Читать книгу Reluctant Father - Elizabeth Oldfield - Страница 7

THE hair stylist smiled down into the buggy. ‘Doesn’t your mama look as pretty as a princess?’ she enquired.

The baby grinned, blue-grey eyes smiling and a dimple denting one round cheek, then he pursed his rosebud lips and blew a raspberry.

Cass laughed. ‘He may not be too thrilled, but I think

it’s a big improvement.’ She took a final, appraising look at herself in the mirror. Thanks a lot.’

Gifford’s arrival the previous day had had one plus, she thought wryly as she steered the pushchair out of the salon and started off along the spacious marblefloored lobby of Club Sesel. The interruption had made her think twice about wielding the scissors.

Past experience had shown that she was a ‘chopaholic’, so chances were her hair would have wound up looking as if it had been sheared by a lunatic with a chainsaw. Instead, her fringe was softly feathered, while the fall of burnished wheat-gold hair ended in a straight line at her shoulders. Cass tweaked at the silky black top which she wore with stone-coloured chinos. Today she looked stylish. Stylish enough to be mistaken for a hotel guest.

Club Sesel—Sesel was the Creole word for the Seychelles—catered for the wealthy. Guests stayed in individual granite bungalows which were discreetly sited amidst landscaped hillside gardens full of tropical blooms, ate in a chandeliered dining hail and could browse in the designer outlets which lined the lobby. She swung a look around. The lobby and shops were currently deserted. In general, there seemed to be few guests.

Reaching the gift shop, Cass stopped to study a window display which featured exclusive beachwear and mother-of-pearl jewellery arranged around a pair of polished coco de mer nuts. The huge nuts, which had a suggestively intimate female shape, were reputed to grow only in the Seychelles. These days restricted numbers were sold as expensive souvenirs, though in the past their kernels had been regularly ground up and used as an aphrodisiac.

A shadow clouded her blue eyes. There had been no need for aphrodisiacs when she and Gifford had met. Like their emotional rapport, the sexual attraction had been instant and compelling. And when they had made love it had been a passionate explosion of feeling which—

Her gaze swung sideways. A door bearing the word ‘Manager’ in gold letters had been opened, drawing her attention, but the man who had started to come out had swivelled and was disappearing inside again. As the door clicked shut behind him, Cass frowned. With wellgroomed fair hair, and wearing a silver-grey gabardine suit, he had looked suspiciously like Kirk Weber. She did not know where the South African stayed when he came to the island—nor had she been aware that he was here now—but Club Sesel would be handy for him.

Setting off again, she negotiated the buggy down a couple of shallow steps and out into the dazzling sunshine of the paved forecourt. Could Kirk’s presence mean he was about to finalise his purchase of the Forgotten Eden? she wondered as she slid on her dark glasses. She crossed mental fingers. She hoped so.

‘Yoo-hoo, Cass!’ a voice shrilled, and when she turned she saw a woman with short, gel-slicked auburn hair and wearing a gold lamé swimsuit waving at her from the far side of the small kidney-shaped swimming pool.

‘Hello, Veronica,’ she called back, smiling, and waited as the redhead teetered towards her on high goldsandalled heels.

Over the past two weeks, Veronica Milne had become a regular visitor to the Forgotten Eden. She would arrive in her hire-car around midday or in the evening, pick at her meal, then switch to sit at the bar where she would make eyes at Jules Adonis, the Seychellois barman who, with clean-cut looks, long, sun-lightened dreadlocks and a beguiling white smile, lived up to his surname. A surname which was surprisingly common in the islands.

If the baby happened to be around, she also made a big fuss of him.

A thin, twittery woman who talked non-stop, Veronica was hard going after the first five minutes—but Cass felt sorry for her. Behind the determinedly bright expression, she sensed a lost soul.

‘Just thought I’d tell you that I shall be along for lunch today,’ Veronica said. ‘Will Jules be there?’

‘He should be, though he has been known to sleep in and not wake up until it’s too late. Or forget which day it is,’ she said ruefully.

‘He’s such a heartthrob. Like this little fellow,’ the redhead declared, stretching down a hand to tickle the baby’s tummy.

Jack wriggled and giggled.

‘Do you have children?’ Cass enquired.

Veronica straightened. ‘No. I run my own fashion boutique—we sell only the best names-and there’s never been time to fit in a family. And now I’m divorced; the decree absolute came through last month. This is the first time I’ve been on holiday on my own. The first time I’ll go back to an empty house.’ She looked down at her noticeably denuded wedding-ring finger, though her other fingers were banded with rings of all shapes and sizes. ‘Of course, I could always marry again and have a baby. I’m only just into my forties, so it isn’t too late.’

‘I suppose not,’ Cass said, and hoped she did not sound doubtful.

‘I think Jules fancies me,’ Veronica declared, and lowered her voice into a giggly, conspiratorial whisper. ‘I fancy him, too.’

Cass felt a stab of concern. The woman might sport a trendy elf-in-a-rainstorm hairstyle and wear glamorous clothes, but rather than ‘just into’ her forties she looked more in her mid-forties, if not heading towards fifty. Jules was twenty-five.

He was also a happy-go-lucky Romeo who flirted with females—any female—out of habit and on autopilot. She had assumed this was glaringly obvious, but perhaps Veronica preferred not to see? Newly divorced, she could be feeling adrift and eager for male attention. Too eager.

‘Jules has a girlfriend,’ Cass said gently, not wanting her to get hurt. ‘In fact, he has several. I must go. I look forward to seeing you later. Goodbye.’

‘Bye, bye,’ Veronica trilled; but she was smiling at Jack and waving.

Cass pushed the buggy up the hotel’s sloping drive and out onto the hard-baked red earth of the road. She had spent most of last night tossing and turning and thinking about Gifford, and as she set off for the Forgotten Eden her mind returned to him again.

Yesterday, her reaction to his exit from the restaurant had been, Good riddance! But it had been a knee-jerk reaction. And he had not fled the island. A distant glimmer of lights from the bungalow the previous evening, plus the slam of a door this morning, had indicated that he remained in residence.

She frowned. Whilst becoming a single parent had never featured in her scheme of things—heaven forbid!—she had coped with all the various traumas and got her life back on track. Plans had been made for the future. But now Gifford had appeared and thrown everything into confusion.

‘I was going to send your daddy photographs of you on your first birthday, she said, speaking to the baby who sat in the pushchair. ‘And if he didn’t reply I was going to send another batch when you reached two. Then, if that failed to produce a response, I intended to take you over to the States, plop you on the middle of his office desk and say, Hey, buster, I’d like to introduce your son and heir. That would’ve concentrated his mind, yes?’

Jack clapped small, starfished hands—his latest trick.

‘I don’t expect him to be an every-day daddy,’ Cass continued, becoming grave, ‘but I believe that every child has the right to know its father, and I want him to show a respectable amount of care and consideration. Like remembering your birthdays and taking you on the occasional holiday when you’re a big boy, and being available at times when you particularly need a dad.’

‘Blah.’ her listener said.

‘I was going to tell him all this when you were two. When you’d be starting to realise that other children have daddies and wondering where yours had got to. Only he’s turned up now.’

The baby stuck his thumb in his mouth and sucked noisily.

There could, of course, be a second reason for Gifford’s abrupt departure from the restaurant, Cass reflected. He might have been eager to return to a companion. A female companion, whom he had left in bed. He was a red-blooded male with all the usual appetites—as she could confirm, she thought astringently—and whilst he might be here to convalesce she could not imagine him spending the days alone and doing nothing. So it seemed possible that he had a woman in tow.

Halting, she lowered the buggy into its recline position, laid down her son and drew forward the hood. Jack’s chubby arms and legs were lightly tanned, but she was wary of him getting too much sun.

Cass walked on. Might Gifford’s companion be the glamorous Imogen Sales? The more she thought about his attitude the previous day, the more she felt there had been an air of strained secrecy about him. He had been hiding something. What? The fact that he had come to the Seychelles with the actress who had followed her into his arms and his affections with insulting, hurtful speed?

She pushed the buggy down into a crater of a pothole and up out of it again. A few months ago she had seen the American woman in a TV film. Cass grimaced. She had had the kind of shiny, swinging raven-black bob which was more usually seen in shampoo adverts, a serenely aloof face and, wearing a succession of slinky numbers, had been disgustingly slim. Imogen had also, she thought cattily, displayed an inescapable need to pose and possessed all the acting skills of cardboard.

Her expression shadowed. She did not welcome the idea of producing Jack and discussing what were essentially private matters with Imogen Sales around Yet, even if the actress or some other woman was living with Gifford in the villa, it was vital that they should talk. For her son’s sake, lines of communication needed to be established.

Cass strode on. Once upon a time, she had considered herself to be a good judge of character. She had been convinced that her lover was conscientious, reliable, trustworthy, but it had been all smoke and mirrors.

‘How could I have been so wrong?’ she muttered, and fell silent, bombarded with memories of the past…

It had been Henry Dexter, Stephen’s elderly father and, at that time, head of the company, who had first brought the Tait-Hill Corporation to her attention.

‘Those two will go far,’ he had declared, marching into his son’s office one morning to thrust a trade magazine at him. ‘Read the article and see how ambitious they are, how well informed and on the ball.’ He had frowned. ‘Take note of how hard they work.’

‘Yes, Pa,’ Stephen had replied obediently, but he had put the magazine aside and not bothered.

Cass had read the article; as a new and keen secretary she’d read all the memos and reports which the young man was supposed to read but often did not. It had told how two Americans, Gifford Tait and Bruce Hill, had once been skiers representing their country at worldclass level and winning medals. Both business graduates, they had seen a need in their sport for better-designed equipment and decided to satisfy it.

Over the next few years, the old man’s prophecy had come true. Tait-Hill had flourished, widening their product range to other sports and developing an eclectic spread of business interests which included property, a hot-air-balloon company and a million-dollar stake in a computer software manufacturer.

However, after Henry suffered a stroke and was forced to retire, Dexter’s had gone downhill. A traditional, slightly old-fashioned firm whose name on cricket bats, tennis rackets and running shoes guaranteed top quality, its future had begun to look shaky. Then a letter had been received from Tait-Hill, suggesting talks about a rescue package and possible buy-out.

Despite Stephen’s claim that he could turn things around—and much to his chagrin—his father had decreed that Tait-Hill must be allowed to vet the company for potential acquisition. A short while later, Gifford had flown in.

After a week spent poring over balance sheets at the London headquarters and assessing financial information—information which Cass had invariably provided—he had requested that she give him a crash course on the workings of Dexter’s and provide details of the company’s forward plans.

‘Why me?’ she asked, thinking of how she had left Stephen sulking in his office.

‘Because you’re the smart kid around here.’ Gifford grinned at her across the desk. ‘And because I like you.’

She laughed. From the start they had worked well together, and had soon discovered that they shared the same sense of humour.

‘I quite like you, too,’ she said.

‘Only quite?’ he protested, with mock anguish. ‘I must switch my manly charm up a gear.’

‘You have charm?’ Cass enquired, straight-faced

‘You never noticed?’

‘Maybe just a flicker, now and then.’

‘Which means I’m starting virtually from scratch.’ Gifford gave a noisy sigh. ‘So be it.’

In the days which they spent closeted together, Cass grew to like Gifford Tait a lot He knew what he wanted and could be autocratic, but he was also modest, funny and easy to be with. He exuded an inherent vitality which dimmed the memory of every other man she had known. Plus he was indecently sexy.

When, unexpectedly, he had to fly back to the States to deal with an urgent business matter, she had felt confusingly bereft and had spent every spare moment thinking about him.

‘Did you miss me?’ Gifford enquired, on his return a week or so later.

‘Yes,’ she said truthfully.

‘I missed you, too,’ he told her, his grey eyes serious. ‘I figure I need to spend a month getting to grips with Dexter’s, so—’

‘That long?’ she interrupted.

He gave a crooked grin. ‘That long. So I wondered whether you’d be free to show me around London at the weekends.’

‘With pleasure,’ Cass said.

They visited museums and art galleries, watched the street performers at Covent Garden, went to the theatre. They sailed down the river to Greenwich and the gleaming silver stanchions of the Thames Barrier, and shared candlelit dinners.

Their relationship deepened. Away from the office, Gifford would reach for her hand, and when he returned her to her Putney flat in the evenings he kissed her goodnight. They were passionate kisses which left her weakkneed and breathless—and wanting more.

Time flew and, all too soon, they reached the final week of his stay when they set off on a fact-finding tour of the Dexter factories.

‘How did you first start up in your business?’ Cass asked curiously one evening when they were sitting in his hotel suite.

They had spent the wet, blustery April day at a shoemanufacturing unit in the north of England. On their return, she had typed out the notes which her companion had required on her laptop, and now they were unwinding with a bottle of good white wine.

‘Thanks to dumb luck,’ Gifford replied. ‘Bruce and I were bursting with ideas, but we didn’t have either the cash or the know-how to put them into action. Then a ski-wear manufacturer happened to catch me on TV.’

‘When you were skiing?’

‘Commentating.’

She looked at him along the sofa. ‘You commentate?’ she said, in surprise.

‘Used to. At one point, I fronted a sports programme.’ He raked back the cow-lick of dark hair which persisted in falling over his eyes. ‘But I quit.’

‘Why?’

‘Didn’t care for the fame. The show was aired in several states which meant I was becoming a celebrity, but I don’t like being pounced on by strangers or having journalists pry into my private life. The ski-wear manufacturer asked if I’d promote his products,’ Gifford continued. ‘At which point Bruce and I hit him with our brainwaves. He gave us a loan, factory space and—’ he clicked his fingers ‘—abracadabra.’

‘It can’t have been that simple,’ Cass protested.

‘It wasn’t,’ he admitted, with a rueful smile. ‘As new kids on the block it took a hell of a lot of blood, sweat and tears—of lugging samples around and cold calling—before we were up and rolling, but now—’

‘Life is good?’

Reaching out a hand, he tucked a strand of silky wheat-gold hair behind her ear. ‘Right now, life is very good,’ he said softly.

Her heart began to thud. The anonymous hotel suite, the rain which pattered on the windows, the leaden evening sky—everything faded. Her only awareness was of Gifford—his touch, the husky timbre of his voice, the need which she saw in his grey eyes. A need which she suspected was reflected in her own.

He sat back, loosening his tie in what struck her as an attractively masculine gesture. ‘Your boss isn’t into blood, sweat and tears,’ he said. ‘He might get a kick out of being the big cheese and having his name painted on the best parking space, but he resents having to come into the office day after day.’

Cass hesitated. A sense of loyalty tempted her to insist otherwise—and lie through her teeth. But Gifford would know she was lying.

‘From his birth it was decreed that Stephen would take over from his father. It’s the family tradition,’ she explained, ‘but he lacks any real interest’

‘Whereas you are interested. You know what’s happening in all areas of the business, and you have savvy, which is why I asked for you to accompany me.’

‘Asked?’ Cass said. ‘It sounded more like a demand.’

A grin cut across his mouth. ‘OK, I demanded. But if Stephen’d come along he’d have been worse than useless. You’re carrying the guy. I hope he’s paying you a high salary?’

‘So high I’d be foolish to ever leave,’ she replied.

‘What goes on between you two?’ Gifford enquired as he sipped his wine. He fixed her with narrowed grey eyes. ‘You’re obviously close, and Stephen gave me the impression that—’

‘That what?’ Cass asked, when he frowned.

‘That you might have a…more personal involvement.’

She burst out laughing. ‘Stephen and me? No, you must’ve misunderstood. I’ve worked for him for a long time, but although he’s a couple of years older than me Stephen’s like a kid brother.’

‘A self-centred and petulant kid brother,’ Gifford said. He knew he was not mistaken and that the younger man had deliberately given him the wrong impression. Maybe to warn him off?

‘On occasions,’ she had to agree. ‘But he can also be kind, thoughtful and fun. His father dominates him, while his mother has always spoiled him—Stephen was a late baby and an only child—and that’s a difficult mix for anyone to handle.’

‘Parents can land their kids with all kinds of problems,’ he said gravely, and was silent for a moment. Then he gave a satisfied nod. ‘You and Stephen are just friends—good.’

‘Why good?’

‘Because it means you don’t have a serious man in your life, so—’

‘What makes you sure of that?’ Cass interrupted.

‘You haven’t phoned anyone while we’ve been on our travels or spoken about anyone.’ He shot her a suddenly worried look. ‘I don’t doubt you have to beat the guys off with a stick, but is there anyone serious?’

She shook her head. Although she was twenty-seven, she had only had one serious relationship, but that had run out of steam over a year ago.

‘Not at the moment.’

‘Thank God. So you won’t have any hang-ups about us making love,’ Gifford completed.

All of a sudden, the air seemed to throb.

‘Making love?’ she repeated, with care.

‘It’s inevitable.’

‘You think so?’

‘I do.’ Moving closer, Gifford took the glass which she held in increasingly shaky fingers and set it aside with his on a low table. ‘And it’s another reason—probably the main reason—why I demanded that you accompany me.’

‘You are sly and underhand,’ Cass informed him. ‘A self-serving shark.’

‘Aren’t I just?’ he said, and smiled a smile so ravishing it could have melted a stone. It melted her heart. ‘But you think that us making love is inevitable, too.’ Framing her face with his hands, he looked deep into her eyes. ‘You know that sooner or later we’re going to wind up in bed. Yes?*

She gulped in a breath. Why deny the truth?

‘Yes.’

‘You want me and I want you. I want you so much it’s all I can think about. You’re driving me crazy.’ He raised anguished brows. ‘Hell, Cass, I’m suffering here.’

She grinned. ‘You’d like me to take pity and put you out of your misery?’

‘It’d be a humane gesture of the greatest magnanimity. Now…’ he said, and he drew her close and kissed her.

His lips parted her lips. The muscle of his tongue explored the velvet confines of her mouth, and utterly seduced her. With her hands clutching at his shoulders, her head spinning and her senses reeling, Cass flowed into the kiss. She needed him. For so long, she had ached for him. As she wrapped herself closer around him, they kissed again. Their breathing quickened, then Gifford was leading her through to his bedroom and swiftly undressing her.

‘You’re beautiful, Cass,’ he said, when she stood naked before him. His eyes roamed over her high breasts with their taut nipples, down across the smooth plane of her belly to the fair curls which grew at the crevice of her thighs. He raised his head, and, reaching out a hand, withdrew the tortoiseshell comb which secured her hair. ‘Beautiful,’ he repeated huskily as the heavy strands swirled down to rest on her shoulders in a gleaming wheaten curtain.

Cass stepped closer, her fingers going to the buttons on his shirt. ‘My turn,’ she said, a little breathlessly, and he smiled.

‘Your turn,’ Gifford agreed, and helped her.

Naked and entwined together on the bed, they kissed again. As they kissed, Gifford began to touch her, his thumbs brushing across the rigidity of her nipples, his fingers caressing the swollen globes of her breasts. She stirred restlessly in his arms.

‘Please,’ she said. ‘Please.’

He was a sensitive lover, tender and yet sure. As in business matters, he knew what he wanted. He took—and gave. When he entered her, Cass thought she might die from the spiralling emotion. But he was urging her on, and on. A throaty moan told of her passion. She had not felt such raw desire before nor experienced such primitive need…and had never known such an overwhelming relief.

The remainder of their tour fused into one glorious blur of lovemaking, though other factories were visited, facts gleaned and reports typed. On their return to London, an awareness of time fast running out made the days more precious, the intimacy more urgent. In three days, then two, then one, Gifford was due to fly back to Boston.

‘We should talk,’ he declared as they finished breakfast on the morning of his departure.

He had cancelled the classy hotel room which she had booked for him and joined her in her far more humble Putney flat. They had awoken in the early hours and made love with sweet desperation, then, when the alarm had rung, dragged themselves out of bed and gone for a run. At home he ran several miles every morning, he’d told her.

Coming back, Gifford had headed for the shower, while she’d prepared toast and coffee. When Cass had walked through and seen the water sluicing down the hard planes of his naked body, she had impetuously flung off her clothes and joined him beneath the spray. Passion had claimed them again.

‘Talk about what?’ she enquired now.

‘About us,’ he said soberly.

Her heart performed a long, slow somersault. It might be madness, but she wondered if he was going to propose. Granted, they had only known each other for a couple of months at most, yet she knew that she loved him. She suspected that Gifford had fallen in love with her, too. The word had not been spoken and no promises had been made, but they seemed so right together. They enjoyed a natural rapport, and the sexual alchemy was magic. They were kindred spirits.

‘What about us?’ Cass asked, and was unable to keep from smiling.

He was the man she had been hoping for, waiting to love, all her life. The sheer joy of being with him, combined with the sense of absolute comfort which she fell in his presence, insisted that this was the real thing.

‘Our affair’s been…hot, but I figure we should cool it,’ Gifford said, and moistened his lips. Although he had rehearsed his speech it was not coming easily, but a panicky feeling of self-preservation insisted that it must be said. ‘As you know, I’ll be recommending to Bruce that we buy Dexter’s, so chances are we shall meet in the future,’ he continued. ‘But, whilst it may be a clich6, mixing business with pleasure does complicate matters and isn’t such a clever idea.’

Cass’s heart crash-landed, but her smile remained sturdily in place. His words had stabbed like small, sharp daggers ripping into her flesh. She had not been having an ‘affair’; she had been involved in a romance. A romance which she had believed was destined to grow into a close relationship, mature and lasting.

‘I agree,’she said.

Pushing up from his chair, Gifford jammed his fists into his trouser pockets and started to pace around the small kitchen. ‘Getting serious wouldn’t be such a clever idea, either. I have to be honest and admit that I have this dread of being tied down. I’m not cut out for domesticity. I like to be independent, free to go where I want, when I want. I like to be able to ski or sail, or go away on business with no—’ All of a sudden, he broke off and turned to face her. ‘You agree?’ he said, as though her words had only just penetrated.

‘I do. And I never imagined for one moment that we might get serious.’

His brows came down. ‘You didn’t?*

‘Good grief, no! Our affair’s been fun—’ she released a merry chortle of laughter ‘—but it wasn’t of the lasting variety. As for domesticity, I’m not ready to settle down, either. Not yet. Not for a long time.’

Gifford raked a hand back through the thickness of his dark hair. He looked surprised, yet relieved. Had he expected her to argue or hurl furious recriminations or perhaps burst into floods of tears? she wondered. Her backbone stiffened. It was the first time a man had given her the brush-off, but she was damned if she would cry.

‘You said you’d ring for a cab to take me to the airport,’ he reminded her.

‘Right away,’ she said brightly. ‘Right away.’

What a fool she had been, Cass thought, after he had gone. What a slow-witted, unaware fool. Gifford Tait was such a desirable package—striking looks, athletic physique, healthy bank balance—that legions of women would have hurled themselves at him. Yet for thirty-six years he had remained single. So it followed that he must be actively opposed to commitment. He had never thought in terms of loving her. As for them being kindred spirits—it had been a rosy illusion.

As if to provide proof, a month later she came across a photograph of him at the launch of a TV sports station in a US trade journal. He was standing with Imogen Sales draped around him like a clinging ivy and, in the write-up, the actress, who also came from Boston, was quoted as coyly admitting that they were ‘an item’.

Cass had dropped the journal into the waste-paper basket. She’d refused to collapse in a heap or to bellyache. Gifford Tait would be regarded as a ‘step up the learning curve’—albeit one of the harsher kind—and dismissed from her mind. Given enough time.

But a couple of weeks later the doctor confirmed her suspicion that she was pregnant…

By the time she turned into the drive which led haphazardly down through lacy casuarina trees to the Forgotten Eden, Jack was fast asleep. Cass parked the buggy on the verandah beside the wedged-open kitchen door and went inside.

Edith was in the midst of preparing lunch while Marquise, the chatty teenaged cleaner and part-time waitress, filled vases with sprigs of hibiscus.

‘I like your hair,’ Edith said.

‘Looks real classy,’ Marquise piped up.

Cass grinned. ‘Thanks. What can I do?’

‘You can go next door and get those water glasses,’ Edith said, deftly filleting the freshly caught kingfish which would be baked with garlic and served in a tangy lemon sauce. ‘And while you’re there you can hop on that exercise bike.’

‘The tour group’ll be arriving soon,’ Cass demurred.

She knew she must confront Gifford—and for her to choose the time and place would be preferable to him coming into the restaurant again and surprising her—yet she was not sure she felt ready to confront him right now.

‘The tour group won’t be here for another hour, which gives you plenty of time. And they’re the reason why we could do with the glasses. Marquise and I’ll keep an eye out for bébé waking up.’ Edith shooed her off with a wave of her hand. ‘Now go!’

Once in her cottage, Cass changed into a lavendercoloured leotard, pulled on a pair of grey knit shorts and tied the laces on her trainers. She would, she decided, start by saying that their son was, naturally, with her, and suggest that Gifford might like to see him. Her demeanour would be cool, calm and uncritical. Whilst she longed to deliver a volley of vitriolic home truths and savagely denounce him, for Jack’s sake she could not afford to turn him into an enemy.

The Forgotten Eden sat on a tongue of lush land which ended in a strip of white coral sand at the Indian Ocean. To the east stretched a long, shallow bay, while to the west was the tight horseshoe of the granite boulder-edged cove. Taking a path which skirted the cove and cut up through the trees, Cass set off towards Maison d’Horizon.

Sunlight dappled the yellow-green fronds of palms and lit strands of purple orchids which hung from the trees. There were glimpses of sun-sparkled sea. Dragonflies whizzed around like miniature coloured helicopters.

According to a guide book she had read, when General Charles Gordon, the hero of Khartoum, had visited Praslin in the late 1800s he’d believed he had found the biblical Garden of Eden. She smiled. She could understand his belief.

With thickly wooded hills strewn with huge, cathedral-grand boulders and a wealth of wild blossoms, Praslin had to be one of the most beautiful islands on earth. It was also one of the safest, she mused. Crime was rare, and people seldom bothered to lock their doors.

As Cass padded up the stone steps leading onto the terrace which stretched across the back of the house, her smile faded. Maybe the meeting would be easier if she brought Jack with her and let him work his not unconsiderable charm. Maybe she should turn right around and come back this afternoon. A retreat smacked of cowardice and would mean missing out on the water glasses, but—

She halted. Gifford was walking on the treadmill. The gym was installed in a corner room, and she could see his shadowy outline through the side window. Cautious now, she climbed the remaining steps. Was anyone with him? Imogen Sales, for example? The clinging, rail-thin Imogen. She cast a glance down at the slight swell of her stomach. If so, it would be heel-swivel and exit.

Tiptoeing across the terrace, Cass rounded the corner of the house and peeped cautiously in through sliding glass doors. Wearing only a pair of black boxer shorts, and with his muscled torso glistening with sweat, Gifford continued to pace the treadmill. Her gaze swept past him and swiftly around—there was no one else in the room—then returned.