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Born Out Of Love
Anne Mather


Mills & Boon are excited to present The Anne Mather Collection – the complete works by this classic author made available to download for the very first time! These books span six decades of a phenomenal writing career, and every story is available to read unedited and untouched from their original release.Is it time to reveal her secret?Widowed Charlotte never expects to see Logan Kennedy again. But she does – and in the most unlikely of places! Charlotte has travelled halfway across the world to the Virgin islands to start a new life with her young son Robert – but how can she move on now Logan has appeared on the scene? Especially when she realises her attraction to him as powerful as ever… Can they ever forgive each other for the mistakes of the past? And how will Logan react when he discovers Charlotte’s secret - that Robert is in fact Logan’s son?!











Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous collection of fantastic novels by bestselling, much loved author




ANNE MATHER


Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the publishing industry, having written over one hundred and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful, passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!



I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com (mailto:mystic-am@msn.com) and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.




Born Out of Love

Anne Mather







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Table of Contents


Cover (#u942e260e-4f05-5b63-b681-5915d0a4caa1)

About the Author (#u0b01938e-c58c-52f0-ae69-d34ddc7c5760)

Title Page (#ue6624443-7838-5471-977a-a5024e10a081)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_1a0cf7e4-73ff-5203-b918-1e79645d9766)

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_09b3e76d-730b-519d-ac0a-de131642ba88)

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_43b1b215-3bb5-5ceb-93f1-ece078aba7d3)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_16d0ac62-e5d0-577f-b24a-dfb3ba77af54)


CHARLOTTE regarded the bus which was to convey them from the little township of San Cristobal to Avocado Cay with dismay. She had not known such buses existed outside of museums. Jutting bonnet, thick-spoked wheels, wood-framed seats; was the fact that it was painted in a kaleidoscope of colours intended to distract attention from its less favourable attributes?

‘Hey, Mum, what a fantastic machine!’

Robert evidently had no such misgivings, and Charlotte turned to her eleven-year-old son with faint resignation. ‘Fantastic is right,’ she agreed dryly. ‘I wonder if the brakes work.’

‘Come on, Mum, of course they will.’ Robert was optimistic. ‘These old bangers were built to last.’

‘And last and last …’ declared his mother, smiling her thanks to the dark-skinned West Indian who had hefted their cases out of the launch and into the luggage compartment of the vehicle which was to transport them the last few miles to their destination, before following Robert’s lanky figure up the steps. Tall for his age, and with an appetite which would not have disgraced a weightlifter, Robert still remained as thin as a lath, she reflected ruefully.

There were few other passengers, fortunately, and at least they were not to be crushed by the press of humanity, Charlotte approved with some relief, subsiding into the seat beside her son. It was just as well. The contours of the bus did not allow for expansion, and although all the windows were open, the air inside was still and humid.

Through the windows, they could see the quay, and the launch which had brought them from Tortola rocking at its mooring. The stones of the quay were bleached hite by the sun, which was presently beginning its downward sweep towards the shadowy rise of the densely wooded hinterland, and the water beyond was clear turquoise shading to deepest blue. Whatever else San Cristobal lacked, there was no shortage of colour, Charlotte had, reluctantly, to admit. White-painted buildings, overhung with flowering creepers were dazzling without the protection of dark glasses, and she searched her bag for the polaroid lenses she had bought in St Thomas. A station wagon was coming fast down the narrow road towards the harbour, throwing up a cloud of dust in its passing, drawing attention to the precipitous climb ahead of them, and she hoped Robert was right in his casual assertion that these vehicles were built to last.

Then, realising how tense she was becoming, she forced herself to relax. There was no point in letting the situation play on her nerves. It was too late for that. She was here now; she was committed; and providing Madame Fabergé found her work acceptable, here they would stay.

All the same, it was impossible to rid herself of the bitterness she had felt these past few weeks since Matthew’s death. Without it, she might never have considered taking a post in such an out-of-the-way spot, might never have given in to the eagerness to escape from the triumphant condescension of Matthew’s relatives. What had they said? That it was only right that he should have left his house and property to his family; his real family, that is, not the girl he had taken into his home when she was seven years old, and whom he had had to marry ten years later because she was pregnant with another man’s child. The child he had grown to hate …

Charlotte shivered and looked despairingly at her son. Was this Matthew’s way of reaping his revenge, leaving her without even a roof over her head, and only her brief experience of nursery training to fall back on? Had he really lost all feeling for her? Had he allowed his brother and sister-in-law to influence him to that extent?

Of course, she had always known that Malcolm and Elizabeth had disliked her. They had made that plain in a dozen different ways, not least by forbidding their own two sons to associate with her. As far as they were concerned, Matthew had been mad to take responsibility for her in the first place, and when she had found herself pregnant, she had merely confirmed their opinion of her. But it hadn’t been like that …

She sighed now. How many times during those months before Robert was born had she longed to be able to destroy the child inside her? She hadn’t wanted a baby, not this baby, and by no means had she wanted to marry a man almost thirty years older than herself.

But Matthew had been adamant. He wanted to care for her, he said, and how could she expect to care for herself? People would talk if she went on living in his house as the mother of a baby, he said. They would suspect it was his, so why shouldn’t they convince them of it? Only Malcolm and Elizabeth had known that Matthew was not Robert’s father, could never have been, and they had never let Charlotte forget it.

In the early days, she used to wonder why a man with money and influence like Matthew Derby should have wanted to take in the orphaned daughter of one of his saleswomen. Those had been innocent days, before she had learned that years ago Matthew had cared for her mother, had wanted her, and had been thwarted when she met and married the young airman who had been Charlotte’s father. In those pre-war months Matthew had been an eligible bachelor, elder son of Andrew Derby, who had opened the first of two department stores from which the Derbys had made their money. He had found it incredible that anyone in her mother’s position should have preferred a penniless airman to someone with his social advantages, but then the war had overtaken them all, killing Matthew’s parents in an air raid and destroying for ever his own hopes of ever fathering a child.

Charlotte had learned the story gradually, through Elizabeth Derby’s barbed comments and from the things she had overheard the housekeeper saying. But then she had not really understood the connection between that history and herself. That had come later, and with adolescence came the rude awakening to Matthew’s true purpose in putting her in his debt. Even so, she had not taken his advances seriously until her involvement with Robert’s father …

Logan Kennedy had been studying marine biology. His home was in Brazil, but he had come to study for a while at a London institute, and Matthew had met him through a colleague of his at the university. Because Matthew was always interested in something new, he eventually invited Logan to dinner at High Clere, his house in Richmond.

From the beginning, Charlotte had been fascinated by the dark South American. Tall and lean and muscular, with the kind of uneven good looks and deep tan that went with the outdoor life he led, he was totally outside her realm of experience. She was used to spending time with older people, and Logan was much younger than Matthew’s circle of friends. Even so, she had never expected him to become interested in her.

Logan only came to High Clere that one time. Whether Matthew sensed he had made a mistake in bringing him there, Charlotte never knew for certain, but what she did soon learn was that Matthew did not approve of her associating with the young Brazilian.

She had left school the previous summer and because she liked children, she had decided to train as a nursery nurse. Brought up without children of her own age, she found working with the toddlers a delight, and that was how Logan had come upon her that afternoon when he had come to the nursery to meet her—with her arms full of children.

To say she had been surprised to see him would have been an enormous understatement. But that had quickly been erased by her very real excitement at his appearance. Because she had been afraid that if she went home and asked Matthew his permission he might refuse, she had telephoned Mrs Parrish, the housekeeper, and explained that she intended having a meal with a friend, and allowed her to draw her own conclusions.

Of course, when she had gone home she had told Matthew the truth, and because he had been surprisingly non-committal she had assumed he had no objections. But she had soon found this was not so. Engagements she couldn’t remember accepting were sprung on her at the last minute, forcing her to ring Logan and cancel whatever arrangements they had made. Matthew developed curious aches and pains whenever she was going out, and she found it almost impossible to relax at times, knowing he was sitting at home, waiting patiently for her.

Naturally, Logan began to get impatient. He had so little time in England, and although she began to see what it was Matthew was trying to do, she couldn’t help the feelings of guilt he managed to arouse inside her.

Besides which, her relationship with Logan was developing too quickly for her peace of mind. She had had boy-friends before, but never anyone like Logan, and when she was with him she seemed to lose all control over her emotions. She could think lucidly enough when they were apart, but when she was in his arms, sharing kisses and caresses which were all the more passionate because of their brevity, she knew they were rapidly becoming not enough. Sooner or later his own need would break through the iron control Logan kept upon himself, and then …

Even so, the inevitable might not have happened had it not been for Matthew. Charlotte came home from work one evening in early autumn to find him sunk in a mood of deep depression, seated beside the fire in his study, the bottle and empty glass beside him bearing silent witness to the number of drinks he had already swallowed.

It was then he had broached the subject which in recent weeks she had forgotten—that of the eventual outcome of their relationship. He wanted to marry her, he told her, staring at her through slightly bloodshot eyes, and she had tried to make light of his proposal. But Matthew was not in the mood for levity, and for once in his life he made an entirely uncalculated move. He got up from his chair and jerked her into his arms, pressing his wet mouth to hers. Charlotte could still shudder at the remembrance of that revolting embrace, and she wondered again how she had succeeded in escaping from him. He was a strong man—but he had been drinking, and she fought herself free with all the power of her healthy young body. She went straight to Logan, of course, and there, in his hotel room, in the heat of indignation and the passion which always flared between them, he made love to her.

Afterwards, she had been shocked and tearful, drained of all emotion, and then when Logan would have comforted her, a call had come in from the university and he had gone off to see the principal without even saying goodbye. Charlotte waited, but as time passed she grew cold and frightened, and eventually she returned to High Clere.

The following day Matthew apologised for his behaviour, and ever afterwards she could never remember him imbibing too freely. On the contrary, in the eleven years they were married he seldom took more than a glass of wine with his dinner.

Charlotte waited for Logan to contact her, and when he didn’t she rang his hotel, only to be told he had checked out the morning after … after …

Time ran together after that. Disillusioned and unhappy, she was horrified when she discovered the results of her recklessness. But Matthew had been surprisingly sympathetic. He rang the university on her behalf and elicited the information that Mr Kennedy had returned to Rio de Janeiro some weeks previously. Charlotte remembered how distraite she had felt not knowing what to do, where to turn, contemplating the possibilities of abortion, all the emotional trauma of an unwanted pregnancy.

Then Matthew had renewed his offer of marriage, with the proviso that she could keep her own room, that things would go on exactly as before. Even so, she had been reluctant to accept. Deep inside her, she had not been able to rid herself of the feeling that perhaps there was some explanation, that perhaps Logan would come back. But he didn’t, and as the days and weeks went by, her hopes dwindled and died.

So she married Matthew, as much for his sake as hers, although his family would never accept that. But he had so much more to lose than she did by a scandal, and she knew there was some truth in his assertion that people would suspect that he was responsible.

When Robert was first born, Matthew seemed delighted to have a son, and those early years were happier than even Charlotte could have imagined. But as Robert got older, things changed. Perhaps it was his obvious lack of resemblance to Matthew, or the fact that he got more pleasure out of outdoor pursuits than showing an interest in his father’s stores. Or maybe it was simply that like fatigue eating into metal, his brother and sister-in-law’s maliciousness got through to him. Whatever it was, Matthew began picking on the boy, chastising him at every opportunity, until Robert himself rebelled and turned on his father.

Until then, Robert had accepted Matthew as his father without inquiry, but suddenly came a spate of questions about how Charlotte came to marry a man so much older than she was, and why when all the other boys at school had young, athletic fathers, his was already an old man.

She parried his questions as best she could, not wanting to make him any more insecure than he already was, but once again it was Matthew who precipitated disaster, throwing his mother’s wanton behaviour at him, insinuating that she didn’t really know who his father was, destroying for ever any lingering trace of affection Robert might have felt for him.

Whether the bitterness which had corroded his soul was responsible, Charlotte did not know, but two days later Matthew had a heart attack from which he never fully recovered, and six months later he was dead.

Even so she would not have believed he could be so vindictive. The house, the property he owned, all his securities and the interest he had in the Derby stores went to his brother and his family, while Charlotte was left with a little over three hundred pounds in cash, and the small amount of jewellery she possessed.

Naturally, Malcolm and Elizabeth were jubilant. It was nothing less than she deserved, they said, and Charlotte had suffered their taunts in silence. Mr Lewis, Matthew’s solicitor, was obviously more sensitive, however, and a few days after the funeral he had come to her with this offer of employment as nursemaid to the small son and daughter of a Madame Fabergé, whose husband was living and working on San Cristobal in the Virgin Islands.

Charlotte had her doubts at first. It was a tremendous step to take, leaving the country to live on a remote Caribbean island with people she had not even met. But Mr Lewis’s persuasions and Robert’s enthusiasm, allied to her own desire to put both of them out of reach of the influence of Matthew’s relatives, eventually swayed the balance. So far, Robert had not questioned her about his real father, but she knew it was only a matter of time before he would want to know. To tell him his father had been a student was not enough, and perhaps, away from England, she could think of some acceptable substitute.

The terms of her employment seemed reasonable: she was to travel out to San Cristobal for a month’s trial, at the end of which time both parties would have the option to terminate the contract. Hours of work would be agreed between her employer and herself, and she and Robert would live independently in their own bungalow, a few yards from the Fabergé house. Charlotte had had to admit it sounded ideal, except that Robert would not receive the standard of schooling to which he was accustomed. Before Matthew’s death he had been attending a small preparatory school, not far from their home in Richmond, but Charlotte had known that sooner or later she would have to remove him from there. She didn’t think Robert would object. He was an easy-going boy, and had the capacity to adapt to circumstances. Which was just as well, she thought wryly.

‘Do you think there are sharks out there?’

Robert’s eager question diverted Charlotte, and she determined to put all thoughts of Matthew, and the Derbys, out of her mind.

‘Well, I expect there are sharks,’ she conceded doubtfully, realising this was something else she had not considered. ‘But I don’t suppose it’s dangerous to swim or anything like that.’

‘Mmm. Pity,’ her son remarked disappointedly, and she gasped. ‘Robert!’

‘Well…’ His grin was rueful, and the memories she had succeeded in stifling moments before came flooding back. Robert’s resemblance to his father might not be too obvious yet, but his sense of humour was purely Logan’s—that, and his darkness, the sallow cast of his skin after spending too long in northern climes, and the angular leanness of his body which would later acquire the muscular hardness of his father’s. ‘That would be really something,’ he added. ‘Seeing a shark!’

‘It’s something I can do well without,’ retorted Charlotte, her tone sharpened by emotion.

‘Oh, Mum!’

‘Besides,’ she went on, ‘if—and I emphasise the word if—you do get the opportunity to go swimming, I shall expect you to remain within your depth.’

‘Seventy per cent of shark attacks on bathers occur in two to three feet of water,’ Robert observed casually.

‘My God!’ Charlotte stared at him aghast.

Robert shrugged. ‘It’s true.’

‘Did you have to tell me that?’

His eyes teased hers. ‘I thought you’d want to know.’

‘Where did you get this information?’

‘From an encyclopaedia. When that film faws was showing, we did this project—–’

‘Yes, well, I’d rather not know.’

‘All right.’

‘Oh no—no, that’s not true.’ Charlotte felt frustrated. How could she explain to her independent son that he meant more to her than anyone else in the world? How could she describe the need she felt to protect him when she knew that Robert would regard her anxiety with typical male impatience of feminine weakness? ‘I mean—if that’s so, then—you’ll have to take care, won’t you …’ her voice trailed away.

‘I will, Mum. Don’t worry.’ Robert turned to look out of the window again. ‘I say, do you think this is our driver coming now? Gosh, have you ever seen anyone so fat?’

‘Robert!’ Charlotte reproved quietly, although she had to admit he was right. The man approaching the bus must be easily sixteen stones. ‘Don’t make personal comments.’

But as the man caught hold of the handrail to haul himself aboard, the station wagon Charlotte had noticed earlier, making its descent to the harbour, swung sharply across the sun-bleached stones of the quay and ground to a halt beside him.

Immediately the fat man turned, a broad grin splitting the deeply pigmented lips, and he nodded his head in greeting as the driver of the station wagon thrust open his door and got out. Tall, lean almost to the point of thinness, in close-fitting denim jeans, with roughly cut dark hair overlapping the collar of a faded denim shirt, the man who emerged grasped the hand the fat man extended. They exchanged a few barely audible words, and then they both turned to examine the occupants of the vehicle with close scrutiny.

Charlotte, who had been watching the encounter with only scant interest, suddenly felt her breath catch in her throat, and all the blood drain away from her face. The resemblance between the newcomer and the man who had been occupying her thoughts for the past few minutes was startling. There again was the darkness which had been duplicated in Robert’s intelligent features, the lithe economy of movement that reminded her of the sinuous grace of a feline, the detached, appraising stare from eyes which she knew could change, as his emotions changed, from coolest hazel to burning amber.

But she was imagining things, she told herself sickly and without much conviction. She had to be. The man with the undisguisedly cynical expression who was presently surveying the passengers aboard this ancient conveyance could not possibly be the same man who had abandoned her almost twelve years before, without even troubling to find out whether she had recovered from his assault. It was too great a coincidence. That she should travel half across the world to escape from one situation only to find herself facing something even worse was nothing short of disaster.

Realising she had been holding her breath, she expelled it sharply, unwillingly attracting Robert’s attention. He frowned when he saw how pale she had become, and said, with what for him was an unusual show of concern: ‘Are you feeling all right, Mum? Your face is all sort of grey-looking. You’re not going to pass out or anything, are you?’

Charlotte managed to shake her head. ‘I just felt a little dizzy for a minute,’ she replied hastily, looking down at her hands, their dampness moulding them together in her lap. ‘Just give me a few minutes and I’ll be fine.’

Robert was more shrewd than she had given him credit for being. ‘Who’s that guy who keeps staring at us?’ he demanded in a whisper, bending his head so that no one could read his lips, and Charlotte made the excuse of reproving him for using the Americanism to give herself time to marshal an answer.

‘I don’t know,’ she denied, impatience giving an edge to her tone. ‘Robert, stop behaving like a poor imitation of James Bond! He’s probably a government official or something, come to check out the hired help.’

Robert lifted his head to return the man’s stare, and then grimaced. ‘Blimey,’ he gulped. ‘he’s coming aboard ! Did we contravene Customs regulations, do you think?’

Charlotte never failed to be amazed at Robert’s grasp of vocabulary. ‘Where on earth did you hear that?’ she was saying, when the dark man came down the aisle between the rows of seats and stopped beside them.

‘Mrs Derby?’ he queried politely, and she looked up into Logan’s critical gaze.

‘Y-yes,’ she stammered.

He inclined his head. ‘Will you come with me? I’m here to escort you to Avocado Cay.’

Charlotte’s mouth was dry. For several seconds she didn’t—couldn’t—say anything, remaining in her seat, staring at him through mists of confusion. It was Logan. She had no doubts about that now. Older, of course—he must be thirty-seven now—with lines etched upon his tanned features which had not been there before, but unmistakably the man who had ravaged her emotions and abandoned her. She ought to feel angry, she thought. She ought to feel resentful and cheated, capable of returning the contempt she could see glinting in those tawny eyes.

Instead, she felt shaken, and apprehensive; terrified of the complications he could create. She glanced anxiously at Robert, half afraid her expression revealed the turmoil in her brain, but he seemed quite relaxed at this unexpected turn of events, obviously just waiting for her to make the first move.

She took a deep breath. What could she do but go with Logan? If Madame Fabergé had asked him to pick them up she had no valid reason to refuse his offer, and certainly Robert would think it strange if she showed a preference for the bus now.

She wondered what Logan was thinking, wishing she could see behind that cool mask he was presenting. Had he decided not to acknowledge her? Were they to behave as if they were the strangers Robert believed? Her heart thumped and she cast another covert look in her son’s direction, mentally trying to reassure herself that Logan could never suspect their relationship. Why should he, after all? She had been married, and so far as he was concerned, Robert was the son of that marriage. Yet if he had guessed who she was, why hadn’t he made any attempt to stop her from coming here? He must surely have as little desire to see her again as she had to see him.

‘Avocado Cay?’ she said now, stupidly she realised, and Logan nodded.

‘That is where you’re going, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. We’re going to Avocado Cay.’ Robert spoke up with his usual confidence. ‘But Mum’s feeling a bit funny, aren’t you?’ He smiled encouragingly at her before transferring his attention back to the tall man beside them. ‘Who’re you?’

‘Robert—–’

Charlotte’s hasty reproval went unacknowledged. ‘I’m Logan Kennedy,’ he answered the boy evenly. ‘And as a matter of fact, your mother and I have met before—years ago.’ His lips twitched briefly. ‘I live at Avocado Cay, too.’

‘You do?’ Robert pushed back a lock of dark hair, his frown mirroring his confusion. ‘But Mum—–’

‘I expect your mother’s forgotten all about our brief encounter,’ Logan interposed smoothly. ‘I was an—er—associate of your father’s.’

‘Oh.’ Robert looked as though he might be about to say something about that too, but to Charlotte’s relief he gave in to other questions: ‘What’s Avocado Cay like? I can’t wait to see where we’re going to live. Is there a beach? Will I be able to swim in the sea?’

A faint trace of humour touched Logan’s mouth. ‘There are miles of beach,’ he reassured him. ‘And swimming in the sea is possible. But perhaps your mother would prefer you to use the lagoon.’

‘The lagoon!’ Robert looked intrigued. ‘What’s that, Mr Kennedy?’

Charlotte made a supreme effort and got to her feet. ‘Robert, Mr—Kennedy’s not here to answer your questions.’ She forced herself to look at Logan. ‘I’m ready when you are. Our luggage is stowed somewhere at the back of the bus.’

‘I know.’ Logan’s expression hardened as he looked at her. ‘Miguel is presently loading it into my car.’

‘Miguel?’ Charlotte glanced round in time to see the overweight bus driver closing the rear flap of the station wagon and her lips tightened. ‘You were sure we would agree, then?’ The words would not be denied.

Logan’s heavy-lidded eyes flickered with an emotion she couldn’t identify. ‘Why not? The journey is rough, whatever the conveyance, and I’d hazard a guess that physically you’ll feel safer with me.’ He turned. ‘Come.’

‘Mum wasn’t looking forward to riding in this!’ agreed Robert, apparently unaware of the undercurrents in their conversation. ‘It’s a museum piece!’

Following Logan along the aisle to the exit, Charlotte was aware of Robert’s voice carrying clearly to the man standing at the foot of the steps, and she wasn’t surprised when Miguel pulled a face at him.

‘What is this? You are calling my beautiful bus a museum piece!’ he exclaimed in mock fury, and Robert grinned widely.

‘I’d like to ride with you, Miguel,’ he offered placatingly, ‘but I don’t think Mum could stand the pace!’

Miguel roared with laughter, and Charlotte, prepared to remonstrate with her son once again for his casual use of the man’s name, bit her tongue. She saw Logan watching Robert with a curious expression on his face and her heart turned over. What if he should guess the truth? she thought agonisingly, and turned back from the inevitable outcome of such a consequence.

‘Perhaps you might prefer to travel in the bus—er—Robert?’ suggested Logan quietly, and Charlotte’s nerves jangled at the terrifying possibility of having to make the journey to Avocado Cay alone with this man.

But Robert took one look at her pale features and shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, thanks. Not today anyway. I think I ought to stick with Mum, if you don’t mind.’

Logan shrugged and swung open the nearside door of the station wagon. ‘De nada,’ he said indifferently, reminding Charlotte that in spite of his perfect English he was not European, and at his silent indication she subsided into the passenger seat with unconcealed relief.




CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_468f4614-5e5a-5e62-9f16-60743eaba2e6)


THE road up from the harbour was little more than a dusty track, that in wet weather might well become dangerous, Charlotte surmised. Within minutes, the harbour had fallen away below them, a natural basin, which from this height revealed light and colour invisible from the quay. As they climbed higher, the air grew fresher, and the wind through the open windows tumbled Charlotte’s hair about her shoulders.

The palm groves which fringed the coastline had given way to dense undergrowth which was crushed beneath the wheels of the station wagon where it encroached on to the road. The trees, Charlotte could see, were overgrown with creepers, and their progress sent birds winging into the air, noisily indignant at being disturbed. They could hear water, clear rushing water, that revealed itself in streams and tiny waterfalls tumbling down the mountainside. Ferns and mossy rocks determined its course through pools and cascades, flowering plants clinging to its path for survival.

They followed the curve of a ridge until the harbour was hidden by the shoulder of the island and thick vegetation gave way to waist-high grasses. From here it was possible to glimpse the shapes of other islands in the group, shadowy mounds rising out of the deepening colours of the sea.

Robert, who, like Charlotte, had been silent on the journey up from the quay, now exclaimed eagerly: ‘How big is the island?’

‘I don’t know—–’ Charlotte was beginning, when Logan interrupted her.

‘San Cristobal is approximately twelve kilometres long and seven across at its widest point,’ he stated calmly. ‘Not very big, as you can see.’

Robert rested his arms along the backs of their seats, obviously regarding this as an invitation for more questions. ‘They’re volcanic islands, aren’t they?’

‘Twenty-five million years ago,’ agreed Logan dryly.

‘Twenty-five million years! Gosh!’ Even Robert was impressed by this. ‘I can’t imagine that—twenty-five million years!’

‘Nobody can,’ replied Logan, swerving to avoid the protruding buttress of a thickly rooted evergreen. ‘But geologically the oldest islands in the Antilles were formed about a hundred and fifty million years ago.’

‘Is that so?’ Robert frowned. ‘Have you made a study of the islands, Mr Kennedy?’

Logan glanced sideways at Charlotte. ‘I’m a scientist, Robert. All—behaviour interests me.’

Robert was intrigued. ‘What kind of a scientist?’

‘Oh, Robert, please—–’ Charlotte glanced round at him, nervously impatient, and then felt dismayed at his obvious lack of comprehension. ‘I—Mr Kennedy can’t want to answer all these questions!’

‘I don’t mind.’ Logan was infuriatingly casual. ‘I’m a marine biologist, Robert. I study underwater life, among other things.’

‘How terrific!’ Robert was really impressed now. ‘Do you go scuba diving—that sort of thing? Like Jacques Cousteau?’

A touch of humour lifted the corners of Logan’s mouth. ‘Well, I would not put myself in the class of Monsieur Cousteau, but yes—I do spend some of my time underwater. It’s a fascinating world.’

‘I’d love to see it—–’ Robert was beginning wistfully, when Charlotte determined that this conversation had gone far enough.

‘How well do you know the Fabergés, Mr Kennedy?’ she inquired politely, as much from a need to penetrate the wall of isolation she could feel closing around her as a desire to prelude her introduction to her employers.

Logan’s long, narrow fingers slid effortlessly round the wheel. ‘Quite well,’ he replied, after a moment’s pause.

Charlotte forced herself to go on. ‘I believe Madame Fabergé’s husband is working here on the island. Does he work with you, by any chance?’

Logan turned to look at her and for a moment their eyes met and held. But the coldness in his was chilling and she looked away as he answered: ‘Madame Fabergé’s husband is dead, Mrs Derby. I thought you knew that.’

For a moment, Charlotte’s brain spun dizzily. She tried to remember what it was Mr Lewis had said, and she could almost swear that he had told her that her employer’s husband was living and working at Avocado Cay.

Grasping the frame of the open window for support, she said faintly: ‘I didn’t know that, Mr Kennedy. How could I?’

Logan shrugged. They had been descending a steep slope for some minutes, and below them stretched the serried ranks of a plantation of some kind. Thick leaves disguised their fruit, but Robert recognised the fleshy green fingers beneath.

‘Hey, they’re bananas,’ he cried excitedly. ‘Rows and rows of banana plants!’

Logan gave him an inscrutable smile, his benevolence fading when he again encountered Charlotte’s troubled gaze. But he went on to explain that this was the only crop grown in any quantity on the island. They had an unusual amount of rainfall, he explained, and its hilly contours were not suitable for acres of sugar cane. The island was not overly populated either. Apart from the village they could see ahead of them, and Avocado Cay, the small township of San Cristobal was its main settlement.

The village was a thriving community, with weatherboard houses and stores fronting a narrow main street. Charlotte saw the schoolhouse and beside it the Episcopalian church, the churchyard incongruously ordered among such tropical disorder. She wondered how many other white people lived on the island. She had seen mostly black faces.

Logan was instantly recognised, and their progress was slowed by his casual exchanges with passers-by. Occasionally, someone would approach the car to take a look at the newcomers, and once a child clung to Logan’s open window, cheekily demanding when he was going to be taken sailing again.

‘You ought to be in school, Peter,’ Logan retorted, smiling to take the edge off the reproof, and in the moments before his features hardened again, Charlotte glimpsed the man who had awakened her to an awareness of her own femininity.

‘Will I go to school there?’ asked Robert, as the outskirts of the village were left behind, and they passed beneath the hanging branches of a belt of thickly rooted trees.

‘That depends,’ Logan replied quietly, and Robert, seizing on something else he had heard, went on:

‘Do you sail, too? What kind of a boat do you have?’

Charlotte licked her dry lips. ‘Perhaps you could explain why you thought I should have known Madame Fabergé’s husband was dead,’ she suggested tautly, ignoring Robert’s impatient sigh.

Logan reached forward and pulled a case of cheroots from the glove compartment, expertly flicking the pack until his lips could fasten round one slender stem and withdraw it. Then he felt in his pocket for a lighter, and applied the flame to its tip before replying.

‘Surely the conditions of employment were made clear to you, Mrs Derby,’ he said at last.

‘Yes.’ Charlotte endeavoured to keep the nervous tremor out of her tone. ‘I was sent here to take charge of Madame Fabergé’s small son and daughter.’

‘Philippe and Isabelle. Yes, I know.’

‘Then you must also know that I would assume Madame Fabergé had a husband. Why else would she be living in such an—an out-of-the-way place?’

‘Is that how you see San Cristobal? As an out-of-the-way place?’

Charlotte sighed. ‘Are you denying that, too?’

‘I am neither admitting nor denying anything, Mrs Derby,’ he returned smoothly.

Charlotte controlled the almost overwhelming desire to scream her frustration at him, and continued carefully: ‘You know that San Cristobal is hardly the usual haunt of a widow with two children, Mr Kennedy.’

He frowned. ‘No,’ he conceded at last, with what she felt was deliberate provocation. ‘But don’t dismiss these islands too lightly, Mrs Derby. They, like the great rain forests of my own country, make me acutely aware of my own minute contribution to the scheme of things.’

Charlotte breathed a sigh. ‘Mr Kennedy, I do not require a lecture on my own insignificance. I accept that. All I wondered was why Madame Fabergé should choose to live here.’

Logan’s nostrils flared. ‘Pierre Fabergé died of yellow fever six months ago in the Amazon delta!’ he stated grimly.

‘I’m sorry.’ Charlotte moved her shoulders in a gesture of regret. ‘I—I gather you knew him.’

‘He was my best friend,’ replied Logan harshly. ‘Lisette—his wife—had no one else.’

Now Charlotte understood. And with understanding came a feeling of withdrawal that had nothing to do with cool common sense. It was easy to see how Mr Lewis had confused the issue. Madame Fabergé’s husband had no doubt been a marine biologist, too. That would account for his friendship with Logan. And because of Logan’s occupation, it had been assumed that he was her husband.

‘You—Madame Fabergé lives with you?’ she ventured faintly, and was rewarded by a contemptuous glare.

‘Do not judge everybody by your own standards!’ he retorted cruelly, and it was fortunate that Robert chose that moment to distract their attention by pointing out the ocean ahead of them.

The road emerged from the trees above dunes of fine coral sand, where creaming waves spread a necklace of white lace. The sand looked pure, and unblemished by human endeavour. Before them lay the calm waters of the lagoon, deepening perhaps to no more than twenty feet, and beyond, maybe a couple of hundred yards out from the shore, the surging waters of the ocean tore themselves to pieces on the barely submerged crenellations of a reef.

‘Gosh!’ Robert was briefly speechless as he stared at a scene that was straight out of a travelogue, and then he shook his head as he turned to Logan again. ‘Is the water warm?’

‘Is seventy degrees warm enough for you?’

‘Seventy degrees!’ Robert hunched his shoulders disbelievingly. ‘Man, that’s warm!’ Then he sat up as signs of habitation signalled their proximity to their destination. ‘Where’s the lagoon? Is it far from the beach?’

Logan shook his head. ‘That’s the lagoon, Robert. The calm waters before the reef.’

‘Is it? Is it really?’ Robert was excited. ‘But why is it called a lagoon? I thought that was a lake or something.’

Logan hesitated. ‘Without the protection of the reef, these waters would be accessible to the biggest and most dangerous fish in the Caribbean.’

‘Sharks!’ said Robert, not without some satisfaction, and Charlotte shivered.

‘Yes. Sharks,’ agreed Logan flatly. ‘But barracuda, too.’

‘Have you ever tangled with a shark, Mr Kennedy?’ Robert asked eagerly, and Charlotte saw Logan’s mouth turn downward at the corners.

‘There are many types of shark, Robert,’ he told the boy quietly. ‘And not all of them are dangerous. The largest fish in the sea is a whale shark, and it’s quite harmless.’ He cast a strange look in Charlotte’s direction. ‘But some sharks—like some women—are unpredictable, and until you learn to recognise the species, you should leave them alone.’

Avocado Cay was a collection of dwellings bordering the ocean. Here and there, attempts at cultivating gardens had been made, but the rioting undergrowth and off-shore winds had almost defeated them. They were verandahed buildings, mostly, with corrugated roofs, set in clearings between flowering shrubs and ubiquitous palms. A few goats grazed on the outskirts of the village, and hens scattered before the wheels of the station wagon. They could smell the sea, its sharp salty tang coming strongly through the windows of the vehicle. The clarity of the air was startling, and only the blown spume on the reef misted the distant horizon.

Logan drove through the village, following a narrow track which led down through a belt of palms and eucalyptus trees almost to the water’s edge. Ahead of them, Charlotte could see the roofs of several single-storied buildings, and beyond, a wooden landing jutting out into the lagoon where a sailing ketch was moored. It all looked very beautiful and very peaceful, and without the presence of the man beside her, she would have felt a greater sense of relief.

‘Is this where we’re going to live?’ demanded Robert, voicing the question which had trembled on his mother’s lips, and Logan nodded.

‘Yes. That bungalow directly ahead of us belongs to Madame Fabergé.’

‘And where is our house?’ Robert persisted, but Charlotte again intervened.

‘I expect—Madame Fabergé will explain where we’re going to stay, Robert,’ she told him quellingly, avoiding looking at the man beside her. Then: ‘Now what are you doing?’

Robert grinned. ‘Taking off my sandals. I can’t wait to try the water.’

‘Robert! At least let’s meet my employer first.’

Logan slowed the station wagon as they neared the sand-strewn slope beside the bungalow. ‘Didn’t I explain?’ he asked with deliberate irony: ‘You already did—meet your employer, I mean. I employed you, Mrs Derby. Didn’t I make that clear?’

Charlotte’s lips trembled, and she pressed them together to hide the fact before gasping distractedly: ‘You know you didn’t!’

Logan’s thick lashes shaded his eyes, but his expression was unmistakably smug. ‘Well, I’m sorry, but I am. Does it make any difference?’

Charlotte’s breathing felt constricted. ‘You—you—–’ she began chokingly, and then became aware of Robert’s startled eyes watching her. Pressing a hand to her throat, she moved her head in a helpless gesture of defeat, and the station wagon slowed to a halt as a small boy came darting round from the back of the building to meet them. The child’s face was tear-stained, and his tee-shirt and shorts were grubby with sand.

‘Uncle Logan! Uncle Logan!’ he yelled excitedly, and Logan swung out of the vehicle to catch the small figure up in his arms.

‘Olà, Philippe!’ he exclaimed, one long finger tracing the marks of tears on his cheek. ‘What have you been doing now?’

‘Nothing.’ Philippe looked sulky for a moment, and then his attention was attracted by Robert getting out of the back of the station wagon. ‘Who’s that?’

‘That’s Robert,’ answered Logan easily, turning towards the older boy. ‘Perhaps he might be persuaded to play with you sometimes. Providing you remember you are only four years old.’

Robert grinned. ‘Hi, Philippe,’ he said, somewhat self-consciously. ‘How are you?’

Philippe wriggled down from Logan’s arms, surveying the newcomer’s five feet from half that height, and Charlotte deemed it time she made her presence apparent. She pushed open her door and got out just as a plump woman of medium height came down the verandah steps to join them.

It was reasonable to assume that this was Lisette Fabergé. She was carrying a baby of perhaps nine months, a fat little thing wearing nothing but a nappy, and she was obviously in some distress. Her dishevelled appearance matched the dishevelled appearance of her son.

‘Oh, Logan, thank goodness you’re back!’ she exclaimed, with evident relief, ignoring Charlotte standing beside the car and going straight to the man.

Logan turned towards her, sparing a smile for the baby before his concern made itself apparent. Tall and masculine, he dwarfed Lisette, and Charlotte felt an ugly feeling of resentment stirring inside her. So much solicitude for Lisette Fabergé’s widowed state, while she had had to cope alone with the fears of her unwanted pregnancy! Watching Lisette’s fingers curving possessively round the muscular flesh of his forearm, her eyes turned up to him in appeal, made her feel physically sick, and she slammed the car door with unwarranted force.

Immediately Lisette’s wide blue eyes switched in her direction, appraising her and dismissing her in one scornful stare. She was an attractive girl, somewhere around her own age, Charlotte guessed, but there the resemblance ended. For years Charlotte had been accustomed to dressing in styles suitable to the wife of a man with Matthew’s money while Lisette’s clothes were stained and unpressed and obviously cheap. She was not at all the chic Frenchwoman Charlotte had expected.

‘Oh, hello,’ she said indifferently, and Charlotte realised she was not French at all, but English. Then she turned back to Logan. ‘Phil swallowed one of Isabelle’s safety-pins just after you’d left, and I’ve been frantic!’

‘Was it open?’ asked Logan at once, a fleeting trace of resignation crossing his face.

‘I don’t know,’ cried Lisette, and Philippe started to cry again.

Logan crouched down beside the boy. ‘Now stop that,’ he said gently. ‘You must know whether the pin was open or not.’

Philippe sniffed. ‘It wasn’t.’

‘You’re sure about that?’ Philippe nodded, and Logan straightened again. ‘So where’s the problem?’

Lisette’s jaw trembled. ‘He didn’t tell me that!’

‘Didn’t he?’

‘No. He just ran away when I tried to catch him, and Isabelle was screaming for her tea, and—–’

‘—and you shouted at him and frightened him,’ finished Logan patiently. ‘I know.’

‘Oh, Logan, you’re so good with him!’

Charlotte turned away to stare across the stretch of sand to the water’s edge. Dear God, was there no end to her punishment? she wondered bitterly. Eleven years of living with a man she did not love should have been enough for anyone.

Fortunately, Robert was unaware of her feelings. His own thoughts lay in an entirely different direction, and it only took Philippe’s tentative indication towards the ocean to send them both charging across the sand to the water’s edge. Charlotte opened her mouth to call her son, and then closed it again when Logan spoke.

‘This is Mrs Derby, Lisette,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’ll find her assistance a great help with the children.’

Charlotte turned reluctantly and approached them. Isabelle was wriggling impatiently in her mother’s arms, and glad of anything to divert her awareness of Logan’s penetrating gaze, she held out her arms towards the baby. Isabelle hesitated only a moment before returning the invitation, and with a shrug Lisette dumped the child on to her. Isabelle was wet, among other things, but Charlotte had never liked the cream silk dress she was wearing, and decided ruefully that at least now she had a reason for getting rid of it. She knew Logan was watching her with guarded eyes, but now she felt less vulnerable.

‘I can’t imagine why a woman like you would want to come out here,’ remarked Lisette by way of an opening, obviously as aware of the differences between them as Charlotte was. She was looking down at her own grubby shirt and pants with dislike, clearly favouring the dress Charlotte was so willing to discard.

‘Needs must,’ Charlotte said now, deciding to be honest about that at least.

‘Really?’ Lisette looked sceptical. ‘I would have thought a job was the last thing you’d need.’

‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ replied Charlotte, more easily, pulling Isabelle’s sticky fingers out of her hair. Then, realising something more was expected of her, she added: ‘What a beautiful place this is!’

‘It’s all right.’ Lisette looked reflectively at Logan. ‘Are you coming in?’

Logan shook his head. ‘Not right now. I think I should show—Mrs Derby where she and her son are going to sleep.’

‘That’s your son?’ Lisette asked Charlotte thoughtfully. ‘You must have been very young when he was born.’

Charlotte could do without questions like that. Equally, she could do without Logan showing her where she was going to sleep. ‘I—if there’s anything you would like me to do now—–’ she began hastily, only to be silenced by the look Logan cast in her direction.

‘Well—–’ Lisette started, but Logan broke in flatly: ‘Not tonight, Lisette. Mrs Derby’s had a long day. I think something to eat, a bath, and an early night is indicated, don’t you?’

Lisette shrugged, half sulkily, looking very like Philippe had done earlier. ‘What shall I give her to eat?’

‘I had Carlos take the liberty of providing Mrs Derby and her son with a ready-made meal earlier in the day,’ Logan stated evenly. ‘Relax, Lisette. Everything’s been taken care of.’

‘Except Philippe.’

‘What about Philippe?’

‘Have you forgotten the pin?’

‘No, I haven’t forgotten,’ Logan told her tolerantly. ‘The pin will make its reappearance, don’t worry. Just keep your eyes open for the next couple of days.’

Lisette pursed her lips and turned back to Charlotte, clearly not altogether suited by his proposal. ‘You’d better give Isabelle to me before she ruins your dress completely,’ she said, half sullenly.

‘It will wash,’ Charlotte reassured her, handing the child over with faint regret, and Lisette uttered an angry imprecation as Isabelle began to protest noisily.

‘Everything around here has to,’ she stated shortly, and marched back up the steps and into the bungalow, leaving Charlotte to face Logan alone.

He seemed rather preoccupied just then, his eyes intent on the two boys splashing in the shallows along the shoreline. Looking at him unobserved, Charlotte felt something uncurl and expand inside her, something that sent the blood more thickly along her veins and probed without sensitivity at her inflamed emotions. He was still the only man she had ever known to exude that aura of raw masculinity, and whether it was in a lounge suit or the revealing jeans he was presently wearing, the way he moved aroused feelings she had long forgotten. Had they really once been that close to one another? she asked herself incredulously. Had she lain beside him and ached for his possession, run her fingers over the smooth brown skin of his body and exulted in the trembling passion he had found impossible to control in her arms? Moisture prickled all along her spine, even though the air was much cooler now as the sun sank lower. Oh God, she thought wretchedly, it was more than eleven years ago. She must not think of that now!

Then Logan turned and encountered her eyes upon him, and his expression banished all traces of tremulous emotion. ‘Come with me!’ he commanded harshly, and she followed him obediently down the dusty slope to where a second bungalow was situated in the shade of a clump of gnarled coconut palms.

Shallow steps led up to a verandah, which ran right round the house and would no doubt give access to the beach from the other side, but Logan threw open the door leading into the living room, and Charlotte had, perforce, to follow him inside. He stood in the middle of the sparsely furnished room, with its chintzy upholstery and rug-strewn floor, a darkly malevolent accuser, and when the fugitive wind slammed the door behind her, she knew that the moment of truth had come.

‘Well, Charlotte,’ he said coldly, and she had to steel herself not to show her fear of him. ‘It’s been a long time.’

‘Yes.’ The word came out squeakily higher than was normal, and she cleared her throat nervously.

‘You’ve changed,’ he went on critically. ‘You used not to be so sophisticated.’

‘I’m older, Logan,’ she answered, achieving a coolness she was far from feeling. ‘You—you’ve changed, too.’

‘Have I?’ His lips curled. ‘You married Derby.’ It was almost an accusation.

‘Yes.’ Again the single word stuck in her throat.

‘Why?’

‘Why?’ Charlotte stared at him lamely, reduced in a moment to trepidation again.

‘Yes, why?’ Logan demanded grimly. ‘A simple enough question, I should have thought.’

He would have thought … Charlotte’s teeth clattered together. If he only knew! But he mustn’t—he shouldn’t. She licked her dry lips. ‘Why do two people usually marry?’ she ventured faintly, and was shocked by the reaction this evoked.

‘Don’t pretend to me that you married Derby because there was any trace of emotion between you?’ he snarled savagely, coming close to her so that his breath was a searing draught of air against her forehead. She was a tall girl, five feet seven in her stockinged feet, but Logan had always towered over her. He did so now, the hard muscles of his legs almost brushing her skirt. ‘I was there, remember,’ he added. ‘I know how you regarded him, and it wasn’t in that way!’

‘Cir—circumstances—can alter cases,’ she began, but his angry imprecation silenced her.

‘Sure they can,’ he agreed contemptuously. ‘Particularly if the circumstances are governed by those pretty little pieces of paper with green backs!’

Charlotte gasped indignantly. ‘Are—are you implying that I—I married Matthew for his money?’

Logan’s lips twisted. ‘No, I’m not implying it, Charlotte. I’m stating it! What a pity the old man found out too soon and changed his will!’

Charlotte’s reaction was swift and instinctive. If she had stopped to consider what she was about to do, she might never have done it. But she didn’t think. Her hand moved almost of its own volition, connecting with Logan’s cheek with stinging accuracy.

For a moment he stared at her, his hand raised almost disbelievingly to the injury. And then he reacted as she had done, ruthlessly delivering a painful slap to the side of her face.

‘Mum!’

The door to the bungalow had opened without their becoming aware of it, and now Robert stood motionless in the doorway, staring at them through dazed, accusing eyes.

At once Logan turned aside from Charlotte, raking back his hair much as Robert himself might have done, confronting the boy with evident regret.

‘I’m sorry you had to see that, son,’ he said wearily, and her heart plunged at his casual use of the word that to him had no meaning. He glanced round at Charlotte, but she avoided his gaze, her eyes watering from the blow on her cheek. ‘Your mother and I—well, we had some unfinished business—–’

Charlotte had thought Robert’s immobility was due to fear or apprehension, but now she realised how wrong she had been. He was pale, it was true, but with anger, not alarm. Gathering his forces, he charged at the man who had so abused his mother, kicking and punching at him with all the wiry strength he possessed.

Logan held him at bay without too much difficulty, but still Robert managed to kick out with his bare feet, and quickly Charlotte intervened. ‘Robert!’ she cried, grasping his arm and trying to drag him away from Logan. ‘It’s all right. It’s all right! Please—stop this before someone gets hurt!’

It was difficult, but eventually she separated them, shaking Robert gently, forgetting her own pain, both mental and physical, in an attempt to reassure the boy. ‘Listen to me,’ she exclaimed, forcing him to look at her. ‘You don’t understand …’

‘I don’t want to!’ retorted Robert, half tearfully now, as emotion got the better of valour. His lips trembled. ‘If I was older, he wouldn’t dare to touch you!’

‘That’s true,’ agreed Logan heavily, behind him. ‘I wouldn’t. I’m sorry, Robert. I promise you, it won’t happen again.’

The boy tore himself away from his mother and faced the man fearlessly. Watching them, Charlotte was appalled at how alike they were. ‘You bet it won’t!’ he muttered childishly, and Logan’s eyes sought and found hers above her son’s head.

‘I’ll show you the rest of the bungalow,’ he said, in a curiously flat voice, but Charlotte declined.

Drawing herself up to her full height, which in cork-soled sandals was a couple of inches more, she said: ‘We can manage, thank you. We shan’t need your assistance.’

Logan inclined his head wearily. ‘As you wish.’ He turned towards the door, and she wondered why her victory suddenly felt so much like defeat. ‘There are provisions in the kitchen, and the meal my man, Carlos, prepared for you earlier is in the refrigerator. The sanitary arrangements are, I think, self-explanatory.’ He paused, one hand on the lintel. ‘Carlos will fetch your cases from the car, and I will see you both in the morning.’

Charlotte nodded, but Robert muttered: ‘Not if we see you first!’ in a distinctly audible undertone.

Logan’s look narrowed. ‘If you need—anything else, my house is just a dozen yards away along the beach,’ he added quietly, and stepped through the door. ‘Goodnight.’

Robert turned his back and said nothing, but Charlotte acknowledged his farewell with a quick nod, going to the door as he crossed the verandah, and closing it securely behind him. There was a key and she turned it, uncaring whether or not he heard her.




CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_841aebb7-c30c-5566-b3f7-abff76377690)


IT was the sea that awakened her, the persistent sound of the surf breaking on the jaws of the reef a hundred yards away. It was not an unpleasing sound, but it was sufficiently unusual to someone used to the sounds of traffic to disturb the light slumber she had fallen into just before dawn. She lifted her wrist reluctantly, and the broad square face of the masculine watch she wore swam into focus. Six-thirty, she read resignedly. Still too early to get up really, and besides, was she in such a hurry to start the day?

Sun was filtering through the window shutters, dust motes floating in the shafts of light it created. They settled on the square oak dressing table and matching chest of drawers, and on the heavy carved doors of the wardrobe. Apart from these items, and the amply proportioned bed, there wasn’t much else in the room, and the night before she had done no more than unpack Robert’s pyjamas and her nightgown after Carlos had delivered their cases. Not that sleeping attire was absolutely essential, she thought wryly. She had spent the night on the top of the covers, but without her cotton nightgown she might well have found some use for the quilt beneath her.

With a sigh, she sat up and swung her feet to the floor, her toes curling into the woolly rug beside the bed. Immediately her reflection was thrown back at her from the long, if somewhat pitted, mirrors on the wardrobe doors, and she pulled a face at herself as she rose to her feet. The streaked honey-brown hair, which during the day she wore either in a chignon or coiled on top of her head, tumbled about her shoulders from its centre parting. Matthew used to tell her the styles she wore gave her features a Madonna-like innocence, but she wondered what Logan would say to that. She had worn her hair loose in the days when she had known him, and although she was unaware of the fact, with her hair loose about her shoulders, she looked very little older now than she had done then. Life had left her curiously untouched by experience, and her brief affair with Logan had been overshadowed until now by the presence of the child.

Charlotte sighed again, lifting her arms and holding the heavy hair up from her neck. The action lifted her breasts, too, and their pointed fullness was outlined against the thin cotton of her nightgown. For a moment she had a sensuous, wanton beauty, and then she dropped her arms again and turned abruptly away, embarrassed by the intimate trend of her thoughts. Throughout her marriage to Matthew, she had avoided any reminder of what the relationship between a man and a woman could be, but it was impossible to consider the events of the day before without remembering her relationship with Logan, and speculating on what might have been.

She padded across to the window, and thrusting open the shutters gazed out on the vista of sea and sand that awaited her. The sky was translucent, feathered with clouds that had the opacity of mother-of-pearl, the horizon misty gold and indistinct. Nearer at hand, sand crabs scuttled sideways towards the water, and overhead a hawk hung motionless before dropping like a stone to trap its prey. It was a familiar yet an alien world, possessing so much that she understood, and so much that she did not.

She thought unhappily about the previous evening. It had not been a comfortable few hours. After Logan’s departure, Robert had become silent and morose, and she had known he naturally resented the possibility that there might be something else going on about which he knew nothing. It awakened all her fears about him asking about his real father, and her facile explanation that Logan and Matthew had disliked one another had sounded feeble even to her ears. Robert was nobody’s fool, and in consequence he had shown little interest in the rest of the bungalow, and eaten sparingly of the delicious chicken salad she had found in the refrigerator.

But how could she explain her relationship to Logan Kennedy without either telling the truth, which was unthinkable, or involving herself in a tissue of lies and evasions? And why did Logan despise her so for marrying Matthew? What was it to him, after all? Surely she was the one who had most to feel resentful about. Her fingers probed the still tender skin of her cheek, where his hand had connected, and she shivered. The Logan she remembered had not been so ruthless. On the contrary, the strength he had possessed had been tempered with gentleness, a quality of which Charlotte had known little in her lifetime.

Which brought her to another point: if Logan had known who she was before she came to San Cristobal, why hadn’t he stopped her from coming? It didn’t make sense, and the knowledge that she was obliged to spend four weeks on the island before terminating her contract filled her with alarm. Her relationship with Robert had always been so good. Yet now she was in a position to put that relationship in jeopardy—in more ways than one …

Heaving a sigh, she turned away from the window, surveying the room behind her with troubled eyes. There was still Lisette Fabergé to consider. Exactly what was her relationship with Logan? It was all very well for him to explain that her husband was dead and that she had no one else, but where did they go from there? And when it was obvious that she turned to him for guidance in everything, wasn’t it reasonable to assume that sooner or later he would marry her?

Charlotte’s nerve-endings tightened. It didn’t matter to her what Logan Kennedy should choose to do, she told herself angrily. He had walked out on her eleven years ago, and just because now he was showing masculine hostility at the knowledge that she had quickly found someone else to replace him, there was no reason for her to get involved. But she was involved, a small voice inside her taunted stubbornly. Nevertheless somehow she had to persuade Robert that in spite of their eventful arrival, ultimately the situation was as expected. How ludicrous that sounded, she thought bitterly, realising it would take more than her reassurance to convince her son.

The sound of metal falling on to rubber tiles alerted her to the fact that in spite of the early hour, Robert was already about. Without stopping to dress, she stepped into her mules, and opened the bedroom door. Robert’s bedroom, which was across the hall from her own, was empty, and she padded along the passage to find him.

The kitchen door stood wide and the kettle was almost boiling. Robert, in blue cotton pyjama trousers, was busily setting cups and saucers on a tray, and guessing he meant to surprise her, Charlotte would have drawn back. But the sound of her mules attracted his attention, and he spun round to face her, a slightly shamefaced expression marring his lean features. His black hair flopped untidily over his forehead, and as he lifted his hand to push it back, she could see all the bones of his rib-cage through his pale skin.

‘I—er—I was just making some tea,’ he offered, gesturing towards the tray. ‘Did you—did you sleep well?’

Charlotte moved into the room, glancing round casually at the colour-washed walls and steel units. ‘Did you?’ she countered gently, and he pushed his jaw forward childishly.

‘Not very,’ he mumbled, and then, as the kettle boiled, turned away to make the tea. When the teapot was sitting squarely on the tray beside the cream jug and sugar basin, he added, in a muffled tone: ‘I wish we’d never come here!’

Charlotte sighed, and came round the table which stood in the middle of the floor to get close to him. ‘Do you, Robert?’ she asked softly. ‘Do you really?’

He looked up at her miserably. ‘I didn’t—not at first. I was looking forward to it. All the boys back home said they wished they could come and live in the West Indies, and yesterday morning, when we sailed from Tortola, it was super! It really was.’

‘Then?’

‘That man—Kennedy. He spoilt it.’

Charlotte found herself compelled to ask: ‘Don’t you like him?’

Robert shrugged his bony shoulders. ‘I did—to begin with. I mean,’ he went on, as if to justify himself, ‘his job is jolly interesting, isn’t it? And he knows such a lot about the islands—everything. I was looking forward to talking to him some more—maybe even learning about underwater biology and diving.’

Charlotte shook her head, but she found she could not allow Logan’s son to dismiss his father out of hand. ‘Listen, love,’ she said, looking down at him, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders, ‘nothing has changed. Not so far as you are concerned—–’

‘Yes, it has!’

‘No!’ She squeezed his shoulders more tightly. ‘Robert, what you saw—what you shouldn’t have seen—yesterday has nothing to do with you. What’s between—Mr Kennedy and me has no bearing on your relationship with him.’

‘Of course it does.’

‘Why?’

Robert stared at her. ‘You’re my mother. No one’s going to hit you while I’m around and get away with it.’

‘Oh, love …’ Charlotte felt a ridiculous lump come into her throat, and for once he made no protest when she hugged him. Then she drew back and looked at him again. ‘Robert, you must try to be realistic. Ours is an adult world, and some things can’t be explained. But believe me when I say you shouldn’t prejudge a situation.’

‘You mean, you deserved his slapping you?’

‘Well, I slapped him first,’ admitted Charlotte reluctantly.

‘You did?’ Robert uttered a boyish whoop. ‘Hell, I’d like to have seen that!’

Charlotte shifted impatiently. ‘Maybe you would, but I’d be glad if you’d moderate your language.’

‘Oh, Mum, everybody says hell these days!’

‘Do they?’

‘Sure.’

‘Americanisms, too, I suppose.’

Robert grinned, and a surge of relief swept over her at the knowledge that he didn’t appear to blame her, at least. ‘Where shall we have the tea? he asked, and she suggested they went into her bedroom as they had been accustomed to doing at High Clere.

Sitting cross-legged on her bed, however, Robert returned to the subject she most wanted to avoid. ‘How long is it since you’ve seen Mr Kennedy?’ he asked curiously.

Charlotte was glad of her teacup to disguise her expression, but she determined to get this over with, once and for all. ‘I—er—met him several years ago, in England,’ she replied slowly. ‘I told you that.’ She paused. ‘He and your father—–’

‘Matthew Derby was not my father!’

‘No. Well, as I was saying, they—they met through Matthew’s connections with the university.’

‘And he came to our—to High Clere?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did I meet him?’

Charlotte cleared her throat. ‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, I—I expect you were in bed,’ she responded hastily, and despised herself for getting into this position. Finishing her tea, she slid off the bed, and walked across to the windows. ‘It’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it?’

There was silence for so long that eventually she had to turn and look at him, finding him watching her with curiously speculative eyes. Then he smiled, and the momentary chill she had experienced disappeared again.

‘Shall I start school straight away?’ he asked unexpectedly, and the simply question created another problem.

‘I—don’t know,’ she conceded, her dark brows ascending.

‘That’s one of the things we’ll have to find out.’

‘At home, the schools will soon be closing down for the summer holidays,’ Robert reminded her hopefully. ‘There doesn’t seem much point in starting something I’m not going to finish.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Will we be staying here after your probationary month is up?’ he explained.

Charlotte could feel the warm colour invading her cheeks. ‘What makes you ask that question?’

‘I don’t know,’ Robert shrugged. ‘Just last night—well, I heard you moving about in here long after we went to bed.’

Charlotte sighed. ‘As I haven’t even begun working for Madame Fabergé yet, how can I tell?’ she lied unhappily, and wished for once that Robert was no more than Philippe’s age, and therefore less apt to jump to the right conclusions. ‘Now, I think you’d better go. I want to get dressed.’

Robert got obediently off the bed and regarded her with narrow-eyed appraisal. ‘Are you going to tie up your hair?’

Charlotte spread her hands. ‘Does it matter?’

Robert shrugged, hauling up the pyjamas that hung loosely on his hips. ‘Just, I was thinking—well, you’re about the same age as Philippe’s mother, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’ Charlotte wondered what was coming next.

‘So I just thought that perhaps now that—that he’s dead, you might wear your hair loose for a change.’

‘In this climate? I think not.’

‘You look nicer with it loose. Younger.’

‘Yes. Well, being nursemaid to Philippe and Isabelle requires me to be efficient, that’s all, not glamorous,’ she declared tersely, and Robert made a conciliatory gesture as he went out of the room.

All the same, after she had bathed and made her bed, she did look long and critically at her hair before coiling it into the smooth chignon which curved back from her cheeks, concealing her ears, and resting neatly against the nape of her neck.

Clothes presented another problem. Somehow, she didn’t think Lisette Fabergé would expect her to wear a uniform, but on the other hand, she could hardly appear in another of the expensive models Matthew had bought her. She rummaged in her cases, discarding item after item, and eventually brought out a pair of purple cotton jeans and a matching shirt. They were not new. She had bought them a couple of years ago. But fortunately her figure had changed little, and apart from a slight shrinkage in the pants which made them rather tighter than she would have liked, they looked serviceable.

Robert, however, made her think differently when she appeared to prepare breakfast. ‘That’s better!’ he approved admiringly, prowling round her. ‘I always said you should wear trousers more of ten.’

Charlotte made an impatient gesture. ‘They’re working clothes, that’s all,’ she declared shortly. ‘Now what do you want to eat? There seems to be plenty of fruit. Do you want to try mango?’

They were seated at the kitchen table finishing their meal with toasted rolls and grapefruit marmalade when someone knocked at the verandah door. At once Charlotte’s tension returned, but when Robert went to answer it, she expelled her breath on a sigh when she saw the tall black man waiting outside.

‘Oh—good morning, Carlos,’ she called, putting down her coffee cup. ‘Come in.’

The black man was carrying a basket, and even before he put a foot over the threshold she could smell the delicious aroma of warm bread. ‘Mr Logan, he said you might like some fresh rolls, ma’am,’ he explained, setting the basket down on the table and drawing back the napkin to reveal the crusty brown croissants. ‘But it seems like you’ve had your breakfast.’

Charlotte looked up at him apologetically. ‘We were both awake early,’ she explained smilingly. ‘But thank Mr—Logan—just the same. I toasted a couple of the rolls we had left from yesterday, and you’d provided us with plenty of fruit.’ She paused. ‘Oh, and by the way, thank you for the salad. It was delicious.’

Carlos looked unconcerned. ‘Glad you liked it, ma’am.’ His eyes flickered over Robert, who was standing near the open doorway. ‘I’ll leave the rolls anyway. You might like them later.’

‘Thank you.’

Carlos hesitated. ‘Mr Logan also said to ask you whether you’d prefer me to prepare your meals for you. I mean, naturally, I’ll keep your cold store stocked in any case, but it would save you—–’

‘Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary, thank you, Carlos.’ Charlotte rose to her feet now, shaking her head. ‘It’s kind of you to offer, but I think Robert and I can manage.’

‘Mr Logan seemed to think you wouldn’t be much used to making your own meals, ma’am,’ Carlos added, with an unexpected lack of tact, and she could feel her spine stiffening.

‘Mr Logan doesn’t know me very well, Carlos,’ she replied tartly, and the black man shrugged his bulky shoulders indifferently.

‘No, ma’am,’ he agreed, and moved towards the door.

‘Carlos!’

Her impulsive summons made him turn again. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

Charlotte bit her lip. ‘I—have you known Mr Logan long?’

She could feel Robert’s eyes on her, and was relieved when Carlos’s bulk came between them. ‘Fifteen years, ma’am.’

‘Fifteen years? That’s a long time.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Charlotte nodded, and he took her silence as dismissal. So, she thought ruefully, he had known Logan before she did. How much did he know of their previous relationship? How much might Robert inadvertently hear from him?

Robert left the door open and came back to the table to finish his orange juice. ‘The men are big around here, aren’t they?’ he commented, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and then grimacing at his mother’s expression. ‘First Mr Kennedy, then Carlos. Are all West Indians tall?’

‘He’s not a West Indian,’ said Charlotte unthinkingly. ‘He’s Brazilian. They both are, I should think.’

‘South Americans!’ murmured Robert thoughtfully. ‘Hmm, that explains it.’

‘Explains what?’ Charlotte was not really in the mood for his chatter.

‘Why they’re so big. I read once that the bigger the continent, the bigger the men. You know—room to expand, that sort of thing.’

‘Oh, Robert!’ Charlotte gathered their dirty dishes together and carried them to the sink. ‘You can’t generalise like that.’

He shrugged, and picked up a tea towel. ‘Why not? That’s how statistics are reached. Through generalisations. Mr Hendry was telling us—–’

‘Well, I’m sure there’s more to it than that,’ retorted Charlotte, with asperity, and then felt contrite when he hunched his shoulders and shut up.

It was still only eight-thirty when Charlotte left the bungalow to walk the few yards to the Fabergé house. She had left Robert sitting moodily on the steps of the verandah, kicking his toes in the sand, under orders not to swim out of his depth without supervision. This instruction had created some argument, and with the memory of the previous evening’s unpleasantness still hanging over her head, Charlotte wished she had not had to be so firm. But it was no good. She would never have any peace if she was worrying about him, and she owed it to Lisette Fabergé to give her whole attention to her job. Perhaps later on in the morning, she might bring the two younger children down to the beach, thus giving Robert his chance to swim where he pleased.

As she walked up the slope, Charlotte saw Logan’s house. It was a single-storey beach house, standing on cross supports at the edge of the dunes, with a wooden walkway leading down from it to the landing. She couldn’t see Logan, but the station wagon was parked to one side, its bonnet open, and only the rear half of Carlos’s body could be seen as he tinkered about inside. He was far enough away from her not to be able to hear what she was doing, and the peaceful scene was somehow reassuring.

Mounting the steps, she knocked at Lisette Fabergé’s door. There was no sign of life, and now that she came to notice it, the shutters were still closed at the windows. Frowning, she tried the door, but it was locked, and she shifted her weight restlessly from one foot to the other, wondering what she ought to do now. Surely Lisette was up. Perhaps she had already gone out. But somehow that didn’t seem so likely.

She was hovering there uncertainly, hands pushed into the seat pockets of her jeans, when she saw Logan walking up the slope towards her. This morning he was wearing nothing but a pair of fraying denim shorts, and she could see the fine dark hair that partially obscured the brown expanse of his chest. The hair ran down in a vee to his navel, and she looked down deliberately at the open toes of her sandals, aware that staring could be too revealing.

‘Good morning,’ he said, halting below her, one bare foot raised to rest on the verandah steps, his eyes coolly assessing her. ‘Did you sleep well?’

Charlotte saw no reason to lie to him. ‘Not very,’ she conceded shortly, noticing the shadow of the unshaven chin. Then: ‘Do you know where Madame Fabergé is?’

‘As I haven’t spent the night with her, I can’t be sure, but I’d hazard a guess that she was still in bed,’ he remarked insolently. ‘Would you like me to find out?’




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