Читать книгу Shattered Illusions - Anne Mather, Anne Mather - Страница 7

CHAPTER TWO

DOMINIC awakened with a foul taste in his mouth. And a headache, he discovered, when he lifted his head off the pillow. Which wasn’t so surprising, really. He’d drunk the better part of a bottle of Scotch the night before.

But it was the reason why he’d drunk the Scotch that made him want to bury his head in the pillow again and drag the sheet, which was all that was covering him, over his head. Catriona, damn her, was making his life difficult, and he sometimes actually found himself wishing his father had never married her.

Or died so soon, he appended ruefully, leaving him in such an invidious position. He thrust the sheet aside, and propped himself up on his elbows. If Lawrence Redding had still been alive, his life would have been so much simpler.

Sliding his long legs out of bed, he got rather unsteadily to his feet. The room rocked for a moment, but then steadied, and, promising himself he wouldn’t let this happen again, Dominic trudged across the carpeted floor.

Through the slatted blinds, the sun was just beginning to gild the arched roofs of the cabanas that flanked the pool. The lushness of the gardens gave the place a tropical appearance at this time of the year, and he couldn’t deny that he still regarded this place as home.

Beyond the pool and the gardens, dunes sloped away towards a stretch of white sand. The curve of Copperhead Bay formed an almost perfect backdrop, the ocean creaming softly on the shore. The tide was going out, leaving a tracery of rock pools that reflected the strengthening rays of the rising sun. His father had built this house to take full advantage of the view, and Dominic never tired of its timeless beauty.

Had never thought there might come a time when he would be forced to make a choice, he reflected wearily. After all, when his father married Catriona, he had been only sixteen. He’d never dreamt that in less than twenty years Lawrence Redding would be dead.

He was pondering the beneficial effects of an early morning dip when he saw someone appear from around the side of the house. A woman, he saw at once—a tall woman, dressed in trousers and a shirt, with a thick plait of rust-coloured hair draped over one shoulder. She had her arms wrapped about her body as she walked, and she acted as if she wasn’t really aware of where she was.

He sighed. He knew who she must be, of course. She was his stepmother’s new assistant, who’d apparently arrived from England the day before. Catriona had omitted to tell him that she had had a London employment agency find her another assistant. Just as she had omitted to tell him that while he was in New York she’d dismissed Kristin Spencer.

Poor Kristin. His lips twisted. He should have warned her that Catriona didn’t like competition. And judging from his first impression of the woman by the pool she had gone for experience over beauty this time.

He grimaced, not liking the cynicism that was creeping into his consciousness these days. Catriona’s fault, of course, but it was his own fault too for allowing himself to be influenced by her. Perhaps, if he’d had more success in his marriage than his father had, he’d have overcome the tendency. As it was, it was far too easy to accept his stepmother’s interpretation of events, and if he wasn’t careful he’d become just like her, taking what he wanted from life, without considering the consequences.

He frowned. He wondered what had attracted this woman to leave an apparently successful career in London to come and work in Bermuda. He supposed the idea was glamorous enough, but after a few weeks in the islands would she, like Kristin, be eager for some kind of diversion? After all, this estate was a good twelve miles from Hamilton, and apart from the obvious attractions of swimming and sunbathing there wasn’t a lot to do. Even the islanders themselves spent regular breaks in the United Kingdom or the United States, and Dominic knew he’d go stir crazy himself if he was obliged to live here all year round.

Catriona had said this woman was a fan, that she’d left the lucrative position she’d enjoyed at the university to work with a writer she admired, but Dominic found that hard to believe. Or was that just another example of his cynicism? he wondered wryly. There was no doubt that his father’s publishing house had benefited greatly from Catriona’s novels.

Shaking his head, he forced himself to leave the woman to her solitary walk and went into the adjoining bathroom. A cool shower achieved what the ocean had denied him, and after towelling himself dry he ran an exploratory hand over his roughening jawline. He needed a shave, but he couldn’t be bothered to attend to that right now. Instead, ignoring the warnings of his conscience, he pulled on a pair of frayed, knee-length denims and a black vest, and left his rooms.

The house was cool and quiet. Despite her sometimes strict working schedule, his stepmother rarely stirred before 8 a.m. Unlike himself, she was one of those people who could sleep whatever the circumstances, emerging from her room each morning with that fresh, unblemished appearance he knew so well.

Whatever else Catriona possessed, she was not troubled by a conscience—unlike himself.

Like many of the homes in Bermuda, the house was two-storeyed, with a hipped roof, and a huge underground storage tank for rain water. It was always a source of interest to tourists that despite the lushness of its vegetation Bermuda had no actual water supply. But happily the islands were blessed with sufficient rain to fill the tanks, and Dominic had never tasted purer water in his life.

Descending the curving staircase into the Italian-tiled hall, Dominic paused for a moment to lace his canvas deck shoes. Here, evidence of his father’s interest in sculpture was present in the marble likeness of an eighteenth-century nude that stood beside the archway into a cream- and rose-painted drawing room, while a pair of Venetian sconces provided light on the rare occasions when the power supply was interrupted.

Because he was so familiar with the house, Dominic paid little attention to the elegance of his surroundings. His father had built the house when he was little more than a schoolboy, and it was as familiar to him as his own apartment in Manhattan. Though perhaps not as comfortable these days, he conceded, with some irony.

Leaving the hall by means of the glass-panelled door that led into the sun-filled morning room, he crossed the braided carpet to reach the windows. Releasing the catch, he slid the patio door along, and stepped outside.

The warmth that met him was hypnotic. The coolness of the house was such a contrast to the sensuous heat of the morning and even there, in the shade of the terrace, his skin prickled in anticipation of the sun’s assault. There was little humidity, and although it could get very hot in the middle of the day it was seldom unbearable. Right now, at the beginning of July, summer was at its height, and apart from a few fleecy clouds the sky above was clear.

Breathing deeply, he stepped out into the sunlight. From here, it was possible to see the whole of the pool area, and he was almost disappointed to find that the woman he’d seen earlier had disappeared. Not that he had any interest in her, he assured himself drily. He knew better than to show any partiality for Catriona’s protégées. He was just curious to know what had really persuaded her to take this job.

He sighed, and glanced at the watch on his wrist. It was barely seven o’clock, and apart from having to speak to his office later the day was his own. A prospect that didn’t please him as it should, he realised grimly, wishing he had not succumbed to Catriona’s invitation to recuperate at Copperhead Bay. Dammit, he had only had a cold. Just because he had neglected it, and it had turned to pneumonia, that was no reason to leave New York at one of the busiest times of the year.

The trouble was, her invitation had come when his spirits were at their lowest ebb, and he’d given in without really considering what he was taking on. It was over a year since his father’s death, and he should have known that Catriona would consider twelve months more than long enough to mourn her late husband.

A shadow moved at the far side of the pool. He’d been wrong, he realised at once. The woman hadn’t disappeared. She’d been there all the time, hidden by the canopy of a striped lounge chair, but now she had got to her feet, and her consternation at seeing him was evident in every startled line of her body.

Dominic hesitated. It would be easy enough to turn and go back into the house, and save her the trouble of having to explain herself to him. But something, some latent spark of interest that he would otherwise have denied, kept him where he was. Made him move forward in fact, to intercept her automatic intention to escape.

‘Good morning,’ he said easily, shoving his hands into the back pockets of his cut-offs to avoid the necessity of a more formal introduction. ‘It’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it?’

‘Beautiful, yes,’ she answered, with evident unwillingness. And then, because she obviously thought she’d been trespassing, she added, ‘I’m sorry if I disturbed you.’

‘You didn’t,’ he assured her, although she had, inadvertently at least. There was something about her that stirred a vague sense of recognition inside him, and although he had not been wrong about her age her pale features were not unappealing. ‘Miss—Harrison, isn’t it?’

‘Harris,’ she corrected him at once, one hand reaching to circle her throat. ‘Um-Jaime Harris,’ she appended, the unbuttoned sleeve of her shirt falling back to reveal the vulnerable curve of her elbow. ‘Mr—er—’

He was curiously reluctant to tell her. ‘Redding,’ he supplied briefly. ‘Dominic Redding. Catriona’s—stepson.’

‘Oh!’ Was it his imagination or did that information cause a little of the tenseness to leave her face? ‘How do you do?’

So formal!

His lips curled. ‘Reasonably well, mostly,’ he replied, with a wry smile. ‘How about you?’

‘Oh—I—yes. I’m fine,’ she stammered, her tongue appearing to moisten her lips, and Dominic was surprised to find himself studying her features with rather more discrimination.

His first impression had not been entirely wrong, he decided. She was older than Kristin had been, and decidedly more reserved in her approach to men. But there was some merit in those wide-set grey eyes, which avoided his gaze more often than they met it, and her mouth, for all its nervousness, had a surprisingly sensual lower lip.

All in all, she was not what he had expected, Dominic mused, half wishing he hadn’t effected the introduction. Catriona wouldn’t approve of his socialising with the paid help, and for all he seldom obeyed her dictates he didn’t want to make life any more difficult than it already was.

‘Do you live here, Mr Redding?’

While he had been brooding over past mistakes, she had evidently gained in confidence. Her question caught him unawares, and although he guessed it was innocent enough he objected to being interrogated.

‘Sometimes,’ he answered obliquely, and he could almost sense the way she took in his reply, and stored it away for future reference. He had been right, he thought again. She was nothing like Kristin. He wasn’t altogether sure he trusted her.

‘Sometimes?’ she echoed now, in that diffident way she had of speaking. ‘It’s not your home, then?’

‘It was my father’s house. I live in New York,’ declared Dominic, not quite knowing why he suddenly felt so defensive. He turned the tables. ‘Tell me, Miss Harris, why would someone with a degree in English, and an obviously secure job in a London university, give it all up to come and work as Catriona’s secretary?’

That seemed to baulk her. But only briefly.

‘Why—I’m a great fan of your stepmother’s!’ she exclaimed, with rather more spirit than she had shown thus far. ‘It was a wonderful opportunity.’

Was it?

Dominic’s mouth drew in. Her enthusiasm seemed genuine enough, and yet there was something about the way she’d said the words that made him doubt her sincerity. But what other reason could she have for coming to the island? Why was he looking for problems, when there were none to find?

‘Well, I hope it lives up to your expectations,’ he averred, deciding to curtail their conversation. She was here. Catriona had employed her—temporarily, at least. And he intended to return to New York in a few days anyway.

‘Thank you.’

She seemed to sense his irritation, for after allowing him a polite look from beneath thick, gold-tipped lashes she moved towards the colonnade that led back to her apartment.

But, as he was reaching to pull his vest over his head, preparatory to taking a swim, her voice drifted back to him. ‘Your father’s dead?’ she asked, and Dominic jerked the top down again, and turned to regard her with dark, angry eyes.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I’m sorry.’ Her nervousness didn’t seem feigned now. Quite the opposite. ‘But you said—you said it was your father’s house. Is Miss—Mrs—Redding a widow?’

Dominic’s nostrils flared. ‘That would seem a fair assumption,’ he responded curtly. ‘Why?’

‘Oh—no reason.’ A faint smile brushed across that sensual mouth. She gestured towards her rooms. ‘I’d better go and get ready for breakfast.’

And get rid of those ugly trousers, thought Dominic grimly, tossing off his vest and reaching for the zip of his cut-offs. But then his hand stilled. Dammit, he wasn’t wearing any swimming shorts. It wasn’t that he was bashful. He was long past the age of feeling any callow modesty about his body; it was simply that he didn’t care for the idea of her watching him. There was something about Miss Harris that disturbed his equilibrium.

His mood completely soured now, Dominic snatched up his top and strode back to the terrace. Slamming the patio door aside, he plunged into the house—and came face to face with his stepmother.

With his eyes still dazzled from the sunlight outside, Dominic was even less inclined to be tolerant. ‘Dammit, Cat,’ he muttered, pulling back from her reaching hands, ‘what the hell are you doing up at this hour of the morning?’

His stepmother regarded him with cool indulgence. In a coral-pink satin wrapper, she was slim and elegant, her make-up light, but faultless, despite the early hour.

‘I heard voices, darling,’ she defended herself silkily, her nails brushing softly against his skin. She viewed his half-naked appearance with evident enjoyment. ‘Was Sophie on the prowl again?’

‘No.’ Dominic bit off the word, wishing he didn’t have to explain who he’d been talking to. But Catriona wouldn’t be satisfied until she had the story from him, and it was obviously more sensible to be honest from the start. ‘I met your new secretary.’

‘Miss Harris?’ Catriona’s delicately tinted lips tightened, and Dominic prepared himself for the remonstrance that he was sure was to come. ‘What did you think of her, darling? Quite a change from Kristin, isn’t she? And such a frump! Is that what universities are turning out these days?’

He knew a quite absurd desire to defend the woman, but he suppressed the urge. So long as Catriona thought she was unthreatening, Miss Harris’s job was safe. Besides, it was only what he had thought, seeing her from the window. His later opinion had been influenced by a ridiculous awareness of her sexuality.

‘Who knows?’ he responded, grateful for the diversion. ‘She seems to admire your work, as you said.’

‘Mmm.’ Catriona absorbed the compliment indifferently, her attention focused now on his mouth. Her tongue circled her lips. ‘Kiss me good morning, darling. Then I’ll ask Sophie to serve us breakfast on the terrace. It’s not often we get the chance to be alone at this time of day.’

Dominic bent and brushed her mouth with his own, but when he would have drawn back again her slim arms circled his neck. ‘More,’ she whispered huskily, her small teeth nibbling at his ear. ‘I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t we have breakfast in bed?’

Dominic’s hands on her shoulders propelled her away from him. ‘Not this morning, Cat,’ he told her flatly, even though the blood was racing through his veins. He’d wanted her for ever, it seemed; ever since his father had first brought her to this house. But he couldn’t despoil his father’s memory by making her his mistress. Not yet, at any rate.

‘Why not?’ Catriona looked sulky now, her thin lips drawn down in a frustrated curve. ‘When are you going to accept that we’ve waited long enough? Dom, Larry has been dead for more than a year!’

‘I know.’

Dominic lifted his vest and tugged it over his head, using the action to avoid her resentful eyes. Dammit, he knew better than anyone how long it was since they had buried his father, and of how mixed his feelings had been because Lawrence Redding was gone.

‘If you’re not careful, I shall begin to think you don’t love me anymore,’ Catriona accused him now, her eyes sparkling with more anger than grief. ‘I thought when you agreed to come here to recuperate that you’d realised we can’t go on like this any longer. I need you, Dom. I want to be with you. And I always thought that was what you wanted, too.’

‘It is!’

Dominic’s jaw compressed, and the urge to ignore his scruples and take her in his arms almost overcame his common sense. But for all he was desperate to make love to her this wasn’t the time. He owed his father much more than a lousy twelve months’ grace.

‘Then why—?’

‘Look, we’ll have breakfast together, right?’ he interrupted her tersely. ‘It’s too early in the day to have a conversation like this. I’ll speak to Sophie while you go and put some clothes on. Besides, didn’t you tell me you’d be having breakfast with your new assistant? You can’t let her down.’

‘But you can let me down, it seems,’ retorted Catriona coldly, tightening the cord of her robe about her slim waist. ‘You’re a cruel bastard, Dom. Sometimes I wonder why I care about you so much.’

Dominic sighed. ‘Cat—’

‘Don’t say anything more.’ Catriona held up a quelling hand, and walked haughtily towards the door. ‘And don’t bother joining us for breakfast. As you say, my work—or in this case my assistant—must come first.’

Dominic grimaced as she disappeared, but although he was sure he would pay for it later he didn’t regret having made a stand. During the past twelve months, his relationship with Catriona had developed faster than even he could have imagined, and he knew it was time to slow it down.

It was strange—he could remember the first time he’d seen Catriona as if it were yesterday. He’d been fifteen years old at the time, home from school in Boston, spending his summer swimming and sailing, and loafing around the house.

He’d been used to being on his own in those days. His mother had been killed in a freak skiing accident when he was only six, and his father had coped with his grief by burying himself in his work. The publishing house in New York, which Dominic’s grandfather had founded, had kept him busy, and Lawrence Redding had never really learned how to delegate.

Catriona—Markham, as she was known then—had been a young author from England. She’d written a couple of rather poor detective novels that hadn’t found a publisher, and her agent had sent her latest manuscript to Goldman and Redding in New York in the hope of appealing to the lucrative American market.

Dominic didn’t know if his father had considered that first manuscript might be worthy of publication, or whether, on meeting her, he’d just been blinded by the woman’s beauty. In any event, six months later she’d become Mrs Lawrence Redding, and six months after that her first romantic historical novel had been published under the name of Catriona Redding.

He knew it had been his father’s influence which had first made her books so successful. With the promotion he’d given that first book and Catriona’s own personality sparkling on every talk-show nationwide, it would have been hard to fail. Dominic knew from his own experience that it wasn’t always the book itself that put it on the best-seller lists. But it had been the second and all the subsequent successes that had made Catriona Redding a household name. In writing romantic historicals she had found her niche, and each new title had attracted more and more readers.

It would have been ungracious not to admit that Goldman and Redding had benefited greatly from the alliance, but, as Catriona frequently said when she was interviewed, she owed her success to Larry for pointing her in the right direction. And, although towards the end of her husband’s life Catriona had often spoken of the possible advantages of writing for a larger publishing house, she had never actually deserted her husband’s firm.

His own reaction to acquiring a new stepmother was not something Dominic was particularly proud of. He’d always thought she was too young for his father, and, at sixteen, he’d just been beginning to explore his own sexuality. He could—and had—defended his attraction to her by pointing out her own culpability. For all she’d remained faithful to his father, she had done nothing to diffuse his fascination.

Indeed, he’d sometimes wondered what she would have done if he’d had less respect for his father. There was no doubt that she’d enjoyed flirting with him, and she’d begun to regard him as a permanent fixture in her life. Although she was about ten years older than he was, she’d always behaved as if they had more in common than she and his father, and only when Lawrence was present had she behaved as a stepmother should.

It had been easier when he’d gone away to college. Away from Catriona’s influence, he’d begun to notice other women, and when he was twenty-two he’d married the sister of one of his college friends. Mary Beth was sweet and gentle, everything Catriona was not, and although his parents had attended the wedding Catriona had soon made it plain that his wife was not welcome at Copperhead Bay.

She hadn’t said it in so many words, of course. It was still his father’s house, and Lawrence Redding had taken quite a shine to his new daughter-in-law. But Catriona had disliked Mary Beth on sight, and had lost no opportunity to belittle her. Or to show her hostility, Dominic conceded grimly, so that even Mary Beth was made aware of it, and had refused to go where she wasn’t wanted.

It had made things impossible for him—as it had been intended to do—but instead of blaming Catriona Dominic had blamed his wife. He’d convinced himself that she must have done something to offend his stepmother, and Mary Beth had eventually forced him to choose between his family and herself.

It had been no contest, he mused now, half-bitterly. His infatuation for his stepmother had been too strong, and Catriona, damn her, had known that from the start. Apart from anything else, she’d banked on the fact that he’d do nothing to hurt his father—even if he had drawn the line at being involved in the production of his stepmother’s books.

His father’s sudden death of a heart attack at the age of sixty-four had changed a lot of things. Not least the fact that Catriona was now free to do whatever she liked. Less than three months after his father’s funeral, she had let Dominic know that she knew how he had always felt about her, and that there was no reason now for her to deny the fact that she reciprocated his feelings. She’d said she’d always known that her marriage to Lawrence Redding had been a mistake, but that luckily she still had plenty of time to make amends.

But that had been too much, even for Dominic. Coming close on the heels of the unwelcome news that his father had expected him to take over as nominal head of Goldman and Redding, he had felt stifled. He had never wanted to work for his father’s firm, and although his feelings for Catriona hadn’t lessened they had altered. He still wanted her, of course he did. But he had no intention of abusing his father’s memory by bedding his widow almost before he was cold in his grave.

But the fact remained that, although Catriona had inherited the house on Bermuda, where she’d written all her best-sellers, and the bulk of his father’s personal fortune, Lawrence Redding had left the publishing company to his son. And although Dominic had trained as a lawyer, not an editor, and had been working for a successful firm of attorneys in Boston at the time of his father’s death, he’d felt obliged to resign his position and move to New York.

Which was probably the biggest mistake he’d ever made, he conceded now, pushing his hands back into his pockets and staring broodingly over the pool. With Catriona as his client—as well as his would-be lover—he was struggling. He knew as well as anyone that if he offended Catriona, and she found an alternative publisher, Goldman and Redding would suffer.

But what else could he have done, given the terms of his father’s last will and testament? Lawrence Redding had wanted him to take over the running of the company; he’d wanted him to produce Catriona’s books in his place. God, hadn’t he ever suspected how Dominic felt about her? Or was this his way of showing that the two of them had his blessing?

Dominic scowled. There really was no reason for him to continue resisting the inevitable. Catriona was right; it was over a year since his father’s death. There was nothing—and no one—to prevent him from making them both happy. So why didn’t he go upstairs now and finish what he’d started a few minutes ago?

But still he stayed there, and presently a pair of curiously knowing grey eyes drifted across his inner vision. He wondered how Catriona’s solemn-faced secretary would react if she knew what he was thinking. Would she get some vicarious thrill from picturing them together, or would she be disgusted by the overtones of incest inherent in the relationship?

The latter, he suspected brusquely, the urge to go and give Catriona what she wanted rapidly fading. The moment when he might have given in was past, and his mood had darkened. Deciding to forgo breakfast, he pushed the door open again and left the building. In this frame of mind, he was better on his own.