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.

Treacherous Longings
Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘YOU knew her, didn’t you?’

Quinn barely hesitated. ‘My mother did,’ he amended swiftly, conscious of the weakness of that distinction. Of course he’d known her. Rather better then he wanted to remember, he thought sardonically. But that wasn’t Hector Pickard’s concern. Nor ever would be, if he had anything to do with it.

‘How long ago was that?’

Hector was persistent, and Quinn got up from his chair and wandered with assumed indolence over to the window. But the tall buildings of Canary Wharf, visible beyond the floor-length panes of this executively placed office, were not what he was seeing as he gazed beyond the glass.

‘Oh—years,’ he replied at last, dismissively. ‘Ten years at least. Long before she had that—row—with Intercontinental. I’ve no idea what she’s doing now.’ He paused. ‘She—dropped out of sight.’

‘I do.’

‘You do what?’

‘Know where she is. Or—’ Hector gave a half-impatient shrug ‘—I think I do, anyway. Yes. I’m sure of it.’

Hector’s smug pronouncement had Quinn turning to stare at him with undisguised disbelief. ‘Where? How?’

‘Oh, I have my sources.’ Hector responded to his second question first. He gave a satisfied smile. ‘You’re not the only journalist I employ, Marriott. And some of them will do anything to oust you from that plum position you occupy. Including a little—insider dealing, if it gets us what we want.’

Quinn’s dark brows drew together. ‘Go on.’

Hector adopted a rather defiant air now. His dealings with the younger man usually left him in a position of weakness, but this time he felt confident of his success.

‘The current series is going nowhere, and you know it!’ he exclaimed firmly. ‘I mean, who have we featured so far? A couple of washed-up actors whose careers never were going to set a script alight. An ex-boxer whose brains were not scrambled in the ring, however often he tries to convince us they were. And a trio of ageing political Romeos whose sexual exploits nobody cared about to begin with.’

Quinn’s smile was reluctant, but undeniable. ‘My God,’ he said, ‘not even damned with faint praise! Lord save me from ambitious producers. There’s nothing more chilling than the viewing figures, is there?’

Hector’s look was dour. ‘There’s no need for you to sound so sanctimonious about it, Marriott. You’ve done your share of verbal butchery in your time. I know you put your thumbs down on this project before it even got started—’

‘Well, it was hardly original, was it?’

‘—but that doesn’t absolve you of all responsibility for its failure.’

‘Doesn’t it?’ Quinn folded his arms with cool indifference. ‘Hector, the girl who brings round the tea could have told you that format had been done to death!’

‘Could she?’ Hector’s fleshy mouth took on a malevolent curve now. The current series was his baby and, while he was willing to admit that Quinn hadn’t endorsed the enterprise, he had no intention of letting him off the hook. Hector was not a big man, really, though his bulk tended to disguise that fact to all but his closest associates, but he could look decidedly aggressive when he chose, and this was one of those times. ‘Well, perhaps she should be sitting in this chair instead of me,’ he added. ‘Or perhaps you think you should. It wouldn’t be the first time a pushy assistant producer thought he knew better than the rest.’

‘I didn’t say that.’ Quinn sighed. Hector had been good to him, and he had no desire to ruin their relationship. ‘I just think we—need a new angle. Investigating the private lives of people who by your own admission are has-beens simply doesn’t pull an audience.’

‘I disagree.’ To Quinn’s dismay, Hector wasn’t prepared to give in that easily. ‘Oh—I admit the faces we’ve used to date haven’t captured the public’s imagination. Like I said, they were all losers of one sort or another. The second series is going to be different. You’re not telling me people wouldn’t want to know about Marilyn Monroe if she were still alive today?’

‘No.’ Quinn conceded the point. ‘But Marilyn Monroe is dead.’

‘Tell me about it.’ Hector was sarcastic, but Quinn didn’t look perturbed.

‘That’s why she’s still newsworthy,’ he appended smoothly. ‘If she’d grown old, gracefully or ungracefully, I doubt the public would still be interested. It was the shortness of her life and the circumstances of her death that still make news.’

Hector sniffed. ‘Well—OK. Maybe Monroe wasn’t a suitable choice. She was a special case, I’ll give you that. But that doesn’t mean the idea sucks. I bet you could give us a few juicy names if you wanted to.’ Hector’s eyes narrowed. ‘I didn’t just hire you for your impeccable pedigree, you know.’

‘I thought you employed me because I was good at my job,’ said Quinn thinly, with a trace of contempt in his tone. ‘Don’t tell me you were blinded by my breeding. I’ll be disappointed if you just want to drink my blood!’

Hector huffed. ‘I’m not a vampire, Quinn,’ he said peevishly.

‘And I’m not your entry to the social register,’ retorted the younger man harshly. ‘For God’s sake, Hector, you surely didn’t expect me to give you confidential information about my friends?’

‘No.’ Hector paused. ‘I just want you to go and see Julia Harvey.’

Julia Harvey...

Quinn squared his shoulders. ‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘She’s—she was—my mother’s friend.’

‘But not a close friend. Not a member of your family. I wouldn’t ask you to tell tales about your close friends, Quinn.’ He paused. ‘And Julia Harvey has been out of circulation for so long she can’t be a threat, either to you or your mother.’

‘No.’ Quinn’s denial was harsh. And then, at Hector’s look of victory, ‘I mean no. I won’t do it. Find somebody else. I don’t want to be involved.’

‘But you are involved,’ declared Hector angrily. ‘And, dammit, I don’t have time to find anybody else. For all I know, she may have taken fright already. She’s out there, Quinn, I know it. And if you make me lose this chance, I may never forgive you.’

‘Wait a minute.’ Quinn stared at him. ‘You said someone had found her. Why do you need me?’

Hector bunched his shoulders. ‘I said I knew where she was,’ he amended gruffly. ‘I do. At least—’ he waved an impatient hand ‘—I know where she’s supposed to be. Neville didn’t meet her. But that doesn’t mean she’s not there. It just means he wouldn’t know the woman if he saw her.’

Quinn stared at him. ‘You’ve actually attempted to get an interview with her already?’

‘Didn’t I just say so?’ Hector was defensive. ‘Why shouldn’t I give it my best shot?’ He lifted his shoulders in a vaguely dismissive gesture. ‘Hey, listen, anyone with that lady’s reputation couldn’t possibly expect to stay hidden forever.’

‘Look, Hector—’

‘No, you look, Quinn.’ He gazed up at the younger man aggressively. ‘You’ve got a declared interest here. I can understand that. And you may feel because she and your mother were once buddies that you owe her some loyalty because of it.’ He shook his head. ‘Well, let me tell you, you don’t. This is a cut-throat world, Quinn. And women like Julia Harvey—women who’ve been legends in their own lifetime, so to speak—can’t expect to find total anonymity. She was happy enough to accept the public’s support—their adulation—when she needed it. Why should she think she can give it all up without even a bloody explanation?’

Quinn could feel his own temper rising. ‘And you think that gives you the right to go looking for her? You think because her work was public her life is public property, too?’

‘Save the bleeding heart, Quinn. It doesn’t become you. And if you want my honest opinion, then yes, I think she forfeited any right to anonymity when she stepped on to her first sound-stage. We’re talking money here, Quinn, big money. So why would a woman earning those kind of bucks throw it all up for no good reason?’

‘Perhaps she had a reason.’ But Quinn couldn’t think of one offhand. For years he’d tried to find a reason, until time—and his own disillusionment—had cured him.

‘Like what?’ Hector asked now. ‘Some terminal illness, perhaps?’ He gave a scornful snort. ‘She’s still alive.’

‘Even so—’

‘Disfigurement, perhaps?’ Hector was persistent. ‘Don’t you think something like that would have made the tabloids? These people are under permanent scrutiny. I can’t believe it wouldn’t have come out.’

Quinn took a deep breath. ‘So, what’s your explanation, then?’

Hector shrugged. ‘I don’t have one. That’s the most intriguing thing about it. Here we have a woman who’s acted with every major star in the film industry, and she just disappears. For over ten years she was one of the highest-paid actresses of all time. Right into the eighties she was winning every award in sight. She could pick her roles—pick her leading men. Then what happens? She has that big row with Intercontinental—only God knows why—and she ducks out of the limelight.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Just like that. One moment she was there and the next she was gone. Don’t you think her fans deserve to know the truth behind that disappearance? You may not give a damn, Quinn, but us lesser mortals surely do.’

Quinn’s teeth ground together. Hector had a point, of course. Even if one of the main television stations hadn’t been planning on screening a re-run of all her movies, people were always interested in a mystery. And starting the new series of Timeslip with a name like Julia Harvey’s was a sure way of bucking the ratings. Apart from anything else, rumours that she was dead had been circulating for years. It would be a real coup to prove that she wasn’t. And—

Quinn’s ruminations came to an abrupt halt. And—what? He frowned. Dammit, what had she been doing all these years? He had used to think she owed him an explanation, too. But, like everybody else, he’d drawn a blank.

‘Interested?’ Hector seemed to sense that Quinn was weakening, and his knowing grin did nothing to assuage the younger man’s temper. But the truth was, his curiosity was stirring. Did Hector really know where she was living? Or had the mention of Neville Hager’s trip been just a sprat to catch a mackerel?

He pushed his hands into the back pockets of his corded trousers and took a steadying breath. The action disposed of the dampness that had gathered on his palms, and he dismissed the unworthy thought that he might be afraid to accept this assignment. For God’s sake, it was ten years since he had seen the woman. Ten years since she had played her games with him. Why should he hesitate about exposing her? He wasn’t a callow youth any more. And he surely didn’t owe her any favours.

‘Well?’

Hector was waiting expectantly, and Quinn knew he wasn’t going to refuse. After all, if the new series was junked he’d automatically share some of the responsibility. Did he want that on his conscience? Could he afford to be so thin-skinned?

He hesitated. ‘Where is she?’

Hector regarded him warily. ‘You’ll do it?’

Quinn shrugged. ‘Do I have a choice?’

‘Everyone has a choice, my boy.’

Quinn’s mouth twisted. Oh, yeah. Right. But not if he wanted to keep his job. ‘I’ll do what I can,’ he said, taking his hands out of his pockets and raking impatient fingers through his hair. ‘But I’m not making any promises. She may refuse to see me.’

‘I doubt it.’ Hector regarded him ironically. ‘I have it on good authority that you’re exactly the kind of man she admires. Dark, good-looking—though I have to say I’d have my hair cut if I were you. It’s a pity you were such a kid when she knew your mother. You might have been able to give me some stories that never made the headlines.’

Quinn steeled himself not to show any reaction. He’d had plenty of experience, after all. When Julia had first disappeared his mother had constantly worried over the reason why. And, although she’d known nothing of their relationship, Quinn had been the recipient of all her guilty fears.

God, how he had hated that. At a time when he’d been desperately trying to come to terms with his own feelings, the last thing he’d wanted to do was discuss Julia with his mother.

If only Lady Marriott hadn’t been such a fan. If only she hadn’t persuaded her husband to organise that gala so that she might meet her. Without that connection they never would have met. And certainly Julia and Isabel Marriott would never have become friends...

Hector got up from his desk now, and came to pat Quinn’s shoulder with an encouraging hand. His enthusiasm should have been infectious, but all Quinn could think about was what he had let himself in for.

‘So where is she?’ he asked, resisting Hector’s efforts to turn his capitulation into a celebration. He was fairly sure he was going to have a wasted journey. Julia Harvey would never agree to do what Hector wanted.

‘San Jacinto,’ the older man replied now, with an air of triumph, and Quinn’s spirits plummeted. ‘It’s a small island, just off the Caymans,’ continued the older man, pouring himself another glass of Scotch and savouring its bouquet. ‘I doubt if anybody’s even heard of it. From what I can gather, she’s been living like a recluse all these years.’

* * *

Lunchtime found Quinn perched on a bar-stool scanning the huge file of information Hector had given him about Julia Harvey. The file was thick enough, certainly, containing as it did the massive wedge of press clippings gleaned from newspapers and magazines ten and twenty years old.

Some of the cuttings were from the seventies, when she had first been noticed in a drama school production. Unlike most would-be actresses, Julia hadn’t had to struggle to become successful. As one fulsome reviewer had put it, ‘artistes of Miss Harvey’s calibre were born to delight the senses of other mere mortals’. And she was regarded as having divine inspiration and an unassuming character to boot.

Of course, as she had become more successful the reviews had become less idealistic, though no less glowing. Stories about her love-life had begun to circulate, and she was suspected of having affairs with all her leading men. Bitchy subordinates had accused her of being a man-eater, and rumours of adulterous liaisons had fanned the fires of notoriety.

Yet through it all Julia had emerged as a woman much loved by her public—and by those people who believed they’d known her as she really was, Quinn acknowledged sardonically, ordering another beer. Whatever the real truth, she had appeared serene and untouchable, an irritation to her enemies and an icon to her friends.

There were dozens of pictures, and although Quinn had no real desire to look at the woman he couldn’t help being drawn by her beauty. Hair that was more silver than gold, creamy skin, green eyes, and a generous mouth to die for: Julia Harvey had had more than her fair share of life’s endowments. So why had she chosen to give it all up? What had persuaded her to abandon her career? She’d kept her secret, whatever it was, for ten years. Couldn’t Hector see that she’d never divulge it now?

‘Sorry I’m late, darling.’

Susan Aitken slid on to the stool beside him, and bestowed a cold-lipped kiss on his cheek. Outside, the temperature was hovering somewhere around freezing-point, but it was warm in the bar and she hunched her slim shoulders appreciatively.

‘No problem.’

Quinn offered her a smile that required more of an effort than he’d anticipated, and nodded towards the bartender. ‘What do you want?’

‘Oh, my usual, I think,’ she responded warmly, and Quinn ordered a spritzer as she peered over his shoulder. ‘What are you doing?’

Suppressing a quite ridiculous desire to hide the file from her, instead Quinn pushed it towards her. ‘See for yourself,’ he said, picking up his beer and emptying his glass, before signalling to the barman that he’d have another. They were only half-pint bottles after all, he consoled himself, aware that he was drinking more than he usually did at lunchtime. ‘Pickard wants to do a profile on her, if we can find her.’

Susan bent over the file, her cap of chestnut hair swinging confidingly against her cheek. Unlike Julia Harvey, whose beauty had had a wholly sensual appeal, Susan’s charm lay in her smallness, in the diminutive frame of her body, in the delicate shape of her face. Her father called her his pocket Venus, and the description was not inappropriate.

‘Julia Harvey,’ she said now wonderingly. ‘I thought she was dead.’

Quinn stilled the urge to drag the file back to him, and managed a careless shrug. ‘So do a lot of people.’

Susan looked up. ‘But she’s not?’

‘Obviously not.’ Quinn could hear the impatience creeping into his voice and determinedly controlled it. ‘According to Hector she’s living on some remote island in the Caribbean. Somehow—I’m not sure I want to know how—he’s traced her supposed whereabouts. He—wants me to try and see her. To persuade her to co-operate.’

‘You!’ Susan’s blue eyes widened. ‘Why you? That’s not your job.’

‘No.’ Quinn conceded the point, unsure of how much he wanted to tell her. ‘It’s just that—well, my mother used to be a fan of hers.’

‘Just your mother?’

‘What do you—?’ Quinn had started a defensive response when he realised Susan was only joking. Her expression had been full of mischief, and only the half-aggressive swiftness of his reply had brought a trace of anxiety to her eyes. ‘She was my mother’s contemporary, not mine,’ he finished, with more defiance than conviction. ‘Give me a break.’

Susan was quick to forgive him. ‘Well, men have been known to worship lesser idols,’ she responded, eager to restore their previous closeness. ‘All the same, I don’t see what your mother being a fan has to do with it.’

‘They were—friends,’ admitted Quinn reluctantly. ‘Well, close acquaintances, anyway. She—Julia Harvey, that is—spent several weekends at Courtlands.’

‘Really?’ Susan stared at him. ‘You never told me.’

‘Why would I?’ Quinn was unwillingly defensive again. ‘It was long before we knew one another. And, as you say, she dropped out of circulation.’

‘So did your mother keep in touch with her?’

Susan was annoyingly persistent, sipping her wine and watching him over the rim of her glass with disturbing intent. Quinn wished he hadn’t brought the Harvey file with him. But curiosity had got the better of him, and he had told himself he was eager to start his research.

‘No,’ he replied now, taking the file from her and sliding it beneath his elbow. ‘They weren’t that close. I seem to remember Julia went off to Hollywood to make a film with Intercontinental—’

‘Intercontinental Studios?’ put in Susan, and Quinn nodded.

‘And after some kind of bust-up she just—disappeared.’

‘How intriguing!’ Susan regarded him excitedly. ‘So—do you know what happened?’

‘No.’ Quinn managed to sound casual about it. ‘I think my mother wrote to her a couple of times, but she didn’t get any reply. We don’t even know if she got the letters.’

‘Goodness.’ Susan put down her glass and rubbed her gloved hands together. ‘Quite a mystery.’

‘Quite a mystery,’ echoed Quinn evenly. Then, with determination, he asked, ‘What would you like to eat?’ He glanced at the menu card at the end of the bar. ‘Pizza? Lasagne? Or just a sandwich?’

‘Just a sandwich, please,’ said Susan, evidently deciding it was warm enough to pull off her gloves. ‘So—where did you say she is now?’

Quinn hadn’t said, other than mentioning the fairly vague area of the Caribbean. Besides, he had hoped that they could shelve Julia Harvey for the time being. It was bad enough that Hector was talking about his leaving within the next few days. He had no wish to spend the time rehashing all he knew about her.

‘Somewhere off the Caymans,’ he said repressively, his tone indicating his unwillingness to continue with this discussion. ‘I’ll have a sandwich too. Which do you prefer? Egg mayonnaise or beef?’

‘Beef, please,’ replied Susan in a small voice, and Quinn hoped she was not going to get huffy over his impatience. For God’s sake, she’d never shown much interest in his work before. Susan was first and foremost a pleasure person. She’d never been able to understand why Quinn worked so hard when he didn’t have to. Until today it had been the one sour note in their relationship.

‘So,’ he said, after the sandwiches were ordered, ‘let’s find a table, shall we?’ He tucked the bulging file beneath his arm and picked up her glass as well as his own. ‘There’s one over there.’ He slid smoothly off the stool. ‘Need any help?’

Susan shook her head, and although her legs were considerably shorter than his own she climbed down rather elegantly. Then, preceding him, she led the way to the corner table he had indicated, choosing to sit opposite him instead of sharing his banquette.

‘And what have you been doing this morning?’ Quinn asked after they were seated, refusing to be daunted by her sulky face. He could guess, of course. She’d probably been shopping. A lazy saunter through Harrods, and coffee with one of her girlfriends.

Susan shrugged. ‘Not a lot.’

‘Shopping?’

‘I don’t just go shopping,’ she flared, and Quinn’s lips twitched at the transparency of her defence.

‘OK,’ he said softly. ‘So what have you been doing? Of course. I’d forgotten. It’s Tuesday. You visit the health club on Tuesdays. No wonder your cheeks are so pink.’

‘If my cheeks are pink, it’s because I’m cross with you,’ retorted Susan shortly. ‘You’re always saying I show no interest in your work, and now, just because I have, you’re acting as if I was asking you to divulge state secrets or something.’

‘Suse—’

‘Who cares about Julia Harvey anyway?’

‘Hector’s hoping everybody will,’ put in Quinn drily.

‘Well, I don’t.’ Susan sniffed. ‘She’s just another old film actress, as far as I’m concerned. I doubt if they’re exactly thin on the ground.’

‘She was quite unique,’ murmured Quinn reluctantly, aware that he wasn’t doing himself any favours by defending her, and Susan gave him a scathing look.

‘Is that your opinion? I thought you were too young to notice.’

Quinn sighed. ‘Don’t be bitchy, Suse. It doesn’t suit you.’

‘Well...’ Susan shook her head. ‘I don’t see anything clever in acting in movies. I’ve heard they only film about a minute at a time. They don’t even have to remember lines. Daddy says it’s money for jam.’

And he would know, thought Quinn with uncharacteristic malevolence. He was not often in tune with the views of Maxwell Aitken, one of the most influential businessmen in the country. He was the head of Corporate Foods, with a chain of successful supermarkets behind him. If anyone knew anything about jam, he did, but that didn’t make him an expert on making films.

But, ‘Really?’ Quinn responded now, in no mood to pursue this discussion. ‘Well, he’s probably right,’ he added. ‘And I’m sorry if you think I was rude.’

Susan was easily mollified. ‘Well, you weren’t rude. Not really,’ she said, stretching her hand across the table and capturing his fingers. She smiled. ‘You just seem sort of—grumpy, that’s all. Is it because you don’t want to go and see this woman? Is Pickard putting the pressure on because he knows your mother knew her?’

Quinn stifled a groan. ‘Something like that,’ he agreed pleasantly. ‘Now, can we talk about something else? I’ve only got about half an hour. We’re taping the last segment of that prison documentary this afternoon.’

Susan pulled a face. ‘At Wormwood Scrubs?’ she asked, shivering delicately, and Quinn pulled a wry face.

‘No. In the studio,’ he corrected her drily. ‘We’ve got Patrick George coming in to conduct a discussion between members of the public and the society that protects the rights of prisoners. It should be interesting. He’s quite right-wing, I believe.’

Susan grimaced. ‘I don’t know how you can bear to be involved in that kind of debate!’ she exclaimed. ‘I positively cringed last week when you said you’d visited that prison. I’m sure your mother and father would rather you were involved in estate matters. I mean, who’s going to look after Courtlands when your father decides to retire?’

Quinn eased his legs beneath the narrow table. ‘Believe it or not, but that doesn’t keep me awake nights,’ he drawled, his eyes, which in the subdued light looked more black than grey, glinting mockingly. ‘If you want to be lady of the manor, Suse, I think you’d better set your sights on Matthew. I fear you’re going to be disappointed if you think I’ll ever change.’

Susan pursed her lips. ‘But you’re the eldest son!’ She shook her head. ‘It’s expected of you.’

‘Blessed is the man who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed,’ remarked Quinn drily, and Susan sighed.

‘Who said that?’

‘I think I just did.’

Susan gave him a reproving stare. ‘You know what I mean.’

‘Oh—Pope, I think. Yes, it was. Alexander Pope: 1688-1744, poet and scholar.’

Susan looked as if she would have liked to make some cutting comment in response, but the arrival of their sandwiches prevented any unladylike burst of venom. Instead she contented herself with saying, ‘You’re so clever, aren’t you? I really don’t know what you see in a scatterbrain like me.’

‘Don’t you?’

Across the table, Quinn’s eyes glowed with a most unholy light, and Susan chuckled happily as she bit into her sandwich. ‘Well, maybe,’ she conceded, tucking a shred of beef into the corner of her mouth and blushing quite disarmingly. ‘Oh, Quinn, stop looking at me like that. You’re supposed to be eating your lunch.’

CHAPTER TWO

ELIZABETH screamed, and Harold shot almost two feet into the air. Heroines weren’t supposed to do that, thought Harold crossly, but even he had been startled by the sudden appearance of the dragon. It was all very well telling himself that the dragon was friendly, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. It was so big and white and scaly. How could he persuade Elizabeth there was nothing to be afraid of, when he was shaking in his paws? She was only a girl, after all...

So much for female emancipation, thought Julia wryly, placing both hands in the small of her back and arching her aching spine. But then Harold was the hero of the story. And the audience she was aiming at didn’t mind a little chauvinism.

It was a new departure for her all the same, and one she wasn’t entirely convinced by yet. The trouble was, since that grotty little man had appeared on her doorstep, she was finding it difficult to concentrate on anything, and having a male character as the main protagonist required a different kind of approach.

Still, Jake liked it, she consoled herself, determined to put the memory of that disturbing incident out of her mind. And it was because of him that she was trying something new. Her agent would have had her writing Penny Parrish books until her teenage fans were tired of them, but with twenty under her belt Julia was ready for a change.

The temperature didn’t help, of course. At present the thermometer was reading well into the eighties, and although she’d only been at the word processor for a little over an hour her spine felt damp and her shorts were sticking to her.

Perhaps she should have chosen to write about a fire dragon, she thought, studying the last few lines she’d written with a critical eye. But a snow dragon was much more original, and Xanadu, as she’d called him, was turning out to be such an appealing character. Even if he did make Elizabeth scream, she appended with a rueful smile.

She sighed and glanced at the slim gold watch on her wrist. Eleven o’clock, she saw with some relief. Time for a nice cup of coffee. Harold could consider his options for another half-hour. After all, Old English sheepdogs weren’t noted for their agility.

Getting up from her chair, she walked rather stiffly through the living-room and into the spacious kitchen she’d designed herself. Hardly space-age, it nevertheless combined the homeliness of a farmhouse kitchen with some of the technology of the nineties, and although she didn’t have a dishwasher she had all the gadgets necessary to prepare and cook good food.

Food was something she had become rather an expert on. She had discovered, somewhat belatedly, that she had a natural talent for baking and, growing most of her own produce as she did, she enjoyed experimenting with her craft.

Besides, in the early days, before she had found she could make her living at writing children’s books, she had had lots of empty hours to fill. Looking after one small boy did not absorb all the energies she had expended as a busy actress, and she had found the transformation from public figure to private individual rather disconcerting at first.

Not that she had ever regretted it. Long before she had made the decision to give it all up she had been feeling increasingly dissatisfied with her life. In spite of her success, and the many friends she had made because of it, she had grown tired of the adulation. It had all been so superficial, and she had been desperate to escape.

She supposed her mother’s death had had something to do with it. Without Mrs Harvey’s encouragement, Julia doubted she’d ever have attended drama school, let alone had a successful career. Unlikely as it might have seemed to other people, she had wanted to go to university, and then get married. She hadn’t wanted to be an actress. Becoming rich and famous hadn’t interested her at all.

Well, not to begin with, she conceded honestly, remembering that she had had a lot of fun in those early days. The press calls, the parties, meeting famous people—it had all seemed quite wonderful to the innocent Julia Harvey. She had been the darling of the photographers; she couldn’t seem to put a foot wrong.

Until Hollywood had called, and the rumours about her personal life had started to circulate. It hadn’t mattered that the stories were false, that her mother had made sure she didn’t do anything to ruin her image—they’d printed them just the same. It was as if her success had generated a kind of resentment in the reporters who had previously lauded her. Unwittingly she had gained a reputation that grew more outrageous with every film she made.

But by then she had been able to handle it. It was amazing how quickly she’d learned to parry insults with the same ease as she’d accepted compliments. The fallacy that she had had affairs with all her leading men had been good publicity, after all. The studios hadn’t denied it. It had incited interest in her films.

She supposed they had all been waiting for the moment when she took her clothes off. They had wanted to see her naked so that they could justify what they’d written. But in fact Julia had never done a nude scene. That was one discrimination she had insisted on in every contract she’d signed.

Her mother’s death had robbed her of much of her motivation, however. Without Mrs Harvey’s influence, she could be more objective about her life. She no longer had to accept roles because it was what her mother expected of her. She didn’t have anything to prove any more. In essence, she was free.

Not that Mrs Harvey had been the reason for her decision to leave acting, Julia acknowledged wryly as she spooned beans into the coffee-grinder. Without other forces to make those needs paramount, she might never have found the strength to walk away. She’d grown used to her image. Wealth, admiration—power—were addictive, after all. And she had been as guilty as anyone of using them to her own ends.

With the beans ground and transferred to the percolator, Julia stepped through the open doorway on to a vine-shaded veranda. Cane furniture, liberally strewn with cushions, was protected by a leafy screen of bougainvillaea, and beneath her feet the bleached boards were comfortably warm and brittle.

She stared unseeingly at the view that had initially sold the villa to her, aware that her current preoccupation with the past had been brought about by the appearance of that reporter. No matter how she tried, she couldn’t shake the conviction that she hadn’t seen the last of him. For God’s sake, he hadn’t recognised her! Why couldn’t she leave it at that?

She sighed, allowing her eyes to focus on the surf that creamed on the reef a couple of hundred yards out from the shore. It was so beautiful, she thought, as she had thought so many times since she and Jake had moved in. Unspoilt and peaceful. Exactly as it had always been. Nothing had changed.

She rested her hands on the hip-high rail that circled the veranda, and noticed that the paint was peeling again. She’d only painted it a few months ago, but the sun was an unforgiving master.

Still, the villa was much different now from the way it had been when she had first seen it. Without the view, she might have paid more attention to its scratched and peeling timbers, to a roof that had been leaking for years, and the uninvited tenants who had moved in. Not human tenants, she had discovered, but a whole menagerie of furry creatures, large and small, living off the woodwork and nesting in the roof. The whole place had needed gutting and restoring, but Julia had tackled it gladly. So long as she was going to be able to wake up every morning to that stunning vista of milk-white sand and blue-green water, she’d been prepared to do what was needed.

And she had. Ten years on, Julia owned to a certain possessive pride in her house and garden. It was hers. She had created it. Some divine power might have created its surroundings, but she had turned the house into a home.

And now it was being threatened, she thought tensely, her thoughts irresistibly returning to the man who had invaded her tranquillity. How had he found her? That was what she would like to know. Benny had kept his promise. He’d revealed her whereabouts to nobody.

Once she had been afraid. Once she had lived each day dreading recognition and discovery. She hadn’t believed she could escape her old life so easily. Someone was bound to find her. Somewhere she’d made a mistake.

But the years had gone by, and now Benny was dead, too. She’d been sure the world had long forgotten her. Well, forgotten Julia Harvey, at least, she reflected ruefully. Julia Harvey was long gone. She was Julia Stewart now: amateur artist and professional writer. Why couldn’t they leave her alone? Why couldn’t they let it rest?

But something told her they wouldn’t. Even if she had convinced that man—what was his name? Neville something or other—that she didn’t know where Julia Harvey was, she felt sure he’d be back. He was only a minion, after all. He’d said he’d come from London, that he’d been given her address as San Jacinto. What if they sent someone else, who remembered her? Not a brash young reporter who’d still been wet behind the ears when she was young.

All the same, she had changed—quite a lot, she consoled herself firmly. Once she had thought nothing of spending a thousand dollars on a beauty treatment, but these days her hair was unstyled and bleached by the same sun that had aged her veranda. The skin that a generation had raved about was tanned a tawny brown and, although she was still slim, her hips were broader, her breasts much fuller since she’d had Jake.

She looked what she was, she decided grimly. A thirty-seven-year-old single mother, with no pretensions to glamour. Whatever that reporter had hoped to find, she hadn’t fulfilled his expectations. He’d been quite prepared to believe that she couldn’t possibly be his quarry.

Sweat was trickling down between her breasts now, and, lifting her arms, she swept the weight of her hair from the back of her neck. Although she wore it in a braid most days, today she had left it loose, and she tilted her head to allow the comparative freshness of the breeze to cool her moist skin. Perhaps she ought to consider having air-conditioning installed, she reflected, but she’d miss the freedom of leaving all the doors and windows open. Still, if the media was going to start beating a path to her door again, she might be forced to lock herself in.

If she stayed...

The percolator had switched itself off behind her and, refusing to worry about the matter any more, she went back inside. The terracotta tiles felt almost cold after the heat outside, and the air was fragrant with the trailing plants and pots of herbs she cultivated on her windowsills.

Looking at the herbs reminded her that she would have to go over to George Town before the end of the week. Although San Jacinto had its own thriving little market beside the harbour, most manufactured goods had to be brought from Grand Cayman, which was a three-hour ferry ride away. Julia owned a small dinghy, which she and Jake sailed at weekends, but it wasn’t suitable for carrying supplies. Generally she and Maria, the island woman who shared the housework with her, visited the capital of the Cayman Islands every couple of weeks. It was a pleasant outing, shopping for stores and having lunch in one of the many excellent restaurants.

George Town was where Jake attended school, too. He boarded there throughout the week with the headmaster and his wife, coming home at weekends, from Friday through to Sunday.

He hadn’t liked it at first. During his early years Julia had tutored him herself, and Jake hadn’t been able to see why she couldn’t go on doing so. But it was for another reason that Julia had insisted on his attending St Augustine’s. Although her son had friends on San Jacinto, she knew he needed the regular company of children his own age. Besides, her life was so solitary. It wasn’t fair to let him think that he didn’t need anyone else.

Carrying her mug of coffee with her, Julia trudged back to her office and resumed her seat at the word processor. A couple of weeks ago, Harold’s adventures had filled her with enthusiasm, but now it was difficult to keep her mind on her work. Anxiety, apprehension, fear; call it what she would, she was uneasy. A horrible sense of foreboding had gripped her, and she couldn’t quite set herself free.

* * *

By the end of the following week, Julia was feeling much better. Time—and the fact that she was sleeping again—had persuaded her that she had been far too alarmist about her visitor. So what if the man had come here? So what if he’d asked questions about her? She’d given him his answer. There was no reason for him to come back. After all, she was the only Englishwoman of her age living on the island, and he might think a mistake had been made. It was unusual, perhaps, to find a woman living alone out here. And people were always intrigued by non-conformity. Maybe that was how conclusions had been drawn. Conclusions which she hoped she had persuaded her visitor were incorrect.

But such thoughts were still depressing, and she avoided them. Only occasionally now did she wonder why anyone should have chosen to look on this island. Where had they got their information? Who still knew where she was?

It was late afternoon when she finally turned off the word processor. Normally she would have worked on until suppertime, but it was Friday and she had to meet Jake from the ferry. Fridays were always special, with her son’s return and the prospect of the weekend ahead to look forward to. She seldom worked when he was around. They enjoyed spending time together.

Earlier in the day, she had prepared Jake’s favourite meal of pizza followed by sticky toffee pudding and ice-cream, and all she had to do when they came home was put them in the oven. Not the ice-cream, of course, she thought humorously as she set the kitchen table for two. Anything cold had to be kept in the freezer, or else it dissolved into an unappetising soup.

It was getting dark when she left the villa, but she knew the route to the small town of San Jacinto blindfold. She had driven this way countless times before, though it never failed to charm her.

Her villa was at the south-western end of the island, approximately five miles from the town. The road wound its way inland for a distance, twisting among palms and flowering shrubs before seeking the coastal track again, where shallow cliffs and rocky outcrops made fantastic shapes in the fading light. It was a narrow road, sprouting weeds in places, and always at the mercy of the crowding vegetation. Unlike other islands, there was no shortage of water on San Jacinto, and plants and shrubs grew lushly in its rich, verdant soil. Julia was always fascinated by the orchids. She’d never seen them growing wild before.

She passed no one on the road, though she did pass several other dwellings. The island doctor, Henry Lefevre, and his wife, Elena, lived next door, and further along the coast she skirted the Jacob plantation. Bernard Jacob grew sugar-cane and sweet potatoes, producing his own very potent spirit that he exported to the United States.

The tiny village of West Bay, where Maria lived, was on the way, too. When Jake was home he spent a lot of his time in West Bay, playing with Maria’s two sons and three daughters. Julia had always been thankful that he had Maria’s children to play with, though the fact that he was an only child occasionally caused some friction.

Jake could never understand why, if she had had one child without a husband, she couldn’t have two. She knew he would have loved a brother or sister of his own. But Julia had no intention of making that mistake again.

San Jacinto was roughly horseshoe-shaped, with the port of San Jacinto situated on the inner curve of the stretch of water known simply as the Sound. To reach the town, Julia had to cross the island at its narrowest point and then negotiate the descent from towering cliffs, which were the highest point on the island.

The town was busy. The return of the ferry, which only ran three times a week, was always a source of some excitement to its inhabitants. San Jacinto got few visitors, but the islanders were sociable people and there was always the anticipation of meeting someone new.

Julia, however, avoided newcomers whenever possible. Fortunately, those tourists who did come were obliged to stay at one of the two boarding establishments near the harbour, and although they could hire Mokes for touring the island her property was sufficiently remote to deter trespassers.

The ferry was in sight across the bay, and Julia parked her open-topped four-by-four beside the sea-wall and sat for several minutes just enjoying the view. With the sun sinking steadily behind the cliffs, the sky was a brilliant palette of colour. She could see every hint of red, shading through to magenta, with a lemony tinge to the clouds that heralded the night. They had a short twilight on the island, though not as short as it was nearer the equator. Here it was a much more civilised transformation, with a velvety breeze to offset the heat and cool her perspiring skin.

‘You expecting company, Mrs Stewart?’

Ezekiel Hope, who ran one of the island’s two hotels, had come to prop himself against the bonnet of the Mitsubishi, and Julia gave up her contemplation of the view to get out of the vehicle and join him. She had stayed at the Old Rum House herself, while the villa was being dealt with, spending the latter half of her pregnancy on his veranda, sunning herself in one of his rattan chairs.

‘Just my son,’ she said now easily, drawing a navy sweater about her shoulders. She glanced towards the quay, where the ferry was steadily negotiating its docking. ‘Are you expecting visitors too? I suppose it is the season.’

‘Just one visitor,’ replied Ezekiel carelessly, flexing his gleaming biceps beneath the thin cotton of his vest. Zeke, as he was commonly known, was proud of his muscular torso. Although he was in his sixties, he assured everyone that he could still hold his own with the most obstreperous of his customers.

Julia refused to be alarmed by his answer. Nor had she any intention of asking who his visitor might be. She had heard that that man—Neville? Yes, Neville Hager, that had been his name—had stayed at the Old Rum House too when he was here. And she had no wish to draw attention to the fact or arouse Zeke’s curiosity.

‘You had another visitor yourself, couple weeks ago, didn’t you, Mrs Stewart?’ Zeke remarked after a moment, thereby restoring all of Julia’s fears. ‘Said he was looking for a Ms Harvey, isn’t that right?’ He shrugged. ‘I told him we didn’t have no Ms Harvey on the island, but he seemed to think you might be able to help him.’

‘But I couldn’t,’ said Julia shortly, and Zeke gave her an apologetic look.

‘I know that. And I hope you didn’t mind me telling him you were the only English lady we got living on San Jacinto, Mrs Stewart,’ he added. ‘If’n I hadn’t, someone else surely would’ve. And it’s no secret, is it? I mean, you’ve been here a long, long time.’

‘A long time,’ agreed Julia tightly, looking rather apprehensively towards the ship. Would Jake see her here, if she didn’t go to meet him? she wondered. She’d prefer to keep a low profile until the other passengers had disembarked.

To her relief, Zeke wandered off as the alighting travellers came down the gangplank. Many of the passengers were islanders, returning from a day-trip to Grand Cayman. On the days the ferry ran, it was possible to arrive in George Town at lunchtime, do some shopping, and catch the late afternoon sailing from the harbour. From her vantage point along from the quay, Julia recognised several of the local women, laden down with carrier bags.

She saw Jake at once. Although he was dark, like the other children, his hair was straight, not curly. At present he insisted on wearing it long on top and short at the back, and his ears stuck out endearingly. But in his school uniform of white shirt and maroon shorts his appearance was unmistakable anyway, even if his tie was loose, his collar was unbuttoned and his jacket was draped untidily over one shoulder.

She had started towards him when she saw the man following him down the gangplank. Among so many dark and suntanned faces his comparatively pale olive-coloured skin was a notable contrast, and she guessed this was the visitor Zeke had spoken about. That it wasn’t Neville Hager was some comfort. If his paper was going to continue its enquiries, it had evidently decided to send someone else. But wasn’t that a paranoid conclusion? she chided herself. The majority of visitors to San Jacinto came because of the good diving. And some of them came alone, from England and the United States.

Suppressing the impulse to stay where she was, Julia continued towards the quay. Jake had seen her and he waved cheerfully, his haversack banging against his legs as he quickened his pace. He really needed a new haversack, she thought, noticing how the old one was bulging at the seams. Jake stuffed everything into that bag: school-books, trainers, computer games, the lot! Not to mention his dirty laundry, which Julia knew from previous experience would be rolled up at the bottom.

‘Hi, Ma,’ he said disrespectfully, but the hug he returned was as eager as she could have wished. He handed her his haversack then, and skipped away towards the Mitsubishi. Until she’d taken him home and fed him, that was as much as she could expect.

‘Julia?’

She was turning away, not thinking about anything but her son, when she heard the soft, disbelieving whisper behind her. She had been so intent on behaving naturally, she’d briefly forgotten the man who had come off the ferry behind her son.

The voice wasn’t familiar, but her head turned almost instinctively towards that hushed recognition. She should have ignored it, she thought later, but he’d caught her off her guard, and she’d admitted the fact by her actions, if not by word of mouth.

‘My God—it is you!’ the man said again, incredulously, and Julia felt the ground shifting beneath her feet.

‘Hello, Quinn,’ she managed, while the world she’d created crashed around her. ‘You’re looking well. Are you on holiday?’

CHAPTER THREE

QUINN sat on the veranda of the Old Rum House, drinking a glass of the strongest punch he had ever tasted. And he needed it, he thought ruefully. God, imagine that! Meeting Julia Harvey herself as soon as he stepped off the boat. Hector would say it was a bloody miracle. And it was. He just hadn’t come to terms with it yet.

Inside the hotel he could hear the preparations for the evening meal getting under way, and there was a delicious aroma of foreign herbs and spices. Mr Hope—Zeke—had asked if fresh papaya and a conch chowder would be suitable for supper, but Quinn barely remembered what he had said in response. His thoughts had still been focused on the familiar, yet unfamiliar woman he had met on the quay, and he hoped he hadn’t looked as stupefied as he’d felt.

Thank God he hadn’t had to make conversation with the other guests, he reflected now. There were only two of them: a young couple from England, Zeke had said, who’d arrived a couple of days ago, and Quinn suspected that they were here on their honeymoon. They were seated on a couch at the other end of the veranda, murmuring together in low, intimate voices, and every now and then there was a pregnant silence that spoke volumes for itself. They made Quinn feel unbelievably old, and a rather large gooseberry into the bargain.

Not that he wanted company, he reminded himself, taking another stiffening mouthful of the rum. Right now he was having to cope with the fact that Hector’s information hadn’t been wrong, and that was not something he could take lightly.

Even now he found it incredible to believe that the woman he had seen earlier was the Julia Harvey he had known. Oh, she had recognized him, so it had to be her, but she was nothing—nothing—like he had expected.

Yet what had he expected? He’d hardly believed Hector’s story to begin with, and he’d been half prepared to find it was all a wild-goose chase. But what the hell? A trip to the Caribbean in February was no hardship and, in spite of Susan’s aversion to the idea, he had been curious.

And now? Now he didn’t know what he felt. Meeting her like that had certainly robbed the situation of any fantasy, but he was no longer sure he wanted to pursue it. She had changed so much, and although she had been perfectly polite he could tell he was the last person she had wanted to see.

His own reaction had been no less astounded. It was like being confronted by a dinosaur when you’d believed they were extinct. Not that Julia looked like a dinosaur. Her appearance was unique. He couldn’t get over how young she looked—how unsophisticated, how natural.

How old was she? he wondered. She had to be thirty-five at least. But she didn’t look it. She looked to be in her mid-twenties. She’d evidently stopped cutting her hair, and the sun had streaked its silvery blondeness with shades of gold and honey. She’d put on some weight, too, though that suited her. And her skin was tanned now, instead of the magnolia-white that the studios had demanded.

He took another swig of his punch and shook his head, as if by doing so he’d make some sense of the turmoil in his brain. Julia Harvey—and not just Julia Harvey but her son as well. For God’s sake, had her disappearance been due to nothing more than the fact that she’d got married? And if so, why hadn’t she just announced the fact? She wouldn’t have been the first woman to give up a successful career for love.

For love...

His glass was empty, and rather than disturb his amorous neighbours Quinn picked it up and ambled into the foyer of the small hotel. The reception desk was unmanned, but he could hear the sound of glasses clinking to his right, and when he turned in that direction he found himself in the subdued lighting of a bar.

This part of the hotel was evidently used by the locals, and there were one or two of them there already, propping up the bar and filling the air around them with the aromatic smoke of a rather doubtful tobacco. A radio was tuned to a calypso station, and Zeke himself was serving his customers. He looked cheerfully in Quinn’s direction when he came in, his mouth widening knowingly as he saw his empty glass.

‘You want some more of that, Mr Marriott?’ he enquired, indicating the glass, but although Quinn was tempted he shook his head. He had the suspicion that Zeke and his cronies encouraged visitors to partake rather too freely of the local spirit, and then got a good-natured enjoyment out of the hangovers they cultivated. Quinn had no desire to spend tomorrow nursing his head and, setting his glass on the bar he accepted a Mexican beer instead.

‘Dinner be ready pretty soon,’ Zeke declared, running a damp cloth over the counter. ‘You hungry, Mr Marriott?’

Quinn grimaced. In truth, he was tired. Back home, it was already well after midnight, and although he’d tried to doze on the plane from London weariness, and a certain sense of anticlimax, was getting to him. This wasn’t the way he had anticipated this assignment to go, and the knowledge that the initiative had somehow been taken from him niggled at his conscience.

Why hadn’t he challenged her when she’d spoken to him? Why hadn’t he admitted, there and then, that he had come here to find her? She was probably suspicious, so why hadn’t he told her? Instead of making some inane remark about enjoying a rest?

But, ridiculously enough, she had been the last person he had expected to see at that moment. His mind had been full of the problems he faced in trying to find her, and meeting her on the quay like that had left him feeling stunned. Much like the first time he’d seen her. She’d stunned him then as well...

He gave an inward groan. How could he have been such an idiot? She’d completely mangled his brain. He’d stood there feeling as immature and callow as the youth he used to be, and by the time he’d pulled himself together she’d gone.

‘Going to get some scuba-diving in while you’re here, Mr Marriott?’

Zeke’s enquiring voice brought him out of his reverie, and, realising he was being rude, Quinn made a determined effort to gather his scattered wits.

‘I—why, maybe,’ he conceded, still not sure how best to handle this. He knew Hager had made no secret of his enquiries, but Quinn preferred a more subtle approach. If Julia was living anonymously on San Jacinto, she had her reasons. And until he’d had the chance to talk to her—properly—he’d rather not advertise why he had come.

He tried to remember everything Hagar had told him. He’d said he’d been told there was no Julia Harvey living on the island, but that there was an Englishwoman, who might have been mistaken for her. Unfortunately, he hadn’t said what she was called. Just that she wasn’t who they were looking for, so he’d abandoned the search.

Of course, Hector had been of the opinion that whoever Hagar had spoken to had been lying. That you couldn’t remain hidden all these years without having an efficient means of defence. Oh, God! Quinn’s lips twisted. What if Neville had actually met the lady without recognising her? She certainly looked nothing like those old pictures. But he wouldn’t like to be in Hager’s shoes if Hector found him out.

‘South Point,’ Zeke put in helpfully now. ‘That’s where you’ll find the best diving. Harry—that’s Harry at Harry’s Hire ‘n Dive—can give you all the gear you need. You’re planning on hiring a Moke, aren’t you? You’ll need one to get around.’

‘Oh—I guess so.’ In truth, Quinn hadn’t given a lot of thought to how he was going to get about the island.

‘I thought so.’ Zeke gave him an approving nod. ‘Another beer, Mr Marriott?’

* * *

In spite of the conviction that he wouldn’t sleep, Quinn actually slept very well. He opened his eyes the next morning feeling considerably rested, and apart from a slightly muggy head there were no unpleasant after-effects of the rum punch.

A shower in the tiny bathroom disposed of the mugginess, and by the time he’d pulled on narrow black jeans and a matching T-shirt he felt ready to face the day. He even felt more optimistic this morning, though he had yet to decide what his next move would be.

One thing was certain: whatever Julia had thought of his behaviour the night before, he was no longer the impressionable teenager he had been ten years ago. She might believe she could still intimidate him—and who could blame her?—but she would soon realise that he was a man now; he wasn’t so easily dazzled. Besides, his experience of women was more extensive these days. He was certainly not the idealist he’d been before.

He phoned Susan before going down for breakfast. Although it was only seven o’clock in San Jacinto, it was lunchtime in London, and he caught her at the apartment, before she left for Courtlands.

As soon as his mother had learned what he was planning, she had insisted that Susan spend the weekend with them. Quinn suspected that part of Lady Marriott’s insistence was due to a desire to hear more about it than the little he’d told her, and, if Susan was still in Suffolk when he got back from the Caribbean, she was fairly assured that he’d come and fetch her. And incidentally tell his mother what had happened on his trip.

Isabel Marriott was still endearingly loyal where Julia was concerned. She had always defended her decision to drop out of the limelight, and although she had been disappointed that she hadn’t been taken into Julia’s confidence she had always maintained that the younger woman must know what she was doing.

‘It must be a man,’ she had confided to Quinn wistfully, unaware how that news had affected her son. ‘It’s always a man, darling, when someone like Julia abandons her friends and family. What other reason could there be? I just wonder who he is.’

Which was why Quinn had felt bound to tell her what he was doing. And, like her son, Isabel had had reservations as to the propriety of his mission. She was of the opinion that if Julia wanted to remain anonymous she should be allowed that privilege. She had never liked the part of his work that placed him in the category of investigator. She’d have been far happier if he were like his brother, Matthew, content to breed his fox-hounds and supervise the estate.

‘Darling!’ Susan answered his call at the first ring, and he felt a momentary sense of guilt for not having made the call the night before. But after seeing Julia he’d been in no mood to be sociable, and he’d consoled himself with the thought that it had really been too late. ‘Did you have a good journey?’

Quinn assured her that he had, and then went on, ‘I’m just about to go down for breakfast. It’s a beautiful morning, I’ve got a view of the Sound from my window, and the temperature’s in the seventies already.’

‘Lucky you!’ Susan’s tone was just faintly hostile. ‘I wish I could have gone with you.’

‘So do I,’ agreed Quinn smoothly, though that wasn’t strictly true. But they’d had this argument before, and it was easier to be sympathetic when there was no chance of her taking him at his word.

‘Do you mean it?’

Evidently the distance had mellowed her mood, and Quinn took the opportunity to work on it. ‘Of course I do!’ he exclaimed. ‘But it is a business trip, Suse. I don’t expect to have much free time. Hector wants me back in the office on Wednesday.’

‘I suppose.’ Susan sounded philosophical now. ‘So, have you had any success with your enquiries?’

‘I only got in last night,’ declared Quinn evenly, aware of the equivocation. ‘Um—when are you leaving for Courtlands?’

‘In about half an hour, I think.’ Susan paused. ‘Will you ring me there later?’

‘Well, maybe not today,’ said Quinn evasively. ‘I don’t know where I’ll be, do I?’ That, at least, was true. ‘I’ll try and ring at this time tomorrow. If you’re out, I can always leave a message.’

‘Where will I be?’ exclaimed Susan, her irritation evident again. ‘Unless you think Matthew might be persuaded to run away with me. That is if I can prise him away from his blessed kennels, of course. I just hope your mother has invited some other guests for the weekend. If not, I’m going to have a pretty boring time.’

Quinn made some reassuring comment, and then, excusing himself on the grounds that he was wasting Hector’s time and money, he brought the call to an end. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk to Susan, he told himself. It was just indicative of his impatience with what he had to do.

He breakfasted on the veranda, alone. There was no sign of his fellow guests this morning, but that didn’t surprise him. If they were on honeymoon, food was unlikely to trouble them. It would probably be around lunchtime before they put in an appearance.

A couple of hot rolls, spread with apricot conserve, and several cups of strong black coffee later, Quinn’s spirits felt somewhat fortified. He’d refused the blueberry pancakes the young waitress had been sure he’d choose in favour of the lighter meal. In truth, he didn’t have much of an appetite either. He felt empty, it was true, but with apprehension, not hunger.

Zeke appeared as he was leaving the table, and it crossed his mind again that the hotel proprietor could probably save him a lot of effort. But Neville had said that the woman he’d approached lived at the other end of the island, and until he’d checked that out he was loath to state his intentions.

‘You going swimming, Mr Marriott?’ Zeke asked, with friendly enquiry, and Quinn used the opportunity to check out the whereabouts of Harry’s Hire ‘n Dive. Whether he was going to be successful or not, he definitely needed some transport, and a Moke sounded ideal for his purposes.

Half an hour later, he was bouncing up the steep hill out of San Jacinto town. The rear wheels of the little vehicle seemed to leave the road altogether in places, and he was forced to concentrate on his driving to keep it on the track.

All the same, he couldn’t help noticing how delightful the little town looked from this angle. Pink-splashed roofs, gardens lush with greenery, all jostling for space among hedges bright with scarlet hibiscus. There was an abundance of light and colour, of scents and smells, and exotic spices, teasing his senses with their sharp aroma. Even without the sparkling waters of the Sound the scene would have been dazzling, and the heat from an unguarded sun was already hot upon his shoulders.

Yet, for all that, there was still an unsettling sense of apprehension in his gut. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was disturbed at the prospect of seeing Julia again. To succeed where Hager had failed, he assured himself grimly. He refused to allow any other reason for the turmoil inside him.

The road levelled out, following the curve of the bay for some distance, allowing him to admire the rugged coastline. Here and there there were coves, surely inaccessible except by boat, with sand as white and untouched as when they had been formed. He could see coral in rocky outcrops and glimpse seaweed beneath the waves. It would obviously be a haven for tropical fish, and he wished he were only looking for somewhere to swim.

Where the bay curved away towards the north the road divided. A signpost indicated North Shore and Palm Springs in one direction, and West Bay and South Point in the other. And, although Hager had said the woman he’d spoken to lived at the other end of the island, he hadn’t said which one.

Quinn gnawed his lip. North Shore and Palm Springs didn’t ring any bells, but South Point did. That was where Zeke had said the best diving was to be had. At least if he went that way he’d have an excuse for discussing it if he was wrong.

The road turned inland for a distance, winding among trees for some of the way, giving him a brief respite from the glare of the sun. It was hot and getting hotter, and he guessed he should have brought some protection before he left. His skin was fairly resilient, but it was used to an English winter. This transfer to a semi-tropical climate was going to take some getting used to.

By the time he passed through the village of West Bay, he was experiencing a curious feeling of presentiment. This was the right way; he was sure of it. A kind of sixth sense was warning him that he was nearing his goal.

There were some children playing outside a kind of store, and, stopping the car, he decided it was worth a try to ask the store’s proprietor if he knew where this woman Hager had mentioned lived. He knew there was only one Englishwoman living on the island, and if it was the right area a shopkeeper would know her whereabouts.

But the man in the store was decidedly unhelpful. Even though Quinn bought a bottle of some obscure suntan lotion, and chatted about the weather, the man only shook his head when he mentioned Julia and the boy.

‘San Jacinto gets many visitors, sir,’ he replied, completely ignoring the fact that Quinn had said she lived here. ‘Have a nice day,’ he added politely as his customer went out of the door.

The children—there were about half a dozen of them—regarded him solemnly when he emerged. Quinn guessed they’d been examining his car in his absence, but the Moke was hardly a cause for concern.

‘Hi,’ he said, unused to speaking to children but willing to take any chance that was offered to him. ‘Do any of you know a white boy who lives hereabouts?’

One of the children, a girl of perhaps ten or eleven, appointed herself their spokesperson. ‘Our mother says we haven’t to speak to strangers,’ she declared smugly, before any of the younger children could chime in, and Quinn sighed.

‘Oh, right.’ He hid his exasperation beneath a bland smile, and went to get back into the car. He would have to try somewhere else. He might even be lucky enough to find a local who didn’t view him with suspicion.

One of the younger children, an attractive boy with his hair in corn rows, came to stand beside the Moke. ‘Why do you want to know?’ he asked, ignoring the older girl’s admonitions. ‘Do you know him?’

‘Not exactly.’ But he felt a little more optimistic suddenly. ‘I’m a friend, of—of his mother,’ he added quickly, before they could think that sounded odd. ‘I spoke to her yesterday, as a matter of fact. When she met the boy off the ferry.’

‘He comes home for the weekend,’ offered a sweet-faced little girl who looked about five years old, and the boy gave her a scowling glance. ‘Well, he does,’ she added defiantly, undaunted by his stare. ‘Jake always comes home on Fridays. And you know Mrs Stewart always goes to meet him.’

‘Butt out, Celestine,’ retorted the boy, who Quinn now suspected was her brother. ‘Em’s just told us we don’t talk to strangers. You should learn to keep your big mouth shut.’

‘So should you, then,’ said Celestine, her eyes filling with tears which Quinn was uncomfortably aware that he had caused.

‘I’m older than you,’ declared the boy, as if that were some excuse. ‘And I’m not a silly girl. Everyone knows girls don’t know what’s right from what’s wrong.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ Quinn felt obliged to intervene, and, fishing a handful of dollars out of his pocket, he thrust them into the boy’s hand. ‘Buy some sweets,’ he said. ‘For all of you. And thanks for your help, Celestine. I really do appreciate it.’

‘But you don’t know where Jake lives,’ protested the little girl as the older girl, Em, took the notes out of her brother’s hand and started to count them. ‘It’s called Nascence Bay,’ she added, ignoring her brother’s fury. ‘Well,’ she added, turning to him and looking at the money clasped in Em’s hand, ‘it’s only fair.’

Feeling like the biggest sleaze around, Quinn decided it was time to leave. God, was this what he was reduced to? Quizzing kids for information? But he noticed Em didn’t give him the money back. Evidently her scruples didn’t stretch that far.

And, thanks to Celestine, he found the entrance to the Stewart property ten minutes later. The name on the postbox, Renaissance Bay, would have meant nothing to him without Celestine’s childish directions. Though, now he came to think of it, it really was quite apt.

There were no gates to bar his way, but the dark tunnel of trees that edged the drive was an obvious deterrent to uninvited guests. Besides, if he hadn’t known that there was a dwelling at the end of it, he might have thought the narrow track could lead anywhere. To Renaissance Bay, perhaps? he reflected wryly. After all, that was what the sign had said.

And, in spite of the determination that had brought him here, Quinn couldn’t help feeling a little uneasy now. What if her husband was there? What if he threatened violence? Would he still persist in his objective if he had to use threats to get her to talk to him?

There was something unpleasant about the whole deal—but he had known that before he’d left England. And if he hadn’t done it Hector would have found someone else who would. Someone without his fastidiousness, without his scruples. He was here to ease her passage, whatever that might be.

The trees gave way to a battery of thorn and hydrangea, and then, suddenly, a long, low bungalow came into view. The reason he hadn’t been able to see it sooner was because the land in front of the house sloped away towards the shoreline, and all but the roof of the villa was protected by the ridge that rose behind it.

Quinn’s nerves tightened. What a perfect place for a house, he thought. What an incredible hideaway. No wonder no one had found her. Without foreknowledge, he would never have known where to look.

A shadow moved as he parked the Moke in the shade of a clump of palms. But it was only a fat black cat, which fled away into the shrubbery. No watchdog, then, he decided drily. Yet he had the distinct feeling of being observed.

He cut the Moke’s engine and looked around. It was possible, he supposed, that she was expecting him. That comment yesterday evening about his being on holiday could have been a bluff. And he’d done little to dispel it, struck almost dumb by her appearance.

His first impressions were that someone had taken a great deal of trouble to tame this semi-tropical paradise. The gardens surrounding the house were smoothly lawned, with colourful herbaceous borders and crazy-paving. There was a prettily arched pergola that was covered with flowering vines, and the scent of lime and citrus from a cluster of fruit trees.

A footway led through the pergola, apparently round to the back of the villa. Quinn hesitated, wishing someone would come and confront him, but no one did. He felt uncomfortably like the intruder he was, but he couldn’t stay here indefinitely. For all his uneasiness, he had to make a move.

Behind the villa a paved patio was strewn with terracotta pots of scarlet geraniums. There were flowers everywhere, tumbling out of stone planters and suspended in hanging-baskets. Even the pillars of the veranda that opened from the house were liberally covered with bougainvillaea, its pink and white confection like icing on a cake.

Beyond the patio, and the garden that enclosed it, he could hear the muted thunder of the ocean. An almost white beach, flanked by palm trees, fringed the blue-green waters of a lagoon. The waves crashed on the teeth of a reef some way out, but only creamed in gentle ribbons on the sand.

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