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  ‘No.’ Jordan’s tongue circled her lower lip. ‘No, he’s not. But there’s something else you should remember, Mary-Jo. I was only seventeen at the time, little more than a schoolgirl myself. And that’s all it was—a schoolgirl crush on an older man.’

  Mary-Jo looked doubtful. ‘You were pretty cut up about it when his wife turned up, weren’t you?’ she protested. ‘And who could blame you?’

  ‘Mary-Jo!’

  ‘Well, it’s true. I mean, imagine him not telling you he was married! And having a daughter and everything. You must have felt terrible——’

  ‘Mary-Jo!’

  Jordan’s voice had risen sharply, and as if just realising how personal she was being, the girl muttered a word of apology and sat down. But the looks she kept casting in her employer’s direction were eloquent of her feelings, and Jordan’s nerves felt ragged as she endeavoured to concentrate on the accounts.

  She was almost relieved when Karen came back, waltzing into the office with her usual disregard for anyone’s privacy. ‘The avocados are here!’ she announced unnecessarily. And then, with sudden intuition: ‘What’s been going on here? You could cut the atmosphere with a knife!’

  Jordan put down her pen and sighed. ‘Mary-Jo and I have just had a difference of opinion,’ she declared shortly. ‘Now, do you mind if we get on? I seem to have wasted half the day already.’

  ‘All right.’ Karen’s blue eyes took on a knowing expression. Unlike her sister, she was a natural redhead, and in consequence her colouring was that much fairer. ‘But I thought you might like to know, Rhys was in town, with his daughter. At least, I assume she was his daughter. She looks about eighteen.’

  ‘She’s—sixteen,’ said Jordan slowly, realising, as she did so, how wrong she had been to think of her as a child. Then, colouring, she added: ‘Where did you see them? Did you speak to them? I hope you weren’t rude—they have as much right here as we do.’

  ‘Hardly,’ exclaimed Karen indignantly. ‘Daddy’s family have lived here for—for donkey’s years. And I was born here.’

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  ‘No, but you’re not like Rhys Williams. He’s only lived on the island for a matter of months, not years.’ Karen pursed her lips. ‘Anyway, you don’t have to worry. I didn’t speak to them. They didn’t even see me, and if they had, I doubt Rhys would have recognised me. I was only ten when he went away.’

  Jordan allowed her breath to escape unnoticed. ‘You—you could be right. So—where did you see them?’

  ‘In the market.’ Karen tucked her hands into the pockets of her shorts. ‘He was buying her a sun-hat. One of those hand-made palm things that weigh a ton until they’ve dried out.’ She paused. ‘He hasn’t changed much.’

  ‘Well, I have.’ Jordan tried to make it sound like a joke, but it didn’t quite come off. ‘I—where did you leave the avocados? Not out in the sun, I hope.’

  ‘No.’ Karen gave her an impatient look. ‘I’m not stupid. Willy took them down to the cellar.’

  ‘Good.’ Jordan managed an approving smile. ‘Josef will be pleased anyway.’

  She hoped Karen would go now, but her sister hovered in the doorway, evidently wanting to say something else. Jordan’s fingers tightened convulsively round her pen as Karen tried to catch her eye, and she wondered how long her new-found composure would last if it was subjected to these pressures.

  ‘Do you think he’ll come here?’ Karen asked at last, when it became obvious that her sister was not going to make things easy for her, and Jordan laid down her pen.

  ‘Why should he?’

  ‘To thank you, of course.’ Karen hunched her shoulders. ‘You have looked after the house for him, haven’t you?’

  Jordan sighed. ‘Tomas and Rosa have looked after the house.’

  ‘Yes, I know. But you know they wouldn’t have been as diligent as you have.’

  ‘Oh, Karen!’ Jordan drew an unsteady breath. ‘Can’t we just forget about Rhys Williams? Please? I don’t want his thanks, I just want to get on with my life. Now, can I do that?’

  Karen’s lips compressed. ‘Well, I think the whole affair stinks,’ she declared rudely, going out of the room and slamming the door behind her, and Jordan was left to face Mary-Jo’s knowing gaze as the room resounded with the sound.

  The remainder of the morning passed without incident, and during the afternoon Jordan had to contend with other problems about the hotel. The shutter on the window in one of the bathrooms had broken, and she had to summon the carpenter to deal with it. One of the guests had trodden on a sea urchin, and the doctor had to be called to remove the spines. And finally, one of the waiters in the restaurant slipped and sprained his ankle, leaving them short-staffed at the busiest time of the day.

  By the time Jordan took her evening shower, she was feeling decidedly frayed at the seams. It had been one of those days, she thought, as she towelled her hair dry before picking up the hand drier to complete the process. Ever since Karen had told her about Rhys Williams, her nerves had been on edge, and she had to force her hand to remain steady as she directed the hot air on to her head.

  She was applying a pale gold eye-shadow to her lids when the internal phone rang. ‘Mr Ferris is here, Miss Jordan,’ Raoul’s laconic voice announced in her ear, and she acknowledged the news with an emphatic: ‘I’ll be right down.’

  Thank goodness for Neil, she thought, as she hurried into a raw silk skirt and a full-sleeved blouse. Without his help and encouragement, she might never have succeeded in carrying on after her father died, and his knowledge of the hotel trade had been invaluable. It had been particularly kind of him, considering he owned the only other hotel of any size on the island, and by supporting Trade Winds he had halved the business he could have done. Jordan had known him for years, ever since her father came back to the island, bringing his wife and young daughter with him. But it wasn’t until her father died that she learned to appreciate his friendship, and the growing bond of affection that was gradually developing between them.

  He was waiting for her in the lobby when she went downstairs, tall and tanned and handsome in his black dinner jacket. He was leaning on the desk, talking to Raoul, who took over the switchboard after Mary-Jo had gone home, and Jordan felt a wave of gratitude sweep over her in his warm familiar presence.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, her sandalled feet making little sound on the tiled floor, and he turned and straightened and came to greet her.

  ‘Hi,’ he responded, his hands on her shoulders marvellously reassuring. ‘You looked flushed. Have you been hurrying?’

  ‘It has been quite a hectic day,’ she conceded, as his lips brushed her cheek. ‘Thank goodness you were at the end of it. I can’t wait to get away from the hotel for a few hours!’

  Neil regarded her intently. ‘Really?’ He tucked her arm through his. ‘Well, don’t let’s delay. I’ve got some cocktails cooling over ice, and a fillet of beef cooked with herbs and brandy.’

  ‘Mmm, it sounds delicious,’ murmured Jordan, giving Raoul a wave of farewell, and then Neil was tucking her into the front seat of his sleek convertible, and the cares of the day just melted into space.

  Unlike Jordan and her sister, Neil did not live in his hotel. He had had a single-storied villa built alongside; adjacent to, and yet separate from, the main buildings. Unlike Trade Winds, the accommodation at Coral Cay was provided in a series of beach bungalows, and in consequence, the area it covered was much greater.

  Tonight, Jordan could hear the sounds of a beach barbecue as they neared Coral Cay, and the leaping flames of a fire on the sand gave the night an added illumination. Fortunately, it was cooler now than in the heat of the day, but Jordan had no objections when Neil suggested they had their drinks on the verandah.

  Because Coral Cay was at the southernmost point of the island, the view was different from the one Jordan was used to. The sea was not so gentle here; there were breakers splintering over the jagged horns of the reef, and although the bathing was
adequate, she much preferred the smoother shores of home.

  Neil emerged from the house carrying a flask of cocktails and setting two glasses down on the glass-topped table beside her chair, he poured the bubbling liquid. ‘Daiquiris à la Ferris,’ he said teasingly, handing her a wide-lipped glass. ‘Just what you need after a tiring day.’

  ‘Is it ever!’ murmured Jordan fervently. ‘Beautiful! You’d make a good barman, Neil. If you ever need a job, come and see me.’

  Neil subsided into the cushioned chair beside her, depositing a kiss at the corner of her mouth before stretching his legs out before him. ‘The very best part of the day,’ he averred, tasting his own drink. ‘So, tell me: why are you so feeling so drained?’

  ‘Oh——’ Jordan was glad of the shadows on the verandah to hide her sudden colour. ‘You know—this and that. The usual ups and downs of an hotelier’s life.’

  ‘And that’s all?’ Neil turned his head to look at her. ‘Just the usual pitch and toss?’

  ‘What else?’ Jordan lifted one foot to rub her instep lightly against her leg. In the dark, the whiteness of her skirt was a sharp contrast to the brownness of her skin, and she reflected how lucky she was never to need tights or stockings. ‘One of the French girls stood on a sea urchin, and Carlos chose tonight of all nights to go and sprain his ankle.’

  ‘And that was it?’

  ‘Well …’ Jordan lifted a slim shoulder, feeling the weight of her hair as it coiled against her neck, ‘there were one or two other irritations, but yes, I guess that was all.’

  ‘Oh, Jordan!’ Neil leant forward to pour more of the pale liquid into his glass. ‘You’re not telling me you haven’t heard that Rhys Williams is back, are you? According to Karen, she virtually ran into him in town today, and I know she wouldn’t keep that piece of news to herself.’

  Jordan stiffened. ‘You’ve spoken to Karen?’

  ‘Sure. She was in the lobby talking to Raoul when I arrived. As soon as she mentioned Williams’ name I guessed how you’d react. Damn the fellow! What’s he come back here for?’

  Jordan hesitated. ‘Rosa told me he was coming for a holiday,’ she admitted after a moment, and Neil frowned.

  ‘You knew he was coming, then?’

  ‘Y—e—s.’ Jordan drew the word out. ‘I—it’s not unnatural, is it? I mean, he does own the house at Planter’s Point.’

  ‘I don’t know how he has the nerve to come here,’ snapped Neil angrily. ‘But I suppose it’s all you can expect from artists!’ The way he said the word was an abuse. ‘I’d have thought he’d have better things to do than come here, raking up old gossip! From the little I’ve read about him in the American press, he’s not been short of female companionship during the past ten years.’

  ‘Neil, please!’ Jordan sat up, straightening her spine. ‘It’s not that important.’

  ‘It’s important to me,’ retorted Neil grimly. ‘I may not have had a personal interest in you at that time, but I know how you must have felt when his wife turned up like that. Everyone thought you were going to marry the fellow, didn’t they? No wonder your father didn’t approve!’

  Jordan sighed. ‘Look, can we talk about something else? I appreciate your sympathy, but—well, it’s really not necessary. It all happened a long time ago. I was too young to know what I was doing. Let’s forget it, shall we? According to Rosa, he’s only staying a few weeks. I probably won’t even see him.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  IT was raining. After weeks of unmitigated heat, the weather had finally broken, and the downpour promised to soak Jordan long before she reached home. Already it was difficult to see where she was going, the tropical cloudburst causing giant puddles in the road, and almost blinding her as it swept across the bouncing bonnet of the buggy.

  There had been only a hint of what was to come before she left the hotel. A distant rumbling had warned of thunder, but the sky had seemed clear enough. However, the storm clouds from the west had blown up with unexpected force, and now the clouds were leaden and the rain was falling with steady persistence.

  Sighing, Jordan pulled the buggy over to the side of the road, ignoring the dangers of the bending trunks above her. There didn’t seem much point in scrabbling around in the back of the buggy looking for the storm canopy now. Her face and arms were soaked, as was her hair, and the short skirt of her cotton tunic revealed that her legs were dripping with water, too.

  A brief appraisal of her whereabouts informed her that she was only about half a mile from Planter’s Point, and in other circumstances she would have had no hesitation in seeking shelter at her father’s old home. But having survived Rhys’s first week on the island without running into him, she was just beginning to relax, and she had no intention of precipitating a meeting.

  Nevertheless, the idea of sitting in the buggy until the storm passed was not attractive to her, and deciding she couldn’t get any wetter than she was now, she slid out on to the grass verge. Through the belt of trees she could see the strand of beach, strewn with the debris blown from the trees, and beyond it the sea, rain-washed and inviting.

  On impulse, she dropped her sandals into the back of the buggy, and padded across the turf to the sand. The texture of the grass was soft against her toes, stroking her bare legs in a curiously sensuous gesture. The sand, too, was fine and gritty as her feet sank into it, making walking difficult until she reached the damper stretches where the tide had reached.

  The soles of her feet made footprints in the sand, but they disappeared almost immediately, absorbed into the springy wetness. And as she approached the sea, creaming in rivulets along the shoreline, the waves took the evidence of her occupation away, rippling round her toes and splashing over her ankles.

  Her hair dripped lankly down her neck, and realising it would never dry in its present state, she reached up her arms and pulled out the pins that kept it securely in place. It fell down her back in a long silken curtain, and she ran her fingers through it, enjoying the unaccustomed freedom. Turning her face up to the heavens, she parted her lips and drank in the storm’s sweetness, then spread her arms wide in an all-encompassing attitude.

  She didn’t know at exactly what moment she became aware of the man’s presence. It might have been an unconscious realisation in the back of her mind as she lifted her face to the sky. Or it could, conceivably, have been the moment when she spread her arms in that gesture of obeisance and caught sight of the still dark figure silhouetted along the beach.

  Immediately, her arms fell to her sides, and she shifted a little uneasily. She felt as if she had been caught out in some flagrant act of abandon, not at all the kind of behaviour expected from the manager of the Trade Winds Hotel. Making an effort to justify her actions, she looped the rain-darkened rope of her hair over one shoulder and squeezed the moisture from it; then, with a careless lift of one shoulder, she started towards the buggy, realising as she did so that the rain was beginning to ease.

  The man had started to move, too. She could see him out of the corner of her eye, and although she quickened her step, it was obvious he was going to intercept her before she reached the road. Damn, she thought impatiently, why had she decided to stop? This was a deserted stretch of the highway, and although she was not exactly afraid, she couldn’t help remembering her own reckless behaviour. Perhaps he thought she was looking for company; she could hardly blame him if he had got the wrong impression. And looking down at her breasts outlined against the thin cotton of her bodice, she knew it would be difficult to convince him otherwise.

  With a feeling of frustration, she gave up the unequal struggle to reach the buggy and turned to confront her pursuer. Attack was the only method of defence left to her, she decided, and sweeping back her wind-blown hair she held it in place at her nape with both hands.

  ‘Are you following me?’ she began, before her breath caught in her throat, almost choking her. ‘Rhys!’ she exclaimed, swallowing convulsively, and then more evenly: ‘Rhys! What a surprise! W
h-what are you doing here?’

  It was all so much different from the way she had intended their eventual meeting to take place. To begin with, she had expected him to come to the hotel, as Karen had said, to thank her for looking after his house if nothing else. When that didn’t happen, she had steeled herself to meeting him every time she went into the little town of Eleutha, but once again, she had not seen him. She had planned their meeting so minutely, even down to the clothes she would wear and the things she would say, but all that was useless now. She had never expected to encounter him on a rain-soaked afternoon, miles from the hotel, with her hair and clothes clinging to her like a second skin, and without a scrap of make-up to disguise the panic that raged inside her.

  And he looked just the same—a little older perhaps, but not significantly so, his dark hair plastered to his head, outlining the lean contours of his face and jawline. He was still as attractive as ever, moving with that lithe, cat-like grace, that characterised his sexuality. Like her, his clothes were wet and sticking to him, though he had unbuttoned the denim shirt and it hung loose from his shoulders. Jeans moulded his thighs, but she determinedly kept her eyes on the silver clasp of his belt. She didn’t want to look at him, she didn’t want to remember what they had once shared; and most of all she didn’t want him to look at her, particularly not when his expression clearly mirrored a fine contempt.

  ‘I should ask you that question,’ he said now, covering the space between them. ‘You’re trespassing, or did you know that?’ His dark eyes compelled her gaze. ‘What the hell did you think you were doing back there?’

  Jordan took several deep breaths to calm herself, but without a great deal of success. He was angry, that much was evident, and even being civil was obviously an effort.

  Wrapping her arms closely about her, she lifted her head. ‘I—I don’t know what you mean,’ she said carefully. ‘I was just killing time until the storm had cleared. I didn’t know I was trespassing, but if you say I was, I’ll take your word for it.’