Tidewater Seduction

by Anne Mather

  ‘That’s not a good idea,’ said Cole, staring at some point over her head. ‘I doubt if that was why my father brought you here.’

  ‘I doubt if it was,’ agreed Joanna pleasantly. ‘But, nevertheless, I intend to see her. With or without your approval.’

  Cole’s eyes were dark with anger when they dropped to hers again. ‘Don’t,’ he said savagely. ‘You’ll only cause her more pain. Nathan’s dead, and there’s nothing any of us can do about it.’

  ‘And aren’t you glad?’ she retorted, suddenly finding the fruit juice too sweet for her taste. She set down her glass, and looked round for Ben. ‘Excuse me; I need some fresh air.’

  ‘Wait!’

  Cole’s hand around her upper arm arrested her, and even through the material of her shirt she could sense the frustration in those fingers.

  ‘Yes?’ She tilted her face up to his, and, although only seconds before she had been goading him with memories of his dead brother, suddenly the air between them fairly crackled with electricity.

  ‘Please,’ he said, and she sensed how hard it was for him to plead with her. Her stomach hollowed at the look of stark anguish in his face, and for a moment she would have promised him anything. ‘Stay away from Sarah,’ he added thickly. ‘Stay away, or—or I’ll——’

  He broke off abruptly, but Joanna had stiffened. ‘Or what, Cole?’ she taunted, her weakness coagulating into a hard core of resentment inside her. ‘You can’t threaten me. If I want to see Sarah, I will. Why shouldn’t I? We have a lot in common. We both trusted men who betrayed us.’ And, lifting his fingers from her sleeve, she walked swiftly away.

  ‘Jo!’

  His violent use of her name fell on deaf ears, and his mother, who had been watching their altercation with evident misgivings, now came after Joanna.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ she demanded, reaching the louvred doors just ahead of her quarry. ‘What has Cole been saying?’

  Joanna’s look of disbelief was not feigned. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I said——’

  ‘I know what you said.’ Joanna looked about her with some frustration. ‘But I don’t think it’s any of your business, do you?’

  ‘He doesn’t want you back, you know.’ Maggie’s thin lower lip curled. ‘He may have agreed to bring you here, because his daddy asked him to. But it wasn’t his idea.’

  Joanna caught her breath. ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’

  ‘Don’t get sassy with me, girl!’

  ‘I’m not.’ Joanna felt a little of her tension dissolve. Overt hostility she could deal with. It was the other kind that gnawed away at your composure. ‘Don’t worry, Maggie. I don’t want your precious son.’ She paused, and then a little imp of mischief made her add, softly, ‘Not on a permanent basis, anyway.’

  Cole’s mother’s face turned crimson. ‘You—you——’

  ‘Ciao,’ murmured Joanna silkily, and, deciding to quit while she was ahead, she sauntered away.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  JOANNA slept surprisingly well. She hadn’t expected to. Not after the rather nerve-racking evening she had spent. But perhaps it was the fact that she hadn’t slept much the night before. Whatever the reason, she lost consciousness as soon as her head touched the pillow, and it wasn’t until one of the maids opened her curtains that she realised it was morning.

  ‘Morning, miss—ma’am,’ fumbled the girl, whom Joanna didn’t recognise at all. Evidently she had been employed since Joanna left Tidewater, and her uncertain expression mirrored her inexperience.

  ‘Miss will do,’ said Joanna lazily, levering herself up on her pillows, as the delicious scent of coffee drifted to her nostrils. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Rebecca, miss,’ answered the girl, coming forward to lift the breakfast tray from the bedside cabinet. She set the legs at either side of Joanna’s recumbent form, and fussed about, tidying the cutlery, which had slipped as she moved the tray.

  ‘That’s OK. Honestly.’ Joanna held up a deterring hand. She looked down at the tray. ‘Hmm. This looks wonderful.’

  ‘Juice, eggs, and ham, toast and coffee,’ declared Rebecca, blushing in confusion. ‘Anything else I can get you, Miz Macallister?’

  ‘It’s Seton,’ said Joanna drily. ‘I’m Joanna Seton. I used to be Macallister, but not any more.’

  ‘I understand.’ Rebecca coloured again. ‘You care for some pancakes, to go with your eggs?’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Joanna smiled, and shook her head. ‘No, thanks. I doubt if I can manage all this.’

  Rebecca hesitated. ‘Well, if you’re sure——’

  ‘I’m sure,’ declared Joanna, stifling a yawn. ‘Um—what time is it?’

  ‘Well,’ Rebecca reflected, ‘Miz Macallister said to bring up your tray at ten o’clock. I guess it must be a quarter after that now.’

  ‘After ten!’ Joanna was appalled. She never normally slept so late, and she could just imagine what Cole’s mother would be thinking. Maggie had called her a lazy slut, in the not-too-distant past. And lying in bed till ten o’clock was as good as justifying the accusation.

  But it wasn’t true. It had never been true. If Joanna had stayed in bed in the past, it was because there had been nothing to get up for. Maggie wouldn’t let her do anything; not a thing. And even her will to paint had been stifled in the closed atmosphere of Tidewater.

  ‘Ain’t nothing spoiling, miss,’ Rebecca added, a little disturbed at Joanna’s shocked reaction. ‘Mr Macallister—he don’t get up much before noon these days, and the boys—they’re long gone.’

  ‘The boys,’ echoed Joanna ruefully, flopping back against her pillows, and Rebecca leapt forward to steady the tray.

  ‘All ‘cept Sandy,’ she agreed, straightening up again. ‘The young ‘uns, they’re all off to school. That Charley—she didn’t wanna go. Said you and she had things to talk about. But Miz Macallister made her go, just the same.’

  She would, thought Joanna broodingly, but she didn’t say so. Besides, Charley’s problems would have to wait. Right now, she was more concerned with finding out why Ryan Macallister had brought her here.

  ‘I better go.’ Rebecca seemed to think Joanna’s silence was an indication that she had been gossiping too much, and it took quite an effort to assure her that this wasn’t so.

  ‘Thanks again,’ Joanna offered, as the maid hurried towards the door. ‘It’s been nice meeting you. I hope we get to talk again.’

  ‘Oh——’ It was worth it to see Rebecca’s cheeks bloom. ‘Yes, I do, too,’ she appended, and, with a little conspiratorial smile, she let herself out of the room.

  After she was gone, Joanna wriggled up into a sitting position, and lifted the tray to one side of the huge, colonial four-poster. Then, sliding her feet to the floor, she stood up.

  There was an expanse of cream shag carpet between where she was standing and the window, and she crossed it swiftly. The bedroom at her apartment in St John’s Wood would have fitted a couple of times into this huge room. Apart from the bed, there were an assortment of heavy chests and cabinets, an antique chaise-longue, as well as the free-standing mirror Joanna had used the night before. There was also a walk-in closet, with fitted robes, a vanity unit and a long, velvet-padded bench to sit on.

  Everything at Tidewater was larger than life, she thought wryly, drawing the louvred shutters aside and stepping out on to her balcony. Including its inhabitants, she conceded, with a certain tightening in her stomach.

  It had been fairly warm in her bedroom, in spite of the shutters, but outside the heat was almost palpable already. It soon bathed her in a cloak of perspiration, and even the cotton nightshirt she was wearing clung damply to her skin. And this wasn’t even the hottest it could get, she remembered, realising she would once have regarded this as only temperate. Yet, for all that, there was something decidedly sensual about such an abundance of nature’s bounty, and the scents from the gardens below were positively intoxicating.

  But it was
the distant line of the ocean that caught her eyes. A breeze, both warm and salty, ruffled the loose tendrils that curled at her temple, and she put her hand against the back of her neck to lift the weight of hair away from her skin.

  And that was when she saw Cole. He had evidently been out with the horses, and was presently unsaddling a huge blood bay in the paddock nearest to the house. He had seen her, too. As he straightened from loosening the girth, he looked straight at her balcony, and even from a distance she could sense his anger and his hostility.

  But he looked good, she thought ruefully, her nerves prickling in unwilling anticipation. In tight jeans, leathers, and a shirt open halfway down his chest, he visibly breathed sexuality, and the heat that enveloped her at that moment had nothing to do with the climate. His hair, darkened by his exertions, lay damply against his head, and some uncontrollable part of her longed to run her fingers into the silvery gold strands clinging to his nape.

  With oxygen suddenly becoming a scarce commodity, Joanna dragged a gulp of air into her lungs. Then, because she sensed his unwillingness to be caught looking at her balcony, she raised a hand in mocking acknowledgement. He might not want her here, but, whatever compulsion she possessed, he was not unaware of it. And, before he could do anything to rob her of that conviction, she turned and walked back into the room behind her.

  Nevertheless, her own hands were not quite steady as she poured herself a cup of the coffee Rebecca had brought her. She perched on the edge of the bed to drink it, realising she wasn’t used to this kind of sexual gamesmanship, and, while she was determined to keep the pressure on Cole, it was decidedly wearing on the nerves.

  The eggs and ham were congealing on the plate, but she knew she couldn’t face anything as substantial as a fried breakfast at this time. She was wondering if she could wrap them up in a paper napkin, and surreptitiously feed them to the dogs, when common sense reasserted itself. She didn’t have to eat the meal, for heaven’s sake. Just because, at one time, she would have done anything to avoid a confrontation with Cole’s mother, she was allowing herself to be seduced by her surroundings. Now she could do exactly as she liked, and if Maggie had any comment to make about wasting food, so what?

  Nevertheless, she knew she had to eat something. This was not the time to start starving herself. She would need all her wits about her in the next few hours, and a slice of toast and some orange juice sounded very palatable.

  As it turned out, she couldn’t resist eating two slices of toast spread with the chunky marmalade that was made from oranges grown on Tidewater land. Then, realising she was only delaying the inevitable, she went for her shower.

  Half an hour later, she was ready to go downstairs. White shorts, and a scarlet vest, which emphasised the rounded curve of her breasts, seemed suitably provocative, and she had threaded her silky hair into a single plait that bobbed against her bare shoulder. She pushed her feet into rope-soled espadrilles, and then, with a final glance at the length of leg she was exposing, she threw herself a rueful grin, and picked up the tray.

  Her suite of rooms was situated at the south-western corner of the house. A white-panelled corridor led to the galleried landing that overlooked the hall below, and she traversed it swiftly, pausing only once to absorb the once familiar configuration of the building. The rooms she and Cole used to occupy were in the opposite wing, and she guessed Maggie was responsible for her present situation. Or it might have been Cole, she conceded, guessing he probably occupied the other suite. The main apartments were all in the other half of the house, which was infinitely cooler than where Joanna was sleeping. Dear Maggie, she mused sardonically, starting down the stairs, always doing everything in her power to make her feel unwelcome.

  The lower floor was cooler. It had been designed to allow for a free flow of air from front to back, and because the ceilings were high and wide it was possible to feel the benefit of the constantly turning fans. It reminded her that Cole had wanted to install an air-conditioning system, when she came to live at Tidewater. But his father had declared that what had been good enough for his father was good enough for him, and, in any case, it was an unnecessary expense.

  Par for the course, she thought drily, glancing back up the stairs, and then did a double-take when she saw the subject of her musings gazing down at her from the upper floor.

  ‘What you doing with that tray, girl?’ Ryan Macallister demanded, and although his voice didn’t carry the same authority it had once done, he startled her.

  ‘The tray?’ Joanna echoed, a little blankly. And then, quickly gathering her composure, ‘I’m taking it to the kitchen.’ She forced a polite smile. ‘Ought you to be out of bed?’

  Although Cole’s father was clinging to the rails of the gallery with obvious necessity, his bony features took on an indignant scowl. ‘I’m not dead yet,’ he grated. ‘Put that tray down, and get yourself up here. I want to talk to you.’

  Joanna pressed her lips together, but she refused to be intimidated. ‘After I’ve taken the tray to the kitchen,’ she declared pleasantly. ‘I won’t be long——’

  ‘Unless you want me to take a dive down these stairs, you’d better forget about the blasted tray and get your butt up here,’ snapped Ryan harshly, and although Joanna wasn’t totally convinced of his sincerity her conscience wouldn’t let her take that risk.

  With a helpless shrug of her shoulders, she deposited the tray on the iron-bound chest that stood in the lee of the stairs, and ran back up. She had guessed that Cole’s father was hardly likely to ask her for help unless he had to, and certainly the fingers that grasped her arm for support felt suitably desperate.

  ‘God-damned disease!’ he muttered, causing her to stagger a little, as he transferred all his weight from the banister to her shoulder, and she realised he had not been joking about falling down the stairs. It really was an effort for him to get around at all.

  ‘Take it easy,’ she offered, as they made an unsteady progress back to his bedroom, and Ryan gave an obscene exclamation.

  ‘Who’re you to tell me to take it easy?’ he exhorted breathlessly. ‘Do you know what it’s like to feel like a feeble-minded geriatric? Judas Priest, I’d be better off dead!’

  ‘I don’t think your family would agree with you,’ murmured Joanna evenly, easing open his bedroom door with her hip, and helping him to cross the shagged carpet, and Ryan snorted.

  ‘But you would, wouldn’t you?’ He took a laboured breath and heaved himself on to the side of the bed. ‘You would, wouldn’t you, girl? ‘Cos you’d know I’d feel the same, if it was you.’

  Joanna stepped back. He didn’t need her help now. He was perfectly capable of ringing the bell beside the bed if he needed any further assistance. And, quite honestly, all she wanted to do was put as much distance between them as the limitations of Tidewater would allow.

  But when she moved towards the door his voice stopped her. ‘Where’re you going?’

  Joanna steeled herself and turned. ‘I think you should rest, Mr Macallister.’

  ‘Do you?’ He made a sound of contempt. ‘Just because I hurt your feelings, you’re going to walk out on me, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Wrong.’ He eased himself back against his pillows. ‘We have to talk, and I don’t know how much time I’ve got.’ He grimaced. ‘Humour me.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Good question——’ But he broke off to give a hacking cough, and Joanna’s resistance foundered.

  ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I’ll come back. I promise. When you’re feeling—stronger.’

  ‘Huh.’ He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘I guess this is as strong as I’m going to get. Besides, what do you care? Seeing me like this must be the sweetest kind of revenge——’

  ‘No!’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’ Joanna swallowed. ‘Hard as it may be for you to believe, I do have some compassion.’

  ‘Ah.’ The old man’s lips curled with evident sat
isfaction. ‘I hoped you’d say that.’

  ‘You did?’ Joanna blinked. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I want my son back,’ declared Ryan abruptly. ‘And you’re the only one who can do that for me.’

  ‘Your son?’ Joanna felt totally confused. ‘What son are you talking about?’

  ‘Don’t play games with me, girl.’ Her answer was obviously not the one he had anticipated. ‘You know which son I mean. Cole, of course. I want you to tell him I wasn’t to blame for his brother’s—accident!’

  Joanna caught her breath. ‘Nathan,’ she said, through dry lips. ‘That’s what all this is about: Nathan!’

  Wo!’ Ryan’s voice was savage, and if he could have reached her she was sure he would have slapped his hand across her mouth to silence her. ‘I’ve told you what it’s about,’ he grated. ‘Cole. I want Cole to treat me like a father again. I want him to give me his respect. Dammit, the boy’s my son! He owes me that much.’

  Joanna couldn’t take this in. ‘But I thought——’

  ‘I don’t care what you thought.’ Ryan sucked in a gurgling breath. ‘Just listen to me.’ The air whistled in his lungs as he sought to calm himself. ‘You did this. You turned him away from me. You and your prissy liberal ideas. Teaching people to want things they can’t have. I won’t forgive you for what you did. I’ll never forgive you. But I need your help, dammit, and you’re going to give it to me!’

  The air outside was doubly sweet after the cloying atmosphere of the sickroom. Stepping down from the shaded columns of the veranda, Joanna crossed the neatly cut turf to the paddock. Resting her hands on the white-painted rail, she took several deep breaths of the moist-scented air. Then, she sagged against the fence. She felt drained, both emotionally and physically, and the elegant house behind her was a prison from which she had made only a temporary escape. She was trapped, and she knew it.

  But of all the reasons why Ryan Macallister should have wanted to see her, surely his request was the least expected. To ask her to speak to Cole on his behalf! To persuade Cole that his father had not been responsible for what happened to Nathan; that he had played no part in his death!