A Woman Of Passion. Anne Mather
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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