“I didn’t sleep well last night,” she admitted, “that’s all.”
“Did I disturb you?”
She shook her head. “No, not at all. I quite often have trouble sleeping.”
“And then make up for it in the daytime?”
“Sometimes.”
“I think I’ll get Henry Palmer to check you over. He’s one of the neighbours, and a doctor.”
“I already saw a doctor,” she reminded him. “If I want to see another one, I’ll make the decision.”
She got up and walked to the water, allowing it to reach her thighs before she dived into its silken caress. In a few minutes she knew that Ethan had joined her and was swimming not far away, keeping an eye on her, no doubt. She ignored him, and floated, dived, swam gently for twenty minutes or so, before making her way to the shore. She felt as though it had been hours.
Ethan splashed out beside her. As she reached the dry sand, he suddenly trailed a finger over her shoulder blades. “You’re much too thin,” he said. “These bones didn’t used to be so visible.”
She flinched away from him, half turning. “Don’t!”
He stopped short, standing in her way. “Don’t touch, or don’t criticise?”
“Both.”
“Things change, don’t they, Celeste? And people. For the record, you’re the last woman in the world I’d be tempted to ravish.”
He went past her and picked up his towel. As she came slowly after him, he said, “I’ll see you later. Don’t go out of your depth if you want to swim again.” And he walked away from her to the path up the cliff.
She stayed on the beach all afternoon, moving into the shade for a doze when the sun had dried her body, later wandering along the water’s edge, then having another quick dip.
When she was dry again, she went back to the house and showered off the sand. She changed into the same dress she had worn the night before, then investigated the refrigerator and the well-stocked freezer and walk-in pantry.
When Ethan came down, she had a couple of pork chops almost ready, with vegetables and a crisp salad.
“Smells good,” he commented as he looked into the kitchen. “Like a drink before we eat?”
“A small sherry, thank you,” she answered, “if you have it.”
“Coming up.” He brought it in for her and leaned on the counter, watching as she put the finishing touches to the meal. “I think this rates opening a bottle of wine,” he said when she had placed the dishes on the table. “White?”
“Yes.”
He seemed to be going out of his way to be nice, she thought, and tried to match him. When he had poured the wine into two glasses and begun helping himself to the meat, she said, “I hope the work went better this afternoon.”
“A bit.” He commented, “You’ve caught some sun. It suits you, but don’t overdo it, will you?”
Tempted to tell him to mind his own business, she said instead, quite meekly, “I won’t.”
Ethan looked up. “So I’m a bully. Put it down to a feeling of responsibility.”
“You’re not a bully,” she admitted. “And I don’t see that you need to feel that way at all.”
“Don’t you?” he said. “Alec appears to have left you in my care.”
“How do you make that out?”
“It’s the only sense I can make of his will. And if that’s not what he had in mind—”
“I’m sure it wasn’t!”
“—then I still feel morally responsible.”
“I’m twenty-eight years old,” Celeste said distinctly. “No one needs to be responsible for me!”
“That,” Ethan said softly, “sounds almost like your old self.”
Celeste took a sip of wine. She wasn’t sure what her old self was, but certainly she felt rather less jaded in Ethan’s company, aware that under the surface of his apparent urbanity some powerful emotion was simmering forceful enough to penetrate the indifference that held her in thrall. She shivered, gulping down more wine.
Ethan refilled her glass, and she recklessly drank that, too, before they had finished the first course. Standing up to bring cheese and biscuits from the counter where she had set them out on an oiled board, she had to pause a moment because her head was swimming slightly. When Ethan offered to make the coffee, she accepted gratefully.
“In the other room?” he suggested, and she followed him, sinking down on one of the chairs. He put on a recording of easy-listening music, and when it was finished he took the coffee cups out to the kitchen, saying, “Play something else if you like. I’m going to do a bit more work before I go to bed.”
She found some other records that appealed to her and played them, not too loudly in case she disturbed him. When she went up to bed, there was a thin line of light under the door to his workroom.
For the rest of the week, Ethan breakfasted early, and Celeste came down later and spent the morning on the beach, taking a book with her. She would return for a snack sometime after midday, and in the afternoon read or rest, then cook dinner. After the shared meal Ethan went back to work, and she listened to music or read some more. Once she met Jeff again on the beach and had coffee with him, and another day she washed out some of her clothes and ironed them. Ethan asked her if she was getting bored, and she shook her head. Temporarily at least, she had no desire to lead a more active life.
“I have to go into town and get some supplies and mail,” he told her. “You can come along, if you’d like.”
“I need a pair of sandals. I suppose I could buy some.”
“Sure. I’ll be about an hour or more. We can stay longer if you want to shop.”
“That should be plenty of time.”
They were on their way in his car when Ethan asked, “Are you okay for money?”
“Yes, thank you.” She didn’t have a lot, but since coming to the island she had not had any expenses.
She found a pair of Brazilian leather sandals in a shop that sold everything from clothing to hardware and even had a counter devoted to makeup. On impulse she bought a bright red cotton dress printed with white hibiscus flowers. The dress, she knew, would highlight the lack of colour in her face, so she invested in a lipstick and blusher and eye shadow.
The shops were modest but bright and well-stocked. Trade was quiet, but in the season no doubt the wide streets, lined with tall palms and flame trees, would be thronged with tourists. The population was a mixture of races. Tall, brown-skinned Polynesians and darker, woolly-haired Melanesians mingled with a few Chinese, some Indian women wearing graceful saris, and Europeans sporting tans of varying shades. Hardly anyone would have met the description “white.”
“It’s a fair old potpourri here,” Ethan agreed when she mentioned it, meeting him in the brick-paved square where they had left his car. “The island was apparently unpopulated until the mid-nineteenth century, when a ship was driven ashore in a storm. There was a Chinese, a Portuguese and a black American among the survivors of the Sheerwind, for a start. And later, of course, people of all races ended up here, for one reason or another.”
“I know. I’ve been reading Jeff’s book. It’s good, isn’t it?”
“Some people think he romanticised the story. It was written for the tourist rather than the serious historian. But the facts are as he put them. A dozen men and two women and a child survived the wreck. And it wasn’t long before the men came to fighting over who was to be kingpin, and which of them were going to have the women.”
“The women had no choice, I suppose.”
Ethan shrugged. “Who’s to say, after all this time? Maybe they enjoyed being sought after.”
“That’s a conclusion only a man would jump to.”
His look held surprised scepticism. “Wouldn’t you have enjoyed it?”
“Being fought over by a lot of thugs and k
nowing I was the prize for the winner? No, I wouldn’t. And if you think that’s what any woman would like, you’re more of a male chauvinist than I ever thought.”
He raised his brows at that, but only said mildly, “Before you start trying to reform me, how about some lunch? There’s quite a good restaurant near the post office, and I haven’t collected the mail yet.”
He fetched it on the way, and as they sat waiting for their order, he riffled through a small pile of letters. “One for you.” He tossed it on the table, and she picked it up and fingered it. It had been posted at the university in Sydney, she saw, but the address was handwritten.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” Ethan asked her, stuffing his own letters into a pocket.
“You haven’t opened yours,” she pointed out.
“All business,” he said. “Yours looks more interesting.”
“Personal, you mean.”
“Sorry. I wasn’t intending to be nosy.” He leaned back in his chair rather ostentatiously and gazed out the open window at the pleasure boats riding at anchor on the water.
She took a knife and slit the envelope open. Glancing at the signature, she said, “It’s from Steven. Steven Craig.”
“Ah.”
His face was perfectly bland, so why did she feel that stirring of interest and disapproval? She skimmed the contents and was about to hand the letter over to him, when she changed her mind. Folding the paper, she carefully replaced it in the envelope and slid it into her handbag. “He would like to know if you’ve recovered anything from the disks Alec. . . left. I’m afraid I’d forgotten about them. Should I write and find out what happened to them?”
“I have them.”
“You do?”
“I collected Alec’s briefcase and the other things the police found in the car, the morning before we left.”
“Oh, you didn’t tell me.”
“There was nothing personal. Nothing I needed to bother you with, I thought. You can have them if you like.”
Celeste shook her head. “Have you looked at the disks?”
“When I find out what’s on them, I’ll let your friend know. Just now I have to finish a project that’s already overdue. The people paying me for it have been very patient as it is. I can’t keep them waiting longer than necessary.”
“I’ll write to Steven and tell him that you’ll get onto it as soon as possible, then.”
Their food was served, and he politely asked if her shopping had been successful, and whether she had all she wanted or wished to spend more time in town, but there was a tension in the air. He seemed preoccupied, and she was glad when he had paid the bill and they returned to the car.
He drove fast and in silence and on arriving at the house, said he had to work. After putting away the supplies with her help, he disappeared up the stairs.
Trying to shake off an acute feeling of depression, Celeste went for a swim. After that first time Ethan had apparently decided she could cope on her own and had not insisted on accompanying her. The water was warm and clear, and she felt slightly better and fresher, but she stayed in longer than usual, and after returning to the house and showering she lay on her bed clad only in her wrap, and drifted into sleep.
She woke to the sound of tapping on her door. Sitting up, she pushed tousled hair out of her eyes and, pulling the wrap about her, went to open the door.
Ethan’s eyes swept over her. “Did I wake you? Are you okay?”
“Yes, and yes. But don’t worry about waking me. I didn’t mean to sleep at all.” Dusk was falling, and she said, “I’m sorry, is it dinner time?”
“No need to apologise. But it is. I’ve made a meal. You’d better come and have some.” His eyes dropped again to where the edges of the robe met between her breasts. “Get dressed,” he said. “I’ll see you in ten minutes.”
She closed the door after him, and grabbed clean undies, then stood indecisively wondering what to put on. All the clothes hanging in the wardrobe looked drab and uninteresting. On impulse she opened the big bag containing the new flower-printed dress and shook it out. She slipped it on, brushed her hair, and snatched up the lipstick she had bought, swiftly applying it. It was ages since she had worn makeup, but she had not lost her touch. She smoothed on blusher very lightly, and the merest hint of eye shadow. The new sandals slid easily onto her slim feet.
Ethan was coming out of the kitchen as she descended the stairs.
“I was just going to call you,” he told her.
Slightly breathless with hurrying, she said, “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
He stood watching as she came down the last few steps. She thought his mouth hardened, and was sure that his eyes had narrowed. In fact there was something about the way he was staring that made her uncomfortable. “Looks like it was worth waiting for,” he drawled.
“I. . . bought a new dress today.”
“So I see. It’s very. . . eye-catching.”
She wondered if he thought she should be in mourning. “I felt I needed cheering up,” she said.
“I’m not objecting.” But his comprehensive glance, ending at her face and not missing the lipstick and eye shadow, seemed to her distinctly censorious. He stepped back for her to precede him into the kitchen.
He had opened a bottle of red wine, and after the meal he didn’t disappear into his workroom, but lounged in one of the cane chairs facing the windows while they finished off the wine. He put on a tape of soft, romantic ballads, and came back to his chair without switching on the lights. Outside the darkness was deepening.
Celeste cradled her glass in her hands and rested her head against the high back of the chair. Ethan turned to look at her, leaning over with the wine bottle in his hand. “More?”
She shook her head, and he poured the remainder into his glass, raising it to his lips. She felt his eyes on her, and her breathing quickened. She put down her own glass abruptly on a nearby table and got up.
He stood up, too, and she turned swiftly, the full skirt of her dress catching the glass and toppling it, sending it rolling to the edge of the table. She bent to rescue it, and Ethan stepped forward to do the same. His shoulder collided with hers, and as one of his hands righted the glass, the other closed over her arm, steadying her.
When they straightened, they were very close. She could feel his warm breath on her temple, his fingers firm on her skin.
“Celeste. . .” he said.
“Ethan. . .” Willing herself to move out of his grasp, she murmured, “I want to go to bed.”
His grip tightened on her arm. His head bent a little. “Are you inviting me to join you?” he asked.
Shocked, Celeste pulled out of his hold. “No!”
“Forgive me,” he said, not as though he meant it. “It did sound rather like it.”
“You know it wasn’t meant to!” she said, backing away from him. “You can’t honestly think that!”
He said, “I don’t know what to think about you, Celeste. I spend half my time wondering what’s going on inside that beautiful head of yours.”
“Nothing sinister!” she protested.
Ignoring that, he said, “Alec was obsessed with you, right to the end. And you managed to emasculate him. Why could he never satisfy you? What was it you wanted of him?”
Horrified, she stared at him in the gathering dark. The shadows made him look menacing as he loomed over her.
“You don’t understand!” she said in despair.
“Damn right I don’t,” Ethan said quite softly. “But I’m going to, one day. Because you’re going to tell me—you’re going to make me understand, Celeste. I want to know exactly why my brother died.”
“I can’t tell you that!” she cried. “I don’t know!”
He gave a short disbelieving laugh. Almost inaudibly, his lips scarcely moving, he said, “The h
ell you don’t!”
“Anyway,” she said, “I thought you’d decided. . . that you knew.”
“But there’s more to it,” he said. “For instance, who was the man? The one that finally sent him over the edge of that cliff?”
“Ethan. . .” A shiver ran through her, and she brought her arms across herself, trying to stop it. “Please,” she said. “Please stop it. I can’t. . . I can’t deal with this now.”
He audibly drew in a long breath. After a long time he said, his voice clipped, “All right, let’s leave it for the moment. You’d better go to bed.”
Chapter Six
Celeste woke with a feeling of dread, tempted to pull the pillow over her head and pretend the world didn’t exist. Remembering the events of the night before, she felt her mouth go dry, and flung a hand over her eyes, blotting out the sun. She could hear the distant hum of a vacuum cleaner and realised this was one of Mrs. Jackson’s cleaning days. She should get up and strip her bed because the sheets ought to be washed.
She took them down in her arms and said, “I’ve made the bed up again.”
“I could have done it,” the woman said, as she switched off the cleaner.
Celeste shook her head. “I have little enough to do. I’ll put these in the machine. Would you like a cup of tea? I’m going to boil the kettle.”
“Well, thank you very much. It’s just about time for one.”
They sat at the kitchen table, Mrs. Jackson with tea and a sweet biscuit, Celeste with coffee and toast after eating half of a sliced melon.
“You won’t put on much weight like that,” Mrs. Jackson said disapprovingly.
Celeste smiled faintly. “Everyone keeps telling me I’m too thin.”
“Well, you are, dear. You’re a very nice-looking girl. It’s a shame not to make the best of yourself.”
“At the moment I don’t care.”
Mrs. Jackson’s face softened. She put out a hand and briefly patted Celeste’s. “I know, but. . . life goes on, you know. I’m sure everyone says it, and it’s hard to believe, but it is true. I lost a daughter about ten years ago. You don’t forget, but it will get easier. You’ve just got to keep yourself going.”
Guilty Passion Page 7
