face was unrelenting now. ‘Well, you have to admit the old man did die years sooner than anyone could have expected,’ he retorted, and India’s stomach hollowed at the realisation that in a matter of minutes he had lost all veneer of politeness. He was cold and arrogant, and every bit as aggressive as her mother had expected.
‘I don’t have to listen to this,’ she hissed, aware that the heat of their exchange was being monitored by at least two members of the staff. Paolo was obviously straining his ears to hear what was being said, and the young woman on the reception desk couldn’t help noticing that something was wrong. ‘If you have any complaints, I suggest you take them up with Mr Hastings when he gets here. I don’t want you upsetting my mother any more than she’s been upset already.’
Nathan scowled, but when he spoke it wasn’t Adele he was interested in. ‘Hastings?’ he said. ‘He’s coming here?’
‘In a couple of days, yes.’ India found it much easier to cope with this conversation with the cloak of hostility between them. ‘I asked him to delay his arrival, to give you time to familiarise yourself with the island again. Of course, I didn’t know then that you were going to start throwing accusations around as soon as you got here.’
Nathan’s jaw clamped. ‘I’m not throwing accusations around. Hell, India, I’m just trying to find out what’s been going on! Dammit, he was my father!’
‘I know.’ India squashed the feeling of sympathy that stirred inside her. ‘But that doesn’t give you the right to come here and impugn the reasons for his illness. You just might have played some part in that yourself!’
THE morning air was always cool, deliciously so, and one of Nathan’s favourite occupations had been to take a stroll along the beach before anyone else was about. He saw no reason not to do so now, even if he hadn’t slept in a bed. At this hour, the sand was clean and un-trampled, without the prints of other feet to deny his isolation.
Nevertheless, he was well aware that his actions were not wholly innocent. By delaying his return to the hotel, he was deliberately putting off the moment when he would have to deal with the situation his father’s will had created. Sooner or later, he would have to come to a decision about what he was going to do, but for the present he preferred to avoid a confrontation.
He had spent the night aboard the Wayfarer, more at home on the yacht on which his father had taught him to sail than in the absurdly opulent suite India and her mother had allotted him. In his more generous moments, he supposed it wasn’t really their fault. What did you do with someone who was, yet wasn’t, a member of the family? Particularly someone who was not welcome in the family apartments of the hotel.
Even so, he had guessed that Adele would be expecting to see him. How had she taken his father’s death? He couldn’t believe she was devastated by the tragedy. Only by what it had precipitated. The night before, he had actually anticipated the prospect of telling her to get out with some satisfaction. But that was before he had spoken to India, before he had discovered that she, and not Adele, had been running the hotel.
That was why he had taken himself off to the marina, guessing, accurately as it turned out, that no one would come looking for him there. He had needed time: time to consider the situation, time to think. He couldn’t get rid of Adele without getting rid of India as well, and, in spite of what had happened, he found he didn’t want to.
It was crazy. He knew that. Even thinking about keeping her on was going against every grain of intelligence he possessed. She had sided with her mother. She, like his father, had believed every word her mother had said. But, what the hell, she had only been thirteen! What kind of objectivity did a thirteen-year-old possess?
His father had left her future in his hands. That bugged him, too. Was the old man so sure he’d be magnanimous? Or didn’t he care what happened to either of them—Adele or her daughter? Hell, what did he know about India, come to that? He’d been away for eight years. She might be more like her mother than he thought.
Beyond the marina, the coastline scalloped in a series of rocky coves. The sand here was pink-tinged, untouched, too rigorous for the lotus-eaters at the hotel to reach. They were the coves where he had spent his childhood, shared with no one until India had invaded his life.
He grimaced. How sentimental could you get? And he had believed he’d banished all sentimentality from his soul. Yet there was no denying that India did hold a special place in his heart. She was his stepsister, dammit. It wasn’t something he needed to be ashamed of.
It was after eight when he got back to the hotel, and he was hungry. He’d made do with a sandwich the night before, but now he fancied eggs and bacon, and lashings of buttered toast. Not the kind of diet he recommended at a Sullivan’s Spa, but exactly what he needed to fill his groaning stomach.
Breakfast was apparently served in the Terrace Restaurant, a sunlit octagon overlooking the ocean. It was a room made almost completely of glass screens, which could be shaded or rolled back, depending on the weather. At present, several of the screens were open, and a pleasant draught of air kept the temperature in the low seventies.
Nathan paused in the doorway, looking round the attractive room. Circular tables, each spread with a crisp white cloth, were set with gleaming silver and crystal glasses. There was the scent of warm bread and freshly brewed coffee, and his stomach rumbled in sympathy with the pleasant thought of food.
‘Can I help you, sir?’
A white-coated waiter was viewing him rather doubtfully, and Nathan realised that, as on the previous day, his appearance wasn’t winning him any friends. It was the first time he had considered that an overnight growth of beard was bristling his jawline, and that his shirt and trousers bore witness to the perils of salt water.
‘I …’ He hesitated, and then, deciding that however disreputable he appeared he was hungry and this was his hotel, he plunged on. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Just point me to a table, and fetch me a pot of coffee, will you? I’ll let you know what else I want after I’ve studied the menu.’
The waiter tucked the menu he was holding under his arm as he considered his response. ‘Er—you are a guest of the hotel, are you, sir?’ he enquired, his tone just bordering on unfriendly, and Nathan nodded.
‘Room 204,’ he agreed, deciding not to embarrass the man. ‘Now—where do I sit? That table there—in the window?’
The waiter lifted one shoulder. ‘I—I’m not sure,’ he was beginning, when a familiar female voice intervened.
‘I’ll look after Mr Kittrick, Lloyd,’ India declared smoothly, bringing a look of horror to the waiter’s face. ‘Oh—didn’t Mr Kittrick introduce himself? Nathan, this is Lloyd Persall. He looks after our morning guests.’ She gave him a considering look. ‘He’s particularly good if they have a hangover.’
Nathan felt a sense of resentment stir inside him. ‘Good for Lloyd,’ he intoned, in no mood to get into another argument with her. ‘So what do I do to get some service around here? Produce my ID or what?’
India’s lips tightened. ‘Get Mr Kittrick what he wants, Lloyd,’ she said, dismissing the discomfited waiter with a reassuring gesture. ‘I’ll take care of his seating arrangements.’
‘Yes,
