by Anne Mather
Of course, she hadn’t slept. Not surprisingly, she had found it almost impossible to relax, and she still hadn’t decided what she was going to do. How could she stay here, forced to accept the hospitality of a man she had hoped never to see again? And yet, conversely, how could she go—without arousing questions she had no wish to answer?
But—dear God!—what was she supposed to do, when the man who had fathered her child hadn’t even recognised her? Of course, it had been ten years, and no doubt she had changed. But not that much! Surely! She knew she would never forget his face.
But then, it had obviously meant more to her than it had to him. After all, she had lost more than her innocence that night. She had conceived the seed of another human being, her daughter, born nine months later without Reed Wyatt’s either knowing or caring. That Jon’s father should be Alexa’s father, too, was unbelievable. No wonder she had thought Jon reminded her of somebody. It was Alexa. They were half-brother and -sister.
Tipping her head forward again, Helen heaved a sigh. Then, tightening the ends of the bath towel she had wrapped sarong-wise about her slim body after her shower, she gazed once more at the view. It was almost dark now. The sun sank faster here, and already stars were appearing on the silver-streaked horizon. It wasn’t cold, however. The air was soft and seductive, stroking her skin like velvet, and inviting her to enjoy it. This was supposed to be a holiday, after all. An exotic vacation. To help her relax.
But how could she? she asked herself helplessly. So far she had been spared any conversation with the man, but that was not going to last. Reed would want to know the girl his son had brought to stay in his house. He would want to know everything about her, and because she had inadvertently blurted Alexa’s name to Victoria there was no way she could prevent his learning about her daughter, too.
Her skin cooled with sudden anguish. What if he heard about Alexa’s existence and put two and two together? Might he want to take her daughter—his daughter—from her? Oh, God, she shouldn’t have come here. She had made a terrible mistake.
She tried to calm herself, but it wasn’t easy. She had had no idea when she met Reed in London that he was a man of such affluence, and the realisation that he could turn those resources against her, and Alexa, was terrifying.
Panic flared, but she determinedly tamped it down. She was being foolish, creating problems where none existed. The likelihood of his remembering her now was totally unrealistic. And for him to claim some kind of association with her would arouse the kind of questions he wouldn’t want to answer. No. She, herself, was her own greatest danger. So long as she was able to keep her head, she would have nothing to fear.
Realising it was getting late, Helen turned and walked back into the bedroom behind her. Switching on the bronze-shaded lamps beside the bed, she gazed gratefully at their warm illumination. For all her bravado, the encroaching darkness outside had become vaguely hostile. She needed light, and reassurance, and the familiarity of her own things around her.
She wished she could ring Alexa, but it was long past her bedtime in England, and besides, until she knew what she was going to do, it would be difficult talking to her daughter. Alexa would be sure to ask questions, interested, as any little girl would be, in her mother’s whereabouts. And what could Helen say to her? Oh, by the way, Alexa, I met your father today, quite unexpectedly. We’re staying with him actually. Isn’t that nice?
A glance at the watch, which she had left on the table beside the bed when she went to take her shower, warned her she had less than thirty minutes before she might be expected to join the others downstairs. Jon had told her to come down at about half-past eight, if she felt like it, and while it would have been easier to pretend that her headache was no better, she knew that putting off the evil day was not going to make it any easier. Quite the reverse.
Until she had gone to take her shower, she had been lying on the wide, queen-sized bed that would have dominated her room at home. However, it fitted perfectly in these surroundings, and she had to admit the rooms she had been given were extremely comfortable. The bedroom alone would have impressed her, but adjoining its undisguised luxury was a small sitting-room, with soft-cushioned easy chairs in an island print, and a polished-wood writing desk, with stationery provided. There was a cream carpet, into which her toes curled appreciatively, that spread throughout the suite; except in the bathroom where cream-veined marble tiles took over. It was all very beautiful, of course, but it was not the kind of accommodation Helen had expected when Jon had invited her to his home. Still, she reflected wryly, it was just another obstacle to surmount. Compared to the shock she had had, she felt she could have handled all the rest standing on her head.
So, now she had to open her suitcase, and choose something suitable to wear. Fortunately, she had taken her mother’s advice and packed several uncrushable dresses, which were adaptable to day or evening wear. Her own taste was more towards casual clothes; vests and trousers in silky synthetic fabrics, or loose-fitting shirts and sweaters worn over leggings. Of course, leggings wouldn’t have been practical in this climate, anyway, but she had brought shorts and skirts, and lightweight cotton trousers.
However, for this evening pride dictated that she wear something rather special. She needed all the confidence she could muster. And, if somewhere in that resolution was an insidious desire to make Reed Wyatt envy his son’s good fortune, then so be it. She was not ashamed of feeling vengeful. It would serve him right if she exposed him for what he was.
But, of course, she knew she wouldn’t do that. Pride again, she thought bitterly. And fear, of what he might do to Alexa. And consideration for Jon. He didn’t deserve that kind of back-stabbing.
A navy blue and white silk dress seemed an admirable choice. It was one she had not yet worn, and its wraparound style was both cool and sexy. The bodice’s cleavage drew attention to the dusky hollow between her breasts, and because the skirt was draped it exposed a healthy expanse of bare leg above the knee as well as below. Belled, elbow-length sleeves complimented her slim arms, and a handful of narrow bangles was all the jewellery she needed.
Her hair provided the biggest problem. She had washed it when she took her shower, and dried it with the hand-drier that had naturally been provided. But she had been in no mood to take a lot of care with it, and now it was rioting wildly. Having naturally curly hair could be an advantage, but not when she had no means of taming it. She should have had it cut before she left England, she thought impatiently. As it was, only the stumpy pigtail seemed a realistic option.
But she couldn’t go down to dinner with her hair in a pigtail, she concluded grimly. It took a little longer, but she managed to coil its fiery strands into a modest chignon. It made her look older, but she couldn’t help it. And on the one occasion Jon had seen it that way, he had approved. He was the only person she wanted to please, after all.
Her hair was done, unknowingly exposing the pure lines of her profile, and she was dressed and almost ready when someone tapped at her door. Giving one final sweep of bronze mascara to her lashes, Helen put down the brush and surveyed her appearance. On with the motley, she thought unsteadily, her hand shaking as she touched the red-gold tendrils that had escaped the hairpins. It was a pity she wasn’t an actress. Then she might have appreciated the chance to give the performance of her life.
Crossing the sitting-room, on legs which were not entirely reliable, she opened the door to the Asian maid who had brought her tea earlier.
‘Mr Wyatt sent me to ask if you are well enough to join the family for supper,’ she said, her sloe-black eyes widening appreciatively. ‘But you are obviously feeling much better,’ she added, with a friendly smile. ‘Are you ready to come down?’
Helen took a deep breath. ‘I think so,’ she said, and then caught her breath on a gasp as the man whose identity she had been trying so hard to deal with came walking along the gallery towards them. In a loose-fitting white shirt and narrow black trousers, the belted wais
tband hanging low on his hips, Reed Wyatt looked even more attractive this evening than he had done that afternoon. Of course, then Helen had been more concerned with who he was than what he looked like, and although her brain had subconsciously registered his appearance, the fact that the last ten years had had little effect on him had not been of paramount importance.
But now, with at least a part of her functioning as a sane and rational human being, she couldn’t help noticing how kind the years had been to him. He must be how old now? she wondered. Forty-two? Forty-three? He looked years younger. And only the sun-streaked lines around his eyes betrayed a greater experience.
All the same, it was easy to see why she had been attracted to him all those years ago. Tall, lean-limbed, but with a muscled hardness to his body that belied his executive status. He looked more like a yachtsman than a banker, his healthy tan an indication that he enjoyed the outdoor life. He wasn’t a particularly handsome man, she acknowledged, trying to be objective. His eyes were too deeply set, his nose was too long, and his mouth was too thin for beauty. Yet those same eyes were fringed with long, thick lashes; the angular planes of his face exposed a hard intelligence; and the mouth—which had once explored every inch of her body—had a warmth and sensuality that she had found it impossible to resist. Oh, yes, she thought uneasily, he had lost none of his sexuality. He might have a few grey strands in the silvery light hair that brushed his collar, but it was still as thick and vital as ever. The wonder was that he had never married again. He must have had plenty of opportunity.
‘Ah—Helen,’ he said now, and although he smiled as he said the words she sensed he was surprised to see her. But whether that surprise was because he had not expected her to recover so quickly, or because of her appearance, she couldn’t be certain. After all, she must look a lot different from the way she had looked this afternoon. At least she wasn’t shaking now—not visibly at least—and her skin was faintly flushed, not pallid as a ghost’s. However, he swiftly controlled whatever emotion her appearance inspired, and as the maid nodded politely and walked away he halted in front of her. ‘I see your headache’s much improved.’
‘Yes.’ Helen tried to speak casually, but in spite of her best efforts she could hear the edge to her voice. Even being civil to this man was going to be difficult, and she wished Jon were around to make it easier for her.
‘Good.’ His tone was noticeably warmer than hers, and if he sensed her animosity, he didn’t show it. ‘I was just coming to tell Laura—’ he flicked a hand after the maid ‘—not to disturb you. But I’m glad you’re feeling so much better.’
‘Oh—I am,’ said Helen stiffly, wishing he would just go and leave her to make her own way down.
‘I’m delighted.’ Reed’s mouth revealed a momentary wryness. ‘So—if you’re ready? My sister’s waiting for us in the library.’
Hoping Jon wasn’t skipping supper because he thought she was, Helen closed her door. Then, praying Reed wouldn’t touch her, she started off after the maid. And he didn’t; he merely fell into step beside her, adjusting his pace to hers.
Supremely conscious of his arm only inches from her own as they walked, Helen endeavoured to focus her attention on her surroundings. That afternoon, she had paid little heed to where they were taking her. She had followed Jon up the stairs, without even noticing that the entrance hall was a huge atrium, arcing three floors above her head. She hadn’t cared that each level had its own galleried landing, or that the stairs themselves were a free-standing loop of mahogany that formed a square central column.
Helen looked about her as they went down the carpeted stairs, which were wide enough for them to walk side by side with ease, feigning an interest in her surroundings. But after a while her interest didn’t have to be feigned, and her head was tilted back, to allow her to study the huge chandelier that was suspended overhead, when Reed put his hand beneath her elbow.
She jerked away, as if he had made a pass at her, her momentary lapse of awareness instantly dispelled. Just for a moment, she had forgotten where she was and who she was, but the touch of his hard fingers was a shuddering reminder. Putting the width of the stairs between them, she allowed her hand to move over the bone where his fingers had rested, resisting the impulse to scrub at the skin. There were dangers here, she thought, that she hadn’t even anticipated. Not least, her own inability to deal with her emotions.
‘I’m sorry if I startled you,’ Reed said now, his eyes narrowed, but not unfriendly. ‘Only you weren’t looking where you were going, and I’d hate you to fall and add concussion to your other doubts about this place.’
Helen was startled. ‘My—other doubts,’ she echoed uneasily and Reed nodded.
‘Well, correct me if I’m wrong, but I get the impression you’re not exactly—overjoyed to be here,’ he remarked. He pushed his hands into his trouser pockets, and looked at her sideways. ‘Jon tells me his aunt asked a lot of personal questions on the way from the airport. Is that right?’
Helen swallowed, not knowing whether to be anxious, or relieved. ‘Um—some,’ she conceded warily.
Reed sighed. ‘I see. Well, I hope you won’t let Victoria upset you again. She can be rather—insensitive, I know.’
Helen allowed her breath to escape, albeit unevenly, and dragged her features into a tight smile. But it wasn’t easy, not easy at all, when Reed was looking at her in that disturbingly sympathetic way. In spite of all she knew about him, she could feel herself wanting to respond to his charm, and she took another gulp of air to try and restore her balance.
‘Jon is partly to blame for his aunt’s attitude,’ Reed remarked now, as they continued down the stairs—this time with Helen’s hand resting securely on the banister rail at her side. ‘Occasionally, he has brought some rather—odd people home.’ The corners of his attractive mouth lifted humorously. ‘Not that I’m suggesting you’re in any way odd,’ he added quickly. ‘Far from it. But the fact remains—well, my sister is very conservative.’
‘And—you’re not, Mr Wyatt?’
Helen couldn’t prevent the automatic rejoinder, but Reed did not seem offended by her candour. ‘Oh, yes, I am,’ he admitted ruefully. ‘I’m just as conservative as Victoria, though I try not to be. I guess that’s what happens when you get older, Helen. And your calling me Mr Wyatt just accentuates how much older I am!’
His smile was disarming, but Helen wouldn’t allow herself to be fooled by it. Just who did he think he was kidding? she thought bitterly. What would he say if she asked him how conservatively he had behaved after a party in London, ten years ago?
‘Anyway,’ he appended, as they reached the ground floor, ‘I hope we can convince you that our island is well worth a visit. It’s a pity you couldn’t bring your daughter with you. Our beaches and rock pools are ideal for young children.’
Helen caught her breath. ‘You know about Alexa?’ she got out in a strangled voice, and Reed frowned.
‘Is that your daughter’s name? Alexa? Yes, I’m afraid Victoria told me about her. Lord, wasn’t she supposed to? Well, I’m sorry, but she did.’
Helen struggled to recover her composure. For a minute there, she had been in danger of betraying everything. When Reed had mentioned Alexa she had thought, for one agonising moment, that he was telling her he knew all about her, that he knew who she really was. She had forgotten—how had she?—that she had inadvertently mentioned her daughter in Victoria’s hearing. But talking to Reed tended to scramble her brain cells and she couldn’t always think coherently.
‘I—I don’t mind,’ she said now, wishing he would indicate which way they had to go. Long corridors led off the hall in several directions, and she had no idea where the library was.
‘It’s this way,’ Reed said then, as if aware of what she had been thinking, and she hoped all her thoughts weren’t so open to interpretation. ‘We call this the gallery, for obvious reasons. My sister is a patron of the arts, and this is the work of some of her protégés.’
‘They’re very nice,’ said Helen inadequately, looking at the paintings that were hung between the long windows of the gallery without really seeing them. She realised he probably thought she was ignorant now, as well as stupid, but she couldn’t help it. And besides, what did it matter what he thought of her? He was the last person she wanted to impress. Nevertheless, if she intended to go through with this—and she still couldn’t see any alternative, without arousing a lot of awkward questions—she would have to get her act together. Having discovered she had nothing to fear from his father, it would be ironic if Jon was the one to become suspicious about her. Yet, was there really any point in continuing their relationship? No matter how she might feel about Jon, nothing could alter the fact that he was Reed Wyatt’s son. And the idea of becoming part of his family was something she couldn’t handle.
Beyond the windows, lights winked in the darkness, and the unmistakable scent of oleander was sweet and subtle. There was music, too, a rhythmic calypso drifting over the water, that stirred her blood in spite of herself. Tropical surroundings, tropical music—she should have been ecstatic. But, as Reed opened the double panelled doors at the end of the gallery, and invited her to precede him into the library, all Helen could think about was how to escape.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE PARTY FOLLOWING the opening of the gallery seemed to be proving as successful as the opening itself. Standing on the sidelines, drinking his third glass of vintage champagne, Reed cast a faintly cynical eye over the proceedings, but he had to admit Victoria’s skill in public relations had to be admired. She had organised the event perfectly; and although Luther Styles was undeniably the most successful painter present, none of the lesser-known contributors to the exhibition had been neglected. On the contrary, already many of the paintings that adorned the walls of the gallery bore the satisfying little red spot, which indicated that they had been sold. And there was the steady hum of conversation in the room as dealers and collectors exchanged their views.
