by Anne Mather
At first he suspected her father had forbidden her to visit him again. Had Robert Lucas observed his daughter’s return in Josef’s Mini and been angry at this obvious means of thwarting him, Rhys wondered. But although he telephoned the hotel several times and left messages for her to call him, he had no response, and he was eventually forced to assume that he had frightened her off.
He did think of driving to the hotel and forcing a confrontation, but the prospect of running into her father was not one he cared to face. If Jordan chose not to see him again, that was her decision. If her father was trying to force his will upon her, Rhys knew he could not depend on his own temper staying in check. In his present volatile state, he could quite easily resort to violence, and he didn’t think Jordan would appreciate his uncontrolled intervention.
Then one afternoon, when the sun was trapped behind a bank of overhanging cloud and Rhys was trapped in his studio, trying to make some headway with the melody he was composing, Jordan appeared. She had evidently used some exertion to get here, because her face was flushed and moist with heat, and her shirt and shorts were sticking to her. When he came in answer to her uncertain call, she swayed a little unsteadily, and he took a swift look at her tremulous face before bidding her to take a seat.
‘I’ll get some iced juice,’ he said tautly, gesturing towards one of the cushioned loungers. ‘Sit down before you fall down. You can tell me about it when I come back.’
Rosalie was snoozing in her chair on the back step, and Rhys helped himself to the jug of iced orange juice in the fridge, collecting some glasses on his way back to the verandah. When he emerged from the house, he found Jordan stretched out on the striped recliner, but she opened her eyes at his approach and struggled into a sitting position.
‘Here,’ he said, squatting down on his haunches beside her, and filling a glass with the cool sweet liquid. ‘You must be dehydrated,’ he added, as she gulped at it greedily. ‘What the hell have you been doing? Running?
‘Cy-cycling, actually,’ said Jordan at last, wiping a smear of orange juice from her chin with the back of her hand. ‘I cycled here.’ She sighed. ‘I—I didn’t realise it was so far!’
Rhys gazed at her in disbelief. ‘You’ve bicycled all the way from the hotel!’
‘Yes,’ Jordan nodded, the ponytail securing her long hair bobbing as she did so. ‘There was no other way,’ she appended simply, a little of the hectic colour receding from her cheeks. ‘I wanted to see you.’
‘Jordan!’ His voice was knowingly harsh as he said her name, and pushing himself to his feet he stood looking down at her. ‘You must be crazy, in this heat,’ he muttered, surveying her without compassion. ‘I suggest you go and take a shower and rest for a while. I wouldn’t like your father to think I was responsible for the way you look now.’
Her face lost much of its animation at his deliberately scathing words, and she looked down at her sunburned arms and legs, evidently chastened by his apparent contempt.
‘I don’t care what my father thinks,’ she declared after a moment, then got determinedly to her feet. ‘I—I will take that shower, if you don’t mind. I—I do feel rather—sticky.’
It was all Rhys could do to prevent himself from taking her in his arms there and then, but although her burst of defiance had intrigued him, experience had made him wary. ‘Okay,’ he said, gesturing indoors. ‘I guess you know where everything is. If you need anything else, just give me a shout.’
‘Thanks.’
Jordan moved past him, and Rhys stepped back against the verandah rail. He wondered what she was thinking, what thoughts had caused that sudden furrowing of her brow as she stepped into the house, then he turned his back on the pathetic picture she made as she limped painfully across his living room. Why had she really come here? he wondered. Could he really believe she wanted to see him when she had waited so long without contacting him? Or was it simply a case of defying her father, in whatever fashion she knew would annoy him most?
In spite of his suspicions, Rhys was unable to remain inactive with Jordan upstairs, using his bathroom, standing naked under his shower. Leaving the verandah, he walked impatiently into his studio, and ignoring the erratic pulsing of his heart, he determinedly picked up his guitar. But his fingers felt thick and clumsy, discordant on the strings, and he was thrusting it aside irritably when he heard Jordan’s troubled call.
Striding out into the hall, he reached the foot of the stairs and looked up. ‘Yes?’ he answered tautly. ‘Is something wrong?’
Jordan appeared, looking over the rail of the balcony above him, and his stomach muscles tightened at the sight of her wrapped in his towelling bathrobe. ‘I—do you have any shampoo?’ she ventured, holding the lapels closely together. ‘I’ve had a shower, but I got my hair wet, and I couldn’t find anything to wash it with.’
Rhys expelled his breath heavily, and then mounted the stairs two at a time. ‘It’s in the cabinet above the handbasin,’ he said, passing her without looking at her, entering his bedroom and walking through it to the bathroom beyond. ‘There.’ He extracted a plastic container filled with an expensive preparation bought for him by an ardent admirer. ‘That should do. I’m unlikely to use it.’
‘Oh? Why?’
Jordan looked at him with wide enquiring eyes, and if he hadn’t known better, Rhys would have half believed she was deliberately drawing his attention to her. As it was, he had to steel himself to look into those smoky grey eyes, to hold himself rigid and not allow his gaze to wander over the yielding curves of her body, sensuously concealed by the wraparound folds of his robe.
‘It’s too—perfumed for my taste,’ he answered swiftly, glancing into the shower cubicle behind her. ‘I see you managed to sort out the taps,’ he added, keeping the conversation impersonal. ‘The water’s never completely cold, as you probably know, but it’s refreshing.’
‘It’s a beautiful bathroom,’ said Jordan admiringly. ‘Gold taps, and smoked mirrors! Very sexy!’
‘How would you know?’
The words were out before he could prevent them, and Jordan wrapped the bathrobe even closer about her. ‘I—I wouldn’t, of course,’ she murmured, making him feel even worse. Then, tilting her head, she looked up at him, and he felt the unwanted heat invading his loins. ‘Tell me, Rhys—are you angry with me?’
Rhys clenched his fists. ‘Angry with you?’ he said tautly, hearing the bitter note in his voice and despising himself for it. ‘Why should I be angry with you?’ He paused, then went on harshly: ‘Apart from waiting for you to come—apart from phoning you and expecting you to at least acknowledge my calls—apart from not being able to eat, or sleep, or work! Why should I be angry with you?’
Jordan sighed. ‘I wanted to come——’
‘Did you?’ The scepticism was evident.
‘Yes.’ She caught her lower lip between her teeth and shifted from one bare foot to the other. ‘But I couldn’t.’
‘Because of your father?’
He was scathing, and shaking her head, she turned to step back into the cubicle. ‘If you don’t want to listen to me,’ she began, a tremor evident in her voice, and with a groan, he tried to grasp the robe to stop her. But his strength was greater than hers, and he felt her grip give way. Almost without his volition, the robe slipped off her shoulders and into his hands, and he was left staring at her with eyes as dark as burnt sugar mirroring his frustrations.
‘For God’s sake!’ he muttered savagely, thrusting the bathrobe back at her, but Jordan didn’t take it. It fell to the floor, just inside the shower cubicle, and Rhys was no longer capable of controlling his hungry gaze. His eyes moved irresistibly over her body, lingering longest on the rosy dark crests of her breasts, and the tantalising glimpse of her womanhood, before he noticed the faint pink blemishes visible in the white skin previously hidden by her bikini.
His eyes moved to her face, and as if sensing his enquiry, she touched her hip selfconsciously. ‘German measles,’ she said,
with evident reluctance. ‘Karen got it, and I got it too. That’s why I haven’t seen you. I asked Daddy to phone you, but he wouldn’t, and it was only today I learned from Raoul that you’d phoned me …’
‘Oh, Jordan!’ With a groan he reached for her, and hauling her trembling body against him, found her eager mouth with his. Her lips parted instinctively, and the pounding in Rhys’s head surged to a crescendo as her arms wound themselves about him.
She moulded her body to his, making him overpoweringly aware of how uncomfortable tight pants could be in a situation like this, but the feel of her skin was like silk. His hands slid down her back, finding the rounded curve of her rear and urging her even closer, the sensual excitement of her nearness arousing a physical ache inside him.
His mouth possessed hers seeking its own satisfaction, and with his mouth still on hers, he swung her up into his arms and carried her into his bedroom.
‘My hair …’ she protested, as he lowered her on to the bed, but his: ‘Don’t worry,’ seemed to satisfy her, and in any case she was loath to let him go.
The bed was soft, the bedroom blessedly cool, the pale green satin bedspread like a backcloth to her golden beauty. Jordan rolled restlessly upon its silken covers as he tore off his shirt and pants, and then he was beside her, gathering her warmth and sensuality into his arms.
He knew she was a virgin, and although his conscience stirred at what he was about to do, it was quickly squashed. He wanted her; she wanted him; it was as simple as that. And he could no more have resisted her than the moon could resist following its sister sun into the heavens.
And it was heavenly. In spite of her inexperience, Jordan was more than ready for him, and the initial opposition he encountered soon gave way beneath his persuasive assault. But it was all over much too soon. He had wanted to take his time, to savour every inch of her enchanting body, but his own body’s needs had overwhelmed him, and Jordan shifted protestingly beneath his sudden prostration.
‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered, a rueful smile lifting the corners of his mouth, but she was not placated.
‘Why did you stop?’ she breathed, as his tongue stroked sensuously over one taut nipple. ‘Oh, Rhys, don’t move. I don’t want you to. Just stay where you are, please …’
‘Oh, love,’ his lips parted, ‘I’m not going anywhere, honestly.’ His mouth caressed her midriff as he slid down her body, and by the time he returned to her mouth, she was weak and clinging to him. This time she moved with him, experiencing the same fulfilling peak of ecstasy that left them both emotionally—and physically—satiated …
It has always been like that with them, he remembered broodingly. No matter how often he made love to Jordan, he always wanted more, and in the aftermath of the rift their relationship caused with her father, she was more often at his house than at the hotel.
Of course, their association was looked on with disapproval by almost all the Lucas’s friends, the older members of the community siding with her father, and the younger ones too consumed with envy to defend Jordan.
Not that she seemed to care. What other people thought of their relationship did not concern her, and Rhys had found himself refusing concerts and performing engagements just so that he did not have to leave the island. His agent and manager were not at all happy with his attitude. Bernie Withers, the man who had discovered him singing in a wine bar in Chelsea and offered him his first recording contract, had flown out to Eleutha twice in an attempt to get him to change his mind, but they had been wasted journeys. Rhys wasn’t interested in making more noney. He had more than enough to live on, and Bernie’s warnings that the public would soon find themselves a new idol to worship had fallen on deaf ears. And then Jennifer had arrived, bringing Lucy with her, and everything had fallen apart.
He had often wondered how Jennifer had discovered where he was living. He certainly hadn’t left any clues, and apart from the other members of the band and their girl-friends, and Bernie, of course, there was no one else. But at the time, her appearance had overridden all other considerations, and Jordan’s reaction had been as violent as his own.
If only she had been prepared to listen to him, he reflected bitterly, sliding his fingers into the sand. But no matter how he had tried to justify his actions, she had spurned his excuses, and the evidence had been tipped heavily against him.
He gazed moodily towards the distant horizon, feeling the tight ball of frustration expanding inside him. God knew, he had put all this behind him long ago, so why was he resurrecting it now? From the moment he accepted responsibility for Lucy, he had damned himself in Jordan’s eyes, and if she hadn’t believed him then, she sure as hell wouldn’t believe him now!
‘What are you thinking, Daddy?’
Lucy’s slim form blocked his view suddenly, and he looked up to find her gazing down at him with evident concern. Forcing a smile to his lips, he got lithely to his feet, and ignoring her troubled expression, he slipped a casual arm about her shoulders.
‘How do you fancy going back to Nassau?’ he asked lightly, seizing the excuse to escape. ‘You’d certainly have more entertainment there, and plenty of people your own age to have fun with. You must be bored here, with nothing to do and nowhere to go.’
‘Are you bored, Daddy?’
Lucy looked up at him anxiously, and realising it was a double-edged question, Rhys temporised. ‘I’m not sixteen,’ he responded, as they began to walk back to the house.
‘And I’m not bored,’ declared Lucy firmly. ‘I don’t want to go back to Nassau, Daddy. I don’t want to share you with a lot of other people.’
‘Okay.’ Rhys despised the faint feeling of relief her words engendered. ‘So we’ll stay here.’
‘You don’t mind?’
‘Why should I mind?’ he exclaimed, with determined optimism. ‘I wanted to come. It was my decision.’
Lucy sighed, resting her head against his shoulder. ‘I just don’t want you to be unhappy, Daddy.’
‘Unhappy?’ Rhys glanced down at her. ‘Since when has my happiness come into this?’
‘Since this morning,’ confessed Lucy, avoiding his eyes. ‘Jordan Lucas is—quite attractive, isn’t she?’
Rhys stiffened. ‘Jordan Lucas?’
‘Hmm.’ Lucy drew away from him to mount the verandah steps, and Rhys was grateful for the momentary chance to recover his detachment. ‘I saw you looking at her this morning.’ She paused, then turned to look at him. ‘Are you in love with her?’
CHAPTER NINE
IT was another week before Jordan encountered Rhys again.
During that time she managed to convince herself that her visit to the house at Planter’s Point had not been the disaster she had at first thought it. After all, it had enabled her to look at her relationship with Rhys more objectively, and his behaviour had confirmed that she had been right about him all along.
The night he called at the hotel, she had blamed herself for the angry words which had been spoken. Her own attitude had initiated the row which had ensued, and that was why, after a sleepless night, she had driven out to his house to apologise. Besides which, she had wanted to absolve herself of any responsibility for his future actions, and to begin with she had thought she had handled it rather well.
It hadn’t been easy for her going to his home. The place held so many painful memories, and the sight of him swimming with his daughter had evoked unwelcome images of the past. But Rhys had been polite, and she had been reassured, and only when Lucy came on the scene did the atmosphere deteriorate. Perhaps she shouldn’t have spoken of Neil. It was true enough that he wanted to marry her. He had spoken of it on numerous occasions. But it was not true that she was considering it; at least, not in the near future. Neil understood that she needed time before committing herself completely, and until Lucy asked her question she had had no intention of discussing her future.
It had been a defensive reflex, a need to justify her unmarried state to a girl to whom, no doubt, she was an o
bject of contempt. If Rhys had told his daughter about their relationship it could only have been in the most uncomplimentary terms, and she had resented Lucy’s deliberate attempt to disconcert her.
Even so, she had never anticipated Rhys might react in the way he had. The inner flesh of her lips was still sore from his bruising assault, and her fingertips tingled from their unwilling contact with the hair-roughened skin of his chest. He must love his daughter very much, she thought bitterly, refusing to analyse the unwelcome surge of emotion that churned inside her. How could she believe otherwise, when he had accepted full responsibility for Lucy after Jennifer had been killed?
The invitation to the Hammonds’ barbecue came during the following week, and although Jordan was tempted to refuse, for once Neil took the upper hand.
‘Look, if you don’t go, Cilla will think it’s because you’re afraid to meet Rhys Williams again,’ he declared one morning, coming over to the hotel to take her riding. Neil kept a small stable of horses at Coral Cay, and he and Jordan occasionally enjoyed a gallop along the beach to Thunder Cove. ‘You realise she’ll be inviting him, don’t you? I imagine that’s the main reason she’s holding it. He’s due to leave in a week or so, isn’t he?’
‘Is he?’ Jordan tried to sound uninterested, and Neil gave her an impatient look.
‘Don’t you know? You’ve spoken to him, haven’t you? Raoul tells me he came to the hotel for dinner one evening.’
‘Raoul is an old gossip!’ declared Jordan tautly, making a mental note to speak to him next time she had an opportunity. She tucked her foot into the stirrup of the mare he had brought for her to ride, and swung herself up on to its back. ‘As a matter of fact, he and his daughter did come to the hotel one evening. It was the night you were in Galveston, actually. But they didn’t stay long. Just—just for a drink.’
‘And?’
