Читать книгу Charlie's Dad - Alexandra Scott - Страница 6

CHAPTER ONE

‘YOU’RE on your way, Ellie Osborne. The past is dead.’

That was the final shibboleth, the only part of her dream which remained in her mind as she struggled to raise her eyelids, which felt as if they had been coated with Superglue. Then, when she at last succeeded, she gasped at the sight of the clock by her bedside.

‘A-a-ah!’ The sigh became a groan as she realised she ought by this time to be up and dressed, not indulging herself in this fashion. It was simply that she was bone-weary after so much travelling. Imperceptibly her eyes were drifting again, her brain flirting with all the intense activity involved since her departure from Heathrow less than a week ago. Making excuses.

Not that it had been unsuccessful, she mused in dreamy satisfaction. Far from it. In fact, the contract signed yesterday in Hong Kong would be the kick-start she needed for expansion, what she had hoped for—and dreaded—over the years. Now all was within her grasp and the future beckoned.

Not that it had been easy. Amusing to recall her beginnings, five, six years ago, when she had set up her machine on the kitchen table and sold her knitted garments at a tiny profit in London’s street markets.

She gave another sighing yawn. No, those early customers had no idea how lucky they had been to be of fered IGRAINE originals for little more than peanuts. Not that the name or the logo had been registered then. Those had come later, along with the chic silk labels and the media coverage led by that very first television interview in Hong Kong. Which in turn had led to her present visit to Singapore instead of heading immediately back to London.

A tap at the door made her look up, and she smiled as Jenny came into the bedroom carrying a cup of tea which Ellie took, sipping gratefully. ‘Delicious. I’m lying here feeling guilty. I just hope I’m not holding things up, Jenny.’

‘You must have been tired. I looked in half an hour ago, but you were so peaceful I decided to leave you till the last possible moment.’

‘Lazy, rather. But this—’ she drained the cup and put it on the bedside table ‘—was exactly what I needed to wake me up. I was just thinking of that interview you did when we first met in Hong Kong.’ She swung long, slender legs over the side of the bed. ‘You’re sure I’m not holding things up?’

‘No, you have lots of time. It will be an hour before the dinner guests arrive.’ Jenny crossed the room, twitched one of the net curtains, then swung round to raise an eyebrow at her visitor. ‘But I’m hoping, with luck, you’ll emerge before then. Robert is so impatient to meet you.’

‘And I’m dying to meet him too.’ With firm determination she got to her feet and stretched. ‘So, I have time to shower and...’ She ran fingers through the mass of dark auburn hair which had escaped from its pins. ‘Time for a shampoo as well, do you think?’

‘If you hurry. You’ll find a drier in your bathroom.’

‘Would you believe, I haven’t washed it since I left home? I meant to be up in time this morning, but my call was late and it was a mad rush to get to the airport.’

‘I’ll leave you then.’ Jenny, small-boned and exquisite in the understated way of elegant Chinese women, reached the door, pausing with her hand on the knob. ‘What were you saying about that first television interview?’

Ellie crossed to the dressing table and began to rummage in her toilet bag. ‘Just thinking about it.’ Smiling, she unscrewed a jar, dipped a finger into the moisturiser, transferred the pale blob to her skin. ‘I was lying, half dreaming, and that was what came into my mind the instant you tapped on the door. You’ve no idea how many times I’ve blessed you for that.’

‘But it was simply chance. We were short of an item for the programme we were putting out live—about people who were coming from overseas and using the local labour force—and someone, I think it was Johnny Teck, mentioned your name. Actually, I was grateful to you for agreeing to come on at such short notice.’

Ellie, making for the bathroom, shook her head. ‘Never refuse the offer of free publicity—one of the first rules of running your own business. Just a mention on TV or radio can mean the difference between success and failure. Oh—’ Just before disappearing, she remembered. ‘Would you mind if I made a quick call to Charlie? I usually try to ring home about now.’

‘You don’t have to ask.’ Jenny waved a slender hand towards the telephone on a side-table. ‘I still can’t understand why Charlie and I have never met. Oh, and by the way, honey...’ Again, Jenny paused ‘One of our guests this evening is Jonas Parnell, the American writer. I’m sure, like me, you’ve read every one of his bestsellers. I’m always so impatient for the next one to come out. His father is a friend of Robert’s.’ And with that the door finally closed.

‘Jonas Parnell?’ As Ellie held her face up into the stream of warm water, began to rub some flowery unguent into her hair, she murmured the name. Vaguely it rang a bell, but since she had little time for reading, apart from balance sheets... On the other hand, there had been that late-night movie a few weekends back—a hectic, fast-paced murder mystery... Jonas Parnell...that name forced itself into her mind. At the time, anxious for bed, she had been half irritated by its compulsion—certainly she had found it exciting enough to keep her glued to the screen till long past her normal bedtime, when sleep was what she needed most.

Rubbing her hair with a soft towel, she stepped from the shower, crossed the bedroom and, reached for the telephone. She began to dial her home number and a moment later she spoke. ‘Charlie, darling.’ Her voice, always soft and melodious, grew still more tender. ‘You wouldn’t believe how much I’m missing you.’

‘Not too bad.’ Surveying her reflection with a critical eye, Ellie turned this way and that before giving a tiny smile of satisfaction. Evening affairs hardly figured in her diary these days, and she had almost fallen out of the habit of making the effort. And now, she was forced to conclude with what was very nearly a grin, that seemed a pity. A successful effort did wonders for one’s ego, quite regardless of any impression it made on others.

Besides, she owed it to Jenny to put her best foot forward. It would be humiliating if she, an up-and-coming designer, were to disappoint her hostess. To say nothing of Robert Van Tieg, whom she would for the first time be meeting.

Much of their story she already knew—how Jenny, very soon after their first encounter, had moved in with the wealthy entrepreneur. Theirs was a perfectly open relationship, and when Ellie had once hinted that it might lead to marriage, Jenny had immediately jumped on such a suggestion, insisting the present arrangement suited them admirably.

‘You see,’ she had explained, ‘Robert has been married twice, both times unsuccessfully, and I had never planned any kind of long-term relationship. Not until I met Robert, that is, then I instantly changed my mind. That I’m still with him is rather against my own principles.’ Here she had grinned, slightly embarrassed. ‘But you see, I just love the guy. Can you understand?’

‘Yes.’ Ellie had disregarded the ache in her chest. ‘Of course I can.’ Who better to understand than Ellie Osborne?

‘And besides,’ Jenny had gone on swiftly, ‘I have my career, he has his business interests. We each allow the other complete freedom, never question the need for this or that, and the funny thing is, between us there is complete trust. Even though I know he is meeting so many fascinating women—many of whom would be more than willing to join him in a fling—doubts about his fidelity never enter my mind.’

Jenny was lucky. Making final adjustments to her make-up, Ellie reflected on her friend’s good fortune with not the least trace of jealousy. Rich, beautiful, with one of the world’s most successful businessmen in love with her, and a television career going strong on both sides of the Pacific, who could deny that fortune had smiled on Jenny Seow? What was still more astonishing was that she was so unspoiled, so unaffected by the huge sums she earned through TV shows syndicated worldwide.

Satisfied at last, Ellie stepped back from the mirror, her attention now wholly focused on her reflection, relieved to confirm it would satisfy the most critical eye. And all credit for that to Jean Muir. What had at the time seemed like quite unjustified extravagance, markdown price notwithstanding, now began to look like a serious long-term investment. All those sleepless nights spent worrying over such unprecedented self-indulgence... she gave a tiny giggle. A sheer waste of effort.

It was undeniable that the overall appearance was timeless and elegant. Quite seriously she could see herself wearing the same outfit twenty years from now: wide trousers in damson scribbled all over with cream, the floaty material giving occasional glimpses of long legs, and a tunic top, matching but plain, neckline and cuffs edged with cream braid. It was so stunning she couldn’t imagine why she didn’t wear it more often, and certainly for a smart supper party here in Singapore it was perfect.

After some consideration, she left her hair loose, abandoning her more usual French pleat for the pleasure of it moving about her face like sensuous silk. Make-up was understated, lips outlined with a soft subtle plum, and eyes—well, those she had always considered the best features in an unremarkable face, and she had summoned all her skill to emphasise the clear translucent grey, just that rim of black round the irises causing the whites to gleam. A last unnecessary touch of the wand to already sooty lashes, a blast of perfume and she was ready. Automatically her hand reached out for the solitaire diamond which she slid alongside the plain gold band on her left hand.

He was nothing like she had imagined. Standing with other guests on the balcony while Robert pointed out some focal points of the city, Ellie found it difficult to avoid comparisons. Jenny, so petite, so slender and striking, and Robert... Well, handsome he was not—short, thickset, and with the powerful shoulders of a prize fighter—although with his air of power and wealth it wasn’t difficult to see how he might attract women.

Impeccable manners and dress—these she had expected—but the heavy features, the shrewd eyes partly concealed behind tinted glasses...no, he was not at all the kind of man she had been looking forward to meeting. There was, she knew, a twelve-year age difference, but he looked a good twenty years older than Jenny. However, in spite of conflicting impressions, she found herself warming to him, enjoying a sense of humour which was dry and sardonic, even slightly self-deprecating. That was something of a shock; high-flying businessmen did not, at least in her experience, take life so lightly.

Then came a diversion. Jenny was ushering a new arrival through the French windows and onto the balcony and was engaged in animated conversation. Ellie caught the deep cadence of a laugh which brought her head jerking up in perplexed alarm, her wide eyes staring, but all she could discern was that the newcomer was male, dressed in a tropical suit in dark grey, a pinkish shirt, and that Jenny was smiling up at him, her face glowing with delight.

Jenny was now trying to attract Robert’s attention and he excused himself, making his way across the expanse of pale-coloured marble towards the window. There was a short silence as his guests watched, a silence broken by Pete, a rangy Australian who had been introduced as a business acquaintance.

‘Robert’s quite a personality, isn’t he?’

Ellie’s eyes were still on the group by the window, slightly aggrieved that the newcomer—the American writer, she supposed—was still hidden by some trailing exotic plants. Reluctantly she dragged herself back to see Pete nod in the direction of his young pretty wife.

‘Babs has never met him before tonight What did you think of him, honey?’

‘Robert’s everything you said, but I guess he’ll take a bit of getting to know.’

‘Like his taste in women, though.’ Raising his glass, Pete drank deeply, as if underlining his approval of Jenny.

Ellie exchanged an amused glance with Babs, who shrugged philosophically and immediately changed the subject. ‘You’ve come from England on business, Ellie?’

Ellie leaned an arm against the wrought-iron balustrade, idly watching the lights of a ship sailing into the harbour. ‘Yes, I have my own small fashion company—knitted garments. I’ve been finalising details with some of the Hong Kong companies who make up my designs. I’m on my way home now, but broke my journey to visit Jenny and Robert.’

‘Using wool from Oz, I hope?’ Pete’s interest was solely commercial.

‘Take no notice of him, Ellie. Just because his Dad’s in sheep...’

‘Well, I’m sorry about that.’ Turning from the view with a smile, Ellie leaned against the balcony, arms extended, face raised to the balmy evening air. ‘But we pride ourselves on using only the best English wools, specially blended for us, occasionally with the addition of silk. But if ever I feel the need to use Australian wools I’ll remember your father. In fact, I have connections with Australia myself, and I...’

The words dried on her lips as Jenny, Robert and their guest moved against the window behind them, the light from the room illuminating the two faces she knew but leaving the other irritatingly half hidden, mysterious. He was well above average height, the new man, and dark. His head was bent towards his hostess, and the casual, easy way he supported himself, with one arm crooked against a pillar... there was something about him, something which made her catch her breath, made her aware of an icy drip of water the length of her spine...

‘You were saying, Ellie...’ Babs prompted.

‘I...’ For a second she stared at the young woman, unable to recall the drift of the conversation. Her heart was beating loudly against her ribs... ‘Ah, yes, what was I saying, Babs? About wools, wasn’t it? England has such a wide range of fleeces that it seems more sensible,’ she gabbled. ‘After all, I doubt that you drink much English wine.’

Oblivious of the puzzled expression which her remark elicited she heard her voice prattle on for a few more seconds, but her mind was engaged with a quite different subject.

Deliberately she kept her attention away from the group she found so inexplicably disturbing, smiling vaguely at her companions, determined to concentrate, to dismiss idle speculation from her mind. But it was such a weird feeling, frightening, as if things long past were threatening to catch up with her, events she would prefer to keep buried...

‘Ellie, I told you we were expecting Jonas Parnell, now I’d like you to meet him.’

Ellie turned. Her intense grey eyes, shadowy with apprehension swept over Jenny and Robert, unwillingly but inevitably drawn to the man who loomed over them all. Jenny’s tinkling laugh rang out.

‘Only his name isn’t Jonas Parnell, it’s Ben Congreve. Ben, this is a dear friend, Ellie Osborne.’

It was all automatic then. Ellie held out her hand, hoping the smile she fixed on her face would conceal her shock, and it was a great help that she saw not the faintest sign of recognition in his eyes. Admiration, perhaps—she thought she could discern a flicker of that—and interest, curiosity. But nothing more. So, it was safe to smile, to relax, or at least to make an effort in that direction. Otherwise she had no idea how she would deal with the hours of torment which lay ahead.

She stood there, taking little part in the conversation washing about her, trying desperately to deal with the raging assault of emotions. For who could have forecast the crossing of their paths like this after so many fraught years? Long, long after she had felt any need—after all, it was a lifetime since she had given up all expectation. Years during which hope had slowly and, oh, dear God, how painfully ... died.

‘You know Singapore well, Ellie?’ Ben Congreve, sitting to her right, waited till she had finished her chat with Pete before demanding her attention, forcing her to look at him so he could check. Mmm. He felt a moment of sheer pleasure as the clear grey eyes flicked him a glance. A slightly nervous glance, he decided, though it was inconceivable such a self-possessed and seemingly successful woman should be either shy or nervous. He had never, he thought in a spirit of self-mockery, seen such eyes... And set in that face... So serene, so astonishingly... well, it was more than merely beautiful—fascinating, rather, with those high cheekbones, that exciting mouth, such a rippling cascade of titian hair.

He caught at himself, smiling inwardly at such an uncharacteristic response, but found he was unwilling to deny himself the pleasure of analysis. Perfect skin too. A bloom like a peach—and that was scarcely original. And for a writer too.

‘Not well.’ Such an effort to keep her voice so calm and even, but no one, she thought, no one could possibly guess that her heart was agitating wildly against her ribs, that her palms were so moist they threatened her grip on her fork. ‘I’ve been here several times but always for very short spells so I can’t claim to know it.’

Now she could return her attention to her plate, spoon some of the delicious terrine into her mouth. ‘You?’ Another glance in his direction confirmed what she feared, that he was still focused on her, bringing a wave of unwelcome heat to her body.

His faint smile told her he had noticed, but he had the grace to look away, to apply himself to the food on his plate and at the same time deal with her question. ‘The same. I don’t know it well, but since the book I’m writing has a scene set here I thought I’d come and do some research before getting down to the grind of actual writing. All writers are like that, you know-any excuse to avoid the tyranny of the word processor.’

‘Mmm. So I’ve heard. But I thought it was invented to make life easier for you.’

‘That’s the theory.’ He slanted another glance towards her; he was surprising himself with his desire to divert and amuse this woman. ‘But I’m wholly unconvinced. I must be honest and admit that writing is a love-hate affair, almost a voluntary slavery. There are times when I want to be rid of the whole demanding business, and then... as soon as I have finished what I had decided was to be my last... something jogs the brain. One or two ideas which have been drifting loose seem determined to come together and so, before I can do a thing about it, I’m off. Back to the treadmill.’

‘Ben!’ Jenny was mildly reproving. ‘You make it sound as if you have to labour over every word, and yet your prose...each word you write... flows so effortlessly onto the page.’

‘Ah...’ He shook his head in self-mocking derision. ‘That is where the genius comes in.’

There was a wave of laughter round the table before the argument was taken up at a more individual level, which gave him the opportunity to turn again to the woman by his side. ‘And now you know all about me, it’s my turn to hear about you.’

She had little choice but to turn and look at him, lips curving into a smile that was more than a little reluctant. He was so very easy to look at, but that had always been so. Tall, good-looking, arresting without being conventionally handsome, dark silky hair... Even now she could feel a throb at the thought of twisting it through her fingers. Shorter now, of course, and the buccaneering look had gone, along with the beard. And those slender well-marked eyebrows, which would arch upwards when he was waiting for an answer... as he was now.

‘But there isn’t a great deal to tell.’ By any standard of veracity that was an outright lie. Her life, though reasonably conventional on the surface, hid a dark and wounded side which she refused to discuss, especially with a mystery writer, and certainly not with...

But he was obviously waiting for elucidation, so in a move which was habitual, defensive—one she found herself using when she felt particularly vulnerable—she raised her left hand to brush a strand of hair from her cheek, displaying her rings before allowing her hand to drop.

‘I don’t know if Robert mentioned it, but I have my own small fashion company—mainly knitwear, until now mostly made in the UK, but an increasing number are now produced in Hong Kong. I was there for several days and Jenny invited me here for a break before going home. It’s a plan which has been thwarted several times in the last two years—’

‘And I’m delighted you were able to make it at last.’ From the other side of the table Jenny interrupted, then there was a slight hiatus as plates were cleared, fresh dishes brought by the unobtrusive maids.

And Ellie, as she listened half-heartedly to what Pete, on her other side was trying to explain, wished with all her heart she had flown back to Heathrow. By this time she would have been with Charlie. All the reawakening heartbreak would have been avoided. Earlier this evening she had been right to decide this was not her milieu, that she was out of touch with this kind of socialising.

She experienced a sensation of despair as she allowed her attention to drift round the sophisticated room: light net curtains billowing in a faint breeze, modern paintings set against cream walls, a green marble dining table. Green marble! And with the most intricate veining in gold. Food arranged with precise artistry on black plates, each a study...

A sudden flash of recollection brought a smile to her lips. She was thinking of the pot of stew she so frequently put on the table—the scrubbed kitchen table—the homely loaf of bread which she might have made during a therapeutic break but which was inevitably lopsided and collapsing, though still ideal for mopping up gravy. The bowl of hastily put together salad leaves...

Light years from this arrangement of skewered seafood surrounded by tiny mounds of saffron rice and compositions—the word was not too extravagant—of vegetables she didn’t begin to recognise. It was almost too artistic to eat, something her own meals never were, but...the contrast of colours was inspired. She had an instant vision of a shift sweater, basic black like the plate but with swirls of gamboge, a touch of shrimp-pink and that particular green... If only her brain could retain the colours. Fingers twitching, she longed for her sketchpad and paintbrush...

‘Aren’t you going to eat?’ The gentle query took her head round to look at him, eyebrows arching quizzically, mouth curving in sheer pleasure before she remembered to control them.

‘Oh, yes.’ A moment’s breathless glowing enthusiasm, then searing pain as she recognised that particular expression, the way his eyes moved slowly over her features before coming to rest, with quite unmistakable meaning, on her mouth. ‘Of course.’

Soberly, determined to ignore the knot of misery in her chest she switched her focus back to her plate, picked up her fork. ‘It is all so... so beautiful.’ Delicately she detached a scallop, raised it to her mouth. ‘Don’t you agree?’ What was intended to be a quick casual glance in his direction was arrested, caught and held.

‘Yes.’ The reply came slow and deliberate, making it obvious that the food was not on his mind. ‘Oh, yes, I agree.’

Beautiful. Even when he turned to exchange a few words with his partner on the other side, it was her face which occupied his mind. Such white teeth, not perfect exactly, with a slight overlapping of the front two, a generous, giving mouth which he would have liked to feel against his, and when she smiled... It occurred to him she didn’t do that often enough, but when she did her whole face lit up. She had an inner glow which intrigued, wakening his interest, a stirring of excitement which had long been absent from his life, except...

As he conversed his lips moved automatically. Except...

Except that he was picking up discouraging signals. He had been fully aware of that informative gesture of her left hand but... But, he was not going to allow the possibility of a husband in the background to deter him from finding out more about this intriguing woman.

Dead on her feet or not, Ellie found sleep elusive that first night in the Van Tieg apartment. Nothing to do with the heat of the sultry tropical night; that was held at bay by efficient air-conditioning. Nothing to do with that and everything to do with the man she had long ago dismissed from her consciousness. But if she had been as efficient in that as she believed, why was he now causing her so much emotional havoc?

Ellie groaned, pushed a hand through the heavy fall of hair and thrust her face deeper into the pillow. If only sleep would come. She was desperate for the chance to forget Ben Congreve for a few hours. In the morning, she knew from experience, things would look entirely more reasonable. For one thing there was no need for her ever to meet up with him again. Tomorrow would be her last day in Singapore. After that she would be flying back to her own life, to Charlie. Ah, yes, Charlie, on whom the whole sorry saga hinged.

And then, without any decision on her part, without volition or even co-operation, her mind was clicking with the memories which she had tried to hold at bay, sweeping her back through the years to the time when she had first known Ben Congreve. That halcyon, magical time... The knowledge that the whole exercise was mere self-indulgence had no power to stop her.

Twenty years old with the world before her. That had been her father’s smug description on the day she had been awarded her degree at Sydney University. And as a reward he had handed her a cheque to subsidise her declared longing to travel for a few months before settling down to a career in fashion.

‘Or teaching perhaps?’ Sir William had distrusted his daughter’s ambition to try her luck in the rag trade. His leaning was towards a more conventional and, as he thought, a more secure career.

‘Yes.’ Helen, as she had been known then, had long ago found it made life much easier to go along with her parents’ suggestions, or at least to go through the motions. ‘If there are no openings in the fashion world, I promise you, I’ll try teaching.’

‘Well, if you make for London, I’m sure you’ll find plenty of openings. Your mother and I are very proud of you—a year younger than most of your class and carrying off the top awards. The cheque is to show how much.’

‘You’re very generous, Dad.’ Reaching up, she kissed his cheek. ‘And you’re sure you don’t mind me going off on my own for a few years?’

‘We’ll miss you, of course. But you’ve lost a lot of your childhood through your mother’s illness and we both want to make up to you for that.’

‘Dad, you can’t help that—and certainly Mother didn’t ask to be struck down with multiple sclerosis. You don’t have to make up to me.’

‘Nevertheless, it’s what we decided. You know we would both like to go back to the old country, but since the climate here suits your mother so much more... Anyway, I ought to tell you, I’m thinking of retiring from the Diplomatic Corps. I’ve been approached by a major Japanese company to take over a management position here in Sydney, and I’m tempted for your mother’s sake...’

‘Dad, you dark horse. I’m the one who ought to be rewarding you, not the other way round.’

‘No.’ He grinned. ‘All I ask is that you write often to your mother. You know how she has missed England. Just keep the letters and postcards coming.’

‘I promise. Only...you won’t mind too much if I make my way to Europe via the Caribbean, will you? Some of the diving club are planning an excavation of an old Spanish galleon that’s been discovered off the Windwards, and they’ve asked me to go along.’

‘We-ell, I suppose you’ve made up your mind about that already. So...all I ask is that you’ll be careful. I don’t want your mother to be worried—you know the effect it can have on her condition if she’s anxious, especially if she’s anxious about her only child.’

‘I promise.’ Again she stood on tiptoe to drop a kiss on his cheek. ‘I promise I’ll be very careful. I’m not into risk-taking and I’ll write as often as I can.’

And that was how, a week after her twenty-first birthday she came to touch down in the Windwards, one of three girls in a group of seven from Sydney, joining several teams from American Universities excavating the seventeenth-century schooner which had foundered in a storm. And that was how she came to meet Ben Congreve, expedition leader and classicist, the man who was to have such a profound effect on her life—who was, in fact, to turn it upside down in the two short weeks of their acquaintance.

Never would she forget that first sight of him as, with others, he crouched on the sand examining the artifacts brought up that day from the sea bottom. Some remark brought a gale of laughter and he glanced up, his grin a dazzle of white against the dark face. He caught her eyes and straightened slowly, the smile fading while the dark eyes narrowed in interest. Lopped jeans and loose open shirt hid little of his sun-bronzed torso. Hair, also dark and fine, was raked back from his forehead with a touch of impatience she was to find only too characteristic.

Introductions began and his welcome had become more general, but his eyes had returned to hers, and even now, recalling the intensity of his gaze, she felt a throb of response. The world had, for that split second, halted on its axis before rushing on with the sound of an express train which only she had heard.

A beard, a shade or two lighter than his hair, had covered the lower part of his face, emphasising the faintly piratical look. The touch of natural arrogance might have been a warning. Except that those first few seconds took her far beyond the reach of warnings.

Little doubt then that on her side the attraction had been immediate and cataclysmic, and it had been an irritation that after that initial burning exchange he’d appeared to be only faintly aware of her. So many approaches by men who raised her blood pressure not a single point, and yet this man had ignored all her most blatant signals.

Afterwards, that was something he had denied hotly, laughingly assuring her he had picked her out at once, describing in detail how she had looked to him, then laughing again, grabbing her hands at that point, and pushing her back onto the sand and kissing her, teasing her, assuring her it was her swimming skill, the nearing thing to a mermaid he had seen, which had underlined his interest.

Idly she had brushed her mouth against the erotic silkiness of the dark beard, looking up through half-closed eyes. ‘Of course you know the mermaid is really the manatee—the sea cow.’ A heavy sigh. ‘Am I supposed to be flattered.’

‘Mmm.’ His voice was drowsy as he pulled her closer to the curve of his body. ‘The sailors were at sea a long time in those days, but, yes. You are meant to be flattered. I was talking about the mermaid of legend, the siren. That’s what you reminded me of. You seem to treat the ocean like your natural element. But your skin...’ He slid his palm the length of her back, his touch so sensitive it seemed every nerve-ending in her body responded. ‘Your skin is like silk, and your hair...’ His voice deepened to one of self-parody. ‘Your hair is like gold moidores.’

She was more than ready to join in the joke, even if it was at her own expense, and her lips barely touched his, parted in a tiny giggle. ‘The only ones you seem likely to encounter on this expedition. And even they are fake.’

‘What?’ Soporific and relaxed in the afternoon shade, with the sound of surf crashing on the distant reef and, closer, the soft, soft lap of waves on the shore all enhancing the feel of enchantment, he put his mouth on hers and murmured the drowsy question. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

She had not regretted having her long hair cropped before leaving Sydney, but the impulse which had prompted the colour change had been less successful. The pale gold did nothing for her, while sunshine and salt water on top of bleach was causing havoc. ‘It means I’m all illusion, unreal.’

‘Well, I really never believed in mermaids.’

While you, she assured herself in dreamy satisfaction, are the one I always believed was waiting out there for me. Somewhere. And now I’ve found you I mean never to let you go. With a sigh she rested her head against his chest, rubbing the warm skin, the brush of his silky hair a new and ridiculously exciting experience. ‘Have you ever been to Australia, Ben?’

‘No, I never have.’ He mocked her faint accent. ‘But I promise, it’s now top of my list of places I mean to visit.’

For a moment she detached herself, brushing some sand from the rush mat. ‘What are you planning to do when you leave here?’ Having been told that he and another member of the group had sailed down from Florida, she was toying with the suggestion that he might follow her to England. But they had known each other only a matter of days and he was bound to see her as trying to rush him into some kind of permanent relationship. She would do nothing to jeopardise the fragile budding attraction, and besides, she sensed something, a reticence which was hard to understand.

‘We’ve been planning to take her—’ he nodded vaguely in the direction of the yacht, which could just be glimpsed round the headland ‘—through the canal and into the Pacific. We have permission to spend some time on the Galapagos Islands collecting scientific data, then back up the West Coast and home.’ Gazing down, he traced the outline of her mouth with his forefinger. ‘One of my ambitions is to take her on a solo round-the-world, but this time Dan is coming with me. The solo will have to wait. Have you done any sailing, Helen?’

‘Not really.’ Regretfully she shook her head. ‘In fact, not at all. In the diving club we always used power boats—much more practical than sail.’

‘But much less romantic. But, look, why don’t I take you out now, so you can have a look round? You might find you would want to persuade me that solo was not such a wonderful idea.’

When he pulled her to her feet and stood there, the narrowed eyes and that half-smile challenging her, she found herself hanging onto every ounce of self-control. With a rueful expression and with fingernails pressing hard into her palms she shrugged casually. ‘I might. But I very much doubt it. But, since you’re so keen to show off your toy...’

The rest of that lazy afternoon they spent diving from the deck of the small sleek yacht into the shimmering clear water, and when the sun began to dip below the horizon they settled on towels spread on the deck, deliciously idle, occasionally sipping ice-cold drinks, watching as the ocean gleamed with every fiery colour in the spectrum.

‘Well, what do you think?’ Ben, perched on one elbow reached out to touch the back of her hand, stirring fine sensitive hairs and a thousand barely controlled emotions. ‘You ready to come beachcombing with me?’

‘Mmm.’ Impossible for her to speak when she was fighting to understand why that particular touch... light as a moth’s wing... should... Yes. She wanted to yell aloud. Yes, please. But she knew enough to recognise a rhetorical question when she met it, and had no wish to embarrass him. Or herself. How devastating if she were to agree then have him back off. Besides, for this moment it was enough to be with him as she was now. And to know that if he showed the least sign of wanting to go further, there would be no holding back.

As if sensing her feelings, he leaned over then and touched his mouth to hers, murmuring her name in a tone of such frustrated longing that she had no further thought of restraint. Her lips parted for him, hands twisting in his hair as she pulled his weight down.

‘Helen, you’ve no idea...’ His voice was low and hurried, and for the first time she was aware of sexual power. ‘You’ve no idea how I feel.’

At that she allowed herself a faint smile, and watched through half-closed eyes as she passed fingertips over the warm contours of his torso. Her voice was consciously sultry. ‘What makes you think I don’t know?’

‘You know where this is going to lead?’ His dark eyes had a heady, slumbrous look, and their entwined bodies were dark-gilded by the setting sun.

‘Mmm. What is there to stop us?’ Her heart was hammering against her chest. Or was it his?

‘Is it all right?’ The significance of that query occurred to her much later, but she knew that even fully aware her answer would have been the same.

Begrudging every inch that separated them, she reached up, biting gently but with fierce impatience on his lower lip. ‘Everything will be all right, if only...’ And in an attack of sudden modesty she murmured against his ear.

And he laughed. A deep, growly sound which resonated in his chest, primitive and satisfying in a way she could not describe and which she could never forget.

It was hard, at this distance, to understand how they had been able to keep their affair from the others during the next few days. Possibly because they had been similarly preoccupied, and it had not occurred to either Helen or Ben to flaunt what they’d felt for each other. Or at least what she’d felt. Time seemed to prove that for Ben Congreve it had been little more than a holiday romance, passionate and exciting while it lasted, a very enjoyable interlude, but one that was easily forgotten once he sailed off to another continent. To another life—where he had a fiancée waiting, the preacher booked and the wedding gown ordered.

But of course she had known nothing of those when he had first made gentle and skilful love to her, nor on the subsequent nights, when things had grown still more intense and passionate. And even if she had known, she was uncertain the knowledge would have been a deterrent.

It had been a long time before she was able to admit as much—after she had passed through periods of desolation and anguish. Only then was she honest enough to admit that nothing would have kept her from him. And in one way at least she had never regretted it. Oh, for heaven’s sake, why be coy? There was no way she regretted what had been the definitive experience of her life.

But that was not to say she hadn’t been deeply wounded when, one evening after he had sailed off, after all his promises, she’d overheard the casual conversation between two of the American girls who had known him well.

‘Yeah.’ The tall blonde straightened up from the bowl where she was scrubbing at the deposits on some old pottery lids. ‘In the fall, I understand. They have known each other for ever and Ben’s parents are delighted with the engagement. She’s a year or two younger—about twenty-three or four—and filthy rich, of course. But those are the circles they move in, so I imagine...’

Unwilling to hear any more, Helen walked away, eyes filmed with misery, throat choked as she stared over the ocean, that same glorious expanse of water which had shielded them, which had absorbed their cries of pleasure.

The pressure in her chest was causing real pain. So, this was what it was all about, that first slight reticence, the avoidance of so many personal details, no offer of an address or telephone number where he could be contacted. He had taken her parents’ Sydney number with the assurance that her London address would soon be available, and what was it he had murmured in her ear just before they said goodbye?

‘I shall be with you just as soon as I can... Just one or two problems to be sorted out and I shall be on a flight. No chance of sailing—much too slow.’

So, she had stood on the headland until the last tiny patch of sale had vanished from the horizon, confident and happy that soon they would be together again. And even after overhearing that conversation she didn’t lose hope. She was simply impatient to be done with this stupid diving exercise so she could find herself an address in London. Where she could wait for his call to bring an end to this agonising uncertainty. Nothing else in the world mattered to her.