Anne Mather - Nights of Passion

JOE stood at the windows of his condo, looking out at the angry waves crashing against the shore. Although the rain had gone, the wind had picked up in its absence, bending the palms that lined Ocean Drive, and causing the few pedestrians to stay out of reach of the blowing sand.

It was almost dark, and he hadn’t even started to get ready for the reception he was due to attend in South Beach. The painter son of one of Macrosystems’ directors was having his first showing in one of the art deco galleries on Lenox Avenue, and Joe had accepted an invitation more out of respect for the father than the son.

Of course, when he’d first heard about the showing, he hadn’t had any inkling that other matters might be occupying his mind—or that the woman he’d tried his damnedest to forget would have come back into his life. How could he have known that Daisy would have an accident so serious that her father would have to contact her mother? And why, when he’d learned that Steve was making no arrangements to meet his ex-wife, had he decided to get involved? Rachel wasn’t his concern, damn it. So why did he feel as if she was?

It was time he put the Carlyles and their problems behind him. For this evening, at least. Tomorrow, he intended to speak to Steve and find out why the hell he hadn’t been honest with Daisy’s mother. He’d have allowed his ex-wife to arrive in Miami without even knowing where her daughter was being treated.

But it still wasn’t his problem, he reminded himself irritably, turning away from the windows and surveying the lamplit room behind him. Pale wood and terracotta-coloured furnishings gave the huge room a stark simplicity, the space maximised by carefully chosen articles of furniture that offered comfort without dwarfing their surroundings.

The penthouse living space had windows on two sides, and leather-seated chairs surrounding an Italian marble-topped table occupied the other embrasure. It provided an intimate dining area, useful when his guests were small in number, but this evening he found no pleasure in his possessions. He was impatient and on edge, unsure why he hadn’t waited at the hospital. He’d wanted to, God knew, but things were getting far too heavy. He’d always been in command of his relationships before, but where Rachel was concerned it was a whole new ball game.

And he didn’t like it.

The sound of the intercom penetrated his grim introspection, and seconds later his housekeeper came to ask if he was at home to a Mr Carlyle.

‘You did say Mr Carlyle?’ he asked sharply, and in spite of what he’d been telling himself just a moment ago the idea that Rachel might have found out where he lived caused his blood to pump hotly through his veins. After all, Marla was Mexican, and her English wasn’t always perfect.

‘Mr Carlyle, yes,’ she repeated, her brown eyes bright with enquiry. ‘You will see him, yes?’

Joe glanced at his watch. He had precisely forty minutes before he was due at the gallery. A quick shower—he ran his hands over the stubble on his jawline and decided he could do without a shave—and a clean shirt and trousers and he would be ready. At least people didn’t dress up for these occasions. There’d be punks there in tie-dyed tee shirts and shorts.

‘Okay,’ he said now. He’d welcome the chance to tell Steve how he felt about the way he’d treated Rachel. Though maybe not tonight, he mused, revising his opinion. It might look as if he had a personal interest.

‘Yes, sir.’

Marla departed to let Steve in, and Joe walked across to the bar to help himself to a Scotch over ice. He grimaced. Charles always said that he ruined a perfectly good whisky that way, but Charles wasn’t here, and that was the way his father always took it.

There were voices in the foyer—women’s voices, he realised—and he felt a surge of irritation when Marla showed both Steve and Lauren Carlyle into the room. Had Steve brought his wife deliberately, hoping Joe wouldn’t say anything controversial if Lauren was present? Their friendship had been sorely tested recently, what with the lies Steve had told about his age and Joe’s suspicion that Rachel was not the manipulative bitch her ex-husband had always claimed.

‘Hey, Joe!’ Steve came into the room with an air of phony confidence, holding out his hand towards the other man as if certain of his welcome despite Joe’s expression. ‘How are you?’

Joe shook hands with some reluctance, accepting the kiss Lauren bestowed on either cheek without response. Her hands clutched his arms, and she took the opportunity to press her scantily clad breasts against his chest as she did so. It wasn’t the first time she’d come on to him in this way, and he was well aware of what she was trying to do.

He wondered fleetingly if Steve had put her up to it. Was he prepared to turn a blind eye to Lauren’s indiscretions if it ensured his advancement at Mendez Macrosystems? It was a cynical thought, and one Joe wouldn’t have considered a couple of weeks ago. But meeting Rachel and Daisy had changed his opinion of Steve’s character.

‘I hope you don’t mind us turning up like this,’ Steve was saying now as Lauren returned to slide a sinuous hand under her husband’s arm. ‘I just wanted to thank you for meeting Rachel at the airport.’

Joe swallowed a mouthful of his Scotch before saying, ‘How did you know I went to the airport?’ He crossed to the bar to refresh his drink and held up his glass enquiringly.

‘Oh.’ Steve’s colour had deepened a little. ‘Nothing for me, thanks.’ Then, after Lauren had asked for a glass of white wine, he continued, ‘Bill Napier told me where you were. I’d heard you were in the office today, and I wanted to tell you how much I appreciate you visiting Daisy.’ He pulled a wry face. ‘When I heard you’d gone to pick up Rachel, I had to come and thank you. I mean, it’s not as if she needed to make the trip.’

‘You don’t think so?’

Joe handed Lauren her wine and regarded the other man over the rim of his glass. Sensing some tension here, Lauren said quickly, ‘What Steve means is that Rachel has never trusted us to look after Daisy properly. You can’t imagine how galling that is, particularly as he’s been denied a father’s rights for years.’

Joe arched a quizzical brow. ‘Daisy did have an accident,’ he reminded her, and Lauren met his gaze with an appealing look.

‘You’re surely not blaming Steve for that?’ she protested in a little-girl voice, pouting in a way Joe was sure achieved positive results with her husband. Though not, unfortunately, with him. ‘The girl is so clumsy. Anyone can see that. If she wasn’t so fat, she might have been able to save herself.’

‘Lauren!’ Even Steve seemed to realise she’d gone too far, and Lauren widened her eyes indignantly.

‘You said that too,’ she accused sulkily. ‘You said she was just like her mother.’

‘Lauren!’ Steve spoke again, and this time there was no mistaking the anger in his voice. ‘I don’t think this is the time to be discussing whether Daisy’s fat or not. We came to thank Joe for visiting her. You know better than anyone that it’s no fun spending time in a hospital.’

‘Oh, that’s so true.’

Lauren shuddered dramatically, and Joe’s brows rose in surprise. ‘I didn’t know you’d been in hospital, Lauren,’ he said politely. ‘I hope it was nothing serious.’

‘Lauren’s not been ill,’ said Steve swiftly. ‘She’s talking about when her mother was dying and she had to visit her every day.’ He put an arm about his wife’s shoulders. ‘She had such a tough time. She and her father both did.’

Not to mention the late Mrs Johansen, thought Joe drily, wondering why he’d never noticed these flaws in Steve’s make-up before. It was as if he was seeing a whole new person, one he didn’t particularly like.