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.

Tender Assault
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

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THE Cessna had been waiting for him when he landed at Nassau. He hadn’t been sure it would be, but when he walked through Customs an unfamiliar face was waiting, holding a strip of cardboard with his name on it. He wondered why Sam Nevis hadn’t come to meet him. The pilot his father had employed for the past twenty years was surely not old enough to be retired. But he knew nothing about his father’s affairs any more, he reminded himself. And Sam Nevis, like everyone else, was just a name culled from the past.

The plane was unfamiliar, too, he found. The old single-engined turbo-prop had been replaced by a sleek, twin-engined jet, with all the comforts expected of such a sophisticated machine. Of course, it was the guests’ first taste of the luxuries they could expect on Pelican Island, he conceded, and as such it had to be updated to meet an increasingly demanding clientele.

Or so he assumed, as he settled into one of the velvet armchairs that passed for aircraft seats. But, having read the island’s publicity handouts in places as far apart as London and Sydney, New York and Tokyo, it was a fairly educated assumption. He had even felt a reluctant admiration for his father’s enterprise, although he had suspected that Adele had been the driving force.

His lips twisted. How ironic, then, that all she had worked for should now be in jeopardy. How must she be feeling, knowing that the man she had tried to destroy was now capable of destroying her world? It was the ultimate humiliation. And, for the life of him, couldn’t understand why his father should have done such a thing. Unless …

But it was useless speculating. He had enough on his plate as it was without trying to second-guess something that might, just conceivably, turn out to be a mistake. It was always possible that his father had made another will. And where did India feature in this crazy scheme of things?

God! He ran a weary hand through the unruly darkness of his hair. And, because he had repeated this action frequently on the flight from New York, he wasn’t surprised to find it was a mess. Besides, it needed cutting—had needed cutting since before his last trip to England. No wonder the Cessna’s pilot had given him such a studied look when he’d turned up at the airport. In a worn Oxford shirt and jeans, and scuffed trainers, he was hardly the usual kind of guest welcomed at Kittrick’s Hotel.

His palm scraped over his unshaven chin, and he grimaced. He supposed he should have waited, grabbed a night’s sleep and a make-over, before presenting himself to his stepmother and his stepsister. He could have done it. His father was dead, for God’s sake! The knowledge still pained him, but he ignored it. There was no earthly need for him to catch the next flight to the Bahamas, as if some almighty ruling was waiting on his arrival. He had all the time in the world to claim an inheritance he still couldn’t believe was his. But when he had got back from Canada and found the cable waiting, giving himself time to think had not been on his agenda.

He gazed out of the window, wondering why it was that even after all these years he still felt such a knee-jerk reaction whenever he thought of home. It wasn’t as if it had been his home for the past eight years. His father had kicked him out, for God’s sake! He shouldn’t forget that. And India had believed every word her mother had said. So why should he feel any emotion about going back? He wasn’t even sure he wanted to do it, not deep down inside him.

But—and it was a big but—the present circumstances demanded that he at least should show his face. After all, it wasn’t every day he had a multi-million-dollar holiday resort dropped in his lap. Forget the fact that there were probably lawyers and accountants, public relations consultants and managers to handle all the day-to-day problems of the hotel and island complex. This had been his father’s creation. And, until he was twenty-one, he had shared it with him …

He grimaced. The tragedy was that he had never even known his father was ill. And he had been out of the country—and out of reach—when the news of the old man’s death had been reported. In spite of everything, he would have liked to attend the funeral. And he would had done it, too, with or without Adele’s and India’s consent.

Of course, they probably wouldn’t believe him. Or Adele might, but she’d make damn sure India didn’t. Right now, she was doubtless poisoning his stepsister’s mind with her version of why he was coming to the island. He hadn’t bothered to come before, she’d say. But now, when there was money involved—an immense amount of money, if the publicity was to be believed—he was coming to collect, like the vulture he was.

A bitter smile tugged at the comers of his mouth. Well, in that respect, he could disabuse them—if he chose. He might have left the island without a penny, but he wasn’t coming back that way. He had his own money now, his own thriving organisation, which he continued to control simply because he wanted to do so. He was no longer the cocky teenager he had been when his father had married for the second time. He was a man who knew the meaning of survival.

And that was what he had learned to do, in those first three years after he had left the island. He had joined the army, and any lingering traces of the boy he had once been had been sweated out of him in the jungles and rivers of Central America. But it had been a good training; it had instilled in him a respect of self-discipline that had given him the will, and the energy, to work for what he wanted.

When he left the army, he had had only the germ of an idea of what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. So he had gone to work at a summer camp, and in the variety of activities offered to the children he had seen the way to realise his ambitions.

He had decided to create a camp for adults, women as well as men, where, added to the usual fitness regime, he would offer the kind of experience previously only found within a military framework. Oh, he’d known it had to be provided within a comfortable ambience. The iron fist in the velvet glove. He had needed spa baths and saunas, expert masseurs to ease away the rigours of the day, and all the usual luxuries of hydrotherapy. His dream had been to create a kind of club where every physical need could be catered for. Somewhere where wives could learn tennis, and indulge in the most sinful forms of face and body massage, while their husbands climbed rocks, or white-water rafted, or battered their soft bodies into submission in some other macho pursuit.

Of course, he had known there would be women who wanted to go rock-climbing and men who wanted to play racket sports and be pampered, but he’d been prepared for all of that. The lodges he’d envisaged his guests staying in would be so comfortable that they’d be totally asexual. It would be a total resort, and sufficiently expensive so that only truly committed health freaks would come.

He had used the pay he had accumulated during his three years in the army to open his first camp. Most of his fellow rookies had spent their pay on beer and women, not necessarily in that order, but, apart from an initial phase of drunkenness, he had studiously saved his money. Besides, he had never had to pay for a woman in his life. Something about his heavy-lidded eyes and sun-burned features attracted females like a magnet. But it wasn’t something he was proud of. Experience had taught him it was safer to stay away from the opposite sex.

Nevertheless, it had been a gamble, using every penny he had, plus a sizeable chunk of the bank’s money, to buy a run-down fruit farm in Florida. And it had taken months of work to get the place anything like ready for his guests. But, because he had initially concentrated on the less usual activities offered by his establishment, he had attracted the media’s attention, and in no time at all he was inundated by men desperate to escape from the confines of offices and boardrooms.

It was around this time that he had run into Greg Sanders again. Sanders had been his old drill sergeant, and in his early days at Fort Cleary he had hated the seemingly ruthless black officer. Sanders had picked on him relentlessly, and he had spent more time on the parade ground and worn out more boots than any of his fellow recruits.

Yet, in time, a genuine respect had grown between the two men, and, if in those early days they had never become friends, they had at least come to understand one another. And he knew that without Sanders’s training he might never have survived those months in the jungle. He had been soft; he could admit it now. Being Aaron Kittrick’s son had not prepared him for any other kind of life.

Consequently, when he learned that Sanders had retired from the army and was looking for work, he had been more than willing to offer the man a job. If anyone could lick his visitors into shape, Sanders could, and it was good to have someone working with him who was more than just an employee.

Sullivan’s Spas took off. He had used his mother’s maiden name, instead of his father’s, so that no one could accuse him of trading on his father’s reputation. Besides, it also gave him the anonymity he craved, and enabled him to move freely, without fear of recognition.

No one, least of all himself, could have imagined the spas’ success. From that small beginning, they had mushroomed all across the United States. And, because most health clubs were in urban areas, and he had concentrated on creating his resorts in less civilised surroundings, there was the added novelty of communing with nature, of seeing birds and animals in their natural habitat.

Besides, he knew that his spas were in some of the most beautiful country in the world: Southern California; Colorado; South Dakota; New Mexico; not to mention the pioneer resort in Florida, and other establishments all along the eastern seaboard. He had been lucky, in that land in the places he wanted to expand was not expensive. In consequence, he could afford to build low and consider the environment.

Over the years, Greg Sanders had trained a score of instructors, who now worked under him. He no longer worked in the field himself, although they both spent periodic sabbaticals at each and every spa, making sure they were running smoothly, and that their guests were happy. On Greg’s fiftieth birthday, he had actually given him a quarter share of the business, making him the chief shareholder, aside from himself.

And it was because of his company that he had been out of the country—and out of reach—when his father died. He had been in a mountainous district of British Columbia, researching the possibilities of opening a new resort in that most remote part of Canada. The only way in had been by float-plane and canoe, and it had teased his interest speculating the incongruity of creating an oasis of luxury in such primitive surroundings. Of course, it would have to be carefully planned, as such projects always were. He could now afford to employ the best brains in the world, and if another Sullivan Spa was built it would blend expertly into the scenery. Log cabins, he thought, raw on the outside, but offering every conceivable luxury within. And pools fed by filtered lake-water, icy cold or steaming …

The short flight was almost over. The stewardess, who had offered him a drink after boarding, now appeared to ask him to fasten his seatbelt for landing. Like the pilot, she had looked at him with enquiry in her eyes. But, unlike the pilot, there had been speculation in them, too.

He wondered whose idea it had been to have a stewardess on a flight that lasted less than half an hour. No doubt her short skirt and trim figure was much appreciated by any male visitors. But was the bodice of her scarlet tunic usually unbuttoned, so that the dusky hollow of her cleavage was distinctly visible as she bent to take his empty glass? And did she usually circle her glistening lips with her tongue as she removed the monogrammed coaster?

He decided not to theorise, though his expression was faintly cynical as he turned back to the small window. Maybe it was Adele’s way of reminding him that she hadn’t forgotten—or forgiven him, for not wanting her. Perhaps it was intended to arouse his libido, to taunt him with memories of what he had rejected.

Or maybe he was just too sensitive, he reflected wryly. And sensitivity, in any form, was not what was needed here. Incredible as it seemed, his father had made him his only heir. Kittrick’s Hotel, Pelican Island; it was all his now. And, however, Adele chose to play it, he was in command.

The small jet was making its approach to the island now, and, dismissing his thoughts, he took a concentrated look at the place that had been his home for more than fifteen years. His father had bought Pelican Island with the idea of creating a private resort for deep-sea fishermen, yachtsmen and the like, and by the time he was sixteen it had become a thriving little business. Guests shared rooms in the sprawling plantation house that had been their home in those days, and, although the accommodation was fairly basic, no one seemed to mind. He remembered his schooldays as being long days spent crewing the thirty-foot schooner his father charted out to would-be anglers, and hot nights on the beach, eating barbecued grouper, and talking about the big marlin or barracuda that just got away.

Until Adele came on the scene, he brooded. Adele and her seven-year-old daughter, India. Adele, with her big ideas about building a proper hotel and expanding the facilities they could offer. Adele, who had met his father on one of his infrequent trips to London to visit his late wife’s mother, and who had seen in Aaron Kittrick the promise of a financially secure future.

His long fingers combed impatiently through his hair again. His assessment of Adele’s motives was harsh, and he knew it. But it was also accurate. From the very beginning, he had seen right through the girlish façade she had adopted for his father’s benefit. The wonder was that his father hadn’t been able to see through it, too. But, from being a mild-mannered man who had always had time for his son—even when that son had tried his patience considerably—he had changed into a lovesick schoolboy with little or no interest in anything his son had to say. He had been infatuated with Adele, bewitched by her doll-like beauty, flattered that a woman with such obvious sex appeal should be attracted to a man undoubtedly past the emotive watershed of middle age.

The only advantage he had gained from this unlikely pairing was India. Although he hadn’t realised it at first. At fifteen, he had had little time for the skinny kid who dogged his footsteps. She was a nuisance, and he’d lost no time in telling her so.

But India hadn’t taken offence. And, as time went by, and she had showed no signs of taking advantage of her position, he had softened. Besides, it had actually been quite a novelty, having a stepsister. He had always been an only child, and in the years between his father’s marriage to Adele and his graduation he and India had become good friends.

In some ways she had been old for her years—due in part to Adele’s neglect, he reflected—and she had been quite content to sit for hours, listening to him expound on every subject under the sun. She had been good for his ego, he acknowledged, and, as Adele had persuaded Aaron to invest in building a new hotel, and he and his father had become more and more alienated, India had been the recipient of all his boyish frustrations.

On the more positive side, he had taught her to swim and snorkel. He’d taken her to explore the wonders of the reef that lay to the east of Pelican Island. He’d shown her how to dive for clams, and given her a guided tour of all the secret coves he had discovered throughout the lonely years of his childhood. During his holidays they had been inseparable, and he had started treating her as an equal, as well as a friend.

Until Adele had intervened. She had never liked their relationship. Looking back, he wondered if she had been jealous, but even now that interpretation of her behaviour stuck in his throat. What possible reason could she have had to be jealous of a schoolgirl?

Whatever, she had ultimately succeeded in parting them. That final summer vacation, when matters had come to a head, she had successfully driven a wedge between them. She had told India, in his and his father’s hearing, that she had to stop bothering him. She had said he had told her he was sick of India, that for the past six years he had put up with her, but now it had to stop, that he was a man, not a boy, and the last thing he needed was some overweight, spotty teenager like her cramping his style.

Of course, he had denied it, but he had seen the uncertainty in India’s face. And, when his father had asked him outright if he was calling Adele a liar, he had backed down. It had been a cowardly thing to do, he knew, and he had played right into Adele’s hands. But in a choice between rowing with his father or hurting India, there had been no contest. And he had still been young enough—and naïve enough—to believe the alienation from his father was not already irrevocable …

The Cessna banked steeply, and he looked out on the palm-strewn beaches of his youth. A curving sweep of coral sand fringed an ocean that paled from deepest blue to the clearest turquoise, with banks of seaweed submerged and moving in the current. Pelican Island, he thought, was no longer just an angler’s paradise, but one of the most exclusive resorts in the world.

The landing-strip seemed to come rushing up to meet them, and the powerful little jet squealed across the concrete. Windermere Bay; Cat Point; Abalone Cove; all the names he had once known so well came surging back to greet him. For the first time in more than eight years, he was coming home.

He wondered who they would send to meet him. It was nearly three miles from the airport at Green Turtle Hill to the hotel at Abaco Beach. In his day, guests had been transported over the last few miles of their journey in one of the minibuses that had been used as well for tours around the island. But that was before Kittrick’s Hotel had received its five-star status. These days, they probably used Rolls-Royces or Cadillacs to ferry their guests around.

The plane had stopped next to a white-painted building that served as both immigration area and traffic control. All guests were registered as they arrived on the island, and he was relieved to see that, apart from a coat of paint, the place looked little different from what he remembered.

‘I hope you enjoyed the trip, Mr Kittrick,’ the stewardess said, after the door of the aircraft had been opened, and the flight of steps unfolded. ‘Have a nice day!’

‘Thanks.’

But as he shook hands with the pilot, he noticed her tunic was now sedately buttoned. Perhaps she had been acting on her own behalf, her reflected drily. They all must know that he was the new owner of Pelican Island. And it was his own fault for dressing so casually, and maybe allowing her to think he might be flattered by a little healthy provocation. New owners sometimes meant new staff, and it was incredible to think he had the last word on her employment. He could almost feel sympathy for the core of her dilemma.

But experience had taught him that nothing came for free, and, hefting his overnight bag, he descended the steps without looking back. God, the sun was hot, he thought, feeling the tight jeans sticking to him like a second skin. He should have changed on the plane. He had some shorts in his bag. But he had been too pre-occupied with his thoughts to give any real consideration to the climate.

He stood for a moment at the foot of the aircraft’s steps, gazing about him. There was always a breeze on the island, which moderated the heat and made the temperature so delightful. And it was particularly evident here on Green Turtle Hill, a warm breeze that lifted his hair from his sweat-dampened neck and plastered his shirt against his body.

‘Nathan.’

He hadn’t been aware of anyone’s approach. He had been staring at the sun-bleached air-strip, at the fluttering tops of the flame-trees and at the lush vegetation that sloped away towards the beach. His eyes had settled on the ocean cresting like lace upon the sand, and his ears had been filled with its muted thunder as it splintered on the reef.

But now his gaze was drawn to the young woman standing patiently beside him, a tall, slim, striking woman, with cool, sculptured features and long straight hair that was presently caught back with an elastic band. Her eyes were blue, her nose was straight, and her mouth was full and generous. But it was the brilliance of her hair that gave her away, the glorious fall of bright red silk, and the delicate pale skin that went with it.

‘India?’ he said, half incredulously, and her mouth tightened almost imperceptibly.

‘Nathan,’ she repeated. ‘Welcome home. I’m sorry it’s in such unhappy circumstances.’

‘Yes.’ Nathan couldn’t get over the change in her. When he had gone away, India had been five feet two at most, and, although she hadn’t deserved her mother’s description of her as being overweight and spotty, she had been suffering the usual pains of adolescence. ‘I’m sorry, too.’ He paused. ‘It’s good to see you again, India.’

Her smile was perfunctory. ‘Shall we go?’ she suggested. She glanced at his canvas holdall before gesturing towards the back of the building. ‘The buggy’s just over there.’ She turned to the pilot, who had been observing their reunion. ‘Raoul, will you fetch the rest of Mr Kittrick’s luggage off the plane?’

‘No,’ Nathan intervened before the pilot could speak. ‘That is—I don’t have any more luggage.’ He tapped the canvas holdall. ‘This is it.’

India’s brows, which were several shades darker than her hair, drew together in obvious confusion. ‘You mean—it’s coming on later,’ she said, evidently not enjoying having her arrangements thwarted in front of the staff, and Nathan shook his head.

‘I’ve got everything I need,’ he assured her smoothly. He gave the pilot and his companion a faintly mocking salute. ‘Thanks, Raoul. It was a very—enjoyable trip.’

He didn’t look at the stewardess, but he guessed she was relieved he hadn’t chosen to mention her. All the same, it made him wonder about the kind of stories that were circulating about him. What kind of man did they think he was? What other lies had Adele been spreading since she had learned she was not to inherit Pelican Island after all?

He felt a surge of irritation, not least because he didn’t like the idea of India hearing that her stepbrother was some sort of sex animal. She might already think it, of course. Goodness knew, she had been brainwashed into believing he had no scruples. He wasn’t a monk, and he’d never pretended to be one. But he’d spent most of his energies these past years in making a success of his business, not feeding his libido.

‘Oh, well …’ India lifted her slim shoulders in a dismissing motion, and started towards the black- and white-painted buggy parked in the shade of the building. ‘Let’s go.’

Nathan took a moment to observe the spectacle of her trim rear, tightly encased in black close-fitting shorts, before following her. He already knew her breasts were full and round and strained against the white silk of the vest that completed her outfit. The shadow of her bra had been clearly visible as he’d looked down at her, and he guessed she was one of the hotel’s less obvious assets.

This thought irritated him, also. He didn’t like the image of some rich banker feasting his eyes on India’s slender body. She was his sister, for God’s sake! He didn’t want anyone looking at her but him. He knew a sudden urge to protect her. Was Adele exploiting her daughter, as well as everything else?

India was sitting in the buggy when he reached it, her hands on the wheel, and the motor running. Nathan tossed his bag into the back, and swung himself into the seat beside her. ‘Right,’ he said, giving her a brooding sideways glance, and she put the gearstick into drive, and pressed her booted foot on the accelerator.

The road had been much improved, he noticed at once. The rutted track he remembered had been repaired and edged with coral, but it was an ongoing problem. It was impossible to control all the vegetation on the island, and trailing vines hid the road in places. On top of that, grass was pushing up among the coral, and here and there the heads of periwinkles nodded as they passed. There was a glorious inconsistency about the landscaping here, he thought ruefully. Tropical shrubs grew in the most unlikely places, and, despite the frustration, their beauty was unsurpassed.

‘Did you have a good flight?’

Her question took him by surprise, and he had to check the urge to ask her if she cared. Her attitude towards him—polite, but superficial—was not what he’d anticipated, not what he wanted. Didn’t she feel any emotion, for God’s sake? He’d expected anger, or resentment, but not indifference.

But it was too soon to voice his feelings. Particularly as he wasn’t entirely sure what those feelings were. At the moment, he was still assimilating his reaction to her appearance, reminding himself that this was the wide-eyed kid who’d once hung on his every word.

So, ‘Pretty good,’ he responded, half turning in his seat towards her, and resting one arm along the back of hers. He hesitated, and then, ‘How’s your mother? Was she here when the old man bought—er—died?’

‘Of course she was here.’ With the first flash of spirit he had seen, India answered him. ‘He’d been ill for several weeks. The local doctor thought it was just over-work. He wouldn’t go to see a specialist. He was having some pain, you see, and he insisted it was just a pulled muscle.’

Nathan felt an unwilling tightness in his throat. ‘But it wasn’t.’

‘No.’ India shook her head and a silky strand of her long hair brushed his knuckles. ‘Afterwards—after the heart attack that killed him—they discovered a small embolism in his chest. It—was very quick.’

Nathan turned his hand and captured the fiery thread, smoothing it between his fingers. ‘I see.’

‘We did try to reach you,’ she added. ‘But we didn’t know where you were living. Fortunately, Mr Hastings——’ his father’s lawyer, he remembered ‘—located an address in New York. But, as you know, you weren’t there.’

‘No.’ She moved her head again and he let go of her hair. ‘I was—out of the country. Still——’ his lips twisted ‘—I doubt if I was missed.’

Her eyes turned to him then, cool and dispassionate. ‘You are his son,’ she said, as if that was enough, and the rawness of injustice stirred inside him.

‘Not for the past eight years,’ he said, baring his resentment. ‘The old man threw me off the island, if you remember. I didn’t get the impression he ever wanted me back.’

India’s fingers tightened on the steering-wheel, and for a few moments she said nothing, allowing him to draw his own conclusions. But it was difficult to sustain any bitterness here, with the spicy scents of the island invading his nostrils, and the lowering sun touching everything with a golden brilliance. He’d forgotten exactly how beautiful it all was, and he gazed at the drooping heads of mimosa and oleander with an equal measure of ambivalence.

The road was dipping down towards the shoreline, and, to their left, the manicured lawns of a golf course defied the hand of nature. Beyond the trunk of a flowering jacaranda, he could see the coral roof of the clubhouse, and the gaily painted carts that ferried the guests around.

Evidently Adele had been busy, he reflected wryly, remembering this area as being a flowering wilderness. But these days no resort worth its salt could do without a golf course, and even a desultory glance disclosed that this was a rather better one than most.

‘He never stopped loving you, you know,’ India said suddenly, into the faintly hostile silence that had fallen, and Nathan gave her a searching look.

‘No?’ He was sceptical.

‘No.’ She clung to the wheel as the buggy bounced over a wooden bridge that arched a small ravine. ‘He used to talk about you a lot.’ She paused. ‘Particularly towards—towards the end.’

Nathan’s jaw compressed. What was he supposed to say to that? What was he supposed to think? Did she think it comforted him to believe his father had forgiven him? Dammit; as far as he was concerned, there was nothing to forgive.

‘And what about you?’ he asked, somewhat mockingly, eager to change the subject, and she gave him a startled glance.

‘What about me?’

‘Do you still love me?’ he asked, wanting to disconcert her, and a feathering of colour brushed her skin.

She had beautiful skin, he noticed, pale and delicate, but with the rich lushness of cream. She had never tanned, but she had also escaped the bane of freckles that many redheads suffered. Instead, her arms and legs were smooth and unblemished, and disturbingly appealing.

‘Of course,’ she said at once, her reply swift and defensive, and he found himself staring at her, resenting her generosity. How could she love someone who, if she believed her mother, had despised and insulted her? Someone, moreover, who had betrayed them all, particularly his father? But, ‘You’re my brother,’ she added simply, and Nathan felt as if someone had just kicked him in the gut …

CHAPTER TWO

‘SO WHERE is he?’

Adele Kittrick turned from applying a moisturising foundation to her face and neck, and regarded her daughter impatiently. In a coral silk wrapper, with her skilfully bleached hair hidden beneath a black turban, she looked rather more than the forty-two years she admitted to. It didn’t help that her expression was taut and demanding. India was the only person who ever saw her mother at her worst.

‘He said he was going to take a shower,’ India replied now, hooking her hip over the arm of a satin-striped chaise-longue, and meeting her mother’s gaze without rancour. ‘I’ve put him in 204, as we decided. If I’d known you wanted me to bring him here, I’d have made other arrangements.’

‘I didn’t want you to bring him here,’ retorted her mother shortly, turning back to survey her reflection in the mirror of the dressing-table. ‘I just find it hard to believe that he didn’t mention the will as you were driving back from the airport. It must be on his mind, for God’s sake. It’s why he’s come here. To make fools of us all!’

India drew her lower lip between her teeth. ‘I don’t think you can blame Nathan for what his father did,’ she said cautiously. ‘He knew nothing about the will. And he certainly didn’t influence Daddy.’

‘How do you know that?’ Adele screwed the cap back on to the jar of cream and slammed it down on the tray in front of her. The crystal rang protestingly, but fortunately it didn’t shatter. Nevertheless, India’s nails curled into her palms at this obvious display of temper.

‘Mother, you know Daddy hasn’t spoken to Nathan for over eight years,’ her daughter replied steadily. ‘Why, even Mr Hastings didn’t have his address.’

Adele snorted. ‘Oh, yes, go on. Defend him, India. You always did. Even though you knew what he’d said about you, how he’d treated you, you still ran around after him like a lovesick puppy!’

India drew a calming breath. This was an old argument, and one she had learned not to pursue. It used to hurt—it might still hurt, if she let it. But she knew it was just her mother’s way of expunging her frustration, of letting out some of the bitterness that was eating her up.

‘Well, what did you talk about, then?’ Adele persisted now, when it became apparent that her previous taunt was not about to bear fruit. ‘Is he still as arrogant as ever—as aggressive? What?’

India carefully uncurled her fingers and smoothed them over the expanded Lycra of her shorts. She was glad her mother was looking at her own reflection at that moment, and not at her. But that didn’t prevent her palms from growing moist, or stop a trickle of sweat from running down between her breasts.

‘He’s—older,’ she said at last, realising that was hardly a satisfactory response, but needing to say something before her mother became suspicious of her silence. ‘And—he’s very brown. I’d say that, whatever he’s been doing for the past eight years, it hasn’t been in an office.’

Adele’s eyes shifted to her daughter’s face. ‘Well, what did you expect?’ she demanded scathingly, and India was so relieved she had noticed nothing amiss that she didn’t voice any protest. ‘He’s probably been herding cattle or working on an oil rig! God knows, he wasn’t fit for anything else. When I think of how we’ve worked to make a success of this place, I could weep. It’s just not fair that he should get it all.’

‘No.’ India had to concede her mother’s final point at least. But Nathan was his father’s flesh and blood. She had only ever been second-best.

Adele picked up a tube of lip-gloss, and examined the colour intently. ‘Did—er—did he ask about me?’ she enquired, and, although India had been expecting the question, it still caught her unawares.

‘He—asked how you were,’ she admitted honestly, managing to contain the wave of heat that threatened to invade her neck. And then, rushing on, ‘But mostly he talked about Daddy. He wanted to know the details of how he died.’

Adele’s mouth took on a sullen twist. ‘As if he cared,’ she exclaimed malevolently. ‘I hope you told him his father never spoke of him. I don’t remember Aaron even mentioning his name in my hearing.’

India got abruptly to her feet. That wasn’t true, but she knew better than to say so. ‘I’d better go,’ she said, aware that, for all her apparent composure, she couldn’t take much more. It hadn’t been an easy day for her either, and even her cultivated detachment was wearing dangerously thin. ‘I promised Carlos I’d speak to Paolo about serving drinks while he’s playing. And I’ve got to get changed yet. I’m supposed to be having dinner with Senator Markham and his wife.’

Adele grimaced. ‘He won’t expect you to keep to that arrangement, India. Besides, it was business, wasn’t it? Why should you continue to take bookings when, as far as we know, Nathan could boot us out tomorrow?’

India breathed out slowly. ‘I—don’t think he’ll do that, Mother.’

‘How do you know? Has he said so?’

‘No——’

‘There you are, then.’ Adele sighed with frustration. ‘I wish you’d stop thinking that you know him better than I do. He’s a rat, India. A bastard! He’s totally without scruples, and you’d better start believing it!’

She did!

As India made some perfunctory comment about not having time to discuss Nathan now, and left her mother’s room, her nerves were working overtime. And, with the door closed behind her, she took a moment to get herself back together. But her mother’s words were far too potent to dismiss that easily, and the fact that they were true made them impossible to forget.

Nathan was everything her mother had said. He had behaved abominably, and had almost broken his father’s heart. It had taken Aaron Kittrick years to get over what his son had done, and her mother had borne the brunt of the depression he had suffered because of it.

Squaring her shoulders, India determinedly put that memory behind her. However Nathan had behaved, whatever he had done, it was pointless thinking about it now. Evidently his father had forgiven him, or he would not have made him his heir. It was no use her feeling bitter. Her mother was nursing enough bitterness for both of them.

The family apartments were situated in a separate wing of the hotel. Connected to the main building by means of a vine-hung colonnade, it was a single-storey dwelling, with a pink-tiled hipped roof, and long windows, opening on to a paved terrace. It was sufficiently apart from the other hotel buildings to ensure complete privacy, but near enough so that any problems could be dealt with at once. After all, it was the very personal service they offered that had made Kittrick’s Hotel and Pelican Island world-famous. It prided itself on its reputation for providing both comfort and individuality, and, although it had accommodated many visitors over the years, a careful record was kept of each guest’s likes and dislikes.

Of course, it helped that the hotel could only accommodate a maximum of thirty guests at any one time. Eighteen suites catered to the needs of visitors as diverse as politicians and pop stars, their exclusivity ensuring that if privacy was sought it would be found. There were no sensation seekers on Pelican Island, no publicity hounds, no fans wanting autographs. Indeed, there were times when the whole hotel was filled with a single party, and it wasn’t uncommon for an anonymous guest to turn out to be a very familiar face.

It was almost dark as India entered the cathedral-like foyer of the hotel. But the enormous chandelier suspended from the cavernous ceiling cast its mellow glow over the many plants and floral displays that gave the huge reception area a colourful ambience. As well as the chandelier, a sprinkling of lamps, set beside groupings of chairs and sofas, created small oases of intimacy and comfort, while the stripped pine floor was strewn with Chinese rugs, thick and rich and delicately patterned.

There were few people about at this hour of the evening. From experience, India knew that most guests were either bathing or resting at this time, or enjoying a rejuvenating massage from one of the hotel’s team of health therapists. After a day spent swimming, or sailing, or simply soaking up the sun, it was good to relax and be pampered. Kittrick’s Hotel was equipped with every device necessary to make their guests happy, and men, as well as women, took advantage of its many facilities.

It was later that the bar would fill up and the poolside restaurant would start serving the score of gourmet delicacies cooked up by their French chef and his expert staff. But for now the public rooms were practically deserted, except for the ever present army of stewards, some of whom were always on duty.

Nevertheless, India felt slightly under-dressed as she crossed to the reception desk. By this time, she was usually changed for the evening, and although her presence wasn’t always necessary, she preferred to keep an eye on things. But Nathan’s arrival had upset the normal scheme of things, and she was still struggling to come to terms with her own reaction to it.

‘Oh, hello, Miss Kittrick.’ The receptionist left the pile of credit slips she had been systematically entering into the computer, and came to greet her. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘What?’ For a moment, India wondered if she meant Nathan, and then, realising it was her appearance that had produced such a comment, she shook her head. ‘Oh—no. No.’ She forced a smile. ‘I just wanted to have a word with Paolo. Do you know where he is?’

‘He’s in the bar, Miss Kittrick,’ said the girl at once. ‘Your—er—brother wanted a drink.’ She paused. ‘He’s very nice, isn’t he? Your brother, I mean. So—easy-going and friendly. Not—not at all like … well, like his father, is he?’

She was embarrassed and showed it, but, having started the sentence, she had had to finish it. India sympathised with her. And it was true, she thought unwillingly. In latter years, Nathan’s father had become more and more remote. India had put his uncertain moods down to his health. There was no denying that, for the past eighteen months at least, Aaron Kittrick had not been a well man. He had been withdrawn and unsociable, even with her. But now she was not so sure of her conclusion. Had his estrangement from Nathan been preying on his mind? she wondered. She would probably never know.

But, more immediately, she had the unenviable prospect of facing Nathan again, if she wanted to speak to Paolo before the evening’s entertainment began. She would have preferred to avoid seeing Nathan, at least until she had had time to bathe and change. Without the armour of clothes and make-up she felt absurdly vulnerable, a circumstance for which Nathan was wholly responsible.

He had embarrassed her horribly that afternoon by asking her that unforgivable question. And she had made it worse by admitting that she still cared about him. She should have evaded an answer, made some glib response that wouldn’t commit her either way. Instead, she had been so desperate to prove her own detachment that she had laid herself open to the kind of ridicule he could so readily produce.

Once it wouldn’t have bothered her. She had grown up with his teasing, and she’d always believed it was without malice. Until her mother had pointed out how unsuitable it was for a thirteen-year-old to go on treating Nathan as her contemporary. Until she had made it plain that he was just too polite to tell her to get lost.

India remembered how humiliated she had felt when she’d realised that truth. She had followed Nathan everywhere, it was true, but she’d never had a brother before, especially not an older brother who could do all the things she herself was desperate to learn.

She’d thought he’d enjoyed her company, too, and perhaps he had, to begin with. Perhaps, like her, he’d found having a ready-made sibling quite appealing. Particularly one who admired him, and hung on his every word.

But there was an enormous difference between the hero-worship of a seven-year-old and the embarrassing persistence of a post-pubescent teenager. And, as soon as her mother remarked on it, India had known she must be right. Of course then she hadn’t realised where his desires lay, hadn’t understood that his tolerance with her had just been a means to an end …

Now she straightened her spine, made a reassuring remark to the red-faced receptionist, and walked determinedly across the foyer. She couldn’t blame the girl for responding to Nathan’s charm. She knew only too well how lethal that charm could be.

The cocktail bar was four steps down from the level of the foyer. Cool and dim, with a long counter strung with lights, it overlooked the beach, and the lights of the marina in the distance. Her stepfather had built the marina in the days before Kittrick’s Hotel had become a household name. The old house, where they had lived when she and her mother had first come here, had been both hotel and residence. However, since the new hotel had been constructed, it had been turned into a haven for yachtsmen. There was a clubhouse now, on the upper floor, and a comprehensive chandlery beneath. And, although the store was supposed to be there for the benefit of the yachting community, it also sold golf and scuba-diving gear, and female guests could often be found browsing through its racks of designer sportswear, or chatting up the manager, who was, admittedly, quite a hunk.

India halted at the top of the steps leading down into the bar, and surveyed the territory. The piano where Carlos Mendoza played most evenings was as yet unattended, and there were no couples smooching on the tiny dance-floor. The neat armchairs and tables that were set by the long windows to take advantage of the view were still empty, and the distant sounds from the stereo were soft and not intrusive.

She saw Nathan at once, seated on one of the tall stools at the bar, talking to Paolo. And why wouldn’t she? she asked herself impatiently. Apart from the bartender, he was the only occupant. Nevertheless, it was galling to feel her pulses racing, and she thrust aside the feeling that he had already taken control.

He had changed, she noticed. The well-worn jeans that had clung to his muscled thighs had given way to black chinos and a dark shirt. His dark hair overhung his collar at the back, and even from here she could see it was still damp from his shower. But, when Paolo suddenly noticed her, and said something to his companion, Nathan turned his head in her direction, and she focused on the fact that the tie they insisted upon was absent.

All the same, it was a little unnerving to have him watch her descend the steps and cross the polished floor towards them. She was intensely conscious of her windswept hair and bare arms and legs, and she prayed she wouldn’t trip or do something equally stupid.

‘Hi,’ he said when she reached them, and she was glad he didn’t slide off the bar-stool to greet her. As it was, with his arms on the counter, and his shoulders hunched over the Scotch and water in front of him, he was almost her own height, and she didn’t experience the same lack of advantage she’d felt at the airport.

‘Hello,’ she responded, managing a smile, even if it was a trifle chilly. But Nathan disturbed her, and she didn’t like the sensation. She was letting his lack of sensitivity get to her, and she knew she would have to deal with it.

‘You look harassed,’ he remarked, and she thought how typical it was of him to make such a personal comment. She knew how she looked. She didn’t need him to tell her. And, when it came right down to it, it was none of his business, so why didn’t he butt out?

‘You don’t,’ she remarked now, noticing he had shaved the growth of stubble from his chin. It didn’t make him look any younger; it just accentuated the harsh beauty of his features.

‘Is that supposed to mean something?’ he enquired, rubbing his nose with a lazy finger. His eyes were lazy, too, dark and inscrutable behind their shield of sooty lashes.

‘I—we—guests are expected to wear a tie in the evening,’ she explained, not without some trepidation. She could tell herself that this was her stepbrother, that it was Nathan, with whom she had once shared all her girlish confidences, but it didn’t work. Too much had happened. He had gone away and they had grown apart. The man he was now bore little resemblance to the boy she remembered.

‘Really?’

Nathan’s fingers probed the open collar of his shirt, which she could now see was made of navy blue silk. So wherever he had been, and whatever he had done, he hadn’t been penniless, she reflected tautly, trying to avoid watching those long narrow fingers as they exposed the sun-burned column of his throat.

‘Yes, really,’ she confirmed, grateful that she sounded more resolute than she felt. Her gaze strayed to the faintly mocking curve of his mouth. ‘I’m sorry.’

Nathan’s lips parted, revealing teeth that were white and even. ‘And that’s the purpose of this visit?’ he enquired. ‘To tell me I’m not properly dressed?’ His lips twisted. ‘Forgive me, but are you saying that what you’re wearing is suitable, but I’m out of line?’

‘No!’ India was impatient. ‘No, of course not. I came to speak to Paolo. I didn’t know I’d find you here, did I?’

Nathan inclined his head. ‘Maybe not,’ he conceded, raising his glass to his lips. ‘So do you want me to leave you two alone?’

India refused to dignify his words with a reply. Instead she turned to Paolo, and, adopting the polite but authoritative manner she used with all the staff, she explained Carlos’s predicament.

‘He’d like you to avoid clattering glasses while he’s playing,’ she clarified carefully. ‘Most people are prepared to wait until each medley’s over before being served. And those who won’t wait will come to the counter. Your moving round the room, taking orders, is distracting the guests while they’re listening to the music.’

Paolo was scowling when she’d finished, and India suppressed a sigh. The Italian barman was not the easiest person to deal with, and he and Carlos had crossed swords before. ‘What he means is he’s afraid he won’t get his tips if I give them something else to think about,’ he retorted, in the hoarse accented English the women guests found so appealing. ‘Dio, doesn’t the idiota realise that so far as the guests are concerned I might just as well be playing the stereo?’

‘I don’t think that’s entirely true, Paolo,’ she declared evenly. ‘Carlos is a very accomplished musician——’

‘E puntura!’ grunted Paolo sulkily, and although India didn’t know what that meant she was sure it was nothing complimentary.

‘I don’t think——’ she was beginning wearily, when Nathan intervened.

‘I think you owe Miss Kittrick an apology,’ he said, his voice no less compelling because it was low and controlled. ‘And if she tells you not to serve drinks while this pianist is doing his stuff you won’t do it. Right?’

Paolo’s reaction was immediate. ‘But of course, signore,’ he exclaimed, and if India hadn’t already had experience of his belligerence she would have thought she had imagined it. ‘I was only joking, no? Carlos—he is my friend. We are all friends here on Pelican Island.’

India’s jaw compressed. It had not been a good day for her, and this was the last straw. It was bad enough that Nathan should have felt the need—or believed had the right—to involve himself in her affairs, but Paolo’s response was humiliating.

‘As I was saying,’ she continued, through her teeth, ‘I don’t think there is any advantage to be gained in insulting one another. Carlos has his job to do, just as you have yours. And I don’t think I need to remind you that good bartenders are easier to find than good musicians. Do I make myself clear?’

Paolo cast a grudging glance at Nathan, as if gauging his reaction to her words, and then, with a shrug of his dinner-jacket-clad shoulders, he submitted. ‘Yes, signora.’

‘Good.’ India permitted herself a taut look in her stepbrother’s direction, and then pushed herself away from the counter. ‘And now, if you’ll excuse me——’

‘Wait!’

She had reached the shallow steps leading up into the foyer when Nathan caught up with her. For a brief moment she had thought he was going to let her go without saying anything more, but she ought to have known better.

‘Yes?’ she said now, turning to face him with what she hoped was calm indifference.

‘What was all that about?’ he demanded, casting a meaningful look behind him. ‘Why the cold shoulder?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ India pretended ignorance. She glanced at the slim gold watch on her wrist, the watch her stepfather had bought her for her twenty-first birthday, and frowned. ‘I don’t have time to talk now. I have to get changed.’

‘That’s not what I mean and you know it,’ retorted Nathan flatly. ‘What’s the matter? Did I say something wrong?’

India stiffened. ‘Why should you think that?’

‘I didn’t mistake that look you gave me just now,’ he answered. ‘It was lethal. Well, OK, if there’s something you want to say to me, let’s have it. I don’t like innuendo; I never have.’

India took a deep breath. She didn’t want to get into this. Not right now. She was hot, and she was tired, and the prospect of a cool shower was all she wanted to think about. ‘You’re imagining things,’ she said, deciding there was no point in making a big thing of it. After all, Nathan owned the place now. If he chose to remonstrate with the staff, who was she to complain?

She would have turned away again, but Nathan’s fingers curled about her arm, preventing her. ‘I am not imagining things,’ he said, with quiet force. ‘I guess you didn’t like me butting into your conversation with the barkeep. That’s the only thing it can be, unless I said something this afternoon that’s made you mad. Hell, tell me if it bugs you! I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings between us.’

India swallowed, wondering why Nathan’s hand was causing such a furious reaction inside her. Where those hard fingers touched, her skin felt as if it were on fire, and a hot stream of awareness was shooting up her arm. It was as if her whole body was focused on that careless grip, and she could hear her own heartbeat pounding in her ears.

She was over-reacting. She knew it. Heavens, it wasn’t as if Nathan had never touched her before. In the days before her mother had made her aware of her own foolishness, he had often grabbed her arm to emphasise a point, or to drag her out to go fishing. Of all his activities, going fishing had been the one she liked least, and they had often done battle over who was to get their way. He even used to pick her up and throw her into the water sometimes, and she’d try to wrestle him underwater to get her own back. They’d been totally unselfconscious with each other in those days, so why was she getting so upset that it took every bit of determination she possessed not to tear herself away from him?

Realising there was only one way to deal with it, she tipped her chin towards him. ‘I think you know what you did,’ she declared, her tone clipped and aggressive. ‘It might have slipped your notice, but the hotel’s been running just fine while you’ve been away!’

Nathan’s lips tightened. ‘You thought I was interfering,’ he stated evenly. ‘So why didn’t you just say so?’

India snorted. ‘I thought I just did.’

‘Not before I had to practically drag it out of you,’ retorted Nathan. ‘And while we’re on the subject, why don’t you let Adele do her own dirty work? If she wants the Italian put in his place, let her do it. You’re not her lackey.’

India blinked, momentarily distracted from her efforts to avoid his dark, accusing gaze. ‘Adele?’ she echoed blankly. ‘My mother? What’s she got to do with this?’

Nathan frowned, his eyes searching her increasingly hot face. ‘She does have the final say about what goes down, doesn’t she?’

‘What goes down?’ India gave an impatient exclamation. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘All right.’ Nathan’s tone was considerably less friendly now. ‘She may employ a manager—who may or may not be you, I don’t know—but she signs the cheques, doesn’t she? Or rather she did, when my father was alive.’

‘No!’ Now India did pull herself away from him. ‘My mother’s never taken any part in the running of the hotel. When Daddy … when your father was alive he trusted me to handle the practical side of it. My mother—she travels a lot. This is a small island. People get—restless.’

‘Don’t you mean bored?’ suggested Nathan harshly, though he was evidently having some difficulty in coming to terms with what she had said. ‘So … Kittrick’s Hotel, Pelican Island—this was your baby?’

‘I didn’t say that.’ India was defensive now. ‘You know it was my mother’s idea to expand the resort——’

‘Because it wasn’t earning enough money to satisfy her as it was,’ put in Nathan caustically, but India chose to ignore him.

‘And Daddy—that is, your father—arranged the finance.’

‘You mean he put himself in hock to the bank?’ Nathan’s mouth curled. ‘Oh, yes, I know about that.’

India took a deep breath. ‘If you’re going to persist in making rude remarks, then I don’t think I want to go on with this,’ she declared stiffly. ‘I’m sure Mr Hastings must have given you all the details. If you need any more information, I suggest you ask him.’

‘Ah—damn!’

Nathan swore volubly and colourfully, and India squared her shoulders and started up the steps. She had no reason to tolerate his crudeness, she told herself. She didn’t have to defend herself to him, and she particularly didn’t have to defend her mother.

‘All right, all right, I’m sorry.’ His unexpected apology came from behind her left ear, and she realised he had followed her out of the bar. He was now standing on the step immediately below her, which accounted for the fact that his breath was fanning her neck and not the top of her head. ‘As far as Hastings is concerned,’ he went on, ‘he supplied all the necessary information, sure, but not the details. Dammit, I haven’t even met with the guy. As soon as I read his cable, I came right here.’

India turned towards him with some reluctance. And, because he was lower than she was, their eyes were almost on a level. It meant she had no chance of avoiding his defensive stare, and she crossed her arms across her midriff in an unconsciously protective gesture.

‘So,’ she said, moistening her lips with a wary tongue, ‘what more can I say?’

‘You can tell me how my father’s modest plans to build an extension to the original building turned into this place,’ he replied, spreading his arms. ‘When I left, he’d built the marina and was talking about putting in a swimming-pool and some tennis courts. Nothing like this.’

India lifted her head. ‘Well—it seemed like a good investment, that’s all.’

‘To whom?’

‘To—all of us,’ she replied, choosing her words with care.

‘But it must have cost the earth!’

‘It was worth it.’

‘Was it?’ He came up the final step so that he was standing beside her. ‘Your mother had big ideas, and my father would have done anything to please her.’

India stepped back. ‘Your father was proud of what he’d achieved!’

‘But it was a strain, right?’

‘If you’re implying that his heart attack had anything to do with money worries, you couldn’t be more wrong!’ she exclaimed angrily. ‘My God! This place is worth a small fortune! Well, not small. Quite a large fortune, actually. How dare you suggest that his illness was in any way to do with the hotel?’

Nathan’s face was unrelenting now. ‘Well, you have to admit the old man did die years sooner than anyone could have expected,’ he retorted, and India’s stomach hollowed at the realisation that in a matter of minutes he had lost all veneer of politeness. He was cold and arrogant, and every bit as aggressive as her mother had expected.

‘I don’t have to listen to this,’ she hissed, aware that the heat of their exchange was being monitored by at least two members of the staff. Paolo was obviously straining his ears to hear what was being said, and the young woman on the reception desk couldn’t help noticing that something was wrong. ‘If you have any complaints, I suggest you take them up with Mr Hastings when he gets here. I don’t want you upsetting my mother any more than she’s been upset already.’

Nathan scowled, but when he spoke it wasn’t Adele he was interested in. ‘Hastings?’ he said. ‘He’s coming here?’

‘In a couple of days, yes.’ India found it much easier to cope with this conversation with the cloak of hostility between them. ‘I asked him to delay his arrival, to give you time to familiarise yourself with the island again. Of course, I didn’t know then that you were going to start throwing accusations around as soon as you got here.’

Nathan’s jaw clamped. ‘I’m not throwing accusations around. Hell, India, I’m just trying to find out what’s been going on! Dammit, he was my father!’

‘I know.’ India squashed the feeling of sympathy that stirred inside her. ‘But that doesn’t give you the right to come here and impugn the reasons for his illness. You just might have played some part in that yourself!’

CHAPTER THREE

THE morning air was always cool, deliciously so, and one of Nathan’s favourite occupations had been to take a stroll along the beach before anyone else was about. He saw no reason not to do so now, even if he hadn’t slept in a bed. At this hour, the sand was clean and un-trampled, without the prints of other feet to deny his isolation.

Nevertheless, he was well aware that his actions were not wholly innocent. By delaying his return to the hotel, he was deliberately putting off the moment when he would have to deal with the situation his father’s will had created. Sooner or later, he would have to come to a decision about what he was going to do, but for the present he preferred to avoid a confrontation.

He had spent the night aboard the Wayfarer, more at home on the yacht on which his father had taught him to sail than in the absurdly opulent suite India and her mother had allotted him. In his more generous moments, he supposed it wasn’t really their fault. What did you do with someone who was, yet wasn’t, a member of the family? Particularly someone who was not welcome in the family apartments of the hotel.

Even so, he had guessed that Adele would be expecting to see him. How had she taken his father’s death? He couldn’t believe she was devastated by the tragedy. Only by what it had precipitated. The night before, he had actually anticipated the prospect of telling her to get out with some satisfaction. But that was before he had spoken to India, before he had discovered that she, and not Adele, had been running the hotel.

That was why he had taken himself off to the marina, guessing, accurately as it turned out, that no one would come looking for him there. He had needed time: time to consider the situation, time to think. He couldn’t get rid of Adele without getting rid of India as well, and, in spite of what had happened, he found he didn’t want to.

It was crazy. He knew that. Even thinking about keeping her on was going against every grain of intelligence he possessed. She had sided with her mother. She, like his father, had believed every word her mother had said. But, what the hell, she had only been thirteen! What kind of objectivity did a thirteen-year-old possess?

His father had left her future in his hands. That bugged him, too. Was the old man so sure he’d be magnanimous? Or didn’t he care what happened to either of them—Adele or her daughter? Hell, what did he know about India, come to that? He’d been away for eight years. She might be more like her mother than he thought.

Beyond the marina, the coastline scalloped in a series of rocky coves. The sand here was pink-tinged, untouched, too rigorous for the lotus-eaters at the hotel to reach. They were the coves where he had spent his childhood, shared with no one until India had invaded his life.

He grimaced. How sentimental could you get? And he had believed he’d banished all sentimentality from his soul. Yet there was no denying that India did hold a special place in his heart. She was his stepsister, dammit. It wasn’t something he needed to be ashamed of.

It was after eight when he got back to the hotel, and he was hungry. He’d made do with a sandwich the night before, but now he fancied eggs and bacon, and lashings of buttered toast. Not the kind of diet he recommended at a Sullivan’s Spa, but exactly what he needed to fill his groaning stomach.

Breakfast was apparently served in the Terrace Restaurant, a sunlit octagon overlooking the ocean. It was a room made almost completely of glass screens, which could be shaded or rolled back, depending on the weather. At present, several of the screens were open, and a pleasant draught of air kept the temperature in the low seventies.

Nathan paused in the doorway, looking round the attractive room. Circular tables, each spread with a crisp white cloth, were set with gleaming silver and crystal glasses. There was the scent of warm bread and freshly brewed coffee, and his stomach rumbled in sympathy with the pleasant thought of food.

‘Can I help you, sir?’

A white-coated waiter was viewing him rather doubtfully, and Nathan realised that, as on the previous day, his appearance wasn’t winning him any friends. It was the first time he had considered that an overnight growth of beard was bristling his jawline, and that his shirt and trousers bore witness to the perils of salt water.

‘I …’ He hesitated, and then, deciding that however disreputable he appeared he was hungry and this was his hotel, he plunged on. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Just point me to a table, and fetch me a pot of coffee, will you? I’ll let you know what else I want after I’ve studied the menu.’

The waiter tucked the menu he was holding under his arm as he considered his response. ‘Er—you are a guest of the hotel, are you, sir?’ he enquired, his tone just bordering on unfriendly, and Nathan nodded.

‘Room 204,’ he agreed, deciding not to embarrass the man. ‘Now—where do I sit? That table there—in the window?’

The waiter lifted one shoulder. ‘I—I’m not sure,’ he was beginning, when a familiar female voice intervened.

‘I’ll look after Mr Kittrick, Lloyd,’ India declared smoothly, bringing a look of horror to the waiter’s face. ‘Oh—didn’t Mr Kittrick introduce himself? Nathan, this is Lloyd Persall. He looks after our morning guests.’ She gave him a considering look. ‘He’s particularly good if they have a hangover.’

Nathan felt a sense of resentment stir inside him. ‘Good for Lloyd,’ he intoned, in no mood to get into another argument with her. ‘So what do I do to get some service around here? Produce my ID or what?’

India’s lips tightened. ‘Get Mr Kittrick what he wants, Lloyd,’ she said, dismissing the discomfited waiter with a reassuring gesture. ‘I’ll take care of his seating arrangements.’

‘Yes, Miss Kittrick.’

The waiter looked as if he wanted to say something more, but thought better of it, and Nathan waited, somewhat irritably, for India to indicate where she wanted him to sit. Damn, he thought, was this the kind of treatment guests came back for?

The table he was shown to was the one he had chosen in the window. A table for two, it was shielded from the glare by clever tilting of the vertical blinds, while yards of white tulle billowed in the breeze.

Despite his irritation, he felt obliged to say something after he was seated, and, offering India a faintly perfunctory twist of his lips, he said, ‘Thanks. I guess I’ll have to have my picture circulated to the other members of the staff if I want to avoid any more embarrassment.’

India stretched her arms to thigh level and linked her hands together. It was a vaguely protective gesture, though she seemed not to be aware of it. ‘That won’t be necessary if you allow me to introduce you to the rest of your employees,’ she said, her tone clipped and reproving. ‘If you hadn’t disappeared yesterday evening, you’d probably be known by now. Our grape-vine is quite efficient, and you are creating quite a stir.’

Nathan lay back in his chair and looked up at her. Although he realised her remarks were justified, he knew a quite unwarranted desire to disturb her composure. Was this what happened when familiarity gave way to estrangement? Why did he want to treat her differently now, when she was obviously doing her best to keep it civil?

He refused to consider that the way she looked had anything to do with his attitude. The short pleated skirt and collarless white blouse were an unlikely incentive to his mood. The fact that they were black and white again respectively, as her outfit had been the day before, seemed to point to their being a kind of uniform, even if the cap sleeves did reveal her arms, and the skirt expose her legs from mid-thigh.

Even her hair had been confined in a French plait, and the tight way she had drawn it back from her face should have added severity to her profile. But it didn’t. Instead, the austere style revealed the purity of her jawline, and the delicate curve of cheeks, which were as flawless as a peach.

God! The words flooding into his head appalled him. Appalled him, and disgusted him, too. He didn’t want to analyse exactly what he was thinking, but when his gaze drifted from her face to the taut thrust of her breasts emotions of a different kind caused the harshness in his voice.

‘I didn’t “disappear” last night,’ he corrected her shortly, suddenly aware of the tightness of his trousers. He shifted in his chair, trying to find a more comfortable position, and concentrated on the menu lying on the table in front of him. ‘I just needed a little time to myself, that was all. I’m sorry if I inconvenienced you—and your mother—but I didn’t know I had to inform you of my whereabouts.’

India’s intake of breath was revealing. ‘No one’s saying that, Nathan——’

‘Then what are you saying, then?’ he demanded, slanting a gaze up at her vivid face. Yes, that was better, he thought; she was angry with him now. It was easier to deal with anger than combat her cool control.

‘My mother expected you would want to see her,’ she declared at last. ‘That’s not so unusual, is it? For heaven’s sake, Nathan, she was your father’s wife. Whatever grudges you may still bear her, she has taken Aaron’s death badly. They’d been together for almost fourteen years! Can’t you show a little consideration?’

Consideration? Nathan was tempted to ask what consideration Adele had ever showed towards him. But India wasn’t to blame for her mother’s duplicity. She was innocent of any treachery. Innocent of malice.

‘Look, why don’t you sit down and we’ll talk about it?’ he suggested, seeing Lloyd fast approaching with his coffee. ‘Hey, that’s great,’ he added, as the waiter set a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice and a steaming pot of coffee on the table. He gave the man an approving smile. ‘Just what I need.’

Lloyd looked relieved. ‘Your eggs and bacon are on the way, sir,’ he exclaimed. And then, after casting a doubtful glance in India’s direction, ‘I’m sorry if I caused you any upset earlier, Mr Kittrick. If I’d known——’

‘No sweat.’ Nathan could afford to be magnanimous. ‘Miss—er—Miss Kittrick will be joining me for breakfast. Perhaps you’d like to take her order as well.’

India looked as if she wanted to refuse, but propriety won the day. ‘Er—just toast and coffee, Lloyd,’ she declared as he ushered her into her seat. And then, as the waiter went away again, she appended, ‘Don’t make my decisions for me, Nathan. I’m not a schoolgirl now.’

Nathan absorbed her anger as he poured himself a glass of golden juice. ‘Will you join me?’ he asked, gesturing towards her glass, but she turned it upside-down, and stared mutely out of the window.

With her profile turned towards him, and her determined chin supported by the knuckles of one hand, Nathan was able to watch her undetected. Despite the beauty of her complexion, she looked tired, he thought. Tired, and troubled, and he guessed Adele had given her a hard time when he had failed to show up the night before. Her knuckles shifted, and she brushed her hand across her cheek, revealing short, rounded nails, only palely tinged with polish. Her fingertips brushed the faint shadows beneath her eyes, and drew his attention to the slender arch of her brows. And when his eyes moved to her mouth, he knew his control was slipping again.

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