Shattered Illusions. Anne Mather
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allowed her toes to curl into the carpet, imagining how disappointed her predecessor must have felt to be leaving all this behind.
The bedroom was dominated by a large, colonial-style bed, whose ruched counterpane matched the ruched silk curtains at the bedroom windows. The colour scheme of cream and gold was echoed in pale striped wallpaper, with the dark mahogany armoire and chest of drawers proving an attractive contrast.
Her suitcase was waiting on the padded ottoman at the foot of the bed, and she was releasing the clasps when she heard someone knock at the outer door. Her supper, she guessed ruefully, going to answer it. Whatever faults Sophie had, efficiency wasn’t one of them.
The tall, ebony-skinned man who had brought her tray was probably Sophie’s husband, she decided, though, unlike the housekeeper, he was inclined to be friendly. Setting the tray on the circular table, he took a little time to tell her what was under the silver lids, and then wished her a good night before he left.
Closing the door after him, Jaime leaned back against it, feeling a little less alien after his visit. It wasn’t her fault, after all, that Kristin Spencer had been dismissed. She was just grateful for the opportunity it had given her.
After unpacking her suitcase and exploring the sensuous luxury of the bathroom, Jaime sat down to her meal with some reluctance. She really wasn’t hungry, but conversely she was too hyped up to go to bed, and the spicy shrimps with sauce were quite delicious. She left the medallions of veal, and nibbled on the strawberry shortcake, even if it wasn’t particularly wise to eat something so sweet before going to bed. But, she told herself, she needed the sugar to maintain her optimism, and she’d never tasted such a delicious dessert before.
A small bottle of wine had accompanied the meal, and before going for her shower Jaime emptied the bottle into her glass, and stepped out onto the balcony. The shifting waters of the bay were no longer visible, but they were still audible, and she propped her hip against the rail and breathed deeply of the soft, salt-laden air. She was here, she thought incredulously. She was going to work with Catriona Redding. ‘Forgive me, Dad,’ she whispered, ‘but I had to see what she was like for myself.’
DOMINIC awakened with a foul taste in his mouth. And a headache, he discovered, when he lifted his head off the pillow. Which wasn’t so surprising, really. He’d drunk the better part of a bottle of Scotch the night before.
But it was the reason why he’d drunk the Scotch that made him want to bury his head in the pillow again and drag the sheet, which was all that was covering him, over his head. Catriona, damn her, was making his life difficult, and he sometimes actually found himself wishing his father had never married her.
Or died so soon, he appended ruefully, leaving him in such an invidious position. He thrust the sheet aside, and propped himself up on his elbows. If Lawrence Redding had still been alive, his life would have been so much simpler.
Sliding his long legs out of bed, he got rather unsteadily to his feet. The room rocked for a moment, but then steadied, and, promising himself he wouldn’t let this happen again, Dominic trudged across the carpeted floor.
Through the slatted blinds, the sun was just beginning to gild the arched roofs of the cabanas that flanked the pool. The lushness of the gardens gave the place a tropical appearance at this time of the year, and he couldn’t deny that he still regarded this place as home.
Beyond the pool and the gardens, dunes sloped away towards a stretch of white sand. The curve of Copperhead Bay formed an almost perfect backdrop, the ocean creaming softly on the shore. The tide was going out, leaving a tracery of rock pools that reflected the strengthening rays of the rising sun. His father had built this house to take full advantage of the view, and Dominic never tired of its timeless beauty.
Had never thought there might come a time when he would be forced to make a choice, he reflected wearily. After all, when his father married Catriona, he had been only sixteen. He’d never dreamt that in less than twenty years Lawrence Redding would be dead.
He was pondering the beneficial effects of an early morning dip when he saw someone appear from around the side of the house. A woman, he saw at once—a tall woman, dressed in trousers and a shirt, with a thick plait of rust-coloured hair draped over one shoulder. She had her arms wrapped about her body as she walked, and she acted as if she wasn’t really aware of where she was.
He sighed. He knew who she must be, of course. She was his stepmother’s new assistant, who’d apparently arrived from England the day before. Catriona had omitted to tell him that she had had a London employment agency find her another assistant. Just as she had omitted to tell him that while he was in New York she’d dismissed Kristin Spencer.
Poor Kristin. His lips twisted. He should have warned her that Catriona didn’t like competition. And judging from his first impression of the woman by the pool she had gone for experience over beauty this time.
He grimaced, not liking the cynicism that was creeping into his consciousness these days. Catriona’s fault, of course, but it was his own fault too for allowing himself to be influenced by her. Perhaps, if he’d had more success in his marriage than his father had, he’d have overcome the tendency. As it was, it was far too easy to accept his stepmother’s interpretation of events, and if he wasn’t careful he’d become just like her, taking what he wanted from life, without considering the consequences.
He frowned. He wondered what had attracted this woman to leave an apparently successful career in London to come and work in Bermuda. He supposed the idea was glamorous enough, but after a few weeks in the islands would she, like Kristin, be eager for some kind of diversion? After all, this estate was a good twelve miles from Hamilton, and apart from the obvious attractions of swimming and sunbathing there wasn’t a lot to do. Even the islanders themselves spent regular breaks in the United Kingdom or the United States, and Dominic knew he’d go stir crazy himself if he was obliged to live here all year round.
Catriona had said this woman was a fan, that she’d left the lucrative position she’d enjoyed at the university to work with a writer she admired, but Dominic found that hard to believe. Or was that just another example of his cynicism? he wondered wryly. There was no doubt that his father’s publishing house had benefited greatly from Catriona’s novels.
Shaking his head, he forced himself to leave the woman to her solitary walk and went into the adjoining bathroom. A cool shower achieved what the ocean had denied him, and after towelling himself dry he ran an exploratory hand over his roughening jawline. He needed a shave, but he couldn’t be bothered to attend to that right now. Instead, ignoring the warnings of his conscience, he pulled on a pair of frayed, knee-length denims and a black vest, and left his rooms.
The house was cool and quiet. Despite her sometimes strict working schedule, his stepmother rarely stirred before 8 a.m. Unlike himself, she was one of those people who could sleep whatever the circumstances, emerging from her room each morning with that fresh, unblemished appearance he knew so well.
Whatever else Catriona possessed, she was not troubled by a conscience—unlike himself.
Like many of the homes in Bermuda, the house was two-storeyed, with a hipped roof, and a huge underground storage tank for rain water. It was always a source of interest to tourists that despite the lushness of its vegetation Bermuda had no actual water supply. But happily the islands were blessed with sufficient rain to fill the tanks, and Dominic had never tasted purer water in his life.
Descending the curving staircase into the Italian-tiled hall, Dominic paused for a moment to lace his canvas deck shoes. Here, evidence of his father’s interest in sculpture was present in the marble likeness of an eighteenth-century nude that stood beside the archway into a cream- and rose-painted drawing room, while a pair of Venetian sconces provided light on the rare occasions when the power supply was interrupted.
Because he was so familiar with the house, Dominic paid little attention to the elegance of his surroundings. His father had built the house when he was little more than a schoolboy, and it was as familiar to