a trickle of moisture making its way down her spine. Even the slight breeze off the ocean made little headway in cooling her temperature, and she fanned herself apathetically as she progressed.
It took longer to walk along the beach. Apart from the fact that her feet were sucked down by the shifting sand, she had to negotiate a series of wooden breakwaters that intersected the sand in places. In addition to which, she had to watch out for crabs and sharp edges of coral, that could cause a nasty wound, as well as keeping an eye on the houses, to make sure she did not lose her bearings.
She was climbing over yet another wooden breakwater when the man accosted her. The sound of his voice, when she had thought she was alone, caused her to stub her foot on one of the wooden struts, and she gazed across at him indignantly, rubbing her injured toe.
‘You’re trespassing,’ he declared, halting some distance from her and regarding her with hard aggressive eyes. ‘The tourist areas are back the way you’ve come. I’m sorry, this is private property.’
Joanna pursed her lips. Apart from the fact that she was hot and tired, her toe was still stinging, and the realisation that this arrogant man was denying her her only chance of reaching Matthew Wilder’s house made her behave more recklessly than she might have done.
‘You should put up a sign,’ she declared, stepping over the breakwater, and ignoring him she continued on along the beach.
‘I said this is private property,’ the man grated, taking the steps that put him squarely into her path. ‘I’m sorry, but you can’t go any further. Please—I must insist that you turn back.’
Joanna looked up at him mutinously. In spite of her height, he was taller than she was, and now that she had a chance to look at him properly, she couldn’t help being aware of how attractive he was. He was about thirty-five, she estimated, brown skinned and tawny-eyed, with the lightest coloured hair she had seen on a man. It was a kind of ash-blond, she supposed, with a silvery sheen that was reflected in the bleached tips of short thick lashes. His nose was straight, his cheekbones high and slightly angular, and his mouth was thin and firm, above a determined jawline. Yet for all that, it was a sensual face, and she felt her senses stirring beneath his impatient gaze. He was wearing a pair of old denim shorts and a washed-out denim waistcoat, unbuttoned at present, and his skin was just as brown on his arms and legs as it was on his face. He was leanly built, but muscular, and judging from his manner, he was unused to being disobeyed.
‘I’m sorry, too,’ she said impulsively, wishing she could have met him on more friendly terms. ‘I—er—I was just taking a walk. I wanted to get away from the tourist areas.’
‘Really?’ He sounded sceptical, and she thought rather crossly that he might have tried to meet her apology with some grace.
‘Yes, really,’ she insisted, feeling damp strands of hair clinging wetly to her neck. ‘I only arrived on the island this morning, and I’m afraid I don’t know my way around yet.’
‘I see.’
The man inclined his head, but his eyes had taken on an oddly puzzled look. As if he was speculating whether or not to believe her, thought Joanna impatiently, feeling uncomfortably hot standing there. The heat didn’t seem to bother him, but she was feeling decidedly thirsty, and she longed rather desperately for a cool glass of Coke.
‘I wonder—–’ she began, hesitating about how best to frame her appeal, when the man’s eyes narrowed intently, and taking hold of her chin, he turned her face into the sun.
Remembering with loathing the last time a man had taken hold of her in this way, Joanna should have recoiled from him. But this man’s hands were not Howard Rogers’ hands; his fingers were not hot or pudgy. They were long and strong and cool, and Joanna knew the craziest urge to cover his fingers with hers. Of course, she didn’t, but her green eyes turned up to his, unknowingly provocative as they searched his lean dark face.
‘Joanna,’ he said suddenly, confounding all her hopes and fears, and bringing a flush of confused colour to her cheeks. ‘My God, it is Joanna Holland, isn’t it? Or if it’s not, you’re her living double!’
Joanna blinked. ‘I—why, yes. Yes, I’m Joanna Holland,’ she got out jerkily. ‘But how do you know that? Who are you?’
Afterwards, she realised she had made exactly the right response. Her voice had had precisely the right inflection—that anxious note that fell somewhere between interest and disbelief. But just then she had had no thought of duplicity. On the contrary, she was totally bewildered by the way he suddenly let her go, stepping back from her abruptly, as if afraid she might have some contagion. In those first few seconds, she was convinced she had never met this man before. If she had she was sure she would not have forgotten, And only briefly, in the back of her mind, flickered the thought that he might have some connection with Matthew Wilder …
But as she recovered from the shock and her brain began to function again, reason came to her. Of course, she flayed herself impatiently, of course, that had to be the answer. After all, she was within a few yards of Matthew Wilder’s house. She had let her attraction to the man blind her to the fact of her whereabouts, and for the moment she gave no thought to the question of how some colleague of the man she had come to find could identify her.
‘Joanna,’ he said again, incredulously now, pushing back his hair with a bewildered hand. The action parted the sides of the denim waistcoat, revealing the fine arrowing of hair that disappeared below the belt of his shorts and exposing an unexpectedly pale scar on the underside of his left arm. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ His lips twisted. ‘Don’t tell me Marcia sent you!’
‘Marcia?’ Joanna could only stare at him, incapable of making any sense of this, and he expelled his breath resignedly.
‘Marcia,’ he repeated flatly. ‘Marcia Stewart—she is your stepmother, isn’t she?’
‘Marcia Stewart married my father, yes,’ answered Joanna unsteadily. ‘But I don’t understand—–’
‘Don’t you remember me at all, Joanna?’ he enquired, a trace of bitterness giving a cynical slant to his mouth. ‘I’m Matthew Wilder. Uncle Matt, remember? Or have you forgotten that I ever existed?’
‘YOU—you’re Matthew Wilder!’
Joanna was stunned. She couldn’t believe this young, disturbingly attractive individual was the man who had once carried her pick-a-back round her father’s study. The Matthew Wilder she remembered was the Matthew Wilder from the photograph—a tall man, certainly, but much older and heavier built, with the bushy beard and moustache that had tickled her cheek when he kissed her.
‘I guess you didn’t know I lived out here,’ he was saying now, interpreting her reaction as one of surprise at their encounter. ‘I bought a house here about three years ago. I’ve made the island my home.’
Joanna shook her head, trying desperately to think of something suitable to say. But all she could think was that this was the man she had travelled so many thousands of miles to find, and it was all going to be so much easier than she had imagined.
‘It’s you,’ she said at last. ‘I thought—oh, I don’t know, I thought you were older.’
‘Did you think about
