An All-Consuming Passion. Anne Mather
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Holly laughed, a low musical sound that was entirely feminine, and seated herself on the sun-lounger beside him. To do so, she swung one leg across the cushioned footrest, giving him a revealing glimpse of her inner thigh as she did so, before scooping both knees up in front of her and circling them with her arms. ‘Oh—I don’t drink them,’ she assured him, her oval features alight with amusement. ‘Besides, I’m not thirsty right now. I just had a shower.’
‘An inviting prospect,’ remarked Morgan wryly, swallowing a generous portion of the liquid in his glass as thirst got the better of discretion. ‘But much more of this and I won’t be able to see the shower, let alone the taps.’
‘Would you prefer a beer?’ asked Holly innocently, glancing towards the house, but Morgan shook his head.
‘This is fine, for now,’ he responded, his tongue circling his lips. ‘So—tell me: did you get your father’s telegram?’ He paused. ‘You do know why I’m here?’
‘Let’s not talk business on your first evening,’ Holly answered lightly, swinging her legs to the slatted boards of the verandah once again. ‘Come on. I’ll show you your room. Are you hungry? I told Lucinda just to prepare something light for supper.’
Morgan hesitated, but then, after finishing the daiquiri, he got obediently to his feet. She was right. They’d have plenty of time tomorrow to discuss her father’s invitation, and the alcohol had left him feeling pleasantly lethargic.
Holly led the way through a meshed door into the entrance hall of the house. A wide, high-ceilinged area, with fluted columns supporting a galleried landing, and solid blocks of squared marble underfoot, it was an impressive, if slightly time-worn, introduction to the building. But the wall-lights, screened by copper shades, which illuminated the faded beauty of the house, also illuminated Holly’s features, and Morgan’s attention was arrested. On the verandah, she had been extremely attractive; in the lamplight, she was quite startlingly beautiful, her long indigo eyes and delicately moulded cheekbones giving character to a wide and mobile mouth. Christ, he chided himself, giving in to a totally uncharacteristic criticism of his employer’s methods. No wonder Andrew thought she might have something to offer. In shabby beach clothes she was a naiad; in designer fashions she would be magnificent.
‘Is something wrong?’
The dark indigo eyes were upon him, and to his embarrassment, Morgan felt the seep of hot colour under his skin. ‘No,’ he said abruptly. ‘No, I was just—admiring my surroundings. The building seems extremely old. Is it the original plantation house?’
‘Heavens, no. That was burned down years ago,’ replied Holly after a moment. ‘My great-grandfather had this place built around the turn of the century. It’s much more modest than the old house. Or so my grandfather used to tell me.’
‘Really?’
Morgan tried to keep his attention on the building as he followed Holly up the stairs. The staircase curved round a ninety-degree angle before reaching the gallery above, the wooden steps worn in places, but still lovingly varnished. There were pictures lining the wall, and it was a relief to look at them and not at Holly’s only slightly swaying hips, nor at the long brown legs that emerged from the hem of her shorts, or the narrow bare feet that strode ahead of him. Far better to admire the distinctive curve of Charlotte’s Bay at sunset, an image still firmly imprinted on his thoughts. Or the tangled glory of a neglected garden which, although he had not seen it clearly, looked suspiciously like the one below the house.
‘Did you do these?’ he asked at last, remembering Andrew’s careless mention of an artistic temperament, and Holly paused.
‘Yes,’ she said, without affectation. ‘Do you like them? They’re not much good, but as my father would say, they keep me occupied.’
Morgan shook his. head. ‘But they are good,’ he contradicted her incredulously. ‘I’m no expert, but I have attended auctions, and believe me, you evidently have a talent.’
Holly grimaced. ‘Hmm.’ She shook her head and then continued on her way. ‘I doubt if my father would agree with you. So far as he’s concerned, women are good for one thing only.’ She cast him a faintly mocking glance. ‘Wouldn’t you say?’
Morgan’s mouth drew down at the corners. ‘I doubt if you have proof of that,’ he commented drily, but Holly’s gaze did not falter.
‘He has had four wives,’ she reminded him, with disturbing candour. ‘And I can’t believe he married them for their conversation.’
Morgan wished he’d never started this, but before he could change the subject Holly had halted outside a cream, panelled door. ‘Your room,’ she said, turning the handle and pushing the door open. Then, preceding him into the room, she switched on a lamp by the bed. ‘It’s my father’s,’ she added carelessly. ‘I didn’t see any point in having Lucinda air another room.’
Morgan looked about him with guarded interest. The room was huge and rather spartanly furnished. It was dominated by the massive square four-poster that occupied the central area, but apart from the bed and its sombre velvet tester, there was no sign of the luxury Andrew enjoyed at his house in England. There was a chest of drawers with a mirror above; a walk-in wardrobe; an ottoman, on which resided his suitcase; and a leather-topped table by the window, which could serve a dual purpose as a desk. The floor was bare, just polished wooden boards, with a plain skin rug beside the bed to add a little colour.
‘The bathroom’s through there,’ said Holly indicating a door, ‘but I’m afraid you’ll have to share with me. As you’ll find out, the Fletchers and I only occupy a small part of the house. The rest is shuttered—closed off—to save unnecessary labour, you see.’
Morgan inclined his head. ‘I understand.’
‘So …’ Holly lifted her slim shoulders and then let them fall again. ‘If you need anything else, just holler, as Samuel would say. Supper will be ready in about an hour. Unless you’d like it sooner.’
‘An hour will be just fine,’ Morgan assured her firmly, loosening the remaining buttons of his waistcoat and stripping it off. Then, without thinking, he pulled off his tie and started to unfasten his shirt, only realising she was still hovering in the doorway when he looked up and met her gaze.
‘I don’t suppose your wife wanted you to come, did she?’ Holly murmured, smoothing the edge of the door with her fingers, and the unexpectedly personal quality of her question caught him unprepared.
‘I—my wife and I are divorced,’ he said shortly, his hands stilling as he became aware of a disturbing change in their relationship. In the past he had always regarded her as a child, not much older than the twins in fact, and definitely not someone he would speak to as an equal. But now that was all changed. Now she was speaking to him as a woman. And, in spite of himself, Morgan felt his senses stir at the thinly veiled insolence of her regard.
‘I see,’ remarked Holly softly, apparently not at all dismayed by his shocked reaction. ‘I can’t say I’m surprised.’
And, with a lazy smile, she withdrew, closing the door behind her and leaving Morgan to stare blankly at the worn cream panels.
THE sun had barely cleared the trees on the other side of the island when Holly slid out of bed. It wasn’t much after six, but she had been awake for hours, watching the curtains moving in the breeze from her balcony, and going over the previous evening’s events and her own reaction to them.
Now, however, she could lie still no longer. Thrusting back the covers, she strode eagerly across the floor, halting only reluctantly when her slim naked form was reflected in the mirrors of her dressing-table. She could hardly step out on to the balcony without any clothes, however attractive that proposition might be, she reflected. With a sigh of resignation, she caught up a shred of pure white