Cage Of Shadows

‘Joanna,’ he said suddenly, confounding all her hopes and fears, and bringing a flush of confused colour to her cheeks. ‘My God, it is Joanna Holland, isn’t it? Or if it’s not, you’re her living double!’

Joanna blinked. ‘I—why, yes. Yes, I’m Joanna Holland,’ she got out jerkily. ‘But how do you know that? Who are you?’

Afterwards, she realised she had made exactly the right response. Her voice had had precisely the right inflection—that anxious note that fell somewhere between interest and disbelief. But just then she had had no thought of duplicity. On the contrary, she was totally bewildered by the way he suddenly let her go, stepping back from her abruptly, as if afraid she might have some contagion. In those first few seconds, she was convinced she had never met this man before. If she had she was sure she would not have forgotten, And only briefly, in the back of her mind, flickered the thought that he might have some connection with Matthew Wilder …

But as she recovered from the shock and her brain began to function again, reason came to her. Of course, she flayed herself impatiently, of course, that had to be the answer. After all, she was within a few yards of Matthew Wilder’s house. She had let her attraction to the man blind her to the fact of her whereabouts, and for the moment she gave no thought to the question of how some colleague of the man she had come to find could identify her.

‘Joanna,’ he said again, incredulously now, pushing back his hair with a bewildered hand. The action parted the sides of the denim waistcoat, revealing the fine arrowing of hair that disappeared below the belt of his shorts and exposing an unexpectedly pale scar on the underside of his left arm. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ His lips twisted. ‘Don’t tell me Marcia sent you!’

‘Marcia?’ Joanna could only stare at him, incapable of making any sense of this, and he expelled his breath resignedly.

‘Marcia,’ he repeated flatly. ‘Marcia Stewart—she is your stepmother, isn’t she?’

‘Marcia Stewart married my father, yes,’ answered Joanna unsteadily. ‘But I don’t understand—–’

‘Don’t you remember me at all, Joanna?’ he enquired, a trace of bitterness giving a cynical slant to his mouth. ‘I’m Matthew Wilder. Uncle Matt, remember? Or have you forgotten that I ever existed?’

CHAPTER THREE

‘YOU—you’re Matthew Wilder!’

Joanna was stunned. She couldn’t believe this young, disturbingly attractive individual was the man who had once carried her pick-a-back round her father’s study. The Matthew Wilder she remembered was the Matthew Wilder from the photograph—a tall man, certainly, but much older and heavier built, with the bushy beard and moustache that had tickled her cheek when he kissed her.

‘I guess you didn’t know I lived out here,’ he was saying now, interpreting her reaction as one of surprise at their encounter. ‘I bought a house here about three years ago. I’ve made the island my home.’

Joanna shook her head, trying desperately to think of something suitable to say. But all she could think was that this was the man she had travelled so many thousands of miles to find, and it was all going to be so much easier than she had imagined.

‘It’s you,’ she said at last. ‘I thought—oh, I don’t know, I thought you were older.’

‘Did you think about me at all, Joanna?’ he asked drily. ‘I doubt it. A girl like you—you must live a very busy life.’

‘Not so very,’ answered Joanna, with a fleeting smile. ‘Not like you. You were always on your way to some remote location or other. I used to envy you. Don’t you find it dull now, living in the same place all the time?’

‘No.’ The syllable was clipped, and for a moment Joanna wondered if she had said something to offend him. But almost immediately, he added: ‘I was very sorry to read about your father. You must miss him terribly. Still, I imagine you and Marcia are company for one another.’ He paused. ‘I suppose she’s here with you.’

‘No.’ Joanna spoke hastily now, eager to dispel that particular illusion. It had been a surprise to learn that he appeared to know Marcia. She couldn’t remember her stepmother ever mentioning him, or indeed her father ever discussing Matthew’s activities with his wife. ‘I—er—I’m on my own,’ she went on, trying to sound casual. ‘I’m nineteen now, you know. Not a little girl any more.’ She smiled again. ‘But it’s lovely to see you again. Is that your house?’

She pointed to the sprawling villa just visible above a spiky wooden fence. Because the house was set on sloping ground, its pale cream walls were capable of being seen from this angle, and the profusion of plants and flowering shrubs that surrounded it only provided an exotic setting.

But if she had expected an invitation, she was disappointed. ‘Yes,’ he responded shortly, ‘that’s my house.’ He gave her a polite smile in return. ‘It’s been a pleasure seeing you again, Joanna. But I’m afraid I must leave you now. I have work to do.’ He half turned away. ‘Enjoy the rest of your holiday—–’

‘Wait!’ Joanna could not let him go like that. ‘I mean—–’ this as he turned to her stiffly, his expression not so friendly now, more like the way it had been when he first found her trespassing, ‘I wonder if I could trouble you for a drink?’ She licked her dry lips expressively. ‘It’s such a hot afternoon, and I didn’t realise I’d come so far. I’m staying at the Hotel Conchas, you see …’

Matthew’s dark face mirrored his impatience, but common decency forbade his refusal. Even so, Joanna felt a sense of amazement that she had ever had the temerity to call him Uncle Matt. He seemed so remote now from the jolly playmate she remembered.

‘A drink?’ he said. ‘Of what? Water? Lemonade?’

‘Anything,’ she averred. ‘Water would do fine.’ She grimaced. ‘I’m sorry if I’m being a nuisance.’

He made no response to this, and she was left to the conclusion that she was being exactly that—a nuisance. He wasn’t very friendly, she mused, wondering if her father had done anything to offend him before he died. But somehow she sensed his displeasure was not with her father, more with her, though what she had done to arouse it she couldn’t honestly imagine. After all, he thought she had come upon him by accident. Heaven help her if he ever discovered the truth, she thought uneasily, following him across the sand to the iron gate set in the wooden fence.

‘If you’d just wait here,’ he said, astounding her still further, and she gazed at him aghast.

‘Wait here?’ she echoed. ‘Can’t I come with you?’ She hesitated, and then decided she might as well plunge right in: ‘I mean—I’d like to see your house, if you’ve no objection. It looks really beautiful!’

‘But I do,’ he interjected quietly. ‘Have objections, that is. I’m afraid my home is off-limits to anyone. It’s a little foible of mine. I permit no visitors.’

Joanna’s cheeks flamed. ‘I see.’

‘I doubt you do, but I’ll go and get your drink,’ he remarked, swinging open the gate and mounting the first step. ‘I’m sorry about this, Joanna, but believe me, it’s for the best possible reasons.’

Joanna turned her back on him, but after a moment’s sense of outrage she squatted down in the shade of the fence. It was such a relief to get out of the direct rays of the sun, and she blew her breath up over her face, enjoying the brief draught of air it afforded.

Matthew came back perhaps ten minutes later carrying a jug of iced fruit juice and a glass. ‘Sorry to be so long,’ he said, holding the glass out to her, and after she had taken it he filled it from the jug he was carrying. Joanna shook her head, still too affronted at his rudeness to offer him any respite. Instead she gulped thirstily at the delicious liquid, only pausing for breath when the glass was completely empty.

‘Do you want some more?’ he asked, but she made a barely audible refusal, her wet lips muffled against the back of her hand.

‘I shouldn’t like to detain you,’ she declared, getting determinedly to her feet and brushing the sand from her culottes. Being submissive was going to get her nowhere, and she was disappointed that what she had thought was going to be so easy was proving to be so hard.

Matthew took the empty glass from her and set it, along with the jug, on the steps leading up through his garden. ‘I’ll walk with you to the breakwater,’ he said, and although she was tempted to refuse him, she knew that giving in to pique would get her nowhere either.

‘All right,’ she said offhandedly, her mind engrossed with the problem of how she was going to arrange another meeting, and he fell into step beside her, his hands pushed carelessly into the back pockets of his shorts.

‘I suppose it surprises you that I recognised you,’ he remarked, and briefly Joanna acknowledged that this was something she had not yet considered.

‘How did you?’ she asked, looking sideways at him, and his lips twisted humorously as he answered her question.

‘From photographs,’ he said simply. ‘Your father wrote to me from time to time, and in his last letter he enclosed a picture of you. I believe it was taken after you’d won some art award. He was very proud of you.’

‘Oh …’ Joanna bent her head. ‘It must have been the poster competition at school. I haven’t won any other awards.’

‘Nevertheless, you evidently have a talent in that direction.’ Matthew paused. ‘I gather you’re not interested in writing.’

Joanna shrugged. ‘Sometimes I think I would like to write children’s books and illustrate them, but it’s a very competitive field, and I don’t think I’m good enough.’

‘Are you sure you’re not letting your father’s success overshadow your own efforts?’ he asked shrewdly. ‘Perhaps you should discuss it with someone. What does—your stepmother say?’

‘Marcia?’ Joanna wondered how much to tell him. ‘As a matter of fact, Marcia and I don’t talk much any more.’

They had reached the breakwater, and she would have left him then, but now he detained her. ‘What do you mean by that?’ he asked, his attractive voice causing her to pause before scrambling over the wooden struts. ‘Don’t you and Marcia get on? Has there been some trouble between you since Drew died?’

‘You might say that.’ Even now, Joanna could feel her eyes smarting at the remembrance of what her father would say if he knew exactly what had happened. But pushing these thoughts aside, she politely held out her hand. ‘Goodbye, Mr Wilder,’ she said carefully. ‘I hope we can meet again.’

He did not take her hand, however, and presently it fell, rather gauchely, to her side. He really was the most unpredictable man, she thought irritably, looking up at him through her lashes. But also the most disturbing, she conceded, aware of him as she had never been aware of any man before.

‘Is that why you’re here, holidaying alone?’ he asked abruptly, apparently unwilling to abandon his theme. ‘Have you and Marcia had a row? What’s the matter? Didn’t your father leave her enough?’

The note of irony in his voice was surprising, but Joanna was more concerned with the effect his words had on her. Until now, she had kept her thoughts about Marcia to herself, not even telling Sara Davenport, her best friend since their schooldays. But, unexpectedly, Matthew Wilder’s enquiry struck a chord deep inside her, and she knew a sudden weakness to share her feelings with him.

Nevertheless, she stifled it. After all, this man was a virtual stranger to her, whatever his relationship with her father had been, and to confide in him now would be to give in to a purely emotional reflex.

‘I’d better go,’ she said, without answering him, shading her eyes against the glare of sun on sand. ‘Thank you for the drink. It was delicious.’

Her companion inclined his head. ‘It was my pleasure,’ he responded drily, but she suspected he was only playing her game.

‘Goodbye, then,’ she said, not making the mistake of offering him her hand again, and he nodded.

‘Goodbye, Joanna,’ he replied, and by the time she had the temerity to look back, he had disappeared from sight.

Joanna awoke the next morning with a blinding headache. Her head had felt a bit muzzy when she went to bed, and she guessed it was her walk in the sun that was responsible for the present pounding in her temples. Feeling more than a little sorry for herself, she called room service and ordered toast and coffee, and while she was waiting for it to be delivered, she went into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

It didn’t help when her telephone started ringing while she was standing under the abrasive spray. She hadn’t bothered to put on a shower-cap and her long hair was soaking, but, half afraid that it might be Matthew Wilder, she wrapped a towel about herself and went to answer it.

Dripping water all over the bedside rug, she heard the operator ask her to hold on as she had a long-distance call for her. Long-distance! Joanna grimaced. It had to be Evan Price; no one else had any idea where she was.

‘Joanna?’ It was Evan, and she expelled her breath wearily as she heard his familiar tones.

‘Hello, Evan,’ she answered flatly. ‘Look, is this something urgent, because you’ve got me out of the shower.’

‘You don’t sound like a girl who’s enjoying an unexpected winter vacation,’ retorted Evan shortly, his voice echoing hollowly in her ear. ‘I’m just ringing to find out what’s going on. I haven’t heard a squeak from you since you left England!’

‘You may remember, I spent three days in Miami,’ said Joanna defensively, and he snorted.

‘I know that. Didn’t I have to ring the hotel in Miami to find out where you were?’ exclaimed Evan impatiently. ‘You were supposed to keep me informed of your whereabouts, Joanna, not clear off without leaving me a forwarding address!’

‘All right. I’m sorry.’ Joanna sank down on to the side of the bed. ‘But I only arrived here yesterday afternoon. I was going to ring you later today.’

‘Hmm.’ Evan sounded sceptical. ‘Well? Have you anything to report?’

‘After twenty-four hours?’ Joanna protested, curiously loath to relate the events of the previous afternoon. ‘Well, I do know where his house is.’

‘You knew that before you left England,’ said Evan dourly. ‘Palmetto Drive, wasn’t it? So what’s new? Did you make a preliminary reconnaissance?’

Joanna gasped. ‘You make it sound as if I’m spying on him!’

‘Okay, okay.’ Evan sounded a little less aggressive now. ‘So you know where he lives. When are you going to see him?’

‘When am I—–? Evan, the house is practically impenetrable. It’s surrounded by a high fence, and the gates are padlocked!’

‘Yes. Yes, well, that’s something you’ve got to work out for yourself. That’s what I’m paying you for, Joanna.’

‘So it is.’ Joanna couldn’t keep the bitter note out of her voice. ‘I just hope I can earn the money.’

‘Joanna …’ He sounded a little cajoling now, as if he realised he had gone too far. ‘I’ve got every confidence in you. If anyone can do it, you can.’

‘We’ll see,’ said Joanna, feeling an unwarranted stinging of tears behind her eyes. ‘I—I’ll ring you when I have any news. Goodbye.’

She rang off before he could say any more, guessing, correctly as it turned out, that he would not waste any more money ringing her again. So far as Evan was concerned she was here, she was following orders, and he wasn’t really interested in anything but results.

Abandoning the shower, she dried herself thoroughly and was dressed in a dark red bikini and a matching wrap-around skirt when the man from room-service brought her breakfast. Thanking him, she carried the tray out on to the verandah, shady at present before the sun got round to this side of the hotel, and set it down on the spare lounger. Then, after pouring herself a cup of coffee, she subsided on to the other, swallowing a couple of aspirin she had taken from her bag.

The view was magnificent, but she was in no real mood to appreciate it. She felt guilty on two counts: one, because she had let Matthew Wilder believe she was as surprised to see him as he had been to see her, and two, because she had withheld the information from Evan. Her feelings didn’t improve her headache, and she closed her eyes wearily, longing for inspiration.

After she had swallowed a little of the toast, the pounding in her head had eased a little, and realising the maid would be waiting to come and clean the room, Joanna collected her bag and a paperback novel and went downstairs. She found a shaded corner of the sun-deck, and ignoring the sensation that she was the only solitary holidaymaker there, she tried to forget her problems for the morning at least. There was plenty to see if she chose not to read. The pool was the magnet for all the children staying in the hotel, and their parents stretched out in the sunshine, content to oil their bodies and leave their offspring to their own devices.

By the time the sun got round to Joanna’s particular corner, she was ready for a swim herself, but leaving the pool to the young ones, she crossed the beach and took her first plunge into the sparkling waters of the Gulf. For almost half an hour she determinedly ignored the reason that had brought her to Mango Key, and revelled in the simple delight of feeling sun-warmed water cooling her hot skin.

It was lunchtime when she came back to her chair to towel herself dry. Already several people had deserted the sun-deck in search of food, and it was quieter now that many of the children had left with their parents. Aware that her bikini-clad figure was attracting the attention of indolent male eyes, Joanna collected her bag, book and spectacles, and sliding the glasses on to her nose, she made for the hotel. It wasn’t always easy to deter a dogged suitor, and the last thing she needed right now were complications of that kind.

She ate lunch in the coffee shop, as on the previous afternoon, and then returned to her room to try and plan some strategy. The trouble was, there seemed no way she could arrange to meet Matthew Wilder accidentally, and although their encounter on the beach had seemed a heaven-sent opportunity, in retrospect she had to admit she had not gained any advantage. She should have realised that after living the life of a recluse for almost three years he was unlikely to take kindly to any intrusion into his privacy and, short of appealing to the respect he had had for her father, she could see no way of developing their association.

If only he had invited her into his house! Then she could have presumed on that relationship to call again, and surely during their conversations she could have found out what Evan wanted to know. His main objective seemed to be to discover what Matthew Wilder had been doing for the past three years, and why he had abandoned his research work at the London institute. He had shown no particular interest in the man’s private life, for which Joanna was grateful. Her conscience was troubling her because she had agreed to pry into Matthew Wilder’s professional activities; how much worse she would have felt if Evan had asked her to conduct some kind of personal investigation.

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