Anne Mather - Shattered Illusions

Had never thought there might come a time when he would be forced to make a choice, he reflected wearily. After all, when his father married Catriona, he had been only sixteen. He’d never dreamt that in less than twenty years Lawrence Redding would be dead.

He was pondering the beneficial effects of an early morning dip when he saw someone appear from around the side of the house. A woman, he saw at once—a tall woman, dressed in trousers and a shirt, with a thick plait of rust-coloured hair draped over one shoulder. She had her arms wrapped about her body as she walked, and she acted as if she wasn’t really aware of where she was.

He sighed. He knew who she must be, of course. She was his stepmother’s new assistant, who’d apparently arrived from England the day before. Catriona had omitted to tell him that she had had a London employment agency find her another assistant. Just as she had omitted to tell him that while he was in New York she’d dismissed Kristin Spencer.

Poor Kristin. His lips twisted. He should have warned her that Catriona didn’t like competition. And judging from his first impression of the woman by the pool she had gone for experience over beauty this time.

He grimaced, not liking the cynicism that was creeping into his consciousness these days. Catriona’s fault, of course, but it was his own fault too for allowing himself to be influenced by her. Perhaps, if he’d had more success in his marriage than his father had, he’d have overcome the tendency. As it was, it was far too easy to accept his stepmother’s interpretation of events, and if he wasn’t careful he’d become just like her, taking what he wanted from life, without considering the consequences.

He frowned. He wondered what had attracted this woman to leave an apparently successful career in London to come and work in Bermuda. He supposed the idea was glamorous enough, but after a few weeks in the islands would she, like Kristin, be eager for some kind of diversion? After all, this estate was a good twelve miles from Hamilton, and apart from the obvious attractions of swimming and sunbathing there wasn’t a lot to do. Even the islanders themselves spent regular breaks in the United Kingdom or the United States, and Dominic knew he’d go stir crazy himself if he was obliged to live here all year round.

Catriona had said this woman was a fan, that she’d left the lucrative position she’d enjoyed at the university to work with a writer she admired, but Dominic found that hard to believe. Or was that just another example of his cynicism? he wondered wryly. There was no doubt that his father’s publishing house had benefited greatly from Catriona’s novels.

Shaking his head, he forced himself to leave the woman to her solitary walk and went into the adjoining bathroom. A cool shower achieved what the ocean had denied him, and after towelling himself dry he ran an exploratory hand over his roughening jawline. He needed a shave, but he couldn’t be bothered to attend to that right now. Instead, ignoring the warnings of his conscience, he pulled on a pair of frayed, knee-length denims and a black vest, and left his rooms.

The house was cool and quiet. Despite her sometimes strict working schedule, his stepmother rarely stirred before 8 a.m. Unlike himself, she was one of those people who could sleep whatever the circumstances, emerging from her room each morning with that fresh, unblemished appearance he knew so well.

Whatever else Catriona possessed, she was not troubled by a conscience—unlike himself.

Like many of the homes in Bermuda, the house was two-storeyed, with a hipped roof, and a huge underground storage tank for rain water. It was always a source of interest to tourists that despite the lushness of its vegetation Bermuda had no actual water supply. But happily the islands were blessed with sufficient rain to fill the tanks, and Dominic had never tasted purer water in his life.

Descending the curving staircase into the Italian-tiled hall, Dominic paused for a moment to lace his canvas deck shoes. Here, evidence of his father’s interest in sculpture was present in the marble likeness of an eighteenth-century nude that stood beside the archway into a cream- and rose-painted drawing room, while a pair of Venetian sconces provided light on the rare occasions when the power supply was interrupted.

Because he was so familiar with the house, Dominic paid little attention to the elegance of his surroundings. His father had built the house when he was little more than a schoolboy, and it was as familiar to him as his own apartment in Manhattan. Though perhaps not as comfortable these days, he conceded, with some irony.

Leaving the hall by means of the glass-panelled door that led into the sun-filled morning room, he crossed the braided carpet to reach the windows. Releasing the catch, he slid the patio door along, and stepped outside.

The warmth that met him was hypnotic. The coolness of the house was such a contrast to the sensuous heat of the morning and even there, in the shade of the terrace, his skin prickled in anticipation of the sun’s assault. There was little humidity, and although it could get very hot in the middle of the day it was seldom unbearable. Right now, at the beginning of July, summer was at its height, and apart from a few fleecy clouds the sky above was clear.

Breathing deeply, he stepped out into the sunlight. From here, it was possible to see the whole of the pool area, and he was almost disappointed to find that the woman he’d seen earlier had disappeared. Not that he had any interest in her, he assured himself drily. He knew better than to show any partiality for Catriona’s protégées. He was just curious to know what had really persuaded her to take this job.

He sighed, and glanced at the watch on his wrist. It was barely seven o’clock, and apart from having to speak to his office later the day was his own. A prospect that didn’t please him as it should, he realised grimly, wishing he had not succumbed to Catriona’s invitation to recuperate at Copperhead Bay. Dammit, he had only had a cold. Just because he had neglected it, and it had turned to pneumonia, that was no reason to leave New York at one of the busiest times of the year.

The trouble was, her invitation had come when his spirits were at their lowest ebb, and he’d given in without really considering what he was taking on. It was over a year since his father’s death, and he should have known that Catriona would consider twelve months more than long enough to mourn her late husband.

A shadow moved at the far side of the pool. He’d been wrong, he realised at once. The woman hadn’t disappeared. She’d been there all the time, hidden by the canopy of a striped lounge chair, but now she had got to her feet, and her consternation at seeing him was evident in every startled line of her body.

Dominic hesitated. It would be easy enough to turn and go back into the house, and save her the trouble of having to explain herself to him. But something, some latent spark of interest that he would otherwise have denied, kept him where he was. Made him move forward in fact, to intercept her automatic intention to escape.

‘Good morning,’ he said easily, shoving his hands into the back pockets of his cut-offs to avoid the necessity of a more formal introduction. ‘It’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it?’

‘Beautiful, yes,’ she answered, with evident unwillingness. And then, because she obviously thought she’d been trespassing, she added, ‘I’m sorry if I disturbed you.’

‘You didn’t,’ he assured her, although she had, inadvertently at least. There was something about her that stirred a vague sense of recognition inside him, and although he had not been wrong about her age her pale features were not unappealing. ‘Miss—Harrison, isn’t it?’