Читать книгу: «An All-Consuming Passion», страница 2

‘Why can’t the girl simply get on a plane by herself?’ she had exclaimed, when Morgan had told her what he intended to do. ‘She’s not a child, is she? From what I hear, she’s hardly an innocent!’

‘Did you tell Andrew that?’ enquired Morgan drily, retaliating with more cynicism than usual, and even over the phone he heard her sudden intake of breath.

‘Don’t bait me, Morgan,’ she retorted fiercely, and he could sense the cold resentment she still felt for the security of his position. She had always been jealous of his friendship with Andrew, and not even the prospect of destroying her own lifestyle had prevented her from trying to lose Morgan his job when he first moved out of the house. ‘Just because you would do anything that man asked you, doesn’t mean that I can’t have my own opinion of the Forsyths. Just don’t imagine Andrew would let you anywhere near his precious daughter! He may have no time for her himself, but I’m sure he appreciates the potential she offers!’

Her words had at last got under Morgan’s skin, and his gritted response revealed the fact. ‘She’s twenty years old, Alison,’ he had told her, his voice harsh with contempt. ‘She’s young enough to be my daughter! For Christ’s sake, what do you take me for?’

Morgan thrust these thoughts aside now as Holly came to hand him a tall glass. He had known Alison was just taking out her spite on him, but he had been furious that she could still penetrate his defences. Of course, she still resented the fact that physically she no longer attracted him. She had thought that, in spite of her infidelities, Morgan would continue to want her body, but he hadn’t. The discovery that she had been sleeping with other men while he had been away had destroyed any feelings Morgan had still had for her, and since their separation he had satisfied his needs elsewhere.

‘Is it all right?’

Holly’s query caused him to look up at her ruefully, raising his glass to his lips as he did so. ‘Very good,’ he said, somewhat hoarsely moments later, as the raw spirit caught his dry throat. ‘But I think—Lucinda, did you say—has a heavy hand with the rum. Do you always drink them this potent?’

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.

CHAPTER TWO

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 satin that resolved itself into a simple wrapper and, tying the cord about her waist, she followed her inclination.

Outside the air was magic, a mixture of tangy salt and the blossoming bougainvillaea that rioted over the roof of the verandah below. The view, too, was matchless: an arc of blue-green water, caught in the arms of a verdant lover—twin headlands curving round to cradle the sheltered bay. Below the house, the beach was clean and untouched, the footprints left by her visitor washed away by the morning tide. Nearer at hand, bees already buzzed among the tangled mass of flowers, and Micah had set a sprinkler going to moisten the sun-scorched grass.

Resting her arms on the balcony rail, Holly breathed deeply, allowing the beauty of the day to dispel the sense of anxiety that had disturbed her sleep since her father’s telegram had arrived. He could not force her to go back, she told herself fiercely, wondering if she really believed that by saying something often enough one could make it happen. He hadn’t even had the decency to come and ask her himself—albeit that her answer would still have been the same. He had sent Morgan Kane: his mentor, his alter ego; the man Holly hated most in the world.

She breathed a little more quickly when she thought about what she was going to do to Morgan Kane. It was strange but, until two years ago, he had been the man she most admired. Not that he had been aware of it, of course. To him, she was just a child, Andrew Forsyth’s unwanted daughter, the metaphorical cross his employer had to bear. She had known that, and accepted it, too long used to being treated as a pariah in her father’s household to find anything unusual in being ignored.

Yet there had been times when Morgan had not ignored her, times when she had thought he was doing his best to compensate for her father’s negligence. To begin with, she had not trusted his overtures of friendship, assuming her father had told him exactly what to say. But, gradually, as her love-starved young body began to mature, she had started to see Morgan in an entirely different light. She had actually begun to believe he cared about her.

Her trust had been abruptly shattered one night, a little over two years ago. She had turned to Morgan for help, and he had not given it. Instead, he had taken her father’s part in humiliating her in front of her friends. He had not even tried to defend her actions. He had shown himself for the cipher he was, and she knew she had been a fool ever to have believed it could be otherwise.

After that, for a spell, she had not cared what happened to her. Because of what had happened she lost touch with the group of young people she had been running around with, and she wasn’t exactly sorry. She had known they were a wild bunch, and that sooner or later they were going to get caught. But she missed their cheerful companionship, and the sometimes crazy things they used to do.

The suggestion she had made of going to art school in Paris had seemed like a good idea at the time, but once again her father had denied it. No daughter of his was going to waste her time daubing colours on paper, he said, though they both knew it wasn’t just the occupation that appalled him. He didn’t want her to be happy. He had made that blatantly plain. He only wanted to be rid of her, and her suggestion of coming here had suited him very well.

Pulpit Island. Holly sighed now, wondering rather bitterly whether Andrew Forsyth would have let her come here had he known she would not miss her life in England. She suspected he saw her confinement as a kind of punishment, but in fact they had been the happiest two years of her life.

She had always been happy here. When she was a child, her dearest memories had been of holidays spent on Pulpit Island with her grandparents. It was the one place where she had been accepted for herself, and not as her father’s daughter, and her mother’s parents had never blamed her for being the cause of their daughter’s death. Their deaths, soon after one another, when she was in her early teens, had left a void in her life, a void, she now realised, she had imagined Morgan Kane might fill. But he hadn’t. He had abandoned her just when she needed him most, and for that she could never forgive him.

It was not something she had brooded about over these past two years. Indeed, apart from the painful bitterness she had brought with her to the island, she had eventually succeeded in putting all thoughts of him out of her head. But when she got her father’s telegram, when she learned he was sending Morgan Kane to do his dirty work once again, her spirit had rebelled. She was a good-looking young woman, she knew that without any trace of conceit, and she also knew she was attractive to men. Even here, on Pulpit Island, where most of the men she met were either old or married, she was not unaware of her popularity, and it had come to her in a flash that she might be able to hurt both Morgan and her father. How furious Andrew Forsyth would be if his blameless personal assistant blotted his copy-book! Holly thought maliciously. And how delicious her revenge if she could make him forget his responsibilities.

She frowned momentarily as reason reared its ugly head. She suspected she was being overly romantic in imagining she could persuade a man like Morgan Kane to actually fall in love with her. He was so much older, after all, and obviously more experienced. Besides which, he had spent the last fifteen years visiting the most sophisticated capitals of the world and, although he had been married then, he had probably known lots of other women. He was an attractive man; more attractive than she remembered, she acknowledged ruefully, nibbling her thumb. Or perhaps she was looking at him differently now, knowing what was in her mind. It was a pity he was divorced, but that could not be helped. Her father would still be furious if Morgan made a fool of him.

Now, she cast a reflective glance along the balcony. Her father’s room—the room Morgan was occupying—opened on to this balcony, too. But there was no sign of life from his room as yet. The french doors were almost closed, and only the hem of the curtain, flapping in the breeze, gave any evidence that it was occupied.

Which was just as well, she decided, turning back into her bedroom. She wanted to have her swim, her breakfast, and be gone before he woke up. It would have been interesting to see his reaction when he discovered she was gone for the day, but unfortunately she could not be here to see it. Still, no doubt she would feel the aftermath when she got home that afternoon, and Lucinda could be relied upon to give her chapter and verse.

Two minutes later, a towel wrapped sarong-wise about her slim body, Holly ran down the steps to the beach. At this hour of the morning, the water was at its coolest, and it lapped about her deliriously as she dropped the towel and dived in. Swimming without the benefit of a bathing costume was something else she knew her father would abhor, and just occasionally she could see his point of view. But this bay was isolated; apart from herself and her servants there were no other inhabitants, and she and Samuel had swum together since they were children. Not that the Fletchers ever intruded on her privacy. In spite of the fact that they were like foster parents to her, they never took advantage of the fact. So far as she was concerned, it was an ideal arrangement, and if Morgan attempted to change it, he would find she was no longer the tongue-tied schoolgirl she used to be.

Fifteen minutes later, she squeezed the moisture out of her hair and, wrapping the towel around herself again, she returned to the house. ‘Just toast and coffee, Luci,’ she requested, putting her head round the kitchen door, and the housekeeper turned to look at her with undisguised disapproval.

‘You been swimming like that?’ she exclaimed, taking note of the towel, and Holly grimaced.

‘I always do.’

‘Not when we have guests you don’t,’ retorted Lucinda, with the familiarity of their closeness. ‘You know your Daddy’s room overlooks the bay, just as yours does. You want that assistant of your father’s to see you in the raw?’

‘If he cares to look,’ responded Holly irrepressibly, lifting one golden tanned shoulder. ‘Did you hear what I said? Just toast and coffee for breakfast. I want to have my meal and be out of here before Mr Morgan Kane shows his face.’

Lucinda looked, if anything, even more reproachful. ‘You ain’t going over to Charlottesville today!’ she protested fiercely. ‘Holly, you know that man’s come all this way to see you. You can’t just walk out on him. Not on his first day!’

‘Leave Mr Morgan Kane to me, will you, Luci?’ Holly suggested lightly. ‘Like I said, toast and coffee——’

‘I heard what you said,’ retorted Lucinda impatiently. She shook her head. ‘I don’t understand. Last night you seemed to be getting on with him real fine.’

‘Last night?’ Holly’s lips tilted. ‘Well, yes. But we didn’t do much talking over supper. Mr Kane was too tired, and as soon as we’d finished, he went to bed.’

‘I know that.’ Lucinda sniffed. ‘Oh, well. I suppose you know what you’re doing. But your Daddy’s not going to like this. He’s not going to like it at all.’

Holly merely smiled and withdrew, but her smile disappeared as she ran up the stairs. Thank heavens Andrew Forsyth had never had a telephone connected to the house. Pulpit Island was reassuringly remote, and by the time Morgan guessed what she was doing, it wouldn’t matter.

Although she normally took a shower after her swim, this morning she contented herself with simply washing her face and hands. The shower was noisy, and as it was next to Morgan’s room, she couldn’t afford the risk. Besides, she didn’t really have the time. In fifteen minutes she was downstairs again and seated at the kitchen table.

‘Your hair’s still wet,’ said Lucinda, maintaining her disapproval, and Holly ran careless fingers over the hastily tied pony-tail.

‘It will dry,’ she said, spreading butter and peach jam on her toast. ‘Did Micah check the radiator in the buggy? Yesterday it was running pretty hot.’

‘He checked it,’ said Lucinda laconically, apparently deciding she was wasting her time. ‘And will you pick up the oil from Parrish’s? As you’re going in anyway, it will save Micah a journey.’

‘I will.’ Holly added cream to her coffee and took a considering sip. She didn’t think she had forgotten anything. She had brought the exercise books downstairs the night before, and stowed them in her holdall in the hall. The text books she might need were already in there, along with the flask of iced tea Lucinda always made her.

‘What time will you be wanting supper this evening?’ asked the housekeeper now, folding her arms across her generous breasts. ‘You will be in for supper, won’t you? You ain’t planning on spending the evening with the Brents?’

‘Of course not.’ Holly’s eyes twinkled as she stuffed the remainder of the slice of toast into her mouth and sprang to her feet. ‘Now—you look after Mr Kane for me, won’t you?’ she added mischievously. ‘If he asks where I am, just tell him.’

‘Oh, thanks.’ Lucinda’s tone was full of irony. ‘That’s good to know. I don’t have to lie.’

‘Would I ask you to do a thing like that?’ asked Holly irrepressibly and, giving the black woman an affectionate hug, she sauntered out the door.

She met Micah in the cobbled yard at the back of the house. As well as attending to the upkeep of the house, he also looked after the two cars, shared garden duties with Samuel, and cared for the animals. As well as the chickens and two goats, Holly had also managed to rescue three of the horses from her grandfather’s stable. Left to run wild after her grandparent’s death, the two mares and one stallion had not been easy to tame. But, with Micah’s help, she had succeeded. Now, one of the mares had had a foal which Holly had called Hummingbird, and she could imagine what her father would say if he found out how she was spending the allowance he made her.

‘You leaving?’ Micah exclaimed in surprise when Holly shouldered her bag into the back of the little beach buggy, parked in the shade of a huge flame tree. ‘Does Mr Kane know where you’re going?’

‘No, he doesn’t,’ said Holly flatly, unwilling to get involved in another argument. ‘I’ll see you later, hmm? After I’ve been to Parrish’s.’

Micah’s wide nostrils flared, but he made no comment, and Holly gave him a rueful smile. ‘Trust me,’ she said, reaching out to touch his sleeve, and the man shook his head somewhat resignedly before raising his hand in farewell.

The journey to Charlottesville was not quite as enjoyable as it usually was. Although she knew a sense of satisfaction at having outwitted Morgan Kane for today at least, Holly was aware of a troublesome sense of conscience. She couldn’t afford to have a conscience, she told herself, as the buggy bounced its way along the forest track. People who wanted to succeed had to ignore the finer points of decency. Just because the Fletchers had some misguided notion that she should be polite to their visitor was no reason to be diverted from her purpose.

The road to Charlottesville took her through some of the most beautiful scenery on the island. For a while after leaving the overgrown plantation, her route took her along a bluff overlooking the jagged rocks of Angel’s Point. Once, when she was younger, she had asked her grandfather why the most dangerous part of the coastline should have been named Angel’s Point, and he had laughed. ‘Well, it’s to be hoped the poor devils went to the angels,’ he remarked, referring to the fishing boat which had floundered there only days before. ‘You wouldn’t want them going to the devil, now would you?’

From the point, the road turned inland again, skirting the sprawling mass of Pulpit rock before descending in a corkscrew to the little harbour town that nestled at its foot. Most of the residents of the island lived within a ten mile radius of Charlottesville, only the other planters like the Turners and the Brents having larger establishments further from town.

Holly was used to the road, which would have deterred the most enthusiastic of drivers, and reaching the comparatively gentle slopes above the harbour she drove more sedately to the Charlottesville Mission School. Here, she taught art and cookery three times a week, using the skills she had learned at the finishing school in Switzerland to teach boys as well as girls to appreciate the finer points of the culinary art. She doubted again whether her father would approve, but she didn’t really care. Teaching had given her back her confidence, had made her aware of her own worth as a human being, and erased the blank uncertainty that had coloured her early years.

The Charlottesville Mission School was not really a mission school at all. Not any longer. It was supported by the local education department and the church authorities and, as island schools went, it was very good. The children were taught arts and crafts, as well as more academic subjects, and the percentage of pupils who went on to do further education on one of the larger islands was quite high. Holly had been teaching at the school for almost eighteen months now, ever since Stephen Brent had visited the house and seen her paintings.

The Brents and the Gantrys were the oldest families on the island. When Holly visited the island as a child, her grandmother used to take her to visit the Brents, and she and Stephen, and his younger sister, Constance, had all been friends. By the time Holly returned to the island however, Stephen’s father was dead, too, and Stephen had married Verity Turner.

Even so, they were still friends, and it was Stephen who had suggested Holly should offer her talents to the education authorities. Although the Brent plantation was not in such a run-down state as the Gantry’s, he himself spent four mornings a week at the school, teaching English and history, and their liking for one another had been cemented by their mutual interests.

Stephen’s car was already parked on the dusty lot beside the schoolhouse when Holly drove the buggy in to join it. Although it was barely eight o’clock, school started early in the islands and, apart from a fifteen-minute break mid-morning, it continued, uninterrupted, until two o’clock.

As she got out of the buggy, Holly paused a moment to look at the view. She often did so thinking, as she did now, what an ideal location it was. Set above the harbour, with waving pandanus palms as a backcloth, and the sloping roofs of the little town sweeping down to the mast-dotted careenage below, it was an infinitely pleasant place to be, and she appreciated her good fortune. Determinedly putting all thoughts of her father and Morgan Kane to the back of her mind, she hoisted out her bag and crossed the sun-baked parking area. mounting the steps that led into the building with a slightly lighter heart.

She found Stephen in her classroom, propped against her desk, examining the sketches she had drawn for the play the children were hoping to produce at Easter. In his middle twenties, Stephen Brent was everything Morgan Kane was not, she thought reluctantly, despising herself for allowing that man’s image to intrude yet again. Sturdily built, and about her own height, with curly brown hair and blue eyes, he was different in every way from the lean, dark-haired Englishman. Morgan Kane would top him, as he did her, by at least four inches, and whereas Stephen was broad and muscular, Morgan looked nothing like an athlete. Yet, for all that, he did have a toughness the West Indian lacked, a rapier-honed hardness that shortened the odds between them considerably. Holly suspected it was the life he had led—the constant changes from one time zone to another; the shortage of sleep; the hastily snatched meals; the ravages of junk food and alcohol, and too many late nights. But whatever it was, in any physical contest between them she would be loath not to choose Morgan as the victor; the simple result of any conflict between a sleekly fed tabby and an alley cat.

Ignoring the small voice inside her that probed her reasons for even contemplating such an eventuality, Holly walked firmly into the schoolroom and dropped her bag on the desk. ‘Good morning,’ she said, easing the straps off her aching shoulders, and Stephen looked up.

‘Hi,’ he said, surveying her somewhat windswept appearance with evident enjoyment. ‘You look ready for anything. What happened? Didn’t your visitor arrive?’

‘Oh, he arrived all right.’ Holly flopped down on to one of the children’s chairs and pulled a face. ‘How could you think otherwise? He is my father’s creature, after all.’

Stephen looked sympathetic. ‘And have you decided what you’re going to do?’ He frowned. ‘You’re not leaving, are you?’

Holly sighed. ‘I don’t know. It—depends.’

‘On what?’ Stephen put the sketches aside and straightened away from the desk. ‘Surely your father can’t make you do anything you don’t want to. You’re over eighteen, Holly.’

‘I know.’ She grimaced. ‘But it’s not that simple. I may be five thousand miles from England, but I’m still living in my father’s house.’

‘Mm.’ Stephen grunted. ‘That’s what’s so bloody unfair. I’m sure the Gantrys didn’t intend Andrew Forsyth to get control of their property.’

‘No.’ Holly shrugged. ‘Perhaps not. But they did give it to my mother before she died, never dreaming she would pre-decease them.’

‘And your father inherited,’ muttered Stephen grimly, shaking his head. ‘It’s barbaric!’