Anne Mather - An All-Consuming Passion

Morgan gestured to a chair, too weary right now to go into the details of why he had brought so few clothes, and Holly nodded. ‘Oh—please,’ she said, moving to the table and picking up the frosted jug. ‘I hope you like daiquiris. I asked Lucinda to prepare these earlier.’

Morgan sank gratefully on to the cushioned sun-lounger and arched one dark brow. ‘Lucinda?’

‘Samuel’s mother,’ explained Holly, as the chink of ice clunked satisfyingly into a glass. ‘She and Micah—that’s her husband—and Samuel, of course, are all the staff there are here now.’

Morgan rested his head back against the cushions, allowing an unaccustomed feeling of peace to envelop him. He didn’t know why exactly, but he was relaxing for the first time in days and, in spite of the fact that this was not a holiday, he knew an unexpected sense of well-being.

Of course, it might have something to do with the fact that he knew Alison could not reach him here. In spite of the divorce, which had severed all formal connections between them, she still played a considerable part in his life, and it was a relief to be free of her continued complaints. With the twins having a constant claim to his affections, there was little he could do to escape her demands, unless he was prepared to risk their alienation, too. Living with their mother, they were prone to take her side in any argument, and Morgan knew Alison lost no opportunity of blaming their father for the break-up of the marriage. Even this trip to the Caribbean had not met with her approval, even though she had accepted Andrew’s plans for the boys without demur.

‘Why can’t the girl simply get on a plane by herself?’ she had exclaimed, when Morgan had told her what he intended to do. ‘She’s not a child, is she? From what I hear, she’s hardly an innocent!’

‘Did you tell Andrew that?’ enquired Morgan drily, retaliating with more cynicism than usual, and even over the phone he heard her sudden intake of breath.

‘Don’t bait me, Morgan,’ she retorted fiercely, and he could sense the cold resentment she still felt for the security of his position. She had always been jealous of his friendship with Andrew, and not even the prospect of destroying her own lifestyle had prevented her from trying to lose Morgan his job when he first moved out of the house. ‘Just because you would do anything that man asked you, doesn’t mean that I can’t have my own opinion of the Forsyths. Just don’t imagine Andrew would let you anywhere near his precious daughter! He may have no time for her himself, but I’m sure he appreciates the potential she offers!’

Her words had at last got under Morgan’s skin, and his gritted response revealed the fact. ‘She’s twenty years old, Alison,’ he had told her, his voice harsh with contempt. ‘She’s young enough to be my daughter ! For Christ’s sake, what do you take me for?’

Morgan thrust these thoughts aside now as Holly came to hand him a tall glass. He had known Alison was just taking out her spite on him, but he had been furious that she could still penetrate his defences. Of course, she still resented the fact that physically she no longer attracted him. She had thought that, in spite of her infidelities, Morgan would continue to want her body, but he hadn’t. The discovery that she had been sleeping with other men while he had been away had destroyed any feelings Morgan had still had for her, and since their separation he had satisfied his needs elsewhere.

‘Is it all right?’

Holly’s query caused him to look up at her ruefully, raising his glass to his lips as he did so. ‘Very good,’ he said, somewhat hoarsely moments later, as the raw spirit caught his dry throat. ‘But I think—Lucinda, did you say—has a heavy hand with the rum. Do you always drink them this potent?’

Holly laughed, a low musical sound that was entirely feminine, and seated herself on the sun-lounger beside him. To do so, she swung one leg across the cushioned footrest, giving him a revealing glimpse of her inner thigh as she did so, before scooping both knees up in front of her and circling them with her arms. ‘Oh—I don’t drink them,’ she assured him, her oval features alight with amusement. ‘Besides, I’m not thirsty right now. I just had a shower.’

‘An inviting prospect,’ remarked Morgan wryly, swallowing a generous portion of the liquid in his glass as thirst got the better of discretion. ‘But much more of this and I won’t be able to see the shower, let alone the taps.’

‘Would you prefer a beer?’ asked Holly innocently, glancing towards the house, but Morgan shook his head.

‘This is fine, for now,’ he responded, his tongue circling his lips. ‘So—tell me: did you get your father’s telegram?’ He paused. ‘You do know why I’m here?’

‘Let’s not talk business on your first evening,’ Holly answered lightly, swinging her legs to the slatted boards of the verandah once again. ‘Come on. I’ll show you your room. Are you hungry? I told Lucinda just to prepare something light for supper.’

Morgan hesitated, but then, after finishing the daiquiri, he got obediently to his feet. She was right. They’d have plenty of time tomorrow to discuss her father’s invitation, and the alcohol had left him feeling pleasantly lethargic.

Holly led the way through a meshed door into the entrance hall of the house. A wide, high-ceilinged area, with fluted columns supporting a galleried landing, and solid blocks of squared marble underfoot, it was an impressive, if slightly time-worn, introduction to the building. But the wall-lights, screened by copper shades, which illuminated the faded beauty of the house, also illuminated Holly’s features, and Morgan’s attention was arrested. On the verandah, she had been extremely attractive; in the lamplight, she was quite startlingly beautiful, her long indigo eyes and delicately moulded cheekbones giving character to a wide and mobile mouth. Christ, he chided himself, giving in to a totally uncharacteristic criticism of his employer’s methods. No wonder Andrew thought she might have something to offer. In shabby beach clothes she was a naiad; in designer fashions she would be magnificent.

‘Is something wrong?’

The dark indigo eyes were upon him, and to his embarrassment, Morgan felt the seep of hot colour under his skin. ‘No,’ he said abruptly. ‘No, I was just—admiring my surroundings. The building seems extremely old. Is it the original plantation house?’

‘Heavens, no. That was burned down years ago,’ replied Holly after a moment. ‘My great-grandfather had this place built around the turn of the century. It’s much more modest than the old house. Or so my grandfather used to tell me.’

‘Really?’

Morgan tried to keep his attention on the building as he followed Holly up the stairs. The staircase curved round a ninety-degree angle before reaching the gallery above, the wooden steps worn in places, but still lovingly varnished. There were pictures lining the wall, and it was a relief to look at them and not at Holly’s only slightly swaying hips, nor at the long brown legs that emerged from the hem of her shorts, or the narrow bare feet that strode ahead of him. Far better to admire the distinctive curve of Charlotte’s Bay at sunset, an image still firmly imprinted on his thoughts. Or the tangled glory of a neglected garden which, although he had not seen it clearly, looked suspiciously like the one below the house.

‘Did you do these?’ he asked at last, remembering Andrew’s careless mention of an artistic temperament, and Holly paused.

‘Yes,’ she said, without affectation. ‘Do you like them? They’re not much good, but as my father would say, they keep me occupied.’

Morgan shook his. head. ‘But they are good,’ he contradicted her incredulously. ‘I’m no expert, but I have attended auctions, and believe me, you evidently have a talent.’