Wild Jasmine

by Yvonne Whittal

  Wild Jasmine

  By

  Yvonne Whittal

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  WILD JASMINE

  Returning to Bombay to be reunited with her parents, instead Sarika Maynesfield found that her life was being firmly taken over by Sean O'Connor—which didn't suit her at all. And there didn't seem any way she could get rid of him…

  Books you will enjoy

  by

  YVONNE WHITTAL

  CAPE OF MISFORTUNE

  Bored with her life as a teacher in Durban, Emma Gilbert leapt at the chance of a year in Mauritius as governess to little Dominic; but the mysterious death of the child's mother and the disturbing nature of his father, gave her the feeling of being prey to a serpent in this earthly paradise…

  THE DEVIL'S PAWN

  The marriage between the arrogant Vince Steiner and Cara Lloyd was not in name only—despite the fact that it was just a twelvemonth contract between them. It was one more way to humiliate Cara's father. But there was nothing in the contract about love—and that could prove humiliating for Cara…

  First published in Great Britain 1985

  by Mills & Boon Limited

  © Yvonne Whittal 1985

  Australian copyright 1985

  Philippine copyright 1985

  This edition 1985

  ISBN 0 263 75168 6

  For my dear friend

  GEETA HARIBHAI

  who laid the foundation on which I could build this book,

  and I could not have done so without her invaluable assistance and guidance.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The departure lounge at Heathrow Airport was almost filled to capacity with people of all races and nationalities waiting for their flights to be called. Sarika Maynesfield spotted an empty seat and walked towards it with a fluid, natural grace that drew several appreciative glances, but she was unaware of the interest she aroused. She was tall and slender, with hair the colour of wild honey hanging in a thick silken mass down to between her shoulder blades. Tawny, almond-shaped eyes were veiled mysteriously beneath long, dark lashes, and there was an added touch of mystery in the faint smile curving the full, sensitive mouth beneath her small, straight nose. Her suit was a rich, creamy colour cut in a fashionable style, and it was set off by an olive-green blouse with a wide embroidered collar. Sarika's femininity was unquestionable, and so was her beauty, but it had been a liability rather than an asset while she had studied for her degree in architecture.

  She sat down between two travel-weary female tourists and carefully crossed one long, shapely leg over the other before opening the magazine she had bought at the bookstall. She stared down at the glossy pages advertising the latest fashions and found herself thinking of the two weeks she had spent in Paris with Jane Summers. Jane was studying fashion designing, so it was only natural that they should have visited most of the fashion houses in Paris, but there had also been time to take in the architectural beauty of the city. At the end of their two weeks in Paris Jane had gone farther south, to Cannes to join her parents, and Sarika had had to return to England alone.

  Her lovely mouth drooped slightly at the corners. She was thinking about the graduation ceremony three days ago, and her ultimate disappointment when she discovered that her parents would not be able to attend it, but now at last she was going home, and this time it was not merely for a holiday. Home. The word echoed through her mind and aroused a mixture of feelings. Home was in Bombay on the west coast of India and, after the freezing winter she had endured in England, she looked forward to India's warm, sultry climate.

  Sarika's mind cruelly conjured up her last holiday in Bombay. Gary Rowan's handsome, laughing features intruded between her and the printed pages of the magazine she was paging through, but she firmly thrust aside his image as well as the painful memories it aroused. She had to think pleasant thoughts. She was going home to her parents, and to a possible future in her father's architectural firm. That was what her father wanted, that was what she had studied for, but the idea did not appeal to her. Her thoughts once again took a definite swing towards the unpleasant, and this time she could not halt them. She had wanted to start a little business of her own, a boutique specialising in traditional Indian saris, but her tentative plans had been doomed to a quick death when she had approached her father on the subject. He had refused her the financial support she had required for the initial layout of this private venture, and the ensuing argument had not succeeded in changing his mind.

  'I refuse to throw good money away, Sarika,' he had declared with a flat finality. 'I've seen to it that you have everything you need, and more. I've encouraged you to travel the world during your holidays, and I've paid a fortune for your studies, but I refuse to waste money on this ridiculous idea of yours. You're going to be an architect, and your place is with me in the company.'

  Dave Maynesfield had spoken the cold, harsh truth. She had always had everything his money could buy for her, but what neither he nor her mother had known was that Sarika had craved their love and attention a great deal more… that, and the opportunity to stand on her own two feet. Her father's money had opened doors for her, but emotionally she had always been like a starved child standing outside a cake shop with her nose pressed to the window. Dave and Cara Maynesfield had mostly been too busy living their own lives. Their social activities had taken them all over the place, and no function, apparently, was a success without them.

  'British Airways flight number zero-zero-three will now depart for Bombay. Will all passengers please proceed through gate number six.'

  The announcement came as a welcome relief from her depressing thoughts, and Sarika picked up her hand luggage and slipped the strap of her sling bag over her shoulder as she rose and walked towards the departure gate where a queue was rapidly forming. It was five in the afternoon, London time, and she would not arrive in Bombay before six-thirty the following morning. She knew from experience that it would be a long, tiring flight, and she was not looking forward to it.

  The passengers were attended to swiftly and, when Sarika's boarding pass had been checked by the ground hostess, she followed the elderly Indian couple ahead of her towards the chute that gave access to the Boeing parked on the tarmac. The flight hostess smiled at her with recognition when she boarded the aircraft, and she was shown to her seat in the first class section. Sarika disposed of her hand luggage, and sat down, her fingers automatically searching for the seat-belt and fastening it about her. She could feel the engines vibrating beneath her, and it heightened the excitement of going home.

  The man who sat down beside her was possibly in his early thirties, and his briefcase indicated that he was travelling on business. Sarika paid little attention to him. She was looking out of the window at the lights of the airport building. It was raining; it had been raining for days, and she shivered almost as if the cold and the damp had penetrated through the walls of the Boeing.

  It took some minutes before the passengers were all seated, then the Boeing began to move from the position where it had been parked. It turned, and taxied slowly towards the runway, and while this was happening the flight hostesses were instructing the passengers what to do in case of an emergency. Sarika was barely listening, she had heard it all before so many times, and at long last the Boeing was prepared for take-off. The engines were revved, the Boeing began to speed along the runway, and then they were airborne.

  Sarika leaned back in her seat wit
h her eyes closed. The sensation of flying through the air in that enormous silver machine never failed to instil a certain amount of awe and fear, and she had no idea how long she had sat like that when a familiar voice roused her.

  'A glass of wine, Miss Maynesfield?'

  'Yes, please,' she replied to the hostess's query and, when the glass was placed in her hand, she murmured her thanks absently.

  Sarika sipped her wine slowly, and gradually began to relax. In the process she also released her mind from bondage, and allowed her thoughts to wander almost at will. It was eight months since the last time she had been home, and she realised now how much she had actually missed it, but the reason for her long absence away from Bombay did not bear thinking about at that moment.

  Bombay was home to Sarika. Her parents had left England twenty-five years ago to settle in India, and two years later Sarika was born. Her father had wanted a son, and Sarika had never been allowed to forget this. Her mother, tall, sophisticated and beautiful, had never hidden the fact that motherhood had not been her forte, and she had willingly left Sarika in the capable hands of Ayah, the Indian woman, whose duties had been swiftly changed from housekeeper to nanny. There had been no other children, the decision had apparently been mutual between her parents, and Sarika had grown up alone and embittered despite her father's wealth.

  Ayah had been more than a nanny. She had taken the place of a mother and a friend, and she had showered Sarika with love and affection, but it had never entirely compensated for the parental love Sarika lacked. It was also Ayah who, knowing of her parents' love for India, had suggested the name 'Sarika', and Dave and Cara Maynesfield had agreed to it.

  She was jarred back to the present when the hostess leaned over her to snap the adjustable table into position. Her dinner was placed in front of her on a tray, and Sarika smiled her thanks. She stared at the contents of the tray. It looked tasty, but it was nevertheless plastic food, and for some unaccountable reason she thought of the old-fashioned, spicy mince pie Ayah always prepared for her. It was her favourite, and the mere thought of it made her mouth water, but instead she had to be satisfied with boiled meat and vegetables, fruit salad, and biscuits and cheese.

  'Why do young women always worry about their figures?' a male voice enquired beside her, and Sarika realised that she must have been staring at her food in a way that made him suspect she was thinking of her figure. 'My name is Bruce Watson,' he smiled at her. 'What's yours?'

  'Sarika Maynesfield,' she reciprocated, aware of his appreciative glance sliding over her speculatively, but she was not unduly disturbed by it.

  'Sarika?' he frowned. 'That's an unusual name.'

  'It's of Hindu origin,' she answered abruptly, and he looked taken aback.

  'Does it have a special meaning?'

  'It means "equal to everyone",' she explained coolly, removing the cellophane wrappers from the neatly packaged food.

  'Equal to everyone?' Bruce Watson laughed. 'That sounds like a Women's Lib slogan!'

  Accustomed to remarks of a similar nature, Sarika had a cutting reply handy. 'It takes a chauvinistic male to recognise it.'

  'Touché!' he grinned, attacking his food and leaving her to sample her own, but he did not leave her in peace for long. 'Are you going to Bombay on a holiday?'

  She shook her head and swallowed down a mouthful of food. 'My parents have lived there since before my birth, and I'm going home to join my father's company.'

  'As a typist?'

  'As an architect,' she corrected with dignity, and a certain amount of pride.

  'An architect?' He studied her with renewed interest. 'I would never have guessed.'

  'Because I'm a woman?' she asked, the light of battle instantly flickering in her eyes. 'Do you think women are incapable of competing with men in that field?'

  'You misunderstand me,' Bruce Watson laughed good-naturedly. 'If I'd been asked to guess your occupation I would have said you're a fashion model. It's the way you move and the way you dress, perhaps, but it just proves how wrong one can be.'

  Sarika accepted that in silence and concentrated on her dinner. They talked for a while longer when their trays were removed and their coffee was served, but she was soon bored with his obvious interest in her, and she picked up her magazine to discourage further conversation. Bruce Watson was perceptive enough to get the unspoken message and, after ordering himself another drink, he lifted his briefcase on to his knees and took out a wad of official-looking documents which he began to study intently.

  Sarika did not read for very long. She was, in fact, not taking in a word of what she had read anyway. She was tired after the hectic two weeks in Paris with Jane, and then there had been the lengthy, tension-packed graduation ceremony she had had to attend. She covered her legs with the small blanket which had been provided and lowered the back rest of her seat, but she could not sleep. Her thoughts went rushing back into the past, and this time she could not thrust Gary Rowan so easily from her mind.

  There had been several men in her life for brief periods of time, but she had known from the start that although they found her pleasant and attractive company, their main interest had been her father's wealth. Gary Rowan had been different… or so she had imagined. She had believed that he cared for her, that his protectiveness and concern for her was genuine, and during their whirlwind courtship she had allowed herself to fall in love for the first time in her life. She had trusted him, and she would have defended him with her life if necessary. That was why, when she discovered the truth about him, it was a crippling blow from which she knew she would never recover entirely.

  Sarika tried to curb her thoughts, but they raced on like a wild horse which had broken its tether. She could recall every sordid detail as if it had happened the day before, and her mind gave her no peace as it replayed the incidents like an old movie.

  She had been dining out with Gary at a popular restaurant frequented by the young people in Bombay. They had danced, and she had perhaps had too much wine with her dinner. Or perhaps it had simply been her happy state of mind which had made her feel light-headed when she eventually excused herself and went to the ladies' room. Two girls in the adjoining cubicles were engaged in a conversation, but Sarika had paid little attention to what they were saying until Gary's name was mentioned. Frozen, and incredulous with shock, she realised that they had been discussing her relationship with Gary, and they had gone into detail about the things he had told them of his relationship with her. It had been the easiest thing on earth to get her to fall in love with him, Gary had apparently told them. He had actually found Sarika inhibited sexually and quite a bore, but she was putty in his hands, and, if everything went according to plan, the Maynesfield millions would soon be his. They had laughed about it as if it was a hilarious joke, but Sarika, sensitive to the extreme, had been crushed and wounded so deeply that she doubted if the scars would ever heal.

  The humiliation of what had occurred still clung to her like a second skin, and she groaned inwardly as she emerged from that red mist of pain and remembered suffering. She could feel the beads of perspiration on her forehead and tight upper lip, and she made a near physical effort to thrust the hateful memories from her.

  If only she could relax and sleep. The lights in the Boeing had been dimmed, and Bruce Watson appeared to be dozing in his seat beside her, but sleep continued to evade Sarika. It was some time before she succeeded in clearing her mind sufficiently, and only then did she sink into a fitful sleep from which she awakened periodically to ease the stiffness in her limbs.

  The grey dawn sky filtered in through the window beside her when she got up to stretch her legs, and she went to freshen up in the compact cloakroom of the Boeing before returning to her seat. After the long flight she felt stiff and tired, but her physical discomfort took second place to the excitement of seeing her parents and Ayah again. Oh, how she had missed Ayah!

  Breakfast was served, but Sarika was barely conscious of what she was eating. Bru
ce Watson was talking to her, but she was not listening. The early morning sun was almost blinding as it glittered on the Adriatic Sea far below them, and when the breakfast trays were removed, Sarika sat with her eyes glued to the window for her first glimpse of the Indian coast.

  She did not have long to wait. In the distance land was clearly visible, and it was excitingly familiar to her.

  'Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,' the air hostess's voice came over the speakers in that calm, toneless manner which was intended to soothe. 'We are approaching Bombay airport and will be touching down in approximately ten minutes. Please fasten your seat belts and adjust your seats to the upright position. When the "No Smoking" light comes on please extinguish your cigarettes, and we trust that you had a pleasant flight. Thank you.'

  The Boeing was losing altitude when Sarika snapped her seat belt into position. Bruce Watson smiled at her. It was a smile that said: 'We're almost there', and she was so delighted at the thought that she actually smiled back at him with more warmth than she had intended. She glanced out of the window again, and Bombay's harbour came into sight as the Boeing dropped lower and reduced speed. It would not be long now before she would step down on to familiar soil.

  The last few minutes to touch-down seemed to drag interminably, and then there was the slow taxiing of the aircraft as it left the runway to approach the airport building. It stopped at last, and the weary passengers seemed to have new life injected into them as they collected their hand luggage and walked along the aisle towards the exit.

  Sarika was burning with impatience, and after what seemed like yet another eternity she stepped out of the Boeing and into the brilliant morning sunshine which blinded her momentarily. Oh, how good it was to feel the heat of it against her skin!