Anne Mather - Sinful Pleasures

‘So why are you giving me such a hard time?’ she asked, and he was aware of her watching him with a wary gaze.

‘I’m not,’ he said tensely, giving in to his frustration. ‘I just don’t think you’re entirely even-handed when it comes to your parents. Your father was a vindictive bastard.’ He paused. ‘I should know.’

Megan had been given the penthouse suite, which, in island terms, meant that her rooms were on the sixth floor of the hotel. None of the hotels that bad sprung up along the coast was allowed to build beyond six floors and these days, she had noticed, there were quite a number of new ones.

Which meant, Megan assumed somewhat uneasily, that the Robards were sacrificing quite a large slice of their income by accommodating her in such luxurious surroundings. This was, after all, their most lucrative time of year, when the island was flooded with visitors from North America and Northern Europe escaping the cold weather back home.

Yet, despite her anxieties—and the fact that by the time they’d reached the hotel she and Remy had barely been on speaking terms—Anita had made her feel welcome. The other woman had behaved as if it were sixteen weeks—not sixteen years—since she had last come here. She had greeted her stepsister with affection, and dispelled the apprehension Remy had aroused.

Anita had been waiting on the verandah of the hotel when the estate ear had swept down the drive. Megan had barely had time to admire the hedges of scarlet hibiscus that hid the building from the road before her stepsister was jerking the door open and pulling Megan out into her arms. There had been tears then, tears that Megan couldn’t hide even from Remy. She was still so weak, she’d defended herself silently. Any kind of emotion just broke her up.

Blinking rapidly, she’d been grateful for the cooling breeze that swept in off the ocean. Apart from the immediate area surrounding the hotel, where artificially watered lawns and palm trees provided the guests with oases of greenness, the milk-white sands stretched as far as the eye could see. But she hadn’t been able to ignore the fact of the car door opening behind her, or Remy getting out and walking around to the back of the vehicle to unload her bags.

‘Oh, Megan,’ Anita was saying as she hugged her in her protective embrace, ‘it’s been far too long. It’s a sad thing if you have to be at death’s door before you’ll accept our invitation.’

Our invitation?

Megan wondered who Anita included in that statement. Not Remy, surely. But she could only shake her head, unaccountably moved by her stepsister’s welcome. After the way Remy had behaved, she’d been dreading this moment.

And Anita had hardly changed at all. She’d been pleasantly plump as a teenager, and she was plump still, with round dimpled features that could never disguise her feelings to anyone. As before, she was wearing one of the loose-fitting tee shirts and the baggy shorts she had always favoured, her curly dark hair scooped up in a ponytail.

Yet, despite her welcome, Megan sensed that Anita wasn’t quite as carefree as she’d like her to think. She noticed as the other woman drew back that there were dark lines around her eyes, and a trace of more than wistfulness in her tears.

But perhaps she was being over-sensitive, Megan considered, and, avoiding Remy’s eyes, she allowed Anita to lead her into the hotel. She found some relief in admiring the changes that had been made and consoled herself with the thought that this was the most difficult time for all of them. No matter how accommodating they might try to be, they couldn’t ignore the past.

A fountain now formed a centre-piece in the newly designed foyer, with the lounges and reception area moved to the floor above. ‘I suggest I show you your room and let you freshen up before dinner,’ Anita declared, leading the way across to the bank of lifts. ‘I imagine you could do with a rest. Did you have a pleasant journey?’

The lifts were new, too, much different from the grilled cage that Megan remembered. Would her mother have become so enamoured with the place if it had always been as impersonal as this? she wondered. Laura had always said it was the informality of Robards Reach that made it so unique...

‘There’s so much I want to tell you,’ Anita continued as they went up in the lift—not with Remy and the luggage, Megan was relieved to find. ‘So much time we have to make up. I want to know all about what’s been happening in your life. Your boyfriend—partner—’ She coloured. ‘Simon, isn’t it? He sounds really nice. I’m glad you’ve found a decent man to care for you.’

‘He doesn’t—that is—’ Megan pressed her lips together and didn’t go on. As with Remy, she was loath to deny that she and Simon were an item. She didn’t know when it might be useful to have that excuse to turn to, and, hoping Anita would put the colour in her face down to the heat, she finished, ‘It was good of you to—to invite me here.’

‘Well, it’s not as if it was the first time,’ declared Anita, with a trace of censure, but with none of the aggression her son had shown. ‘Anyway, it’s so good to see you.’ She took a breath. ‘You’re so like—so like Laura when I first knew her.’ She touched Megan’s face. ‘It’s going to be hard for—for my father.’ Her lips tightened. ‘But you’re so pale. We’ll have to try and put some colour into those cheeks before you leave.’

Anita left her alone in the luxurious suite then, ostensibly to allow her to relax for a while before dinner. Megan was grateful for the respite, grateful that she was going to have a breathing space before meeting Ryan Robards, but she doubted she’d relax in her present mood.

A bellboy brought her luggage. When the polite tap sounded at her door, she was apprehensive for a moment, expecting Remy to bring her suitcases in. But she should have known better. As he had told her, he was a lawyer, not a hotel employee.

Although she was tempted to step out onto the balcony. where a cushioned lounger and several wicker chairs were set beneath a bougainvillaea-hung awning, Megan decided that a shower might liven her up. It would be too easy to get disheartened, particularly as her body clock was still on European time, and she determined to concentrate on the positive aspects of her trip. Who wouldn’t like to recuperate in such surroundings? She had four whole weeks to get completely well.

Which was part of the problem, she acknowledged, when she stepped into the mosaic-tiled shower and turned on the gold-plated taps. At this point in time, four weeks seemed like a lifetime. She’d never have committed herself to such a long stay if it had been left to her.

But it hadn’t been left to her. Simon had made all the arrangements while she was still too weak to protest. It was too long since she’d taken a real holiday, he’d told her. She needed plenty of time to recover her strength.

By the time she went downstairs again, Megan was feeling considerably better.

When she’d emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in one of the soft towelling robes the hotel provided, it was to find a tray of tea and biscuits awaiting her. While she’d been taking her shower, someone—Anita, she guessed—had let herself into the suite and deposited the tray on the round table by the window. There was milk and cream, and several kinds of home-made biscuits. Although she’d been sure she wasn’t hungry, she’d sampled all the biscuits, and drunk three cups of tea as well.

Afterwards, she’d rested on the square colonial bed that was set on a dais, so that its occupants could see the sea. Megan had watched the darkening waters of the Caribbean until the sun had disappeared into the ocean, and then she guessed she’d dozed for perhaps another hour after that.