Anne Mather - Sinful Pleasures

And, of course, Anita was being kind, Megan acknowledged ruefully. Anita had always been kind, and in other circumstances their friendship might have survived. Anita was much older, but she had always treated the younger girl with affection. After all, if it hadn’t been for Anita and Remy, Megan would have found those holidays spent with her mother and the man who was to become her stepfather very lonely indeed.

But, even so, she would never have accepted Anita’s invitation in the ordinary way. Her stepsister might have issued the invitation, but Megan knew she wouldn’t have done so without her father’s consent. Ryan Robards probably controlled his daughter now, just as he had done all those years ago. If Megan was coming to San Felipe, it was because it suited Ryan Robards that she should.

The trouble was, it didn’t suit her, Megan thought frustratedly. And now that she was actually nearing her destination she couldn’t imagine how she had allowed herself to be persuaded to come. But her illness, and the weakness it had engendered, had left her susceptible to Simon’s inducements. She needed a break, he had told her firmly. And where better than with people who cared about her?

Only they didn’t care about her, she protested silently. Not really. Not the grown-up woman she had become. They remembered Meggie, the child, the fifteen-year-old adolescent. The girl who had been naïve enough to think that her parents would never get a divorce.

Megan sighed, and adjusted the pillow behind her head yet again, drawing the attention of the ever vigilant stewardess. ‘Can I get you anything, Ms Cross?’ she enquired, her smile warm and solicitous, and Megan forced herself to answer in the same unassuming tone.

‘No, thanks,’ she replied, wishing she could ask for a large Scotch over ice, with a twist of lemon for good measure. But the medication she was still obliged to take denied any use of alcohol, and she was sufficiently considerate of the tenderness of her stomach not to take any risks.

The stewardess went away again and Megan tried to relax. After all, that was what she was here for. To relax; to get away from phones and faxes, and the never-ending demands of the designer directory she and Simon Chater had founded almost eight years ago. Work had become her life, her obsession. Nothing else had seemed so important. Not possessions, not people, and most especially not her health.

The ironic thing was, she didn’t honestly see how coming to San Felipe was going to help her to relax. On the contrary, even the thought that they’d be landing shortly set her nerves on edge. Nothing Anita had said had convinced Megan that her stepfather would be pleased to see her. So far as Ryan Robards was concerned, she had betrayed her mother by choosing to live with her father. And even though Giles Cross was dead, too, the bitterness he’d suffered lived on.

The only optimistic note was that Anita had phoned without being aware that Megan was ill. After years, when their only contact had been through Christmas and birthday cards, she had called totally out of the blue. Even now, Megan wasn’t precisely sure why Anita had phoned. Unless the goodwill of Christmas had inspired a sudden need to renew old ties.

But it was going to be difficult even so. Megan had no idea what she would say to someone she hadn’t had a proper conversation with for more than sixteen years. How could she share her problems with a virtual stranger? She didn’t even know if the other woman was married, let alone what might have happened to her son.

Remy.

Megan tilted her head against the cushioned rest and sighed. It was strange to think that Remy would be grown up, too. He’d been—what? Five? Six?—when she’d last seen him? A dark-haired little boy, who’d run around half naked most of the time, and who had taken a delight in teasing his older playmate: herself.

She hadn’t asked Anita about Remy when she’d spoken to her. She’d been tense and uncommunicative, too intent on trying to find excuses why she shouldn’t come to show any interest in Anita’s affairs. Not that that had deterred her stepsister, she acknowledged. Anita had probably thought that Megan’s attitude was the result of the weeks she’d spent under medication. She’d been adamant that Megan should come to San Felipe to regain her strength. It was what Megan’s mother would have wanted, she’d insisted, and Megan couldn’t argue with that.

She was getting more and more edgy, and, deciding she needed to reassure herself that she didn’t look as sick as she felt, she took herself off to the toilet. In the narrow confines of the cubicle, she examined her pale features critically. Lord, she thought ruefully, it would take more than a re-application of her lipstick to give her face any life.

The truth was, she had been neglecting herself recently. But with Simon spending so much time in New York, or-ganising the launch of the directory there, she had naturally had a lot more work to cope with. She should delegate more; she knew that. Simon was always telling her so. But she liked to feel that she was needed. A hang-up from her childhood, she supposed.

She leaned towards the mirror. Was that a grey hair? she wondered anxiously. Certainly, the fine strand glinted silver among the corn-silk helmet of hair that framed her face. She shook her head and the offending hair disappeared, absorbed by the bell-like curve that cupped her chin.

Did she look too severe? she fretted, smoothing damp palms over the long narrow lines of her jacket. The trouser suit, with its fine cream stripe, was navy blue and not really a holiday outfit. She’d known Simon didn’t approve of her choice from the minute she’d come downstairs that morning.

But she couldn’t have worn something light and feminine, she told herself, not in her present state of mind. The navy suit was smart, if a trifle impersonal, and it was certainly more in keeping with her mood.

Someone tried the toilet door, reminding her that she was spending far too long analysing her appearance. What did it matter what she looked like, after all? She grimaced. She could be stopping someone from keeping an intimate assignation. As unlikely as it seemed, such things did go on.

Outside, the purser gave her a searching look. ‘All right, Ms Cross?’ he asked, his cheeky grin proving that he was not above having such thoughts about her. ‘We’ll be landing in a few minutes. If you’ll take your seat and fasten your seatbelt, we’ll soon have you safely on the ground.’

‘Oh—good.’ Megan managed a polite smile in return, and groped her way back to her seat. The aircraft was banking quite steeply now, and it was difficult to keep her balance. She put the sudden sense of nausea she felt down to a momentary touch of air-sickness.

Yet she guessed her feelings was mostly psychosomatic. The prospect of seeing the Robards again was what was really causing her concern. She wondered if her stepfather would come to the airport to meet her. What on earth was she going to say to him that wouldn’t sound abysmally insincere?

Her stomach dropped suddenly, but this time it really was the effects of the plane levelling out before landing. The pilot lowered the undercarriage as they passed over the rocky promontory of Cap Saint Nicolas, and then they dipped towards the runway that ran parallel to the beach.

It was beautiful, she thought reluctantly as memories of the holidays she had spent here sent a painful thrill through her veins. She had been so naive in those days; so innocent. Which was why she’d been so hurt when the truth had come out.

But she didn’t want to think about that now. That period of her life was dead and gone—like her parents, she reflected bitterly. It was no use believing that her father would still be alive if her mother hadn’t betrayed him; no good wondering if Laura—her mother—would have developed that obscure kind of skin cancer if she’d continued to live as his wife...