White Lies

‘With a body like that, I’m sure you can,’ he commented insolently.

Her eyes flared in astonished affront but she forced herself not to dignify his insult with a reaction. Furious with him, she turned haughtily on her heel and walked to the shoreline, determined to prove that she felt so full of confidence that a mid-afternoon paddle was the only thing uppermost in her mind now.

In fact, she needed time to think. Tired from travelling all day, shaky from Pascal’s awful reception, she was finding it hard to pull her woozy brain together. The earlier elation had vanished, leaving a heavy depression, and she’d need to overcome that if she was to make any headway with her plans.

As she walked through the cooling water with her head held high to catch the light breeze on her hot face, she wanted to cry because she felt quite weak with disappointment. This had begun with such promise!

She was tired of struggling. She wanted Dave back. Strong arms to hold her. Someone who cared, who’d give her support and encouragement. The world was a lonely place when you had no one, and she’d been alone for too long.

The tears threatened to spill out and she blinked rapidly in case Pascal could see her face and would think that she was upset because of him. She didn’t want to give him that satisfaction. What a brute he was!

She’d almost reached the rocks at the end of the beach when a hand gripped her shoulder. And she flinched because it was so similar to Dave’s—similar but different. Harder. Less loving, less gentle, more masterful and compelling. Pascal.

‘Oh, why are you following me?’ she asked in despair.

‘You need persuading,’ he said curtly.

‘I won’t be persuaded! Get lost!’ she snapped over her shoulder, almost at the end of her tether.

Abruptly, she found herself being pivoted around like a doll. They stood very close in the rolling surf and the drag of the water was so strong that she kept losing her balance as the sand was sucked from under her feet.

‘Careful.’

Pascal steadied her, his hands sliding to her arms. Irrationally, she longed for him to hold her closer and say sorry, he’d help. And then she’d cry the tears she’d been holding back in sheer relief.

‘I don’t need you!’ she muttered, more for her own benefit than his.

‘You will always need men,’ he observed, a husky warmth threading his voice. ‘Need them, want them, encourage them.’

She blinked in surprise and turned her head away to gather her composure. He was horribly right—not about the encouragement, but yes, to be totally honest, she did need them, want them.

Dave’s death had rendered the thought of loving another man inconceivable. But certain things—lovers kissing in a bus shelter, passionate scenes on the television, and personal memories of making love on a warm, moonlit night with the curtains fluttering in the soft breeze—all these and more had repeatedly jolted her deep sexuality into life again, driving her crazy with the torment, brutally reminding her how wonderful married love could be. And she hungered for something she could no longer have, because she’d never fall in love again and sex without love—without marriage—was unthinkable.

She missed being hugged by her beloved husband. She missed the joy of sex. And the bliss afterwards.

Slowly her limpid gaze came back to focus on his. ‘Spoken like a true chauvinist,’ she said resentfully. Yet the memories had roughened her voice and she sounded horribly husky and inviting.

‘You need men... and I need women. There’s something terrible about the sex urge, isn’t there, Mandy?’

Taking advantage of her astonished silence, he slowly displayed his masculine approval by openly studying her body. Mandy squirmed uncomfortably, aware that her sweat was holding her thin dress against her damp skin and that he must be learning more about her figure than he should.

‘Don’t!’ she husked, reeling from his intense sexuality. It was making her body throb... It was such a long time since a man had been so bold and poured desire from the depths of his eyes! Her mouth trembled and pouted. ‘Don’t!’

‘Invitation and rebuke. Little-girl sweetness, womanly sensuality. Demure and innocent, yet offering the promise of curves that will fire an old man’s loins. What a joy you must be to lustful old satyrs,’ mused Pascal with breathtaking insolence.

‘What?’ she gasped.

‘Easy arousal is vitally important when you’re dealing with lowered libido,’ he drawled.

‘Is that an observation from personal experience?’ she snapped waspishly.

He smiled with the confidence of a man who knew he couldn’t ever give the impression that he might be less than one hundred per cent pure male. ‘I have a very high libido. It’s a problem sometimes,’ he murmured. ‘Particularly when faced with temptation.’

Her chin jerked down, following the direction of his fascinated and mocking gaze. The freshening breeze—or something—had teased each dark centre of her breasts into a firm peak which thrust at the cloth assertively in an unspoken invitation. No wonder Pascal’s mouth was looking sultrier by the minute! Hastily, she covered their come-and-get-me appeal with defensively folded arms.

‘Don’t flatter yourself that that’s anything to do with you!’ she snapped. ‘Get your libido back in line. I’m not interested in you—’

‘What about money?’ he suggested.

‘All I’m interested in at present is your father—’

‘They amount to the same thing. He represents money for you.’

‘He represents my dreams,’ she corrected.

‘You’re determined to stay on, aren’t you?’ he murmured. ‘So...we’ll have to get along together after all.’ His mouth twisted at her wide-eyed hope. ‘Would you like to spend an hour or two on my boat?’ he suggested casually.

Although he was smiling at her innocently, she couldn’t mistake the sinfully arched eyebrow and the undercurrent of male desire in his deep blue eyes.

‘No. I wouldn’t. And I know what you’re suggesting and you’re no gentleman—’

‘True,’ he admitted. ‘I’m the local rogue.’ And he flashed his dazzling, tigerish grin.

She was beginning to get his measure. A playboy. Rolling in his father’s hard-earned wealth.

Perhaps, she thought, elaborating on the theme, the antipathy between father and son came from Monsieur St Honoré’s resentment at having built up a thriving legal practice only to have his son lounge about on beaches, chat up women and spend his money.

‘You’ve made that perfectly clear by your clumsy invitation,’ she said coldly, deciding to scramble over the rocks to the next bay and escape his unwanted attentions.

‘Good. Because I don’t want you to think I’d ever play fair,’ he told her silkily, and she paused, wondering what he meant. Her hesitation gave him the opportunity to capture her wrists in his vice-like hands. ‘You and your kind are like parasites. And, for your information, I invited you to my boat on the off chance that I could keep you there till you promised to get the hell off the island,’ he added, with no shame at all for his attempt to manipulate her.

‘If you don’t take your hands off me,’ she said coldly, ‘I’m going to scream. And I can scream for England, I promise you.’

‘Surely you don’t want any publicity?’ he murmured. ‘Not the kind of woman you are.’

She tried to speak, but her throat was filled by a hard, dry lump. What kind of woman did he mean? she wanted to ask, horrified to be thought anything but hard-working, moral and conscientious. But the curl of Pascal’s lip, the flinty scorn in his piercing eyes and the intensely physical threat of his muscular body made her feel as if she’d committed an indecent act and ought to be hiding herself in shame.

Dawning on her slowly was the realisation that he knew something about her background—something so dreadful that any decent person would be justified in despising her and her kind. What kind? Who was she?

Mandy’s sharp, shuddering intake of breath sucked in his warmth, the scent of his powerful male body. A shiver skimmed down her back. If she was right, she didn’t want to hear the truth from this unsympathetic brute. The revelation should come in private, from someone who might care about her feelings. The shock that there might be awful secrets in her family past had shaken her to the core. She wanted. to know now. Or she’d have a sleepless night filled with the sound of her own sobbing.

Sound suddenly forced its way through her white, trembling lips. ‘Pascal,’ she said rawly, ‘I pray that somewhere inside that steel skin of yours is a heart. Because I need to find it.’ Her hand reached out in an urgent plea because she knew she had nothing to lose. ‘I beg you, take pity on me—’

‘Go home. Staying here will destroy you,’ he said grimly.

She winced. ‘I have to stay! You know why I’m here!’ she cried, looking up at him through swimming eyes. ‘Don’t you feel any compassion for me?’

‘Not a scrap.’

‘Forget your bitterness!’ she begged. ‘Forget whatever vendetta lies between you and your father! I badly need to see him; you must realise that! I can, I will do it the hard way if I have to, but you can make it a lot easier and save me time. Whatever your feelings, please, in the name of humanity, arrange a meeting for me as soon as he’s better! I’ve come all this way, my hopes raised...’

Her voice trailed into silence. He had moved even closer, so that her fingers touched his chest. Blinking, she registered the firm, moulded muscle, the warmth and the flawless texture of his skin that cried out to be stroked. Beautiful, she thought, much to her own surprise, and had to fight against the foolish, knee-jerk urge to slide each palm up to his gleaming brown shoulders and hold him close, because the lure of that warm body was overwhelming.

She pulled herself together. ‘Please,’ she repeated, her hazel eyes huge with anxiety and her whole heart in her long, pleading look.

‘You were right. You can be very persuasive,’ he said huskily.

‘Oh!’ she breathed, filled with hope. ‘Pascal...’ Her voice dried up.

Serious and unnervingly determined, he slowly reached out with his forefinger, and Mandy watched it come closer to her mouth, knowing that her lips were parting and that her breath was rushing from her lungs in a long, low sigh. Hunger. Hunger for a man’s touch!

She stopped breathing, fighting her need for comfort and love. It had happened once before, when she’d been desperately lonely and in need of affection. A million hormones had flooded her brain and made her behave stupidly, allowing an acquaintance to kiss and caress her and touch her body till she’d found herself hating the fact that he wasn’t her late husband. And she’d spent the next twenty minutes fighting and coaxing and pleading to be left alone.

She recognised that her body still yearned for a lover. But not this man. So, to save herself, she whipped her head around and the fingertip briefly touched her teeth, then slid across her jaw and throat before it was retracted.

But she couldn’t erase the memory of his burning blue eyes spilling desire into hers, or the faintly salty taste of his finger and its erotic, tantalising caress that promised much, leaving her suffering from a sense of emptiness. And she knew that she was out of her league and that the few men she’d known before had been relatively unsophisticated and inexperienced compared with the knowing Pascal.

She and Dave had been like happy children—sweethearts for a long time, marrying young, loving, playing, laughing. After he’d died men had tried to make headway with her but her heart and body had been frozen in time...

The sea lost its sparkle and grew dim. Dim because tears were filling her eyes. Crying! And Dave had been gone for two whole years!

Why did she feel so emotional? Was it the long journey? Was it the joy of finding herself in a tropical paradise and then the let-down when the promised meeting with Vincente St Honoré had failed to materialise? She groaned softly. Perhaps it was because she feared that her hopes might be cruelly dashed. Or perhaps it was the anticlimax from the high tension and excitement of wondering if she might at last be on the brink of tracing her true parents.

And now, to top it all, there was the all-pervading fear that her family hid a dark and alarming secret.

Pascal must be aware that she was crying. But he remained still and silent. Her cheeks grew wet and salty tears reached the corner of her mouth because she couldn’t rid herself of the despair.

She licked them up, lapping them with the tip of her pink tongue while she reflected that she wanted to find her parents more than anything in the world. It had always been in her mind, even though she’d been happy in the children’s home because Dave was there, and Dave had been first her childhood friend and then the man she’d wanted to marry. He’d become her husband immediately she’d left the home on her eighteenth birthday, and their bliss together had more than fulfilled one of her dreams.

Her other dream was to know if her mother was still alive and who she was. And she’d also dreamed of helping her mother if necessary—because she was sure her mother wouldn’t have abandoned her at the Glasgow nursing home unless she’d been desperate.

Mandy knew that she needed someone of her own to love. Dave’s death had left an emptiness that had grown worse with time, not better.

I’m terribly alone, she thought, her lower lip stubbornly refusing to stop quivering. I want to find my roots, whatever they are, and I’m close, very close, but fate in the shape of Pascal St Honoré is stopping me—

‘My father would adore you,’ said Pascal softly, touching her wet cheek.

‘That’s nice,’ she husked shakily.

‘No, it’s not.’ A big, solid hand came to rest on her slender back and she felt herself shudder. ‘It’s the last thing I want,’ he said tightly.

Slowly she turned her head to look at him and, though he must have seen the tear-stains on her unhappy face, his bleak and anguished expression didn’t change. There was disapproval set like concrete in his expressive mouth. Not one ounce of compassion.

His gaze slid away. ‘Simon’s on his way with our drinks from the beach bar at last. Wipe your eyes,’ he ordered.

Pride was enough to have her surreptitiously wiping her tear-stained face with her handkerchief, thankful that Simon had a long way to come still and that she’d be halfway decent by the time he arrived.

She felt worried. There must be a reason why Pascal felt such disgust for her. For the first time she questioned the wisdom of seeking her roots. Maybe the cost would be too great and the anguish of knowing the truth could hurt her badly.

‘I need your help,’ she said in a low voice.

‘You have serious doubts now, don’t you?’ murmured Pascal soothingly. ‘You’re beginning to see that it might be unwise to pursue your goal.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed.

‘Good. Very good,’ he approved.

He gave her a tong, slow look that seemed to heat her very soul. Something was crackling across the space between them—an electricity, a wave of male energy that poured through her lowered defences and seared directly into the secret places of her body. Her lips parted, her breath shortened in dizzying confusion. Muscles tightened in spasms in that core deep inside her that only Dave had ever liquefied before.

‘Pascal, I—’ she began doubtfully.

‘Act normally,’ he muttered in an undertone. ‘Wait till Simon’s gone and then I’ll tell you what I’m prepared to do for you.’

The words trembled with a warmth that seemed to slip through every vein in her body. And she wasn’t sure what he meant, only that he was going to help.

‘Thank you,’ she breathed gratefully.

Pascal’s golden brow winged upwards, his voice still rich with sensuality. ‘You’ll thank me more thoroughly than that before I’m through with you,’ he promised.

His meaning was now plain. Mandy’s eyes widened in shock. ‘You’re shameless!’ she said indignantly.

‘With a father like mine, it’s inevitable,’ he drawled.

‘Drink, lady?’

Mandy looked up at the young St Lucian, bestowed a shaky smile on him and accepted the exotically decorated glass of juice. It would give her something to do with her hands. Right now she felt an overwhelming urge to slap Pascal’s smug face.

‘Thanks, Simon. I needed this,’ she said with heartfelt gratitude, and took several long sips through the straw. ‘It’s very good,’ she said, trying to take her mind off the hovering Pascal. ‘Lots of spices.’

‘I’m sorry it took so long,’ Simon said to them both. ‘One of us was up at the main bar getting more ice and I was trying to catch a dog running loose on the beach. I brought a refill for you both, in apology.’

‘I can certainly drink them both. I’m so hot. Wait a minute. I can finish this one now... There.’ She exchanged the empty glass for the full one, a little worried that her body was definitely not acclimatising to the sun. Suddenly she felt quite heady. ‘I’m sorry you’ve had to come all this way,’ she said with a warm smile.

The young man grinned at her, slid two tumblers of amber liquid from the tray and handed each one to Pascal. ‘No problem. Signature, please,’ he said, handing a receipt book to Mandy.

Pascal and Simon indulged in another round of friendly banter while she went over to a rock and settled herself down on it with her feet in the surf. The white, frothy juice slipped down her parched throat and eased her tension at once. Was there rum in it? It was difficult to tell, it tasted so spicy.

‘What’s in this?’ she asked suspiciously.

‘Papaya, mango, sour-sop, cinnamon, ginger, cumin,’ Pascal replied. She nodded. The warming spices. No wonder her body glowed. ‘What do you know about my father?’ he shot at her suddenly, catching her unawares. ‘Do you know he’s a lecher and a liar?’

She stared wide-eyed at his expressionless blue eyes and felt a deep sympathy. Hating your father might actually be even worse than growing up without one. At least if you were ignorant of your father’s character you could pretend that he was everything you would have wished for. She shivered as a tremor of dread iced her spine. Maybe she would do better to remain ignorant of her own parents.

‘I know nothing about him. Whatever the truth, I’m very sorry for you both because you hate him,’ she said earnestly, swishing her hot feet in the cooling water. Languidly she tipped back her head. She ought to find some shade soon. The sun’s glare was very fierce and it was making her a little dizzy, so she brought her head level again.

Pascal flicked away the sticky drops of water that had condensed around the bottom of his empty glass which he’d been resting against his chest. He placed the glass on a rocky ledge behind him and picked up his second drink.

‘If you like,’ he suggested, ‘I will give you a free ride on my boat to the airport when your two weeks are up. I must strongly advise you never to make any attempt to see my father, however tempting the idea might seem. You would almost certainly regret it.’

Mandy felt her heart beating faster. His threat had scared her. Giving him the benefit of the doubt, she decided that maybe he was being kind and trying to keep her from being hurt by discovering the secret of her family. She shook her head to clear it. ‘I need time to think,’ she said slowly.

It was difficult. Her brain seemed addled. For the life of her, she could think of no other logical reason why Pascal should warn her. Unless it was somehow to his advantage.

Advantage... That popped a memory into her head: the wording of the cryptic advertisement. ‘Please contact the office below where you will learn something to your advantage.’ She pursed her lips. His father had placed that advert and he’d virtually promised her something good. Her eyes shone. Something good! Not bad. Not frightening or disgusting!

Either he or Pascal was lying. But which of them?

‘Decided?’ he asked silkily.

‘No.’ She moistened her mouth with another long sip of juice, closed her heavy eyes and let the sun warm her lids. She was getting tired. The journey had sapped her strength and she wanted to lie down and rest, but she couldn’t let Pascal see that she felt weak to her very bones.

Her eyes seemed reluctant to open. Slowly her lashes lifted, fluttering with the effort. The sun and sea were so dazzling to her eyes that they were blurred. As though through a fog, a thought surfaced in her mind.

‘You were looking through his papers.’ She frowned, finding it difficult to formulate words, and wondered if she was suffering from jet lag. One of the people whom she delivered mail to had said that it only happened on west-east journeys, but he could have been wrong. ‘What did you dis-discover about me?’ she asked carefully.

‘Enough,’ he answered curtly, draining his glass. He shot her an assessing look. ‘Enough to damn you.’

She stiffened, her eyes rounding in distress. She couldn’t form the question in her mind. And maybe she would be wise never to ask, never to know. ‘You—you’re frightening me,’ she managed at last.

The fierce blue eyes burned with a cold, piercing fire. ‘So I should hope. The whole thing alarms me,’ he said softly.

‘No!’ she moaned. All her instincts were telling her to run from the truth, to leave the island and let her past remain a secret known only to Pascal, his father, and... her relative. The person who had paid to have her brought out to St Lucia.

‘You can’t stay. Your life would be a living hell,’ persisted Pascal remorselessly.

She gave a shuddering sob, seeing ahead of her her slow coming to terms with being quite alone in the world, never to find her family.

She gulped, emotion and weariness making it hard for her to get her words out coherently. ‘Tell your father I w-wish him well and I’m...sorry to let him down. I hope he feels better soon,’ she added, trying to hold her fuzzy mind together. ‘Poor, poor man.’

Something dark and anguished flickered in Pascal’s eyes and then his lids dropped to conceal whatever secrets lay there. ‘Poor man, hell! Last time I saw him he was screaming abuse at the stretcher-bearers,’ he said quietly. His mouth twisted at the memory and when he saw her sympathetic expression he lowered his lids again to conceal anything that might betray his true thoughts. ‘I gather from your sweet, parting sorrow that you’ve decided to call it a day.’

‘I think so,’ she said slowly.

He swung her limp body around to face him and Mandy’s dulled brain registered the shaking in his hands that betrayed an extreme tension. ‘Stop thinking. Just make sure you go. I don’t want to see you hurt,’ he said softly. ‘And if you stay you will be, I swear. Do the sensible thing. Get a suntan, eat, drink and be merry for the next two weeks, then leave St Lucia and don’t ever come back.’

She tried to focus on what was going on all around them and to see herself enjoying a holiday at Anse La Verdure. Carefully, elaborately, she built up the picture.

People were having fun. Scuba-divers were out on the coral reefs, people were snorkelling a few yards from where they sat. ‘It looks nice,’ she mumbled.

‘It’s wonderful. See the catamarans cruising by?’ he said persuasively. ‘Holiday-makers come from the north of the island to gape at the Pitons, which you have on your own doorstep. Look at the elegance of the yachts mooring in the bay. This is such a perfect place to anchor and the water is so clear that people sail from other islands to dive and swim, to eat in the beach bar or the restaurant complex above the beach. And you have it on a plate. Free.’

She passed a sweaty hand over her hot forehead. All along the beach the sunbathers slept, tanned and caught up with their holiday reading. Even to her confused mind she could see that it was a beautiful hide-away and totally peaceful in the absence of any traffic. The dominant sound was that of birds, singing in the forest that began where the sand stopped.

Mandy closed her eyes, imagining herself on the homeward journey. She would be alone, still with a huge question in her life unanswered. But this time it would be worse than before. There would be a bigger question mark hanging over her—not just the identity of her parents but what they had done. And how that affected her.