Captive Destiny

Emma hid a smile. ‘Well, that is true,’ she conceded quietly. ‘People simply won’t claim, and Gilda says she doesn’t see why she should give money to organisations who spend half of it to pay the administratory costs.’

Mrs Ingram’s head went up. ‘I hope you’re not implying, Emma, that my colleagues in the Ladies’ Guild and I use the money we collect for any other purpose than that for which it’s intended.’

‘Oh, no.’ Emma shook her head, assuming an innocent expression. ‘I’m only telling you what Gilda thinks.’

‘Huh!’ Mrs Ingram attacked her steak with more vigour. ‘As I said before, she’s an objectionable woman, and I can’t imagine why David permits you to work for her.’

‘Why David permits …’ Emma was almost driven into retaliation, but just in time she bit back the words. ‘I just do a job, Mrs Ingram,’ she declared evenly. ‘Now, do you want cheesecake or crackers, David?’

To her relief, the topic was dropped, but when she left for the shop later she was aware that her mother-in-law had not given up on it. No doubt she would use this time alone with David to pursue her point, and Emma could only hope that, as in the past, Mrs Ingram would over-reach herself. David could be as perverse as his mother, and if he suspected he was being manipulated, he would retaliate in kind. It had happened before, and both Emma and his mother knew what a precarious game they were playing.

Gilda was busy with a customer when Emma re-entered the antique shop a few minutes later. They were studying a catalogue of Italian ceramics, and Emma removed her coat and picked up her duster to complete the tidying of the shelves she had begun before Jordan’s phone call. She was admiring a display of Victorian miniatures when the doorbell chimed once more, and she turned smilingly to deal with the new customer. But the smile was frozen on her face as she recognised the newcomer. It might be some time since she had seen Jordan Kyle in the flesh, but he was sufficiently newsworthy to warrant the occasional write-up in the local press and because of this she had not been allowed to forget his lean features.

Now, coming face to face with him, she was struck anew by the magnetism he exercised, the powerful influence that had once wrought such havoc in her life. Tall, around six feet, she estimated, with a strong if leanly built body, he looked more like an athlete than a businessman. His legs were long and muscular, and he moved with a litheness that belied his thirty-seven years. He was not handsome, but Emma had long since come to the conclusion that handsome men were rarely attractive to women. Jordan Kyle’s harsh, uncompromising features—the deep-set, hooded eyes, the high cheekbones and roughly set nose, the thin line of his mouth—combined to give his face a hard, almost cruel disposition, and yet when he smiled and displayed uneven white teeth, he had a fascination that was impossible to ignore. And to complete his appearance, his hair was that peculiar shade known as ash-blond, which meant it could look silver in some lights. He wore it short on top, but it grew low down the base of his neck, and Emma knew from experience it was strong and vital to the touch.

All these things were evident to her in those first few seconds when her blood ran cold in her veins and burned like a banner in her cheeks. Jordan Kyle. Coming to see her after all this time. The last she had heard about him, he had been spending several weeks with his father who had lately retired to live in the West Indies, and his tan which looked so unusual against the lightness of his hair was further evidence that the English winter had meant little to him.

‘Hello, Emma,’ he said now, closing the door behind him with a little click. His words attracted Gilda’s attention, and for a brief moment they, too, exchanged glances, then her customer demanded attention and Jordan transferred all his attention to her assistant.

Clearing her throat, Emma managed not to let her smile disappear completely. It was four years since she had actually spoken to Jordan, and then only in passing at a charity ball organised by David’s mother. He had been with someone else then, a girl she couldn’t even remember. All she could remember was going to the ladies’ room and spending fifteen minutes in the toilet gaining control of herself again.

‘Hello, Jordan,’ she responded now, folding her duster meticulously between her fingers. Tightening her lips, she added, in what she hoped was a casual tone: ‘I didn’t know you were interested in antiques.’

‘I’m not.’ Jordan glanced round the cluttered shop with faint contempt. Then he looked at Emma again. ‘You know why I’m here. Is there somewhere we can talk?’

‘This is the showroom,’ replied Emma tautly. ‘Whatever you have to say, it can be said here.’

‘No, it can’t,’ he contradicted, looking beyond her to the door leading into the tiny office at the back of the shop. ‘Can we go in there?’ He gestured towards the office. ‘What I have to say is for your ears alone.’

‘How mysterious!’ Emma tried to be facetious, but it didn’t quite come off. Looking doubtfully at Gilda, she murmured in a low voice: ‘Was it necessary to come to the shop? Why couldn’t you have told me over the telephone?’

Jordan’s sigh was irritable. ‘Look, Emma, I don’t have all day. Are you going to speak to me or aren’t you?’

She licked her dry lips. ‘And if I say no?’

‘I’ll leave,’ he stated grimly, and she knew he would.

‘But what can you have to say that—that’s so important?’ she exclaimed. Then, viewing his uncompromising features, she capitulated. ‘Oh, very well. Come in here.’

Ignoring Gilda’s speculative stare, she led the way into the tiny office at the back which was as cluttered in its way as the shop. Jordan looked about him impatiently as he closed the door, and in the small office his presence was that much more disturbing.

‘My God,’ he said, as she moved round the desk to put it as a physical barrier between them. ‘How do you find anything in this place?’

‘I imagine we manage,’ she replied, gripping the edge of the desk tightly for support. ‘Now, do you mind telling me why you’re here?’

‘Well, as you refused to eat a meal with me, I had no other alternative,’ he responded, and his dark eyes which were such a contrast to the lightness of his hair were suddenly compelling. ‘I wanted to talk to you—to ask your assistance—and I couldn’t do that over a telephone.’

‘To—ask my assistance!’ Emma sat down rather suddenly, as her legs gave out on her. ‘You want my assistance?’ She shook her head. ‘How can I help you?’

Jordan came to the desk and leant upon it, his long-fingered hands, the only artistic thing about him, spread squarely on the polished surface. His nails were always clean, she thought inconsequently, mesmerised by his closeness, by the clean male smell of him emanating from the opened buttons of his black leather car coat. But she dared not look up at him, and her eyes became glued somewhere between the waistband of his pants and the swinging pendulum of his tie.

‘My father is dying,’ he said, without preamble. ‘He wants to see you. He wants to see us—reconciled, for want of a better word.’

CHAPTER TWO

EMMA was glad she was sitting down. His words delivered in that curt uncompromising manner were completely emotionless, but that didn’t prevent them from shocking her to the core of her being. Andrew Kyle was dying! The man who had once been like a second father to her had only a limited time to live. She found it impossible to accept.

‘But—what’s—–’

‘Cancer,’ retorted Jordan coldly. ‘It’s terminal. The doctors gave him approximately six months.’

‘Does—does he know?’

‘I believe so.’ He straightened. ‘He’s not a fool. He knows the score. I imagine that’s why he wants to—put his affairs in order.’

‘But—but why me?’ Emma gazed up at him with troubled eyes. ‘I—he hasn’t seen me for—oh, seven or eight years. Not since—not since you took over the company, in fact.’

‘I know that.’ Jordan thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his coat. ‘But now he wants to see you, and I’m here to find out how you feel about it.’

‘How I feel about it.’

Emma shook her head. How did she feel about it? Naturally, she pitied anyone served that kind of death sentence, but how could she be expected to feel any kind of personal involvement for so long she had forced herself not to think about the Kyles, father and son? And why should he want to see her anyway? He had shown no obvious distress when she and Jordan went their separate ways, and to receive this summons now was like opening up an old wound.

‘Well?’

Jordan was regarding her intently and she shifted awkwardly beneath that penetrating gaze. What was he thinking? she wondered. Did he resent having to come here and ask her for anything? Or was he perhaps comparing her to the woman he had known, and finding her wanting? Certainly, her straight rope of glossy dark hair could not compare to the champagne brilliance of Stacey Albert’s silken curls, and apart from her eyes, which were a mixture of violet and blue and set between long curling lashes, her features were quite ordinary. She was tall, of course, which was an advantage, but not willowy enough by today’s yardsticks. Her breasts were far too prominent, and although her legs were slim, her hips were not.

Now she rose to her feet again, and feeling at less of a disadvantage said: ‘Tell me where your father is, and I’ll go and see him.’

‘You will?’ Jordan’s features relaxed somewhat. ‘Thank you.’

‘That’s all right.’ Emma held up her head. ‘Uncle—that is, your father—was always very kind to me. And I know—I know Daddy would want me to do as you ask, despite—despite everything.’

Jordan bent his head thoughtfully, and as the silence between them stretched, Emma spoke again.

‘How—how is your mother taking this?’

‘My mother?’ Jordan looked up in surprise. ‘Didn’t you know? My mother is dead. She died eighteen months ago.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Emma was aghast at her mistake. ‘I—I didn’t know. No one ever said …’

‘Why should they?’ Jordan seemed unmoved, and she flinched from his hard indifference. ‘It was a long way away, and the press are really only interested if they can get an angle on a story. If there’s something unusual or scandalous to write about. My mother’s death would make dull reading.’

Emma pressed her lips together and looked down at the desk. Then she said quietly: ‘Just tell me where your father is staying, and I’ll make arrangements to see him as soon as possible.’

‘Ah, yes.’ Jordan’s mocking tone brought her head up again. ‘Well, that’s where we run into a slight problem.’

‘A slight problem? What do you mean?’ Emma frowned.

‘My father lives on an island in the Caribbean. Didn’t you know that either?’

Emma gasped. ‘Well, yes—yes, I knew that. But I naturally assumed …’

‘What did you assume? That he’d come to England to die?’ Jordan shook his head. ‘Oh, no. Nothing would persuade my father to come back to this country now, particularly not in the middle of winter. No, Valentia is his home, and that’s where he’ll die.’

‘But—but what about his treatment?’

‘What treatment? He’s had two operations, and various radiation therapy. He knows there’s nothing more anyone can do for him, except prevent him from suffering any more pain than is absolutely necessary.’

‘Oh, Jordan!’

The helpless words fell from her lips, and for a brief moment she saw the spasm of pain that crossed his face. But then it was gone again, and she was left with the impression that perhaps she had imagined it.

‘So …’ He flexed his shoulder muscles. ‘Does this make a difference to the situation?’

‘You must know it does.’ Emma shifted her weight restlessly from one foot to the other. ‘I mean—how can I go out to the West Indies? I have a home—and a husband.’ She avoided his eyes as she said this. ‘I can’t just abandon them without thought or consideration.’

‘No one’s asking you to,’ replied Jordan shortly. ‘I realise how difficult it would be for you. And I’m quite prepared to accept your refusal, should you feel you can’t do it.’

Emma expelled her breath on a heavy sigh. Then she faced him squarely. ‘You don’t really care, do you?’ she exclaimed tautly. ‘You don’t really want me to go out there.’

‘If I’ve given that impression, then I’m sorry,’ replied Jordan politely. ‘Naturally I want what’s best for my father. And if he wants to see you, I shall do everything in my power to accommodate him.’

‘To accommodate him?’ Emma’s lips trembled at the dispassionate tone of his voice. ‘You’re so cold, aren’t you, Jordan? So unfeeling. To you it’s just another job of work, and if anyone’s feelings are hurt, then hard luck!’

‘I see no reason for you to feel so emotively about it,’ he retorted harshly. ‘As you’ve already pointed out, my father has ignored your existence for several years. Why should you rush to his defence now?’

‘He’s dying, Jordan.’

‘And does that eradicate the sins of the past? Are you one of those people who believes that repentance equals forgiveness?’

‘What are you saying, Jordan? What sin has your father committed? Ignoring my existence hardly warrants condemnation.’

‘In your eyes, perhaps not,’ he conceded stiffly. ‘Very well. Do I take it that you’ll come?’

Emma turned her back on him, resting her chin on her knuckles, trying desperately to decide what she ought to do. Obviously, she could make no decision without first discussing it with David, and she already knew what his reaction would be. But here and now she had to decide whether she wanted to go, whether there was any point in holding out hope that she would agree.

After a few moments, she said: ‘What—what would be the arrangements? How would I get to—to Valentia?’

There was a pause, and then Jordan replied: ‘A direct flight operates between London and Barbados. An inter-island transport flies between Seawell and Valentia.’

‘I see.’ Emma turned again, slowly. ‘And—and how long would all this take? I mean—how long would I be away?’

Jordan shrugged. ‘That would be up to you, of course. Technically, the flight to Barbados takes something like ten hours, but bearing in mind the four-hour time lag, you can complete the journey in half a day. The inter-island flight is much shorter—a matter of forty minutes, no more.’

‘And—flights to Valentia; they’re pretty frequent?’

‘No.’ Jordan shook his head. ‘Generally they’re laid on when required. Valentia’s population doesn’t exceed five hundred, so as you can imagine, there’s not a lot of need for a regular service.’

Emma absorbed this with difficulty. Somehow she couldn’t imagine herself flying off to the West Indies at a moment’s notice, going to see a man to whom she was practically a stranger, seeing sights and people totally alien to her normally limited existence. She had seen pictures of the Caribbean islands, shared a common longing for their beauty and tranquillity. But never at any time had she seriously considered going there. She wasn’t at all sure she wanted the dream exposing, for nothing was ever quite as attractive as one anticipated.

‘I’ll have to talk it over with David,’ she said at last, and Jordan’s lean mouth turned downward at the corners.

‘Then you might as well give me your answer right now,’ he remarked cynically. ‘We both know Ingram will never agree to your going anywhere with me.’

‘With—with you?’ Emma’s eyes were wide.

‘Why, yes, with me,’ agreed Jordan dryly. ‘You didn’t imagine I would let you fly out there on your own, did you?’

Emma made a helpless gesture. ‘I thought—that is—the company—–’

‘I have a very capable general manager,’ Jordan interrupted her curtly. ‘Even I am not so heartless as to let my father die alone. At the moment, I’m dividing my time between Abingford and Valentia, but as the time runs out, I’ll stay on the island.’ His lips twisted. ‘There are telephones. My father saw to that.’

Emma didn’t know what to say. Considering going to Valentia alone was one thing. Contemplating the trip with the one man she had hoped never to see again was quite another.

‘I need some time,’ she said now, pushing back her hair with a nervous hand. ‘Surely you can grant me a couple of days. When are you leaving?’

‘At the end of next week,’ he answered, taking his hands out of his pockets to fasten his coat. ‘When will you let me know what you’ve decided? At the weekend? Or is that too soon?’

‘No—no.’ That gave her three days. ‘No, I’ll know by the weekend.’

‘Good. Will you ring me?’

Emma linked her fingers together. ‘I don’t have your number.’

‘It hasn’t changed,’ he reminded her shortly. ‘Abingford double-six-one-nine. Or you can ring me at the office. I’m sure you remember that number.’

Emma’s skin prickled. ‘My father’s number, you mean?’ she countered tautly, and saw the faint colour run up under his tan.

‘You remember,’ he observed, and turning, opened the door into the showroom. ‘Until the weekend, then …’

Emma nodded, and followed him out into the now empty shop, empty, that was, but for Gilda lounging carelessly on the edge of her desk. When she saw them, her eyes flickered thoughtfully, then she put aside the pen she had been holding and smiled.

‘Good afternoon, Jordan,’ she said, the mockery in her tones only lightly veiled. ‘This is an unexpected honour.’

Jordan’s expression was equally sardonic. ‘Good afternoon, Gilda,’ he responded in kind. ‘Still as defensive as ever, I see.’

‘Defensive!’ Gilda straightened to face him, and then subsided again as she realised she was automatically proving his point. Controlling her temper, she said: ‘Might one ask why you’re slumming? I’m sure you have enough antiques in that mansion of yours to furnish half a dozen salerooms, so I can’t believe that’s why you’re here.’

Jordan smiled then, and Emma had to admire his self-control. ‘You’re right, of course, Gilda,’ he agreed imperturbably, turning up the collar of his coat against the cold outside. ‘Quite enough antiques. Yes. Nice to have seen you again. G’bye, Emma!’ And with a polite nod to both of them he left.

‘Conceited bastard!’ declared Gilda as soon as the door had closed behind him, and Emma was glad of the brief respite to collect her own composure. ‘What did he want? Can’t he take no for an answer? You did say you had refused his invitation, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Emma turned aside to rescue the sandwich she had brought for her employer from her handbag. ‘Here you are: ham! Are you ravenous?’

‘Not particularly, but put the kettle on, will you?’ said Gilda, peeling the sealing plastic from the roll. Then, as Emma moved to comply, she added: ‘Well? Are you going to tell me what he wanted, or aren’t you?’

Emma sighed. ‘His father wants to see me, that’s all.’

‘Old Andrew?’

‘Not so old. He must be about—sixty-five.’

‘Even so …’ Gilda was perplexed. ‘I didn’t know he’d come back to live at Athehnere.’

‘He hasn’t.’

Emma disappeared into the back office to fill the kettle in the tiny cloakroom adjoining, but Gilda moved to stand, eating her sandwich, at the open doorway, and she was waiting for her when she emerged again.

‘Emma …’ she said, chewing almost absently. ‘Emma, he hasn’t asked you to go out to the Caribbean, has he?’

‘As a matter of fact—–’

‘But why? Emma, why?’ She gulped. ‘You can be considering it!’

Emma plugged in the kettle. ‘Why not?’

‘Why? Why, because—because—how do you know it’s his father who wants to see you? How do you know it’s not some devious—–’

‘Gilda!’ Emma’s impatient use of her name silenced her. ‘Don’t be foolish! Jordan Kyle isn’t interested in me. Good heavens, you said yourself he was involved with Stacey Albert! And in any case, aren’t you forgetting—I’m married!’

‘Is that what you call it?’ retorted Gilda sharply. ‘Being at the beck and call of a man who’s only half a man!’

‘Gilda!’ Emma was trembling now as much with nervous reaction as indignation, although she would never have admitted it. ‘Gilda, David isn’t responsible for his condition.’

‘Isn’t he?’ Gilda was unsympathetic. ‘Who is, then? Who else was at the wheel of the car if it wasn’t himself? He was alone when they found him, wasn’t he? You can’t blame yourself for that.’

‘I don’t. I just wish you wouldn’t talk like that about—about my husband.’

‘But he’s not your husband, is he?’ pursued Gilda relentlessly. ‘He never has been. And don’t forget, I was with you that week before the wedding. I know the doubts you had, long before Master Ingram chose to smash himself, and your relationship, before it had even been consummated.’

‘Oh, Gilda …’ Emma dropped two teabags into the pot. ‘Must you keep bringing that up? David and I are married. We’ve been married for almost four years. Why can’t you accept it? There’s no point in thinking about what might have been. This is here and now, and there’s no—no—–’

‘Escape?’ suggested Gilda dryly, but Emma vigorously denied it.

‘No. I was about to say there’s no—altering it. That’s all.’

‘All right.’ Gilda finished the sandwich and delicately licked her fingers. ‘So where does that leave us? Oh, yes—Jordan’s invitation to temptation.’

‘Gilda!’ The kettle boiled at that moment, and she made the tea with hands that spattered drops of boiling water all over the papers on the desk. ‘Jordan’s father is ill. He wants to see me before—in case—anything happens.’

‘I see,’ Gilda nodded.

‘That’s confidential, Gilda.’

‘Of course,’ Gilda agreed. ‘But that doesn’t answer the question, does it? Are you seriously considering going?’

‘I don’t know …’ Emma added milk to the teacups. ‘I honestly don’t know.’

The chiming of the shop bell brought their conversation to an abrupt halt, and leaving Gilda to drink her tea in peace, Emma went to attend to the customer. For the rest of the afternoon, she was kept busy and although she knew that Gilda only had her well-being at heart, she was relieved. The whole situation was too new, too fraught with difficulties, to discuss coherently, and the arrival of Gilda’s latest boy-friend just before closing time curtailed any prolonged farewells.

‘See you Friday,’ she called, as she left the shop, but she was not unaware of her employer’s impatience at the knowledge that it would be two days before she heard her decision.

Outside, Frank Horner’s Jaguar was parked at the kerb. A man in his early fifties, he had already been married twice before, and Gilda was his present quarry. Gilda herself took him much less seriously. She had not reached the age of forty-two without learning a little about the opposite sex, and while her slim figure and good looks attracted plenty of attention, she seldom got seriously involved with anyone. She was a career woman, first and foremost, and the income from the shop more than compensated any need for security. Emma doubted she would ever get married, despite Frank Horner’s ambitions.

David’s mother had left by the time she got home, and to her relief David was engrossed in his study, working on his present commission. He spared a moment to greet her, and then, while she set the casserole she had prepared at lunchtime on a low light and went to bathe and change before serving their evening meal, he returned to his work.

Later, eating their meal from a serving trolley set before the fire in the drawing room, Emma let herself relax. It was pleasant in the lamplit room with the television playing away quietly in one corner, there to be seen or not as the mood took her. She could almost convince herself that they were any ordinary couple sitting eating their supper together, until David got bored with quiet domesticity and thrust his tray savagely aside.

‘God, I wish this weather would improve!’ he muttered, reaching for the bottle of Scotch on the table beside him and splashing a generous measure into his glass. ‘I’m so sick of being confined to this house, day in and day out! I get so bored I could scream!’