Passionate Protectors? Page 32

  She hung back. ‘It’s very—quiet. So, how many more are there? Honoured guests, I mean?’

  ‘As yet, you are the only one, Mademoiselle Greer.’

  ‘I see.’ It wasn’t true, but there seemed little point in hanging around arguing the point, so she followed Cornelius up the stairs, the polished banister smooth under her hand. The only touch of reality in a confusing world, she thought.

  She said, ‘Has the hotel only just opened for business, then?’

  ‘Hotel?’ Cornelius halted, glancing back at her in obvious astonishment. ‘Arcadie is a private house, mademoiselle. You are here at the invitation of the owner, Mist’ Howard.’

  Chellie’s hand tightened on the rail. ‘But there must be some mistake,’ she said, trying to speak calmly. ‘I don’t know any such person. Is he here? I—I’d better speak to him at once…’

  ‘I regret—Mist’ Howard is in America.’

  ‘In America?’ she repeated, stunned. ‘Then how could he…?’ Her voice tailed away as realisation began to dawn.

  ‘Ah,’ she said softly, between her teeth. ‘I think I understand.’

  So this was the arrangement Ash Brennan had made, she thought smouldering. Once more he was presuming on his employer’s good nature, it seemed. He must be awfully sure of his position in the family to take such advantage. But then he was going to be his boss’s son in law—wasn’t he?

  She forced a smile. ‘Tell me, Cornelius, does your Mr Howard own a boat called La Belle Rêve,’ by any chance?’

  ‘Mais, bien sûr, mademoiselle.’ He gave her an anxious look. ‘There is a problem? You still wish to leave?’

  ‘No, not at all.’ Chellie gave an airy shrug. ‘Why shouldn’t I stay in his house? After all, I’ve enjoyed so much of his hospitality already in the last few days.’ She ticked off on her fingers. ‘I’ve sailed on his boat, eaten his food, and I’m even wearing his daughter’s clothes, so what does one more thing matter?’ She paused again. ‘I presume he does have a daughter?’ She tried to make her voice casual.

  Cornelius nodded. ‘Indeed, mademoiselle.’ There was fondness in his tone. ‘Mademoiselle Julie is with him in Florida.’

  ‘How delightful,’ Chellie said brightly. ‘All the same, I hope I’m not sleeping in her room. I should hate her to arrive and find it occupied.’ In fact, I should hate her to arrive, period, she added silently, her memory serving up the image of the smiling blonde in the photograph.

  ‘You have been given the guest suite, mademoiselle.’ Cornelius sounded faintly shocked. ‘But neither Mist’ Howard or Mam’selle are expected.’

  Good, thought Chellie, and meant it.

  But, in spite of her misgivings, she could not help but be enchanted by her accommodation. An airy sitting room, furnished with a brightly cushioned rattan sofa and chairs, opened into a large bedroom, with soft turquoise walls and filmy white drapes billowing gently in the faint breeze from the open window.

  The low, wide bed had a quilted coverlet, patterned in shades of turquoise and white, and the ivory and gold tiled bathroom held a deep tub, as well as a walk-in shower with glass screens.

  Chellie was suddenly aware that tears were not far away. All this comfort—all this beauty, she thought, for someone frankly fraying at the edges.

  She said huskily, ‘It—it’s wonderful, Cornelius. Thank you.’

  He inclined his head, looking pleased. He said, ‘If you give your dress to Rosalie, mademoiselle, she will have it laundered for you.’

  Of course, she thought, as the door closed behind him. As her father’s daughter, this was the kind of service she had been taught to expect. Yet she’d never really appreciated it until this moment.

  She stripped, and had a long, luxurious shower, hoping to wash away the blues, then changed into a pair of cream cut-offs and a black vest top. She slipped on a pair of light canvas shoes, and ventured downstairs.

  A large woman in a striped cotton dress came surging to meet her, the dark eyes flicking over Chellie in a swift, shrewd assessment that in no way detracted from the warmth of her smile.

  ‘You would like some refreshment, mademoiselle—iced tea, or maybe pineapple juice?’ She whisked Chellie through a sitting room replete with large squashy sofas and low tables, and out through sliding glass doors to the verandah at the back of the house, where a table and chairs had been set and a tray awaited, set with covered jugs and glasses.

  ‘It looks lovely,’ Chellie said, with a little sigh of pleasure. ‘May I have some tea, please?’

  She watched as Rosalie poured the tea with a satisfying clink of ice cubes, and took the glass she was offered.

  One sip convinced her that it was the best iced tea she’d ever tasted, full of flavour and not too sweet, and so she told Rosalie, who looked quietly gratified.

  Encouraged by this, Chellie decided on another tack. ‘It’s good of you to go to all this trouble,’ she said. ‘After all, it can’t have been convenient to have me dumped on you at such short notice.’ She paused. ‘I thought Mr Brennan was sending me to a hotel.’

  Rosalie dismissed all hotels with a wave of her hand, lips pursed disapprovingly. ‘You are Mist’ Ash’s friend, mam’selle, so where else would you stay? Mr Howard would wish you to be here.’

  Would he? I wonder, Chellie thought, her own mouth twisting. And is that really what I am—Ash’s friend? He wasn’t very friendly when we parted.

  Which reminded her. She said ‘Rosalie, I need to contact Mr Ash fairly urgently. Would it be possible for me to call him on the telephone in St Hilaire?’

  ‘Mist’ Ash?’ the older woman repeated, setting the jug back on the tray and arranging its beaded muslin cover with minute care. She shook her head. ‘I don’t know, mam’selle. Don’t know where he might be.’

  ‘But it isn’t a huge place,’ Chellie protested. ‘Surely you must be able to reach him somewhere.’

  Rosalie folded her hands in front of her. ‘It’s not easy, mam’selle. But I ask Cornelius,’ she added with the air of one making a major concession.

  Chellie sighed in silent perplexity as Rosalie went back into the house. Another dead end, it seemed. Or was she being deliberately blocked? Surely not. Yet Laurent had indicated that Ash had his own place on the island, which must mean an address—a phone number.

  Unless he’d given instructions that he wasn’t to be contacted—particularly by her. Maybe he’d decided it was time to draw a line, once and for all, under this strange stop-go relationship.

  Shaking off the faint feeling of desolation assailing her, she settled herself back against the cushions of her wicker lounger and drank some more tea. A climbing plant, heavy with blossom, was spilling over the balustrade, and a huge butterfly with pale velvety wings was busy among the flowers.

  There was a flash of green and gold, and a parrot flew across the grass and vanished into a nearby tree.

  Arcadia indeed, she thought, drawing a swift, delighted breath. But she could not allow herself to relax and enjoy it too much. Her presence here was a strictly temporary measure, and she must never forget it.

  Another twenty-four hours and I’ll be gone, she told herself, and all this will be behind me. And perhaps then I can start to forget—and to heal. And she sighed again, wishing with all her heart that she could believe that.

  Chapter Eight

  AT THE time it had seemed like a good idea to go for a stroll. To explore Arcadie beyond the immediate confines of the garden.

  Now, with the sun baking on her back, an escort of persistent insects, and an apparently impenetrable wall of greenery in front of her, Chellie was having second thoughts.

  But she’d needed to do something, she argued as she pushed forward, parting the thick, fleshy leaves that impeded her, looking for the track which she’d been following but seemed to have temporarily mislaid.

  Oh, come on, she told herself impatiently. It’s here somewhere. It has to be.

  It would have been much easier to stay on the veran
dah, drinking more tea and finishing the plate of tiny cinammon biscuits that Rosalie had supplied along with it.

  But she would only have started to brood—to let her thoughts take her down paths even more hazardous than the one she was now embarked on, which seemed to have led her into the middle of a rainforest.

  And over it all hung the mountain. Not the Needle itself, but one of the smaller Pins, yet composed of grey volcanic rock just the same.

  It took guts to make a home in such a place, she thought. It was so beautiful, but so savage and unpredictable at the same time.

  Someone had once said that volcanoes never really died, but merely slept, and she could only hope that they were wrong.

  She found herself almost regretting that she would never meet Mr Howard, the intrepid man who’d built his house here, daring the dark gods of hurricanes and seismic upheavals to do their worst.

  Beyond the tailored lawns round the house the wilderness waited, primitive and still untamed. And she should not be taking any more risks here. She’d undergone enough ordeals lately to last her a lifetime. Now she really needed to step back into civilisation and stay there.

  I should turn back, she thought. So why don’t I?

  Well, for one thing, the walk might do her good. It might even encourage her appetite too. Rosalie had told her when she came for the tray that dinner would be at eight-thirty, and she looked like a woman who took her cooking seriously, and would insist on it being shown due respect.

  But at the moment Chellie felt too edgy for hunger. Because Rosalie had also brought the unwelcome news that neither she nor Cornelius had a number where Ash could be reached. Impasse.

  Arcadie was a beautiful house, and its valley setting was spectacular, but it was in the middle of nowhere.

  No one asked me, she thought restively, if I wished to be cut off from the known world. At the moment, my only way out of here is to walk. There are no locks or bolts, but I feel like a prisoner just the same.

  But now, like a ray of hope, here was the track again, and somewhere ahead of her, she thought, frowning, was the unmistakable splash of water.

  She walked carefully, trying not to twist her ankle on the thick roots which made every step a hazard. She ducked under an overhanging branch, straightened, then stood openmouthed, staring in delight at the scene in front of her.

  Her ears had not deceived her. The little waterfall she’d heard sprang straight from the grey rock, spilling some ten feet into a deep natural basin, yet barely ruffling its surface.

  Here at last was the swimming pool she’d longed for. And it must be safe, because someone had constructed a small diving board, which waited invitingly. Almost beckoning to her.

  One of the accompanying insects grazed her skin, and she brushed it aside impatiently, her eyes fixed on the sky and the light puffs of cloud reflected back by the clear water. Already imagining its caress.

  She could, of course, go back to the house and fetch the solitary swimsuit she’d brought with her.

  On the other hand…

  Impulsively, she kicked off her shoes, then stripped off the vest top, dropping it on to the slab of flat rock beside the diving board. She peeled down the cotton pants, and the lacy briefs she wore beneath them, then walked to the end of the board, positioned herself, and dived in.

  The water felt tinglingly fresh and cold against her overheated skin. She let herself go down into the seemingly endless depths, then kicked for the surface, coming up, gasping and laughing, into the sunlight.

  She’d never swum naked before, and found herself almost guiltily relishing the intensity of the sensation.

  She plunged briefly again, then began to swim in earnest, her body instinctively finding its own smooth rhythm, her muscles working in co-ordination against the strong pull of the water.

  Oh, but she’d missed this, she thought, as eventually she twisted sinuously on to her back and floated, staring up at the blue arc of the sky. For the first time in many weeks she felt almost at peace with herself.

  If ever I have a boat of my own, she thought, I’ll call it Naiad in memory of this afternoon.

  It was ludicrous in her situation to make any kind of plan, but she had to be optimistic, imagine a future where she was in control and prospering. And owning a boat…

  Everyone needs something to aim for, she told herself.

  She swam slowly over to the waterfall and pulled herself up on to the slippery rock at its base. She stood upright under the cascade and lifted her face to the pouring water, revelling at the sting of it against her skin, the cold lash of the torrent driving at her stomach and thighs, urgent against her breasts. Chellie, gripping the wet rock to steady herself, was aware that her nipples were hardening in involuntary response.

  She was completely, almost voluptuously engrossed in the sheer physicality of the moment, yet some strange, almost animal instinct made her turn her head and glance over her shoulder.

  Ash was standing on the other side of the pool, hands on hips and head slightly thrown back as he watched her. He looked casual, but the utter stillness of his stance betrayed him.

  And she too was betrayed, her clothes lying in a pile at his feet. Unreachable.

  For a few seconds she was frozen, her mind working feverishly. The temptation, of course, was to try to cover herself with her hands. But that was too much of a cliché, and besides, it sent out the signal that she wanted him to go on looking…

  And I do, she thought. God help me, but I do.

  There was only one other solution, and she took it swiftly and fiercely, jumping back into the pool, then treading water so that only her head and shoulders were visible.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ She made her tone challenging.

  ‘I invited myself to dinner,’ he said. ‘Rosalie’s fish stew is renowned throughout the islands, and quite irresistible.’ He paused. ‘Like so much else at Arcadie.’

  Chellie’s mouth tightened. ‘I mean why are you here? Now, and at this particular spot?’

  He shrugged. ‘Because this is my favourite place on the estate, and somehow I guessed you would find your way here too.’ He smiled at her. ‘It’s a good place to be—isn’t it?’

  ‘Wonderful,’ Chellie said crisply. ‘But getting chilly now. So, I’d like to get out and get dressed. If you don’t mind.’

  ‘That’s fine with me.’ His voice was equable. ‘But it can be a scramble when you’re not used to it. You’d better take my hand.’

  Chellie gasped. ‘Like hell I will.’

  ‘Do you have a choice?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, trying to stop her teeth from chattering. ‘I can stay here until you have the decency to go.’

  ‘It’s a little late to be prim, don’t you think?’ There was a ghost of laughter in his voice. ‘Especially when the image of you standing under the cascade is now irrevocably etched into my brain.’

  He paused for a moment, then began slowly to unbutton the white shirt he was wearing with immaculately pressed dark pants. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘I could always come in and join you. It’s very hot today, and a little—stimulation might be pleasant.’

  The breath caught in her throat. ‘Don’t you dare,’ she said grittily. ‘Don’t you bloody dare.’

  He laughed. ‘You mean this pool isn’t big enough for both of us? Well, you could be right. But you’ve also been in there quite long enough.’

  He squatted down and held out his hand to her. ‘Come on, take it before you get hypothermia,’ he commanded. ‘I’ll even close my eyes if it will make you feel better,’ he added caustically.

  She swam a little closer. Warily. ‘Then will you go—please?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘But I will promise to turn my back.’

  Which was like shutting the stable door when the horse was long gone, Chellie realised, fulminating.

  She supposed that she could always stay where she was and brazen it out. Call his bluff. Except that she didn’t feel very brazen. Sh
e felt cold, and shy, and hideously embarrassed. And not too far from tears either. Besides, Ash might not be bluffing.

  Biting her lip hard, she swam to where he was waiting, eyes obediently closed. His fingers were warm and strong as they gripped hers, and she felt an unwelcome shock of pleasure at his touch.

  She found a toehold under the water, and used it to push herself upwards, landing breathless and flurried on the rock beside him.

  She said tautly, ‘Thank you. Now turn your back, please.’

  ‘As you wish.’ He sounded as if he was grinning. ‘May I say you looked much lovelier when you weren’t blue with cold,’ he added softly.

  ‘Is that a fact?’ Chellie said between her teeth, snatching up her clothes and holding them protectively against her. ‘Well, you’ll still be a bastard, no matter what colour you turn.’

  ‘Tut, tut, Miss Greer,’ Ash mocked. ‘How very uptight you are. Anyone would think you’d never been skinnydipping before.’

  Chellie, desperately trying to force on her clothes over uncomfortably damp skin, didn’t answer.

  ‘That’s it, isn’t it?’ he said slowly, after a pause. ‘You never have done it—have you, Michelle? Another addition to the long list of experiences I suspect you’ve missed out on.’

  ‘Then kindly keep your speculation to yourself,’ Chellie flashed, dragging on her vest top and noting with alarm how revealingly it clung now, outlining her taut nipples in exquisite detail. ‘My life is my own business.’

  ‘You forget,’ he said. ‘As I told you before, I saved your life, which makes it mine now.’

  ‘Well, I don’t believe in ridiculous superstitions, and I belong to myself alone.’

  ‘Alone?’ Ash mused. ‘Now, there’s a chilly word.’

  ‘How odd you should think so,’ Chellie said coolly. ‘Now, to me all it says is—independence.’ She paused. ‘And I’m dressed now.’

  He turned back, scanning her, his eyes lingering unashamedly on the thrust of her breasts. ‘So you are,’ he said softly, his mouth twisting. ‘But memory is a wonderful thing.’

  ‘My vote goes to total amnesia,’ she threw back at him. ‘I’d give a lot to wipe out the events of the past few weeks—and especially the last forty-eight hours.’