Wild Enchantress Read online

  He turned the car radio up as if to drown the unpleasantness of that prospect. An American group were playing their latest hit record, a throbbing beat sound that thundered in his ears like the pounding of the surf, and suddenly he relaxed. What was six months after all? One hundred and eighty days. And he could still paint—and swim—and surf! It would soon pass.

  An aircraft was droning overhead and he glanced up, wondering whether the flight from Heathrow would land on time. A long and boring journey, he had always found it, usually passing the time by sketching any interesting profile which captured his attention. But sometimes it became embarrassing if he was observed and he had to explain who he was. Publicity, above all things, he abhorred.

  Parking the convertible, he vaulted out of his seat, and strolled towards the airport buildings. At this time of the year the airport was invariably busy, with tourists arriving and departing, and the tannoy system working overtime. Somewhere a steel band was playing, its rhythm stirring his blood, and a faintly derisive smile touched the corners of his mouth as he walked slowly into the reception area.

  He was not unaware of the several pairs of female eyes which followed his progress. He was not a conceited man, but he had not reached the age of thirty-four without realising his own potential, and for a time he had taken advantage of it. But in recent years he had grown bored with the reputation he had created for himself, and since his engagement to Laura, had avoided any sexual entanglements.

  One particular pair of eyes were more persistent than the rest, and he turned to confront their owner with mild impatience. He saw a tall girl with long straight hair streaked in shades of honey and ash blonde. She was slim, but not excessively so, and the tantalising swell of her pointed breasts was visible above the unbuttoned neckline of the striped cotton dress she was wearing. The dress looked like a maternity garment, loose and swinging, its white background striped in shades of violet and purple, the latter exactly matching the colour of her eyes. Her lips parted, as he looked at her, to reveal even white teeth, and there was something familiar about the amusement in her expression. And then he realised why.

  Walking towards her, he could feel his whole body stiffening. ‘You're—Miss Fulton, aren't you?'

  She nodded and smiled, and he wondered how he could have been in any doubt. Six years ago she had been shorter and plumper, the thick hair confined in two bunches, but even then her features had given an indication of what was to come. Now she was quite beautiful, an enchanting picture of burgeoning womanhood. And what else? His eyes probed the length of her slender body, and then returned to her face as she spoke.

  ‘Catherine,’ she said easily. ‘My name's Catherine. Only you can call me Cat. All my friends do.'

  It was seldom that Jared found himself at a loss for words, but this was one of those occasions. Her attitude was so completely unexpected. He had been prepared for anger, and resentment, indifference even. But not this casual amiability.

  ‘I—your plane was early?’ he suggested, glancing round for her luggage, and she nodded again.

  ‘I didn't know what to do, and as you had said you would meet me…'

  ‘Oh, right. Right.’ Jared was annoyed at the irritation he felt. ‘I'm—sorry I was late.'

  ‘Are you?’ Her eyes challenged his, but before he could make some suitable retort, she went on: ‘Oh, well, I've only been waiting about five minutes.’ She indicated the two suitcases standing behind her. ‘These are mine. They're all I've brought. I left the rest of my belongings in the flat. I didn't think there was much point in giving it up, not just for six months.'

  Jared regarded her sourly. ‘You're very sure you're going back there in six months,’ he remarked, and then wondered why he had done so. He didn't want the girl here at all.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered now, swinging the strap of a cream leather bag over her shoulder. ‘It's my home, after all.'

  Jared summoned a porter to take the suitcases, aware of her watching him as he did so. He wondered what she was thinking and was disconcerted when she said: ‘It was kind of you to invite me here, but it wasn't necessary. Daddy was always far too protective. I can look after myself.'

  ‘Can you?’ Jared's tone was dry. ‘Well, I'm sorry, but I felt unable to carry out your father's wishes at several thousand miles’ distance.'

  ‘I'm surprised you wanted to,’ she murmured, preceding him out into the brilliant sunshine, and again forestalled his retort by adding: ‘Gosh, isn't it hot! It was raining when we left London.'

  The convertible waited in the shade, and Jared had the porter stow her cases in the back, handed him a generous tip, and then swung open the passenger side door for Catherine to get in. He could not help but appreciate the long slender limbs exhibited as she drew her legs into the vehicle, and the perfume she was wearing rose up from the hollow between her breasts. Slamming the door, he walked round and levered himself in beside her, reaching for a cheroot before starting the engine.

  ‘Is it far to your house, Jared?’ she inquired, as he inhaled the aromatic fumes deep into his lungs, and he was not pleased by her casual use of his name. When her father had introduced them six years ago, he had been Mr Royal, and somehow he had expected that.

  ‘About twenty miles,’ he replied shortly, his tone indicative of his mood.

  For a few moments there was silence, broken only by the whine of a jet engine overhead, and the sound of laughter across the parking area. Then she said with quiet deliberation: ‘Why did you bring me out here, Jared? It's obvious you don't really want me.'

  Jared took the cheroot out of his mouth before his teeth crushed it flat. ‘Have I given you that impression?'

  She looked amused, and that annoyed him even more. ‘You know you have,’ she said. ‘You've never even said hello, let alone asked me what kind of a journey I had! What's wrong? Haven't you forgiven me for embarrassing you all those years ago?'

  ‘You didn't embarrass me, Miss Fulton.'

  ‘Cat! And yes, I did. I'm sorry. But you were the first man I ever really fell for. I know I was a precocious little beast, but I have grown up a lot since then.'

  ‘It's really not important.'

  ‘So why are you so uptight?'

  ‘I'm not—uptight. Whatever that means!'

  ‘You must know. Barbados can't be that out of touch.'

  ‘I don't consider it out of touch at all.'

  She gave him a sidelong glance. ‘You think I do.'

  ‘Vegetating—isn't that what you said?'

  She laughed. ‘Oh, no! That got back to you.’ She shook her head. ‘That was Tony. He said that, not me.'

  ‘Tony?’ he queried.

  ‘Mmm. Tony Bainbridge. A—friend.'

  ‘Boy-friend?'

  ‘Well, as he is male…’ She looked amused and Jared ground out the remains of his cheroot in the ashtray.

  ‘The reason why you didn't want to come out here, one presumes,’ he commented coldly, and she sighed.

  ‘You do sound pompous,’ she said ruefully. ‘I didn't think you would be—being an artist and all.'

  ‘I am not an artist!’ he retorted grimly. ‘I'm a painter. Don't confuse me with your genuine be-smocked eccentric!'

  ‘I wouldn't do that,’ she assured him, and he leant forward to start the ignition with a vicious flick of his wrist. She had succeeded in putting hm on the defensive and he didn't like it.

  They covered several miles without conversation. She seemed content to stare out of the side of the car at the neat hedges they were passing, at the smooth winding road which might have been in England had it not been for the little wobbling donkey carts with their loads of bananas and grapefruit, mangoes and avocados, the dark skins of the people, and cane in the fields instead of corn. Occasionally a white-painted windmill appeared, its sails turning in the breeze which fanned their faces and tangled Catherine's hair. Here and there were cottage gardens bright with flowers of every kind—lilies and begonias, fuchsias, rose mallows, red hibiscus or
the exotic petals of the moonflower. It was an exciting and colourful scene, and as the road meandered towards the coast, they came within sight and sound of the Atlantic breakers rolling in to plunging headlands and wild and lovely beaches. The further north they drove, the more spectacular the scenery became and eventually Catherine had to comment upon it.

  ‘It reminds me of Brittany,’ she said, leaning forward in her seat to get a better view. ‘I had a holiday there when I was about seventeen. Have you ever been to France, Jared?'

  He shook his head. ‘No.'

  She studied his unsmiling profile. ‘This—visit isn't going to be much fun if you persist in treating me like some kind of pariah. Look, can't we at least be civil with one another? I know my father would have wanted it that way.'

  At the mention of her father, Jared felt a twinge of remorse. Glancing sideways at her, he saw how her eyes had darkened with remembered grief, and he felt a moment's sympathy.

  ‘I liked your father,’ he said quietly. ‘He was a fine man. I met him in my final year at Oxford. Your mother was alive in those days.'

  ‘Oh, Mummy. Yes.’ Catherine sank back in her seat. ‘I seem to have been singularly unlucky with my parents. Mummy dying in that car accident, and now Daddy…'

  Her voice trailed away, and Jared's fingers tightened on the wheel. ‘Then it's just as well you can take care of yourself, isn't it?'

  His words, not entirely intended to sound ironic, came out that way, and for once she was stung by them. ‘That's exactly the kind of remark you would make, isn't it?’ she demanded. ‘Just because you once got a great deal of satisfaction out of putting me down, you can't resist repeating the experiment, can you?'

  ‘My dear girl—'

  ‘I'm not your dear girl! Oh, how I wish Daddy had never written that letter. I don't know what possessed him to do so. I don't need your guardianship. I was quite happy in London—having a good time—'

  ‘With Tony!’ he inserted dryly, and she gave him an angry stare.

  ‘Yes, with Tony. Why not with Tony—or with anyone else, for that matter?'

  Jared's expression was contemptuous after this outburst. ‘I'm beginning to understand why your father was so concerned about you,’ he drawled.

  ‘Oh, are you?’ Her eyes challenged his, dark lashes giving them a sooty outline. She examined his face with frank appraisal, and then she said: ‘You've got cat's eyes, do you know that? You should have been called Kit, or Christian, so they could have abbreviated your name. With your looks you could easily have been a pirate. What a pity your character doesn't match your appearance!'

  ‘I was not aware you were talking about me. It's obvious. Your father was afraid some man would—would—'

  ‘—put me in the family way? Make me marry him so that he could get his hands on my fortune and I could save my good name? How old-fashioned, Mr Royal,’ she taunted. ‘Haven't you heard of the pill? And besides, you don't imagine being pregnant would force me to marry anyone, do you?'

  Jared's jaw clenched. ‘Easy to say, Miss Fulton, when the need doesn't arise!'

  Her hands balled together in her lap. ‘How do you know?’ she demanded scathingly. ‘What makes you so sure I'm not pregnant at this moment?'

  Jared dragged his eyes away from the road to stare at her, disbelief vying with the recollection of his first sight of her in that loose, flowing garment at the airport. His eyes narrowed, tawny slits between lashes thicker, but not as long, as her own. ‘And are you?’ he inquired coldly.

  Catherine pressed her lips together, deepening colour darkening the soft velvety skin of her cheeks. ‘I—yes,’ she answered. ‘Yes, I am. What are you going to do about it?'

  CHAPTER TWO

  Now why had she said that?

  Catherine could hardly believe she had allowed the words to pass her lips. What possible satisfaction could she hope to gain from such an announcement? How silly to allow him to get under her skin to that extent! It wasn't true. And how angry Tony would be if he ever found out.

  And yet she couldn't help but smile at Jared's grim profile as he endeavoured to concentrate his attention on the traffic in the face of her outrageous statement. A small sigh escaped her as she considered how much she had wanted to see him again. Ever since he had come to the Open Day at her boarding school with her father, his image had lingered in her mind, accompanied by that tantalising memory of his reactions to her amateurish attempt to attract his attention.

  All the girls had been envious of her attractive visitor. He had worn a denim suit, she remembered, and the closer-fitting styles of those days had accentuated the narrowness of his hips. In any event, she had been pleased to be taking part in the tennis tournament, which meant she had been able to wear a hip-length tennis dress which drew attention to the already curving length of her legs. When her match was over, she had joined her father and his friend for tea, and in the busy marquee it had not been difficult to find an occasion to press herself close to Jared Royal's lean, hard body. That he had swiftly detached himself from her with a few well-chosen words of rebuke had not been able to dispose of the fact that for a brief instant his body had responded to hers. She had not seen him again, but when she learned of her father's letter, she had not been entirely opposed to coming out here and meeting him again. She had thought he might well have forgotten that incident which she remembered so vividly, but it seemed he had not. And what was more, he was judging her present behaviour on one single reckless act. She squared her shoulders. Well, now he had something to justify his opinion of her.

  She was so absorbed with her thoughts that she hardly noticed when they turned between griffin-mounted stone gateposts, but the tall palms lining the white-gravelled driveway brought her to the realisation that they were approaching the Royal house. She glanced frustratedly at Jared. Was he not going to say anything, then? Was he so uninterested in her affairs that even the announcement that she was expecting a baby had no reaction on him?

  She hunched her shoulders. But what of the rest of his family? What was she going to tell them? She knew he had a stepmother. She could just imagine her reactions to learning her guest's condition. She should never have said what she did. But it was too late now. And besides, she wanted him to believe it. It would give her the greatest pleasure to explode his myth of self-confidence at the end of her stay. And it would also be interesting to see whether he was really as hostile to her as he would have her believe.

  But she had to say something, and despising the faint tremor in her voice, she said: ‘Is this your home?'

  ‘Yes.’ There was a certain amount of pride in his voice now. ‘Amaryllis.'

  ‘Amaryllis.'

  Catherine said the word experimentally. It rolled off her tongue, attractively different from the names of houses back home in England. The drive curved between banks of rhododendrons, and then she saw it. Amaryllis. A wide colonial house, with white-painted shutters, and a long balcony to the first floor, running the width of the house. On the lower floor, rattan chairs were set in the shade between wooden pillars overhung with morning glory and clematis.

  ‘Oh…’ She could not deny the words which tumbled from her lips. ‘It's beautiful! So clean—and picturesque. It's like everyone's dream of what a plantation house should be.’ She turned to him eagerly, almost forgetting what was between them. ‘I expect you love it.'

  Jared looked her way, and she was chilled by the coldness of his eyes. Amber should be warm, burnished, not pale and icily penetrating. ‘It's my home,’ he said expressionlessly.

  ‘But not mine,’ she burst out fiercely. ‘Is that what you're really saying?'

  He shrugged, returning his attention to swinging the convertible round in an arc, bringing it to a halt beside doors which stood wide to the afternoon air. ‘I invited you to Amaryllis, Miss Fulton. I haven't forgotten that.'

  The car had scarcely stopped before a woman appeared in the open doorway. Catherine, thrusting open her door and getting out of the car without waiti
ng for his assistance, wondered if this could be Jared's stepmother. But as the woman moved further out of the shadows, she saw that she was dark-skinned, and wearing a cotton smock patterned all over with yellow sunflowers on a green background. Her hair was turning grey in places, but was still as thick as ever, and there were laughter creases beside her mouth and eyes. Catherine thought she was going to like her, and judging by the way she was being summed up, the other woman would not forget her face in a hurry.

  Jared hefted Catherine's cases out of the car and then turned to the woman with a smile which left Catherine wishing he had used his charm on her. ‘Lily, this is Miss Fulton who's coming to stay with us for a while. Will you have Henry take her luggage up to her room?'

  ‘Yes, Mr Royal.’ Lily's dark eyes shifted to the girl. ‘Welcome to Barbados, Miz Fulton.'

  ‘Thank you, Lily.’ Catherine cast a slightly ironic glance in Jared's direction. It had taken a servant to say the words he should have used. ‘I'm sure I'm going to love it here.’ This last, just to show him that he could not intimidate her.

  ‘Where is my stepmother, Lily?'

  Not by the flicker of an eyelid did Jared reveal any reaction to his guest's apparent enthusiasm, and Lily led the way into the cool, white-panelled hall of the building, indicating an archway to their right.

  ‘She's in the parlour, Mr Royal. She said to serve tea directly you get back from the airport. Shall I do it now?'