Table of Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

       CHAPTER SEVEN

       CHAPTER EIGHT

       CHAPTER NINE

       CHAPTER TEN

       Copyright

       CHAPTER ONE

      ‘ARE you my mother…?’

      Sarah looked up from the half-completed canvas of the sea before her, her polite denial never uttered as she looked up at the pale youth beside her. He looked about fifteen or sixteen, wearing faded denims and a tight T-shirt, a faded denim jacket thrown over one shoulder in the heat of the day and held there by one finger. Thick blond hair grew almost down to his shoulders, streaked with white where he seemed to have spent hours in the sun. And green eyes, he had green eyes; Garrett Kingham’s eyes.

      The last time she had seen Jason, for this surely had to be him, he had been five years old, a boy with troubled green eyes, having been deeply disturbed by the discord between his parents. He had become a handsome youth, still a little gangly, but she had no doubt the lean, tall body would fill out during the next few years and he would be as muscular as his father.

      Garrett Kingham. She could still remember the look on his face the last time she had seen him, the disgust expressed there as she ran at him kicking and screaming, punching futilely against his broad chest at his decision to take Jason away with him.

      And now Jason had come back. She could hardly believe it!

      ‘Sorry.’ The youth gave a self-conscious grimace, suddenly looking very young. ‘You couldn’t be my mother, she’s dead, and you’re far too young to be my mother. I—–It was just that you looked like I remember her,’ he added sheepishly.

      ‘Jason—–’

      ‘You know my name!’ His eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘Who are you?’

      Sarah put down her brush, picking up a paint-spattered cloth to wipe her hands. ‘Who did you come here to see?’ she prompted gently.

      ‘My grandfather and—you have to be my Aunt Sarah,’ he realised in some relief. ‘For a moment I thought I was seeing a ghost.’

      Amanda would be a ten-year-old ghost by now. For that was how long her sister had been dead. In fact, the similarity between herself and Amanda was only superficial; both had thick black hair, deep blue eyes, and small slender bodies, but their features could only be called vaguely similar. But Jason had only been five when his mother died, and possibly the similarity between the sisters now seemed more than it actually had been.

      She gave her nephew a dazzling smile, standing up. ‘Yes, I’m your Aunt Sarah,’ she confirmed brightly. ‘Have you been up to the cottage yet? Your grandfather is going to be pleased to see you.’

      Jason shook his head, looking a little nervous now. ‘There’s no one there.’

      ‘He said something earlier about walking into the village for his tobacco,’ she dismissed lightly. ‘Why didn’t you let us know you were coming? Does your father know you’re here?’ she added warily; Garrett Kingham had never been particularly fond of his wife’s family, and she had no reason to suppose that had changed over the years.

      Jason didn’t answer, his hands thrust into the back pockets of his denims as he turned to look out at the sea. ‘Can you surf here?’ He frowned at the gently falling waves against the sand.

      ‘No,’ she laughed regretfully. ‘Although we do have windsurfing.’

      He nodded, turning back to her. ‘Is it always this windy here?’ he asked ruefully.

      ‘The east coast of England is known for it,’ she acknowledged with a grimace. ‘Jason—–’

      ‘Do you think my grandfather is back yet?’ he cut in firmly. ‘I’d really like to see him.’

      ‘He’ll want to see you too.’ She quickly packed away her things. ‘But you have to tell me whether or not your father knows you’ve come here,’ she persisted.

      A mutinous expression marred his youthful good looks. ‘I’m sixteen—–’

      ‘Not until next month,’ Sarah reminded him gently, very much afraid Garrett Kingham had no idea where his son was. And from what she remembered of him he wouldn’t take lightly the news of Jason being here.

      ‘I’m old enough to make my own decisions,’ insisted Jason stubbornly.

      She would be very interested to know what decision he had made that had brought him here, but now didn’t seem the time to ask him, his manner being defensive to say the least.

      Sarah’s initial instinct had been to hug him, but he was at an age where such a show of emotion would only embarrass him. And so she continued to act calmly, as if it was perfectly normal for the nephew she hadn’t seen for ten years to arrive so unexpectedly.

      ‘Could you carry this for me?’ She held out her canvas. ‘Careful,’ she warned. ‘It’s still wet.’

      ‘Hey, this is good,’ Jason admired in some surprise. ‘Are you an artist?’

      ‘No,’ she denied, tucking her easel and chair under her arm, smiling her thanks as Jason bent to pick up her box of oil paints. ‘I’m not the struggling-in-the-garret type,’ she derided. ‘No pun intended!’ she added drily. ‘I’m an art teacher during term time, I only “struggle” during the holidays!’

      Jason gave a wary frown. ‘You don’t look like a schoolteacher.’

      Sarah was familiar with this reaction from children of Jason’s age; schoolteachers represented an authority they were beginning to resent. ‘School teachers aren’t wearing denim cut-offs and bikini-tops in America?’ she teased.

      ‘Not in class, anyway,’ he drawled.

      ‘Neither