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.

An All-Consuming Passion
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

‘WE’LL be landing in less than fifteen minutes, Mr Kane.’

The pilot had turned from the controls to address his only passenger, and Morgan lifted his head from the papers he had been studying since they left St Thomas to meet the man’s candid gaze.

‘Fifteen minutes,’ he echoed, his attractive voice low and well modulated. ‘Okay, Joe. Thanks.’

‘My pleasure, Mr Kane,’ responded the dark-skinned pilot, resuming his appraisal of the instruments in front of him. ‘Should still be light enough for you to see the island, if the weather holds up. Looks like that storm they promised us isn’t going to show.’

Morgan hesitated a moment, cast a faintly regretful glance at the documents he had taken from the briefcase beside him, and then came to a decision. Sliding the papers back into their file, he pushed the file into the briefcase, snapping the fasteners shut before asking politely, ‘Do you get a lot of storms here?’

‘Hell, no!’ Joe allowed a chuckle to escape him. ‘Didn’t Mr Forsyth tell you? Pulpit Island has an almost perfect climate. Little rain; plenty of sun; and the trades, to keep the temperature just bearable.’

Morgan acknowledged his ignorance. ‘No hurricanes?’ he enquired mildly, easing the collar of his shirt away from his neck, and Joe cast him a reproving grimace.

‘Not since 1973,’ he asserted. ‘Like I said, you’re going to love it here, Mr Kane.’

‘I don’t think I’ll be here long enough to form an opinion,’ remarked Morgan drily, looking down on to a sea as clear and blue-green as aquamarines. ‘Is that Pulpit Island down there?’

‘No, sir, that’s Little Orchis,’ said Joe, tipping the plane’s wing so that they turned in a south-easterly direction. ‘You’ll be able to see Pulpit Island any minute now. Would you like me to give you an aerial tour before we land?’

‘I don’t think that will be necessary,’ said Morgan smoothly. ‘Where do we land? In the harbour?’

‘Oh, the old sweet pea splashes down in Charlotte’s Bay,’ answered Joe, with another chuckle, patting the controls of the vintage seaplane, which plied its trade in island-hopping. ‘Mighty handy as it turns out. The old Gantry place is right on the bay. That way Miss Holly knows the minute her father reaches the island.’

Morgan propped his chin on one lean brown hand and gazed a little ruefully out of the window. He hoped Holly had had her father’s telegram. It would make things infinitely more difficult if she was not anticipating his arrival. Besides which, she would have had no warning of what her father wanted her to do.

Shifting his long legs a little impatiently, he wished, not for the first time, that Andrew hadn’t involved him in his private affairs. It was one thing to be Andrew Forsyth’s personal assistant, to know as much, if not more, than his employer about the day-to-day running of the Forsyth corporation, and to participate in the expansion of his business empire. It was quite another to be expected to persuade his twenty-year-old daughter—and only offspring—to return to London at her father’s whim, when she must know as well as he did that there had to be more to it than her father’s sudden desire to resume a paternal role.

It was too late now to try and pretend her father had any real affection for her. From the day she was born—and Morgan could remember that day very well—she had been an unwanted encumbrance to him, a constant reminder of her mother, whose life had been forfeit to secure her own, and for which Andrew Forsyth had never forgiven her.

Morgan had not been Andrew’s assistant then, of course. He had been a new, and very junior, executive, fresh out of university, with a double first in law and economics, and little else. It had been his first day with the company, and the personal affairs of his boss had seemed very distant indeed.

However, twenty years had seen a great number of changes. In time, his shrewdness in business and his capacity for hard work had been recognised, and by the time he joined Andrew’s immediate staff, Holly Forsyth was no longer so remote from him. Not that he knew her well. A series of nannies, followed by a spell at an exclusive preparatory school, had made way for an equally exclusive boarding school, and if there had been problems, he had not been expected to handle them. Indeed, the first time he actually saw Holly in the flesh had been less than five years ago, when Andrew had asked him to pick her up from a friend’s house in Woking and drive her to London airport to catch a plane for Zurich. And then, what with her non-communicativeness and the chauffeur’s watching presence, they had scarcely exchanged more than a few words. He had thought at first that she was shy and, having children of his own now, he had done his utmost to put her at her ease. But the cool indigo eyes, watching his efforts from between narrowed lids, had had more than a touch of scorn in their depths, and he had quickly realised that Holly Forsyth knew exactly what he was trying to do.

Since then, his glimpses of her had been equally brief. Once, in London, soon after her return from the finishing school for which she had been sent to Switzerland, he had encountered her leaving her father’s office, but on that occasion she had looked straight through him. He had suspected at the time that her over-bright eyes and flushed cheeks had mirrored an inner tumult, and certainly Andrew’s temper had been decidedly unpredictable for the rest of the day. But then, he had learned, Andrew was always unpredictable where Holly was concerned, and Morgan doubted that anything she did would find approval with her father.

The last time he had laid eyes on her had been two years ago, just before she left England. He had called at Andrew’s house in Hampstead late one evening to deliver some papers his employer had left at the office, and he had met Holly arriving home with a crowd of noisy young people. They were all high, whether on drink or marijuana, or perhaps a combination of both, Morgan couldn’t be sure, and the row that had ensued when Andrew erupted from his study had not been pleasant.

Morgan had not wanted to get involved, but it was Holly herself who had involved him. With artless provocation, she had slipped her arm through his and compelled him to stay, using his strength to support her when her father’s wrath washed over her. A tall girl, with cropped fair hair and a slim, still adolescently angular body, she had faced her father bravely, unaware that Andrew Forsyth wasn’t even listening to her. Poor Holly, Morgan remembered now, the colour leaving her face so quickly that the expertly used cosmetics became as conspicuous as a clown’s mask. She should have known better than to try and fight Andrew Forsyth. Men with far fewer scruples had tried and failed, and Holly simply did not have the weapons.

If only she had not looked so much like her mother, perhaps then her father might have been able to forget. But, having seen photographs of the first Mrs Forsyth, Morgan knew exactly why his employer found his daughter’s presence so intolerable. Holly’s mother was the only woman he had ever loved, and although there had been three other wives since her death, there had been no other children—not even a son to step into his father’s shoes.

Unfortunately, Morgan had been able to do nothing to help her and, when she realised this, Holly had turned on him, too. As her friends drifted away in twos and threes, unable—or unwilling—to be a party to her humiliation, Andrew had delivered his final ultimatum. If she wanted him to go on supporting her, she would have to give up mixing with that crowd of queers and layabouts, or she could get out.

Six weeks later, Morgan heard that she had left for her mother’s old home on Pulpit Island, one hundred and fifty miles from St Thomas in the Virgin Islands. Sara Gantry, Holly’s mother, had been born in the West Indies, and her family had once owned a thriving sugar plantation there. But, what with the price of sugar falling and labour becoming increasingly expensive, the estate had largely been dismantled, even before Holly’s grandparents died. However, the house was still standing and, according to Andrew, Holly had always been happy there.

‘She used to go out for holidays, when she was younger,’ he told Morgan, with a rare flash of what might have been conscience. ‘She likes swimming and fishing, and messing about with crayons and water colours,’ he added, when his assistant made no immediate comment. ‘Don’t judge me, Morgan. She always has been a thorn in my side.’

And who was he to judge anyway, reflected Morgan drily, resting one booted ankle across his knee. His own sixteen-year-old twins were proving to be just as much of a liability, and how could he blame Andrew for ignoring his daughter when he spent so little time with his sons? According to Alison, his ex-wife, he was totally responsible for their delinquency and, in all honesty, he had been away a lot when they were growing up. Andrew was a demanding employer and, as his empire stretched from one side of the financial world to the other, Morgan had often been in Hong Kong or San Francisco when he should have been at home.

But had he been entirely to blame? To begin with, Alison had been delighted when, soon after their marriage, Morgan had been recruited to Andrew Forsyth’s office. She had even encouraged him to make himself indispensable to his superior, and she had soon found uses for the higher salary his promotion had brought.

She had not wanted the twins, but their arrival less than two years after their marriage had coincided with their removal to a bigger flat, and she had been placated by the chance to prove her home-making abilities. Besides, she had discovered that having twins set her apart from other young mothers, who had only had one child at a time, and for a while she was content to bask in their reflected glory.

By the time the twins were two, however, motherhood had begun to pall, and Alison was clamouring for a garden to get them out of her hair. She didn’t care that, to buy the house in Willesden, Morgan had to work a twelve-hour day. She had chosen it because it was near her mother’s house, and in no time at all Mrs Stevens was caring for the twins while Alison spent her time in boutiques and beauty parlours.

But, eventually, even the novelty of an unlimited supply of money did not satisfy her. Morgan’s promotion to Andrew Forsyth’s personal assistant meant that he and his wife were occasionally invited to dinner in Hampstead, and before long Alison was resentful of their own ‘poky’ domain. She saw no reason why they should not have a large house, and a housekeeper, now that Morgan had a position of authority.

They moved again, this time to a sprawling house in Wimbledon, with every accoutrement Alison could wish for. Five bedrooms, three bathrooms; there was even a sauna in the basement. It was the kind of luxury home anyone would be proud of. Only, now, boredom took the place of envy, and resentment of Morgan’s more exciting lifestyle became the most contentious issue in Alison’s life.

Morgan was unable to appease her. Her constant jibes and recriminations made life pretty difficult at times, and before long the twins began to notice. Salving his conscience with the conviction that the boys would be happier if they were not constantly witness to their parents’ rows, Morgan had suggested boarding school. But for once Alison had demurred from taking the easy option.

‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’ she had shouted, her fashionably thin features contorted into their habitual expression of dissatisfaction. ‘Then you wouldn’t need to feel any sense of guilt in neglecting your family, would you? You could go off with Andrew bloody Forsyth with a clear conscience!’

Morgan had endeavoured to explain that were he to resign his position as Andrew’s assistant, they could not afford their present standard of living, but she had not listened. So far as his wife was concerned, he was a careless, selfish bastard, whose only real enjoyment was in making money for someone else.

Alison, meanwhile, was finding different pursuits. Abandoning any pretence of fidelity, she began to look for diversion in other quarters, and their relationship quickly foundered.

Yet, even then, she had fought their inevitable separation. Blaming Morgan yet again for his selfishness and neglect, she had fought for, and gained, custody of the two boys, and Morgan found himself faced with the upkeep of two households, instead of just one. Of course, the modest flat he occupied in Kensington did not stretch his income, but fighting Alison’s influence on the twins was quite another matter.

Naturally, having been raised in such an atmosphere, they had been affected by it. Just in a small way at first: fighting in the playground, stealing small amounts of money from their mother’s purse, getting such poor grades in school that the headmaster had called their father in for a discussion. But gradually, as they had grown older, their crimes had become more serious. When they were sent to the local comprehensive school, they frequently played truant, and when Morgan found out and paid for their transfer to a fee-paying boys’ school, they were soon threatened with expulsion for using foul language. And finally, just recently, within weeks of leaving yet another fee-paying establishment, they had been caught shoplifting with some other boys in Oxford Street, and only the intervention of Andrew’s lawyer had prevented them from a serious conviction.

It had not been an opportune moment for Andrew to ask Morgan to fly out to the West Indies to bring his daughter back to London. With the twins out of school and resentful of the restrictions he had persuaded Alison to put upon them, he had been loath to leave the country. But Andrew had had the solution.

‘I’ll speak to the commanding officer of the Admiral Nelson,’ he declared, mentioning the name of a famous sailing vessel, used as a training ground for would-be naval recruits. ‘Fawcett—that’s the chap—he’s a friend of mine, and if he can fit them into his schedule, he will. Three weeks living in pretty austere surroundings is exactly what they need, and they’ll learn the rudiments of sailing as well as learning to work with other people as a team.’

‘And do you think Jeff and Jon will comply?’ asked Morgan doubtfully. ‘Will Alison let them go?’

‘If I ask her,’ returned Andrew smugly, exchanging an amused smile with his assistant. ‘It will do them a power of good. And it will get them away from their mother for a while, which can’t be bad.’

Morgan shifted rather impatiently in his seat now and Joe, attracted by the movement, glanced round. ‘That’s Pulpit Island, Mr Kane,’ he said, pointing down towards a mass of greenery, which seemed to be floating on the water. ‘See that sickle curve of beach? That’s Charlotte’s Bay that it’s wrapped around.’

‘Oh—thanks.’

Morgan produced a smile and determinedly forced his mind to dwell on less disturbing things. As the plane banked to facilitate its approach he was able to discern the distinctive outcropping of rock, which Andrew had told him had given the island its name, rising over a thousand feet from the central highlands. The rest of the island appeared to be covered in a thriving mass of vegetation, a darkly tinted emerald, set in a frame of creamy white coral.

The island was bigger than he had expected, though as the seaplane plunged towards the enveloping curve of Charlotte’s Bay, he could see little sign of life. ‘Charlottesville—that’s the capital—it’s at the other side of the island,’ the pilot commented, as if reading Morgan’s thoughts. ‘Not much of a capital, really. Just a handful of shops and warehouses, and a market that sells fruit and fish.’

Morgan wanted to reply, but the sea seemed to be hurtling up towards them at a terrifying pace. He felt the rush of adrenalin through his veins turn his stomach over, and he gripped the arms of his seat as the aircraft hit the water. ‘Christ,’ he muttered weakly, as the plane’s floats tore a channel across the bay, and a salty spray forced its way through a ventilator. Taking off had been slow, but landing certainly wasn’t.

‘You all right, Mr Kane?’ asked Joe with some concern, as the aircraft slowed to a more sedate pace and chugged happily towards the shore. ‘Guess you’ve never flown in the “goose” before, but you can rely on her. Safest transport around.’

‘Is it?’

Morgan’s tone was dry, but he couldn’t help it. It had been a long day. First the nine-hour flight to Miami, then the forty-minute wait for his connection to St Thomas. And now this crazy island-hopping amphibian, which even now was having its wheels cranked down by hand so that, when they reached the shallows, it could waddle out on to the beach.

He glanced at his watch. It was almost half past six local time, but his body told him it was much later. Apart from which, he had an ache in his spine through sitting so long, and the alarm he had experienced on landing had covered his whole body in an unpleasant wave of heat.

Reaching up, he loosened his tie and peered somewhat wearily out of the window. Although it was early evening, the warmth now that the plane had landed was almost palpable, and he looked down at his dark grey three-piece suit with some impatience. He should have changed at Miami, he reflected. He had had time. But he had also needed a drink, and he hadn’t had time for both.

The seaplane bumped up on to sand filtered from successive generations of coral, washed by the lucid green waters of Charlotte’s Bay. Ahead of the plane, the virginal white sand gave way to coconut groves and waving palms, and beyond that to the tangled forest he had seen from the air.

There was a boy standing on the beach, apparently waiting for the plane, and Joe waved to him, evidently recognising a friend. ‘That’s Samuel, Miss Holly’s houseboy,’ he explained to his passenger. ‘Seems like she knew you were coming.’

‘Seems like she did,’ murmured Morgan drily, loosening his seat belt and automatically checking the zipper of his trousers. ‘I wonder,’ he added, under his breath, and when the plane halted, he got gratefully to his feet.

Because of his height, it was impossible to stand straight inside the plane, but Joe was already out of his seat, loosening the catches and thrusting open the door. He let Morgan precede him, standing back while the other man bent to negotiate the low lintel.

Morgan stepped down on to the sand that crunched beneath the soles of his shoes, and into a wave of heat infinitely more enervating than the cloistered atmosphere on board had been. The seaplane had kept reasonably cool throughout the flight, and the wash of water against its hull had kept it cool on landing. But outside, in the still powerful rays of the setting sun, the temperature was considerably higher, and the jacket of his suit felt damp beneath his arms.

With a gesture of impatience, he shrugged out of the offending garment and slung it over one shoulder, aware of the amused gaze of the boy on the beach as he took in the equally uncomfortable waistcoat beneath. Samuel—if that was his name—was wearing sawn-off jeans and a flapping T-shirt, and his dark, bronzed skin gleamed dully with the patina of good health. He was perhaps sixteen, Morgan estimated, the twins’ age. But he was taller than they were, and not so stocky, his long legs protruding from the knee-length denims.

‘Mr Kane?’ he enquired, stepping forward, his expression sobering abruptly. ‘Miss Forsyth sent me to meet you. She’s waiting for you back at the house.’

‘Oh, thanks.’ Morgan inclined his head in acknowledgment, as Joe hoisted his overnight-case out of the plane. He shrugged. ‘Is it far to the house?’

‘Hell, no. That’s it—over there,’ exclaimed Joe, preempting the boy’s response. He pointed a long finger, and Morgan squinted into the deepening gloom. The sun was sinking fast, and the island was bathed in an amber radiance, an almost unholy glow that was rapidly turning to umber.

The Forsyth house seemed to stand on a rise, overlooking the bay. A white, verandahed portico was overset with dark iron-railed balconies and, even from this distance, Morgan could see the profusion of plant-life growing all around it. It was bigger than he had expected, and many of the windows were shuttered, but a light was glowing from a downstairs window revealing Holly’s occupancy.

‘Let’s go,’ said Samuel, apparently resenting Joe’s interference in what he considered to be his territory. He picked up Morgan’s suitcase and took a few pointed steps along the beach. ‘You coming, Mr Kane?’

‘Er—yes. Yes, of course.’ Morgan dragged his eyes away from the house and turned briefly back to the pilot. ‘Thanks,’ he said, shaking the man’s hand. ‘Now—how do I get in touch with you when I want to go back?’

‘Miss Holly’ll arrange all that,’ responded Joe, with a grin. ‘You have a good holiday now. You hear?’

Morgan forbore from repeating that this was not a holiday, and grinned in return. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘See you soon.’ And, with a final gesture of farewell, he started after Samuel’s lanky form.

By the time they had reached the stretch of beach below the house, the seaplane had shimmied back into the water and was making its take-off. The roar of its engines was an ugly intrusion into a stillness disturbed only by the piping sound of the crickets, and a flock of birds rose protestingly from their nesting place, startled by the unaccustomed violation of their privacy.

Samuel balanced Morgan’s suitcase on his head, holding it steady with one hand, as they left the beach to climb a shallow flight of steps to the house. There must have been fifty of them, Morgan decided, feeling the constriction in his chest as he followed Samuel’s unhurried tread. It made him realise that a weekly work-out at the squash club was not a total compensation for a sedentary life, and he was panting pretty badly by the time they reached the top.

It was fully dark now, but the air was fragrant with the scent of night-blooming plants and delicate honeysuckle. They picked their way across a garden that had evidently been left to go to seed, and brushed between a mass of statuary before climbing two more steps to a lawned area in front of the house. The lights from the house gave more illumination here, revealing that the grass had, at least, been cut, and the borders trimmed. An old cane chair reclined in the shade of a flowering acacia, and on the verandah a pair of cushioned sun-loungers were set beside a basket-woven table.

It wasn’t until they were actually climbing the steps up to the verandah that Morgan realised someone was standing there, in the darkness, watching their approach. She had not occupied either of the sun-loungers that flanked the circular table, where a jug of iced cordial drew his thirsty gaze. She was standing in the shadows, against the wall of the building, and she only moved into the light when she was obliged to do so.

Even then, Morgan had some difficulty in relating this golden-skinned creature to the Holly Forsyth he remembered. Setting down his briefcase, he ran a hand around the back of his neck, flinching from the dampness of his skin. He was sweating quite profusely now, and it didn’t help to be confronted by someone as cool and self-possessed as this young woman seemed to be.

Although the skinny vest and skimpy shorts she was wearing in no way compared to the expensive suits and dresses her father had bought her, Holly had an air of elegance all her own. It was something to do with the way she moved, a natural co-ordination that had not been in evidence the last time they had met. She was still slim, but her bones were less obviously visible and, although he had not intended to look, he couldn’t help his awareness of breasts fuller and firmer than when he had last seen her in England. She had let her hair grow, too, and it now hung a couple of inches below her shoulders, smooth and silky, and bleached several shades lighter by the sun. It was odd, he thought inconsequently, that sun lightened the hair but darkened the flesh. And because Holly was wearing no make-up, her skin had the lustre of good health.

‘Hello, Mr Kane,’ she said now, holding out her hand. ‘Did you have a good trip?’ and Morgan dried his palm down the seam of his trousers before accepting her polite salutation.

‘It’s good to be here,’ he acknowledged, threading long fingers into the clinging dampness of his hair. ‘I feel like I’ve been trapped in a steel girdle for the past twelve hours.’ He grinned. ‘I guess I’m getting too old to sit still for so long. My spine feels like it’s been kicked by a mule.’

Holly’s lips parted to reveal even white teeth. ‘You’re not old, Mr Kane,’ she said, her eyes frankly admiring, and as Morgan’s stomach twisted, she added, ‘Now—which would you like first? A drink or a shower?’

Morgan took a deep breath. ‘Would I be rude if I said both?’ he queried drily, deciding he had imagined that provocative glance. ‘Something long and cool would be just perfect. And then I’d like to get out of these unsuitable clothes.’

‘Of course.’ Holly turned to Samuel then, and directed him to take Mr Kane’s bags to his room. As the boy rescued Morgan’s briefcase and departed, she appended, ‘You don’t appear to have brought very much. But that’s just as well, because we don’t go in for formality around here.’

Morgan gestured to a chair, too weary right now to go into the details of why he had brought so few clothes, and Holly nodded. ‘Oh—please,’ she said, moving to the table and picking up the frosted jug. ‘I hope you like daiquiris. I asked Lucinda to prepare these earlier.’

Morgan sank gratefully on to the cushioned sun-lounger and arched one dark brow. ‘Lucinda?’

‘Samuel’s mother,’ explained Holly, as the chink of ice clunked satisfyingly into a glass. ‘She and Micah—that’s her husband—and Samuel, of course, are all the staff there are here now.’

Morgan rested his head back against the cushions, allowing an unaccustomed feeling of peace to envelop him. He didn’t know why exactly, but he was relaxing for the first time in days and, in spite of the fact that this was not a holiday, he knew an unexpected sense of well-being.

Of course, it might have something to do with the fact that he knew Alison could not reach him here. In spite of the divorce, which had severed all formal connections between them, she still played a considerable part in his life, and it was a relief to be free of her continued complaints. With the twins having a constant claim to his affections, there was little he could do to escape her demands, unless he was prepared to risk their alienation, too. Living with their mother, they were prone to take her side in any argument, and Morgan knew Alison lost no opportunity of blaming their father for the break-up of the marriage. Even this trip to the Caribbean had not met with her approval, even though she had accepted Andrew’s plans for the boys without demur.

‘Why can’t the girl simply get on a plane by herself?’ she had exclaimed, when Morgan had told her what he intended to do. ‘She’s not a child, is she? From what I hear, she’s hardly an innocent!’

‘Did you tell Andrew that?’ enquired Morgan drily, retaliating with more cynicism than usual, and even over the phone he heard her sudden intake of breath.

‘Don’t bait me, Morgan,’ she retorted fiercely, and he could sense the cold resentment she still felt for the security of his position. She had always been jealous of his friendship with Andrew, and not even the prospect of destroying her own lifestyle had prevented her from trying to lose Morgan his job when he first moved out of the house. ‘Just because you would do anything that man asked you, doesn’t mean that I can’t have my own opinion of the Forsyths. Just don’t imagine Andrew would let you anywhere near his precious daughter! He may have no time for her himself, but I’m sure he appreciates the potential she offers!’

Her words had at last got under Morgan’s skin, and his gritted response revealed the fact. ‘She’s twenty years old, Alison,’ he had told her, his voice harsh with contempt. ‘She’s young enough to be my daughter! For Christ’s sake, what do you take me for?’

Morgan thrust these thoughts aside now as Holly came to hand him a tall glass. He had known Alison was just taking out her spite on him, but he had been furious that she could still penetrate his defences. Of course, she still resented the fact that physically she no longer attracted him. She had thought that, in spite of her infidelities, Morgan would continue to want her body, but he hadn’t. The discovery that she had been sleeping with other men while he had been away had destroyed any feelings Morgan had still had for her, and since their separation he had satisfied his needs elsewhere.

‘Is it all right?’

Holly’s query caused him to look up at her ruefully, raising his glass to his lips as he did so. ‘Very good,’ he said, somewhat hoarsely moments later, as the raw spirit caught his dry throat. ‘But I think—Lucinda, did you say—has a heavy hand with the rum. Do you always drink them this potent?’

Holly laughed, a low musical sound that was entirely feminine, and seated herself on the sun-lounger beside him. To do so, she swung one leg across the cushioned footrest, giving him a revealing glimpse of her inner thigh as she did so, before scooping both knees up in front of her and circling them with her arms. ‘Oh—I don’t drink them,’ she assured him, her oval features alight with amusement. ‘Besides, I’m not thirsty right now. I just had a shower.’

‘An inviting prospect,’ remarked Morgan wryly, swallowing a generous portion of the liquid in his glass as thirst got the better of discretion. ‘But much more of this and I won’t be able to see the shower, let alone the taps.’

‘Would you prefer a beer?’ asked Holly innocently, glancing towards the house, but Morgan shook his head.

‘This is fine, for now,’ he responded, his tongue circling his lips. ‘So—tell me: did you get your father’s telegram?’ He paused. ‘You do know why I’m here?’

‘Let’s not talk business on your first evening,’ Holly answered lightly, swinging her legs to the slatted boards of the verandah once again. ‘Come on. I’ll show you your room. Are you hungry? I told Lucinda just to prepare something light for supper.’

Morgan hesitated, but then, after finishing the daiquiri, he got obediently to his feet. She was right. They’d have plenty of time tomorrow to discuss her father’s invitation, and the alcohol had left him feeling pleasantly lethargic.

Holly led the way through a meshed door into the entrance hall of the house. A wide, high-ceilinged area, with fluted columns supporting a galleried landing, and solid blocks of squared marble underfoot, it was an impressive, if slightly time-worn, introduction to the building. But the wall-lights, screened by copper shades, which illuminated the faded beauty of the house, also illuminated Holly’s features, and Morgan’s attention was arrested. On the verandah, she had been extremely attractive; in the lamplight, she was quite startlingly beautiful, her long indigo eyes and delicately moulded cheekbones giving character to a wide and mobile mouth. Christ, he chided himself, giving in to a totally uncharacteristic criticism of his employer’s methods. No wonder Andrew thought she might have something to offer. In shabby beach clothes she was a naiad; in designer fashions she would be magnificent.

‘Is something wrong?’

The dark indigo eyes were upon him, and to his embarrassment, Morgan felt the seep of hot colour under his skin. ‘No,’ he said abruptly. ‘No, I was just—admiring my surroundings. The building seems extremely old. Is it the original plantation house?’

‘Heavens, no. That was burned down years ago,’ replied Holly after a moment. ‘My great-grandfather had this place built around the turn of the century. It’s much more modest than the old house. Or so my grandfather used to tell me.’

‘Really?’

Morgan tried to keep his attention on the building as he followed Holly up the stairs. The staircase curved round a ninety-degree angle before reaching the gallery above, the wooden steps worn in places, but still lovingly varnished. There were pictures lining the wall, and it was a relief to look at them and not at Holly’s only slightly swaying hips, nor at the long brown legs that emerged from the hem of her shorts, or the narrow bare feet that strode ahead of him. Far better to admire the distinctive curve of Charlotte’s Bay at sunset, an image still firmly imprinted on his thoughts. Or the tangled glory of a neglected garden which, although he had not seen it clearly, looked suspiciously like the one below the house.

‘Did you do these?’ he asked at last, remembering Andrew’s careless mention of an artistic temperament, and Holly paused.

‘Yes,’ she said, without affectation. ‘Do you like them? They’re not much good, but as my father would say, they keep me occupied.’

Morgan shook his. head. ‘But they are good,’ he contradicted her incredulously. ‘I’m no expert, but I have attended auctions, and believe me, you evidently have a talent.’

Holly grimaced. ‘Hmm.’ She shook her head and then continued on her way. ‘I doubt if my father would agree with you. So far as he’s concerned, women are good for one thing only.’ She cast him a faintly mocking glance. ‘Wouldn’t you say?’

Morgan’s mouth drew down at the corners. ‘I doubt if you have proof of that,’ he commented drily, but Holly’s gaze did not falter.

‘He has had four wives,’ she reminded him, with disturbing candour. ‘And I can’t believe he married them for their conversation.’

Morgan wished he’d never started this, but before he could change the subject Holly had halted outside a cream, panelled door. ‘Your room,’ she said, turning the handle and pushing the door open. Then, preceding him into the room, she switched on a lamp by the bed. ‘It’s my father’s,’ she added carelessly. ‘I didn’t see any point in having Lucinda air another room.’

Morgan looked about him with guarded interest. The room was huge and rather spartanly furnished. It was dominated by the massive square four-poster that occupied the central area, but apart from the bed and its sombre velvet tester, there was no sign of the luxury Andrew enjoyed at his house in England. There was a chest of drawers with a mirror above; a walk-in wardrobe; an ottoman, on which resided his suitcase; and a leather-topped table by the window, which could serve a dual purpose as a desk. The floor was bare, just polished wooden boards, with a plain skin rug beside the bed to add a little colour.

‘The bathroom’s through there,’ said Holly indicating a door, ‘but I’m afraid you’ll have to share with me. As you’ll find out, the Fletchers and I only occupy a small part of the house. The rest is shuttered—closed off—to save unnecessary labour, you see.’

Morgan inclined his head. ‘I understand.’

‘So …’ Holly lifted her slim shoulders and then let them fall again. ‘If you need anything else, just holler, as Samuel would say. Supper will be ready in about an hour. Unless you’d like it sooner.’

‘An hour will be just fine,’ Morgan assured her firmly, loosening the remaining buttons of his waistcoat and stripping it off. Then, without thinking, he pulled off his tie and started to unfasten his shirt, only realising she was still hovering in the doorway when he looked up and met her gaze.

‘I don’t suppose your wife wanted you to come, did she?’ Holly murmured, smoothing the edge of the door with her fingers, and the unexpectedly personal quality of her question caught him unprepared.

‘I—my wife and I are divorced,’ he said shortly, his hands stilling as he became aware of a disturbing change in their relationship. In the past he had always regarded her as a child, not much older than the twins in fact, and definitely not someone he would speak to as an equal. But now that was all changed. Now she was speaking to him as a woman. And, in spite of himself, Morgan felt his senses stir at the thinly veiled insolence of her regard.

‘I see,’ remarked Holly softly, apparently not at all dismayed by his shocked reaction. ‘I can’t say I’m surprised.’

And, with a lazy smile, she withdrew, closing the door behind her and leaving Morgan to stare blankly at the worn cream panels.

CHAPTER TWO

THE sun had barely cleared the trees on the other side of the island when Holly slid out of bed. It wasn’t much after six, but she had been awake for hours, watching the curtains moving in the breeze from her balcony, and going over the previous evening’s events and her own reaction to them.

Now, however, she could lie still no longer. Thrusting back the covers, she strode eagerly across the floor, halting only reluctantly when her slim naked form was reflected in the mirrors of her dressing-table. She could hardly step out on to the balcony without any clothes, however attractive that proposition might be, she reflected. With a sigh of resignation, she caught up a shred of pure white satin that resolved itself into a simple wrapper and, tying the cord about her waist, she followed her inclination.

Outside the air was magic, a mixture of tangy salt and the blossoming bougainvillaea that rioted over the roof of the verandah below. The view, too, was matchless: an arc of blue-green water, caught in the arms of a verdant lover—twin headlands curving round to cradle the sheltered bay. Below the house, the beach was clean and untouched, the footprints left by her visitor washed away by the morning tide. Nearer at hand, bees already buzzed among the tangled mass of flowers, and Micah had set a sprinkler going to moisten the sun-scorched grass.

Resting her arms on the balcony rail, Holly breathed deeply, allowing the beauty of the day to dispel the sense of anxiety that had disturbed her sleep since her father’s telegram had arrived. He could not force her to go back, she told herself fiercely, wondering if she really believed that by saying something often enough one could make it happen. He hadn’t even had the decency to come and ask her himself—albeit that her answer would still have been the same. He had sent Morgan Kane: his mentor, his alter ego; the man Holly hated most in the world.

She breathed a little more quickly when she thought about what she was going to do to Morgan Kane. It was strange but, until two years ago, he had been the man she most admired. Not that he had been aware of it, of course. To him, she was just a child, Andrew Forsyth’s unwanted daughter, the metaphorical cross his employer had to bear. She had known that, and accepted it, too long used to being treated as a pariah in her father’s household to find anything unusual in being ignored.

Yet there had been times when Morgan had not ignored her, times when she had thought he was doing his best to compensate for her father’s negligence. To begin with, she had not trusted his overtures of friendship, assuming her father had told him exactly what to say. But, gradually, as her love-starved young body began to mature, she had started to see Morgan in an entirely different light. She had actually begun to believe he cared about her.

Her trust had been abruptly shattered one night, a little over two years ago. She had turned to Morgan for help, and he had not given it. Instead, he had taken her father’s part in humiliating her in front of her friends. He had not even tried to defend her actions. He had shown himself for the cipher he was, and she knew she had been a fool ever to have believed it could be otherwise.

After that, for a spell, she had not cared what happened to her. Because of what had happened she lost touch with the group of young people she had been running around with, and she wasn’t exactly sorry. She had known they were a wild bunch, and that sooner or later they were going to get caught. But she missed their cheerful companionship, and the sometimes crazy things they used to do.

The suggestion she had made of going to art school in Paris had seemed like a good idea at the time, but once again her father had denied it. No daughter of his was going to waste her time daubing colours on paper, he said, though they both knew it wasn’t just the occupation that appalled him. He didn’t want her to be happy. He had made that blatantly plain. He only wanted to be rid of her, and her suggestion of coming here had suited him very well.

Pulpit Island. Holly sighed now, wondering rather bitterly whether Andrew Forsyth would have let her come here had he known she would not miss her life in England. She suspected he saw her confinement as a kind of punishment, but in fact they had been the happiest two years of her life.

She had always been happy here. When she was a child, her dearest memories had been of holidays spent on Pulpit Island with her grandparents. It was the one place where she had been accepted for herself, and not as her father’s daughter, and her mother’s parents had never blamed her for being the cause of their daughter’s death. Their deaths, soon after one another, when she was in her early teens, had left a void in her life, a void, she now realised, she had imagined Morgan Kane might fill. But he hadn’t. He had abandoned her just when she needed him most, and for that she could never forgive him.

It was not something she had brooded about over these past two years. Indeed, apart from the painful bitterness she had brought with her to the island, she had eventually succeeded in putting all thoughts of him out of her head. But when she got her father’s telegram, when she learned he was sending Morgan Kane to do his dirty work once again, her spirit had rebelled. She was a good-looking young woman, she knew that without any trace of conceit, and she also knew she was attractive to men. Even here, on Pulpit Island, where most of the men she met were either old or married, she was not unaware of her popularity, and it had come to her in a flash that she might be able to hurt both Morgan and her father. How furious Andrew Forsyth would be if his blameless personal assistant blotted his copy-book! Holly thought maliciously. And how delicious her revenge if she could make him forget his responsibilities.

She frowned momentarily as reason reared its ugly head. She suspected she was being overly romantic in imagining she could persuade a man like Morgan Kane to actually fall in love with her. He was so much older, after all, and obviously more experienced. Besides which, he had spent the last fifteen years visiting the most sophisticated capitals of the world and, although he had been married then, he had probably known lots of other women. He was an attractive man; more attractive than she remembered, she acknowledged ruefully, nibbling her thumb. Or perhaps she was looking at him differently now, knowing what was in her mind. It was a pity he was divorced, but that could not be helped. Her father would still be furious if Morgan made a fool of him.

Now, she cast a reflective glance along the balcony. Her father’s room—the room Morgan was occupying—opened on to this balcony, too. But there was no sign of life from his room as yet. The french doors were almost closed, and only the hem of the curtain, flapping in the breeze, gave any evidence that it was occupied.

Which was just as well, she decided, turning back into her bedroom. She wanted to have her swim, her breakfast, and be gone before he woke up. It would have been interesting to see his reaction when he discovered she was gone for the day, but unfortunately she could not be here to see it. Still, no doubt she would feel the aftermath when she got home that afternoon, and Lucinda could be relied upon to give her chapter and verse.

Two minutes later, a towel wrapped sarong-wise about her slim body, Holly ran down the steps to the beach. At this hour of the morning, the water was at its coolest, and it lapped about her deliriously as she dropped the towel and dived in. Swimming without the benefit of a bathing costume was something else she knew her father would abhor, and just occasionally she could see his point of view. But this bay was isolated; apart from herself and her servants there were no other inhabitants, and she and Samuel had swum together since they were children. Not that the Fletchers ever intruded on her privacy. In spite of the fact that they were like foster parents to her, they never took advantage of the fact. So far as she was concerned, it was an ideal arrangement, and if Morgan attempted to change it, he would find she was no longer the tongue-tied schoolgirl she used to be.

Fifteen minutes later, she squeezed the moisture out of her hair and, wrapping the towel around herself again, she returned to the house. ‘Just toast and coffee, Luci,’ she requested, putting her head round the kitchen door, and the housekeeper turned to look at her with undisguised disapproval.

‘You been swimming like that?’ she exclaimed, taking note of the towel, and Holly grimaced.

‘I always do.’

‘Not when we have guests you don’t,’ retorted Lucinda, with the familiarity of their closeness. ‘You know your Daddy’s room overlooks the bay, just as yours does. You want that assistant of your father’s to see you in the raw?’

‘If he cares to look,’ responded Holly irrepressibly, lifting one golden tanned shoulder. ‘Did you hear what I said? Just toast and coffee for breakfast. I want to have my meal and be out of here before Mr Morgan Kane shows his face.’

Lucinda looked, if anything, even more reproachful. ‘You ain’t going over to Charlottesville today!’ she protested fiercely. ‘Holly, you know that man’s come all this way to see you. You can’t just walk out on him. Not on his first day!’

‘Leave Mr Morgan Kane to me, will you, Luci?’ Holly suggested lightly. ‘Like I said, toast and coffee——’

‘I heard what you said,’ retorted Lucinda impatiently. She shook her head. ‘I don’t understand. Last night you seemed to be getting on with him real fine.’

‘Last night?’ Holly’s lips tilted. ‘Well, yes. But we didn’t do much talking over supper. Mr Kane was too tired, and as soon as we’d finished, he went to bed.’

‘I know that.’ Lucinda sniffed. ‘Oh, well. I suppose you know what you’re doing. But your Daddy’s not going to like this. He’s not going to like it at all.’

Holly merely smiled and withdrew, but her smile disappeared as she ran up the stairs. Thank heavens Andrew Forsyth had never had a telephone connected to the house. Pulpit Island was reassuringly remote, and by the time Morgan guessed what she was doing, it wouldn’t matter.

Although she normally took a shower after her swim, this morning she contented herself with simply washing her face and hands. The shower was noisy, and as it was next to Morgan’s room, she couldn’t afford the risk. Besides, she didn’t really have the time. In fifteen minutes she was downstairs again and seated at the kitchen table.

‘Your hair’s still wet,’ said Lucinda, maintaining her disapproval, and Holly ran careless fingers over the hastily tied pony-tail.

‘It will dry,’ she said, spreading butter and peach jam on her toast. ‘Did Micah check the radiator in the buggy? Yesterday it was running pretty hot.’

‘He checked it,’ said Lucinda laconically, apparently deciding she was wasting her time. ‘And will you pick up the oil from Parrish’s? As you’re going in anyway, it will save Micah a journey.’

‘I will.’ Holly added cream to her coffee and took a considering sip. She didn’t think she had forgotten anything. She had brought the exercise books downstairs the night before, and stowed them in her holdall in the hall. The text books she might need were already in there, along with the flask of iced tea Lucinda always made her.

‘What time will you be wanting supper this evening?’ asked the housekeeper now, folding her arms across her generous breasts. ‘You will be in for supper, won’t you? You ain’t planning on spending the evening with the Brents?’

‘Of course not.’ Holly’s eyes twinkled as she stuffed the remainder of the slice of toast into her mouth and sprang to her feet. ‘Now—you look after Mr Kane for me, won’t you?’ she added mischievously. ‘If he asks where I am, just tell him.’

‘Oh, thanks.’ Lucinda’s tone was full of irony. ‘That’s good to know. I don’t have to lie.’

‘Would I ask you to do a thing like that?’ asked Holly irrepressibly and, giving the black woman an affectionate hug, she sauntered out the door.

She met Micah in the cobbled yard at the back of the house. As well as attending to the upkeep of the house, he also looked after the two cars, shared garden duties with Samuel, and cared for the animals. As well as the chickens and two goats, Holly had also managed to rescue three of the horses from her grandfather’s stable. Left to run wild after her grandparent’s death, the two mares and one stallion had not been easy to tame. But, with Micah’s help, she had succeeded. Now, one of the mares had had a foal which Holly had called Hummingbird, and she could imagine what her father would say if he found out how she was spending the allowance he made her.

‘You leaving?’ Micah exclaimed in surprise when Holly shouldered her bag into the back of the little beach buggy, parked in the shade of a huge flame tree. ‘Does Mr Kane know where you’re going?’

‘No, he doesn’t,’ said Holly flatly, unwilling to get involved in another argument. ‘I’ll see you later, hmm? After I’ve been to Parrish’s.’

Micah’s wide nostrils flared, but he made no comment, and Holly gave him a rueful smile. ‘Trust me,’ she said, reaching out to touch his sleeve, and the man shook his head somewhat resignedly before raising his hand in farewell.

The journey to Charlottesville was not quite as enjoyable as it usually was. Although she knew a sense of satisfaction at having outwitted Morgan Kane for today at least, Holly was aware of a troublesome sense of conscience. She couldn’t afford to have a conscience, she told herself, as the buggy bounced its way along the forest track. People who wanted to succeed had to ignore the finer points of decency. Just because the Fletchers had some misguided notion that she should be polite to their visitor was no reason to be diverted from her purpose.

The road to Charlottesville took her through some of the most beautiful scenery on the island. For a while after leaving the overgrown plantation, her route took her along a bluff overlooking the jagged rocks of Angel’s Point. Once, when she was younger, she had asked her grandfather why the most dangerous part of the coastline should have been named Angel’s Point, and he had laughed. ‘Well, it’s to be hoped the poor devils went to the angels,’ he remarked, referring to the fishing boat which had floundered there only days before. ‘You wouldn’t want them going to the devil, now would you?’

From the point, the road turned inland again, skirting the sprawling mass of Pulpit rock before descending in a corkscrew to the little harbour town that nestled at its foot. Most of the residents of the island lived within a ten mile radius of Charlottesville, only the other planters like the Turners and the Brents having larger establishments further from town.

Holly was used to the road, which would have deterred the most enthusiastic of drivers, and reaching the comparatively gentle slopes above the harbour she drove more sedately to the Charlottesville Mission School. Here, she taught art and cookery three times a week, using the skills she had learned at the finishing school in Switzerland to teach boys as well as girls to appreciate the finer points of the culinary art. She doubted again whether her father would approve, but she didn’t really care. Teaching had given her back her confidence, had made her aware of her own worth as a human being, and erased the blank uncertainty that had coloured her early years.

The Charlottesville Mission School was not really a mission school at all. Not any longer. It was supported by the local education department and the church authorities and, as island schools went, it was very good. The children were taught arts and crafts, as well as more academic subjects, and the percentage of pupils who went on to do further education on one of the larger islands was quite high. Holly had been teaching at the school for almost eighteen months now, ever since Stephen Brent had visited the house and seen her paintings.

The Brents and the Gantrys were the oldest families on the island. When Holly visited the island as a child, her grandmother used to take her to visit the Brents, and she and Stephen, and his younger sister, Constance, had all been friends. By the time Holly returned to the island however, Stephen’s father was dead, too, and Stephen had married Verity Turner.

Even so, they were still friends, and it was Stephen who had suggested Holly should offer her talents to the education authorities. Although the Brent plantation was not in such a run-down state as the Gantry’s, he himself spent four mornings a week at the school, teaching English and history, and their liking for one another had been cemented by their mutual interests.

Stephen’s car was already parked on the dusty lot beside the schoolhouse when Holly drove the buggy in to join it. Although it was barely eight o’clock, school started early in the islands and, apart from a fifteen-minute break mid-morning, it continued, uninterrupted, until two o’clock.

As she got out of the buggy, Holly paused a moment to look at the view. She often did so thinking, as she did now, what an ideal location it was. Set above the harbour, with waving pandanus palms as a backcloth, and the sloping roofs of the little town sweeping down to the mast-dotted careenage below, it was an infinitely pleasant place to be, and she appreciated her good fortune. Determinedly putting all thoughts of her father and Morgan Kane to the back of her mind, she hoisted out her bag and crossed the sun-baked parking area. mounting the steps that led into the building with a slightly lighter heart.

She found Stephen in her classroom, propped against her desk, examining the sketches she had drawn for the play the children were hoping to produce at Easter. In his middle twenties, Stephen Brent was everything Morgan Kane was not, she thought reluctantly, despising herself for allowing that man’s image to intrude yet again. Sturdily built, and about her own height, with curly brown hair and blue eyes, he was different in every way from the lean, dark-haired Englishman. Morgan Kane would top him, as he did her, by at least four inches, and whereas Stephen was broad and muscular, Morgan looked nothing like an athlete. Yet, for all that, he did have a toughness the West Indian lacked, a rapier-honed hardness that shortened the odds between them considerably. Holly suspected it was the life he had led—the constant changes from one time zone to another; the shortage of sleep; the hastily snatched meals; the ravages of junk food and alcohol, and too many late nights. But whatever it was, in any physical contest between them she would be loath not to choose Morgan as the victor; the simple result of any conflict between a sleekly fed tabby and an alley cat.

Ignoring the small voice inside her that probed her reasons for even contemplating such an eventuality, Holly walked firmly into the schoolroom and dropped her bag on the desk. ‘Good morning,’ she said, easing the straps off her aching shoulders, and Stephen looked up.

‘Hi,’ he said, surveying her somewhat windswept appearance with evident enjoyment. ‘You look ready for anything. What happened? Didn’t your visitor arrive?’

‘Oh, he arrived all right.’ Holly flopped down on to one of the children’s chairs and pulled a face. ‘How could you think otherwise? He is my father’s creature, after all.’

Stephen looked sympathetic. ‘And have you decided what you’re going to do?’ He frowned. ‘You’re not leaving, are you?’

Holly sighed. ‘I don’t know. It—depends.’

‘On what?’ Stephen put the sketches aside and straightened away from the desk. ‘Surely your father can’t make you do anything you don’t want to. You’re over eighteen, Holly.’

‘I know.’ She grimaced. ‘But it’s not that simple. I may be five thousand miles from England, but I’m still living in my father’s house.’

‘Mm.’ Stephen grunted. ‘That’s what’s so bloody unfair. I’m sure the Gantrys didn’t intend Andrew Forsyth to get control of their property.’

‘No.’ Holly shrugged. ‘Perhaps not. But they did give it to my mother before she died, never dreaming she would pre-decease them.’

‘And your father inherited,’ muttered Stephen grimly, shaking his head. ‘It’s barbaric!’

‘Yes—well—’ Holly made a dismissing gesture. ‘That’s all past history now. The house does belong to my father and there’s nothing I can do about it. Not to mention the fact that my salary here is hardly enough to live on.’

‘Money!’ Stephen’s jaw hardened. ‘It all comes down to money, doesn’t it? I bet that spineless pimp Forsyth has sent out to do his dirty work for him gets a damn sight more than you do!’

‘I—wouldn’t call Morgan Kane a spineless pimp,’ murmured Holly reluctantly. ‘Really. He’s quite—nice.’

The word almost stuck in her throat, but it occurred to her that she might need Stephen’s help to accomplish her purpose, and he would never agree to be a willing party to her subterfuge.

‘Nice!’ he echoed now, his lips twisting. ‘Holly, how can you say the man is nice? He’s a puppet! A yes-man! You said yourself he was your father’s creature.’

‘Well, yes, he is.’ Holly licked her lips. ‘But what else can he do, when all’s said and done? My father is his employer, and—he does have a family to support.’

‘You sound like you’re defending him,’ said Stephen coldly. ‘Are you saying integrity has a price?’

Holly lifted a hand, palm outward, and rose abruptly to her feet. ‘I’m only saying he has a job to do, and he’s doing it. Be reasonable, Steve. I don’t suppose you’re proud of everything you’ve done in the cause of the Great God Mammon. I seem to remember the case of a family your father had evicted, just to appease Horace Turner.’

Stephen hunched his shoulders. ‘That was different.’

‘How was it different?’

‘Turner was threatening to cut off our water supply, you know that. If he had, countless other families would have been affected.’

‘So you consider the end justified the means?’

‘In that case, yes.’

‘Oh, Steve!’ Holly gazed at him impatiently. ‘Can’t you see? Put Morgan’s family in the place of your employees, and what have you got? An identical situation!’

‘That was a long time ago, Holly.’

‘I know.’ Holly gave him a wry smile. ‘Since when, you’ve married Verity Turner, and secured your irrigation rights.’

Stephen turned red. ‘That wasn’t why I married Verity, and you know it.’

‘That’s not what you said two weeks ago, when you drove me home from your house,’ Holly reminded him flatly. Then, relenting, she ran her fingers lightly over the sun-bleached hairs on his arm. ‘Oh—I’m sorry,’ she said, realising she was being abominably cruel to someone who had always treated her with tenderness and affection. ‘I don’t mean to be bitchy, but you rubbed me up the wrong way. Just don’t judge Morgan so harshly. He’s only earning his salary.’

‘You sound as if you’re attracted to the man,’ muttered Stephen grudgingly, his eyes moving possessively over the honey-gold skin exposed by her button-through poplin tunic. ‘Since when did you call him by his first name? You always used to refer to him as Mr Kane.’

Holly had hardly been aware she had said Morgan, and now she found her own colour deepening. ‘I mean—Morgan Kane, of course,’ she said shortly, turning her attention to the contents of her holdall. ‘Look, I really ought to be getting these things sorted out. The children are starting to arrive.’

Sure enough, a handful of boys and girls had already gathered in the playground, and Stephen regarded their presence with some impatience. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I realise we haven’t got time to talk now, but in spite of everything, I want you to know I meant what I said.’

Holly stacked a pile of exercise books on the desk. ‘Steve——’

‘I mean it.’ His hands clenched and she knew that, were their conversation not being monitored by a dozen pairs of dark eyes, he would have been more forceful. ‘No matter how amusing it might seem to you, I do care about you, Holly. I wasn’t just—making a pass, when I drove you home the other evening. All right, maybe my father did have something to do with my marrying Verity, but I did think I loved her then. It was only when you came back to the island—when I saw you again——’

‘What’s going on in here?’

To Holly’s relief, Stephen’s impassioned outburst was stemmed by the arrival of a third party. Paul Bergerac was another of the teachers at the school, an ex-pupil himself, who had continued his education in the United States and returned to the island a year ago to join the staff. He came into the room now, his dark face alight with curiosity, and Holly had the greatest difficulty in finding a suitable excuse.

‘Oh—Steve and I were just discussing the play,’ she tendered at last into the awkward silence that had fallen. ‘I—er—I’ve made some sketches of the costumes I think we’ll need, and we were wondering whether we’ll be able to find what we need in Charlottesv——’

‘Bullshit!’

Stephen’s angry protest interrupted the explanation she was giving and, while Holly looked aghast at Paul’s grinning face, the other man charged out of the room.

‘Oh, dear!’ Paul was the first to recover himself, and his teasing smile was reassuring. ‘Methinks, the game’s afoot!’ he misquoted, deliberately mixing his lines. ‘Our chief of men has been sent about with a flea in his ear!’

Holly shook her head. ‘It’s no joke, Paul. You don’t understand.’

‘I understand that he’s in love with you—or thinks he is,’ he retorted softly. ‘We all are, you shameless wench!’ He chuckled. ‘So, put us out of our misery: which of us are you going to choose?’

‘Oh, Paul!’ A reluctant smile lifted the anxious corners of her mouth. ‘What would I do without you?’

‘Mon plaisir, mademoiselle,’ he responded gallantly, effecting an exaggerated bow. ‘Now, shall we invite the pupils inside or shan’t we? After all that drama, I don’t know if I can keep my mind on something as ordinary as work!’

In spite of Holly’s misgivings over the conversation she had had with Stephen, the morning passed without incident. Her painting lessons with the younger children and more advanced charcoal sketching with the older ones took her up to break, and afterwards two cookery classes completed her schedule. She also helped Hannah Dessai, the sports mistress, with her games instruction, and made preparatory lists of the scenery they would need for the coming production. The school was like that. Although the staff had regular duties, they all took a part in the general running of the establishment. There were no lines of demarcation here. They all wanted to do the best they could for the eighty or so pupils.

To her relief, Stephen did not attempt to speak to her again privately before she left for home. At break, he was his usual friendly self, and she hoped she showed by her attitude that she appreciated his restraint. In all honesty, she had never taken Stephen seriously before. She had treated his overtures of affection with the inconsequence she had thought he expected, and she had been stunned to learn he had taken her remarks to heart. No doubt it was her fault, she sighed. She had initiated his declaration. But his hypocrisy had irritated her, and she had used the only means at her disposal to prick his pompous balloon.

The headmaster, Gerald Frost, caught her just as she was leaving. ‘Oh, Miss Forsyth,’ he said, loping across the car park towards her, his cassock flapping in the breeze. ‘Could I have a word with you? It is rather important.’

‘Of course,’ said Holly, turning from loading her belongings into the buggy. She hoped it was nothing to do with Stephen. It would be terribly embarrassing if he had confided his feelings to someone else.

As well as being in charge of the small school, Reverend Frost was a minister of the Methodist church. A graduate of Trinity College, Oxford, he could have enjoyed a more academic career, but twenty years ago he had come to the island for a holiday and decided to stay. A shy man, he had never married, and his spare, angular figure was a familiar sight in Charlottesville. Paul always said—rather irreverently—that he wore his ecclesiastical robes like an actor wore his costume: because they provided a character he could hide behind.

‘I’m so glad I caught you, Miss Forsyth,’ he said now, panting a little as he came up to her. ‘You’re not in tomorrow, are you? Isn’t it one of your free days?’

‘That’s right.’ Holly nodded, still somewhat apprehensive. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘It’s more in the nature of what I might be able to do for you,’ murmured the headmaster ruefully. ‘Stephen tells me you may be leaving.’

‘Oh——’ Holly’s tongue circled her upper lip. ‘Well, nothing’s been decided yet.’

‘No. So I understand.’ Reverend Frost took a deep breath. ‘But, if I were to speak to your father, explain what valuable work you’re doing here, he might conceivably look more favourably on your desire to stay.’

Holly hesitated. ‘What exactly did Stephen tell you, Reverend Frost?’

‘Oh—only that your father is eager for you to return to London, and that you don’t want to go.’ He sighed. ‘I can understand how he feels, of course. Your father, I mean. He must miss you terribly. I know I—we—would, if you were to leave.’

‘Thank you.’ Holly gave him a grateful smile. His suggestion was well meant, but she doubted it would carry much weight with Andrew Forsyth. Nevertheless, it was kind of him to make her feel wanted. It was not a sensation she had often experienced in her short life.

Looking into the minister’s concerned face, she reflected on the irony that this man was probably only a couple of years older than Morgan Kane. Yet, she never thought of Reverend Frost as an equal. In all honesty, she seldom thought of him as a man at all. Not that he was at all effeminate, but simply because his sex was usually obscured by the character he had created for himself.

‘Well, anyway,’ he added now, ‘if there is anything I can do, you have only to ask me.’ A trace of colour entered his face, accentuating the freckles that arched across the bridge of his nose. ‘I—we’re all very fond of you, my dear. In a comparatively short space of time, you’ve become an integral part of our community.’

CHAPTER THREE

IT was almost four o’clock by the time Holly got back to the house. Calling for the oil at the chandlery had taken longer than she had anticipated, Mr Parrish insisting she couldn’t leave without taking a glass of his home-made maubi. Although it was supposed to be non-alcoholic, the cocktail, derived from boiling tree bark, nutmeg and cinnamon, and adding it to a mixture of seagrape juice, ginger and cloves, was very potent, and Holly felt decidedly heady as she drove into the stable yard.

Still, it was not an unpleasant feeling, she reflected, lugging her heavy bag to the back door. In spite of her bravado, she had not been looking forward to facing Morgan Kane on her return. Now, however, she felt agreeably anaesthetised, and if her father’s satellite was waiting for her, breathing fire, then she was suitably fortified against his wrath.

But to her surprise, and annoyance, Morgan was not there. ‘He found that old sailing dinghy in the boat-house,’ Lucinda informed her, not without a trace of smugness, lifting scones off the griddle on to a wire tray. ‘Soon as he knew you wouldn’t be back until this afternoon, he rigged up the sail and took himself off across the bay. I gave him a packed lunch, of course. So’s he wouldn’t get hungry.’

‘How kind.’ Holly’s sarcasm was palpable. ‘Who told him where the boat-house was?’

‘No one did.’ Lucinda shrugged. ‘It’s big enough to see. ain’t it? And what with that hole rotting in the side, that padlock your Daddy put on it ain’t much use.’ She paused. ‘Surely you don’t mind, Holly. I can tell you, Mr Kane ain’t the kind of man to sit around all day waiting for no woman.’

‘Is that so?’ Holly’s lower lip jutted truculently. ‘Well, I’m pleased to hear you’ve changed your mind about him. My father would be proud of you. It’s exactly what he wanted.’

Lucinda straightened from the table, her dark eyes flashing indignantly. ‘You’ve got no call to talk to me like that,’ she exclaimed hotly. ‘I’m not saying I like the man, and goodness knows, I don’t want him whisking you off to London, you know that. But I did warn you it wasn’t wise to antagonise him. He looked pretty tight-lipped when I told him where you’d gone.’

‘Did he?’ Holly’s impatience with the housekeeper evaporated, and with a rueful gesture she put her arm around Lucinda’s neck and hugged her. ‘I’m sorry. I’m being totally unreasonable. But whenever my father takes a hand in my life, it’s a disaster!’

‘You can hardly blame your father for you jumping to the wrong conclusions,’ pointed out Lucinda mildly, but she returned the girl’s embrace and gently stroked her cheek. ‘Now—I suggest you go and take a shower and tidy yourself up before Mr Kane gets back. Maybe if you take a bit of trouble with yourself, he’ll overlook the fact that you’ve deliberately avoided him all day.’

Holly agreed, albeit for different motives and, after dumping her bag in her father’s study, she went up to her room. She usually dawdled on the way, surveying her surroundings with loving eyes, but not today. For the first time, she was struck by the shabbiness of the paintwork, by the scars that marred the once-unblemished carvings, and by the worn patches in curtains which were probably older than she was. It was not an easy thing to admit, but she realised she was seeing the house with Morgan Kane’s eyes. She despised herself for doing so, but she could no longer ignore the evidence before her. His intrusion had brought her back to the twentieth century as she used to know it; to thoughts of renovation and interior decoration; to a dissatisfaction with the house’s neglect, and a latent desire to restore it to its former glory.

Not that she could ever have changed things on her own. The money her father sent her, and which she lavished so recklessly on the horses, would hardly have made an impression on the extensive repairs that were required. To restore even part of the house would have taken more than her yearly allowance, and she had long since learned not to ask her father for help. But that didn’t help her now, when acceptance was giving way to frustration. Damn Morgan Kane, she thought. Damn him for coming here, and making her aware of the neglect. She had been contented enough until he made his entrance.

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