The English Lord's Secret Son Page 7

Heat scorched her body. It burnt holes in her character that felt as weak as her arms and her legs. Deep, dark emotions were swirling through her like dangerous debris. The tips of her breasts were against his chest, hard as berries with a physical response she couldn’t control. What she felt was desire. Shame and guilt would follow. She thought she had wised up, grown up. Now it appeared she really hadn’t.

  She jerked away from him violently. She had loved him once. The man who had deceived her. “Thank you,” she said, sounding more ferocious than grateful.

  “No trouble.” He kept watching her like a hawk.

  The wind had picked up considerably, making a grab for her hair. The full length of it whipped free, a long column of blonde shining silk. “If I might venture a suggestion, leave it,” he said.

  For answer she put up her hands, scraping her hair back with her fingers. Long tendrils were escaping but she couldn’t help that. Once more she tied the scarf, knotting it twice. “Well?” She found she couldn’t bear him staring at her.

  “Just for a moment you reminded me of a girl I once knew,” he said, for a moment pitched back in time. “Hard to believe it was you.”

  “I was very young and incredibly foolish. Let’s drop it.”

  “Why not? What the hell!”

  His private life had not fared well during the ensuing years. Not that he was about to tell her that. Inevitable she would find out eventually. His public life, his business life, had gone exceedingly well. Losing her—the way she had left—the short, pitiful letter of explanation, if that was what one could call it, had affected him deeply. No one could have been treated worse. The moment his back was turned, she had fled at frightful speed. The final indignity. Maybe she had known what she was doing from the beginning? It was he who had got it all wrong. His mother, appalled by Catrina’s behaviour, had done everything in her power to console him, until finally she was forced to stop in despair.

  He had chosen his own way to get through. He had used his perfectly good brain to amass a fortune over a few years. On solid evidence he was a great success, a man of property, with many possessions.

  He didn’t have a wife. He didn’t have a son. Marina had hung in there as long as she thought there was hope. Now and again under pressure from the family, especially his mother, he had considered asking Marina to be his wife. Had he not met Catrina Hamilton who knew? He could have married Marina. She was a lovely person, eminently suitable. Marina had deserved better. She had gone on to marry a good friend of his, Simon Bolton. He had in fact been best man at the wedding. They remained close friends.

  It was Catrina who had stolen his heart. She had never contacted him again. Simply vanished from his life. Once hope was gone there was only heartbreak to be endured. Women weren’t the only ones to suffer that. Men did too. He had missed her. God, how he’d missed her. Hated her too. What she had done he regarded as not only cowardly but cruel. The cruellest, the most demoralising part was, there was hardly a time and a long, long night he hadn’t thought of her. He could almost believe destiny had thrown them together again. For a crime there was punishment.

  This time she wouldn’t get off so easily. An unmarried mother said it. Catrina played games with men’s minds and men’s bodies. Probably nothing really touched her. Except—and he knew it in his bones—her son. Her son would be her Achilles heel. Meeting the boy might deliver a judgment. Apparently she kept him well hidden. Hugh Saunders hadn’t met the boy either. But he knew where she lived. The big mystery was how had the boy’s father opted out so easily? Either he had placed little value on being the father of a child, or Catrina hadn’t told him.

  Simply used him.

  It happened. Women were getting better and better at using men.

  * * *

  They sat down on the loggia to a light, delicious lunch served by Lady McCready’s housekeeper, Mary, a pleasant, capable woman clearly devoted to her mistress. The loggia with its series of archways faced a cerulean infinity-edged pool. Beyond that, breathtaking views of the Coral Sea. There were comfortable white furnishings set back from the pool, the tables, couches and chairs protected from the dazzling sun by large blue, white fringed umbrellas. Huge terracotta planters framed either side of the arches, filled with blossoming hibiscus in a range of brilliant colours. The house presented the classic Mediterranean style of architecture he was long familiar with.

  Over lunch Lady McCready didn’t bother him with personal questions. He had asked to speak to her privately regarding possible negotiations. If she was surprised she had hidden it well. Davey would take Catrina on a tour of the gardens while they talked. Catrina, however, was allowed to take him on a tour of what was the large house.

  “I’m not as spry as I once was,” Lady McCready said with a laugh and a little wave of her beringed hand. Indeed the regal little lady dressed in a gorgeous kaftan looked quite frail, though the years had dealt kindly with her. “I’ll wait here for you.”

  Immediately they were out of earshot and Cate went on the attack. “So you cut me out of the negotiations? That wasn’t the plan.”

  “Plans change,” he said briefly, moving ahead of her. “I really don’t need you to make a business pitch. I would have thought that it was obvious I can handle it myself. Lady McCready and I won’t have a problem dealing with each other on what I’m sure is a seven-figure deal. It’s a truly beautiful home they’ve created here, but I haven’t yet decided whether it’s irresistible to me. It’s clear no expense has been spared. Isla Bella is much more than a hideaway. More like an Italianate villa. It must have taken a long time to complete the project?” He suddenly turned to her, caught her out staring at him.

  “Five years, I believe.” She knew she gave a betraying flush. “They commissioned an Italian architect. Lady McCready loves all things Italian. She was responsible for creating their island home. Surely you can tell me what you think so far?”

  He gave an elegant shrug. “The house in the Bahamas is British West Indies style. It’s lighter, more airy, minimalistic when compared with this. I suppose this could be called a grand house. It’s lavishly decorated. Some might find it overwhelming. Changes would have to be made.”

  “Many VIPs have stayed here as guests,” she pointed out stiffly, thinking he now had reservations. It wasn’t what he wanted? Good. “The McCreadys were known for their lavish hospitality. Three prime ministers have stayed here. But then you would have VIP guests of your own. Who knows, even royalty might stay a day or two?”

  “Okay, you can show me upstairs now.” He ignored her last comment. They had seen the major rooms of the first floor. He had declined entering the housekeeper’s domain, the kitchen, which Cate knew had been brought up to state of the art. Perhaps he simply wasn’t interested in how kitchens worked.

  They walked back into the hallway with its intricately patterned flooring featuring three types of Italian stone before taking the black wrought-iron curving staircase to the upper floor.

  “Six double bedrooms all with en suites.” She spoke exactly like a Realtor showing a client over a high-end property. “How many family members have you got?” Her voice was remarkably cool when inside she felt terribly unsettled. Sexual radiance came off him in waves. She made certain she didn’t stand too close to catch them. Even then, the scent of him was in her nostrils, as powerful an aphrodisiac as it had ever been. She took a deep breath.

  This has to stop.

  “I don’t think you have any right to ask,” he answered in a terse, pragmatic fashion. He continued to move ahead of her, as though not caring if she followed, which she did briskly. All the bedrooms were very spacious with a series of white-shuttered French doors opening out onto a covered balcony. The master suite was the most luxurious with a huge canopied bed with white filmy bed hangings. He walked out onto the balcony and looked at the glorious view with the brilliant sun scattering diamond sparkles across the deep blue waters.

  “The master suite,” Cate said quite unnecessarily when he came b
ack inside. How could she ever cancel out her memories, the two of them in bed together, the weight of his body on hers, the power of his hands, the interlocking limbs, their mouths, their tongues...the high-burning passion of it all. The way of all flesh. She had prayed for someone to come into her life to supplant him. No one had even come close. It was a savage blow, but she had been adjusting to it. She had her son. Not everyone found their soul mate.

  Had Cate only known it, Wyndham was thinking much the same thing. The excitement, the heat, the enormous pleasure he had taken even in their clashes, too little time before they had been thrown headlong into love making. She had touched his body, his heart, his mind and his soul. He had thought things would never change. How wrong could a man be? The merry dance she had led him went nowhere? To hell? Even now, God help him, he wanted to bolt the door, throw her down on the bed, make punishing love to her. She had known all about passion. About giving herself to a man. The merest contact with her had brought back the past.

  Yet when he spoke his voice was coolly casual. “I think that does it. Enjoy your trip around the garden. They look splendid, by the way. Such a pity you never did get to see the full restoration of Radclyffe Hall’s gardens.”

  “I did what I wanted to do,” she said, her tone tight. “I got away.”

  The question was, what was she going to do now?

  Just the sight of him and the years had melted away.

  * * *

  The buggy ride around the gardens was a pleasure. It even shifted her mind off what was going on inside the house. Davey had packed the leeward side of the island with dozens of species of native plants that required minimal watering. An astonishing array of agaves caught her eye, some with pearly marking. There were striking aloes with yellow flowers and millions of hot pink and bright yellow little succulent flowers. Davey seemed to welcome her interest in the garden he had created out of what was once a wilderness.

  Wyndham didn’t need her. He was the billionaire potential buyer. It hadn’t taken her long to see Lady McCready both liked and trusted him. Lord Julian Wyndham was a very charming man. He had certainly made the old lady’s eyes twinkle. No problem with an à deux, then. Amazing Lady McCready hadn’t asked him a single question about his private life. He had acted as if he didn’t have one.

  * * *

  When she returned to the house it was obvious the meeting had gone well. Lady McCready’s soft powdery cheeks were flushed with pleasure. Catrina has justified my faith in her, Lady McCready thought. She had brought her the right person to buy the island. Lord Wyndham would treat it like a second home. Now wasn’t that a wonderful outcome? She didn’t tell Catrina. Julian—he had insisted she call him Julian—had asked her to give him a little more time before they made their announcement. In return he would allow Catrina to have a contract drawn up. Rather than wanting Davey and Mary off the island, he was delighted they would stay on as caretakers.

  * * *

  The launch returned for them mid-afternoon, with the sun casting a glittery veil of light over water as blue as a precious stone. Cate was glad she didn’t suffer from motion sickness because the sea was unusually choppy, more so than on the run over to the island. She started for the shelter of the cabin not long after they boarded, her skin dewed with fine spray. She took a couple of tissues out of her tote bag, gently mopping her face. He was still out braced against the rail. She was reminded he was a good sailor. Or so he had said, though she was sure it was true. They had never got around to the trip to Cornwall they had planned, but he had shown her a photograph of the family yacht, Calliope IV, long and sleek as any luxury automobile, all varnished mahogany that gleamed even in the photograph, a golden mast tall enough to reach the cloudy sky.

  The rocky passage tested her. The diesel fumes were making her feel sick. She would be glad when they reached the mainland. He had asked her if she was okay before going off to speak to the launch owner. She heard the owner laugh out loud a few times, genuinely amused. Again she remembered he could be really funny, witty and entertaining. He had been spoilt rotten by his mother and his sisters, Olivia and Leonie, both older, both endowed with beauty, who adored him. She supposed his sisters—strangely enough she had got on well with them—were married as well. Probably with children. There had been plenty of young men in their lives. Part of his close-knit family who no doubt would be visitors to Isla Bella if he bought it.

  So far no commitment.

  The launch slid smooth and easy into dock. An exchange of handshakes with the captain before they moved off.

  “Sure you’re okay?” For a minute he sounded genuinely concerned. “You’ve gone very pale.” Her satin-smooth skin had lost colour.

  “I’m fine,” she said testily. “The diesel fumes were getting to me.”

  “And you haven’t found your land legs.”

  “Don’t you believe it.” She pulled away from his steadying arm, her body as poised and alert as a dancer’s. “We can catch a taxi back to the hotel, or we can walk.”

  “Up to you.” He shrugged. “I’d like to look around. What are those beautiful trees?” he asked, looking towards an avenue of them. “The flowers look like frangipani, but the leaves don’t.”

  “Evergreens,” she said. “They’re a species of frangipani. As you can see the flowers are a pure white. They grow prolifically up here. I saw a whole grove of them on the island. Davey is a wonderful gardener. He and Mary have a blissful lifestyle. I believe Lady McCready required a clause in any contract to state they remain on the island for as long as they want.”

  “I believe so,” he said, not to be drawn any further.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE BEDSIDE PHONE rang with a startling shrillness.

  “Yes,” she said briefly, focusing on pulling the bath robe together. She’d barely had time to get out of the shower.

  “Wyndham.” His voice was quiet, impassive. “I assume you intend to eat?”

  A heart-stopping moment. She gave a tiny cough as though clearing her throat. “I thought I’d have something in my room.”

  She heard his exasperated sigh. “Don’t be so damned ridiculous. I’m told there’s an excellent restaurant within walking distance, the Blue Lotus.”

  “I’m in no mood for dinner. With you,” she added. Perched on the side of the bed she was feeling all of a sudden stricken. She should complain to God for allowing him back into her life again. How could God be so cruel?

  He gave you free will.

  “My dear Catrina, you’re supposed to keep me happy,” he answered smoothly. “Isn’t that what your boss told you? We need to keep him happy until he comes on board?”

  “So this is blackmail?”

  “Blackmail is fine with me. Saunders is your boss. He was speaking to one of his senior staff. He only had praise for you. Don’t disappoint him. I’ll call for you at seven-thirty.” He hung up.

  She had two options. Not answer the door. Or get dressed. Hugh had thrown her head first into the thickets. It was a dark picture she had of herself. A sad, permanently love-struck woman. A woman whose whole mission had been to forget one man. And dismally failed.

  “We’re a crazy lot, aren’t we?” She addressed the woman in the bathroom mirror.

  Better believe it! her reflection replied.

  She could behave very badly, be provocative, try to seduce him. She had hinted as much to Stella, who had been appalled. But there would be some satisfaction in playing that game. Only he was a married man. And after all these years he still had enormous power to hurt her. Besides, the past had a way of repeating itself. She had asked for what she got. She had paid the price. Accepted responsibility.

  Wyndham was untouchable.

  * * *

  When she was dressed she knew she looked good. She liked looking good. A woman needed every aid in the arsenal. On impulse she had packed a resort-style maxi dress by a well-known Australian designer famous for her kaftans and resort wear. The floral-printed silk was beautiful, a lu
scious collection of tropical blooms. The light green tracery of leaves picked up the colour of her eyes. She left her hair long and loose when her intentions had been to pull it back.

  Maybe you’re just losing it?

  Fair enough! A woman was allowed to lose it now and then.

  * * *

  They had a table facing the promenade and the beach beyond. He looked absurdly handsome, absurdly sexy, so tall and lean with his dark hair and intensely blue eyes. He had even picked up a tan. It gave her an involuntary shock of pleasure just looking at him. What she needed was vigilant self-management. He was wearing a teal-coloured open-necked linen shirt with tiny pearly white buttons, the long sleeves turned back, navy jeans. He looked great. The young waitress thought so too. Not even close to hiding it. When he gave her his heart-lurching smile, colour flamed into her cheeks. No question—a great smile was a fantastic weapon.

  She heard herself agreeing to an entrée, a tartare of ocean trout garnished with salmon roe, for the mains, steamed Reef Red Emperor served in a banana leaf with a papaya, chilli and coconut salsa. All local products, the seafood caught that very day, the hovering waitress assured them. Cate sat back allowing him to choose a crisp New Zealand sauvignon

  blanc to go with the meal. The whole thing felt like an exquisite piece of theatre. Two people hostile to each other but maintaining an urbane façade.

  The restaurant was a far cry from the elegance of C’est Bon. It was unpretentious, but very clean and attractive, above all welcoming. They were fortunate to get a table because the large open room was near full. She heard a mix of languages from the enthusiastic diners at the other tables: Japanese, Chinese, German and Italian and, she thought, Taiwanese. The colour blue set the tone. Unusual blue lighting, blue and white candy-striped tablecloths, comfortable white painted chairs. A lovely creamy conch-shell centre table held an exquisite blue water lily positioned atop its emerald-green pad.

  He glanced up at the lighting over the small bar with real interest. “They did a study fairly recently on colour and the effect it has on us. One of our leading London architects designed the experimental blue lighting in a new restaurant. Far more usual to see red, but the blue worked wonders apparently. Diners came alive at around ten p.m. It was as though their body clocks had been reset. They stayed much later into the evening too. Drank more. Never tried it myself.”