by Penny Jordan
Lisa had been playing tennis with Mike—a hot energetic game which they had drawn. It had been Mike’s morning off and now he had returned to the small cottage hospital, and Lisa was going upstairs to shower and rest in her room until dinner.
Leigh was visiting a friend—the family lawyer, who lived on the other side of the island. The two men enjoyed playing chess, and as she revelled in the cool hiss of the shower over her heated skin, Lisa reflected on Leigh’s announcement the previous evening that Rorke had agreed to take her with him to St Lucia. Exactly what pressure he had brought to bear on his son to effect his capitulation Lisa couldn’t guess, but that Rorke wasn’t pleased about the idea had been evident.
Rorke. Her eyes became dreamy, the brisk rubbing she had been giving her skin with her sponge suddenly forgotten as the movement of her hand stilled, quickfire excitement running through her veins. Rorke! His name escaped her lips on a soft sigh, and she had rinsed the suds off her skin before she realised that she had left her towelling robe on her bed. Her feet left damp footprints on the cool tiles of the bedroom floor as she padded across it. Her hand was on the robe when she heard the rattle of someone opening her bedroom door.
‘Lisa!’ She froze as she heard Rorke’s curt voice, too shocked to cry out a warning to him, and then he was in the room with her, his eyes moving in darkening comprehension over the lithe curves of her body still beaded with moisture. Just for a moment time seemed to stand still, as Rorke’s gaze skimmed the firm upthrust of her breasts, moving downwards over her slender waist and long coltish legs.
And then, as suddenly as he had come in, he was gone, leaving her to breathe more easily, shivers suddenly coursing over her heated flesh, her fingers numb with a panic that came much, much too late as she pulled on the protective covering of her robe. Her hand brushed the curve of her breast, her heart pounding unsteadily. What was happening to her? She felt as though suddenly she had a fever, her pulses racing, her body shivery and aching. Was this what love felt like?
She was very subdued over dinner, hardly able to bring herself to look at Rorke. Were those brief seconds imprinted as vividly on his mind as they were on hers? Of course not, she mocked herself. She was far from being the first naked woman he had seen; to him she was simply a schoolgirl still.
‘Have you told Lisa you’re leaving in the morning?’ Leigh asked Rorke during dinner.
‘Not yet. Can you be ready by then?’ Rorke asked her, without looking at her, and as though he had said the words out loud Lisa knew that he didn’t want to look at her.
‘Of course she can,’ Leigh announced genially before she could speak. ‘And don’t forget, Lisa,’ he added, giving her a warm smile, ‘get yourself plenty of pretty things while you’re in St Lucia.
‘How long are you planning on staying?’ he asked his son, and again Lisa was aware of Rorke’s deliberate exclusion of her as he shrugged powerfully.
‘A couple of days—no longer. It depends on how quickly Helen is ready to leave.’
Helen! A pain like red-hot knives bit into her skin, and it was all she could do not to cry out loud. So this was jealousy; this searing, tearing agony destroying her.
Once again Rorke excused himself the moment the meal was over. Some of Lisa’s dismay must have shown in her face, because she realised that Leigh was watching her with some concern.
‘Don’t worry about Rorke,’ he told her gruffly. ‘He’s going through a difficult time at the moment. I remember when I first met your mother…’
Lisa stared at him. What did he mean? Surely Rorke wasn’t planning to marry Helen? She reminded herself that it was no business of hers if he was, and then wondered why she was weak enough to allow herself to be persuaded into going with Rorke when all the trip to St Lucia was likely to bring her was the pain of seeing him with Helen.
But of course, she couldn’t disappoint Leigh, and she knew he would be disappointed and hurt if she refused to go. She glanced down at her skimpy cotton dress and suppressed a grimace. Her clothes were getting shabby. Strange how all at once she had become aware of it, mentally comparing herself to Helen, seeing herself with the sophisticated eyes of a man used to elegance and sensuality in a woman.
Mama Case fussed round her at breakfast, complaining under her breath until Rorke said sardonically, ‘She’ll be safe enough, Mama Case—we’re leaving Dr Peters behind!’
Lisa’s cheeks stung at the implied suggestion, but somehow she managed to repress the hot words clamouring for utterance. Why should Rorke disapprove of Mike so much? She enjoyed his company. They were on the same wavelength, he was kind and friendly, his manner very evocative of that of her friends’ brothers towards her. It came to her with a sudden sense of shock that Mike was more like a brother to her than Rorke. Her feelings for Rorke had never been sisterly, she acknowledged on a sudden wave of self-awareness; there had always been beneath the surface a fine thread of tension making it impossible for her to relax in his company the way she could with Mike.
‘Daydreaming about Peters?’
She came to with a start, realising that Rorke was propped up against the wall watching her, and her face coloured again as she worried about what he might have read in her expression.
‘And if I was?’ she challenged, tilting her chin, determined not to allow him to guess that he had been the subject of her thoughts.
‘Forget it,’ Rorke warned her grimly. ‘He might be a young girl’s dream, Lisa, but you won’t be a young girl for ever. One day you’re going to be a woman, and when you are,’ he said softly, ‘you’re going to want a man, not a boy.’
He was gone before she could retort; before she could demand that he explain what he meant.
Half an hour later, she was waiting for Leon to row her out to where Rorke’s schooner lay anchored in the bay below the house. He had bought it three years earlier, and Lisa had watched adoringly while he lovingly restored what had originally been no more than a shell. Now the graceful vessel swung lazily at anchor, sails furled, paintwork gleaming. Lisa had been aboard her several times during her visits home, and was completely at home on the elegant craft. Leigh himself had taught her to sail, and on one never-to-be-forgotten occasion Rorke had actually allowed her to crew for him when he raced the schooner in a local regatta.
‘You can take the for’ard bunk,’ Rorke told her grittily, bending to grip her wrist and help her on board. ‘Leon’s already stowed your stuff. Not that there was much.’
For a moment the brilliance of the sun on the white paintwork dazzled Lisa, and then her vision cleared and she became aware of Rorke standing barefoot on the deck, his denim shorts almost as disreputable as her own, the rest of his body burned a warm teak by the sun and salt.
‘Leigh wants me to get some new clothes while we’re in St Lucia,’ Lisa reminded him, frowning a little as she glanced down at her bare legs and frayed shorts.
‘So he told me,’ Rorke agreed. ‘He seems to think Helen might take you in hand. Quite a challenge, I should think,’ he said insultingly, adding, ‘I’m going on deck to cast off.’
‘Want any help?’ Lisa called after him, trying to swallow her hurt, but he barely paused in the narrow doorway to her cabin.
‘No, thanks,’ he told her curtly. ‘I can handle Lady on my own—in fact sometimes it’s easier that way.’
‘Meaning you want me to stay in my cabin until we reach St Lucia?’ Lisa demanded, disappointment and pain suddenly overwhelming caution. ‘Is that what you’re trying to say, Rorke?’
‘It might make things easier all round,’ he agreed, apparently unaware of the pain he was causing her.
The morning passed slowly for Lisa, cooped up in the small cabin, watching the waves through the porthole and mentally chafing at her imprisonment.
By lunchtime she decided that nothing, but nothing was going to keep her in her cabin any longer. She had originally decided that Rorke would have to get down on his knees and beg her before she would so much as put one foot on the d
eck, but boredom and hunger had overcome her resolution. Even Rorke had to eat, she reminded herself, and he could hardly do that and sail the schooner as well.
Her rubber-soled sneakers made no sound on the seasoned timbers of the deck as she went in search of Rorke to ask him what he wanted for lunch, but there was no sign of him, and she realised that the schooner was rocking gently at anchor. Where was he?
Tiny shivers of apprehension shuddered down her spine. Surely it was stupid to imagine that an experienced sailor like Rorke could fall overboard in a calm sea? Of course it was. He was probably resting himself! She was just on the point of going down to his cabin to check and had turned away from the deck when a shadow fell across her path.
‘Rorke!’ She swung round, relief in her voice, and saw Rorke straightening up on the deck, his skin sleek and damp, his hair plastered to his skull, and shock coursed through her, rooting her to the spot as she realised that he was naked, his body glistening tautly brown under the salt water spray.
‘Lisa!’ She saw his teeth snap together in anger. ‘I thought you were going to stay in your cabin?’
‘I came to see if you wanted any lunch.’
She had to drag her eyes away from the male perfection of his body, shocking in its masculinity and yet, at the same time, undoubtedly exciting. Tremors of reaction were pulsing through her own skin, a cramping delirium in the pit of her stomach.
‘Later, when I’ve showered and changed. What’s the matter?’ he demanded tautly when she didn’t move, adding impatiently, ‘For God’s sake, Lisa, get below, before I do something that will really shock you!’
They made St Lucia earlier than Lisa had anticipated, and she had a shrewd suspicion that Rorke had deliberately cut the journey short.
Castries, the main harbour, was busy. A cruise ship had come into port and the town’s narrow streets were thronged with trippers. Lisa was forced to fall behind as Rorke’s long legs propelled him swiftly through the crowd. At one busy intersection he waited for her to catch up with him, grimacing as he took her arm. His fingers were rough against her skin, and she could see the faint salt bloom on his chest and throat. A wave of faintness came over her as she remembered seeing him step on to the deck after his swim. That it wasn’t the first time he had swum nude had been very evident in the depth and extent of his tan, and the faintness increased tormentingly as she wondered if, on those occasions, he had always swum alone, or if, perhaps, someone had joined him—Helen, for instance.
Just for a moment she allowed herself to imagine what it would be like to float motionless beside him in the blue-green depths of the Caribbean, the silky water her only covering.
‘Lisa!’
The harshness of his voice jerked her out of her pleasurable daydream and back into the present. They were standing outside Helen’s exclusive boutique. Inside both Helen and her assistant were busy serving the cruise liner’s passengers, but Helen had obviously seen them.
‘We’ll go on to the hotel and come back later,’ Rorke announced. ‘I’ve warned them to expect us.’
A taxi took them from Castries to the Paradise Cove hotel, in which the family had shares. The hotel was a modern one; a complex rather than a hotel, with chalets spread out through luxuriant grounds and a central hotel block comprising restaurants, bars, half a dozen shops, and a large games room.
They were greeted enthusiastically by the manager, who was obviously anxious to impress Rorke with the smooth running of the hotel, and certainly there was no fault to be found with the speed with which their baggage was taken care of, and complimentary drinks brought to them in the foyer-cum-lounge. While the two men talked, Lisa got up and strolled over to glance at the small parade of shops. One window had an exquisite display of beach and resort wear, another expensive and exclusive casuals. Lisa glanced over her shoulder. Rorke was still deep in conversation with the hotel manager. On a small spurt of rebellion she opened the door to the boutique. She knew Rorke had intended to hand her over to Helen and leave it to the older woman to choose her new clothes, but during her time in England Lisa had often visited the homes of her friends, and had gone with them on shopping expeditions. She had a natural sense of taste and flair, her mother had always said, and her initial qualms were quickly stifled as a charming and pleasant girl stepped forward to help her.
Quickly explaining what she wanted, Lisa watched the girl riffle through the packed racks of clothes, unerringly selecting half a dozen or so outfits which she piled on to a chair.
‘You’re lucky,’ she told Lisa, as she handed them to her. ‘We’ve only this week received this lot—Jane, my partner, ordered them the last time she went to America—I promise you they’re the very latest thing—and quite exclusive.’
They were lovely, Lisa admitted, alone in the cubicle, running her fingers over the fine silks and cottons. A Benny Ong two-piece in vibrant blue and emerald silk caught her eye, and she quickly pulled off her own clothes and slipped the slender sheath of a dress over her shoulders. The colours brought out the deep blue-green depths of her eyes, and the soft golden glints of her hair. The dress was supported by tiny shoestring straps and over it there was a thin matching silk jacket that tied softly in a knot. Looking at her reflection in the mirror, Lisa was astounded at the transformation. The outfit might have been made for her—a verdict fully endorsed by the salesgirl as she came to see how she was getting on.
‘It’s definitely you,’ she pronounced. ‘But don’t commit yourself until you’ve tried the others.’
Taking her advice, Lisa tried on everything she brought, and when she eventually emerged from the boutique she had bought the Benny Ong outfit plus an attractive range of cotton separates that she could mix and match for maximum effect; some brilliant magenta cut-off jeans, and a French bikini so brief that she had blushed to see herself in it, until the salesgirl had assured her that it was absolutely stunning.
There had still been quite a lot left from the money Leigh had given her, so on the salesgirl’s advice she had purchased some new underwear—feminine Italian satin and lace that she was sure she would never wear, but which felt so pleasurable against her skin that she hadn’t been able to resist it.
Rorke was waiting outside as she opened the boutique door, glowering at his watch.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he pounced when he saw her.
‘Shopping,’ she told him, proud of her calm voice. ‘Leigh told me to.’
‘I was going to take you to see Helen.’
‘I’m perfectly capable of buying clothes for myself without the advice of your mistress,’ Lisa told him rashly.
‘I hope you’re right,’ Rorke threatened, ‘because we’re dining here tonight with Helen and some friends of ours. Helen and Sandra are both very elegant women.’
‘In that case I’d better make an appointment to have my hair done,’ Lisa told him with commendable aplomb. ‘I don’t want to let you down.’
‘I’ll get someone to take you up to your room,’ Rorke told her without responding. ‘I’m going to see Helen.’
* * *
If only her hand wasn’t shaking so much, Lisa thought, tongue protruding slightly between her lips as she applied the eyeshadow she had bought on the advice of the girl in the beauty salon. Her hair lay softly sleek against her shoulders, the unruly curls tamed; the herbal rinse the hairdresser used gave off a delicate fragrance that perfumed the air. If Rorke thought she wouldn’t compare favourably with Helen and her friend he was going to be proved wrong!
In addition to having her hair done and getting the advice of the girl in the beauty salon Lisa had found time to buy a pair of sandals, striped in emerald and blue leather to tone with her dress.
At last she was ready. She peered anxiously at her reflection. Had she blended the eyeshadow enough? She didn’t want to look like a clown! A glimpse in the mirror reassured her. Her own face stared back at her, familiar but subtly different. Her eyes looked larger and darker, the careful
blending of blue and green eyeshadow adding a hint of depth and mystery. A coat of mascara added thickness to the luxuriance of her dark lashes, and the coral lipstick she had carefully painted on emphasised the full lower curve of her mouth and the honey translucence of healthy young skin.
She was ready when Rorke tapped on her door, strangely unfamiliar in formal evening clothes, and her heart thumped unevenly as she stared up at him, wondering how on earth she had managed in the past to miss the overt sexuality he exuded.
‘Ready?’
His glance swept her dismissively, and Lisa felt anger burn up inside her at his indifference. Surely he must see how different she looked? Why, she even felt different, but he was still treating her as the same little girl who had tagged after him in the past.
Helen and her friends were already in the bar waiting for them, Helen elegant and sophisticated in a white sheath dress that privately Lisa thought a shade too revealing, her elongated cat-like eyes skimming with barely suppressed hostility over Lisa’s silk clad figure as she cooed, ‘Poor Rorke has to babysit this trip. Leigh insisted that he bring Lisa with him. Never mind, darling,’ she comforted Rorke, ‘there’s always later.’
‘You mustn’t mind Helen,’ Sandra Wilkes murmured understandingly to Lisa as Rorke signalled a waiter. ‘She’s always been a mite possessive where Rorke’s concerned.’
‘You certainly don’t look much like a baby to me!’ Peter Wilkes added with heavy gallantry, giving her an admiring glance. The Wilkes were in their early thirties and seemed a pleasant enough couple. They had two children, Sandra told Lisa over dinner, both at school in England.
‘I miss them dreadfully,’ she confided, ‘but needs must, I’m afraid. Still, Peter’s hoping to get a London posting soon, so we should all be reunited. Tell me about the island,’ she encouraged. ‘According to Helen it’s virtually the back of beyond, although I must say it sounds so exciting—one’s own island!’
