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The Wedding Promise
Grace Green


In search of a wife!Logan Hunter had made a promise: to find a new bride for himself, and a mother for his darling daughter. That was five years ago, and he hadn't even started looking! But Sara Wynter found him anyway….Only Sara had none of the attributes Logan wanted in a second wife. She was too pretty, too outspoken. Logan tried not to fall for her–he simply wanted a marriage of convenience. But Sara reminded him that he had a heart, and it looked as though he'd soon be the happiest reluctant bridegroom ever!"Ms. Green spins an enchanting tale with marvelous characterization."–Romantic Times on The Wedding Promise







Logan sighed, his heart crushed by the weight of his promise (#u3a5ebd2f-1201-52ca-a476-8328b7f667ae)About the Author (#ua65feb15-9958-5ffe-a8ad-ac48fe1ff3d1)Title Page (#uf2fd2938-30b1-5d7e-ac20-dd44f9074ebe)Dedication (#u59e3d90a-6833-598e-b6f5-0e6a1ed55808)CHAPTER ONE (#u193df600-1337-56f7-bf75-7e9807158c1c)CHAPTER TWO (#u2f71edd9-75eb-5159-b395-dc88ade5415d)CHAPTER THREE (#u2214596e-a6b8-50b4-9918-d36c66c2cc2a)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)CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Logan sighed, his heart crushed by the weight of his promise

The promise he hadn’t fulfilled. He couldn’t keep putting it off.... Throwing back his head, he closed his eyes and wrote his mental checklist of attributes essential in a suitable bride.

LOOKS: plain, but not distractingly so

HEIGHT: average

BUILD: neatly assembled, but unobtrusively so

MANNER: modest

ATTITUDE: nonargumentative

He drew a line under “nonargumentative.”

Sara Wynter—now there was an argumentative female. In fact, the woman he was looking for was the very opposite of Ms. Sara Wynter....


Grace Green was born in Scotland and is a former teacher. In 1967 she and her marine-engineer husband, John, emigrated to Canada where they raised their four children. Empty-nesters now, they are happily settled in West Vancouver in a house overlooking the ocean. Grace enjoys walking the sea wall, gardening, getting together with other writers...and watching her characters come to life, because she knows that, once they do, they will take over and write her stories for her.

Grace Green has written for the Presents


series, but now concentrates on Harlequin Romance


...bringing you deeply emotional stories with vibrant characters.




The Wedding Promise

Grace Green







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


For Moyra Tarling, Kay Gregory and Kathy Garner

because they’ve been there from the beginning

And for Barbara Schenck

because of Taggart!


CHAPTER ONE

THE woman at the wheel of the cabin cruiser was a blonde.

A drop-dead-gorgeous blonde, Logan noted as he glowered at her through the brass telescope set up in the bay window of his sitting room. She had the face of an angel and an eye-popping figure set off by a flirty yellow dress—but though he could appreciate beauty as well as the next man all he felt now was irritation.

Intense irritation!

He’d come to his island summer place for a purpose and the last thing he wanted was uninvited company. But this craft so gaily riding the choppy waves of the Juan de Fuca Straits was headed directly for his waterfront property.

He swung the scope to the boat’s name: Zach’s Fancy.

Muttering under his breath, he swung the powerful instrument up again...

In time to see someone join the woman at the wheel.

A man, dressed in black, with the dark, rakish looks of a pirate and a physique to match. He smiled and draped an arm around the shoulders of his female fancy...who was, Logan recognised with distaste, young enough to be his—

A bell rang somewhere in Logan’s head and he frowned.

Refocusing the scope, he brought the man’s face in so close that the silver strands in his black hair were visible.

Good God. Logan blinked. Zach Grant!

Movie idol, modem-day Valentino, swinging bachelor. A tabloid wouldn’t have been a tabloid without a lurid spread on Hollywood’s most notorious womaniser and his current sex object.

What was the name of that rag Andrea was forever poring over? SuperGossip? GossipIsUs? Whatever Grant’s mug had adorned it only last week. Andy had pointed it out.

‘Look, Dad, he’s with Felicia Mosscov, that new red-haired model! She’s hot...and isn’t he something?’

‘He’s something, all right,’ he’d muttered, before telling his daughter to put the magazine in the trash where it belonged. She hadn’t, of course.

It was at times like those that he realised just how much Andy needed a mother.

Soon, he mused grimly, she would have one.

He jerked his attention back to the boat, and saw that the small craft had now almost reached his dock.

Tension snapped at him like a yappy dog. He shoved the scope aside and stormed across the living room, and the foyer, and then out of the open front door.

Damned intruders! He leaped down the flight of narrow steps, charged down the sloping lawn and thundered across the narrow strip of sandy beach to the jetty.

The sign at the end of the dock was executed in electric blue lettering and its message was clear:

‘PRIVATE: KEEP OUT.’

These idiots should have been able to see it by now. They should have been changing direction, and heading back out into the Strait. They were not. They were pulling in alongside the jetty. Logan saw red.

‘Ahoy there!’ He pounded along the wooden boards.

The couple turned to look up at him.

The breeze caught the woman’s glistening blonde hair, blowing it across her face. When she swept back the pale strands, he saw that her eyes were an unusual turquoise colour, and as they met his her expression of vulnerability took him by surprise...and touched something deep inside him that hadn’t been touched in five years.

Memories of Bethany, memories he’d managed to hold at bay ever since he’d returned to the island just hours ago, suddenly flooded his heart till he could hardly bear the pain. As a result, when he spoke again, his voice had a cold harshness that was quite unwarranted.

‘You can’t tie up here.’ He fisted his hands on his hips and glowered at the intruders. “This is a private jetty.’

Sara’s first glimpse of the man looming down from above threatened to buckle her knees. For a second, she’d thought it was Travis. Like her ex-husband, the stranger was tall and superbly built, dark-haired and attractive. But even as dismay curdled through her she realised the resemblance was superficial. Travis’s hair was brown; this man’s was black. Travis’s face was pale; this man’s was tanned. Travis’s eyes were tawny; the stranger’s were green.

Green and cold and hostile. And when they skimmed from Zach to her she detected a flicker of contempt.

Her hackles rose, and she felt Zach’s arm tighten around her shoulders, deliberately, warningly.

‘This is Madronna Island?’ he asked.

‘That’s right.’

‘And this is the Logan Hunter estate?’ Zach raised his brows.

‘Right again.’ The stranger rammed his hands into the pockets of his grey cotton shorts. Despite his casual attire every line of his body, from the arrogant set of his head to the confident set of his wide shoulders, indicated authority. ‘I’m Hunter, and this is my private property.’

‘The house.’ Zach nodded towards the enormous white house situated up on the crest of the hill. ‘You live there, I assume. But the cottage—’

Sara, for the first time, noticed the cottage. It was huddled beside a stand of trees, the setting sun pinking the white-painted stucco walls and glancing off the window-panes.

‘Yeah, the cottage?’ The man sounded as if he was having a struggle to control his temper. ‘What about it?’

‘I’ve rented it for the next couple of weeks. Till the middle of July.’ Zach withdrew a neatly folded form from the breast pocket of his black T-shirt. “Through—’ he glanced at the form ‘—Hunter West Realty in Vancouver.’

‘No way! Not this cottage, you haven’t—’

‘Yes.’ Sara finally found her voice. ‘We have. Zach, tie up the boat and let’s get settled in.’

‘Right, love.’ Zach scooped up the line and started to secure the vessel.

Sara put a hand on his shoulder to steady herself, and stepped off the deck onto the jetty.

She could feel the stranger’s hostility coming at her in almost palpable waves.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, lifting her chin haughtily and making to go past him.

He moved to stand in her way.

Resentment formed tight bands around her skull. ‘Do you mind?’

He didn’t budge. ‘There’s been a mistake.’ His tone brooked no argument. ‘The cottage is not for rent.’

Zach heaved a large red cooler, a box of groceries and a travel bag onto the jetty. He bounded after them, and the wooden structure shuddered under the impact of his weight.

‘If there’s been a mistake,’ he said firmly, ‘it’s not mine. OK, you obviously didn’t want the place rented out, but somebody in your office screwed up. You are the owner of Hunter West Realty?’ He held out the contract.

After a tense moment, the other man took it. He scanned it. His lips tightened. He thrust back the form.

‘Somebody’s head’s going to roll,’ he snapped. ‘But in the meantime I’ll fax my Vancouver office; we’ll find you somewhere else—and since the mistake was ours it’ll be a five-star chalet, and I’ll absorb the difference in price—’

‘Here we are—’ Zach tucked the contract back into his pocket ‘—and here we stay. You’re going to have to make the best of it.’ He swung up the cooler and travel bag. ‘Sara, can you manage the groceries? Good, then let’s get going. Sun’s well over the yardarm—time for us to have a drink.’

Logan Hunter stood his ground. ‘I’m putting this property up for sale. I need to have ready access to the cottage, to show prospective customers around.’

‘No problem.’ Zach took off along the jetty, with Sara at a half-run to keep up with him. She could hear Hunter; he was right behind her. ‘Sara, love, have you the key?’

Sara slipped it from the deep pocket of her dress as they crossed the beach. When she and Zach reached the cottage, she had the key ready. She unlocked the door quickly and stepped inside, with Zach at her heels.

‘Wait!’ Hunter’s voice had a distinctly frustrated edge. ‘We need to talk.’

‘You know what they say,’ Zach called back over his shoulder. ‘Possession is nine tenths of the law.’

He slammed the door shut, and ushered Sara through to the shabby living room. Dropping the bag on the worn beige carpet, he looked at her with twinkling blue eyes.

‘The man thinks you’re one of my floozies.’ He slapped his hand solidly against his thigh as he chuckled. ‘Does that bother you?’

‘Of course not!’ Sara kept her tone light, made it slightly scornful. The last thing she wanted was for Zach to guess how off-balance Logan Hunter had made her feel. ‘I don’t give a toot what he thinks of me. He’s the most hateful man I’ve ever met!’

Her lips twisted cynically. No, not the most hateful. Travis occupied that position. But certainly the second most hateful. And what rotten luck that Zach should have happened to choose this particular cottage for her holiday. He and her mother had wanted to give her a break, now that her divorce from Travis had finally come through. A time alone, a time for healing, a time for her to regain some peace of mind.

Peace of mind? With Logan Hunter sending hostile vibes her way from his rambling two-storey house on the hill?

Fat chance!

‘Daddy.’ Andrea Logan skidded to a halt just inside the kitchen doorway. ‘There’s somebody down there on our beach!’

Logan tightened his grip on the handle of the vegetable knife, sliced the blade viciously through the hothouse tomato on the cutting board, and turned to his daughter.

‘Yeah, I—’ He stared disbelievingly. ‘What the hell have you done to your hair?’

She put a hand up to the cropped brown strands that now raggedly cupped her head, dropped it again. And shrugged.

‘Cut it.’

But the careless twist of her thin shoulders was belied by the unmistakable welling of tears in her huge brown eyes. Tears she blinked back, but not before Logan had seen them.

She padded in her bare feet to the sink, and stood looking out, her back to her father.

Logan put down the knife, closed his eyes, suppressed an oath.

You’ve done it again, Hunter, he jeered silently: opened your big mouth and jammed both size eleven feet right in it.

Being the father of a motherless thirteen-year-old, he was fast discovering, wasn’t any cakewalk. Andy had been so easy to bring up...until she’d hit her teens. Then—wham! Overnight change, from angel to—

‘It’s Zach Grant!’ Andrea whirled round, her eyes no longer shining with tears, but with excitement. ‘Daddy, the man on the beach, it’s—’

‘Zach Grant. I know.’

‘But what’s he doing here? Did you invite him? Why didn’t you tell me? I didn’t know you knew him. When did he arrive?’

‘He’s here because somebody in one of my offices screwed up,’ he muttered. At least Grant was good for one thing—taking Andy’s mind off his reaction to her new hairstyle. ‘I did not invite him—I have never met the man before. They arrived when you were burning up the phone talking to your friend Chrissie in Vancouver; he’s rented the cottage for two weeks—’

‘And the lady with him—’

Logan snorted. Lady! That was a joke.

‘—she must be his latest girlfriend. Ooh,’ she squealed, ‘he must’ve dumped Felicia Mosscov already. Wait till I tell Chrissie!’ She swivelled back to the window again and all but climbed up onto the sink, to get a better view. ‘But this one—she looks way cool, Daddy!’ She turned again, and this time her eyes were veiled, but behind the veil there was a spark that set off a warning bell in Logan’s head. ‘I think I’ll go for a walk.’ She made for the door.

Logan snaked out an arm and caught her by the tail of her shirt. ‘Young lady,’ he said, ‘you will do no such thing. I don’t want you talking to these people. The man’s got no morals, and as for the woman—’

‘I don’t plan to talk to them,’ Andy said smoothly. ‘I won’t.’ She grimaced. ‘Do you think I’d want Zach Grant to see me with my hair like this?’ She leaned up and kissed her father on the jaw. ‘OK, the cut was a mistake, but when we go back to Vancouver I’ll get it styled properly. Pax?’

Pax. It was what Bethany had always said when they’d had one of their teasing arguments and she’d wanted her own way. Andy knew it, had always known it, and played it like an expert. He had no defence against it. Against the memories.

‘Pax.’ He managed a grin as he ruffled the dark curly disaster. ‘But get back here in half an hour and we’ll eat. How was Chrissie, by the way?’

Andy called back over her shoulder, ‘Fine; she and her folks are coming by this way one day next week—they’re going to spend a couple of nights at their cabin on Galiano and Chrissie’s allowed to invite me along. Can I go? I told her yes, I knew it’d be fine.’

She was gone before he could answer, and his ‘Yeah, that’ll be OK’ bounced back at him from the kitchen walls.

‘Zach...’

‘Mmm?’

Sara looked up at him uncertainly. ‘I have the oddest feeling somebody’s watching us.’

Zach took her hand and swung it as they walked along the beach, just below a stand of trees. ‘Somebody is,’ he said. ‘We’re being followed.’

‘Why didn’t you say something?’

‘It’s just a teenager. I spotted the kid up there in the trees, a few minutes ago. Probably holidaying in one of the properties further along. I believe there are four or five other houses on the island.’ Zach yawned. ‘Let’s go back now, honey. I’m going to hit the sack early. I was up at five today, and I need to be out of here again at the crack of dawn tomorrow.’

‘Sure. Boy or girl?’

‘Boy or girl what?’

‘The teenager.’

‘Oh. Girl. Punky haircut.’

‘Where exactly did you see her?’

Zach looked round, scanned the treed area. ‘Over there...but she’s gone. Not nervous, are you?’

‘Good heavens, no. I haven’t a nervous bone in my body.’

‘That’s what I thought...otherwise I’d have rented you a de luxe condo where you’d have crowds of people around.’

Sara shuddered. ‘I’ve had my fill of de luxe, Zach. And I like to have my own space. Need it right now, actually... so the cottage is great. No frills. Back to basics. Just perfect. I really do appreciate you and Mom setting this up for me. Ever since I found out about Travis and—’ her throat tightened and she couldn’t get the words out ‘—you know... I somehow haven’t been able to get myself together enough to organise myself out of a paper bag!’

‘We’ve both been worried about you. But now that that rotter’s finally legally out of your life you can start to put the pieces together again.’

They’d reached the cottage door. Zach opened it, and stood back to let Sara pass.

She glanced around again, just before she went inside, and that was when she saw the girl.

The teenager was peering at them from behind an arbutus tree. The moment she realised Sara had spotted her she slipped out of sight, elusive as a forest nymph.

A leggy little thing, Sara mused, and pretty—except for the unfortunate haircut!

‘You’re smiling,’ Zach said. ‘What’s up?’

‘Oh...that girl. I saw her...but she’s gone now.’

‘Probably the last you’ll see of her.’ Zach put his hand in the small of her back and nudged her inside the cottage. ‘Young kid like that...what could she find to interest her in a couple of old fogeys like us?’

Next morning, the sound of a motor boat woke Logan.

He grunted, flung his arms out over the mattress, and squinted at his bedside clock.

It wasn’t even six! Who the devil was making that racket before the birds had even started their dawn chorus?

Flinging himself out of bed, he stumbled, naked, across to the window overlooking the Straits, and yanked up the venetian blinds.

Eyes still bleary with sleep, he peered out. And blinked when he saw that the white cabin cruiser was no longer tied up at the dock. It was heading away fast in the direction of the mainland.

Deep satisfaction immediately followed his initial moment of surprise—deep satisfaction and a relish that was almost malicious. Had the cabin been too spartan for Zach Grant’s sybaritic tastes? Or had it been the haughty blonde who had found its shabby bareness intolerable? Whatever—Logan ran his fingers through his tousled hair and grinned—they were gone.

Hallelujah!

Fired with a sudden burst of energy, he crossed to the bathroom and snatched up a pair of swimming trunks from the towel rail. He’d go down there right now and remove their garbage—people like them always left garbage: empty bottles, unwashed glasses, overflowing ashtrays, soiled sheets...and worse. Contempt curled his upper lip.

Afterwards, he’d go for a swim off the dock.

The water would be icy; but it might help wash away his feeling of profound distaste at the thought of the cottage having been used as a love nest.

Sara had planned to return to her bed after seeing Zach off, but by the time she’d walked back to the cottage from the jetty the chilly morning air had slapped her wide awake.

So instead she made for the smaller bedroom which Zach had used; she tore the linen off the bed, packed the blankets away, and, after tidying up the room, tossed the sheets and pillow slips into the bathroom hamper.

Then she was about to step into the shower, when she changed her mind. She’d soak in a long and lazy bath...and then she’d make herself another pot of coffee.

It was wonderful, she reflected as she turned on the taps and slipped out of her robe, to be on holiday. To have no worries; no deadlines; no plans of any kind.

And the best thing about this particular holiday was that she was going to spend it absolutely on her own.

As for that hateful man in the white house on the hill, she would just ignore him, pretend he didn’t exist.

It was the only way to deal with people like him!

Logan stuck the key in the lock, turned the knob, and pushed the door open.

The interior of the cottage was silent. The only sounds came from outside. Birds warbled, dancing wavelets splashed against the jetty, the brisk breeze rustled leaves in the garden. He left the door open and stepped inside.

The air was dusty, with the faint lingering smell of coffee. So...they’d breakfasted before they’d gone.

He moved through to the kitchen, and snorted with disgust. Just as he’d expected, they’d left the place a pigsty. Hadn’t even emptied the coffeepot; hadn’t even cleared the table, far less washed the mugs and plates.

He’d start cleaning in here, but first he’d check to see what kind of a mess they’d left in the other areas.

He poked his nose into the smaller bedroom and saw that the mattress was bare. He assumed the couple had used the larger room, with its double bed, and, when he checked it out, saw that his assumption had been correct.

Slobs.

The sheets were on the floor, as were the tumbled blankets. They’d had some kind of a wild night, he thought as he glowered at the bed.

And if they’d left the bedroom like this he could only imagine what was awaiting him in the bathroom.

He strode down the narrow hallway, took a deep breath...and flung the door open.


CHAPTER TWO

SARA screamed.

Lost in daydreams and pampered to the chin in gardenia-scented bath bubbles, she had drifted off to sleep. Now, as the door crashed inwards, with her scream shrilling in her ears, she shot up to a sitting position. And with her heart in her mouth she stared with horrified disbelief and fast-rising panic at the figure in the doorway. She’d always felt nature had dealt her a generous hand in the courage department; now she felt terror squeeze that courage down to the size and consistency of a mini-marshmallow!

Logan Hunter.

Man on the prowl.

Naked man on the prowl!

No, not naked; he was wearing swimming trunks—but they were the same brown as his skin so her error had been understandable. She gulped back the lump that almost closed her throat. His black hair was dishevelled, his jaw dark-stubbled, and his eyes were fixed, with the blank look of a person hypnotised, on the foam frothing up over her breasts.

Sex. He wanted sex. He’d seen Zach leave and had lost no time in coming after her! The man was a raving maniac!

‘Get out!’ she shrieked. Snatching the heavy glass bottle of bubble beads from the rack at her elbow, she threw it wildly at him. She missed by a country mile. It smashed against the wall and clattered unbroken to the floor.

‘Get out,’ she screeched, ‘you nasty, disgusting old pervert—’ She scooped up the giant-sized cake of Heavenly Gardenia soap from the edge of the bath and rocketed it at his face. Her aim was atrocious, but he dodged, and the hard oval bar met his brow with a crack that made him wince.

‘Ouch!’ He staggered back a step. ‘Cut it out.’

To her dismay, she noticed that the bath bubbles had started to deflate. Frantically she threshed the dying suds with the flat of her hands in an attempt to revive them, but in vain. The water had cooled, and the bubbles only grew smaller and smaller, concealed her less and less...

With a quavering moan, she slid down as far as she could go without submerging herself fully, and prayed that the few remaining bubbles would continue to act as a veil.

‘I’ll drown myself!’ she moaned, splaying her hands over her breasts and almost throwing out her back as she twisted her crossed legs away from him. ‘I’ll drown myself, I swear, rather than give in to you and your wicked—’

‘Give in to me?’ His curse turned the air blue. ‘Lady, you’re out of your mind. I saw the boat leave and I merely came down to see what Zach Grant had left behind. What I certainly didn’t expect to find was...you.’ He crossed to the mirror above the sink, swiped a hand over the glass to clear the steam, and leaned forward to inspect his brow. ‘You just missed my eye,’ he accused. ‘Lucky for you—’ he turned ‘—or I’d have sued the pants off you...’

His gaze trailed from her face to her body, and he raised a cynical brow. ‘But I guess,’ he added mockingly, ‘they’re already off.’

Sara felt a sheet of heat skim from her neck to the tips of her toes. She had no idea how much of her was visible through the scanty remaining foam—but she’d have walked barefoot over white-hot coals rather than give this man the satisfaction of seeing her peek to check.

‘All right.’ She tilted her chin regally. ‘Please leave now. Your explanation and apology are accepted—’

‘Apology?’ he sputtered. ‘What apology? You’re the one who should be doing the apologising—’

A loud hammering on the front door stopped him short.

‘Hello?’ The voice was high-pitched, nervous, young. ‘Anyone in there? Is everything OK?’

Sara saw him roll his eyes.

‘My daughter!’ He raked a hand through his already mussed black hair, his expression that of an animal caught in a leghold trap. ‘Where angels fear to tread, she just barges in—’

‘Like father, like daughter!’ Sara’s courage had swelled up again, but too late to give her any feeling of pride or pleasure.

‘I guess.’ The faintest twinkle gleamed in his eyes.

Green eyes. Sara had noticed that when she’d first met him. Then, and moments ago, they’d been cold and hostile. Now, for the first time, she saw a glimmer of warmth, and it kindled an odd spark of excitement deep inside her.

‘For God’s sake—’ his voice was hoarse ‘—don’t tell her about this. I’ll never hear the end of it.’

Without waiting for an answer, he wheeled away, slamming the bathroom door behind him.

Sara slumped, boneless as a drunken jellyfish. Her body trembled; her heart trembled. If that confrontation was a portent of the kind of holiday that lay ahead, perhaps it would indeed have been better if Zach had rented her a de luxe condo in a busy holiday resort...

‘What happened, Dad?’ The girl’s voice drifted into the bathroom through the open window as father and daughter walked along the side of the cottage. ‘I heard the scream and I ran to your room to see if you had too, but you weren’t there, so I guessed you must have come down to investigate.’

Sara held her breath, curious to hear Logan’s answer.

‘It was nothing, sweetie. Zach Grant’s gone—his girlfriend’s here on her own, and apparently when she was in the bathroom she saw a... mouse.’

The voices faded, and once again Sara relaxed.

A mouse. No, Mr Logan, she disdainfully corrected him, what I saw in my bathroom was certainly not a mouse.

It looked much more like a rat.

‘After we finish breakfast, I’m going to start clearing out your mother’s things from the master bedroom.’ Logan watched his daughter carefully from across the verandah table, alert to any sign of distress. ‘Care to help?’

Andy’s huge brown eyes gave nothing away as they met his. ‘No, that’s OK, Dad. You should probably do it on your own. I’ll start packing up the books in the den. Where are the boxes?’

‘Should be a bunch up in the attic. We’ll get them later.’

Andy nodded and, bending her head over her bowl, dug her spoon into her cereal.

Logan felt a wave of weariness wash over him. Andy was a real trooper and he was so proud of her he sometimes could hardly contain it...but he wished new, as he so often did, that she weren’t so adept at keeping her emotions under control. Apart from an outburst of hysterical sobbing when her mother had died, she’d never let go. Not once. At least, not in front of him. If she cried, she cried alone.

In the beginning, he’d tried to talk to her about her Mom, but in the end had given up. She was as closed as a clam. It would have helped her, he felt sure, if they could have shared their sorrow. And it would have helped him too.

Another problem was that everybody they knew avoided talking about Bethany. They probably thought they were being kind, but it would have been more natural to remember her aloud, to recall all the wonderful things about her.

Sometimes it seemed to him as if his beloved wife had never existed...except in his own life.

‘That was a big sigh, Dad,’ Andy murmured. ‘What’s up?’

‘Oh...it’s...’ he searched his brain for an answer that would satisfy her ‘...um...just that woman in the cottage, sweetie—I want you to keep away from her.’

He got up from the table and, shoving his hands into his pockets, looked down at his daughter. Her hair was damp from her shower, and the sun caught copper highlights in the ragged strands. His heart ached as he remembered how Bethany’s long brown hair had glinted in just such a way...

‘Why, Dad?’

‘Why what?’

Andy uttered a sound of exasperation. ‘Why must I keep away from “that woman”?’

She said ‘that woman’ in a tone of dark melodrama, which Logan chose to ignore. ‘Because, daughter mine, rightly or wrongly, society judges people by the company they keep. I want you to stick with people whose values are the same as your own. A good reputation’s worth its weight in gold—and it’s something you can lose only once.’

‘Kind of like virginity, right, Dad?’

Logan cleared his throat, and busied himself with gathering up his dishes. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Darned right.’

A feeling of helplessness and inadequacy almost swamped him. He was no good at this; he was clumsy, awkward—or, to use Andy’s latest expression of derision, ‘pathetic’.

She needed a mother, especially at this stage in her life, where she was herself on the threshold of womanhood. And he did intend to take himself another wife...but only because of his promise to Bethany.

Just the memory of it broke his heart.

‘Darling,’ she’d whispered as she’d lain dying in the stark white hospital bed, ‘promise me you’ll marry again.’ Her voice had caught. ‘I couldn’t bear it if I thought you’d go through the rest of your life grieving...’

He’d have promised her the moon if he’d thought it would give her a moment’s respite from her suffering.

‘I promise—’ the lump in his throat had almost choked him ‘—if that’s what you want, I’ll marry again...’

And the promise had been worth it, to see the quick shine of relief in her dulled eyes, to feel the tiny surge of strength in the fragile fingers clutching his.

He’d had to turn away to hide his tears.

Five years had passed since he’d made that promise.

Five long years, and his failure to honour it weighed on him more heavily with each passing day.

No more.

He’d sworn to himself that this summer he’d find himself a wife.

She’d have to be someone Andy liked.

She’d have to be someone he himself found compatible.

She’d have to be someone sensible. Someone with no frilly romantic notions. Someone willing to enter into a marriage of convenience.

He felt a dark cloud of despair settle over him as he carried his dishes into the house.

Where the hell would he find somebody like that?

Marriage to Travis Wynter had stifled Sara’s creativity. Had all but killed it.

It hadn’t happened straight away, but it had started to happen soon after the honeymoon.

Unhappy memories flowed into Sara’s mind as she tugged the last item from her travel bag—an elegant silk and rayon sweater of turquoise and silver, with the trademark Sally Cole label hand-sewn inside the back neckline.

Her label.

Her design.

Her pride.

She sighed, and ran a gentle hand over the soft fabric. Her marriage had been a mistake; she and Travis had been totally wrong for each other. His possessiveness, the way he’d treated her like an item in his collection of beautiful artifacts...well, that had been one thing... but his dismissal of her talent had been another.

Travis was an accountant; he saw life in terms of facts and figures. His favourite expression was ‘the bottom line’. And she’d discovered, to her dismay, that where their marriage was concerned ‘the bottom line’ was that he expected her to run his home the way he ran his business: efficiently and economically. He’d seen no reason to hire a housekeeper when he had a wife. He’d entertained clients at home on a regular basis, and on those occasions he’d expected her to cook the meal, serve it, and be the perfect hostess. And he’d expected the enormous Wynter house, in Vancouver’s glitziest suburb, to be kept in immaculate condition.

If he’d seen as much as one mote of dust on the furniture, his disapproval had been swift and harsh.

‘For God’s sake, Sara, what do you do all day? All I ask is that you keep house and provide meals for my clients. Make them feel special. How special do you think they feel when they see you haven’t even dusted the damned coffee table before they turned up? This is business—’

‘But my designs, my knitwear—that’s business too,’ she’d protested vigorously in the beginning. ‘I’m not going to give it up!’

‘Nobody’s asking you to give it up. Just for God’s sake get things in perspective. Could we survive on the income from your little sweaters? I think not. The bottom line is, I’m the breadwinner here. If you want to draw and knit, go ahead. But after everything else gets done, mmm?’

His business had been prospering by leaps and bounds, and before very long Sara had found, wearily, that there was no ‘after’. And even if there had been his cold dismissal of her work had shrivelled something inside her.

Life with Travis Wynter had allowed no room for that soaring of the spirit that she needed if she were to create.

She’d wondered, sometimes—and still wondered—if he had not only stifled her creativity, but had killed it.

Inhaling a deep breath, she rose from the bed and slung the lightweight sweater over her shoulders. On her way to the bedroom door, she paused as a movement outside the window caught her attention.

It was the girl from the white house—Logan Hunter’s daughter. She was running down the sloping lawn, towards the cottage.

What could she want?

Sara walked along the narrow passageway to the front door, and opened it. The girl was now just a few feet away, coming up the path. She stopped abruptly when she saw Sara.

‘His,’ Sara greeted her, and thought, What a lovely child...huge brown eyes, smooth clear skin, neat little figure...but oh, that hair! ‘Were you looking for me?’

The girl’s cheeks had turned pink, and she seemed on the point of flight.

‘I was up in the attic,’ she said in a rush, ‘looking for boxes...for packing...and I found this.’

‘This’ was a mouse trap! Somehow Sara managed to keep her face straight. ‘Just what I need!’ She took the trap, gave a dainty shiver. ‘I’m such a coward when it comes to mice. A lion, now...if I saw one of those in the bathroom, I’d just grab a back scrubber and attack with gusto!’

The girl giggled. ‘Oh, yeah, sure...’

‘Would you like to come in...have a cup of coffee?’

‘I don’t drink coffee.’

‘Iced tea, then, or a pop?’

‘No, thanks.’ Her gaze trailed wistfully over Sara’s sweater. ‘That’s a Sally Cole original, isn’t it? They’re way cool...my friend Chrissie’s mom has one; she bought it years ago but she says you can’t get them any more.’ She sighed. ‘Well, I’d better get back...’

‘Ah, yes, the packing.’

‘We’re going to sell. The house and the cottage. Everything. My dad’s putting the property up for sale.’

‘I guess you’re in a hurry to go back and help him, then. Many hands make light work, don’t they say?’

‘Well, he’s upstairs and I’m not actually helping him this morning. He’s clearing out Mom’s things—I thought he’d want to do that on his own.’

A chill prickled Sara’s nape as she heard the catch in the young voice, saw the quickly blinked-back tears in the luminous brown eyes. She wanted to reach out to the child, but without warning the slight figure whirled away and ran off, taking a short cut over an overgrown rosebed. To Sara’s horror, she tripped on a tangled root, and fell forward, to land in a crumpled heap on the ground.

Sara rushed to help her get up, but as the girl put her weight on her right foot she winced and grabbed onto Sara for support.

‘I’ve done something to my ankle,’ she said with a half-sob. ‘It really hurts.’

‘Come inside and—’

‘Thanks...but I’d rather go home. Will you help me walk back? I don’t think I can do it on my own.’

‘Of course. Here, put your arm around my neck.’ Sara grimaced. ‘I haven’t even asked you your name,’ she said as she braced herself to support the slender figure.

‘It’s Andrea. Andrea Beth Hunter.’

‘Andrea. That’s pretty. I’m Sara Wynter.’

‘Miss Wynter, I—’

‘It’s Mrs Wynter, actually, but please call me Sara.’

They started up towards the house, with Andrea hopping erratically on her left leg, and leaning heavily on Sara.

‘Mrs Wynter, I...um...saw you with Zach Grant.’

Sara hid a smile as she heard the wistful note in Andrea’s voice. So... a fan. ‘Yes, he brought me here. I wish he could’ve stayed longer, but he’s—’

‘He’s filming in Vancouver. I know. My friend Chrissie and I—we’re members of his fan club. Will he...be coming back?’

‘He’ll be coming to pick me up in a couple of weeks. Then shortly after he’ll be returning to Los Angeles. He lives there...but of course—’ Sara smiled ‘—you’ll already know that.’

She was heading for the front door, but Andrea said, ‘Let’s use the side door. I don’t want Dad to hear me come in...if he sees me hopping like this...well, he’s a regular old fusspot!’

‘But you’ll have to tell him about your ankle—’

‘Oh, I will. But first I’ll put an ice pack on it. There’s a bag of green peas in the freezer; I’ll use that.’

On reaching the side door, Sara tugged it open, and they entered what turned out to be a small sitting room.

‘The kitchen’s across the hall from here,’ Andrea said.

Sara noticed her face had become very white. ‘Come sit down on this sofa and put your leg up while I get the ice.’

After a token protest, Andrea allowed herself to be helped onto the sofa, where she lay back, her eyes closed. ‘There’s a bottle of aspirin in one of the drawers,’ she said huskily. ‘Could you bring me a couple?’

‘Of course.’

From above came the sound of someone moving about.

‘That’s Dad,’ Andrea offered with a weak gesture of one hand. ‘He’s packing in the master bedroom. Like I said...’ Her voice trailed away.

Sara hurried to the kitchen, and found the bag of peas in the freezer section of the fridge. Locating the aspirin wasn’t so easy. She pulled out drawer after drawer, riffled through the tidy contents of each one, and had reached the last, in a cabinet at the far end of the kitchen, when she heard Logan Hunter’s voice come from the doorway behind her.

‘What the hell,’ he said in a tone of quiet menace, ‘are you doing in my house?’

She put a hand to her throat as she swivelled round, and threw him a shaky smile. ‘You startled me! I’m just looking for—’

‘What you’re looking for, and what you’re going to get, lady, is trouble. You’ll find nothing else here. I don’t keep money stashed in the kitchen, and if you’re looking for drugs in that medicine cabinet you’ve come to the wrong place—’

‘Daddy!’ Horror filled the voice that came from behind Logan. ‘Don’t! Mrs Wynter came to help me—’

Sara looked beyond Logan as he spun round, and saw Andy hopping along the carpeted hallway in her bare feet, bracing her hand against the wall with each jerky hop.

‘Andy? What the—?’ Logan sounded shocked.

‘I fell, Dad, and twisted my ankle, or sprained it or something. I had to ask Mrs Wynter to help me back to the house, and then she offered to get me an ice bag and some aspirin.’ Face ashen, Andrea started to slump, and would have slid to the floor if her father hadn’t moved fast.

He scooped her up in his arms and, muttering under his breath, took off with her in the direction of the small sitting room, leaving Sara standing alone in the kitchen, feeling limp as a wet rag herself.

Her hand shook as she put the aspirin bottle on the countertop. It shook as she set down the frozen peas beside the aspirin. And by the time she had poured a glass of cold water from the tap, and placed it by the peas, her whole body was trembling.

The man, she decided with a rising tide of anger, was an ogre...and he certainty didn’t deserve to have a daughter as sweet as Andrea.

She hoped the child was going to be all right.

But, either way, she herself was going to avoid both father and daughter, for the rest of her time on the island.

And if that turned out to be impossible she’d place a call to Zach and ask him to come back early and pick her up.

No way would her creative juices ever have a chance to start flowing again as long as Logan Hunter was around.

The thought added fuel to her anger, and resentment burned to her very bones as she let herself out by the kitchen door and stomped back down the hill to the cottage.


CHAPTER THREE

JUST before noon, Sara heard heavy footsteps outside the bathroom window and recognised Logan Hunter’s purposeful tread.

What did he want this time?

And his timing couldn’t have been worse, she decided as she glanced ruefully down at her skimpily clad figure!

She jumped when she heard his loud rat-tat-tat on the front door.

Wrapping a huge terry towel around herself, over her undies, she padded barefoot out of the bathroom, and was halfway along the passage when he knocked again.

She stopped at the closed door and spoke through it. ‘What do you want?’ Her tone was frosty.

‘I want to talk to you.’

‘This is not a good time.’

She listened. There was no sound of retreating feet. Heaving out a frustrated sigh, she leaned back against the door and looked down the narrow hallway to the living room. A dingy little room. And bare as a baby’s bottom. Minimum amount of furniture...sofa, two armchairs, one coffee table, one ancient TV. ‘I said,’ she threw into the hallway, ‘this is not a good time.’

‘Then I’ll wait here till it is. What I want to say has to be said.’

‘Through the door, then.’

‘To your face.’

‘Sorry, but—’

He shoved the door open and sent her flying down the passage. She only just managed to keep her balance, but as she scrambled to stay upright the towel became dislodged, caught under her feet and she tripped. Flailing in the air, she fell against the wall with a sideways thud that jarred her shoulder and knocked the breath out of her.

Logan Hunter loomed over her, his arms outstretched in an offer of help that wasn’t only too late, but also unwelcome.

‘You,’ she gasped, ‘are a menace!’ She snatched up her towel and breathlessly wrapped it around herself... but not before he’d treated himself to a good eyeful of every creamy curve! Resentment swept through her with the steaming heat of tropical rain.

‘Hey,’ he protested, ‘how was I expected to know you were leaning against the—?’

‘What right do you think you have to push your way in here as if you owned the place...?’ She halted, jolted by the sudden stunned expression in his eyes. ‘What’s the...?’

‘You’re green,’ he choked out. ‘What in the world happened to you? Are you sick?’

He staggered back against the opposite wall as if the very sight of her had knocked the knees from under him.

‘All right,’ she snapped, ‘say what you have to say then get out.’

‘It’s a face mask.’ He ran a hand over his mouth, and she was sure he was hiding a smile. ‘Ruined now, of course. Cracked all to hell.’ The smile couldn’t be contained. It became a chuckle. And then a full-bodied belly laugh. ‘Hey, I’m sorry ... but if you could only see yourself—’

‘Say what you have to say,’ she gritted, ‘and get out of here!’ Out of my life!

‘First of all, then—’ his voice had a strangled sound ‘—I came in here as if I owned the place because I do own the place.’

‘When it’s rented out, you have absolutely no right whatsoever to come in here without an invitation.’

‘Which you were not about to offer, as I recall—’

‘Nor ever will! OK, that’s the “First of all” taken care of. Now, what was the real point of your visit?’

‘I came to apologise.’

‘For...?’

‘For... assuming the worst this morning. For accusing you without asking for your side of the story. I assure you it won’t ever happen again.’

For a second, she melted. He looked so sincerely repentant, she was almost on the point of forgiving him. And then she heard a muffled moan come from deep in his throat, and she knew he was laughing at her. Again.

‘Get out!’ Temper aflare, she jerked the towel even more tightly around her breasts to make doubly sure it wouldn’t fall again as she marched back along the hall to the door, which still lay open.

She stalked to one side, bracing herself, waiting for him to pass by.

‘I think,’ he said softly, ‘it would be a good idea if, from now on, you and I could keep out of each other’s way.’

‘Oh, you’ll get no argument from me on that point, Mr Hunter. I couldn’t agree more.’

‘Well, hell, finally we’ve agreed on something. Who says miracles don’t happen?’

He grinned, and the sight infuriated her. She wanted to slap him, but she stood still as a marble statue, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing how close to being out of control she really was.

He left then. And as he brushed past her his arm touched hers. She hadn’t been expecting that, nor could she possibly have anticipated the shock of electricity that passed between them. It jolted her whole body and she inhaled sharply. With the inhalation came the musky scent of him.

It was heady, and intoxicating, and erotic.

She stared after him, her legs sagging, her mind reeling, as he strode away along the path.

She couldn’t have moved had her life depended on it.

She was still standing there, rooted to the floor, long after he’d disappeared around the corner.

She’d never felt such a thing before. Oh, she’d read about it, but she’d never experienced it—that sexual electricity that could arc between a man and a woman.

It was disturbing...it was exhilarating.

And it was the very last thing in the world she wanted.

Over the next week, Logan saw next to nothing of his near-neighbour...but that didn’t mean he didn’t think about her.

He didn’t want to think about her, but from time to time, when he least expected it, images of her would sneak into his mind.

Two images, to be exact.

The first invariably set his pulses pounding: the fiery Mrs Wynter wearing nothing but a white cotton bra and bikini panties, her skin so smooth it just begged to be caressed.

The second...well, even now he couldn’t think of it without chuckling. She’d looked like an alien from Mars with that green face mask...but with those turquoise eyes spitting at him and those pink lips snapping at him and that glorious blonde hair scraped back in a perky ponytail she’d been something else again...

Only what that something else was he couldn’t pin down. And he didn’t even begin to try to.

The woman spelled trouble, with every letter in bold black caps!

His decision to stay away from her was one of the most sensible he’d ever made in his life.

And on this sunny afternoon, as he walked into his study, he idly congratulated himself on that very thing. Life on the island had always been simple, and he wanted to keep it that way. No complications, no entanglements.

‘Andy—’ he hitched a hip on the edge of the computer desk, where his daughter was sitting at the keyboard ‘—I thought I’d take a hike to the old swimming hole and cool off. Want to come?’

‘No, thanks, Dad.’ Andrea’s eyes were fixed on the monitor. ‘I’ve got tons of e-mail to answer. You go, though. I’ll catch you later.’

‘Fan club stuff?’

‘Mmm...’

‘OK.’ He glanced around. ‘Can’t believe we’ve been here a week, but we’ve gotten a pile of work done...though this room looks so darned bare now without all our books. The whole house looks bare, with all the knick-knacks packed away—’

‘Dad, do you mind? I’m leaving with Chrissie tomorrow morning...I’ve really got to get these letters written this afternoon.’

He pushed himself to his feet. ‘Right, I’ll be off. What are we having for dinner?’

‘Oh, it’s my turn, isn’t it?’ Finally, she looked up at him, but in an absent way, with a distracted frown tucking her brows together. ‘How about...um...a stir-fry?’

Her mother’s eyes. Large, the colour of rich dark chocolate, fringed with thick sable lashes. Just looking into them sent his thoughts spinning backwards. The ache of his loss...would it never go away? He’d always known he was a one-woman man; what he hadn’t known was the price he’d have to pay for being that way...

‘Stir-fry it is.’ He set a light hand on his daughter’s shoulder. ‘Did I ever tell you you’re a great kid? ’

‘Did I ever tell you you’re a great dad?’

Under his palm, he felt her shoulder muscles tighten. Her eyes lost their vague expression and became focused, serious. Determined.

‘We’re a team, right?’ she said.

He tried to lighten the moment. ‘Oh, sure...till some Prince Charming comes along and whisks you away on the back of his white charger—’

‘No way!’ She surged up from her chair and gave him a fierce hug. ‘I’ll never leave you, Dad. That’s one thing you’ll never have to worry about. I don’t want a Prince Charming. I don’t need anybody else but you. We don’t need anybody else but each other. For ever.’

When Logan left the house a few minutes later, his mood was troubled. And it remained that way as he followed the track through the woods to the swimming hole. How come he’d never noticed before just how dependent on him Andy had become? Sure, they spent a lot of time together, he’d made a point of doing that; he’d tried to fill the space her mother had left in her life. But he hadn’t realised the intensity of her dependence on him. He hadn’t realised that there was a possessive aspect to her feelings for him.

If ignored, it could eventually become unhealthy. He had to put a stop to it. Without delay.

He was still thinking about the problem half an hour later, when he heard the sound of rushing water ahead. Veering off the track, he cut through the undergrowth, and made his way to the six-foot-high rock east of the fall.

Shedding his shirt and trainers, he ambled round the rock, and dived into the crystal clear waters of the pool.

Sara started as she heard the sound of splashing. Not the steady rush of the waterfall, but a more erratic sound.

She pushed herself up on her elbows and squinted against the sun. She’d come upon the swimming hole by accident days ago, and had spent her afternoons there ever since. Afternoons that had been peaceful and un interrupted. But now... She frowned as she saw that the surface of the swimming hole was rippled.

Someone surged to the surface, and her heart lurched. It was a man. With dark hair.

She sprang to her feet, and slipped behind the huge granite rock at her side. Peeking round warily, pulses racing, she waited.

The swimmer shot to the surface again. And started swimming lethargically around the large pool. He was wearing brief trunks... the same colour as his hide.

Logan Hunter.

Frustration burned like bile in her throat. Was there no getting away from the man? She’d come all this way to avoid him...and here he was, like the proverbial bad penny!

She drew back behind the rock again, and that was when she noticed his shirt and sneakers. He’d tossed them down there, quite unaware that anyone else was around.

Her eyes narrowed. A wicked smile twitched the corners of her mouth. He’d called her a thief, hadn’t he? Well, give a dog a bad name, might as well hang it!

It took her just a moment to gather up her own things and put them in her backpack; then she scooped up his shirt and sneakers.

It’s going to be a long walk home, Mr Hunter!

Laughter bubbled up inside her as she snuck away.

‘Gotcha!’

Sara gasped, and Logan’s shirt and shoes tumbled from her hands.

Logan took enormous delight in having startled the devious Mrs Wynter as he grasped her shoulders. He whirled her round and he couldn’t keep the smugness from his expression as he looked down into her shocked face.

Her cheeks were bright pink. ‘I thought—’

‘You thought I wouldn’t see you.’ What kind of perfume was she wearing? Something tangy, provocative... ‘But I did. And now you’re going to have to pay.’

‘Pay?’ she asked faintly.

‘You didn’t think you could plot to make me hike two miles in my bare feet... and get away with it?’ he mocked.

‘It was a joke.’

‘Ah. A joke.’

‘Well—’ she tilted her nose up at him defiantly ‘—not so much a joke as...retribution.’

‘For...?’

‘For calling me a thief.’

‘I apologised for that.’

‘It still stings.’

She tried to wrench free, but he only held her arms tighter. ‘Not as much as my feet would have stung if I’d had to walk home with no shoes.’ She looked breathless; her chest was rising and falling rapidly, and her glorious turquoise eyes were dilated. On her brow, almost hidden by the sweep of her blonde hair, was a tiny indentation. The kind of mark left by chicken pox. He wanted to kiss it...

‘Well, you won’t have to suffer now,’ she said. ‘So would you mind letting me go? I want—’

She broke off, and he saw her swallow. ‘Yes?’ His voice had become husky. ‘What do you want?’

The pink tingeing her cheeks had darkened to a vibrant scarlet. ‘I want you to stop...looking at me like that.’

He raised his brows. ‘Like what?’

‘As if you’re...wondering how it would feel to...kiss me.’

‘Mind-reader, huh?’

‘No, just...a woman.’ She flicked a quick look at his bare chest, which gleamed wet from the pool. Nervously, she ran the tip of her tongue over her upper lip.

She’d been right; he’d wanted to kiss her. But now, as he watched that moist pink tongue move where he’d wanted his own lips to move, he wanted a whole lot more.

But a kiss would be a good place to start.

He drove his cool, damp hands into her hair and swept it right back from her face. Then he clasped her head with his long fingers, holding her fast.

For a long moment they stared into each other’s eyes, and sexual excitement shimmered between them like the gossamer flutter of a butterfly’s wings.

‘You’re wondering too,’ he said softly, and, sliding a hand from her hair, traced a fingertip over her lip, where her tongue had been. He felt the faint tremble of the moist flesh, and found it incredibly arousing.

Her lashes fluttered closed, as if she. couldn’t bear to look at him, couldn’t bear the electricity crackling back and forth between them.

‘Tell me,’ he whispered, now tracing his fingertip over the fine curve of her jaw. ‘Tell me you’re wondering too.’

A small moan was her only answer. He lowered his head, and water from his hair dropped onto the thin cotton of her shirt, making it cling in places to her breasts. His throat almost closed as lust catapulted him from tenderness to urgency. Male hormones amok. Testosterone on the rampage.

With a ragged groan, he dragged her against his wet body. And kissed her. Desperately.

The taste of her lips was even more lusciously sweet than he’d anticipated, the silky texture something close to heaven. He deepened the kiss, and heard her whimper. He stepped her backwards towards the tree behind her. She sagged weakly against it, and he slid his mouth along her jaw to the sensitive spot below her ear.

‘Still with me?’ he whispered against her scented skin.

She slid her arms around his neck, clung there as if her legs had become too weak to support her. ‘That—’ her voice was blurred, like velvet rubbed the wrong way ‘—is a loaded question—’

‘Daddy!’

The appalled voice came from behind him.

He froze...and felt Sara stiffen. Then she snatched her arms from around his neck and pushed him from her.

Oh, God, he thought despairingly—Andy! Where had she come from, and what was she doing here?

Heartbeats jamming, he turned.

His daughter was ten feet away. She was wearing jeans over a red and white spotted swimsuit, and she had a red towel slung over her shoulder. Her hair stood up in jagged little curls, and her face was whiter than the snowy foam at the foot of the waterfall.

‘Sweetie—’ Logan heard the choking sound in his own voice ‘—what are you doing here? I thought you were going to be busy with your letters—’

‘How could you, Daddy?’ The huge brown eyes were filled to the brim with tears. She didn’t once let her gaze flit to Sara; kept it fixed, agonisedly, on him. ‘Oh, how could you?’

‘Honey—’

‘I followed you. I thought you were lonely. I felt sorry for you, after you’d gone, so I came after you. But all the time you knew I was busy and you were planning to meet—’

‘No, no, Andy.’ He stepped towards her. ‘It’s not what you think—’

‘Oh, spare me!’ She stumbled back, her gaze now more anguished than ever. ‘You’re a hypocrite, Dad. You told me to keep away from her—“that woman”, you called her! You told me you’re judged by the company you keep, and you said—you said...a person’s reputation...is...’

The words ended in a wail, and her face crumpled. Blindly, roughly, she brushed at her over-spilling tears. ‘Oh, I hate you,’ she sobbed. ‘I just hate you.’

She spun around and took off along the trail, back the way she’d come. Her sneakers kicked up spurts of dry dirt with each step, leaving faint dusty clouds in the air.

Logan stood, as if too stunned to move.

‘Go after her.’ Shakily, Sara folded her arms around herself. ‘Hurry.’

He jolted to life. Shoving his feet into his trainers, he fastened the laces, and grabbed his shirt. About to leave, he glanced at her, his eyes dark. Unhappy. ‘You’ll be OK?’

She nodded.

‘Sure?’

‘Go.’

After a brief hesitation, he did as she bade. He took off, fast, his steps thudding hard on the sun-baked trail.

Sara stood where she was till he was out of sight, and the sound of his steps had faded away.

Only then did she hitch her backpack more firmly over her shoulders, and start the long trek home.

‘Sweetie—’ Logan tapped on his daughter’s bedroom door ‘—you can’t stay locked in there for ever. And hey—’ he tried for a touch of humour ‘—I’m starving... it’s almost seven o’clock. What about that stir-fry you promised?’

No answer.

He muttered frustratedly under his breath. He’d soon caught up with Andy that afternoon, on the trail from the swimming hole, but she’d refused to listen to him. And when they’d reached the house she’d raced furiously upstairs and slammed the bedroom door in his face.

She hadn’t come out since, despite his repeated efforts to coax her to unlock the door.

He sighed, and was about to turn away, when he heard her call, sulkily, ‘The door’s not locked.’

It had been, earlier. His spirits rose a notch.

He opened the door and walked into the room.

She was sitting cross-legged on the bed, with a book spread out on her lap.

She didn’t look up.

‘Let’s clear the air,’ he said quietly, and crossed to the cushioned wicker chair by the bed. He sat down, and grasped the curved arms of the chair. ‘Andy...?’

‘What?’ She still didn’t look up, but now he could see that her eyes were red-rimmed, the lids swollen. He resisted the urge to reach out to her. She wasn’t ready for that yet; her body was rigid with hostility, every taut line of her young face screamed defiance.

‘Have I ever lied to you?’

Her lower lip jutted out, and she shrugged.

‘Please answer me.’

She picked at a scab on her knee. ‘I guess not,’ she said sulkily.

‘Yes or no?’

‘No,’ she muttered.

‘OK.’ He relaxed—a little. ‘So here’s what happened. I went to the swimming hole, alone, expecting to be there alone. I didn’t see Mrs Wynter; she must have been sunning herself on the grass at the far side of the rock. At any rate, when I was in the water, she stole my shoes and shirt...but I spotted her. I chased after her, and grabbed her...’

Andy was looking at him now, her eyes gleaming. ‘She was going to make you walk home in your bare feet?’

‘Yeah.’

He could see she was trying not to smile. ‘Go on.’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘what happened next...’ He cleared his throat.

‘The kiss.’

He met her gaze squarely. ‘That’s the hard part to explain. I was darned annoyed at her for disturbing my swim. I guess I wanted to...well, show her!’

‘Dad—’ Andy cupped her hands around her knees and fixed him with an oddly adult gaze ‘—I sometimes think you’re living in the Dark Ages. If you kissed Mrs Wynter against her will, you’ll be lucky if she doesn’t sue you for sexual harassment. That would teach you a lesson.’

She scrambled off the bed, and, tucking her arm through his, looked seriously up into his face. ‘But I don’t think she will. She probably wouldn’t want Zach Grant to know she’d been kissing anybody else. But the best thing would be for you to keep right away from her. Keep your distance, Dad. Play it safe.’

‘That’s very good advice,’ Logan muttered. ‘And I intend to follow it to the letter.’

Next morning, Sara woke around eight. She was in the kitchen, enjoying a mug of freshly brewed coffee at the kitchen table, when she heard the throb of an engine.

When she looked out of the window, she saw a luxurious silver craft coming alongside the jetty. Three people were on deck: a couple, and a fair-haired girl about Andy’s age.

A movement closer at hand drew her attention, and, turning her head, she saw Logan and his daughter walking down the beach. The teenager was wearing a backpack.

As Sara watched, the fair-haired girl leaped onto the dock and with a scream of excitement ran to greet Andy, squealing with surprise over Andy’s cropped hair. Logan, after pausing to exchange a few words with the girl, ambled on and stopped alongside the craft.

The adults chatted for a minute, and then the two girls boarded the vessel, but not before Andy had hugged Logan.

The morning was quiet, the kitchen window open, and she heard him call, ‘See y’all in a couple of days. Bye, Andy.’

‘Bye, Dad...’

It would. seem, Sara mused with a wry smile, that Andy had forgiven her father his trespasses of the previous day!




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