by Anne Mather
Which was probably something else he could lay at Fleur’s door, he reflected cynically, watching as a dusty estate car skidded into the parking area and a girl and two young children tumbled out. For all his brother’s marriage had lasted until his death, he doubted Chase had really been happy. He’d lived his life constantly placating a woman who’d tried to cheat him at every turn.
‘Henry—wait!’
The girl—or was she a young woman? Matthew was never quite sure of the distinction—yelled desperately after the small boy, who had darted recklessly between the parked cars. She seemed hung up with the other child, who appeared to be doubled up with pain, and Matthew could see an accident in the making if the boy gained the busy area where the taxis were waiting.
Without giving himself time to think about the pros and cons of what he was about to do, Matthew thrust open his door and vaulted out of the Range Rover. His long legs swiftly overtook the boy’s, and his hand descended on the child’s shoulder seconds before he reached the open road.
‘Ouch,’ The boy—Henry?—looked up at him indignantly. ‘Let go of me! I’m going to meet my daddy.’
‘Not without your mother, you’re not,’ returned Matthew smoothly, turning to look back towards the cars. ‘Come along. I’ll take you back. Did no one ever tell you it’s dangerous to play in traffic?’
Henry looked up at him mutinously. ‘I wasn’t playing.’
‘Nor are the drivers,’ said Matthew drily, feeling the boy’s resistance in every step they took. He was aware that his action had drawn some unwelcome attention, and he hoped that no one imagined he was enjoying himself.
The child’s mother was hurrying towards them now, and Matthew regarded her with some impatience. With her waist-length braid and narrow body, she hardly looked old enough to have two children, albeit of preschool age. But she had the casual elegance of many English holidaymakers at this time of year, women who knew nothing about caring for their own children, and he felt a surge of anger at her obvious lack of control.
‘Oh, Henry!’ she exclaimed when she reached them, bending down to grab the boy’s hand with evident relief. ‘Don’t you ever—ever—go dashing off like that again.
If—if—’ she cast a swift glance up at Matthew ‘—this gentleman hadn’t caught you, you could easily have been knocked down!’
‘Perhaps if you’d held on to his hand sooner, he wouldn’t have had the chance to run away,’ observed Matthew shortly, aware that it was really no concern of his. It wasn’t his place to tell her how to look after her children, and the deepening colour in her cheeks caused him as much discomfort as herself.
The trouble was, he realised, she had annoyed him. Driving into the car park like a mad thing, allowing the boy to put his life in danger. People like her shouldn’t be allowed to have children, he thought unreasonably. Though why he felt so strongly about it, he really couldn’t say.
‘Yes,’ she said stiffly now, facing him with eyes that were an indeterminate shade of grey. ‘I know it was remiss of me to let Henry run off like that. But—’ she cast her gaze down at the younger child, who Matthew could see was looking quite green ‘—Sophie was feeling sick again, and it all happened rather fast.’
It was a valid explanation, and Matthew knew it, but for some reason he couldn’t let it go. Was it that her colouring reminded him rather too strongly of the woman he’d been forced to invite here? Or was it some lingering sense of resentment that he’d had to get involved at all? Whatever the solution, he knew that she disturbed him. And he resented that intensely.
‘Wouldn’t it have been more sensible, then, to leave the child at home?’ he countered, and her eyes widened in obvious disbelief. He was getting in too deep, and he knew it. All it needed was for her husband to appear and he’d be totally out of his depth.
‘Mr—?’
‘There’s Daddy!’
Before she could finish what she had been about to say, the little boy started pulling at her arm. A tall man in a business suit, trailed by a porter wheeling a suitcase on his barrow, had just emerged from the airport buildings, and Matthew’s frustration hardened as the little girl set up a similar cry.
‘Daddy, Daddy,’ she called, her nausea obviously forgotten. ‘Daddy, we’re here!’ She tugged at her mother’s hand. ‘Let me go. Let me go. I want to go and meet him.’
The young woman cast Matthew one further studied look, and then released both children as the man got near enough to hold out his arms towards them. ‘Perhaps you’d like to tell their father what a hopeless case I am?’ she invited coldly. ‘I’d introduce you myself, but I didn’t catch your name.’
Matthew’s jaw compressed. ‘Forget it,’ he said shortly, turning away, but before he could put a sufficient distance between them the children’s father came up, carrying both his offspring. He looked quizzically at his wife, and then turned his attention to Matthew.
‘Do you two know one another?’ he asked. Then, loosening his collar, ‘God, it’s bloody hot, isn’t it? I can’t wait to get this suit off.’
‘Henry ran away,’ said Sophie, before anyone else could say anything, and Henry made an effort to punch her behind his father’s back. ‘He did,’ she added, when she’d regained her father’s attention. ‘He would have been run over if this man hadn’t brought him back.’
‘He might have been run over,’ amended her mother evenly, refusing to meet Matthew’s eyes, but her husband set both children down and held out his hand.
‘Thanks a lot,’ he said, shaking Matthew’s hand vigorously. ‘I know Henry can be quite a handful. I’m Andrew Sheridan, by the way. And I’ll see he doesn’t do it again.’
‘Aitken,’ said Matthew unwillingly, banking on the fact that it wasn’t such an uncommon name, and obviously neither of them had recognised him from the jackets of his books. ‘Um-actually, your wife wasn’t to blame for what happened. Your little girl was sick, and——’
‘I’m not—’
‘Thanks, anyway.’ Before his wife could complete her sentence, Andrew Sheridan intervened. He gave her a mischievous look, and then continued pleasantly, ‘You’ll have to come and have a drink with us some time. Give us a ring. We’re renting a villa out at Dragon Point.’
‘Really?’ Matthew managed not to make any promises, and to his relief, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lucas striding towards him with Fleur flapping at his heels. ‘I’ve got to go,’ he said, his polite tone disguising the dismay he’d felt at discovering they were holidaying a short distance from his estate. ‘If you’ll excuse me…’ He inclined his head curtly, and walked swiftly away.
He heard the young woman exclaim, ‘Why did you do that?’ and then, almost immediately afterwards, a choking gasp, as if her husband had hit her. It brought Matthew’s head round, in spite of himself, but there was no evidence that she’d been abused. On the contrary, she was staring after him, as if he’d done something wrong, her eyes wide with horror and all the colour drained out of her face.
It was crazy, because she meant nothing to him, but he was tempted to go back and ask her what the hell she thought she was doing. He’d got her off the hook, hadn’t he? She should be thanking him. Not gazing at him, for God’s sake, as if he was the devil incarnate.
With a grunt of impatience, Matthew swung his head round and continued towards his car. Forget it, he told himself fiercely. It was nothing to do with him. But he couldn’t deny a sense of anger and irritation—and the unpleasant feeling that he’d been used.
‘Who was that you were talking to?’ Fleur asked, after the briefest of greetings had been exchanged—reluctant on his part, fervent on hers. She insinuated herself into the seat beside him, despite the fact that Lucas had held the rear door for her, and gazed at him enquiringly. ‘A little young for your tastes, isn’t she, darling?’ she teased. ‘Or have you acquired a liking for schoolgirls in my absence?’
‘And if I have?’ Matthew countered, her accent jarring on him after his exchange with
the other woman. His eyes glittered maliciously. ‘I’m only following in your footsteps, sister, dear. We both have peculiar tastes, don’t we?’
‘I’m not your sister,’ hissed Fleur, as Lucas climbed good-humouredly into the seat behind them. She cast the other man a tight smile. ‘Perhaps I can get some sense from you.’
‘I don’t know who they are,’ declared Lucas ruefully. ‘I’ve never seen them before. They’re probably here on holiday. We get a lot of them at this time of the year.’
‘On holiday?’ Fleur’s expression altered. ‘Not friends of Matt’s, then?’
Lucas met his employer’s gaze in the rear-view mirror, and gave an apologetic shrug of his shoulders. ‘Not to my knowledge,’ he conceded wryly. He pulled a face at Matthew before adding, ‘Did you have a good journey?’
Fleur relaxed, and for the first time since her arrival she allowed herself to show a trace of regret. ‘It was—lonely,’ she said, rummaging in her capacious handbag for a tissue, and using it to dab her eyes. ‘I couldn’t help remembering that the last time I came here Chase was with me. He loved to spend time with Matt, you know? It’s sad that in recent years they spent so little time together.’
Lucas made a polite rejoinder, and Matthew bit down on the urge to tell Fleur that she knew why that was, better than anyone. He had the feeling he’d been wrong to invite Fleur here, however sorry he’d felt for her at the funeral. She hadn’t really changed. She was just as ingenious as ever.
‘How’s Dad?’ he asked now, refusing to be drawn in that direction, and Fleur gave a careless shrug.
‘So long as he has his damn horses to care about, no one else seems to matter,’ she declared bitterly, as Matthew joined the stream of vehicles leaving the airport, and he gave her a brief, scornful glance. They both knew that wasn’t true. Ben Aitken had loved his eldest son dearly, and he’d been shattered when he was killed. What she really meant was that the older man had little time for her, and he didn’t have to pretend any more now that Chase was dead.
‘But he’s well?’ Matthew persisted, suddenly recognising the vehicle ahead of them. Andrew Sheridan was driving now, but there was no mistaking the young woman seated in the back. He’d have recognised that accusing profile anywhere. She was staring out of the rear window, and he was sure she was looking at him.
‘He was. When I left.’ Fleur pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her bag and put one between her teeth. ‘I spent a couple of days in New York before coming here.’ She scanned the dashboard for the automatic lighter. ‘Dammit, where is it?’
Matthew didn’t reply, and as if becoming aware that his attention had been distracted, Fleur followed the direction of his gaze. ‘Oh, God,’ she said disgustedly, ‘it’s the girl again, isn’t it? Whatever is she staring at? Someone should teach her some manners.’
‘Her husband, perhaps?’ suggested Matthew, determinedly avoiding that cool grey gaze.
‘Her husband?’ Fleur was disbelieving. ‘You’re not telling me she’s married?’
‘With two children,’ Matthew conceded tersely. Then, to Lucas, ‘They’re staying at Dragon Point.’
Lucas frowned. ‘At the Parrish place?’ he asked, and Matthew’s brows drew together.
‘Yeah, right,’ he said thoughtfully, taking advantage of an open piece of road to pass the other vehicle. Then, with his nemesis safely behind him, he felt free to make the connection. ‘I thought the place was occupied when I walked past there this morning.’
Fleur gave him a calculating look as she lit her cigarette. ‘That man—the man who was driving the car—he was on the flight from New York.’
Matthew cast her a careless glance. ‘So?’
‘So—one wonders what she’s been getting up to, while her husband’s been away.’ She inhaled, and then blew smoke deliberately into his face. ‘Have you been—comforting her in his absence, I wonder?’
Matthew’s jaw hardened. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ he countered, refusing to rise to her bait. ‘What I do is my business, Fleur,’ he added, meeting her angry gaze. ‘And if you must smoke, do it in your own car. I can’t stand the smell of stale tobacco.’
‘You’re a prig, do you know that?’
But Fleur stubbed out her cigarette before giving him the benefit of her scowl. Matthew didn’t answer. It would have been far too easy to tell her what he thought she was. Besides, she already knew it. Which begged the question of why she was here…
CHAPTER THREE
IT WAS a good hour’s drive back to the villa.
It shouldn’t have taken so long. For most of the way the new highway meant that the road was extremely good. But Helen had already learned to her cost that traffic moved much less frenetically in Barbados than it did in London. Yet she was glad of the prolonged length of the journey to try to get herself under control. The shock she had had at the airport had left her palms moist, her knees shaking and her heart beating uncomfortably fast. Dear God, had she really seen her mother? Or was it all some incredible coincidence?
Of course, Andrew thought she was sulking because he had let the Aitken man think she was his wife. She still didn’t know why he’d done it, but that embarrassment had been quickly superseded by other events. That man’s name—Aitken—had been familiar, but she’d never dreamed that that was who he was. Until Fleur—if it was Fleur—had come sauntering out of the airport. Then the connection had been too much to ignore.
She expelled her breath with a shiver. Had it really been Fleur? Had it really been Chase Aitken? It had looked like Fleur—or, at least, like the pictures she had once unearthed in the attic at Conyers. James Gregory had seldom mentioned her, and he had certainly never encouraged Helen to ask questions. But the woman had been her mother, after all, and she hadn’t been able to help her curiosity.
Yet, if the woman had been her mother, then Chase Aitken was evidently much younger than she’d imagined. Was that what had hurt her father so badly? The fact that his wife had left him for a man almost young enough to be his son?
‘There’s no point in sitting there brooding,’ Andrew remarked suddenly, arousing her from her uneasy speculations, and Helen met his accusing gaze with some frustration. As if she didn’t have enough to worry about, without Tricia’s husband playing some stupid game of his own.
‘I’m not brooding,’ she replied, which was true. Her thoughts were far less pretty. If her mother was here on the island, what was she going to do about it? Did Fleur know her father was dead, for instance? And if she did, did she care?
‘Yes, you are,’ Andrew contradicted her flatly. ‘What’s the matter, Helen? Can’t you take a joke?’
‘Was that what it was?’
Helen refused to be treated like a fool, and Henry gave his father a doubtful look. ‘Why did that man think you and Helen were married?’ he piped up curiously, and Helen heard Andrew give an irritated snort.
‘How should I know?’ he exclaimed, proving he was not as indifferent to his wife’s possible reaction as he’d been to Helen’s. If the children accused him of perpetuating the mistake, Tricia wouldn’t be at all pleased. Particularly as the Aitkens were exactly the kind of people she liked to mix with.
‘Well, perhaps you should have corrected him,’ Helen observed now, aware that if she wasn’t careful she’d be the one blamed for assuming Tricia’s identity, and Andrew scowled.
‘How was I to know what you’d told him?’ he demanded, refusing to let her off the hook. ‘I didn’t want to embarrass you, that’s all. The man might have been a nuisance.’
Helen was always amazed at the lengths some people would go to protect their own positions, and she gazed at the back of Andrew’s head now with undisguised contempt. What had she expected, after all? She was only the nursemaid. She just hoped Tricia wouldn’t imagine she’d done something to warrant the misunderstanding.
‘He was nice,’ asserted Sophie, apparently deciding she had been quiet long enough. Happily, she was looking better now that she had so
mething else to think about.
‘How would you know?’ asked Henry at once, seldom allowing his sister to get away with anything. ‘He hurt my arm, and he called me a rude name. I’m going to tell Mummy that Helen didn’t stop him.’
‘You’re not going to tell your mother anything,’ cut in his father sharply, evidently deciding that it wasn’t in his best interests to let Henry carry tales. ‘Or I might just have to tell her that without Mr Aitken’s intervention you’d have been minced meat.’
Henry hunched his shoulders. ‘I wouldn’t,’ he muttered.
‘You would,’ said Sophie triumphantly. ‘Anyway, I liked him. And I think Helen liked him, too.’
‘Heavens, I don’t even know the man,’ Helen demurred, annoyed to find that the child had achieved what her father couldn’t. Hot colour was pouring into her cheeks, and Andrew’s expression revealed that he knew it.
‘Who is he, anyway?’ he asked. ‘You never did tell me. What did you find out about him? You seemed to be having quite a conversation as I walked out of the airport buildings.’
‘I don’t know anything more than you do,’ Helen declared, not altogether truthfully, glad that she was flushed now, and therefore in no danger of revealing herself again. ‘I didn’t even know his name until you asked him.’ Which was true. ‘He’s probably another tourist. The island’s full of them.’
‘Hmm.’ Andrew was thoughtful. ‘He didn’t look like a tourist to me. Unless he’s been here since Christmas. You don’t get a tan like that in a couple of weeks.’
‘Does it matter?’
Helen didn’t particularly want to talk about it, or think about it, for that matter. The image she had, of a tall dark man with the lean muscled body of an athlete, was not one she wanted to cherish. Chase Aitken, she thought scornfully, polo-player, playboy, and jock. Not to mention adulterer, she added bitterly. She hoped she’d never see him again.
