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.

Images of Love
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

THROUGHOUT the journey, Mark had been abnormally quiet for him, and while the ocean beneath the powerful aircraft changed from silver-grey to turquoise blue, Tobie had plenty of time to re-examine her feelings. She wasn’t just using Mark as an instrument of revenge, she told herself fiercely, she really cared about him, and her only reasons for agreeing to this trip were the usual ones of wanting to see his home and meet his mother. It was not an attempt to get even with anyone, and no matter what Laura might say, she was only trying to find the happiness that had so long been denied her. If—and here she allowed a tiny grain of self-justification to creep in —if she did feel a trace of mild self-satisfaction at the prospect of confronting Robert again, that was surely forgivable. After all, she had nothing to be ashamed of, and if she gave him a few uncomfortable moments, so much the better after the trauma she had gone through. It would be undeniably good to let him see that she had quite recovered from that wild infatuation, and she could even be grateful now that their relationship had not been legalised. A marriage, albeit a broken one, would have been that much harder to explain to Mark. As it was, he only knew there had once been someone else, but not that person’s identity. It was a gamble, of course, taking the chance that Robert would not betray her, but as it would also mean betraying his brother, she felt reasonably confident.

Nevertheless, she could still hear her sister’s shocked reaction when she first learned who Mark really was.

‘So you’re actually going to Emerald Cay to see Robert Lang again!’ Laura had accused angrily. ‘Oh, Tobie, how can you? Hasn’t he humiliated you enough? What are you—one of those girls who enjoys punishment?’

‘Of course not.’ Tobie had denied the indictment indignantly. ‘That would be foolish, wouldn’t it? You know I care for Mark now. I’m going to Emerald Cay with him—to meet his mother. Whatever was between Robert and me is over.’

‘But you do expect to see him, don’t you?’ Laura had persisted impatiently. ‘How do you think he’s going to react when he finds out who you are?’

‘I imagine he knows,’ Tobie retorted tautly, bending her head so that the silken weight of straight dark hair fell about her ears. ‘After all, Mark and I are practically engaged! And my name’s not so common. I should think Robert realised from the beginning, but do you honestly think he could come right out and say I’m the girl he virtually abandoned?’

Laura sighed, staring at her younger sister with troubled anxious eyes. ‘Even so,’ she said doubtfully, ‘the man’s unscrupulous, Tobie. We both know that. And this is his home you’re invading. Emerald Cay belongs to him, doesn’t it?’

‘I believe so.’ Tobie had shrugged, hoping to conclude the conversation. ‘He went to live there—oh, about three years ago. Just after—just after the accident.’

Laura shook her head. ‘Tobie! Change your mind. Don’t go. This trip—it isn’t good for you, I know it. You’re recovered now, I know, but I just feel it in my bones—you’re playing with fire! Tell Mark you can’t go. Give yourself more time. Don’t risk everything again…’

‘It’s no risk, Laura.’ Tobie had spoken purposely lightly, but as the blue-green waters of the Caribbean unfolded beneath her, she wished she still felt so sure.

‘We’re almost there, darling.’

Mark’s voice spoke near her ear, his breath fanning the tender lip of flesh, its warmth melting the chilling goosebumps that had unexpectedly appeared. It restored her sense of balance, reminding her that she was not alone any more, reassuring her of his love and affection. She had been uncertain about the trip in the beginning, but Mark’s eagerness had persuaded her, and if she was going to marry him, sooner or later she would have to meet the other members of his family.

‘You seem—anxious,’ he said now, touching her chin, turning her face to his. ‘You’ve no reason to be. My mother’s going to love you. And Rob—’ Tobie stiffened. ‘Well, I guess we can talk about Rob tonight.’

His words had a slightly ominous ring, and Tobie’s confidence faltered. ‘Tonight?’ she echoed, and Mark touched her nose with a playful finger.

‘You know we’re spending tonight in Castries,’ he reminded her, mentioning the name of the island capital of St Lucia, the nearest large island to Emerald Cay, but Tobie was still apprehensive.

‘Why—why should we have to talk about—about your half-brother?’ she persisted, circling her dry lips with her tongue, and with a sigh Mark relaxed back in his seat.

‘I’ve been trying to think of a way to explain him to you,’ he confessed, unknowingly supplying the reason why Tobie had thought he had been unusually silent during the flight. ‘Rob—well, Rob can be a law unto himself, and it isn’t always enough just to put it down to his artistic temperament.’

Tobie’s palms smoothed the arms of her seat. ‘No?’

‘No.’

She hesitated. ‘You’re—you’re saying—he’s conceited?’

‘Hell, no!’ Mark was swift to deny this. ‘No one could call my brother conceited. But he can be rude—ignorant—bloody-minded, if you like. He—well, he doesn’t always mince his words.’ He sighed. ‘He used not to be like that. I mean,’ he hastened on quickly, ‘he never suffered fools gladly, if you know what I mean, but since the accident—’

Tobie drew in an unsteady breath. ‘I thought he got over that.’

‘He did.’ Mark sighed again. ‘At least, as well as anyone could who was left in a wheelchair—’

‘A wheelchair!’ Tobie was all attention now, turning to stare at him with wide disbelieving eyes. ‘Robert’s disabled!’

‘Don’t use that word to him, honey, will you?’ Mark advised her gently. ‘It’s not the sort of term you use where my brother is concerned. He’s not an invalid, or so he says, he’s only—somewhat incapacitated.’

Tobie could feel all the colour draining out of her face, and it was all she could do not to turn to Mark and beg him to take back his words. But she could say nothing. So far as Mark was concerned, she had not even met his brother, and although his revelation was both terrible and shocking, she must somehow sustain it without giving in to the shaking disbelief that gripped her. Yet she could hardly think straight as images of the man he had been flashed before her eyes. Robert—in a wheelchair! Robert—without the use of his legs! Robert, who had loved walking and driving, swimming and dancing …

‘I know it’s not generally known, that’s why I wanted to warn you.’ Fortunately Mark had warmed to his subject, and was paying her scant attention at the moment. ‘That was Rob’s idea, of course. If there’s one thing he can’t stand, it’s sympathy, and you can imagine the worldwide reaction if it was discovered that Robert Lang had been crippled in a car crash. That was why he bought Emerald Cay, why he’s dropped his public image. Not because he wanted to devote more time to his painting.’

Tobie felt totally drained of energy. Her whole body had slumped in her seat, and even her ankles felt weak. She couldn’t believe it; she simply couldn’t believe it. It explained so many things, and yet left so many others unexplained.

‘Anyway, it’s not so bad now,’ Mark added thoughtfully. ‘I mean, he still has the wheelchair around, but it’s not his only means of getting about. He manages pretty well on sticks these days. Not that he advertises that fact either. It’s a bit of a struggle, if you know what I mean, and like I said, Rob hates sympathy.’

Then, as if just realising that after her first horrified reaction Tobie had said nothing, he half turned towards her, grimacing when he saw her white face.

‘Hey,’ he exclaimed generously, ‘there’s no need for you to feel so badly, honey. I know you’re a fan of his and all, but really, it hasn’t affected his work, and that’s the important thing, isn’t it? You’ve seen his latest exhibition. His talent’s still as great as it ever was.’

Tobie knew she had to say something, but the words were so hard to articulate. ‘It—I—you should have told me sooner, Mark,’ she got out at last. ‘I—I don’t know what to say.’

‘Does it matter?’ Mark made a sound of impatience. ‘Come on! It’s nothing to do with us, is it? I just didn’t want you to—well, say something you might regret.’

‘Regret?’ Tobie echoed weakly, wishing suddenly that she had listened to Laura.

‘Seeing him in a wheelchair for the first time,’ Mark explained softly. ‘I don’t want you to be hurt. And Rob can be so damned sarcastic to people who show any sign of compassion!’

‘Can he?’

Tobie felt totally incapable of handling the situation. She only knew that if she had known about this before leaving London, she would never have agreed to come. She didn’t know why exactly. It didn’t change anything, so far as she and Mark were concerned. But somehow her presence seemed ghoulish now, an unwanted and unwarranted reminder of the past; and while she admitted that her feelings for Robert had died on the operating table more than three years ago, she was loath to arouse emotions that could only cause him bitterness.

‘You knew about the accident,’ Mark probed now, and she managed to nod. It would have been foolish to state otherwise. It had been in all the papers, and as Mark had said, she was a fan. ‘Anyway, it all happened a long time ago,’ he reassured her, and she guessed his patience was wearing a little thin. ‘There’s no reason for you to get upset about it. It was his own fault. He was driving too fast as usual. That damned car of his—’ He shook his head. ‘Who needs a car that can do nearly two hundred miles an hour on roads where the speed limit is seventy?’

Tobie swallowed convulsively. ‘Some—some people like fast cars,’ she offered feebly, remembering the Porsche only too well. She remembered, too, the reason he had been driving fast, and that last terrible row before he left her …

‘If you had to patch them up afterwards, perhaps you wouldn’t speak so carelessly,’ Mark remarked now, his tone full of indignation. ‘We see them all at the hospital. Young men, girls, kids, most of them, with too much power under the bonnet and too little grey matter in their skulls. Losing a leg or an arm, or their sight. And they’re the lucky ones. Paralysis is the most likely result, and believe me, it’s not a pretty sight.’

Tobie shook her head. ‘I—I didn’t mean—’

‘I know you didn’t.’ Mark’s smile suddenly illuminated his fair handsome face. ‘I guess Rob’s accident happened around the time we first met, didn’t it? And at that time you were in no fit state to be aware of anyone’s troubles but your own.’

No fit state …

Hysteria swelled inside her. If he only knew, she thought sickly. If he ever found out …

‘Not that I was involved with his recovery,’ Mark continued. ‘He wasn’t a patient of mine.’ He shrugged. ‘There was one consolation, though. It did bring him and my mother together again. You don’t know this, but before the accident they were a little less than close!’

Tobie bent her head. She wondered how Mark would react if she told him that she had known that. That in fact she had been staggered when she learned that after all that Robert had told her about his mother, he had actually forgiven her at last. He had always maintained that would never happen. But circumstances alter cases, she thought unsteadily, the weight of what she had learned bearing heavily on her.

‘So …’ Mark’s smile appeared again, ‘I’ve told you. I knew I’d have to, but—well, it’s not easy, destroying an ideal.’

An ideal! Tobie turned to stare out of the window, and as she did so, the stewardess advised the passengers to fasten their safety belts and put out their cigarettes ready for landing at Hewanorra airport. Was that how Mark imagined she thought of his brother? How differently he would have felt if he had known the truth. And how differently might she have reacted if she had suspected that Robert had not made a complete recovery?

The hotel in Castries was air-conditioned and very comfortable, and Tobie had no objections when Mark suggested that they rested for a couple of hours before dinner. It had been a long flight, and a long drive, and although it was only early evening in the Caribbean, her body told her it was much later in London.

Mark had booked adjoining rooms, but as yet he had not tried to force their relationship. He wanted to make love to her, she knew that, but being a doctor, he was also aware of the reasons why she had refused to allow him to do so. Since Robert, since the emotional impact of what had happened to her, she found it incredibly difficult to relate to any man in a physical way, and Mark was sensible enough to see that if he compelled her to respond to him, he might destroy the tenuous thread he had constructed. So they remained friends, but not lovers in the true sense of the word, and Tobie believed they were closer than she and Robert had ever been.

Lying on her bed, however, with the blinds drawn against the lighted street outside, and the steady hum of the hotel drifting irresistibly to her ears, she found it impossible to relax. Everything Mark had told her went round and round in her head, until she felt almost dizzy with the perplexity of her thoughts. Robert was an invalid, or he was crippled, at least. All those nightmares she had had during her illness, the women she had used to torment herself he was spending his nights with, had only existed in her imagination. She could understand why Mark had felt it necessary to warn her about the uncertainty of his moods. Robert had always been an arrogant devil, and even now she found it almost impossible to picture him any other way.

She remembered the first time she had met him, when he came striding into the gallery where she worked. Her boss, Vincent Thomas, was staging one of his exhibitions, but she had not known that the tall lean stranger in the shabby denim shirt and jeans was Robert Lang. All she had seen was a man in his early thirties, a dark man, with untidy black hair, and skin with an olive cast. She had at first taken him for an intruder, not altogether trusting the way his dark eyes had swiftly appraised the layout of the gallery, and the general accessibility of the paintings, half suspecting he was checking the place out with criminal intent. Even when the dark eyes turned in her direction, and she found her own body betraying the dictates of her common sense, she was loath to admit that she found him disturbing, but when he spoke she was incapable of voicing any reproof. Robert had an attractive voice, low and mellow, with just a hint of the humour he had possessed in such measure, providing a lighter tone. And her nervousness had amused him, she had known that, even before he spoke to her and asked her who she was.

She had answered him. How could she not? She was in charge of the gallery in Vincent’s absence, and for all she knew, this man might be a valued customer. But when it became apparent that he was more interested in her than the paintings, she had made a polite withdrawal, leaving him to browse around alone.

He was gone before Vincent returned, and although she knew she ought to mention the suspicious circumstances of his visit, she was curiously unwilling to do so. Instead she kept the encounter to herself, and worried herself sick that night in case there should be a break-in.

The following afternoon he was waiting for her when she left her office. She hardly recognised him in a well cut navy lounge suit, but when she did, she was astounded at his audacity. All her earlier doubts returned, and she convinced herself he intended to incriminate her in some plot to rob the gallery.

His suggestion that she joined him for a drink before going home both excited and frightened her. She wanted to go with him, she knew that, but she also believed she was playing with fire, though how much, she had yet to learn.

In the event, she had agreed to accompany him to a club nearby, the exclusiveness of its clientele only occurring to her when she was seated on a plush stool at the bar. It was difficult to think of anything with his dark eyes playing lazily over her face, lingering longer than was necessary on her mouth, before returning to tantalise the darting uncertainty of hers. She had never met anyone quite like him before, and her lips twisted now when she remembered how naïve she must have seemed.

‘Tell me about yourself,’ he prompted, when she had taken possession of a tall glass of Campari soda—her choice, not his—and she had found herself explaining that although she had been born in Northumberland, since her parents’ death two years ago she had been living with her married sister, Laura, in Wimbledon.

‘And you’ve worked at the gallery how long?’ he probed, studying her expression, and she admitted she had only been there a little over six months, having spent her first year in London, taking a secretarial course.

‘I thought I hadn’t seen you there before,’ he remarked, surprising her, and Tobie thought it was time she asked some questions of her own.

‘What—er—what do you do, Mr—Mr—’ she had begun awkwardly, realising she didn’t even know his name, and his dark brows had drawn together aggressively.

‘You mean you don’t know?’ he asked, his expression coldly sceptical, and she had had her first glimpse of another side to his character.

‘No,’ she insisted, glancing uneasily about her. ‘Why should I?’

Robert had looked at her sharply, as if gauging her sincerity, and then, without provocation, he demanded: ‘So what the hell are you doing, accepting invitations from strange men? Didn’t that sister of yours tell you anything?’

His attack was so unexpected, Tobie was stunned by it. One minute they had been sitting enjoying a quiet drink together, and the next his dark face was contorted with anger, his lips thin and impatient. More than anything, it convinced her of the veracity of his words, and she fumbled desperately for her handbag, jumping down from her stool, and charging out of the club as if the devil himself was at her heels.

And he was—or so she thought when Robert caught up with her in the narrow side street adjoining the main thoroughfare. His face was grim and unrepentant, and the fingers that closed over her wrist were as hard and relentless as any tool of torture might be.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he had exhorted, swinging her round to face him, and despite her tearful mortification, the desire to leave him melted beneath the powerful attraction he exerted.

‘I—I—’ she stammered helplessly, unable to find the words to express her consternation, and with a shake of his head he had pulled her closer to him and bent his mouth to hers.

She thought at first he had intended to kiss her as a form of punishment, a way of avenging himself for her embarrassing departure from the club, but it didn’t work out that way at all. From the minute his lips touched hers everything changed, and what had begun as a tentative caress deepened into a passionate embrace. The fact that they were standing in a street—albeit a quiet one—in broad daylight, meant nothing to Tobie. She had lost all sense of time and consequence, and when he finally lifted his head she was weak with emotion.

‘Come on,’ he had said, in a husky voice, urging her forward along the pavement, and she went with him, making no objection when they came to where a low steel-grey sports car was parked, and he put her into the front seat, before striding round the bonnet to get in beside her …

‘Can’t you sleep?’

Mark’s concerned voice broke into her reverie, and she turned almost guiltily to find him behind her. She had been so far from this colourful little island that it was incredibly difficult to reorientate herself. She stared at him blankly for several seconds before recovering her composure, and was grateful for his obtuseness when he added gently:

‘It’s the jet lag, isn’t it? It takes some getting used to. You’re tired, but you feel you shouldn’t be, isn’t that right? It’s a kind of mental hurdle, and it affects different people different ways. Personally, I find the atmosphere here makes me feel rather sleepy, and I never have any trouble adjusting to the time change.’

Tobie bent her head. ‘How lucky for you,’ she commented, and fortunately Mark didn’t hear the irony in her tone. Nevertheless, the fact that it was there at all troubled her, and she felt the start of a headache hammering at her temples. It was the thought of tomorrow, she realised uneasily, the thought of going to Emerald Cay and meeting Robert again, with the awareness of his condition like a Damoclean sword hanging over her head.

‘We could make love,’ Mark murmured now, sliding his arms about her waist and drawing her closer to him, but as usual, Tobie panicked at the possessive touch of his hands. There were times, like this, when she wondered if she would be able to respond to any man again, and her words were sharper than they might have been because of her uncertainty.

‘Oh, not now, Mark!’ she exclaimed, releasing herself without consideration for his feelings, her sense of guilt redoubling at the awareness of the pain she was inflicting. ‘I—want to take a shower, and get changed for dinner. Do you mind?’

Mark hesitated. ‘Is something wrong?’ he asked perceptively, alerted by her nervousness, and with a sigh she spread her hands.

‘I’ve got a headache, if you must know,’ she admitted unwillingly. ‘I—I’ve had it since we got off the plane. I’m sorry if I’m bad company, but it really is painful.’

‘Hey, why didn’t you say?’ Mark disappeared back into his own room to reappear a few moments later with a bottle of tablets. ‘Here, swallow a couple of these. They’ll take care of the headache, and the jet lag. Take a cool shower, and I’ll meet you in the bar downstairs in half an hour. I promise you, you’ll feel a different woman.’

Tobie wished she could feel as sure, but she thanked him for his kindness, bestowing a warm kiss of appeasement on his mouth before he departed once more. ‘I don’t deserve you, do you know that?’ she murmured, touching his cheek with wondering fingers, and he captured them and carried them to his mouth before wishing her a gruff farewell.

The twin-engined Cessna made its approach to the tiny airstrip on Emerald Cay at eleven o’clock the following morning. As it circled the small island, Mark pointed out the places of interest to Tobie, leaning past her to indicate the whereabouts of his brother’s villa, and to share her admiration of the shimmering green waters of the lagoon.

‘The reef provides a natural barrier to intruders,’ he remarked, drawing her attention to its exposed teeth. ‘There’s one point of access, below the villa. Rob had an entry blasted in the coral so that his yacht can get in and out, but otherwise …’ He shrugged.

Tobie digested this. So Robert had a yacht. It was probably one of those motor yachts, the luxurious kind she had seen in the harbour at Castries that morning, not one of the tall-masted sailing vessels, whose sails looked so picturesque against the azure blue waters of the ocean. Robert had always loved speed, and Mark had told her that some of them could do thirty knots.

‘How many people live on the island?’ she asked now, trying to compose herself for their arrival, and Mark frowned.

‘Let me see—well, there’s Monique and Henri. They’re the married couple who look after the villa. Monique does most of the cooking and cleaning, and Henri looks after the garden. My mother instructs them, of course. She’s Rob’s housekeeper.’

‘I see.’ Tobie digested this. ‘And—and that’s all?’

‘No. There are one or two of Monique and Henri’s offspring about the place. I think their eldest son is married, and he and his wife live down near the harbour and look after the boats. Then there’s Harvey Jennings, of course. He and his daughter live on the far side of the island. Rob bought the place from them, and he lets them stay here free gratis.’

Tobie glanced at him. ‘You don’t like them?’ she asked, responding to the censure in his voice, and Mark shrugged again.

‘I don’t like Harvey,’ he admitted. ‘He’s a sponger, always making out he’s hard up. He relies on Rob far too much. Cilla—well, she’s all right. Quite a nice girl, actually. She’s often at the villa. My mother likes her too. I know that Cilla comes over for different reasons, but there you are. Rob’s a likeable character.’

He shrugged, but it wasn’t difficult to understand his meaning, and Tobie was appalled by her own reactions to it. Even after all this time, she could still feel the agony of Robert’s desertion, and she doubted coming here was going to blunt the pain.

The aircraft landed, and Mark went to bid farewell to their pilot. He had introduced him to Tobie as Jim Matheson, and as they crossed the airstrip he explained that Robert and the pilot owned the plane jointly.

‘It’s a small business venture,’ he remarked, glancing back at the blue and white Cessna glinting in the sunlight. ‘They own half a dozen of these small aircraft, hiring them out for trips around the islands. You’d be surprised how many people enjoy island-hopping, as they call it. It’s quite a going concern.’

Tobie was impressed, or at least she hoped she appeared that way. Inside, she was a churning mass of tangled emotions, and the sight of the gleaming convertible, parked in the shade of a clump of palm trees, obviously waiting for them, filled her with real panic.

‘Mark!’

The affectionate calling of his name, accompanied by the sight of an elegant woman in her late fifties climbing out of the back of the vehicle, told its own story. Evidently, this was his mother, come to meet them, and Tobie breathed a little easier when she saw that the only other occupant of the car was black.

Mark allowed himself to be enveloped in a warm embrace, and over his shoulder Tobie met the strangely malevolent eyes of the woman who had deserted her eldest son when he was little more than seven years old. She had left her home, and her family, to run away with a man more than twice her age, and that was what had created the rift between her and Robert, the rift Tobie had never expected to see mended. Mark was her second husband’s son, of course, but his father was dead now. Mark had told her he had died of a heart attack soon after Marks’s eighteenth birthday, and it was this as much as anything which had turned his interest towards medicine. Robert’s own father had committed suicide. A week after the divorce was made absolute he had hanged himself in the summerhouse of their Kingston home, and Robert had been brought up by a series of nannies, acting under his aunt’s instructions. His own mother had made little effort to see him, too absorbed with her new life and her new baby, and it was only when Robert became famous that he began getting letters from her. Letters he had destroyed, so far as Tobie was aware—until the accident—

Standing there with the sun beating down upon her head, Tobie tried desperately to relax. She was here now. There was nothing she could do about it. And if Robert’s mother knew who she was, and that was why she was looking at her so hostilely, there was nothing she could do about that either. Perhaps Mrs Newman was merely jealous of her younger son’s affection. But if there was any other reason for her hostility, she would soon find out.

Mark was freeing himself from his mother’s embrace now, assuring her that they had had a good journey—that he was in the best of health—that he wasn’t working too hard—and that no, he hadn’t lost weight. He was obviously amused by his mother’s insistence, but as Tobie waited somewhat apprehensively to be introduced, she had the feeling that Mrs Newman’s delaying tactics were deliberate.

At last Mark succeeded in drawing her forward, and with evident pride he introduced her to his mother. ‘Isn’t she lovely?’ he demanded, his arm possessively about Tobie’s shoulders. ‘I told you she was. Don’t you think I’m the luckiest man in the world?’

His mother viewed Tobie with cool assessing eyes. She was a tall woman, like her son, almost as tall as Tobie’s five feet six inches, with the heavier limbs of middle age. Yet she was quite an attractive woman still, with greying blonde hair and fair skin, that just avoided the gnarled weathered look. If she had had any heartache in her life she disguised it well, and presented the appearance of someone well able to take care of herself. She seemed much more Mark’s mother than Robert’s, and only the inimical gaze of her dark brown eyes reminded Tobie of how Robert had looked when he slammed out of the apartment that fatal afternoon.

‘So nice to meet you—er—Tobie,’ she said now, offering a curiously limp hand, and Tobie took it.

‘It was kind of you to invite me,’ she said, forcing a tight smile. ‘You live in a very beautiful part of the world.’

‘Oh, you must thank my son for your invitation,’ Mrs Newman demurred, her remark verging on discourtesy, and Tobie stiffened.

‘I’ve thanked Mark, naturally,’ she said, glancing at him, but his mother quickly intervened.

‘I meant Robert, of course,’ she said, ignoring her younger son’s discomfort. ‘Emerald Cay belongs to him, not to us, and it was he who offered the invitation.’

It was a body blow, but whether Mrs Newman was aware of its significance, Tobie could not be sure. After all, if Robert had not told her about their relationship, how could she know? And yet there was something here, some undercurrent that Tobie sensed but could not make contact with.

‘Well, we’re here, anyway,’ Mark observed tautly, his expression mirroring his impatience with his mother. ‘So let’s go, shall we? It’s hot, and I for one could do with a dip in the pool.’

‘Of course. I’m sorry.’

Tobie guessed Mrs Newman really meant it as she gestured towards the car. She was obviously very fond of Mark, but in spite of her comments about Robert, Tobie wasn’t altogether sure how she felt towards him. Yet they must be friends. They lived here together. They shared the same house. There had to be some feeling between them.

The drive from the airstrip to the villa gave her a little time to assimilate her own position. The news that Robert had offered the invitation required some adjustment in her thinking, and she couldn’t help wondering how he proposed to behave towards her. She had thought if he hadn’t admitted to Mark that he knew her before, he could be relied upon not to do so now, but that was not taking into account his condition, and who knew what quirks in his personality that might have created? She was both apprehensive and uneasy, and her feelings made a mockery of her boast to Laura that she loved Mark, and nothing Robert did could change that.

The road curved up from the flat stretch of earth that provided a landing strip, climbing towards the hills that formed the backbone of the island. It was a dusty track, rutted in places, where the rains had dislodged the stones that held the track together, but the scenery was so magnificent one could ignore the discomfort.

As they climbed, beyond the airstrip they could see miles and miles of unbroken sand, stretching to infinity. This side of the island must be uninhabited, Tobie thought, and the lace-edged waters of the ocean were the only intruders on these shores. It was a disturbing concept, and she experienced a moment’s awareness of how ship-wrecked mariners must have felt when faced with their own insignificance.

The hillside was thickly covered with stunted trees and flowering shrubs, their roots even encroaching on to the road at times. One could stretch out one’s hand and touch them as one passed, and Mark snatched a magnolia blossom to tuck behind Tobie’s ear. She shared his laughter for a moment, and then encountering his mother’s speculative gaze was silenced.

As if sensing the sudden tension, Mark broke into conversation, asking how Robert was, questioning his mother about his brother’s paralysis.

Mrs Newman seemed unnecessarily pessimistic about her son’s condition. ‘He says he’s quite well,’ she replied, plucking at the leather on the back of the seat in front. ‘But you know how independent he is. I keep my own counsel. I have my own opinion. I know what his doctors say. But it’s not a subject I’d advise you to discuss with him. At least—’ she paused, allowing her eyes to move to Tobie once more, ‘not in front of—strangers.’

‘But he’s—no worse?’ Mark insisted, his hand finding Tobie’s in gentle reassurance, and his mother shrugged.

‘Were it not for the lingering amnesia, I’d say he is as recovered as he’ll ever be,’ she responded succinctly, and when Tobie’s head jerked towards her, a mocking smile tugged at the comers of her mouth. ‘Didn’t Mark tell you, my dear?’ she enquired, with what Tobie was almost convinced was malicious amusement. ‘Robert still suffers a mental blackout of everything that happened immediately before the accident. He’s lost six whole months of his life. Isn’t that a shame?’

CHAPTER TWO

ROBERT’S villa lay on the south-west side of the island, above the tiny manmade harbour. As they came down the winding road towards the sea again, Tobie saw its sprawling green-tiled roof, and realised it was much more than the comfortably-sized bungalow she had envisaged. It was much bigger, for one thing, and set on different levels, it looked more like a Spanish hacienda, with the large circular swimming pool providing a focal point. The walls were colour-washed in pastel shades, and overgrown with clinging vines and bougainvillaea, and as they drew nearer she could see the white shutters bolted back against the walls, and the arched courtyard below the patio. It was, without doubt, the most beautiful house she had ever seen, and in other circumstances she would hardly have been able to contain her excitement. As it was, she felt a bewildered sense of confusion, and was troubled by the knowledge that Mark’s mother was not as ingenuous as he imagined her to be.

As the sleek convertible entered the tiled courtyard, Mark pointed down to the harbour below them, where a tall-masted sloop lay at anchor. ‘The Ariadne,’ he told her whimsically. ‘Beautiful, isn’t she?’

‘Th-that’s Robert’s yacht?’ Tobie ventured.

‘The same,’ agreed Mark lightly. ‘Fancy a sail?’

‘Per-perhaps.’ The car had come to a halt, and Tobie avoided his mother’s eyes as she climbed out. ‘I—it’s not what I expected.’

‘What did you expect, Miss Kennedy?’ enquired a low voice from somewhere behind her, and her whole body froze in an attitude of consternation. ‘Some kind of motor launch, perhaps? Something I can control with my hands? Or am I being unkind, and you didn’t mean to be tactless?’

‘Rob!’

Mark’s ejaculation was both impatient and enthusiastic. Turning quickly to face the man whose wheelchair had rolled so silently up behind them, he shook his hand energetically, unknowingly giving Tobie time to gather her scattered senses. He obviously shared her disconcertion at his brother’s unexpected appearance, but he could have no idea of the traumatic effect Robert’s arrival had had on her. She had expected to be shocked, she had expected some kind of physical reaction; but nothing had prepared her for the emotions that swept so devastatingly through her as she encountered those achingly familiar features.

He hadn’t changed, or at least, not a lot. He was thinner, perhaps, and there were streaks of grey in the night-dark hair that brushed the collar of his open-necked denim shirt, but he still possessed those disturbingly uneven features that combined to make such an attractive whole. He was looking at her now in frank appraisal, but there was no element of recognition in that coolly admiring glance. He was looking at her as a man might look at the girl his brother was expected to marry, and she knew with a wrench that that was the cruellest cut of all.

Her eyes dropped lower, over the long legs, folded on to the chair’s footrest, jean-clad and casual, but without the strength they had had when he first walked into the gallery less than four years ago, and she knew a pain like nothing she had ever known before. Oh, God! she thought in agony, I did this to him! And he doesn’t even know me!

‘Let me introduce you,’ Mark was saying now, shaking his head over Robert’s unconventional method of greeting his guests. ‘This, as you’ve already divined, is Tobie. Tobie, allow me to introduce you to your favourite artist—Robert Lang!’

‘Painter, Mark,’ Robert inserted dryly, holding out his hand towards her in apparent friendliness. ‘How do you do, Miss Kennedy? You’ll have to forgive my not getting up. It’s not so easy as it used to be.’

‘How—how do you do?’

Somehow Tobie articulated the words, withdrawing her hand as swiftly as possible from the firm coolness of his. Hers felt hot and sticky, and even that slight contact had left her feeling weak and shaken.

‘Call her Tobie,’ Mark intervened, putting a possessive hand on her shoulder. ‘She’s going to be your sister-in-law, Rob. Don’t you approve?’

‘Very much.’ Robert was polite. ‘And a fan, no less. Tell me, Miss—I mean, Tobie—are you an expert?’

Tobie swallowed with difficulty before replying. ‘I—I just know what I like,’ she said, giving the stock answer, and Mrs Newman moved forward authoritatively to take charge of Robert’s chair.

‘Come along,’ she said. ‘I think we could all do with a drink, don’t you? Henri, ask Monique to fetch some iced lime juice to the patio, and tell her we’ll eat in an hour.’

‘Yes, m’m,’ responded the black man, who had chauffeured the car from the landing strip and was presently unloading their cases on to the courtyard, but as Mrs Newman attempted to wheel his chair forward, Robert dislodged her fingers with an impatient gesture. It was the first sign he had shown of any irritation with his condition, and Tobie intercepted the sympathetic glance that Mark and his mother exchanged. Curiously enough, their attitude irritated her, too, and she was not surprised when Robert countermanded his mother’s instructions.

‘You can wheel me up to the verandah first, Henri,’ he said, his tone brooking no argument. ‘I’ve already asked Monique to provide refreshments, so you can attend to the luggage.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Henri’s dark face creased into a smile, but Mrs Newman’s expression was less easy to read as they all began to move towards the house.

There was a slope beside the steps that ran up from the courtyard to the patio above, and although Robert’s electric chair could come down in safety, he needed assistance to reach the upper level. Following behind, Tobie felt her nails digging into her palms as she climbed the short flight of steps, and then anxiety was suspended as she had her first real sight of the villa and its surroundings.

The house itself was built on Spanish lines, as she had first suspected, with low-hanging eaves, and grilled balconies, and a winding iron staircase, attached to the main building, giving access to an upper floor. The various levels of the house ran out in different directions, and all the rooms had long windows, opened wide to the sun, and the salt-scented breeze that dispelled the humidity. In front of the villa lustrous Italian tiles surrounded the poolside area, with wooden cabañas set among vinecoloured trellises providing changing rooms. It was even bigger at close range than she had anticipated, and she became aware that Robert was watching her and her reactions to it.

‘Welcome to Soledad,’ he said, with wry humour, as Henri was dismissed, and he propelled himself across the sun-dappled patio. ‘What do you think of my house—Tobie? Would you say it was wasted on a cripple like me?’

‘Rob!’

‘Robert!’

Mark and his mother spoke simultaneously, but Tobie knew he expected her to answer. It was a natural question, after all, albeit an uncomfortably candid one, and Mark had warned her of his sarcasm.

‘I don’t think you believe you’re a cripple, Mr Lang, any more than I do,’ she ventured carefully. ‘And no one who appreciates beauty as you do should be denied such magnificent surroundings.’

‘You know I appreciate beauty?’ he mused. ‘How would you know a thing like that?’

Tobie’s cheeks burned. ‘I know your work, Mr Lang,’ she defended herself quickly. ‘M—Mark told you, I admire it very much.’

Robert brought his chair to a halt in the shade of the balcony where a glass-topped table was set with a jug of iced fruit juice, several frosted glasses, and a bottle of champagne in an ice-bucket. He indicated that they should make themselves comfortable on the cushioned basket-weave chairs nearby, and then himself took charge of the champagne, uncorking it easily, and allowing the bubbling overflow to spill carelessly on to the tiles.

‘You’ll all join me, I hope,’ he said, reaching for one of the tall narrow glasses and filling it. ‘I think a toast is in order, don’t you?’ He passed the glass to Tobie, and then filling another handed it to his mother. ‘To the good times, hmm? For all of us? But most especially to Mark and Tobie. Good luck!’

Tobie sipped the delicately flavoured liquid with trembling lips. This was all wrong, she thought unhappily. This wasn’t at all the way she had expected it to be. But why, when everything seemed so normal, did she feel so uneasy?

In spite of her apprehension, no one else seemed perturbed by the situation, and although she contributed little to it, conversation became general. Mark asked Robert about his painting, and Robert, in his turn, questioned his brother about his work at the hospital. They were obviously good friends, and under cover of their discussion Mrs Newman suggested that Tobie might like to see her room. It was a polite suggestion, and Tobie had no reason to object to it, and yet she was curiously reluctant to find herself alone with Mark’s mother.

However, Mark had overheard and he seconded his mother’s proposal, nodding his head and adding lazily: ‘Put your swimsuit on, honey. We don’t stand on ceremony here, and I intend to show you how fit I am, in spite of just surviving an English winter.’

Tobie managed a slight smile, and then rose to accompany the older woman into the house. Her last image was of Robert’s face turned politely in her direction, with just the faintest hint of a frown drawing his brows together.

They entered the house by means of a garden room, where flowering plants and shrubs filled the air with their exotic perfume. All thresholds had been moulded to allow the free passage of Robert’s wheelchair, Tobie noticed, and she wondered who looked after him. Someone must help him to bathe and dress, but so far as she could see, there were only the two servants.

‘Robert’s rooms are downstairs, naturally,’ Mrs Newman observed now, as they entered an almost circular entrance hall, with a magnificent chandelier hanging at the foot of a curving flight of stairs. ‘This is the oldest part of the house, but as you probably noticed, there have been various additions made in recent years.’

‘It’s—beautiful,’ said Tobie helplessly, unable to think of anything else to say, and after a moment’s hesitation, Mark’s mother led the way up the stairs.

At the top of the stairs, a balcony circled the hall below, with corridors leading off in several directions. Their complexity made Tobie believe that she would never be able to find her way about, and after following Mrs Newman along one of them, up and down odd little staircases set into the hillside, she was convinced of it.

Nevertheless, when they reached the suite of rooms assigned to her for her stay, her gratitude was such that she forgot her earlier antipathy.

An arched doorway led into a spacious sleeping apartment overlooking the sweep of the headland and the ocean beyond. French doors opened on to a comer balcony, private from the rest of the house, with an unlimited vista of the terraced gardens that fell away below the villa. The room itself was furnished in shades of cream and turquoise, with a heavily embossed cream quilt on the wide bed and long turquoise silk curtains at the windows. Adjoining this room was a small dressing room, and beyond that a luxurious bathroom, in matching pastel shades.

‘I don’t know what to say,’ Tobie murmured. ‘It’s just—perfect.’ She fingered a label hanging from the handle of one of her suitcases, which had been set on an ottoman at the foot of the bed. ‘Thank you so much.’

Mrs Newman paused in the doorway. ‘Don’t thank me,’ she responded tersely. ‘As I said before, this is Robert’s house, not mine.’

She would have gone then, but Tobie knew she had to say something. ‘You—you don’t want me here, Mrs Newman?’ she queried cautiously. ‘You—have some objection to my—friendship with Mark?’

‘Did I say so?’ The older woman’s eyes were wary.

‘No, but—’

‘So long as both my sons are happy, I’m content,’ Mrs Newman replied smoothly, and without giving Tobie a chance to say anything more, she left her.

It would take too long to unpack all her clothes, so Tobie contented herself with unlocking the cases and taking out the most crushable items. Then, stripping off the skirt and cotton shirt she had worn to travel in, she rummaged around for her swimsuits. She had brought three bikinis—a white one, with black edging, a yellow one, which she knew toned well with her creamy skin, and a dark brown one, with red beading, that was without doubt the most provocative of them all. Mark had asked her to put her swimsuit on, and she had no doubt he meant what he said, but looking at their skimpy appearance, she was curiously unwilling to expose herself before Robert in one of them. Before she had known of his accident she had intended to do so deliberately, but now—now she felt quite different, knowing he could not join them.

Running distraught hands through the silky weight of her hair, she caught a glimpse of herself in the long mirrors attached to the vanity unit, and on impulse she turned to face herself fully. In nothing but flimsy bikini briefs she studied her reflection critically, wondering whether, had Robert not suffered the amnesia, he would see any great change in her. She was older, of course, three years older, with the memory of her experiences adding a touch of mystery to eyes he had always found fascinating. Green eyes, they were, with long curling lashes, her best feature, she had maintained, in spite of Robert’s assertion that she had more desirable attributes. Certainly her figure was good, with full, rounded breasts, and a narrow waist above the swell of her hips. Her legs were long, slim, without being angular, and she had lived long enough to know that she had that indefinable something that men found attractive. Did Robert find her attractive now? she wondered, despising herself for the traitorous thought, but unable to prevent it. If she had met him as she had done before, without ties or complications, would he still have found her desirable? It was a tantalising idea, but one which she recognised as being the most dangerous notion she had had since first she learned of Mark’s identity.

In the event, she decided to wear the yellow bikini, teaming it with a wrap-around cotton skirt patterned in shades of brown and white. It left her legs and shoulders bare, but it was at least as concealing as a sundress, and she could easily shed the skirt when she had to.

Finding her way back to the patio was not as difficult as she had at first imagined. There were plenty of windows along the winding passages to keep her in touch with her whereabouts, and she emerged on to the balcony above the hall with a feeling of achievement.

To her relief, Mark was just mounting the stairs as she went to go down, and she waited at the top for him to join her. ‘Do I look all right?’ she whispered protestingly, as he reached for her, but his murmur of approval was muffled against the satiny skin of her shoulder.

‘Go and talk to my brother,’ he said huskily, when at last he let her go. ‘I won’t begrudge him a few minutes of your company. But remember, I saw you first, hmm?’

Tobie’s tongue circled her lips. ‘I—I’ll wait for you,’ she demurred, reluctant to leave the safety of his presence, but he urged her forward.

‘I shan’t be long,’ he promised, bestowing a last kiss on her parted lips. ‘And knowing you’re with Rob, I’ll make sure I don’t waste time.’

Tobie’s smile was uncertain, but she had no reason not to do as he asked, and besides, why should she feel so anxious? Robert had not recognised her. So far as he was concerned, she was his brother’s girl-friend, and nothing else. If all went well, she could leave here without even ruffling the surface of her relationship with Mark, and surely that was what she wanted.

Taking a deep breath, she descended the stairs, and walked briskly across the hall and out through the garden room. The gurgling fountain that kept the plants watered had a cooling sound, and she tried to emulate its unhurried progress.

Outside, the sun seemed more brilliant, and she wished she had thought to bring her dark glasses with her. Their shade would have provided anonymity as well as protection against the glare, but aware that Robert had observed her appearance, she could hardly turn and march back into the house again. Instead, she compelled herself to put one sandalled foot in front of the other, crossing the tiles to where his chair was situated with what she hoped appeared to be calm composure.

He was alone. No doubt Mrs Newman was attending to her duties as housekeeper and supervising the arrangements for lunch, but Robert remained much where they had left him, staring thoughtfully out across the sparkling green waters of the pool. There was a moment, before he turned to greet her, when Tobie could watch him unobserved, and her heart lurched at the remembrance of what they had once shared. It was almost impossible, seeing him sitting there so casually, so relaxed, to imagine he was incapable of getting up out of his chair, and she hardly understood the emotions that gripped her at that awareness. There was pity, of course, and sympathy, too, despite Mark’s assertion to her that Robert would welcome neither, but it wasn’t only compassion that brought such an unwilling sense of awareness. They had been too close to dismiss their relationship lightly. They had loved, they had been lovers. And for the first time, she could think of the past without so much bitterness.

‘Tobie!’ He had observed her approach and now hailed her with friendly enthusiasm. ‘Come and join me. Mark’s gone to get changed, but I don’t suppose he’ll be long.’

‘No—no. I—I saw him.’ Tobie automatically quickened her step and came to stand beside him. ‘I—er—isn’t this a marvellous view?’ She gestured towards the harbour and the wide expanse of ocean beyond. ‘I should think you never get tired of looking at it.’

‘You’d be surprised,’ he remarked dryly, glancing up at her with wry humour. ‘When it’s the only view you see, it can become a little—monotonous.’

‘Oh, I —’ Tobie flushed. ‘I didn’t mean—that is—I didn’t intend to imply—’

‘I know.’ His smile was heartbreakingly familiar. ‘So—won’t you sit down? Or must I get a crick in my neck looking up at you?’

‘I’m sorry.’ Tobie bumped down jerkily on to the low lounger beside him. ‘I didn’t think.’ Her fingers closed over the rim of the cushion she was sitting on. ‘Er—it’s a beautiful day, isn’t it? It was raining when we left London.’

‘Was it?’ Now his eyes were slightly above hers. ‘Yes, that’s one thing you can be sure of here. We usually have beautiful days.’

She sensed the irony in his tones and realized she was not making a good job of this. He probably thought she was one of those useless females, without a thought in their heads outside of the latest fashions and make-up, and certainly she had not displayed any particular intelligence in their conversation so far.

‘Do—er—do you work indoors, Mr Lang?’ she ventured now, choosing the subject least likely to prove controversial, and he inclined his head.

‘In a manner of speaking,’ he agreed, half turning in his seat to indicate a path that led around the side of the building. ‘I have a studio that’s attached to the house, but only accessible from the outside, if you know what I mean. It’s along there, if you’re interested. And the name is Robert, Tobie. I can’t have my future sister-in-law calling me Mr Lang.’

Tobie’s colour deepened again. ‘Very well,’ she murmured awkwardly. ‘I—are you working at the moment?’

‘At this moment?’ he asked provokingly, the dark eyes full of amusement, and Tobie sighed.

‘You know what I mean,’ she exclaimed, speaking without thinking for the first time. ‘I mean, have you a commission at present? I don’t suppose there’s much scope for portrait painting here.’

‘You sound very knowledgeable,’ he remarked, his dark eyes narrowing. ‘Do you know much about painting, Tobie? And don’t tell me again that you know what you like.’

This was deeper water, and Tobie immediately sought for the shallows. ‘I—I used to work in an art gallery once,’ she said, and instantly regretted the admission. Mark didn’t even know that, and by confessing such a thing to Robert she was stepping dangerously near disaster.

‘An art gallery,’ he murmured now, his eyes watching her closely. ‘What art gallery? Where? In London?’

‘I—in Reading, actually,’ she lied, saying the name of the first town that came into her head. ‘It was just a small place. Not a proper art gallery really, a sort of—adjunct to the—to the public library.’

Robert frowned. ‘Really?’

She nodded. ‘But—but I gave that up a long time ago. I work for an insurance company now, in Holborn. Do you know Holborn, Mr Lang?’

‘Robert,’ he amended dryly, and then shrugged. ‘I used to know London very well. I used to live there. But since my accident …’

‘… you’ve lived here,’ Tobie finished for him eager to change the subject. ‘You’re very lucky really, being able to escape to such an island paradise.’

‘Is that how you see it?’ Robert enquired with a grimace. ‘It’s a lonely life, Tobie. Lonely, and—unfulfilled.’

Tobie bent her head, feeling the heat of the sun burning her shoulders. ‘I should have thought your work was—fulfilling,’ she commented, feeling obliged to say something, as he made a sound of exasperation.

‘I’m sure my mother thinks so, too,’ he essayed wryly, reaching for the almost empty bottle of champagne, residing in the melted ice cubes. ‘Will you join me?’ and when she shook her head, he poured the remainder into his glass and surveyed it with a crooked smile. ‘She doesn’t understand, I was a man first and painter second. I think she expects those roles to be reversed.’

Tobie darted a look up at him. ‘And they’re not?’ she asked involuntarily, almost immediately realising the antagonism she had provoked.

‘What do you think that crash did to me, Tobie?’ he demanded harshly. ‘It didn’t paralyse my feelings—my emotions! They still function as they always did.’

‘I—I’m sorry.’ Tobie was horrified at her blunder. ‘I didn’t—I didn’t mean—’

The sound of footsteps ringing across the stone tiles stilled her fumbling apology, and she sat there in mortified silence as Mark threw his towel down on to a lounger and stretched with evident self-satisfaction.

‘Magic,’ he remarked, half to himself, and then turned to his half-brother and Tobie. ‘So—how goes it? You two seemed deep in conversation when I came out of the house. What have you been telling her about me, Rob? Do I detect a certain aloofness in the air?’

‘Don’t be silly, Mark.’

Tobie got hastily to her feet, and as she did so Robert said indolently: ‘Don’t be so conceited, little brother. Your name hasn’t even been mentioned.’

‘No?’ Mark pretended to be put out. ‘Hey, Tobie, what’s been going on? Has he been taking liberties behind my back?’

‘I—no, of course not.’ Tobie found she couldn’t joke about it, and it was left to Robert to make light of their conversation.

‘We’ve been discussing my work, actually,’ he admitted at last. ‘You know what an egoist I am. I can’t resist extolling my talents to a willing listener.’

Mark grimaced. ‘I’ll believe you,’ he conceded good-naturedly. ‘But only because I know it’s true.’ He turned to Tobie. ‘So come on. I’ll race you round the pool, and if you win I’ll let you duck me, so long as I’m given the same privilege.’

Tobie hesitated. ‘It’s nearly lunchtime,’ she demurred, in no mood to act the fool with him, but Mark was adamant.

‘Lunch can wait,’ he said, advancing on her with menacing steps. ‘Now do you go quietly, or do I have to use force?’

Tobie backed away from him helplessly, realising she had to go through with this. But as she dropped her skirt and turned to dive smoothly into the water, it was Robert’s expression she remembered.

CHAPTER THREE

TO her relief, Robert made no further mention of the conversation they had had. The things she had admitted to him and the embarrassing remark she had made were all forgotten, and the rest of the day passed without incident. During the afternoon, while Robert rested, Mark took her on a tour of the island in a multi-coloured beach buggy, which he said Henri used to bring supplies up from the harbour, and after dinner she was much too tired to want to linger long on the terrace. She said goodnight, and made her way to her room, falling asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow.

The following morning, however, she awakened extremely early. With her body still attuned to European time, she was out of bed before six o’clock, stepping on to her balcony, shivering in the unexpected coolness of the salt-laden breeze. But it was deliciously refreshing, and she wondered if Mark was awake, and as eager to explore as she was.

On impulse, she shrugged off the shred of cambric she had worn to sleep in, and after sluicing her face and cleaning her teeth, she got dressed. She wore her bathing suit, because she had every intention of using the pool, but she pulled on a pair of baggy cotton pants over the black and white bikini, amazed to see that already her day in the sun had left the faint marks of her bra straps over her shoulders. With her hair confined by a black velvet hair ribbon, she left her room, threading her way along the corridors on impatient feet.

No one seemed to be about, and she wondered what time Monique served breakfast. Dinner had been served by candlelight the night before. They had eaten at the long dining table, overlooking the floodlit waters of the pool, and Tobie had found the effect quite intoxicating. The men had worn dinner jackets, or at least Mark had, his brother’s wine-coloured velvet jacket serving him equally elegantly. Robert had presided at the head of the table, with his mother on his right and Tobie on his left, but as Mark had monopolised the conversation, she had had little chance to amend the opinion he must now have of her. Perhaps today she would be able to repair her image, although why it was so important that she should do so, she didn’t care to analyse.

Mark had given her a short tour of the downstairs rooms before dinner, and now she knew where the living and eating rooms were, and the ways to get in and out of the villa. Most of the downstairs rooms had French doors anyway, but as well as these, there was a front and a back entrance through elegantly arched portals.

Now, realising that the villa was probably still locked for the night, Tobie made her way to the garden room, deciding it would be easier to open the windows than the doors. But to her surprise, the windows of the garden room stood wide, their wild silk curtains fluttering in the errant breeze, and from the pool came the distinct sound of splashing water.

So Mark was up after all. With lightening spirits, Tobie stepped out on to the patio, sauntering across the mosaic tiling that surrounded the pool. She could see a dark head under the water, swimming strongly across the pool, and kicking off her sandals, she rolled up the legs of her pants and squatted down on the rim of the basin, dipping her toes into the water.

The swimmer surfaced just below where she was sitting, but her anticipated words of teasing admiration died on her tongue. It was not Mark’s square-cut shoulders that emerged from the water, but Robert’s lean dark features, one hand raised to push back the dripping wetness of his hair. She didn’t know which of them was the most surprised, but one thing was certain, Robert was the first to recover.

‘Tobie,’ he greeted her politely, keeping himself afloat without apparent effort. ‘Did you sleep well?’

‘Oh—yes, thank you.’ Tobie caught her lower lip between her teeth. ‘The—er—the water feels cold.’

‘Not to me,’ he remarked tautly. ‘Did you come to swim?’

Tobie shrugged. ‘I thought I might.’ She sighed. ‘But if I’m intruding—’

‘Not at all.’ He granted her a faint smile. ‘If you’ll give me a few minutes to get out—’

‘Is that necessary?’ Tobie broke into his speech. ‘I mean—’ she made an awkward gesture, ‘I won’t get in your way.’

‘But I might get in yours,’ he retorted flatly. ‘Do you mind? I am rather sensitive about being observed. If you’ll just hand me that robe …’ He gestured to a navy towelling gown that was draped over the nearby lounger. ‘I’ll only be a few minutes.’

Tobie drew her knees up to her chin, preparatory to getting to her feet, and then allowed them to drop down again. ‘Robert, really …’ she began, using his name without really thinking about it. ‘Please don’t leave on my account. I—I’ll go, if you want. I—I didn’t intend to interrupt your swim. Please—just go on as if I wasn’t here.’

Robert’s firm mouth twisted. ‘Do you think that’s possible?’ he enquired dryly, his expression softening slightly. ‘Somehow I don’t think Mark would agree with you.’

‘Mark’s not here,’ she retorted simply, and then wished she hadn’t when Robert’s expression hardened again.

‘No, he’s not,’ he agreed shortly. ‘But I’m telling you, he wouldn’t like it. Now, be a good girl and get my robe, hmm?’

Tobie hesitated. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m glad I’ve met you like this,’ she said, after a moment. ‘I—I wanted to apologise. About yesterday. I—I didn’t mean what I said to sound the way it did.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ Robert swam to the side, and draped his arms over the rim. ‘Now, do you mind? I’m getting cold.’

‘Oh! Oh, of course.’

Tobie scrambled to her feet then, retrieving the robe and bringing it back to the shallow steps she could now see below the level of the water.

‘Let me help you,’ she said unthinkingly, and saw the darkening anger in his eyes.

‘I can manage,’ he insisted, dragging the robe out of her hands and tossing it down on to the side of the pool. ‘Go away, Tobie. Let me do this my way. I don’t need your assistance.’

She sighed, still lingering. ‘I’m not squeamish, you know,’ she ventured. ‘I’d like to help you. Where’s your chair? Let me get it for you.’ She looked round, her brow furrowing. ‘Where is it?’

‘Go away, Tobie!’ There was real anger in his voice now, and she looked down at him frustratedly.

‘Why won’t you let me help you? Why won’t you tell me where your chair is? How did you get here?’

With a groan of exasperation he rested his forehead on the rim of the pool, and then said in a muffled tone: ‘I walked here. On sticks. Didn’t Mark tell you about those? I’m sure he must have done. Mark’s very meticulous about my condition.’

Tobie remembered now. ‘He—he did say something,’ she admitted in a low voice. ‘I—er—I’ll go and take a shower. I’ll see you later—’

‘No, wait!’ Now it was Robert who detained her, hauling himself up on to the side of the pool and sitting there as she had done, with his feet in the water. She was surprised to see that in spite of his debility, his body and legs were deeply tanned, and she guessed that he spent long hours in the sun. His only attire was the sawn-off denim shorts he had worn to swim in, their frayed edges drawing her attention to the muscled strength of his thighs.

‘Look,’ he said quietly, ‘I’d rather you didn’t tell Mark you’d found me here.’ He hunched his shoulders, exposing the white bones under the skin of his back. There was not an ounce of spare flesh on him, and she wondered, with a ridiculous sense of responsibility, whether he was eating enough. ‘He doesn’t—that is, I’d rather he didn’t know about this until I’m more—proficient. Do you know what I’m saying?’

‘I think so.’ Tobie nodded. ‘You mean that Mark doesn’t know you use the pool.’

‘Something like that,’ Robert agreed, resting his chin on his chest. ‘Do you mind?’

Tobie shook her head. ‘Of course not. If you’d rather I didn’t.’

‘I would,’ he affirmed, looking quizzically up at her again. ‘Don’t look so worried. I’m not planning to drown myself.’

‘I—I never thought you were,’ she stammered, aware that his words had reminded her disturbingly of his father’s abrupt demise, and he grinned suddenly.

‘Okay. It’s our secret, hmm?’ He glanced behind him, reaching for the bathrobe. ‘And now…’

‘You want me to go?’

His eyes narrowed, dropping down over the swell of her breasts to the band of bare midriff displayed between the hem of her bra and the belt of her pants. Then, abruptly, they returned to her face again, and she was left in little doubt that he considered the remark provocative.

‘Yes, I want you to go,’ he said, with an edge to his voice, and she turned to make good her escape.

But she had forgotten the pool behind her, and instead of encountering the firm surface of the tiles, she found herself treading air. Her gulp of surprise was quickly stifled by the salt water, and she sank chokingly beneath the surface as the weight of her pants dragged her down.

Panic flared, and she was clawing for the air again when firm hands gripped her, assisting her progress, taking her up to safety and supporting her as she choked the stinging water from her lungs. It was Robert who held her, of course, and her skin tingled where it touched his, his arm around her waist, holding her back against him.

‘Are you all right?’ he demanded huskily, as she panted for breath, and she nodded helplessly, too distrait to sustain her indignation against him.

‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled. She always seemed to be saying that to him. ‘That was a stupid thing to do.’

‘I don’t suppose you did it on purpose, did you?’ he taunted her a little mockingly, as he kicked out strongly for the side, and she was too weak to make any protest.

He pushed her up on to the side when they got there, and then dragged himself out beside her, taking gulping draughts of breath into his own lungs. It was only then she realised what a strain it must have been for him, and she put out her hand to thank him, her fingers touching the smooth skin of his shoulder.

‘You must think I’m an awful nuisance,’ she murmured, and he turned his head to look at her, his eyes cool and dispassionate.

‘I think you should go and take off those wet pants,’ he declared flatly, and she withdrew her fingers as if he had burned them.

‘I—I—yes, of course,’ she stammered, getting to her feet, and this time she didn’t make any mistake in her choice of direction.

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