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.

Wild Enchantress
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

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

ALL he could hear was the rushing, roaring thunder of the water as it splintered on the reef behind him. Ahead lay the beach, creamy white and shimmering in the bleaching rays of the sun, and between, deep green water, alive with the swell that made Flintlock one of the finest surfing beaches on the whole island. Behind him, the crest was rising, foam-flecked and majestic, and his speed increased as he began to coast down the face of the wave. Then it caught him, and his feeling of exhilaration quickened in pace with the surfboard as he rose to his feet and rode diagonally into shore. It was a trial of strength and muscle, keeping erect on that shifting oblong of fibre-glass, controlling its headlong passage with an expertise born of long experience. Before the surf died, he dived off the board into the surging water, and allowed the tow to sweep him on to the warm sand. The surfboard was swept up beside him, shifted restlessly for a few moments, and then was still as he was.

He rolled over on to his back, shading his eyes against the glare of heat which had since childhood given him that deep all-over tan, and felt the familiar feeling of well-being which always followed a successful session. He felt pleasantly relaxed and slightly lethargic, loath to allow the problems of the day to intrude upon these moments of complete self-indulgence.

‘Mr Royal! Mr Royal, sir!'

As if to mock his mood of lazy contemplation, Sylvester's throaty voice came harshly on the breeze that stirred the clump of wind-torn cypresses that clung bravely to the coral limestone cliffs that sheltered the cove. Levering himself up on one elbow, Jared Royal looked around and saw the elderly black manservant, incongruous in his chauffeur's livery, beckoning to him from the head of the rocky stairway which gave access to the beach.

With an expression of resigned tolerance on his lean dark features, he got to his feet, and after the briefest use of a towel, he pulled on the shabby denim shorts which were his only clothing. Then, tucking the surfboard under his arm, he trudged up the sand to where a low, bungalow-type dwelling was set on wooden stilts. Sylvester had disappeared, but he would no doubt be sitting in the car ensuring himself of his master's compliance before moving off.

However, Jared was not unduly concerned, mounting the steps to the building with unhurried deliberation. A slat-roofed verandah, overgrown with creeper, gave into the single apartment, a typical beach-house room, with equal space for cooking and sleeping facilities. It was the kind of accommodation used for picnics or weekends, where one could ignore the sand on one's feet and disregard the salt stains on the worn furniture. In one respect it differed from thousands of others like it; the walls were stacked with canvases, one leaning against the other, and easels and painting equipment of all kinds littered what floor space was left. But for all that, Jared liked it, it suited his purpose very well on occasion, and provided an ideal bolthole when his stepmother filled the house with people. He could work here, and he always kept plenty of tinned food on the premises so that he need not be disturbed. If the sleeping facilities were not what he was used to, they at least were adequate.

Now, he dumped the surfboard beside several others in one corner of the room, and crossed to take a can of lager from a gas-cooled refrigerator near the sink. All cooking and lighting appliances were fed by a gas cylinder, but he had had water laid on when the beach house was first built ten years ago.

Standing by the window, looking out on the stretch of sand which tapered away towards the water's edge, he drank deeply from the can, savouring the ice-cold liquid. As he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, he reflected without enthusiasm on the responsibility ahead of him. Having charge of a young woman already out of her teens seemed an unnecessary encumbrance, and while he appreciated the compliment Jack Fulton had paid him by putting his daughter into his care, he could have wished it were otherwise.

The one occasion he had previously encountered Catherine Fulton had not endeared her to him. At fourteen, she had been a spoilt and precocious adolescent, already aware of her potential, and not above trying her wiles on a man twice her age. Jared had taken an inordinate amount of pleasure in setting her down, and he doubted she had ever forgiven him for that. But her father had been a close friend, and no doubt, without that recurring heart trouble, would never have considered making these emergency arrangements which had come into operation when he died. As it was, Catherine could not touch a penny of the not inconsiderable sum her father had left her until she was twenty-one, which was still some six months away, and Jared had had little choice but to suggest that she came out to Barbados and stayed with him until she gained her inheritance.

He might not have done this—indeed, his inclinations were to allow her to go her own way, except for the letter which Jack had left for him. In it, her father had expressed his own anxieties about the company his daughter was keeping, and his fears that she might marry someone only after her money.

The idea of coming to Barbados had not met with a great deal of approval, he had gathered from her solicitors, via his own. Miss Fulton was apparently enjoying a full and satisfying life in London, and had little desire to spend six months vegetating on an island, Caribbean or otherwise. Besides, she had also let it be known, there was someone, some young man, she preferred not to leave at this time. Royal couldn't help but speculate whether this was the doubtful company her father had been so concerned about.

In the event, he determined that he would not advance her funds to remain in England. He could not possibly maintain any kind of control over her affairs there. So she had had to make the necessary arrangements to leave. That she was due at Seawell this afternoon was a matter of some aversion to him. Remembering the objectionable child she had been, he was not looking forward to his unaccustomed duties as unwilling guardian.

Finishing his lager, he dropped the can into the waste bin and let himself out of the beach house. He didn't lock the door. This beach was private, and besides, apart from the canvases, there was nothing of any value to steal.

He mounted the steps to the cliff top and found Sylvester dozing behind the wheel of a sleek cream Mercedes convertible. But some sixth sense seemed to warn the old man-servant of his approach, and he straightened up as Royal neared the car.

‘You can go now, Sylvester,’ his employer told him dryly. ‘I'll follow on.'

‘Miz Elizabeth sent me to tell you that it's after eleven, Mr Royal. She says that young lady is arriving at two.'

‘Two-thirty, actually,’ responded Jared, lightly touching the bonnet of the vehicle and feeling the red-hot heat of the metal send shafts of fire through his fingers. He thrust his hand into the pocket of his shorts and drew out a small case of cheroots. ‘Do you have a light?'

Sylvester handed him the automatic lighter from the dash, with unconcealed impatience. ‘You don't have time to stand here smoking cigars, Mr Royal,' he exclaimed reprovingly. ‘Miz Elizabeth sent me to find you thirty minutes ago!'

His employer ignored him, turning to regard the ocean from the clifftop. It was a magnificent sight and one of which Jared never grew tired. Beyond the reef, the Atlantic surged in all its restless splendour, the creaming line of surf like a bracelet of pearls edging infinity. There was a greeny-blue haze on the horizon and no one could clearly distinguish where the ocean ended and the sky began.

‘Well, I'm going now, Mr Royal.'

Sylvester started the Mercedes’ engine, and the other man swung round to regard him with a wry smile. ‘You do trust me to follow on, then?'

Sylvester sighed. He was not unused to coming down here looking for his employer. He had been doing so for years, since long before old Mr Royal died and his son became the master of the household. It had been a great disappointment to the old man when his only offspring had shown no interest in the business he had built up throughout his lifetime, and preferred painting to any other pursuit. The fact that his son had become extremely successful in his own field had softened the blow a little, but now that the old man was dead, his widow ran the stables quite efficiently with the help of a manager, deferring to her stepson only in the matter of finance.

‘I think you should use a car, Mr Royal,’ Sylvester said now, shaking his head at the motor-cycle thrown carelessly into the shade of the palms that grew in varying heights beside the track. ‘Those things—they're for roughnecks, not for a Royal of Amaryllis!'

His employer hid his amusement, as putting the cheroot between his teeth, he went to haul up the motor-cycle and straddle it comfortably. ‘What could be more enjoyable on a day like today than riding through the countryside with the wind cooling your body?'

‘You get plenty of wind blowing at you in this here vehicle!’ retorted Sylvester. ‘What for there's those three limousines up at the house never get used? You wouldn't go to meet that young lady this afternoon on that bicycle, would you?'

Jared Royal grinned, putting up a hand to tug at the thick black hair which was overly long, and which, together with his lack of attire, gave him a piratical appearance. ‘Now that's quite an idea, Sylvester—'

‘You wouldn't!’ Sylvester was horrified, and Royal hastened to reassure him.

‘No. I guess she might have some objections to her cases hanging over the side,’ he mocked, and Sylvester released the Mercedes’ brake.

‘Your father would turn in his grave if he knew the way you carried on!’ he said as his final expression of indignation, and Jared was still smiling as he started the motor-cycle and followed him.

The distance between Flintlock beach and the Royal house was some five miles by road, but on the motor-cycle he could halve that distance by cutting across the paddocks. The horses were used to the noise the motor-bike made, and only the older servants found their master's behaviour a subject for disapproval. But they forgave him, because young and old alike adored the man who since he was a boy had made no distinction between himself and his employees.

He arrived back at the house fully five minutes before Sylvester, and dumping the motor-cycle near the garages, he walked through the patio area at the back of the house, and in through french windows.

His bare feet made little sound against the tiled floor of the morning room, and he emerged into the hall without encountering anyone. But as he mounted the wide marble staircase to the first floor footsteps sounded in the hall below, and a woman's voice called:

‘Jared! Jared, whatever have you been doing? Are you aware it's after twelve o'clock?'

He turned and surveyed his stepmother standing below him. Elizabeth Royal was only two years older than her stepson, and her slender figure and youthful way of styling her hair made her appear younger. In slim coral pants and an emerald green blouse, her curly auburn hair highlighted by the sun glinting through the panes of the window above the main doors to the building, she looked very attractive, and Jared Royal appreciated the fact. With a wry smile, he came down the stairs again, a head taller than she was even with her high heels.

‘You know perfectly well where I've been,’ he told her, amusement glinting in his curiously tawny coloured eyes. ‘Or did you think I'd been to the Legislature?'

Elizabeth's tongue appeared as she moistened her lips which matched the colour of her pants. ‘Darling, you know that girl's arriving in a couple of hours. Don't you think that today at least you could have forgone the disappearing act?'

‘No.’ Jared thrust his thumbs into the low waistband of his shorts. ‘Look, Liz, I don't want you to put yourself out for Catherine Fulton. I wouldn't have had her here at all if it hadn't been for her father's letter. Hell, she's twenty years old! Old enough to make her own mistakes.'

Elizabeth nodded as he was speaking, her fingers linked loosely together, watching him the whole time. Diminutive in stature, she was nevertheless a shrewd businesswoman, and only with Jared did she sometimes adopt an air of helpless femininity.

‘You're right, of course, darling,’ she murmured. ‘But naturally, as mistress of this establishment until you and Laura decide to get married, I don't want to let you down.'

At the mention of his fiancée's name, Jared felt that familiar feeling of impatience. His engagement to Laura Prentiss had in no way been a voluntary one on his behalf, and there were times when he felt as if he was being manoeuvred into a situation from which it would be impossible for him to withdraw. But after his father's death, and the subsequent gossip which had evolved about him and Elizabeth continuing to live at Amaryllis alone together, he had allowed himself to be swayed into announcing a relationship between himself and Laura which until his father's death had been no more than a casual association. Now, almost two years after the event, he was beginning to feel the bands perceptibly tightening. Laura, he knew, wanted to get married, and Elizabeth seemed equally enthusiastic.

With a silent oath, he turned back to the stairs. ‘Just leave it all to me, Liz,’ he directed, mounting the staircase with easy strides.

When he came downstairs again, Elizabeth was waiting for him in the library, a high-ceilinged room, with book-lined walls and slatted blinds to filter the brilliant sunlight. In cream denim pants, that moulded the contours of his thighs and flared only slightly down the long powerful legs, a cream silk shirt unbuttoned almost to his waist, and drops of water from the shower he had taken still glinting in the darkness of his hair, he looked lean and attractive, and unmistakably male. She came towards him smilingly, holding out a glass of his favourite mixture of rum and Coke, liberally chilled with ice, and he inclined his head in acknowledgement.

‘Lunch will be ready in five minutes,’ she said, cradling her glass of Martini between her fingers. ‘That should give you plenty of time to drive to the airport. What time did you say the flight was due in?'

Jared lowered his glass. ‘Two-thirty. Barring accidents.'

‘Oh, Jared! You shouldn't say things like that.'

‘Why not?’ He shrugged. ‘All right—God willing, then.'

Elizabeth's lips twitched. ‘What God would that be, darling?'

Jared made no reply and moved to stand with his back to the room, staring moodily through the slats in the blind. He was in no mood for idle chatter, and was already bored by the prospect of the wasted afternoon ahead of him.

‘Are you sure you wouldn't like me to arrange a dinner party for this evening, Jared?’ Elizabeth was speaking again. ‘Don't you think it would—well, ease things a little? Laura and her parents would be pleased to come, I know, and Judge Ferris—'

‘No!’ Jared's harsh denial brought a flush of colour to her cheeks. ‘I've told you. There are to be no special parties laid on for Catherine Fulton's benefit.'

‘But, Jared, does that mean we've to stop entertaining for the duration of her stay?'

‘Of course not.’ Jared swung round and swallowed the remainder of the liquid in his glass. ‘Just don't overdo it, that's all.’ He moved to the drinks trolley and dropped his glass carelessly on to the tray. ‘Now—shall we go in to lunch?'

Later that afternoon, driving down the tree-lined road towards the airport, Jared pondered the antagonism he felt towards his dear friend's daughter. Perhaps it was the remembrance that even at fourteen she had had all the instincts of a feline animal, and that now, six years later, she was still attempting to thwart his will with her own. Her choice of the word ‘vegetating’ to describe the life here in Barbados irritated him immensely, particularly as although he had visited England several times, he had never found London especially appealing. It was too noisy, too dirty, the air was too polluted with petrol and diesel fumes. Obviously, it was the company there she preferred, and Jack expected him to play the heavy father now.

He turned the car radio up as if to drown the unpleasantness of that prospect. An American group were playing their latest hit record, a throbbing beat sound that thundered in his ears like the pounding of the surf, and suddenly he relaxed. What was six months after all? One hundred and eighty days. And he could still paint—and swim—and surf! It would soon pass.

An aircraft was droning overhead and he glanced up, wondering whether the flight from Heathrow would land on time. A long and boring journey, he had always found it, usually passing the time by sketching any interesting profile which captured his attention. But sometimes it became embarrassing if he was observed and he had to explain who he was. Publicity, above all things, he abhorred.

Parking the convertible, he vaulted out of his seat, and strolled towards the airport buildings. At this time of the year the airport was invariably busy, with tourists arriving and departing, and the tannoy system working overtime. Somewhere a steel band was playing, its rhythm stirring his blood, and a faintly derisive smile touched the corners of his mouth as he walked slowly into the reception area.

He was not unaware of the several pairs of female eyes which followed his progress. He was not a conceited man, but he had not reached the age of thirty-four without realising his own potential, and for a time he had taken advantage of it. But in recent years he had grown bored with the reputation he had created for himself, and since his engagement to Laura, had avoided any sexual entanglements.

One particular pair of eyes were more persistent than the rest, and he turned to confront their owner with mild impatience. He saw a tall girl with long straight hair streaked in shades of honey and ash blonde. She was slim, but not excessively so, and the tantalising swell of her pointed breasts was visible above the unbuttoned neckline of the striped cotton dress she was wearing. The dress looked like a maternity garment, loose and swinging, its white background striped in shades of violet and purple, the latter exactly matching the colour of her eyes. Her lips parted, as he looked at her, to reveal even white teeth, and there was something familiar about the amusement in her expression. And then he realised why.

Walking towards her, he could feel his whole body stiffening. ‘You're—Miss Fulton, aren't you?'

She nodded and smiled, and he wondered how he could have been in any doubt. Six years ago she had been shorter and plumper, the thick hair confined in two bunches, but even then her features had given an indication of what was to come. Now she was quite beautiful, an enchanting picture of burgeoning womanhood. And what else? His eyes probed the length of her slender body, and then returned to her face as she spoke.

‘Catherine,’ she said easily. ‘My name's Catherine. Only you can call me Cat. All my friends do.'

It was seldom that Jared found himself at a loss for words, but this was one of those occasions. Her attitude was so completely unexpected. He had been prepared for anger, and resentment, indifference even. But not this casual amiability.

‘I—your plane was early?’ he suggested, glancing round for her luggage, and she nodded again.

‘I didn't know what to do, and as you had said you would meet me…'

‘Oh, right. Right.’ Jared was annoyed at the irritation he felt. ‘I'm—sorry I was late.'

‘Are you?’ Her eyes challenged his, but before he could make some suitable retort, she went on: ‘Oh, well, I've only been waiting about five minutes.’ She indicated the two suitcases standing behind her. ‘These are mine. They're all I've brought. I left the rest of my belongings in the flat. I didn't think there was much point in giving it up, not just for six months.'

Jared regarded her sourly. ‘You're very sure you're going back there in six months,’ he remarked, and then wondered why he had done so. He didn't want the girl here at all.

‘Yes,’ she answered now, swinging the strap of a cream leather bag over her shoulder. ‘It's my home, after all.'

Jared summoned a porter to take the suitcases, aware of her watching him as he did so. He wondered what she was thinking and was disconcerted when she said: ‘It was kind of you to invite me here, but it wasn't necessary. Daddy was always far too protective. I can look after myself.'

‘Can you?’ Jared's tone was dry. ‘Well, I'm sorry, but I felt unable to carry out your father's wishes at several thousand miles’ distance.'

‘I'm surprised you wanted to,’ she murmured, preceding him out into the brilliant sunshine, and again forestalled his retort by adding: ‘Gosh, isn't it hot! It was raining when we left London.'

The convertible waited in the shade, and Jared had the porter stow her cases in the back, handed him a generous tip, and then swung open the passenger side door for Catherine to get in. He could not help but appreciate the long slender limbs exhibited as she drew her legs into the vehicle, and the perfume she was wearing rose up from the hollow between her breasts. Slamming the door, he walked round and levered himself in beside her, reaching for a cheroot before starting the engine.

‘Is it far to your house, Jared?’ she inquired, as he inhaled the aromatic fumes deep into his lungs, and he was not pleased by her casual use of his name. When her father had introduced them six years ago, he had been Mr Royal, and somehow he had expected that.

‘About twenty miles,’ he replied shortly, his tone indicative of his mood.

For a few moments there was silence, broken only by the whine of a jet engine overhead, and the sound of laughter across the parking area. Then she said with quiet deliberation: ‘Why did you bring me out here, Jared? It's obvious you don't really want me.'

Jared took the cheroot out of his mouth before his teeth crushed it flat. ‘Have I given you that impression?'

She looked amused, and that annoyed him even more. ‘You know you have,’ she said. ‘You've never even said hello, let alone asked me what kind of a journey I had! What's wrong? Haven't you forgiven me for embarrassing you all those years ago?'

‘You didn't embarrass me, Miss Fulton.'

‘Cat! And yes, I did. I'm sorry. But you were the first man I ever really fell for. I know I was a precocious little beast, but I have grown up a lot since then.'

‘It's really not important.'

‘So why are you so uptight?'

‘I'm not—uptight. Whatever that means!'

‘You must know. Barbados can't be that out of touch.'

‘I don't consider it out of touch at all.'

She gave him a sidelong glance. ‘You think I do.'

‘Vegetating—isn't that what you said?'

She laughed. ‘Oh, no! That got back to you.’ She shook her head. ‘That was Tony. He said that, not me.'

‘Tony?’ he queried.

‘Mmm. Tony Bainbridge. A—friend.'

‘Boy-friend?'

‘Well, as he is male…’ She looked amused and Jared ground out the remains of his cheroot in the ashtray.

‘The reason why you didn't want to come out here, one presumes,’ he commented coldly, and she sighed.

‘You do sound pompous,’ she said ruefully. ‘I didn't think you would be—being an artist and all.'

‘I am not an artist!’ he retorted grimly. ‘I'm a painter. Don't confuse me with your genuine be-smocked eccentric!'

‘I wouldn't do that,’ she assured him, and he leant forward to start the ignition with a vicious flick of his wrist. She had succeeded in putting hm on the defensive and he didn't like it.

They covered several miles without conversation. She seemed content to stare out of the side of the car at the neat hedges they were passing, at the smooth winding road which might have been in England had it not been for the little wobbling donkey carts with their loads of bananas and grapefruit, mangoes and avocados, the dark skins of the people, and cane in the fields instead of corn. Occasionally a white-painted windmill appeared, its sails turning in the breeze which fanned their faces and tangled Catherine's hair. Here and there were cottage gardens bright with flowers of every kind—lilies and begonias, fuchsias, rose mallows, red hibiscus or the exotic petals of the moonflower. It was an exciting and colourful scene, and as the road meandered towards the coast, they came within sight and sound of the Atlantic breakers rolling in to plunging headlands and wild and lovely beaches. The further north they drove, the more spectacular the scenery became and eventually Catherine had to comment upon it.

‘It reminds me of Brittany,’ she said, leaning forward in her seat to get a better view. ‘I had a holiday there when I was about seventeen. Have you ever been to France, Jared?'

He shook his head. ‘No.'

She studied his unsmiling profile. ‘This—visit isn't going to be much fun if you persist in treating me like some kind of pariah. Look, can't we at least be civil with one another? I know my father would have wanted it that way.'

At the mention of her father, Jared felt a twinge of remorse. Glancing sideways at her, he saw how her eyes had darkened with remembered grief, and he felt a moment's sympathy.

‘I liked your father,’ he said quietly. ‘He was a fine man. I met him in my final year at Oxford. Your mother was alive in those days.'

‘Oh, Mummy. Yes.’ Catherine sank back in her seat. ‘I seem to have been singularly unlucky with my parents. Mummy dying in that car accident, and now Daddy…'

Her voice trailed away, and Jared's fingers tightened on the wheel. ‘Then it's just as well you can take care of yourself, isn't it?'

His words, not entirely intended to sound ironic, came out that way, and for once she was stung by them. ‘That's exactly the kind of remark you would make, isn't it?’ she demanded. ‘Just because you once got a great deal of satisfaction out of putting me down, you can't resist repeating the experiment, can you?'

‘My dear girl—'

‘I'm not your dear girl! Oh, how I wish Daddy had never written that letter. I don't know what possessed him to do so. I don't need your guardianship. I was quite happy in London—having a good time—'

‘With Tony!’ he inserted dryly, and she gave him an angry stare.

‘Yes, with Tony. Why not with Tony—or with anyone else, for that matter?'

Jared's expression was contemptuous after this outburst. ‘I'm beginning to understand why your father was so concerned about you,’ he drawled.

‘Oh, are you?’ Her eyes challenged his, dark lashes giving them a sooty outline. She examined his face with frank appraisal, and then she said: ‘You've got cat's eyes, do you know that? You should have been called Kit, or Christian, so they could have abbreviated your name. With your looks you could easily have been a pirate. What a pity your character doesn't match your appearance!'

‘I was not aware you were talking about me. It's obvious. Your father was afraid some man would—would—'

‘—put me in the family way? Make me marry him so that he could get his hands on my fortune and I could save my good name? How old-fashioned, Mr Royal,’ she taunted. ‘Haven't you heard of the pill? And besides, you don't imagine being pregnant would force me to marry anyone, do you?'

Jared's jaw clenched. ‘Easy to say, Miss Fulton, when the need doesn't arise!'

Her hands balled together in her lap. ‘How do you know?’ she demanded scathingly. ‘What makes you so sure I'm not pregnant at this moment?'

Jared dragged his eyes away from the road to stare at her, disbelief vying with the recollection of his first sight of her in that loose, flowing garment at the airport. His eyes narrowed, tawny slits between lashes thicker, but not as long, as her own. ‘And are you?’ he inquired coldly.

Catherine pressed her lips together, deepening colour darkening the soft velvety skin of her cheeks. ‘I—yes,’ she answered. ‘Yes, I am. What are you going to do about it?'

CHAPTER TWO

Now why had she said that?

Catherine could hardly believe she had allowed the words to pass her lips. What possible satisfaction could she hope to gain from such an announcement? How silly to allow him to get under her skin to that extent! It wasn't true. And how angry Tony would be if he ever found out.

And yet she couldn't help but smile at Jared's grim profile as he endeavoured to concentrate his attention on the traffic in the face of her outrageous statement. A small sigh escaped her as she considered how much she had wanted to see him again. Ever since he had come to the Open Day at her boarding school with her father, his image had lingered in her mind, accompanied by that tantalising memory of his reactions to her amateurish attempt to attract his attention.

All the girls had been envious of her attractive visitor. He had worn a denim suit, she remembered, and the closer-fitting styles of those days had accentuated the narrowness of his hips. In any event, she had been pleased to be taking part in the tennis tournament, which meant she had been able to wear a hip-length tennis dress which drew attention to the already curving length of her legs. When her match was over, she had joined her father and his friend for tea, and in the busy marquee it had not been difficult to find an occasion to press herself close to Jared Royal's lean, hard body. That he had swiftly detached himself from her with a few well-chosen words of rebuke had not been able to dispose of the fact that for a brief instant his body had responded to hers. She had not seen him again, but when she learned of her father's letter, she had not been entirely opposed to coming out here and meeting him again. She had thought he might well have forgotten that incident which she remembered so vividly, but it seemed he had not. And what was more, he was judging her present behaviour on one single reckless act. She squared her shoulders. Well, now he had something to justify his opinion of her.

She was so absorbed with her thoughts that she hardly noticed when they turned between griffin-mounted stone gateposts, but the tall palms lining the white-gravelled driveway brought her to the realisation that they were approaching the Royal house. She glanced frustratedly at Jared. Was he not going to say anything, then? Was he so uninterested in her affairs that even the announcement that she was expecting a baby had no reaction on him?

She hunched her shoulders. But what of the rest of his family? What was she going to tell them? She knew he had a stepmother. She could just imagine her reactions to learning her guest's condition. She should never have said what she did. But it was too late now. And besides, she wanted him to believe it. It would give her the greatest pleasure to explode his myth of self-confidence at the end of her stay. And it would also be interesting to see whether he was really as hostile to her as he would have her believe.

But she had to say something, and despising the faint tremor in her voice, she said: ‘Is this your home?'

‘Yes.’ There was a certain amount of pride in his voice now. ‘Amaryllis.'

‘Amaryllis.'

Catherine said the word experimentally. It rolled off her tongue, attractively different from the names of houses back home in England. The drive curved between banks of rhododendrons, and then she saw it. Amaryllis. A wide colonial house, with white-painted shutters, and a long balcony to the first floor, running the width of the house. On the lower floor, rattan chairs were set in the shade between wooden pillars overhung with morning glory and clematis.

‘Oh…’ She could not deny the words which tumbled from her lips. ‘It's beautiful! So clean—and picturesque. It's like everyone's dream of what a plantation house should be.’ She turned to him eagerly, almost forgetting what was between them. ‘I expect you love it.'

Jared looked her way, and she was chilled by the coldness of his eyes. Amber should be warm, burnished, not pale and icily penetrating. ‘It's my home,’ he said expressionlessly.

‘But not mine,’ she burst out fiercely. ‘Is that what you're really saying?'

He shrugged, returning his attention to swinging the convertible round in an arc, bringing it to a halt beside doors which stood wide to the afternoon air. ‘I invited you to Amaryllis, Miss Fulton. I haven't forgotten that.'

The car had scarcely stopped before a woman appeared in the open doorway. Catherine, thrusting open her door and getting out of the car without waiting for his assistance, wondered if this could be Jared's stepmother. But as the woman moved further out of the shadows, she saw that she was dark-skinned, and wearing a cotton smock patterned all over with yellow sunflowers on a green background. Her hair was turning grey in places, but was still as thick as ever, and there were laughter creases beside her mouth and eyes. Catherine thought she was going to like her, and judging by the way she was being summed up, the other woman would not forget her face in a hurry.

Jared hefted Catherine's cases out of the car and then turned to the woman with a smile which left Catherine wishing he had used his charm on her. ‘Lily, this is Miss Fulton who's coming to stay with us for a while. Will you have Henry take her luggage up to her room?'

‘Yes, Mr Royal.’ Lily's dark eyes shifted to the girl. ‘Welcome to Barbados, Miz Fulton.'

‘Thank you, Lily.’ Catherine cast a slightly ironic glance in Jared's direction. It had taken a servant to say the words he should have used. ‘I'm sure I'm going to love it here.’ This last, just to show him that he could not intimidate her.

‘Where is my stepmother, Lily?'

Not by the flicker of an eyelid did Jared reveal any reaction to his guest's apparent enthusiasm, and Lily led the way into the cool, white-panelled hall of the building, indicating an archway to their right.

‘She's in the parlour, Mr Royal. She said to serve tea directly you get back from the airport. Shall I do it now?'

Jared hesitated, while Catherine admired the single crystal chandelier suspended overhead. Then he nodded, adding; ‘But bring me a beer, will you, Lily? I need a drink.'

It was his only concession to the tension between them, but Catherine felt unreasonably triumphant as she accompanied him along a cool corridor and into a high-ceilinged sitting room. Her first impressions were of veined marble tiles which reflected the turquoise silk curtains moving gently at the open windows, and deep coral-coloured sofas, bright with cushions in shades of blue, green and turquoise. A woman was reclining on one of the sofas, but at their entrance, she swung her legs to the floor and got to her feet. She was small and slender, elegant in an ankle-length hostess gown made of some chiffon-like material, its burnished autumn shades toning with the reddish lights in her hair. Was this Jared's stepmother? Catherine guessed it was, but she must surely have been years younger than his father.

Jared performed the introductions, calling his stepmother Mrs Royal, and Catherine Miss Fulton. The older woman was weighing her up very thoroughly, and Catherine wondered at that slightly speculative look in her eyes. Then she said, with more warmth than her stepson had shown:

‘I think we can dispose of the formalities, don't you, Catherine? That is your name, isn't it? And mine is Elizabeth.'

Catherine couldn't resist darting a glance at Jared's face to see how he was taking this, but he had turned away, ostensibly glancing through several letters laid on a silver salver set on a lacquered cabinet.

‘Oh, please do,’ she answered now, her nerves tightening a little when she contemplated what this woman's reaction might be if Jared turned round and told her their guest was apparently pregnant. But no, he wouldn't do that. If he did choose to tell his stepmother, it would be at some time when she was not present, when the revelation would not embarrass him.

‘Did you have a good journey?'

Elizabeth seated herself on the sofa again and patted the seat beside her, indicating that Catherine should join her. Catherine went to do so, the heat beginning to cause her some discomfort as little trickles of sweat ran down her breasts on to her flat stomach.

‘I don't really like flying,’ she confessed, aware as she did so that Elizabeth wasn't really paying her a lot of attention. She continually glanced over her shoulder at Jared, and although he continued to ignore them both, Catherine felt the undercurrents in the air. ‘Do you?’ she finished, and Elizabeth was forced to reply.

‘I—why, I don't mind.’ She glanced round at Jared again. ‘Darling, did you order tea? I told Lily—'

Jared half turned and looked up. ‘Yes.’ His gaze flicked to Catherine. ‘Perhaps—perhaps our guest might prefer to take tea in her room.'

Catherine put her shoulder bag firmly down on the floor at her feet. ‘I'm fine,’ she said, aware of his antipathy. ‘I'm in no hurry to—wash my hands.’ She paused, looking about her. ‘What a beautiful house this is.'

‘Do you like it?’ Elizabeth successfully hid any feelings she had regarding her stepson's behaviour. ‘It was built almost a hundred years ago.'

‘I adore old houses.’ Catherine smiled. ‘I live in a very functional flat, and—and when Daddy was alive, I was always trying to persuade him to buy a house.'

‘Well, in six months you'll be able to buy one for yourself,’ remarked Jared offensively, but she chose to ignore him.

‘Have you lived here long, Mrs—er—Elizabeth?'

‘Twelve years.’ Was there the faintest hesitation before her reply? ‘I married Jared's father twelve years ago. Unfortunately, two years ago he died.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘Yes.’ Elizabeth looked suitably nostalgic for a moment. Then she shook her head. ‘Of course, he was a lot older than I am.'

‘Of course.'

Catherine caught the inner side of her lower lip between her teeth. There was something about Elizabeth Royal which she didn't altogether like. She didn't know what it was exactly. The woman had been perfectly civil to her. But somehow she felt she preferred Jared's open antagonism to his stepmother's restrained politeness. She was relieved when the squeal of trolley wheels heralded the arrival of tea, but she couldn't suppress the depressing realisation of how long six months could seem.

The tea service was Crown Derby, and between bite-sized sandwiches and several cups of the strong, heavily sweetened beverage she seemed to prefer, Elizabeth kept up a steady inquisition: Did Catherine live in London? Had she always done so? Did she have her own flat? Had she many boy-friends?

This latter question was delivered with a coy glance at Jared, who was standing with his back to the open french windows, feet slightly apart, drinking beer from the can despite his stepmother's protests. Catherine was tempted to make some outrageous reply, but a glimpse of his brooding malevolence changed her mind.

‘I have—boy-friends,’ she conceded slowly. ‘I have girl friends, too.'

‘But isn't there someone, some particular boy…'

Elizabeth's voice trailed away and she sat regarding her expectantly. Catherine guessed to what she was referring. When news of her father's letter had first reached her, she had made Tony an excuse for wanting to remain in London. And indeed, he had not wanted her to come to Barbados.

Choosing her words carefully, she replied: ‘There is one—young man I'm rather friendly with.’ She ventured another glance at Jared, but his eyes were fixed on some point above her head. ‘His name's Tony Bainbridge. We've known one another for a couple of years.'

‘Ah.’ Elizabeth seemed relieved, and Catherine wondered about this. Was she worried in case their house-guest began taking too close an interest in her stepson? He was a most attractive—and eligible—man, after all, heir to this estate, however large or small it might be, and a successful portrait painter into the bargain. No doubt all the matrons on the island, with unmarried daughters on their hands, beat a path to his door in an effort to cultivate his attentions, so what was one unmarried female more or less? Certainly nothing for Elizabeth to concern herself about, unless she had some other motive for hoping he remained single…

At this point Catherine brought herself up short. She had absolutely no grounds for considering any such thing. Whatever his faults, she suspected that Jared Royal was an honourable man, and having an affair with his dead father's widow was hardly an honourable thing to do.

‘We must introduce you to Jared's fiancée,’ Elizabeth remarked, as if to confound Catherine's speculations, and nullify the intimacy of the look she exchanged with her stepson. ‘She's just a little older than you are, but I'm sure you'd find her good company. You could go swimming together, there's a pool out back, or the beach, and we have tennis courts—'

‘Perhaps you should let Miss Fulton get used to her new surroundings first,’ Jared interposed smoothly, and Catherine realised with a pang that he was actually making things easier for her; or so he thought! A pregnant woman might go easy on the swimming, and avoid tennis altogether.

‘Well, I love swimming,’ she murmured now, setting her empty teacup on its saucer and waving away Elizabeth's offer of more. ‘But I think perhaps Jared's right. I should settle in first.’ She looked sideways at him. ‘I'm looking forward to meeting your fiancée, though.'

And so she was. She was curious to meet the girl who had succeeded in netting such an unpredictable catch!

Elizabeth appeared to accept this. ‘As you wish. Laura—that's Jared's fiancée, by the way—Laura is coming to lunch tomorrow, so you'll meet her then. This evening there'll just be the three of us. Jared thought you might be—tired after your journey.'

Catherine wondered exactly what Jared had thought. What were his motives for bringing her out here? Had it only been a feeling of obligation to her late father which had prompted him to offer her the hospitality of his home? Or might he, like his stepmother, have other reasons?

Stifling a yawn, she realised she was tired. She had been up very early that morning, and the long flight had been singularly boring. The plane had not been full, and the seat beside hers had remained empty, but although she had been superbly comfortable, able to spread her belongings around without fear of disturbing anyone else, she had found it impossible to rest. The magazines offered by the stewardesses had failed to distract her thoughts from the anticipation of her arrival, and she had been impatient to reach her destination. But now she was here, she knew what she was up against, and within half an hour of her arrival she had placed herself in an entirely false position.

Elizabeth had apparently noticed her efforts to hide her weariness, for she gave a sympathetic smile before getting to her feet and ringing a bell on the wall by the door. A young maid appeared, and her mistress gave her instructions to show Miss Fulton to her room.

‘I'm sure you'll find everything you need, Catherine,’ she said, as her guest stood up and walked towards the door. ‘If not, Susie'—she indicated the maid—‘will attend to it. We have dinner at about eight o'clock. I should rest for a while, if I were you.'

‘Thank you.’ Catherine turned to look at both of them. Well, now Jared would have an opportunity of apprising his stepmother of the situation, or at least, what he thought was the situation. She half wished she had not been so impulsive. ‘I—thank you for inviting me here,’ she added. ‘I'm sure I'm going to—enjoy myself.'

Jared half turned to stare out of the window, and Catherine felt her hackles rise. He was so arrogant! Why should she regret anything she had said to him? It was left to his stepmother to assure her that she was very welcome, and then Susie led the way back to the hall.

A marble staircase led to a first floor gallery which circled the hall below. White panelled doors opened on to the gallery, but Susie turned left at the top of the stairs into a long panelled hallway giving access to that wing of the building. She flung open a heavy door halfway along the hall, and indicated that Catherine should precede her into the room.

She stepped into an apartment fragrant with the perfume from a bowl of roses set on the bedside table. White damask-covered walls were relieved by the long rose-coloured curtains at the open balcony doors, and echoed in the silken bedspread strewn with red roses on a white background. The cedarwood furniture was light and functional, adding its own distinctive aroma to the already heady scent of the room.

Susie crossed the fluffy white rugs which were strewn over the wood-blocked floor to open the adjoining bathroom door, but Catherine had already stepped on to the balcony, catching her breath at the view which confronted her. There in the distance was the sea, hazed in green and blue, shimmering through the heat of late afternoon. Between the house and the ocean stretched acres of pasture-land, grazed by groups of horses, their coats dark splashes against the greenness of the grass. Immediately below her windows were the gardens of the house. Formal lawns and flower beds, tennis courts half hidden behind hedges of laurel and rhododendron, and opening from the house itself, a mosaic-tiled patio area, bright with garden furniture, and reflected in the depths of an enormous kidney-shaped swimming pool. Its blue waters looked cool and inviting, and had Catherine not felt so utterly weary, she might well have taken advantage of that particular amenity before dinner.

‘Can I get you anything else, Miss Fulton?'

Susie was hovering right behind her, and Catherine came back into the bedroom, looking about her with smiling appreciation.

‘I don't think so, thank you. It's beautiful.'

The maid smiled her satisfaction at these words and gave a little bob. Then she noticed the cases set on an ottoman at the foot of the bed. ‘Would you like me to unpack for you?’ she suggested, but Catherine shook her head, assuring her that she could manage. ‘Well, the bell's just there, by the door,’ Susie added, her voice soft and slightly sing-song. ‘If you do need any help, just ring.'

When she was alone, Catherine breathed a sigh of relief and leaned back against the door to survey her domain. It was all far more luxurious than she had expected. Her father had talked very little about Jared's background, confining his remarks to the man's undoubted artistic ability, and the fight he had had with his father to leave Oxford and attend an art college. Her father had been lecturing at that time, before he gave it up to concentrate his energies towards a political career. But now she was left in no doubt as to her host's affluence, and she wondered if this was the main reason why her father had chosen such a guardian for her. Perhaps it was yet another attempt to persuade her of the foolishness of her own intentions.

The bathroom which adjoined the bedroom had porcelain tiles, patterned with the continuing rose design. Long mirrors gave back her reflection from a dozen different angles, and cut glass shelves supported a variety of oils and lotions intended to add their fragrance to the water.

Catherine decided to have a bath, shedding her clothes carelessly, too tired to fold them, or unpack her cases right now. Cool water melted the heat from her body and left her feeling infinitely refreshed. Wrapping herself in a white towelling bathrobe which she found hanging behind the bathroom door, she came back into the bedroom and stretched her length on the superbly comfortable springs of the bed, uncaring that her hair was damp and strewn carelessly across the pillows, or that her bare feet made little wet patches on the immaculate bedspread.

CHAPTER THREE

SHE awoke to the sound of birds arguing in the trees that cast pools of shade around the patio area. At first it was difficult to feel any sense of identity with her surroundings, but then it all came flooding back to her—her father's death six weeks ago, the summons and subsequent flight to Barbados, and the strange welcome which had been awaiting her.

She blinked, realising she was no longer lying on the bed, but in it, silk sheets caressing her bare legs. Her hands groped for the bathrobe. She was still wearing it, but the cord had become unloosened and the lapels had parted.

That daylight was coming through the slats of the blinds which had been drawn confused her, and she reached automatically for her watch which she always left on a table beside her bed. As she did so, something registered. There had been roses beside the bed before she went to sleep. Now they were gone.

The hands of her watch mocked her. Six-fifteen! Had she slept for barely an hour? It was impossible. She felt completely rested. Unless…

She pushed back the covers and swung her feet to the floor, finding the rug soft to her toes. The balcony doors had been closed by whoever had drawn the blinds and taken away the roses, but a window had been left ajar. Catherine unfastened the doors now and thrust them open, wrapping her robe closer about her as she stepped outside.

Her suspicions had been correct. Even without the golden orb of the sun spreading its brilliance over a sky translucently washed in pinks and lemon and turquoise, the coolness of the air compared to the softness of the evening before would have convinced her. A faint mist still hovered low over the meadow, and the scent of the ocean came strongly before the awakening blossoms in the garden overlaid the air with their perfume. There was no sound to be heard in the house, and she felt assured that no one would observe her standing here at this early hour. The balcony, which was a continuation of the one which ran across the front of the house, was separated from the rooms on either side by a vine-hung trellis, but that would prove no screen to prying eyes.

Fastening the cord of the bathrobe more tightly, she stretched her arms luxuriously above her head. She must have slept for twelve hours, and now she felt thoroughly wide awake and restless. The pool looked as inviting now as it had done the evening before, but somehow she was loath to use it and possibly arouse the other members of the household. The ocean beckoned, and she wondered whether it was possible to reach it across the paddocks. Even from this distance, she could see the line of foam where it surged over the reef, and her skin tingled at the prospect of plunging into its depths.

Turning back into the bedroom, she opened her suitcases and stared thoughtfully at their contents. The clothes she had discarded so untidily the night before had disappeared, and she guessed that whoever had drawn the covers over her and attended to the shutters, had taken them away for laundering. It was a curious sensation thinking she had been so soundly asleep that not even a servant's hands had awakened her.

She rummaged through the contents of one of the cases and brought out a pair of purple denim jeans and a spotted cotton smock with wide, elbow-length sleeves and a tie belt. The strap of a white bikini emerged from the disorder, and on impulse, she pulled the bikini out as well.

In her bathroom, she took a quick shower, taking care not to wet her hair, and then dressed, first in the bikini, and then in the jeans and smock. A brush brought a silky sheen to her thick straight hair, and she looped it back behind her ears but otherwise left it loose.

Her room door made no sound as she opened it, and she made her way along the hall and across the gallery to the stairs. Marble did not creak under her sandal-clad feet, but when she reached the hall the heavy doors were securely closed. Frowning, she turned through the archway leading to the room where she had taken tea with Elizabeth Royal, and finding that door went inside. French doors were easier to unfasten, and with impatient fingers she slid back the bolts and stepped outside.

She was at the side of the building where green leaves gave on to a trellised rose arbour, but she followed the line of the house around to the back and came upon the patio. The air was like wine, slightly sharp and invigorating, and she moved her shoulders in a gesture of complete indulgence of the senses.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a tall figure, moving beyond the bushes near the tennis courts. It was Jared, and hardly stopping to consider what she intended to do, Catherine ran around the swimming pool, pushed her way between laurel bushes and emerged on to a crazily-paved path. Jared was some way ahead now, astride a motor-cycle, she saw in surprise, but obviously waiting until he was out of sound of the house before starting the engine.

‘Hey!’ she called, running down the path after him. ‘Jared! Wait!'

Her voice came clearly on the still morning air, and he halted at once and swung round to stare at her. Not very amicably, she saw, as she came closer. Like her, he was wearing jeans, but nothing else, his skin smooth, and only lightly covered with hair.

‘Hello,’ she said determinedly. ‘Where are you going?'

Jared swung his leg over the motor-bike, stood it on its rest, and faced her squarely. ‘I might ask you the same question.'

Catherine refused to be put off. ‘I'm sorry I didn't make dinner last evening. I must have been more tired than I thought. But it was such a beautiful morning, I couldn't bear to stay in my room a moment longer.'

Jared acknowledged this small speech with a faint inclination of his head. ‘You must be hungry,' he said. ‘Lily's probably about by this time. If you go into the parlour and ring the bell, she'll get you anything you want.'

Catherine pursed her lips. ‘I'm not hungry! At least, not especially so. I don't feel like eating at this moment. I feel like swimming!'

Jared shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘Feel free to use the pool any time you like.'

Catherine controlled her temper with difficulty. ‘But I don't want to use the pool either,’ she said, through her teeth. ‘I want to swim in the sea. It's warm, isn't it? I've never swum in the Caribbean before.'

Jared cast a lazy glance towards the ocean. ‘That's the Atlantic, actually,’ he drawled, and she glowered at him.

‘You know what I mean!'

Jared regarded her without emotion. ‘Ought you to—well, swim at all in your—condition?'

Catherine expelled her breath on a sigh. ‘Of course. Lots of women swim until they're seven or eight months. And—and I'm still measuring my pregnancy in weeks, not months!'

Jared's expression darkened. ‘Then I suggest you have Sylvester—he's the chauffeur—take you down to the beach later on this morning.'

Catherine looked up at him frustratedly. ‘You still haven't told me where you're going.'

‘No, I haven't.'

‘I want to come, too.'

‘What?’ For once she seemed to have succeeded in getting under his skin. ‘Miss Fulton, I don't know what kind of society you've been mixing in in England, but out here a girl waits to be invited before encumbering some man with her company!'

‘Really?’ Catherine managed to sound bored. ‘Well, you invited me out to Barbados, Mr Royal, and I think it's up to you to entertain me! Hmm?'

Jared looked furious, and just in case he suddenly decided to fling himself on to the motor-bike and ride off, Catherine swung her leg across the machine and perched herself precariously on the back.

‘Get off that bike!’ Jared glared at her, but she just put on her sweetest smile. ‘You're not about to tell me that pregnant women do that until they're seven or eight months!'

‘No,’ Catherine conceded, flicking a butterfly with exotic crimson and black colouring away from her face, ‘but it won't do me any harm—providing you take it easy.'

Jared moved his head slowly from side to side. ‘Do you want me to drag you off?'

‘Oh, would you do that?’ she exclaimed disbelievingly. ‘To an expectant mother?'

Jared looked angrier than ever, but he made no attempt to shift her, and Catherine realised she was enjoying this. It was stimulating and exciting, provoking him like this, but perhaps not entirely fair. Feeling a need to justify herself, she said appealingly:

‘Please, Jared! Don't be mean. Let me come with you.'

‘You can't.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because I'm going to the beach—'

‘I knew you were!’ she exclaimed triumphantly.

‘—across the fields!'

Catherine frowned. ‘I don't understand.'

‘Look, it's five miles round by road. It's less than half that distance across the paddock.'

‘I see.’ Catherine drew her lower lip between her teeth. The idea of riding across the bumpy turf on the motor-bike sounded like fun, but it was something she could not undertake without exploding the myth of her phoney pregnancy.

‘So—will you get off the bike?'

Jared looked grim, but she wouldn't give in that easily. ‘Couldn't we—couldn't you take the road for once?’ she suggested hopefully.

‘No, I—’ Jared broke off to regard her dourly for a moment. Then he gave a heavy sigh. ‘All right, Miss Fulton, you win. I'll take you to the beach—but in the convertible.'

‘Oh, no!’ Catherine had been looking forward to riding on a motor-bike again. She had had one once, when she was sixteen.

‘Oh, yes. Come on.’ He was impatient now, holding out a hand to assist her to dismount, which she took with ill grace. ‘Don't be surprised if you haven't woken up the whole household.'

But she hadn't, and when they drove away from the garages, only old Sylvester saw them leave. It was marvellous, feeling the cool air in their faces, and Catherine found she was actually looking forward to this hour alone with her reluctant escort.

Jared parked the car on a headland overlooking a wild and beautiful stretch of beach, the sand bleached white by the sun, where the surf came thundering in from the reef. But when she would have got out of the car, he stopped her, saying: ‘You can't swim here. This is Flintlock. I come surfing here.'

‘Is this where you were heading this morning?'

He nodded, and would have started the engine again, only she stopped him, her slim fingers curving round his wrist. ‘Don't,’ she said, withdrawing her hand when he turned to look at her. ‘I've done some surfing. Not a lot, but some—in Cornwall. That's the southernmost corner of England.'

‘I know where Cornwall is,’ he said dryly.

‘Oh! Oh, well, then. Why can't we try it now? I'm willing.'

Jared's eyes dropped pointedly to her stomach. ‘Are you?'

‘Yes, of course.’ She sighed, colouring in spite of herself. ‘I've told you, it's months and months away. I don't intend doing anything reckless. But I don't want to spoil your—your pleasure.'

‘Haven't you done that already?’ he countered, and she glared at him.

‘Well? Have I?'

His eyes probed hers for a long disturbing moment, and then he thrust open his door and climbed out. ‘I'll let you know,’ he replied enigmatically.

There were steps down to the beach, and Jared went ahead, glancing round from time to time to assure himself that she was all right. Catherine couldn't help feeling touched by this involuntary display of concern on her behalf, although she guessed he would have done the same for anybody.

Halfway down, they came in sight of a low beach house, set in the lee of the cliffs and not visible from above. It stood on supports, a couple of feet above the sand, and as they came down the last of the steps Jared said: ‘This is mine. I work here sometimes. And it's useful as a retreat!’ this last with a meaning glance in her direction.

Catherine tossed back her hair, and walked across the sand, kicking off her sandals and carrying them. She climbed the shallow steps to the shaded verandah and looked in through the sand-dusted windows.

Jared seemed to hesitate, and then he said: ‘The door isn't locked. You can go in, if you want to.'

Catherine looked round at him, could read no hidden menace in his expression, and turned the handle of the door. Inside, there was a faint smell of oil paints and canvas, and looking round the room she could see why. There was a stove in one corner, for heating on cooler days, she presumed, a couple of squashy leather chairs which were worn in places, a low table, cupboards for storing things, and a cooker, sink and refrigerator. But in every available space there were stacks of canvases, strewn haphazardly around the walls, and propped against an easel which leaned drunkenly against one of the chairs.

She stood just inside the door looking about her, and Jared came to support himself against the jamb, regarding her without evident hostility for once. ‘Well?’ he said, making it a question. ‘Are you appalled at the mess?'

Catherine half turned towards him. ‘Why should I be? I expect you work very well here.'

He frowned. ‘Why do you say that?'

‘I don't know.’ She shrugged her slim shoulders. ‘It's the disorder, I suppose. I read something once, I don't remember where—in one of those trendy journals, I think—and it said something about order being without inspiration. That creating anything—artistic, in disciplined surroundings, is like mining for diamonds in a velvet-lined box.'

Jared straightened, his lips twisting-mockingly. ‘How very apt! And how perceptive of you to remember it.'

Catherine sighed. ‘Sometimes those articles are just rubbish! I just thought that particular one had some merit.'

‘Oh, it did.’ Jared passed her and walked indolently across the room, kicking aside a tube of paint which oozed stickily on to the bare boards. He indicated a divan in one corner, half hidden from her view by other paraphernalia. ‘I sleep here sometimes. It's quiet, and I don't mind the sound of the ocean. And, as you say, I enjoy the chaos.'

He looked at her as he spoke, and she felt a curious warning sensation in the pit of her stomach. When he was not using the sharp edge of his sarcasm against her, he was disturbingly attractive, and the girlish feelings he had aroused all those years ago did not seem quite so distant after all.

As though realising that for a few moments he had forgotten his antipathy towards her, he withdrew his gaze from hers and hauled a couple of surfboards out from behind the door. One was bigger than the other, but they were both made of fibre-glass and very light.

‘Are you sure you want to try this?’ he asked, his voice hard and slightly impatient, and she nodded eagerly.

‘Of course. Is this one mine?’ She indicated the smaller board. ‘Hmm, smell that scent of the sea!'

They came down the steps on to the beach and looked towards the ocean. The sun glittered and danced on the water, dazzling the eyes, jewelling the foam to sparkling brilliance. The sun was rising higher, and its heat was making the sand warm beneath their feet.

Catherine bent her head to unzip her jeans and Jared gave her an angry look. ‘What are you doing?'

She looked up in surprise. ‘I don't normally go swimming in my jeans,’ she answered innocently.

He expelled his breath noisily. ‘You can change in the beach house.'

‘I don't have to change.’ She wriggled the jeans down over her hips, revealing the narrow band of the bikini. ‘I came prepared.’ She smiled. ‘Didn't you?'

Jared said a word which she wouldn't have liked to repeat, and unfastened his own jeans and slid them down his legs. His swimming trunks were black and came beautifully low on his lean hips. Catherine couldn't help admiring the powerful muscles so displayed, but he obviously disliked her eyes upon him. Picking up a surfboard, he strode away down the beach, and she stood there folding her jeans and watching him.

He carried the surfboard into the waves until the water was up to his waist, then he straddled the board before stretching his length upon it, paddling out towards the line of the reef with steady progression.

Catherine was hardly aware that she had bent and picked up the untidy pile that was his jeans, or that as he approached the turning point, she pressed them closely to her chest, watching for the surf to catch him with such intensity that her eyes ached from the glare.

He had turned. He was kneeling on the board now, coasting down the inside of the crest which threatened to engulf him. Her heart leapt into her throat as the board was lifted high on the swell, and then he was on his feet, balancing himself with an expertise she couldn't help but envy, driving diagonally in towards the shoreline at what seemed an incredible speed. If he should lose his balance, if he should fall…

She closed her eyes and when she opened them again, he had disappeared. She took several involuntary steps forward, her heart hammering so loudly it seemed audible. Then she saw the surfboard tossed carelessly by the waves, and her heart seemed to stop beating altogether. She ran towards the water's edge, blinking as shafts of green brilliance obscured her vision. The sun was reacting on her unguarded eyes, making them water just when she wanted to see clearly.

She moved her head from side to side, searching for a glimpse of him, and then gulping with relief when he appeared some distance to her left, thrown upon the sand like the surfboard beside him. She ran eagerly towards him, still clutching his jeans, but he was getting to his feet and his expression was not encouraging.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ he demanded, and she blinked at him bewilderingly. ‘What's the matter? Why are you looking at me like that? And what are you doing with my pants?'

He tugged the offending jeans out of her grasp, and she stood there before him, still wearing her smock, still too shocked to say much at all.

‘I—I—you disappeared. I thought—I thought—'

‘You thought I'd drowned?'

‘Well, I—I wasn't sure…'

Jared tossed his jeans on to the sand, and Catherine noticed inconsequently that they had landed in the same heap as before. ‘I dived off the board, before it reached shallow water,’ he told her impatiently. ‘I'm sorry if you were alarmed, but I didn't know you were watching me.'

Catherine was gradually recovering her composure, and resentment gave her a welcome barrier against the feelings she had just experienced. ‘I'm sure you knew perfectly well that I was watching you,’ she retorted, aware as she did so that she was not sure of any such thing.

Jared sighed. ‘Why? Why aren't you in the water yourself?'

‘I'm no expert. You must know you are.'

‘Thank you.’ His tone was sardonic. ‘So why were you so concerned?'

She stared up at him angrily. Without the platform soles she was used to, he was several inches taller than she was, a new experience for her because she was a tall girl. ‘I really don't know!’ she told him feelingly, and marched away along the beach.

Her desire to swim had left her. Her eyes still ached from the glare of the water, and an awful empty feeling was making itself felt in the region below her rib-cage. After all, she had not eaten since yesterday afternoon, and then only two of the diminutive sandwiches. She sat down on the sand beside the other surfboard, drawing up her legs and wrapping her arms around them, resting her chin on her knees.

She was hardly aware of him coming to join her, until his weight disturbed the sand beside her, and she permitted herself the knowledge that he was standing beside her.

‘I'm sorry if you were upset,’ he said quietly, and ridiculously, his apology moved her to tears.

‘It doesn't matter,’ she mumbled into her knees, but he must have discerned the break in her voice, and he uttered an expletive before coming down on his haunches beside her.

He remained there silently for several seconds just looking at her, and eventually she felt compelled to look at him. He was very close, his skin still damp with sea water, smelling slightly of the salt. There was hair on his arms and legs, fine dark hair, the ends bleached golden by the sun. She knew the strongest impulse to put out her hand and stroke the taut muscles of his thigh, to feel that smooth brown skin beneath her fingers. She didn't seem capable of lifting her eyes, and with another exclamation he got to his feet.

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