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.

A Woman of Passion
Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover Page

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

THE man was there again. Helen could see him striding away along the shoreline, the creamy waves lapping the soles of his canvas boots. It was almost impossible to make out any distinguishing features from this distance, but he was tall and dark-haired, and the way he walked made her think he was not seeking recognition. On the contrary, if she was an imaginative female—which she’d always assured herself she wasn’t—she’d have speculated that he took his walk so early to avoid meeting anyone.

She had no idea who he was. And doubted that if she’d observed him at any other time of the day he’d have aroused any interest at all. But for the past three mornings—ever since her arrival, in fact—she had seen him walking the beach at six a.m. Always alone, and always too far away for her to identify him.

Of course, if she herself had not been suffering the effects of the time-change between London and Barbados, she probably wouldn’t have been awake at six a.m. But, as yet, her metabolism hadn’t adapted to a five-hour time-lag, and each morning she’d found herself leaning on her balcony rail, waiting for the sun to make its appearance.

And it was probably just as well that the man chose to walk along the shoreline, she reflected ruefully. Standing here, in only the thin cotton shift she wore to sleep in, she would not have liked to think herself observed. At this hour of the morning, when no one else in the villa was awake, she could enjoy the beauty of her surroundings unhindered. Once the children were awake—and Tricia—her time was no longer her own.

Yet she shouldn’t complain, she told herself severely. Without Tricia’s help, she had no idea what she’d have done. A young woman of twenty-two, with no particular skills or talents, was anathema. Would-be employers wanted written qualifications, not heartfelt assurances that she could do the job they had to offer.

Of course, until her father’s untimely death, she hadn’t given a lot of thought to earning her own living. She’d been reasonably well educated, though she’d be the first to admit she was no academic. Nevertheless, she had attended an exclusive girls’ school and an equally exclusive finishing-school in Switzerland, and she’d considered herself admirably suited to maintain her role in life.

Which had been what? She pulled a wry face now. Well, to find a man like her father, she supposed—or like the man she had thought her father to be—and get married, raise a family, and repeat the process with her own children.

She sighed. Only it wasn’t to be. She wondered if her father had given any thought to her dilemma when he’d taken his yacht out for the last time. Had he really jumped, or had he only fallen? With the sea calm and the yacht found drifting, unmanned, ten miles south of the Needles, it was hard not to think the worst.

Naturally, she had been distraught when they brought her the news. She couldn’t believe that her father, who had been an excellent yachtsman, could actually have drowned. And the fact that they’d not found his body had kept her hopes alive. Whatever the coastguards said, he wasn’t dead.

But he was. His body had been found a couple of days later, and the realisation that she was alone now had been numbing. Even at the funeral she’d half expected James Gregory to come striding into the chapel. It was strange how that had sustained her through all the interminable expressions of grief.

Afterwards, however, while the guests were making a rather unsympathetic attack on the splendid buffet the housekeeper had provided, Max Thomas, her father’s solicitor, had drawn her aside. And in a few short words he had swept the ground from under her feet. Her father, it appeared, had been destitute. For years he’d been Iiving on borrowed time, and now that time had run out.

Incredibly, considering the affluent lifestyle they had enjoyed, James Gregory had been in serious financial difficulties. The estate he’d inherited from his father—and which had supported successive generations of Gregorys—was bankrupt. In spite of the pleas of his tenants for an injection of capital, no help had been offered. And, although a couple of years ago he had had the idea of opening the house and grounds to the public, that too had proved unsuccessful without the proper investment.

Remembering all those holidays in the Caribbean, the winters spent in Gstaad, the summers in the South of France, Helen had had no doubt as to how her father had spent his money. And he’d never betrayed his anxieties to her. She’d always had everything she’d ever wanted.

Maybe if her mother had still been around things would have been different. There was no doubt that Fleur Gregory’s departure, when Helen had been barely four years old, had had a salutary effect on her father. Until then he’d seemed quite content to live in the country. But her mother had found country life boring, and she’d eventually run off with a wealthy polo-player from Florida she’d met at a party in town.

That was when James Gregory had bought the London apartment, but, from Helen’s point of view, living in London had seemed rather boring at first. She had missed her friends, and she had missed the horses, and although they continued to spend holidays at Conyers it had never been quite the same.

Of course as she’d got older and started school her attitudes had changed. Her friends had been in London then. They had been young people from a similar background. And the boyfriends she’d eventually collected had all been as fun-loving as her father.

But her father had only been what she had made him, she reflected sadly, remembering how devastated she’d been to learn that her father had been borrowing money on the strength of securities he no longer owned. The estate had not one, but three mortgages hanging over it, and with the interest that was owing and death duties, there’d been precious little left.

The following months had been harrowing. Coming to terms with her father’s death would have been bad enough; coming to terms with the fact of his probable suicide had been infinitely worse.

Everything had had to be sold, even her car and the little jewellery she’d owned, and because her father’s only living relative was an elderly aunt, who’d disowned him long ago, Helen had had to deal with all the awful details herself. Max Thomas had helped, but even he had had no idea how distressing it had been. People who had once professed themselves her father’s friends had cut her dead in the street. Young men who’d phoned her constantly had suddenly been out of reach.

Not that Helen had particularly cared about her sudden loss of status. The hardest thing to bear was the absence of the one person she had really loved. She didn’t blame her father for what he’d done, but she did miss him. And she wished he had confided in her before taking that final step.

She could have contacted her mother’s sister, she supposed. Aunt Iris must have read about what had happened in the newspapers, but she hadn’t been in touch. Besides, Helen had shied away from the idea of asking for charity from the Warners. She and her father had had nothing to do with them in recent years, and it would have been hypocritical to ask for help now.

Nevertheless, things had been fairly desperate when she’d run into Tricia Sheridan in Marks & Spencer’s. In the four months since her father died she hadn’t been able to find a job, and although she had only been living in a bed-sitter, the rent had still to be paid. Office managers, store managers—all wanted more than the paltry qualifications she had to offer. The only position that had been open to her was a forecourt attendant at a petrol station, and she had been seriously thinking of taking it when Tricia came along.

Tricia, whose husband worked for the Foreign Office, had been living in Singapore for the past two years. She was older than Helen; she had been a prefect when Helen was still in middle school, but because of her prowess at sports all the younger girls had admired her.

She had singled Helen out for attention because Helen’s father had presented the school with a new gymnasium. A gymnasium he couldn’t afford, Helen reflected sadly now. But at the time she’d been so proud of his generosity.

Tricia had quickly discerned Helen’s situation. And had been quick to offer assistance. Why didn’t Helen come to work for her? she’d suggested. She needed a nanny, and she was sure Helen could cope.

It had all happened so quickly that Helen hadn’t really stopped to ask herself why—if five-year-old Henry and four-year-old Sophie were such poppets—Tricia didn’t have a nanny already. The other woman’s explanation that as they had been out of the country for some time they were out of touch with current agencies, hadn’t really held water, when she’d had time to think about it. She’d simply been so relieved to be offered a job that she’d agreed to her terms without question.

She supposed she’d had some naive idea that there were still people in the world who did do things out of the kindness of their hearts. Even after all the awful experiences she’d had, she’d actually been prepared to take Tricia’s offer at face value. She needed a job; Tricia was offering one. And the salary was considerably larger than any she’d been offered thus far.

In addition to which she would not have to pay the rent on the bed-sitter. Naturally, Tricia had declared, she must live in. Nannies always lived in, she’d said. It was one of the advantages of the job.

Helen wondered now whether she would have stuck it as long as she had if she had not given up her bedsit. In a short time she’d discovered that, far from being out of touch with the agencies, Tricia had, in fact, tried several before offering the post to her. Unfortunately, her requirements did not jell with most modern-day nannies. They were either too old, or too flighty, or they couldn’t follow orders, she’d declared, when Helen had mentioned her findings. But Helen had a theory that they simply refused to be treated as servants.

In any event, beggars couldn’t be choosers, and in the three months since she’d been working for the Sheridans, Helen had discovered it wasn’t all bad. Tricia was selfish and demanding, and she did expect the younger woman to turn her hand to anything if required. But, when their mother wasn’t around to encourage them, Henry and Sophie were fun to be with, and Andrew Sheridan was really rather nice.

Not that he was around much, Helen conceded, cupping her chin on her hand and watching the man who had started her introspection disappear into the belt of palms that fringed the far end of the beach. His work took him away a lot, which might have some bearing on Tricia’s uncertain temper. That, and the fact that he never seemed to take her seriously. As easy-going as he was, Helen could quite see how frustrating it must be to try and sustain his attention.

For herself, she imagined a lot of people would consider her position a sinecure. After all, she had her own room, she was fed and watered regularly, and the salary she was earning meant she could put a considerable amount each month into her savings account. If her hours were long, and a little erratic, she had nothing else to do. And at least Tricia didn’t feel sorry for her, even if she could be a little patronising at times.

Still, she wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for Tricia, she reminded herself firmly, lifting her face to the first silvery rays of sunlight that swept along the shoreline. The fine sand, which until then had had an opalescent sheen, now warmed to palest amber, and the ocean’s depths glinted with a fragile turquoise light. Colours that had been muted lightened, and a breeze brushed her calves beneath her muslin hem.

It was all incredibly beautiful, and the temptation was to linger, and enjoy the strengthening warmth of the sun. Helen felt as if she could watch the constant movement of the waves forever. There was a timelessness about them that soothed her nerves and renewed her sense of worth.

But she had spent quite long enough thinking about the past, she decided. Turning back into her bedroom, she viewed her tumbled bed with some remorse. It would have been so easy to crawl back into its comfort. Why was it she felt sleepy now, when an hour ago she couldn’t rest?

The room, like all the rooms in the villa Tricia had rented, was simply furnished: a bed, a couple of rattan chairs, a chest of drawers. There was a fitted wardrobe between this room and its adjoining bathroom, and louvred shutters on the windows to keep it cool. The bedrooms weren’t air-conditioned, even though Tricia had kicked up something of a fuss when she’d discovered this. However, the maid who looked after the villa had remained impassive. There was nothing she could do about it, she said. Perhaps the lady would prefor to stay at the hotel?

Tricia hadn’t preferred. It was far too convenient to have their own place with their own kitchen, where Henry and Sophie could take their meals without constant supervision. In addition to which, the place belonged to a business friend of Andrew’s. And he would not be amenable to them transferring to an hotel.

As she took her shower—tepid water, but refreshing—Helen remembered that Tricia’s husband was joining them today. He hadn’t accompanied them out to the Caribbean. Tricia had explained that there were meetings he had to attend, but Helen suspected Andrew had simply wanted to avoid such a long journey with two demanding children. As it was, she had had to spend most of the flight playing card games with Henry. Tricia and Sophie had fallen asleep, but Henry had refused to close his eyes.

Still, they were here now, and for the next four weeks surely she could relax and enjoy the sun. She’d already discovered that it was easier entertaining her young charges when the beach was on their doorstep. So long as Tricia didn’t get bored, and insist on giving parties every night.

The shower left her feeling refreshed and decidedly more optimistic, and after straightening the sheets on the bed she pulled on cotton shorts, which were all she wore over her bikini. It had been Tricia’s suggestion that she dress like one of the family. Any attempt to dress formally here would have seemed foolish.

It was only a little after half-past six when Helen emerged from the villa and crossed the terrace. Her feet were bare, and she took care not to stand on any of the prostrate beetles, lying on their backs on the tiles. These flying beetles mostly appeared at night, attracted by the artificial light, and, although she knew they were harmless, Helen had still to get used to their size and speed of movement. She had a horror of finding one in her bed, and she was always glad when Maria, the maid, brought out her broom and swept them away.

Beyond the terrace, a stretch of grass and a low stone wall was all that separated the grounds of the villa from the beach. Although she would have liked to go for a walk along the beach herself, Helen knew the children would be getting up soon and demanding her attention. It was no use expecting Maria to keep an eye on them when she arrived to prepare breakfast. Likeable though she was, she was also lazy, and looking after infants was not her job.

Perching on the wall, Helen drew one leg up to her chin and wrapped her arms around it. The sun was definitely gaining in strength, and she could feel its heat upon her bare shoulders. Although her skin seldom burned, she had taken to wearing a screening cream this holiday. The sun had a definite edge to it these days, and she had no wish to risk its dangers.

All the same, it was amazing to think that the temperature in England was barely above freezing. When they had left London three days ago, it had actually been snowing. But February here was one of the nicest months of the year. There was little of the humidity that built up later on.

The water beyond the beach was dazzling. It was tinged with gold now, its blue-green brilliance reflective as it surged towards the shore. Helen had already found that its power could sweep an unwary bather from her feet. Its smoothness was deceptive, and she had learned to be wary.

Fortunately, there was a shallow pool in the grounds of the villa where the youngsters could practise their strokes. They’d both learned to swim while they were living in Singapore, and although their skills were limited they could safely stay afloat. Helen had spent most of yesterday morning playing with them in the pool. Tricia had gone into Bridgetown, to look up some old friends.

‘Helen!’

Henry’s distinctive call interrupted her reverie, and, turning her head, she saw both children standing on the veranda, waving at her. They were still in their pyjamas, and she got resignedly to her feet. Until it was time for their afternoon nap, Tricia expected her to take control.

‘Have you been for a swim?’ asked Sophie resentfully, as Helen walked along the veranda to their room. She pointed at the damp braid of streaked blonde hair that lay over one shoulder. ‘You should’ve waked us. We could have come with you.’

‘Woken us,’ said Helen automatically, realising as she did so how quickly she had fallen into the role of nursemaid. ‘And, no. I haven’t been for a swim, as it happens.’ She shooed them back into their bedroom. ‘I had a shower, that’s all. That’s why my hair is wet.’

‘Why didn’t you dry it?’ began Sophie, then Henry turned on his little sister.

‘For God’s sake,’ he exclaimed, ‘give it a rest, can’t you?’ He flushed at Helen’s reproving stare. ‘Well—she’s such a stupid girl.’

‘I’m not stupid!’

Sophie responded loudly enough, but her eyes had filled with tears. She always came off worst in any argument with her brother, and although she tried to be his equal she usually lost the battle.

‘I don’t think this conversation is getting us anywhere, do you?’ declared Helen smoothly. ‘And, Henry—if you want to make a statement, kindly do so without taking God’s name in vain.’

‘Mummy does,’ he muttered, though he’d expected Helen’s reproof. ‘In any case, I’m hungry. Has Maria started breakfast?’

‘I doubt it.’ Helen started the shower as the two children began to unbutton their pyjamas. ‘She hasn’t arrived yet, as far as I know.’

‘Not arrived?’ Henry sounded horrified. ‘But I want something to eat.’

‘Then we’ll have to see what she’s left in the fridge,’ said Helen calmly. ‘Now, come on, Sophie. You’re first.’

By the time the children were bathed and dressed, Helen had already refereed a dozen arguments. Anyone who thought having children of a similar age automatically meant they would be company for one another couldn’t be more wrong, Helen reflected drily. In some circumstances it might work, and she was prepared to accept that there must be exceptions, but Henry and Sophie were in constant competition, and it didn’t make for amiable dispositions.

To her relief, Maria had arrived and was making the morning’s batch of rolls, when they arrived in the kitchen in search of breakfast. ‘Morning, Miss Gregory,’ she greeted Helen with a smile. ‘You’re up and about very early.’

‘I guess it’s because I still haven’t got used to the fact that it’s not lunchtime already,’ replied Helen. She rubbed her flat stomach with a rueful hand. ‘It’s the hunger that does it. We’re all ravenous!’

‘Well, sit down, sit down. I’ve a batch of rolls in the oven that’ s almost ready. Why don’t you have some orange juice, while you’re waiting? Or there’s some grapefruit in the fridge, if you’d prefer it.’

‘I don’t want grapefruit,’ said Sophie, wrinkling her nose, but Henry only looked at her with contempt.

‘I do,’ he declared, though Helen knew he didn’t like it. ‘You’re just a baby. You still drink milk.’

‘I drink milk, too,’ said Helen firmly, before it could deteriorate into another argument. ‘Would you like orange juice, Sophie? That’s what I’m going to have.’

‘Mmm,’ Sophie was off-hand, until she saw her brother’s face when Helen put half a grapefruit in front of him. Then she gave him a mocking smirk, and sipped her juice with exaggerated enjoyment.

Helen was helping herself to a second cup of coffee when Tricia appeared in the kitchen doorway. She wasn’t dressed yet. She was wearing a trailing chiffon négligé, and her reddish hair hadn’t been combed and stood out around her head. A tall woman, whose adolescent athleticism hadn’t continued into adulthood, Tricia had a constant battle to remain slim. It was a fact that she resented and which caused her some irritation. She regarded the little group around the table now without liking, and when Sophie would have slid off her chair and run to greet her mother she waved her back.

‘D’you have any aspirin, Maria?’ she asked, with a weary tilt of her head. ‘I’ve got the most God-awful headache. It must have been that seafood you served us last night. Are you sure it was fresh?’

It was hardly the way to gain Maria’s sympathy, and before the woman could make any comment, Helen pushed back her chair. ‘I’ve got some paracetamol,’ she offered. ‘It’s good for headaches.’ Particularly hangovers, she added silently, recalling how Tricia had drunk the best part of two bottles of wine the night before.

‘Oh, have you?’ Tricia turned to her with some relief. ‘D’you think you could bring them to my room? I think I’ll stay in bed this morning.’

‘But you said you’d take us into town this morning,’ Henry protested, not yet old enough to know when to keep his mouth shut, and his mother turned on him angrily.

‘What a selfish boy you are!’ she exclaimed. ‘Always thinking of yourself. Perhaps you’d like to spend the morning in bed as well. It might make you realise I’m not doing it for fun.’

‘Oh, Mummy—’

‘I don’t think Henry meant to upset you,’ put in Helen hurriedly, earning a grateful look from her young charge. ‘Why don’t you go back to bed, as you say, Tricia? I’ll get the paracetamol, and then bring your breakfast on a tray. I’m sure you could manage a croissant, and Maria’s brought some mango jelly and it’s delicious.’

‘Well…’ Tricia adopted a petulant air. ‘That does sound nice, Helen, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to eat anything. My head’s throbbing, and I’m sure I’m running a temperature. I may have to call the doctor if it doesn’t let up soon.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Helen could sympathise with her. Having a headache in a hot climate always seemed so much worse. The light was so bright, for one thing, and there seemed no escape from the heat.

Tricia sighed. ‘Perhaps if you brought me some coffee?’ she suggested. ‘And a little orange juice to wash the tablets down. Oh—and maybe a lightly boiled egg, hmm? And do you think you could find a slice of toast?’

‘Leave it to me.’

Helen ushered the other woman out of the room, before she could remember the threat she’d made to Henry. Then, when Tricia was safely installed in her bedroom, she returned to the kitchen to find Maria grinning broadly.

‘Just a lightly boiled egg,’ she declared wryly. ‘And some coffee and some orange juice and some toast…’ She paused to give Helen a wink. ‘Did I miss something?’

Helen wouldn’t let herself be drawn. All the same, it wasn’t the first time Tricia had spent the morning in bed. When they were in London, she had seldom seen her employer before lunchtime. If Tricia wasn’t attending some function or other, she rarely got up before noon.

When the tray was prepared, she collected the paracetamol from her room and delivered it in person. Tricia was lying back against the pillows, shading her eyes with a languid wrist, which she removed when Helen came into the room.

‘Oh, there you are,’ she said. ‘What have you been doing? I’ve been waiting ages.’

‘Just five minutes,’ Helen assured her, depositing the legs of the tray across her knees. ‘Now, if you want me, I’ll be on the beach. I’m going to take the children to search for shells.’

Tricia shuffled into a sitting position, and reached for the orange juice. ‘Well, don’t be long,’ she said, swallowing the tablets Helen had given her with a mouthful of the juice. ‘You’re going to have to go and pick Drew up from the airport. I can’t possibly do it. His plane is due in just after two.’

Helen stared at her. ‘But that’s this afternoon. You’ll probably be feeling perfectly all right by then.’

‘I won’t. I never feel all right until the evening,’ replied Tricia firmly. ‘And driving all that way in these conditions—well, it’s simply out of the question.’

Helen took a breath. ‘He’ll be expecting you to pick him up,’ she said carefully.

‘Then he’ll be disappointed, won’t he?’ Tricia regarded her testily. ‘My God, you’re almost as bad as Henry. Does no one care that I’ve got a migraine? I can’t help it if I’m not well.’

‘No.’ Helen moistened her lips. She’d already learned that there was no point in arguing with Tricia when she was in this mood. ‘Well—will you take care of Sophie and Henry, then? I don’t think Maria is willing—’

‘Can’t they go with you?’

Tricia stared at her impatiently, and Helen realised she wasn’t being given a choice. She couldn’t leavethe children to look after themselves. But it was almost an hour to the airport, and Sophie, particularly, didn’t travel well.

‘Can we leave it until nearer lunchtime?’ she suggested, hoping against hope that Tricia might have changed her mind by then. She’d have thought her employer would have been keen to see her husband again. It was several days since they’d come away.

‘I expect you to go and meet Drew,’ Tricia informed her inflexibly, and Helen couldn’t help thinking that there was no sign of the frail invalid they had encountered earlier. ‘Must I remind you that if it wasn’t for me you might not have a job? Let alone a well-paid one in enviable surroundings.’

‘No.’ Helen felt her colour deepen. ‘I mean—yes. Yes, I do appreciate it.’ She turned towards the door. ‘I’ll-tell the children.’

‘Good.’ Tricia attacked her egg with evident enthusiasm. ‘Just so long as we understand one another, Helen. I don’t like pulling rank here, but it really had to be said.’

CHAPTER TWO

MATTHEW AITKEN lounged behind the wheel of the dust-smeared Range Rover, waiting for his assistant, Lucas Cord, to emerge from the arrivals hall. He was getting impatient. The plane from New York had landed more than twenty minutes ago, and as Fleur had been booked into a first-class seat her luggage should have been cleared some time ago.

It was hot where he was sitting. There was little shade at this time of day and, despite the air-conditioning in the vehicle, which had been working fairly adequately on the journey to the airport, a prolonged period of waiting was causing the heat to rise. The annoying thing was that he wouldn’t have been here at all if his phone hadn’t been out of order. He’d discovered that when he’d tried to call New York that morning, and as he needed to speak to his publisher rather urgently he’d had no choice but to try elsewhere.

In consequence, it had made sense to continue on to the airport. Lucas had offered to make the call for him, but he’d wanted to speak to Marilyn himself. It was so much easier to deal with the matter personally. And the delay in the completion of the manuscript was his problem.

All the same, he disliked giving Fleur the impression that he had nothing better to do than come and meet her. It wasn’t as if he was even eager to have her here. But she was still his sister-in-law, even if his brother was no longer around. Chase’s death at the age of forty-two had been such a bitter blow.

Which, of course, was why the latest manuscript hadn’t been completed. Although it was eight weeks now since Chase’s fall, he was finding it hard to work. Dammit, he thought irritably, what had Chase been thinking of to attack his opponent so recklessly? It wasn’t as if he was an amateur. He’d been playing polo for almost thirty years.

Fleur, of course, had been devastated. When he’d seen her at the funeral, he hadn’t doubted that it was a blow to her, too. She had been dressed all in black and oozing tears, and he’d had to feel sympathy for her. For the first time in his life, he’d pitied her. He couldn’t believe even she could have wanted Chase dead.

But as he sat there in the Range Rover, with sweat dampening the shirt on his back and his bare thighs sticking to the leather seat, he couldn’t help remembering that he hadn’t always felt so charitably towards her. He’d been only sixteen when his brother had brought Fleur to live with them. The fact that she had still been married to her first husband at that time hadn’t sat too happily with their father either, but Chase had been mad about her, and somehow they’d all settled down.

It was just as well his own mother hadn’t been around, Matthew reflected drily. Emily Aitken had died of a rare form of cancer when he was ten, and until Fleur had come to live at the ranch their housekeeper, Rosa Cortez, had been both wife and mother to the three men.

Fleur had changed all that. In no time at all she was giving Rosa orders, telling his father what to do, and bullying Chase into doing whatever she wanted. His father hadn’t liked it but he was a mild man, more at home with temperamental horses than temperamental women, and at least he could escape into the stables whenever he felt like it.

Of course, the horses their father bred were what had enabled Chase to become the successful sportsman he had been. The Aitken Stud was famous throughout the United States, and enthusiasts came from as far afield as Argentina and Europe to buy the spirited stallions he produced. It was a lucrative business, and for all Matthew had been so young, he had had no doubt that Chase’s wealth had been a goodly part of his allure. Fleur had liked spending his money too much to have been attracted to a poor man, and he’d sometimes wondered what her first husband must have been like, and whether he had been wealthy, too.

Fortunately, during the early years of their marriage, he, Matthew, had spent most of his time away. College, and then university, had enabled him to avoid the image of his big brother being turned from a laughing, confident man into a grovelling supplicant. Whatever Fleur had, Chase had certainly been hooked on it, and Matthew had preferred to stay out of their way whenever he was at home.

He had been twenty-two when Fleur tried to seduce him. He remembered the occasion vividly. Chase had been away, playing a match in Buenos Aires, and his father had been attending the horse sales in Kentucky. Matthew wouldn’t have been there at all had it not been for the fact that he was attending an interview the following day in Tallahassee. The editor of the Tallahassee Chronicle was looking for a junior reporter, and Matthew had been hoping to get the job.

At first he hadn’t believed what was happening. When Fleur had come to his room, he’d assumed there really must be something wrong. It was when she had complained of being so lonely and started to shed her satin wrap that he’d comprehended. And, although his hot young body had been burning, he’d succeeded in throwing her out.

However, he hadn’t been able to hide the fact that she’d aroused him, and Fleur had seen his weakness as a challenge. At every opportunity she’d let him see how willing she was to be with him, touching him with clinging hands, bestowing longing looks.

Matthew had been sickened by it. It wasn’t as if there had been any shortage of women his own age, ready and willing to satisfy his every need. But not his brother’s wife, he’d assured himself disgustedly. Dear God, he’d thought, if he ever got that desperate, he’d go out and buy a gun.

Not that his attitude had deterred Fleur. On the contrary, she’d seemed to find his resistance very appealing. It became a point of honour with her to succeed, and not until he threatened to tell Chase did her provocation cease.

Of course, that was a dozen years ago now, and Matthew had long stopped worrying about his brother. His own career—first as a newspaper columnist, and then as an overseas reporter working for an agency based in New York—had broadened his mind, and he was no longer surprised by anything people did. Working in war-tom Lebanon and South-east Asia, he’d become inured to man’s inhumanities to man. The problem of a sex-hungry sister-in-law seemed small indeed, when compared to the struggle between life and death.

Besides, in his absence, Fleur and Chase had appeared to reconcile any differences they might have had. They had both grown older, for one thing, and Matthew’s different lifestyle had reinforced the barriers between them.

Then, five years ago, Matthew had written his first novel. A lot of it had been based on his own experiences in Beirut, and, to his amazement, it had been an immediate success. Film rights had been optioned; in paperback it sold almost five million copies. He’d become an overnight celebrity—and he’d found he didn’t like it.

That was when he had had the notion of moving out of the United States. He’d always liked the islands of the Caribbean, and the casual lifestyle of Barbados suited him far better than the hectic social round of living in New York had ever done. When his second book was completed, he had it written into the contract that he was not available for subsequent publicity. He preferred his anonymity. He didn’t want to become a media hack.

But, to his astonishment, like Fleur when he’d rejected her, his public found his detachment as intriguing as she had done. Avoiding talk-shows and signing sessions made no difference to his sales. His books apparently sold themselves, and curiosity about his lifestyle was rife.

All the same, it was a lot harder to reach him at Dragon Bay. The villa, which he had had erected on the ruins of an old plantation house, had excellent security features, and Lucas Cord—once his sound technician, but now his secretary-cum-assistant—made sure he wasn’t bothered by any unwelcome guests. Matthew supposed he’d become something of a recluse, only visiting New York when he needed stimulation. He seldom invited women to Dragon Bay. He wasn’t married, and he had no desire to be so.

Which was probably something else he could lay at Fleur’s door, he reflected cynically, watching as a dusty estate car skidded into the parking area and a girl and two young children tumbled out. For all his brother’s marriage had lasted until his death, he doubted Chase had really been happy. He’d lived his life constantly placating a woman who’d tried to cheat him at every turn.

‘Henry—wait!’

The girl—or was she a young woman? Matthew was never quite sure of the distinction—yelled desperately after the small boy, who had darted recklessly between the parked cars. She seemed hung up with the other child, who appeared to be doubled up with pain, and Matthew could see an accident in the making if the boy gained the busy area where the taxis were waiting.

Without giving himself time to think about the pros and cons of what he was about to do, Matthew thrust open his door and vaulted out of the Range Rover. His long legs swiftly overtook the boy’s, and his hand descended on the child’s shoulder seconds before he reached the open road.

‘Ouch,’ The boy—Henry?—looked up at him indignantly. ‘Let go of me! I’m going to meet my daddy.’

‘Not without your mother, you’re not,’ returned Matthew smoothly, turning to look back towards the cars. ‘Come along. I’ll take you back. Did no one ever tell you it’s dangerous to play in traffic?’

Henry looked up at him mutinously. ‘I wasn’t playing.’

‘Nor are the drivers,’ said Matthew drily, feeling the boy’s resistance in every step they took. He was aware that his action had drawn some unwelcome attention, and he hoped that no one imagined he was enjoying himself.

The child’s mother was hurrying towards them now, and Matthew regarded her with some impatience. With her waist-length braid and narrow body, she hardly looked old enough to have two children, albeit of preschool age. But she had the casual elegance of many English holidaymakers at this time of year, women who knew nothing about caring for their own children, and he felt a surge of anger at her obvious lack of control.

‘Oh, Henry!’ she exclaimed when she reached them, bending down to grab the boy’s hand with evident relief. ‘Don’t you ever—ever—go dashing off like that again.

If—if—’ she cast a swift glance up at Matthew ‘—this

gentleman hadn’t caught you, you could easily have been knocked down!’

‘Perhaps if you’d held on to his hand sooner, he wouldn’t have had the chance to run away,’ observed Matthew shortly, aware that it was really no concern of his. It wasn’t his place to tell her how to look after her children, and the deepening colour in her cheeks caused him as much discomfort as herself.

The trouble was, he realised, she had annoyed him. Driving into the car park like a mad thing, allowing the boy to put his life in danger. People like her shouldn’t be allowed to have children, he thought unreasonably. Though why he felt so strongly about it, he really couldn’t say.

‘Yes,’ she said stiffly now, facing him with eyes that were an indeterminate shade of grey. ‘I know it was

remiss of me to let Henry run off like that. But—’ she

cast her gaze down at the younger child, who Matthew could see was looking quite green ‘—Sophie was feeling sick again, and it all happened rather fast.’

It was a valid explanation, and Matthew knew it, but for some reason he couldn’t let it go. Was it that her colouring reminded him rather too strongly of the woman he’d been forced to invite here? Or was it some lingering sense of resentment that he’d had to get involved at all? Whatever the solution, he knew that she disturbed him. And he resented that intensely.

‘Wouldn’t it have been more sensible, then, to leave the child at home?’ he countered, and her eyes widened in obvious disbelief. He was getting in too deep, and he knew it. All it needed was for her husband to appear and he’d be totally out of his depth.

‘Mr—?’

‘There’s Daddy!’

Before she could finish what she had been about to say, the little boy started pulling at her arm. A tall man in a business suit, trailed by a porter wheeling a suitcase on his barrow, had just emerged from the airport buildings, and Matthew’s frustration hardened as the little girl set up a similar cry.

‘Daddy, Daddy,’ she called, her nausea obviously forgotten. ‘Daddy, we’re here!’ She tugged at her mother’s hand. ‘Let me go. Let me go. I want to go and meet him.’

The young woman cast Matthew one further studied look, and then released both children as the man got near enough to hold out his arms towards them. ‘Perhaps you’d like to tell their father what a hopeless case I am?’ she invited coldly. ‘I’d introduce you myself, but I didn’t catch your name.’

Matthew’s jaw compressed. ‘Forget it,’ he said shortly, turning away, but before he could put a sufficient distance between them the children’s father came up, carrying both his offspring. He looked quizzically at his wife, and then turned his attention to Matthew.

‘Do you two know one another?’ he asked. Then, loosening his collar, ‘God, it’s bloody hot, isn’t it? I can’t wait to get this suit off.’

‘Henry ran away,’ said Sophie, before anyone else could say anything, and Henry made an effort to punch her behind his father’s back. ‘He did,’ she added, when she’d regained her father’s attention. ‘He would have been run over if this man hadn’t brought him back.’

‘He might have been run over,’ amended her mother evenly, refusing to meet Matthew’s eyes, but her husband set both children down and held out his hand.

‘Thanks a lot,’ he said, shaking Matthew’s hand vigorously. ‘I know Henry can be quite a handful. I’m Andrew Sheridan, by the way. And I’ll see he doesn’t do it again.’

‘Aitken,’ said Matthew unwillingly, banking on the fact that it wasn’t such an uncommon name, and obviously neither of them had recognised him from the jackets of his books. ‘Um-actually, your wife wasn’t to blame for what happened. Your little girl was sick, and——’

‘I’m not—’

‘Thanks, anyway.’ Before his wife could complete her sentence, Andrew Sheridan intervened. He gave her a mischievous look, and then continued pleasantly, ‘You’ll have to come and have a drink with us some time. Give us a ring. We’re renting a villa out at Dragon Point.’

‘Really?’ Matthew managed not to make any promises, and to his relief, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lucas striding towards him with Fleur flapping at his heels. ‘I’ve got to go,’ he said, his polite tone disguising the dismay he’d felt at discovering they were holidaying a short distance from his estate. ‘If you’ll excuse me…’ He inclined his head curtly, and walked swiftly away.

He heard the young woman exclaim, ‘Why did you do that?’ and then, almost immediately afterwards, a choking gasp, as if her husband had hit her. It brought Matthew’s head round, in spite of himself, but there was no evidence that she’d been abused. On the contrary, she was staring after him, as if he’d done something wrong, her eyes wide with horror and all the colour drained out of her face.

It was crazy, because she meant nothing to him, but he was tempted to go back and ask her what the hell she thought she was doing. He’d got her off the hook, hadn’t he? She should be thanking him. Not gazing at him, for God’s sake, as if he was the devil incarnate.

With a grunt of impatience, Matthew swung his head round and continued towards his car. Forget it, he told himself fiercely. It was nothing to do with him. But he couldn’t deny a sense of anger and irritation—and the unpleasant feeling that he’d been used.

‘Who was that you were talking to?’ Fleur asked, after the briefest of greetings had been exchanged—reluctant on his part, fervent on hers. She insinuated herself into the seat beside him, despite the fact that Lucas had held the rear door for her, and gazed at him enquiringly. ‘A little young for your tastes, isn’t she, darling?’ she teased. ‘Or have you acquired a liking for schoolgirls in my absence?’

‘And if I have?’ Matthew countered, her accent jarring on him after his exchange with the other woman. His eyes glittered maliciously. ‘I’m only following in your footsteps, sister, dear. We both have peculiar tastes, don’t we?’

‘I’m not your sister,’ hissed Fleur, as Lucas climbed good-humouredly into the seat behind them. She cast the other man a tight smile. ‘Perhaps I can get some sense from you.’

‘I don’t know who they are,’ declared Lucas ruefully. ‘I’ve never seen them before. They’re probably here on holiday. We get a lot of them at this time of the year.’

‘On holiday?’ Fleur’s expression altered. ‘Not friends of Matt’s, then?’

Lucas met his employer’s gaze in the rear-view mirror, and gave an apologetic shrug of his shoulders. ‘Not to my knowledge,’ he conceded wryly. He pulled a face at Matthew before adding, ‘Did you have a good journey?’

Fleur relaxed, and for the first time since her arrival she allowed herself to show a trace of regret. ‘It was—lonely,’ she said, rummaging in her capacious handbag for a tissue, and using it to dab her eyes. ‘I couldn’t help remembering that the last time I came here Chase was with me. He loved to spend time with Matt, you know? It’s sad that in recent years they spent so little time together.’

Lucas made a polite rejoinder, and Matthew bit down on the urge to tell Fleur that she knew why that was, better than anyone. He had the feeling he’d been wrong to invite Fleur here, however sorry he’d felt for her at the funeral. She hadn’t really changed. She was just as ingenious as ever.

‘How’s Dad?’ he asked now, refusing to be drawn in that direction, and Fleur gave a careless shrug.

‘So long as he has his damn horses to care about, no one else seems to matter,’ she declared bitterly, as Matthew joined the stream of vehicles leaving the airport, and he gave her a brief, scornful glance. They both knew that wasn’t true. Ben Aitken had loved his eldest son dearly, and he’d been shattered when he was killed. What she really meant was that the older man had little time for her, and he didn’t have to pretend any more now that Chase was dead.

‘But he’s well?’ Matthew persisted, suddenly recognising the vehicle ahead of them. Andrew Sheridan was driving now, but there was no mistaking the young woman seated in the back. He’d have recognised that accusing profile anywhere. She was staring out of the rear window, and he was sure she was looking at him.

‘He was. When I left.’ Fleur pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her bag and put one between her teeth. ‘I spent a couple of days in New York before coming here.’ She scanned the dashboard for the automatic lighter. ‘Dammit, where is it?’

Matthew didn’t reply, and as if becoming aware that his attention had been distracted, Fleur followed the direction of his gaze. ‘Oh, God,’ she said disgustedly, ‘it’s the girl again, isn’t it? Whatever is she staring at? Someone should teach her some manners.’

‘Her husband, perhaps?’ suggested Matthew, determinedly avoiding that cool grey gaze.

‘Her husband?’ Fleur was disbelieving. ‘You’re not telling me she’s married?’

‘With two children,’ Matthew conceded tersely. Then, to Lucas, ‘They’re staying at Dragon Point.’

Lucas frowned. ‘At the Parrish place?’ he asked, and Matthew’s brows drew together.

‘Yeah, right,’ he said thoughtfully, taking advantage of an open piece of road to pass the other vehicle. Then, with his nemesis safely behind him, he felt free to make the connection. ‘I thought the place was occupied when I walked past there this morning.’

Fleur gave him a calculating look as she lit her cigarette. ‘That man—the man who was driving the car-he was on the flight from New York.’

Matthew cast her a careless glance. ‘So?’

‘So—one wonders what she’s been getting up to, while her husband’s been away.’ She inhaled, and then blew smoke deliberately into his face. ‘Have you been—comforting her in his absence, I wonder?’

Matthew’s jaw hardened. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ he countered, refusing to rise to her bait. ‘What I do is my business, Fleur,’ he added, meeting her angry gaze. ‘And if you must smoke, do it in your own car. I can’t stand the smell of stale tobacco.’

‘You’re a prig, do you know that?’

But Fleur stubbed out her cigarette before giving him the benefit of her scowl. Matthew didn’t answer. It would have been far too easy to tell her what he thought she was. Besides, she already knew it. Which begged the question of why she was here…

CHAPTER THREE

IT WAS a good hour’s drive back to the villa.

It shouldn’t have taken so long. For most of the way the new highway meant that the road was extremely good. But Helen had already learned to her cost that traffic moved much less frenetically in Barbados than it did in London. Yet she was glad of the prolonged length of the journey to try to get herself under control. The shock she had had at the airport had left her palms moist, her knees shaking and her heart beating uncomfortably fast. Dear God, had she really seen her mother? Or was it all some incredible coincidence?

Of course, Andrew thought she was sulking because he had let the Aitken man think she was his wife. She still didn’t know why he’d done it, but that embarrassment had been quickly superseded by other events. That man’s name—Aitken—had been familiar, but she’d never dreamed that that was who he was. Until Fleur—if it was Fleur—had come sauntering out of the airport. Then the connection had been too much to ignore.

She expelled her breath with a shiver. Had it really been Fleur? Had it really been Chase Aitken? It had looked like Fleur—or, at least, like the pictures she had once unearthed in the attic at Conyers. James Gregory had seldom mentioned her, and he had certainly never encouraged Helen to ask questions. But the woman had been her mother, after all, and she hadn’t been able to help her curiosity.

Yet, if the woman had been her mother, then Chase Aitken was evidently much younger than she’d imagined. Was that what had hurt her father so badly? The fact that his wife had left him for a man almost young enough to be his son?

‘There’s no point in sitting there brooding,’ Andrew remarked suddenly, arousing her from her uneasy speculations, and Helen met his accusing gaze with some frustration. As if she didn’t have enough to worry about, without Tricia’s husband playing some stupid game of his own.

‘I’m not brooding,’ she replied, which was true. Her thoughts were far less pretty. If her mother was here on the island, what was she going to do about it? Did Fleur know her father was dead, for instance? And if she did, did she care?

‘Yes, you are,’ Andrew contradicted her flatly. ‘What’s the matter, Helen? Can’t you take a joke?’

‘Was that what it was?’

Helen refused to be treated like a fool, and Henry gave his father a doubtful look. ‘Why did that man think you and Helen were married?’ he piped up curiously, and Helen heard Andrew give an irritated snort.

‘How should I know?’ he exclaimed, proving he was not as indifferent to his wife’s possible reaction as he’d been to Helen’s. If the children accused him of perpetuating the mistake, Tricia wouldn’t be at all pleased. Particularly as the Aitkens were exactly the kind of people she liked to mix with.

‘Well, perhaps you should have corrected him,’ Helen observed now, aware that if she wasn’t careful she’d be the one blamed for assuming Tricia’s identity, and Andrew scowled.

‘How was I to know what you’d told him?’ he demanded, refusing to let her off the hook. ‘I didn’t want to embarrass you, that’s all. The man might have been a nuisance.’

Helen was always amazed at the lengths some people would go to protect their own positions, and she gazed at the back of Andrew’s head now with undisguised contempt. What had she expected, after all? She was only the nursemaid. She just hoped Tricia wouldn’t imagine she’d done something to warrant the misunderstanding.

‘He was nice,’ asserted Sophie, apparently deciding she had been quiet long enough. Happily, she was looking better now that she had something else to think about.

‘How would you know?’ asked Henry at once, seldom allowing his sister to get away with anything. ‘He hurt my arm, and he called me a rude name. I’m going to tell Mummy that Helen didn’t stop him.’

‘You’re not going to tell your mother anything,’ cut in his father sharply, evidently deciding that it wasn’t in his best interests to let Henry carry tales. ‘Or I might just have to tell her that without Mr Aitken’s intervention you’d have been minced meat.’

Henry hunched his shoulders. ‘I wouldn’t,’ he muttered.

‘You would,’ said Sophie triumphantly. ‘Anyway, I liked him. And I think Helen liked him, too.’

‘Heavens, I don’t even know the man,’ Helen demurred, annoyed to find that the child had achieved what her father couldn’t. Hot colour was pouring into her cheeks, and Andrew’s expression revealed that he knew it.

‘Who is he, anyway?’ he asked. ‘You never did tell me. What did you find out about him? You seemed to be having quite a conversation as I walked out of the airport buildings.’

‘I don’t know anything more than you do,’ Helen declared, not altogether truthfully, glad that she was flushed now, and therefore in no danger of revealing herself again. ‘I didn’t even know his name until you asked him.’ Which was true. ‘He’s probably another tourist. The island’s full of them.’

‘Hmm.’ Andrew was thoughtful. ‘He didn’t look like a tourist to me. Unless he’s been here since Christmas. You don’t get a tan like that in a couple of weeks.’

‘Does it matter?’

Helen didn’t particularly want to talk about it, or think about it, for that matter. The image she had, of a tall dark man with the lean muscled body of an athlete, was not one she wanted to cherish. Chase Aitken, she thought scornfully, polo-player, playboy, and jock. Not to mention adulterer, she added bitterly. She hoped she’d never see him again.

Tricia was up and dressed when they arrived back at the villa. She had shed her trailing wrap in favour of a loose-fitting tunic, and her auburn-tinted hair had been brushed to frame her face. She looked much different from the languid female who had waved them goodbye, and she greeted her husband more warmly than she’d been known to do before.

‘Sorry I couldn’t meet you, darling,’ she said, getting up from the cushioned lounge chair she had been occupying on the terrace. Set in the shade of a huge flame tree, it was an oasis of shadow in the late afternoon heat that still drenched the villa. Only the breeze from the ocean provided a warm draught of air to dry moist skin, but Tricia looked cool and comfortable, and totally relaxed.

‘No problem,’ said Andrew easily, bending to bestow a kiss on his wife’s upturned lips. But his eyes sought Helen’s as he offered the salutation, and she had the uneasy feeling that their relationship would never be the same again.

‘Can we have some juice?’ Henry cried plaintively, bored by his parents’ demonstration of marital felicity, and his mother turned to look at him with some impatience.

‘You can’t be thirsty,’ she said. ‘I told Helen to get you both a drink at the airport. Heaven knows, you had enough time.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I expected you back half an hour ago. The plane was obviously late.’

‘She didn’t get me a drink—’ Henry was beginning

indignantly, when his father chose to intervene.

‘Actually the plane was on time,’ he said, earning a raised eyebrow from his wife. ‘But there was some holdup with the luggage. And Helen had her hands full, because Sophie had been sick.’

‘Oh.’ Tricia looked somewhat distastefully at her daughter. ‘Not again.’

‘Yes, again,’ went on Andrew evenly. ‘We all had our problems, didn’t we, Henry?’ He gave his son a warning look. ‘Now, run along and ask whoever it is your mother said is looking after us——’

‘Maria,’ supplied Sophie proudly, and her father smiled.

‘Very well. You two go and ask Maria if she’d be kind enough to give you a drink.’

‘Helen can do it,’ protested Tricia, before Henry and Sophie could leave them. She carefully resumed her position on the lounger. ‘As they’re obviously tired, it would probably be a good idea to give them their supper early and put them to bed.’

‘Oh, Mummy—’

‘But a want to talk to Daddy—’

The two children both spoke at once, but Tricia just ignored them. ‘You can have an early night, too, Helen,’ she added, stretching out her hand towards heir husband. ‘I shan’t need you any more today.’ She sighed contentedly. ‘Drew and I will enjoy a quiet evening together. It’s ages since we had any time alone.’

‘Helen’s not a child, Trish.’ Andrew came to her defence, even though she hadn’t wanted him to. ‘Put the brats to bed by all means, Helen. But then you must join us for supper.’

‘Helen may not want to,’ Tricia observed tersely, not at all pleased to have her plans overset. ‘She might like a quiet evening, too.’

‘We are on holiday, Trish,’ retorted Andrew, just as Helen was about to agree with her. ‘Besides, I’m sure you’ll want to hear about the man we met at the airport. He said his name was Aitken, didn’t he, Helen?’ He turned back to his wife. ‘Do we know anyone of that name?’

Tricia stared first at her husband, then at Helen. ‘Aitken?’ she exclaimed. ‘Did you say Aitken?’

‘That’s what he said,’ said Andrew maliciously, enjoying Helen’s discomfort. ‘The name is familiar, but I can’t imagine why.’

‘I can,’ said Tricia suddenly, and for an awful moment Helen thought she had made the connection between Chase Aitken and her mother. But then, as the other woman began to speak again, she realised how unlikely that was. Her mother had left her father almost twenty years ago.

‘Well, you won’t know,’ Tricia explained patiently. ‘It’s the name of the man who owns the house beyond the point. I asked Maria who our neighbours were, and she said his name was Aitken.’ She clasped her hands together excitedly. ‘D’you think it’s the same man?’

‘I’d say it was highly likely,’ said Andrew, frowning. ‘Though the chap didn’t make any comment when I told him we were staying here. You’d think he’d have mentioned it, wouldn’t you, Helen? Unless we offended him, of course.’

‘Offended him?’ exclaimed Tricia sharply, looking from one to the other of them with suspicious eyes. ‘How could you have offended him? For heaven’s sake, Helen, what did you say?’

Helen noticed the assumption that she was the one who must have said something to offend him, and she was just about to explain what had happened when Andrew broke in.

‘Well, as you know, Sophie had been throwing up all over the car park, and the bloke came over to offer his assistance. We let him think that Helen was my wife, and I don’t think he was impressed by our behaviour.’

‘You did what?’

Tricia stared at her husband, aghast, as Helen wished the ground would open up and swallow her. But she had nothing but admiration for the way Andrew had turned the tables. Not only had he implicated her in his schemes, but he’d successfully neutralised any flack from Aitken’s direction.

‘It was just a game,’ he said carelessly, draping his jacket over one shoulder and loosening his tie. ‘For God’s sake, Trish, I doubt if he believed it. Does Helen look like the mother of these two, I ask you? A fool could see she’s far too young.’

‘She’s exactly four years younger than me,’ said Tricia through her teeth, and Andrew gave a dismissive shrug in her direction.

‘Like I said, far too young,’ he remarked, grinning at her frustration. ‘I’m going for a shower now. I assume we do have showers in this place?’ He sauntered towards the French doors that opened into the villa. ‘You can come and show Daddy where Mummy’s room is, Henry. And then, while I’m changing, d’you think one of you could get me a beer?’

‘Andrew!’

Tricia’s temper was simmering, but he was totally undaunted by her infuriated stare. ‘Oh, and ask Maria if she’d get my suitcase,’ he added. ‘Unless someone else would like to oblige.’

Helen spent an uncomfortable evening on her own.

After giving the children their suppers and getting them ready for bed, she’d sent a message, via Maria, to say she had a headache, and would not be joining her employers for the evening meal. Instead she’d made herself a salad, eating it in her room, with the doors and windows securely bolted.

Which was one of the reasons why it was so uncomfortable, although, compared to the other events of the day, the humidity in her room was of little importance. Dear God, what was she going to do? She was almost sure the woman she had seen was her mother. And she was staying just a short distance away. Oh, lord, how could she bear it?

The clipped exchange she had with Tricia, after Andrew had gone for his shower, hadn’t helped. It had been useless trying to explain that Andrew hadn’t actually said she was his wife, that Aitken—she refused to think of him as Chase—had only assumed it. She hadn’t even been given the opportunity to relate properly the events which had led up to his introduction, and if she’d hoped that by telling Tricia how he’d spoken to her—how he’d criticised her—the other woman might relent at all, she’d been wrong. Tricia wasn’t interested in her feelings. She was only interested in the embarrassment their behaviour might have caused her.

‘I think you behaved totally irresponsibly,’ she had said, pacing up and down the terrace, and Helen had noticed how somehow she had shouldered all the blame. ‘Have you seen the house beyond the point? Well, of course you must have. It’s huge, Helen, and obviously expensive. The man must be seriously rich!’

‘Why?’ Helen had sighed. ‘He could be renting the place, just as we are.’

‘I doubt it.’ Tricia had dismissed that idea. ‘I’m fairly sure he lives here.’ She had frowned. ‘I wonder if he’s married. I’d like to meet his wife.’

Helen groaned, and ran her hands over her hair now. The prospect of Tricia meeting the Aitkens socially was one she couldn’t bear to endure. Although she doubted her mother would recognise her, her name was obviously going to give her identity away. What would Fleur do if she was introduced to her own daughter by a stranger? Would she acknowledge her? Would she care? Or was it all some awful nightmare she’d invented?

Helen was up even earlier the next morning. The ironic thing was that her body was beginning to adjust to the time-change, but the uneasy tenor of her thoughts wouldn’t let her sleep. As soon as it was at all light, she crawled wearily out of bed. Perhaps a swim in the ocean might revive her, she thought tiredly. Right now the prospect of facing any of the Sheridans filled her with dismay.

Stripping off her nightgown, she went into the bathroom and cleaned her teeth. One of the ubiquitous flying beetles had committed suicide in the sink, and she removed it to the lavatory with a handful of toilet paper. Then, returning to the bedroom, she pulled a one-piece maillot out of the drawer. Its high-cut hipline was rather daring, but she doubted anyone would see her.

In any event it was black and, in spite of the fact that she’d already spent several days in the sun, she looked rather pale this morning. Pale and uninteresting, she mocked herself ruefully. Still, that was her role here: to avoid being noticed.

Wrapping a towel about her hips, she unlocked the shutters and crossed the balcony. Unlike a summer’s morning at home, it didn’t really get light here until after six o’clock. Then, like the twilight that lasted so briefly, there was a rapid transference to day. The sun rose swiftly in these semi-tropical islands, and the air was always transparent and sweet.

Tussocky grass grew against the low wall where she’d been sitting musing the previous day. A shallow flight of steps gave way to the beach, and the sand felt quite cool between her toes. It was coral sand, fine and slightly gritty, and here and there a rockpool gave a fleeting glimpse of shade. There were crabs, too, scuttling out of her path, some of them so tiny they looked like shells. And now and then a seabird came down to hunt for food, screaming its objection to her intrusion.

When she reached the water’s edge, she couldn’t resist turning her head to see the house Tricia had spoken of the night before. It wasn’t wholly visible, which was one of the reasons Tricia had been so interested in it. All they could see from this distance was a sprawling roof, shaded by palms, and a coral wall. Evidence, if any was needed, that their neighbour preferred his privacy.

Still, Tricia was right about one thing, Helen reflected ruefully. It did look an enormous place. Compared to the Aitken house, the villa they were renting looked tiny, even if it did have four bedrooms and a parlour, and the swimming-pool in the garden.

The water felt cold when she broached the tiny rivulets edged with foam that creamed about her feet. Of course, she knew it was only the heat of her body that made her think it. Compared to the English Channel, it was like a Turkish bath.

It crossed her mind suddenly that this was the time she had seen the stranger walking along the shoreline from her balcony. And hard on the heels of this thought came the obvious knowledge of who it must be. She’d seen him often enough, and always walking in this direction. It had to be Chase Ait ken, and be was bound to think she’d come to intercept him.

The idea of taking a swim instantly lost its appeal. She had no desire to encounter Chase Aitken again, and the realisation of how fine she was cutting it sent her hurrying back the way she had come. Unless he had better things to do—and her stomach hollowed unpleasantly at the thought—he’d be turning the point any moment. All that had saved her was an outcrop of rock, and a brain that was not quite vapid.

‘We meet again, Mrs Sheridan.’

The voice—a far too familiar voice in the circumstances—almost scared the life out of her. She’d thought she was alone on the beach—she had been alone when she walked down to the water. But somehow, while she was ogling his house, perhaps, or before the coolness of the water had cleared her head, he’d negotiated the outcrop. He was sprawling in her path now, and she’d almost walked all over him.

‘I’m—not—Mrs Sheridan,’ she said, choosing the least controversial thing she could say. It was disconcerting to have him looking up at her, and she was glad she still had the towel securely round her hips.

‘I know.’ With a lithe movement he reversed their positions, his superior height making it necessary for Helen to tilt her head now. ‘My—housekeeper—knows your maid, Maria. When I described you, she said you were the Sheridans’ nanny.’

Helen felt a quiver of annoyance. ‘Why should you describe me to your housekeeper?’ she demanded. ‘I don’t think I like the idea of you—gossiping—about me to your staff.’

His dark eyes flickered. ‘I don’t gossip—Helen, isn’t it? I was curious. You seemed far too young to have two children.’

Helen was angry. ‘Did I?’ She licked her lips. ‘Well, that may be so, but I don’t recall giving you permission to use my name, Mr Aitken,’ she declared stiffly.

His mouth turned down. ‘I don’t know your surname,

Miss—?’ he mocked her carelessly. ‘Why don’t you

tell me what it is, and I’ll see what I can do?’

Helen swallowed, remembering suddenly that she shouldn’t—couldn’t—give this man her name. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said, hoping to end the discussion. But when she moved to go past him, he caught her arm.

She wasn’t afraid—although she supposed she should have been. After all, this was the man who had seduced her mother, and he was hardly likely to quibble over a nanny. Even without being aware of the lean body, partially concealed by the laced ties of his sweat-suit, the hand gripping her forearm was hard. There was strength in every finger digging into her skin, and his musky heat enveloped her in its warmth.

‘What is it with you?’ he asked, his breath cool against her cheek. ‘Just because I spoke out of turn yesterday,

you’re determined to hold it against me? Look—’ he

released her, as if realising that force wasn’t going to aid his cause ‘—I’ll apologise, OK? If the kid’s anything like his father, I guess you’ve got my sympathy.’

Helen caught her breath. ‘And that’s supposed to be an apology?’

‘No.’ Aitken shook his head. ‘If anyone needs to apologise, it’s Sheridan. He didn’t correct me when I made an error of judgement. I guess he thought it was amusing. Making fun of the locals.’

Helen told herself she didn’t care where he and her mother lived, but she found herself asking the question just the same. ‘Are you a local, Mr Aitken? I wouldn’t have thought this was quite your style.’

‘But you don’t know anything about my style,’ he countered smoothly. ‘And, as it happens, Barbados suits me very well.’

‘I’m so glad.’

Helen was sarcastic, but she couldn’t help it, and Aitken regarded her with studied eyes. ‘So,’ he said, ‘I’m glad we’ve cleared up that misconception.’ He glanced towards the water. ‘Were you about to go for a swim?’

‘I—no.’ Helen made the decision quickly, even though the reason for her previous prevarication had now been removed.

‘Shame,’ he remarked. ‘I thought I might join you. Swimming alone can be dangerous. Did no one tell you that?’

‘Dangerous for whom?’ enquired Helen tautly, and then, with a shiver of impatience, she shook her head. ‘I have to get back,’ she added crisply, aware that it would be fatally easy to be attracted to this man. And, because it had to be said, ‘I’m sure your wife will be wondering where you are.’

‘My wife!’ Chase Aitken stared at her disbelievingly. ‘I don’t have a wife, dammit. What gave you that idea?’

Helen swallowed, incapable of answering him right away. He hadn’t married her mother, then, she thought incredulously. They’d only been living together all these years. No wonder Fleur had greeted him so—so hungrily. She must never be sure he hadn’t found someone else.

Helen felt a little sick. The realisation that Chase Aitken had treated her mother with as little respect as Fleur had treated her father should have been reassuring, but it wasn’t. Yet Fleur’s problems were no concern of hers. She’d forfeited the right to have Helen care about her when she’d ignored her daughter’s existence for the past eighteen years. Helen’s nausea stemmed from her own unwilling reaction to the news. In spite of all that had happened, it was Chase Aitken’s dark disturbing face that had haunted her dreams last night.

‘I don’t know,’ she muttered at last, turning away and suppressing the urge to confront him with all she did know. She wrapped her arms about her waist. ‘I’d have thought it was a reasonable assumption, considering the woman was all over you at the airport.’ Her lips tightened. ‘And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a job to do.’

CHAPTER FOUR

MATTHEW strode back to Dragon Bay in a foul temper.

It might have been a novelty for him to be put down by a skinny blonde with more mouth than sense, but it didn’t amuse him. He didn’t even know why he’d bothered to speak to her. It wasn’t as if he cared what she thought of him. He’d been civil, that was all, and she’d insulted him. What the hell did she know about his life?

For God’s sake, he thought, letting himself into the grounds of his house through the iron gate set into the wall, there were plenty of women around who didn’t take offence when he offered advice. Nothing could alter the fact that the boy had got away from her. So what if the other kid was being sick? She hadn’t been about to choke, had she?

But it was that crack about Fleur that had really got to him. Bloody cheek, he fumed angrily. What did it have to do with her? It was little consolation to know that she’d been watching him. He’d known that, dammit. He’d seen the accusation in her face.

For once, the gardens surrounding his villa didn’t appease him. Almost two acres of green lawns, flowering shrubs and brilliant flame trees provided a fitting setting for the sprawling Spanish-style villa that was his home. Cool, shaded rooms surrounded three sides of a paved courtyard, with a stone fountain in the centre whose rippling pool was edged with lilies.

Through a belt of palms, he could just glimpse the painted roofs of the cabanas, and beyond that the swimming-pool was a smooth slash of aquamarine, glinting in the sun. The way he felt right now, he would have liked to have plunged his sweating body into the cool water. But the thought that Fleur might choose to

join him had him opting for a shower.

Dammit, he thought, crossing the patio, where hanging baskets spilling scarlet geraniums provided a startling splash of colour, he couldn’t even do what he liked in his own home. Stepping beneath a shadowed balcony, woven with bougainvillaea, he entered a marbled hallway and mounted grimly to his suite of rooms. He’d always enjoyed his morning walks before, but today he felt decidedly out of tune with himself.

He ran the shower hot, then cold, soaping his limbs aggressively as he endeavoured to lighten his mood. Fleur couldn’t stay here forever, he thought, deliberately turning his thoughts from the woman on the beach. She’d soon get bored without the social life she’d enjoyed as Chase’s wife. Besides, although there were plenty of stores in Bridgetown to suit her needs, Fleur was an avid shopper. She’d spent a small fortune in beauty parlours alone, and she’d had a new wardrobe of clothes every season.

He wondered in passing where she was planning to live, now that Chase was no longer a factor. He doubted she’d stay on at the ranch, even if his father was willing. She’d always been more at home in the capital cities of the world. He couldn’t see her vegetating at Ryan’s Bend.

He was shaving when his assistant knocked at his door. At his shout, Lucas came into his bedroom, and Matthew paused in the doorway to his bathroom, his razor still in his hand.

‘Problems?’ he asked, and Lucas pulled a face.

‘Your sister-in-law has already asked where you are, if that’s what you mean,’ he remarked, propping his stocky frame against a chest of drawers. ‘She’s having breakfast in the dining-room, would you believe? I thought you said she rarely got up before midday.’

‘She doesn’t—usually,’ Matthew replied flatly, turning back to the mirror and expelling a weary breath. He cursed as the razor nicked his jaw. ‘Damn, I guess that means she wants something, doesn’t it? You may be right. This is not just a social visit.’

Lucas shrugged. ‘Has it occurred to you that she may be short of money?’

‘Of course it has.’ Matthew rinsed his jaw with fresh water and turned back again, drying his face with a towel. ‘But I don’t see how. Chase always had insurance. And his horses were worth a small fortune, you know that.’

Lucas considered. ‘Could he have been in debt?’

‘I guess he could.’ Matthew frowned. ‘But if he was, he never said a word to me. And wouldn’t he have discussed it with my father?’ He grimaced. ‘Perhaps he did. The old man always was as close-mouthed as a shrew.’

A shrew…

Matthew tossed the towel aside, annoyed to find that the connotations of that particular word were not to his liking. It reminded him again of the young woman he had encountered on the beach. The truth was, for all his irritation with her, she had disrupted his morning walk and his equilibrium. And where that disturbance was rooted, he didn’t care to consider.

‘So, what are you going to do?’ Lucas watched as Matthew tossed the towel aside and pulled on a pair of frayed denim shorts and a loose black T-shirt. ‘Ask her right out? Or let her make the first move?’

‘That depends.’ Matthew forced his thoughts back to Fleur, and scanned the bedroom with narrowed eyes. Then, observing that his watch was lying on the cabinet where he had left it, he went to pick it up. ‘I don’t intend to allow her to stay here indefinitely.’

‘So you’ll play it by ear,’ remarked Lucas, straightening. ‘D’you want to look over the manuscript this morning, or shall I concentrate on the accounts?’

Matthew gave him a resigned look. ‘What do you think?’

Lucas grinned, his fair features crinkling humorously. ‘Accounts it is,’ he said. ‘And I’ll eat breakfast in the kitchen. I’m not sure I’m in the mood for Fleur’s particular kind of chat.’

‘And I am?’ queried Matthew drily, buckling the slim gold Ebel on to his wrist. ‘Remind me to thank you for your support some time, won’t you? I don’t know what I’d do without you in circumstances like this.’

Leaving the spacious, if slightly austere surroundings of Matthew’s bedroom behind, both men walked along the wide gallery that connected all the rooms on the upper floor. Open on one side at present, with sculptured arches giving an uninterrupted view of the ocean, there were tight-fitting shutters which could be closed if a tropical storm blew in from the Gulf. In the latter months of the year there was the risk of hurricanes, too, but thankfully they were few and far between. In the main, the weather was fairly temperate, with humidity being the biggest source of complaint.

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