Echoes in the Dark
Gayle Wilson
For my cousin Ann, who loves a good Intrigue. I hope this one qualifies.
Contents
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Caroline Evans—Her past is shrouded in the mists of amnesia.
Julien Gerrard—The walls of his emotional fortress are threatened by a woman who is heartbreakingly familiar, a woman those every action echoes in his darkness like a ghost.
Andre Gerrard—Darkly handsome and openly sensuous, he is also very sure of his abilities to attract.
Suzanne Rochette—Caught by her loyalties between two brothers, what role does she play in the events unfolding on the island?
Paul Dupre—Suzanne’s lawyer, he is the link in Paris who ties them all together.
Prologue
“Give me the keys,” he said, the patient humor evident in the deep voice. The faint accent ran like an echo through his English.
When she ignored his command, he caught her wrist, and the sight of dark, tanned fingers against the paleness of her arm caused a reactive tightening of her stomach muscles. She watched, mesmerized, as he slid his fingers up her inner wrist. She could tell by his eyes that, as always, he knew exactly the effect his touch had. She resisted the memory of the pleasant roughness of those fingertips moving over her breasts earlier tonight when he had coaxed her to dress and join him at the reception she had just disrupted.
She took a deep breath, fighting the hunger that his hard body could always evoke. It was so easy for him to manipulate her. She was so ready to do whatever he asked because she loved him and she wanted him. God, how she wanted him. She shook her head to destroy the images produced by the remembrance of his familiar possession. If she allowed him to touch her, she would lose the anger, and he would win.
“Let me go,” she ordered, punctuating her command with a sudden jerk against the strong hand that held her prisoner.
Perhaps the element of surprise made her successful or perhaps his desire not to hurt her made him loosen his hold. Suddenly she was free, running again toward the Mercedes convertible he had given her. She opened the door and, slipping into the driver’s seat, tried to insert the key into the ignition.
Her trembling fingers failed in the first attempts, and by the time the engine finally roared to life, he had moved into the passenger seat beside her.
She glanced at his face and saw he was still amused. Her temper, never under any reliable control, especially lately, reacted predictably. No one had ever angered her as he could, with only a look or a word. The blow she ineptly directed at his face fell harmlessly against the hard forearm he raised between them.
“Kerri,” he protested, laughing, and again caught her wrist. His reflexes were so much faster than hers, honed by years of activities that demanded speed and dexterity to escape the constant threat of injury.
“Why are you so angry? What have I done this time?” he asked, still smiling.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know. ‘What have I done?’ I can’t believe you can ask that. You couldn’t take your eyes off her.”
“Is that what this is all about?” he asked, laughing, relieved. “Of course, I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She was practically nude. A palace reception and the ambassador’s wife shows up in something most women wouldn’t wear to bed.”
“She seemed to think you liked it well enough. She certainly wanted you to get a good look. A very good look. A close-up.”
His only answer to that accusation was the quick upward slant of his beautifully molded lips, but this time he controlled his laughter. He reached to run his knuckles gently down the slim column of her throat, knowing it was futile to argue with her in this mood. She slapped at his hand and moved as far away from him as the confines of the car would allow.
“Have you slept with her? Have you slept with every woman in the country? Every damn woman in the whole damn world?”
She hated the hysteria she could hear building in her voice, wished she could control the ridiculous accusations, the same accusations that she had made too many times in the past weeks. One minute she wanted to cry and rage at him, and then, perversely, she wanted to bury her head against the elegant dark dinner jacket and vent all those frustrations. Even she didn’t know what she was crying about or why she couldn’t seem to stop these bitter scenes.
Eventually he would tire of the ranting denunciations. Just as he would tire of having to explain to her his world of art and music and literature. She knew so little of those things, and he knew so much, she
