by Anne Hampton
Luke had seemed to heave a great sigh when on seeing her he had said, ‘You look eleven again. When, dear, are you going to grow up?’
She had looked at him in a puzzled way, for it did seem that he spoke impatiently and really there was no reason for it that she could see. He might have been eager for her to grow up, she thought . . . waiting for it. Christine had dismissed the idea simply because not only was it silly but there was no logical reason for it.
‘I certainly would have made sure that you were a bridesmaid,’ Luke was saying in response to her comment. ‘And I rather think Steve would, too, if he knew of your disappointment.’
Christine shrugged and said, placing a hand on his arm after he had stopped the car close to the entrance to the Country Club, ‘I want to forget the wedding, and just enjoy myself—with you, dearest Luke.’
His smile was slow to come, and faintly bitter, she thought, and wondered why.
‘Dearest Luke? Am I your dearest Luke? Are you sure?’
She moved her hand away and frowned as she did so. ‘You’re different these days,’ she told him. ‘We used to be like—well, like brother and sister.’
‘You said I was regarded as your uncle,’ Luke was quick to remind her.
‘Well... yes, in a way I did, but when we’re together like this I feel like your sister.’ She paused and waited but Luke merely switched off the engine and leant back in his seat. ‘Do you feel like my brother?’ she asked.
He turned to her with a wry sort of expression on his face. ‘No,’ he said quite firmly, ‘I do not.’
‘Oh, well, never mind.’ Another pause and then, ‘What do you feel like, then?’
‘Kissing you—’
‘Kissing me? You’ve kissed me often, but only when I’ve been upset.’
‘Aren’t you upset now?’
‘I’ve recovered, temporarily,’ she assured him, remembering that he sometimes described her behaviour as volatile. ‘I just want to be happy while I’m with you. After all, we don’t often go out for a meal—not on our own, that is.’
‘I must put the omission right,’ stated Luke as he slid from the car. He was at her side before she could even open the door and he helped her out, his hand warm and strong beneath her elbow.
She looked up and her eyes were glowing. ‘What would I do without you, Luke?’ She tucked her arm into his. ‘I need you so.’
He made no reply, but as he turned his head to look at her she had the impression that he was saying to himself, ‘We need each other.
What was the matter with her lately? She seemed always to be imagining things.
They entered the restaurant to nods of recognition from the waiters who all knew both Luke and Christine. Arthur Mead sometimes brought his wife and daughters here; it was his favourite eating place. Recently, though, Greta hadn’t been with them, as she and Steve went off on their own, as was to be expected with a newly engaged couple.
‘A table in the comer,’ from Luke who hadn’t booked because he’d made up his mind on the spur of the moment. ‘And we’ll have a drink first, in the restaurant.’
‘The lounge is crowded,’ observed Christine. ‘So I’m glad we’re having our aperitifs at the table.’ She was fighting to put her disappointment from her mind, and fighting also to put Steve from her mind. She hadn’t yet thought of what she was going to feel like at the wedding; she dared not.
Luke’s gaze was perceptive and faintly troubled. ‘I think it will be a good thing for all of us when this wedding is over and the couple have gone from Pirates’ Cay for good.’
Silence. The wine waiter arrived and Luke ordered a martini for Christine. Her feelings were mixed regarding Steve’s decision to live in Nassau.
‘With lemonade,’ he added and ordered a double whisky for himself.
‘A double!’ blinked Christine. ‘You never have a double. In fact, you don’t often have whisky at all.’ ‘Today, my child, I feel the need of that particular kind of sustenance.’
‘Why?’ she asked briefly. Had his love affair of which Greta had spoken gone wrong?
‘If you don’t ask questions, Chris, you won’t be told any lies.’ With a hand lifted to suppress a yawn, Luke picked up a menu and began perusing it. Christine frowned darkly at him, wondering greatly at his mood. Morose? Mentally she shook her head; Luke was never morose. He had a logical and set approach to life, taking whatever came along and putting it down to fate. She could never imagine him straining at the reins, becoming discontented with his lot. And yet.... Of late he had given the impression of some underlying yearning, some almost desperate reaching out for something just beyond his range. She looked at his face again, as he read the menu, noticing the firm and noble thrust of the chin and matching strength of the jaw; the mouth was full and, she realised with a little shock of surprise, had an element of sensuality about it she had never seen before, or ever expected to see. It was tight suddenly as she watched. What thought had come to him in this instant? she wondered, and unwanted colour filtered into her cheeks as he glanced up from under dark lashes any girl would give a great deal to possess. He had caught her unawares, caught her doing . . . what? His lashes flickered with the movement of his tawny eyes and she lowered hers swiftly, for there was some emotion within her rising for him to read if he had the smallest chance to do so. What was this quivering so close to her heart?
‘What were you thinking just now?’ he asked, lowering the menu but holding it open in both hands. She noticed his fingers, long and lean yet sensitive, like those of a pianist. She knew their strength because he used to lift her and toss her into the air, then catch her, saying she was little more than a doll. Eleven, then twelve . . . and then her teens and the beginning of real pleasure and pain, the ability to suffer, to be happy beyond words, to laugh or cry . . . no wonder Luke said she was volatile. Sixteen and Luke coming and going in her life as he had done for five years but now he had begun to treat her as an adult and she liked it. He had taken her out in his yacht, taken her to Nassau with him on three occasions, with the casual permission of her uncle and the more reluctant agreement of her aunt. Sometimes Christine wondered if her adoptive mother disliked Luke. As for Greta’s opinion of him . . . she said little but looks spoke volumes. Nevertheless, she managed with her innate charm to attract and although Christine felt sure Luke had never had a crush on Greta, he had never once, by word or glance, shown anything but amicability. Christine rather thought his attitude towards her would have been one of indifference had it not been for his friendship with her father.
It had begun when Luke’s father had begun buying materials from Arthur, and this practice had been carried on by his son, for without doubt the designs produced by Arthur’s company far surpassed any others on the market hereabouts. The friendship had grown despite the difference in ages; Arthur trusted Luke implicitly, hence the reason why he allowed him to take Christine off on these trips to Nassau. She’d had wonderful times, being taken out to dine with the kind of escort who attracted attention from every female around, old and young alike. Over six feet tall, with the sort of lithe and powerful physique that spelled sex appeal, he also possessed a full measure of maturity in spite of the fact that he was only twenty-seven years of age even now. At twenty-four he had been endowed with perception and common sense envied by many of his older business associates; at twenty-five he had made an astute and most profitable deal when he bought the hotel on Grand Bahama, and a year and a half later a similar deal was successfully carried through and one of the largest and most luxurious hotels in Nassau became his property. Christine had thoroughly enjoyed his company and his attention; she was flattered by it and she blossomed because of it. From the chrysalis of childhood emerged the beautiful imago—at least, Luke considered her beautiful, she knew. His opinion differed from that of her sister, who disliked brunettes anyway.
He was speaking into her recollections, asking again what she was thinking about.
‘Us,’ she replied and a lovely
smile broke as her eyes met his across the table. ‘The things we’ve done, and the things that you have done. You’re clever, Luke, and you’ll be a millionaire before you’re thirty.’
‘Does money matter?’ His gaze was curious and it was examining. He missed nothing about her—never did. The smile that gave a glow to her big violet eyes, the way her nose turned up a little at the end, the slant of her lashes so that her eyes seemed almond-shaped, the wide dear forehead with its halo of honey-tinted hair and that unruly little half fringe which, having caught the sun, was shades lighter than the rest of her hair. Her skin too was affected by the sun so that it was the colour of honey-gold and gleaming with health.
‘No, money doesn’t matter,’ she answered after a pause. But then she added thoughtfully, thinking of her adoptive father and his assiduous attention to his business, which she was sure came first in his life, ‘It seems, though, to be a mark of success or failure, depending on how much you have made in your life.’
‘You’re referring to Arthur?’
‘Yes, I was actually.’
‘He gives almost all of his time to his business—to the pastime of making money. That’s what you were thinking?’
She nodded, picking up her glass to sip the martini and regarding Luke from above the rim. ‘He’s giving all his life to it so I don’t suppose you could call it a pastime.’
‘All his life . . .’ Luke paused in thought and a slight frown knit his brows. ‘But then, he has little else in life, has he?’
It was Christine’s turn to frown. ‘He has a lovely home and a family.’
The straight brows lifted a fraction. ‘You of all people should know he isn’t happy.’
Christine looked down into her glass. She had suspected it but had never been quite sure. . . . ‘You mean Mother—Aunt Loreen?’ Why had she never been able to decide what to call her adoptive parents?
‘It isn’t a unique case by any means.’ Luke returned his attention to the menu but she knew his mind was elsewhere.
She said guardedly, ‘Have you any proof, Luke? I mean, it’s an awful suspicion to have, isn’t it?’
‘I have no actual proof. As for the suspicion—you must have had it for some time?’ The menu was lowered again but now a waiter was hovering, pad in hand, and Luke handed her the menu.
‘Have you chosen?’ she asked.
‘I’ll have a steak Diane. It’s always good here.’
‘Yes, they make it hot. I’ll have it too.’ She handed the menu to the waiter, watched him write the order down after asking about starters.
When he had gone Luke said, ‘Surely it affects your life in some way?’
‘I’ve always been conscious of what they did for me, Luke, and so I’m grateful all the time. I have a lovely luxurious home and Father loves me, I’m sure, so I haven’t really troubled myself with anything else.’
‘By that you actually mean: anyone else, don’t you?’ She nodded after a slight hesitation. ‘Yes, I suppose that is it,’ she agreed.
‘Loreen’s always out, and what of these holidays she takes and the cruises? What does Greta think about it?’
‘She never says anything. Greta has so many diversions, as you know, so many friends, which means she has a very full social life.’
After a moment Luke said, with a returning frown, ‘How did we get onto this kind of subject? Let’s change it. Are you coming over to Nassau with me next week?’
Her eyes lit up instantly. ‘You’ll take me?’
‘I have just asked you, silly.’
She laughed, saw a nerve pulsate in his cheek and sent him a puzzled glance. But all she said was, ‘If Father says I can, then I’d love to come with you. I love Nassau. I’ll look forward to seeing your hotel there.’
‘You’ll like it,’ he assured her.
‘Are we sailing there?’ she wanted to know.
‘I think we’ll fly. I haven’t a great deal of time to spare. I have to be in New York on Friday week and then I’ll fly down to Miami where I have to stay for a few days.’
‘Miami . . .’ Where, Greta maintained, Luke’s glamourous girl friend lived.
Something like a pain touched her heart. For the first time she did not like the idea of his having a girl friend. . . .
Chapter Two
Over two hundred guests attended the wedding, which was to be talked about for weeks to come. Arthur Mead did not do anything without attempting to achieve perfection. He had a marquee on the lawn in case it rained but the sun shone through the entire day. It was a typical Bahamian wedding, held out of doors with the actual ceremony being on the extensive patio beside the ornately shaped swimming pool, where on the blue water hibiscus flowers floated, and magenta bougainvillaea, the petals looking like miniature yachts because of their shape. Hummingbirds hovered over flower bushes and other birds sang or twitted. A clear blue sky above the tropical scene, gay colours of the clothes and as many blacks as whites in the congregation as the wedding ceremony proceeded. Tears stung Christine’s eyes as she looked at the bridesmaids and Luke slipped an arm about her shoulders, uncaring of who was behind them or what anyone would think. He drew her so close her head was on his shoulder.
‘I love you for being so kind,’ she murmured, trying to keep her voice steady in spite of the choking sensation in her throat.
‘And I love you, dear, for being you.’ His lips seemed close but now her eyes were shut as she endeavoured to hold back the tears.
‘She looks so beautiful.’
‘The loveliest bride ever on this island.’
‘Steve’s nice. She’s lucky.’
Comments heard around her and no one seeming to notice that Christine wasn’t one of the bridesmaids. She looked at Steve and closed her eyes again, for the pain was excruciating, as she had known it would be. Conscious of Luke’s hand tightening on hers she turned and pressed to him again. What would her life be without the comfort Luke could always give her? Now more than ever she needed him, but somehow the words she wanted to voice just would not come. She managed a smile, though, as the congregation rose to sing the hymn. She and Luke seemed all at once to be two people apart from the throng whose whole interest was the bride and groom—the bride mainly; she stole all the limelight, but then she always did, with her flawless beauty, her stately poise, her inordinate self-confidence. Steve seemed to be holding himself aloof and Christine remembered his saying that he wished it were all over.
The pronouncement . . . And Luke’s hand tightened on Christine’s.
‘Well,’ he said prosaically, ‘that is that. Are you ready for the eats?’
She shook her head, watching as Steve kissed the bridesmaids in a courtly kind of gesture, and all the while he seemed to be looking around and at last he was making his way towards Christine, leaving the cameraman standing there behind him.
‘Why weren’t you a bridesmaid?’ he said bewilderedly. ‘What happened to make you refuse to attend your sister?’
Christine stifled the gasp that leapt to her lips. She looked appealingly at Luke because she had no words with which to answer Steve.
‘I think,’ said Luke in tones so brusque that Steve stared at him in surprise, ‘that you had better leave any questions about that until another time.’ He gestured abruptly. ‘You should be over there, having your photograph taken. They’re all waiting for you.’
A moment’s pause before Steve turned his head; he had been watching Christine and could not miss the quivering lips, the brightness of her eyes. His mouth went tight, then relaxed at once. He reached for Christine’s hands and drew her to him.
‘A kiss for the bridesmaid that wasn’t. . . .’ His lips were warm on hers; she knew her own were cold, like her heart. Steve spoke close to her cheek. ‘You look lovely, child. If I hadn’t been marrying Greta, I believe I’d have waited for you.’
The colour ebbed from her face; she stared into his blue eyes and it was only by Luke’s swift and perceptive action that she was saved from
the impulse which would have resulted in untold humiliation afterwards, when she thought about it. Luke pulled her away a split second before she was about to fling her arms around Steve’s neck and return his kiss with passionate intensity.
Luke and Christine dined at the Country Club, on their own.
‘We oughtn’t to have left,’ she said as she took a drink of her wine. ‘It must have looked very bad.’
‘They’ll probably not even have missed us in that crowd,’ was Luke’s unconcerned rejoinder. ‘Watch yourself with that wine. You’ve never drunk it at that rate before.’
‘We can have another bottle, can’t we?’ she suggested, eyes going to the bottle in the cooler. ‘We’ve almost finished that one.’
His glance was as stern as his voice as he said, ‘That, miss, is your last. I don’t want to have to carry you out of here.’
‘I need to get drunk,’ she stated petulantly. ‘I have a lot on my mind!’
‘You’re almost drunk already,’ he observed. ‘Eat your meat.’
‘I have things on my mind,’ she repeated. ‘Didn’t you hear me?’
‘What things? The wedding’s over and so you can begin to forget your disappointment over the bridesmaid business. I daresay you’ll be a bridesmaid many times in the future.’
‘I have other things to forget.’ She picked up her glass again and emptied it. The room was beginning to spin. It was nice to be light-headed, she decided, since it made you forget all your troubles.
‘Such as?’ He was watching her curiously now.
She spoke, and said something she would never have said had she been sober. ‘Steve. I love him.’
A silence followed and she saw Luke’s mouth compress, his face lose a little of its colour—and that nerve again, pulsing like that. What was causing it?
