An All-Consuming Passion

Morgan forbore from repeating that this was not a holiday, and grinned in return. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘See you soon.’ And, with a final gesture of farewell, he started after Samuel’s lanky form.

By the time they had reached the stretch of beach below the house, the seaplane had shimmied back into the water and was making its take-off. The roar of its engines was an ugly intrusion into a stillness disturbed only by the piping sound of the crickets, and a flock of birds rose protestingly from their nesting place, startled by the unaccustomed violation of their privacy.

Samuel balanced Morgan’s suitcase on his head, holding it steady with one hand, as they left the beach to climb a shallow flight of steps to the house. There must have been fifty of them, Morgan decided, feeling the constriction in his chest as he followed Samuel’s unhurried tread. It made him realise that a weekly work-out at the squash club was not a total compensation for a sedentary life, and he was panting pretty badly by the time they reached the top.

It was fully dark now, but the air was fragrant with the scent of night-blooming plants and delicate honeysuckle. They picked their way across a garden that had evidently been left to go to seed, and brushed between a mass of statuary before climbing two more steps to a lawned area in front of the house. The lights from the house gave more illumination here, revealing that the grass had, at least, been cut, and the borders trimmed. An old cane chair reclined in the shade of a flowering acacia, and on the verandah a pair of cushioned sun-loungers were set beside a basket-woven table.

It wasn’t until they were actually climbing the steps up to the verandah that Morgan realised someone was standing there, in the darkness, watching their approach. She had not occupied either of the sun-loungers that flanked the circular table, where a jug of iced cordial drew his thirsty gaze. She was standing in the shadows, against the wall of the building, and she only moved into the light when she was obliged to do so.

Even then, Morgan had some difficulty in relating this golden-skinned creature to the Holly Forsyth he remembered. Setting down his briefcase, he ran a hand around the back of his neck, flinching from the dampness of his skin. He was sweating quite profusely now, and it didn’t help to be confronted by someone as cool and self-possessed as this young woman seemed to be.

Although the skinny vest and skimpy shorts she was wearing in no way compared to the expensive suits and dresses her father had bought her, Holly had an air of elegance all her own. It was something to do with the way she moved, a natural co-ordination that had not been in evidence the last time they had met. She was still slim, but her bones were less obviously visible and, although he had not intended to look, he couldn’t help his awareness of breasts fuller and firmer than when he had last seen her in England. She had let her hair grow, too, and it now hung a couple of inches below her shoulders, smooth and silky, and bleached several shades lighter by the sun. It was odd, he thought inconsequently, that sun lightened the hair but darkened the flesh. And because Holly was wearing no make-up, her skin had the lustre of good health.

‘Hello, Mr Kane,’ she said now, holding out her hand. ‘Did you have a good trip?’ and Morgan dried his palm down the seam of his trousers before accepting her polite salutation.

‘It’s good to be here,’ he acknowledged, threading long fingers into the clinging dampness of his hair. ‘I feel like I’ve been trapped in a steel girdle for the past twelve hours.’ He grinned. ‘I guess I’m getting too old to sit still for so long. My spine feels like it’s been kicked by a mule.’

Holly’s lips parted to reveal even white teeth. ‘You’re not old, Mr Kane,’ she said, her eyes frankly admiring, and as Morgan’s stomach twisted, she added, ‘Now—which would you like first? A drink or a shower?’

Morgan took a deep breath. ‘Would I be rude if I said both?’ he queried drily, deciding he had imagined that provocative glance. ‘Something long and cool would be just perfect. And then I’d like to get out of these unsuitable clothes.’

‘Of course.’ Holly turned to Samuel then, and directed him to take Mr Kane’s bags to his room. As the boy rescued Morgan’s briefcase and departed, she appended, ‘You don’t appear to have brought very much. But that’s just as well, because we don’t go in for formality around here.’

Morgan gestured to a chair, too weary right now to go into the details of why he had brought so few clothes, and Holly nodded. ‘Oh—please,’ she said, moving to the table and picking up the frosted jug. ‘I hope you like daiquiris. I asked Lucinda to prepare these earlier.’

Morgan sank gratefully on to the cushioned sun-lounger and arched one dark brow. ‘Lucinda?’

‘Samuel’s mother,’ explained Holly, as the chink of ice clunked satisfyingly into a glass. ‘She and Micah—that’s her husband—and Samuel, of course, are all the staff there are here now.’

Morgan rested his head back against the cushions, allowing an unaccustomed feeling of peace to envelop him. He didn’t know why exactly, but he was relaxing for the first time in days and, in spite of the fact that this was not a holiday, he knew an unexpected sense of well-being.

Of course, it might have something to do with the fact that he knew Alison could not reach him here. In spite of the divorce, which had severed all formal connections between them, she still played a considerable part in his life, and it was a relief to be free of her continued complaints. With the twins having a constant claim to his affections, there was little he could do to escape her demands, unless he was prepared to risk their alienation, too. Living with their mother, they were prone to take her side in any argument, and Morgan knew Alison lost no opportunity of blaming their father for the break-up of the marriage. Even this trip to the Caribbean had not met with her approval, even though she had accepted Andrew’s plans for the boys without demur.

‘Why can’t the girl simply get on a plane by herself?’ she had exclaimed, when Morgan had told her what he intended to do. ‘She’s not a child, is she? From what I hear, she’s hardly an innocent!’

‘Did you tell Andrew that?’ enquired Morgan drily, retaliating with more cynicism than usual, and even over the phone he heard her sudden intake of breath.

‘Don’t bait me, Morgan,’ she retorted fiercely, and he could sense the cold resentment she still felt for the security of his position. She had always been jealous of his friendship with Andrew, and not even the prospect of destroying her own lifestyle had prevented her from trying to lose Morgan his job when he first moved out of the house. ‘Just because you would do anything that man asked you, doesn’t mean that I can’t have my own opinion of the Forsyths. Just don’t imagine Andrew would let you anywhere near his precious daughter! He may have no time for her himself, but I’m sure he appreciates the potential she offers!’

Her words had at last got under Morgan’s skin, and his gritted response revealed the fact. ‘She’s twenty years old, Alison,’ he had told her, his voice harsh with contempt. ‘She’s young enough to be my daughter! For Christ’s sake, what do you take me for?’

Morgan thrust these thoughts aside now as Holly came to hand him a tall glass. He had known Alison was just taking out her spite on him, but he had been furious that she could still penetrate his defences. Of course, she still resented the fact that physically she no longer attracted him. She had thought that, in spite of her infidelities, Morgan would continue to want her body, but he hadn’t. The discovery that she had been sleeping with other men while he had been away had destroyed any feelings Morgan had still had for her, and since their separation he had satisfied his needs elsewhere.

‘Is it all right?’

Holly’s query caused him to look up at her ruefully, raising his glass to his lips as he did so. ‘Very good,’ he said, somewhat hoarsely moments later, as the raw spirit caught his dry throat. ‘But I think—Lucinda, did you say—has a heavy hand with the rum. Do you always drink them this potent?’

Holly laughed, a low musical sound that was entirely feminine, and seated herself on the sun-lounger beside him. To do so, she swung one leg across the cushioned footrest, giving him a revealing glimpse of her inner thigh as she did so, before scooping both knees up in front of her and circling them with her arms. ‘Oh—I don’t drink them,’ she assured him, her oval features alight with amusement. ‘Besides, I’m not thirsty right now. I just had a shower.’

‘An inviting prospect,’ remarked Morgan wryly, swallowing a generous portion of the liquid in his glass as thirst got the better of discretion. ‘But much more of this and I won’t be able to see the shower, let alone the taps.’

‘Would you prefer a beer?’ asked Holly innocently, glancing towards the house, but Morgan shook his head.

‘This is fine, for now,’ he responded, his tongue circling his lips. ‘So—tell me: did you get your father’s telegram?’ He paused. ‘You do know why I’m here?’

‘Let’s not talk business on your first evening,’ Holly answered lightly, swinging her legs to the slatted boards of the verandah once again. ‘Come on. I’ll show you your room. Are you hungry? I told Lucinda just to prepare something light for supper.’

Morgan hesitated, but then, after finishing the daiquiri, he got obediently to his feet. She was right. They’d have plenty of time tomorrow to discuss her father’s invitation, and the alcohol had left him feeling pleasantly lethargic.

Holly led the way through a meshed door into the entrance hall of the house. A wide, high-ceilinged area, with fluted columns supporting a galleried landing, and solid blocks of squared marble underfoot, it was an impressive, if slightly time-worn, introduction to the building. But the wall-lights, screened by copper shades, which illuminated the faded beauty of the house, also illuminated Holly’s features, and Morgan’s attention was arrested. On the verandah, she had been extremely attractive; in the lamplight, she was quite startlingly beautiful, her long indigo eyes and delicately moulded cheekbones giving character to a wide and mobile mouth. Christ, he chided himself, giving in to a totally uncharacteristic criticism of his employer’s methods. No wonder Andrew thought she might have something to offer. In shabby beach clothes she was a naiad; in designer fashions she would be magnificent.

‘Is something wrong?’

The dark indigo eyes were upon him, and to his embarrassment, Morgan felt the seep of hot colour under his skin. ‘No,’ he said abruptly. ‘No, I was just—admiring my surroundings. The building seems extremely old. Is it the original plantation house?’

‘Heavens, no. That was burned down years ago,’ replied Holly after a moment. ‘My great-grandfather had this place built around the turn of the century. It’s much more modest than the old house. Or so my grandfather used to tell me.’

‘Really?’

Morgan tried to keep his attention on the building as he followed Holly up the stairs. The staircase curved round a ninety-degree angle before reaching the gallery above, the wooden steps worn in places, but still lovingly varnished. There were pictures lining the wall, and it was a relief to look at them and not at Holly’s only slightly swaying hips, nor at the long brown legs that emerged from the hem of her shorts, or the narrow bare feet that strode ahead of him. Far better to admire the distinctive curve of Charlotte’s Bay at sunset, an image still firmly imprinted on his thoughts. Or the tangled glory of a neglected garden which, although he had not seen it clearly, looked suspiciously like the one below the house.

‘Did you do these?’ he asked at last, remembering Andrew’s careless mention of an artistic temperament, and Holly paused.

‘Yes,’ she said, without affectation. ‘Do you like them? They’re not much good, but as my father would say, they keep me occupied.’

Morgan shook his. head. ‘But they are good,’ he contradicted her incredulously. ‘I’m no expert, but I have attended auctions, and believe me, you evidently have a talent.’

Holly grimaced. ‘Hmm.’ She shook her head and then continued on her way. ‘I doubt if my father would agree with you. So far as he’s concerned, women are good for one thing only.’ She cast him a faintly mocking glance. ‘Wouldn’t you say?’

Morgan’s mouth drew down at the corners. ‘I doubt if you have proof of that,’ he commented drily, but Holly’s gaze did not falter.

‘He has had four wives,’ she reminded him, with disturbing candour. ‘And I can’t believe he married them for their conversation.’

Morgan wished he’d never started this, but before he could change the subject Holly had halted outside a cream, panelled door. ‘Your room,’ she said, turning the handle and pushing the door open. Then, preceding him into the room, she switched on a lamp by the bed. ‘It’s my father’s,’ she added carelessly. ‘I didn’t see any point in having Lucinda air another room.’

Morgan looked about him with guarded interest. The room was huge and rather spartanly furnished. It was dominated by the massive square four-poster that occupied the central area, but apart from the bed and its sombre velvet tester, there was no sign of the luxury Andrew enjoyed at his house in England. There was a chest of drawers with a mirror above; a walk-in wardrobe; an ottoman, on which resided his suitcase; and a leather-topped table by the window, which could serve a dual purpose as a desk. The floor was bare, just polished wooden boards, with a plain skin rug beside the bed to add a little colour.

‘The bathroom’s through there,’ said Holly indicating a door, ‘but I’m afraid you’ll have to share with me. As you’ll find out, the Fletchers and I only occupy a small part of the house. The rest is shuttered—closed off—to save unnecessary labour, you see.’

Morgan inclined his head. ‘I understand.’

‘So …’ Holly lifted her slim shoulders and then let them fall again. ‘If you need anything else, just holler, as Samuel would say. Supper will be ready in about an hour. Unless you’d like it sooner.’

‘An hour will be just fine,’ Morgan assured her firmly, loosening the remaining buttons of his waistcoat and stripping it off. Then, without thinking, he pulled off his tie and started to unfasten his shirt, only realising she was still hovering in the doorway when he looked up and met her gaze.

‘I don’t suppose your wife wanted you to come, did she?’ Holly murmured, smoothing the edge of the door with her fingers, and the unexpectedly personal quality of her question caught him unprepared.

‘I—my wife and I are divorced,’ he said shortly, his hands stilling as he became aware of a disturbing change in their relationship. In the past he had always regarded her as a child, not much older than the twins in fact, and definitely not someone he would speak to as an equal. But now that was all changed. Now she was speaking to him as a woman. And, in spite of himself, Morgan felt his senses stir at the thinly veiled insolence of her regard.

‘I see,’ remarked Holly softly, apparently not at all dismayed by his shocked reaction. ‘I can’t say I’m surprised.’

And, with a lazy smile, she withdrew, closing the door behind her and leaving Morgan to stare blankly at the worn cream panels.

CHAPTER TWO

THE sun had barely cleared the trees on the other side of the island when Holly slid out of bed. It wasn’t much after six, but she had been awake for hours, watching the curtains moving in the breeze from her balcony, and going over the previous evening’s events and her own reaction to them.

Now, however, she could lie still no longer. Thrusting back the covers, she strode eagerly across the floor, halting only reluctantly when her slim naked form was reflected in the mirrors of her dressing-table. She could hardly step out on to the balcony without any clothes, however attractive that proposition might be, she reflected. With a sigh of resignation, she caught up a shred of pure white satin that resolved itself into a simple wrapper and, tying the cord about her waist, she followed her inclination.

Outside the air was magic, a mixture of tangy salt and the blossoming bougainvillaea that rioted over the roof of the verandah below. The view, too, was matchless: an arc of blue-green water, caught in the arms of a verdant lover—twin headlands curving round to cradle the sheltered bay. Below the house, the beach was clean and untouched, the footprints left by her visitor washed away by the morning tide. Nearer at hand, bees already buzzed among the tangled mass of flowers, and Micah had set a sprinkler going to moisten the sun-scorched grass.

Resting her arms on the balcony rail, Holly breathed deeply, allowing the beauty of the day to dispel the sense of anxiety that had disturbed her sleep since her father’s telegram had arrived. He could not force her to go back, she told herself fiercely, wondering if she really believed that by saying something often enough one could make it happen. He hadn’t even had the decency to come and ask her himself—albeit that her answer would still have been the same. He had sent Morgan Kane: his mentor, his alter ego; the man Holly hated most in the world.

She breathed a little more quickly when she thought about what she was going to do to Morgan Kane. It was strange but, until two years ago, he had been the man she most admired. Not that he had been aware of it, of course. To him, she was just a child, Andrew Forsyth’s unwanted daughter, the metaphorical cross his employer had to bear. She had known that, and accepted it, too long used to being treated as a pariah in her father’s household to find anything unusual in being ignored.

Yet there had been times when Morgan had not ignored her, times when she had thought he was doing his best to compensate for her father’s negligence. To begin with, she had not trusted his overtures of friendship, assuming her father had told him exactly what to say. But, gradually, as her love-starved young body began to mature, she had started to see Morgan in an entirely different light. She had actually begun to believe he cared about her.

Her trust had been abruptly shattered one night, a little over two years ago. She had turned to Morgan for help, and he had not given it. Instead, he had taken her father’s part in humiliating her in front of her friends. He had not even tried to defend her actions. He had shown himself for the cipher he was, and she knew she had been a fool ever to have believed it could be otherwise.

After that, for a spell, she had not cared what happened to her. Because of what had happened she lost touch with the group of young people she had been running around with, and she wasn’t exactly sorry. She had known they were a wild bunch, and that sooner or later they were going to get caught. But she missed their cheerful companionship, and the sometimes crazy things they used to do.

The suggestion she had made of going to art school in Paris had seemed like a good idea at the time, but once again her father had denied it. No daughter of his was going to waste her time daubing colours on paper, he said, though they both knew it wasn’t just the occupation that appalled him. He didn’t want her to be happy. He had made that blatantly plain. He only wanted to be rid of her, and her suggestion of coming here had suited him very well.

Pulpit Island. Holly sighed now, wondering rather bitterly whether Andrew Forsyth would have let her come here had he known she would not miss her life in England. She suspected he saw her confinement as a kind of punishment, but in fact they had been the happiest two years of her life.

She had always been happy here. When she was a child, her dearest memories had been of holidays spent on Pulpit Island with her grandparents. It was the one place where she had been accepted for herself, and not as her father’s daughter, and her mother’s parents had never blamed her for being the cause of their daughter’s death. Their deaths, soon after one another, when she was in her early teens, had left a void in her life, a void, she now realised, she had imagined Morgan Kane might fill. But he hadn’t. He had abandoned her just when she needed him most, and for that she could never forgive him.

It was not something she had brooded about over these past two years. Indeed, apart from the painful bitterness she had brought with her to the island, she had eventually succeeded in putting all thoughts of him out of her head. But when she got her father’s telegram, when she learned he was sending Morgan Kane to do his dirty work once again, her spirit had rebelled. She was a good-looking young woman, she knew that without any trace of conceit, and she also knew she was attractive to men. Even here, on Pulpit Island, where most of the men she met were either old or married, she was not unaware of her popularity, and it had come to her in a flash that she might be able to hurt both Morgan and her father. How furious Andrew Forsyth would be if his blameless personal assistant blotted his copy-book! Holly thought maliciously. And how delicious her revenge if she could make him forget his responsibilities.

She frowned momentarily as reason reared its ugly head. She suspected she was being overly romantic in imagining she could persuade a man like Morgan Kane to actually fall in love with her. He was so much older, after all, and obviously more experienced. Besides which, he had spent the last fifteen years visiting the most sophisticated capitals of the world and, although he had been married then, he had probably known lots of other women. He was an attractive man; more attractive than she remembered, she acknowledged ruefully, nibbling her thumb. Or perhaps she was looking at him differently now, knowing what was in her mind. It was a pity he was divorced, but that could not be helped. Her father would still be furious if Morgan made a fool of him.

Now, she cast a reflective glance along the balcony. Her father’s room—the room Morgan was occupying—opened on to this balcony, too. But there was no sign of life from his room as yet. The french doors were almost closed, and only the hem of the curtain, flapping in the breeze, gave any evidence that it was occupied.

Which was just as well, she decided, turning back into her bedroom. She wanted to have her swim, her breakfast, and be gone before he woke up. It would have been interesting to see his reaction when he discovered she was gone for the day, but unfortunately she could not be here to see it. Still, no doubt she would feel the aftermath when she got home that afternoon, and Lucinda could be relied upon to give her chapter and verse.

Two minutes later, a towel wrapped sarong-wise about her slim body, Holly ran down the steps to the beach. At this hour of the morning, the water was at its coolest, and it lapped about her deliriously as she dropped the towel and dived in. Swimming without the benefit of a bathing costume was something else she knew her father would abhor, and just occasionally she could see his point of view. But this bay was isolated; apart from herself and her servants there were no other inhabitants, and she and Samuel had swum together since they were children. Not that the Fletchers ever intruded on her privacy. In spite of the fact that they were like foster parents to her, they never took advantage of the fact. So far as she was concerned, it was an ideal arrangement, and if Morgan attempted to change it, he would find she was no longer the tongue-tied schoolgirl she used to be.

Fifteen minutes later, she squeezed the moisture out of her hair and, wrapping the towel around herself again, she returned to the house. ‘Just toast and coffee, Luci,’ she requested, putting her head round the kitchen door, and the housekeeper turned to look at her with undisguised disapproval.

‘You been swimming like that?’ she exclaimed, taking note of the towel, and Holly grimaced.

‘I always do.’

‘Not when we have guests you don’t,’ retorted Lucinda, with the familiarity of their closeness. ‘You know your Daddy’s room overlooks the bay, just as yours does. You want that assistant of your father’s to see you in the raw?’