darling, he's marvellous, isn't he? Good lord, if I were in your shoes I'd be whooping for joy. No wonder poor old St. Benedict's had to take a back seat.'

Emma shook her head. ‘Oh, Joanna, it's not like that at all…'

Joanna looked sceptical. ‘My dear, if it's true what they say, that you and he were once like that,’ she twisted two fingers together as she spoke, ‘then if I were you I'd try my darnedest to get the ball rolling again. After all, darling, you are twenty-five, and most girls are married by then.'

Emma managed a smile. ‘I'm a career woman, Joanna. Didn't you know?'

But when she was alone in bed that night Emma found scalding tears rolling treacherously down her cheeks. If only Joanna had known what she was saying; if she were aware of what Emma had turned down. She would never have tormented her by chiding her about her age when seven years ago Emma had had every opportunity for happiness, but had not been able to take it.

CHAPTER THREE

THE arrangements for her flight to Nassau were less than exacting. An afternoon flight to New York brought her down there at four in the afternoon New York time, and a booking had been made for her at an hotel close by the airport where she spent the rest of the afternoon and that night. Then the following morning she flew on to Nassau, arriving there at lunch time.

Most of the passengers on the flight from New York were elderly business men and their wives, on their way to spend a few weeks in the sun, but although they did not know who she was, or her circumstances, they were very kind to Emma, and she was not short of conversation on the flight.

When they landed at New Providence's International Airport, she said good-bye to her new-found acquaintances and emerged from the Customs building alone.

It was a marvellous day, with a clear blue sky overhead, and the white-clad stewards and porters about the airport looked cool and comfortable, which was more than Emma felt. She was still wearing the Donegal tweed suit she had worn when she left England, and apart from changing her blouse that morning she was dressed for a much colder climate. Her llama coat was slung over one arm, and her suitcases had been deposited beside her when she refused the services of a porter.

But, as she looked around her, she could see no one who might conceivably be Damon Thorne's cousin, Chris. If this girl was a relation of Damon's she would most likely resemble him, but there were no dark-haired girls in the vicinity, and only a tall, slim, fair-haired man was standing watching her speculatively.

Becoming embarrassed by his scrutiny, Emma turned away, wondering whether she ought to report to the information desk that she was going for a cup of coffee and would they contact her if anyone came looking for her. There was no point in her taking a taxi into the city; she had no idea where she should go.

Lifting her cases, she turned towards the airport buildings again, but the man suddenly came to life, and walked swiftly towards her. As he approached, Emma wondered who he could be. Dressed in a lightweight tropical suit of a biege material, his almost silvery hair lifting slightly in the faint breeze, he looked about thirty, and was certainly very attractive.

Reaching her, he said: ‘I'm sorry if you were beginning to resent the appraisal, but I've finally decided you must be Emma Harding, am I right?'

Emma stared at him in relief. ‘Yes, I'm Emma Harding. Have you come to meet me?’ At his nod she continued, ‘Oh, thank goodness. I was half afraid … Mr. Thorne's cousin had forgotten all about me.’ She hesitated only a moment over his name.

He grinned. ‘Didn't Damon tell you I should meet you? I mean, I thought at first you couldn't be the girl I was waiting for simply because you never gave me half a glance.'

Emma smiled. ‘Are you Chris Thorne?'

‘Of course.'

She laughed. ‘I don't know why, I was expecting a girl. You know, “Chris” being short for Christine.'

He took her cases, and started to walk across to where a low slung white sports car was parked. ‘It's also short for Christopher,’ he said, slinging her cases on to the back seat, and helping her into the car. ‘And you're not quite what I expected, either. You're much younger, and much more attractive.'

Emma blushed. ‘Why, thank you,’ she said, sliding into her seat. ‘I feel better already.'

The drive to Nassau, with Christopher Thorne, was a memorable experience. He took the coast road, giving her the full benefit of the magnificent scenery. Emma thought she would never be able to describe the place to Johnny, and Joanna, back home, without sounding exactly like a travel brochure. But despite her assertions that the Bahamas held no appeal for her, she was unable to prevent a thrill of purely physical anticipation when she saw the fabulous pink-tinged beaches and creaming coastline. The names of the beaches were inviting too; Love Beach, Paradise Beach; Emma shivered expectantly.

Christopher Thorne glanced at her and indicated a famous golf course on their right. ‘There's plenty to do,’ he said lazily. ‘Swimming, water-skiing, skin-diving. Can you swim?'

‘Oh yes, but I'm afraid the other two things you mentioned I've never tried.'

‘You will,’ he remarked, smiling. ‘I'll teach you myself.'

Nassau was teeming with people at this time of day, but Christopher managed to ease his way between the swarms of cyclists, the taxis and the horse-drawn Surreys to swing into the forecourt of a huge hotel. The building was all white, with lots of windows with jalousies, and balconies overlooking the whole of Nassau. Christopher handed the car-keys to a waiting attendant, and then called the boy to take in Emma's cases.

He helped Emma out, and said: ‘Come on, your room is booked. I guess you could use a shower and a change of clothes.'

‘Could I not!’ exclaimed Emma, nodding, and preceded him into the hotel.

She left Christopher downstairs and went up in the lift with one of the boys who conducted her to her room. It was a magnificent place with modern Swedish-designed furniture and cream and green walls and coverings. Adjoining it was a bathroom for her own personal use, and she wondered why Christopher had gone to the trouble of booking her a room like this when they would be leaving after lunch for Sainte Dominique.

She bathed in the deep step-in bath, towelled herself dry, and then sought about in her cases for a change of underwear. Finally she donned a pale blue shift of thin Tried jersey which outlined the rounded curves of her slim figure. She ran a comb through her thick, silky hair which swung against her shoulders and a coral lipstick completed her toilet.

Feeling more ready to face the world, she went downstairs again. It was after one o'clock, and she was feeling quite hungry. To her relief, Christopher was waiting in the foyer, and came to meet her eagerly as she emerged from the lift.

‘Come on,’ he said, grinning appreciatively. ‘I'm starving!'

‘So am I,’ replied Emma, and allowed his fingers to link with hers as they walked through to the restaurant.

Their table, which Christopher had reserved earlier, was situated on a terrace overlooking the harbour. They had Martinis first and then Emma allowed Christopher to choose what they would eat. They ate fresh melon, followed by shellfish and green salad and french fried potatoes, and completed the meal with a fruit salad and fresh cream topped with nuts. Coffee was of the continental variety, and Emma had two cups.

She leaned back, replete, and accepted a cigarette from Christopher. When he had lighted hers, and his own, he said: ‘You enjoyed that?'

‘You know I did.’ She smiled. ‘Did I seem to have an enormous appetite?'

He laughed, and shook his head. ‘No. I like to see a girl enjoy her food, instead of only picking at things which aren't fattening. I should say you had no worries on that score.'

‘Not at the moment, although I'm afraid this life won't be so demanding as my work at the hospital, and I may find myself putting on a couple of inches here and there. I shall have to be careful.’ She smiled.

‘What did you do in England? I mean, I know you were a nurse, but what were your hobbies? Did you go out a lot?'

Emma shook her head. ‘No. Not really. I attended lectures sometimes, and I enjoy the occasional visit to the theatre. I like concerts, most kinds of music, and I adore reading.'

Christopher looked interested. ‘Do you now? And what do you like to read?'

She shrugged. ‘Most anything. I enjoy thrillers, romances, really anything that holds my interest.'

‘Have you heard of Christmas Holly?'

‘Christmas Holly.’ Emma frowned. ‘Of course, he's that private investigator Michael Jeffries writes about.’ She laughed. ‘They're rather good. I think I've read two or three of them.'

Christopher grinned at her. ‘Two or three!’ he exclaimed mockingly. ‘I'v written twenty-seven, I'll have you know!'

Emma was astonished. ‘You're Michael Jeffries!’ She drew on her cigarette incredulously. ‘How marvellous! Imagine meeting Christmas Holly's inventor. What a wonderful name, by the way. Wherever did you think of it?'

‘Well, Christmas is not so very different from Christopher, and Holly has thorns. Rather corny, isn't it, but at least it goes together. And my full name is Christopher Michael Jeffrey Thorne, so that explains the rest.'

‘Well, anyway, I think this is terrific,’ said Emma enthusiastically. ‘Writing after all is the necessary forerunner to reading, and I've never met a writer before. Do you live on Sainte Dominique?'

‘No,’ he shook his head, and she looked disappointed.

‘I live on Sainte Catherine, which is quite close by. Only a couple of miles from Sainte Dominique actually, so we'll be near neighbours. It will be a change to have someone to talk to who is interested in my work.'

‘That's good,’ Emma smiled. ‘Who lives on Sainte Dominique – apart from Annabel, of course?'

He shrugged. ‘Well, there's Tansy, she's Annabel's old nanny. I think you'll like her. She used to be Damon's nanny years ago. Then there's the other servants, of course. And Louisa Meredith, she's Annabel's governess.'

Emma was astounded. ‘But surely, if Annabel has a nanny, and a governess, she doesn't need me!'

Christopher looked thoughtful. ‘I wouldn't say that,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘Tansy is too old to take a six-year-old very far, particularly one in Annabel's condition. As for Louisa – well, she's a bit useless. Oh, she teaches Annabel to read in Braille, and she has conversations with her. I suppose Annabel is learning quite a lot, but as far as being a companion to the child is concerned, she's no help. To talk to a child, one has to treat them as equals, not talk down to them. Louisa could never forget herself sufficiently to romp with the child. She's far too reserved.'

‘I see.’ Emma sighed. ‘Who has been looking after Annabel?'

‘Brenda Lawson. She was a woman in her thirties. She's married a retired American businessman who has decided to make his home in Spanish Wells.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Are you ready?'

Emma nodded, and allowed him to help her to her feet, and walked with him out of the restaurant. In the entrance hall of the hotel, he paused.

‘How is your room?'

‘It's fine.’ Emma frowned. ‘Are we staying overnight?'

Christopher grinned. ‘That was the idea. Do you mind?'

‘That's not the point, surely,’ exclaimed Emma, involuntarily. ‘I mean, I understood from my instructions that we were leaving for Sainte Dominique after lunch.'

‘Damon's instructions,’ remarked Christopher dryly. ‘Look, he may be the big man back in England and the States, but here he's just my cousin, and I say what goes. Don't you want to stay?'

‘Well, of course my feelings are immaterial,’ Emma said, sighing. It was very flattering to know that this attractive man should be enjoying her company, but she couldn't help but feel that Damon would be furious if he knew.

Christopher was beginning to look a little annoyed. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘You decide.'

Emma bent her head. ‘Please,’ she said, ‘I don't want to cause any trouble.'

‘All right, we stay. Good heavens, girl, no one's going to tick you off here. You're not in your hospital now, you know. Life proceeds at a much more sensible pace here. Besides, I want to show you the island. New Providence is quite a place.'

And so it was. Emma soon forgot her anxiety in the pure enjoyment of the places Christopher took her to see. He insisted she brought her swim suit with her, and afterwards she was glad she had.

First of all they explored Nassau itself. Christopher showed her the Straw Market, and provided her with a huge straw hat to shade her eyes. He bought himself a straw hat, too, but his was much more conservative in design and she laughed when he tilted it extravagantly and did an impression of Maurice Chevalier.

Bay Street provided them with plenty of window shopping, but they did not buy anything. Emma had no desire to arrive on Sainte Dominique already loaded with gifts to take back home.

In the harbour, boats of every kind were moored, from small sailing vessels used for fishing, to sleek catamarans gleaming with chrome and white paint-work.

They hired a Surrey and toured the city in true tourist style, the sleepy back streets a reminder of days when pirates swaggered through the town. Emma could hardly believe some of the anecdotes Christopher related to her, but the island's history interested her so much that she determined she would buy some books about it at the first opportunity.

Afterwards they sought the beach, and the creamy warmth of the blue-flecked waters. Emma had never bathed in a sea so warm, or so inviting, and she was tempted to stay in the water for the rest of the afternoon. But Christopher teased her mercilessly by continually ducking her, so that at last she walked up the beach with him and lay back on the towels he had provided. Her straw hat shaded her eyes, and she felt wonderfully content. She could almost believe she was here of her own volition, and not because Damon Thorne had given her no other choice.

Christopher was a very good companion. His literary background had provided him with the gift of creating interest out of the simplest things, and his knowledge of the area was extensive. He had travelled throughout the Caribbean, and knew Jamaica and Trinidad very well indeed.

Emma was a born listener, and lay on her stomach now looking down at him as he told her about the slaves who had come to the West Indies.

‘Poor devils,’ he said, his eyes half closed against the glare. ‘They left one sort of slavery for another. At least in the southern States they could be assured of food and shelter. Some of them were hard pushed to stay alive here in the beginning.’ He sighed. ‘And the white population in those days considered the Africans a people who required leadership and discipline to survive. They wouldn't believe they were capable of providing for themselves.'

Emma made a move with her lips. ‘I'm surprised you don't write about the islands. Your books are always set in the States.'

Christopher grinned and propped himself up on his elbows, so that his face was only inches from her own.

‘Tactics, honey, tactics,’ he said cheerfully. ‘My books sell very well in the States, and as it's my bread and butter, who am I to disappoint my fans?'

‘Mercenary creature!’ Emma wrinkled her nose at him, and then lay back again. It was very warm, and she was feeling quite drowsy.

Christopher looked down at her now. ‘Aren't you glad we didn't go back to Sainte Dominique today?’ he asked.

Emma opened her eyes. ‘If you mean am I enjoying myself, you know the answer is “yes”,’ she replied comfortably. ‘But I have a distinct feeling of guilt every time I really consider it.'

He grimaced. ‘Well, don't have. Nobody expects us. I told Annabel I wouldn't be back today.'

‘Did you indeed?’ Emma was indignant. ‘Were you so sure your charm would work, whatever I turned out to be?'

He grinned. ‘Honey, if you'd turned out to be another Louisa Meredith, we most definitely would have returned today.'

Emma smiled. ‘Oh, well, I suppose one day more or less won't make much difference.'

They went back to the hotel soon after six. Christopher informed her that his room was on the floor below, and that he would meet her in the bar for a drink before dinner.

Emma showered, changed into a sleeveless coral chiffon gown which she had made herself for a dance before Christmas, smoothed her dark hair and descended the stairs in high-heeled white sandals. She was glad she had brought the dress with her. Christopher was wearing a white dinner jacket and he looked approvingly at her as she came in.

‘Did I tell you that I like the way you dress?’ he asked, as she sipped a glass of some strange concoction which he had provided, the top of which was covered with various slices of different fruit.

She looked at him over the rim. ‘Mr. Thorne, you're flirting again!'

‘No, I'm not. I mean it.’ He grinned. ‘And the name's Chris, in case you forget.'

‘I haven't forgotten,’ she replied, and accepted a cigarette. ‘It's been a wonderful day. Thank you.'

‘Don't thank me, I should be thanking you,’ he returned. ‘No matter what you may think, I don't find every woman I meet as attractive as you, Emma.'

‘Thank you, again.’ Emma glanced away, not wanting him to think she had any intentions of considering this a serious declaration. No matter how likeable he was, and he was indeed very likeable, Emma knew she could never become closely associated with any relation of Damon's.

After dinner, there was dancing in the ballroom to a rhythmic all-Negro band. The music was streamlined and seductive, and no one could have failed to find their pulses moved by the beat.

Emma danced with Christopher several times, and twice two older men approached her and she danced with them, much to Christopher's annoyance. But she had to admit she liked dancing with him best for he was a good dancer, and his hands were cool and not hot and sweaty. He held her close, and she could feel his breath on her neck and the faint odour of his after-shave lotion was pleasant to her nose.

‘You dance well,’ he said once, looking down at her.

‘Well, it's not from practice,’ she said, smiling. ‘I don't attend many dances back home.'

Patently, he didn't believe her, and she wondered what he would say if she told him the truth about her relationship with Damon. Obviously their association had been forgotten by his family. After all, they had never met her; she was only a name to them, and that was a long time ago.

At eleven-thirty they stood on the terrace in the light from the hall behind them. It was a wonderful evening. The moon hung crazily in a sky as blue as sapphire velvet, while Emma thought she had never seen so many stars.

‘Let's take a Surrey and tour the town at night,’ said Christopher, turning towards her eagerly.

Emma hesitated, and then shook her head. ‘I don't think we'd better. It's getting late, and tomorrow is going to be quite a day for me. I think I'll go to bed, if you don't mind.'

Christopher pulled a face. ‘Aw, Emma, that means you're going whether I mind or not.’ He shrugged, and then capitulated. ‘All right. I'll take you to your room.'

‘That's not necessary,’ she replied.

‘I know it's not. But I'm going to do it all the same,’ he retorted.

In the elevator, he smiled at her expression. ‘Don't worry. I don't expect to come in. I just want to see you get there safely. There might be some dubious types roaming the corridors.'

Emma giggled. ‘Honestly, Chris!'

At her door, he put a hand on either side of her as she leant against the doorpost. ‘You have enjoyed yourself, haven't you?'

‘Enormously,’ nodded Emma, smiling.

‘Good. Good night, Emma.’ He bent his head and put his mouth to hers. The touch of his lips was cool and pleasant, and Emma responded almost involuntarily. His mouth hardened, and then he drew back. He was breathing rather faster, and he looked a little pale. ‘I'll go,’ he murmured huskily, and squeezing her fingers he walked away along the corridor.

Emma watched him go feeling a pleasant sensation of tiredness combined with a kind of contentment. Her first day in the islands had been a memorable one. Christopher was one of the nicest men she had ever met, and she might, she just might, be going to enjoy her stay here.

CHAPTER FOUR

SAINTE DOMINIQUE’S bay was a small, peaceful island, situated on the Windward side of the Abaco Cays. That morning, as their launch cruised its way towards their destination, Emma had seen dozens of tiny islands and atolls, sprouting out of the sea. She had spent the journey leaning on the rail enthralled with her surroundings. Some of the islands were covered with houses and resembled villages set in water instead of amongst fields. Others were quite deserted, their white beaches seemingly untrodden by human foot.

It was another wonderfully clear day, and the early morning mist had dissipated leaving a vista of blue sea and sky as far as the eye could see. Now that she was nearing her destination, Emma was beginning to feel twinges of nervousness. It was all very well for Chris to aver that she would receive a very warm welcome, but he was not going to be staying, he would be returning to Sainte Catherine almost immediately, and she would be left alone with strangers.

The launch could not go right in because of the shallowness of the water, so Christopher and the boatman, a dark-skinned Negro, pulled on thigh-length waders and Christopher carried Emma up on to the sand. The boatman brought her cases, and Christopher took charge of them.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘This way. I should have thought the reliable Miss Meredith would have had Annabel on the beach to meet you.'

Emma sighed, and followed him up the incline and through a belt of palm trees. They came upon a clearing through the trees where several thatched huts indicated that this was the native village, where the servants who worked at the house were housed.

Beyond the village, another clump of trees hid the homestead itself.

Damon Thorne's house was low and modern, without having the type of structure which would be out of place on an island like this. Shutters were bolted back from windows which stood wide to the morning air, while climbing plants in a glory of colour overhung the walls. The gardens in front of the house were a riot of colour also, and Emma recognized oleanders and hibiscus, as well as more common varieties such as roses and nasturtiums. Wide, shallow steps led up to white double doors which at present were standing open, and Christopher glanced at Emma to make sure she was behind him before mounting the steps and waiting for her by the door.

‘Go on,’ he said, prodding her into the hall. ‘No one's going to bite you.'

The hall was cool with a tiled floor and white panelled walls. Doors led off to the various regions of the house while a horseshoe staircase drew attention to a white-balustraded gallery.

Immediately at their entrance, a tall, slim woman came walking towards them down this beautiful staircase, her eyes cool and aloof, appraising Emma.

Christopher stood down Emma's suitcases, and grinned. ‘Well, well! If it isn't the inestimable Louisa, herself. How are you, my old love?'

Louisa Meredith ignored him, and came towards Emma. ‘You must be Miss Harding,’ she said coldly. ‘You were expected yesterday.'

Emma flushed, disconcerted. ‘Oh, but I understood … I mean … Mr. Thorne seemed to think …’ She faltered. Then she stiffened her shoulders. ‘You are Annabel's governess, are you not?'

The woman nodded faintly. ‘It is obvious Mr. Thorne was thinking only of himself. Unfortunately, his action had unexpected consequences.'

Emma stared at her. ‘In what way?'

‘The nurse who had charge of Annabel left three days ago. Yesterday, with no one to entertain her, Annabel went exploring alone. Unfortunately, she fell in the swimming pool; she can't swim. Had Henri, one of the servants, not been nearby, she would have drowned.’ She spoke the words in a hard, unfeeling voice, as though she was discussing the weather, and Emma was terribly shocked.

She did not know what to say. She shook her head. ‘I'm very sorry,’ she said, glancing at Christopher, who grunted unintelligibly.

‘When did this happen?’ he asked.

‘Yesterday afternoon. As I said, fortunately Henri was passing by, and heard her cries. We thought we had better keep her in bed today, to avoid any ill effects.'

Christopher grimaced at her. ‘And what were you doing at the time? Polishing your nails?'

‘That remark was uncalled-for!’ exclaimed Louisa angrily. Although she was only in her thirties she seemed much older, and Emma thought glumly that she had indeed made an inauspicious start to her duties.

‘Well, anyway,’ said Christopher, shrugging, ‘Emma wouldn't have arrived much before tea-time if we had come yesterday, so you can hardly consider her to blame.'

‘Did I say I was blaming Miss Harding?'

‘You implied it. Oh, well, shut up about it. Where is the kid? I may as well see her before I leave.’ He walked towards the stairs. ‘Come on, Emma, I'll introduce you. Leave your cases. Louisa, get someone to take the cases to Emma's room. If you tell me where she's sleeping, I'll show her that too.'

‘I'm not the housekeeper here,’ retorted Louisa, turning away.

Christopher compressed his lips. ‘No, ma'am, you're not. But either you do as I say, or I'll personally make it my business to report you to Mr. Thorne.'

Louisa did not look disturbed. In fact, if anything, her face assumed a rather smug expression. ‘That may not be as difficult as you may think,’ she remarked slyly. ‘Naturally, I had to wire Mr. Thorne of Annabel's accident. I sent the cable this morning, and of course I had to tell him that Miss Harding had not yet arrived.'

‘You …’ Christopher bit off an epithet. ‘Emma, come along. I can't stand any more of this.'

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