He turned and surveyed his stepmother standing below him. Elizabeth Royal was only two years older than her stepson, and her slender figure and youthful way of styling her hair made her appear younger. In slim coral pants and an emerald green blouse, her curly auburn hair highlighted by the sun glinting through the panes of the window above the main doors to the building, she looked very attractive, and Jared Royal appreciated the fact. With a wry smile, he came down the stairs again, a head taller than she was even with her high heels.
‘You know perfectly well where I've been,’ he told her, amusement glinting in his curiously tawny coloured eyes. ‘Or did you think I'd been to the Legislature?'
Elizabeth's tongue appeared as she moistened her lips which matched the colour of her pants. ‘Darling, you know that girl's arriving in a couple of hours. Don't you think that today at least you could have forgone the disappearing act?'
‘No.’ Jared thrust his thumbs into the low waistband of his shorts. ‘Look, Liz, I don't want you to put yourself out for Catherine Fulton. I wouldn't have had her here at all if it hadn't been for her father's letter. Hell, she's twenty years old! Old enough to make her own mistakes.'
Elizabeth nodded as he was speaking, her fingers linked loosely together, watching him the whole time. Diminutive in stature, she was nevertheless a shrewd businesswoman, and only with Jared did she sometimes adopt an air of helpless femininity.
‘You're right, of course, darling,’ she murmured. ‘But naturally, as mistress of this establishment until you and Laura decide to get married, I don't want to let you down.'
At the mention of his fiancée's name, Jared felt that familiar feeling of impatience. His engagement to Laura Prentiss had in no way been a voluntary one on his behalf, and there were times when he felt as if he was being manoeuvred into a situation from which it would be impossible for him to withdraw. But after his father's death, and the subsequent gossip which had evolved about him and Elizabeth continuing to live at Amaryllis alone together, he had allowed himself to be swayed into announcing a relationship between himself and Laura which until his father's death had been no more than a casual association. Now, almost two years after the event, he was beginning to feel the bands perceptibly tightening. Laura, he knew, wanted to get married, and Elizabeth seemed equally enthusiastic.
With a silent oath, he turned back to the stairs. ‘Just leave it all to me, Liz,’ he directed, mounting the staircase with easy strides.
When he came downstairs again, Elizabeth was waiting for him in the library, a high-ceilinged room, with book-lined walls and slatted blinds to filter the brilliant sunlight. In cream denim pants, that moulded the contours of his thighs and flared only slightly down the long powerful legs, a cream silk shirt unbuttoned almost to his waist, and drops of water from the shower he had taken still glinting in the darkness of his hair, he looked lean and attractive, and unmistakably male. She came towards him smilingly, holding out a glass of his favourite mixture of rum and Coke, liberally chilled with ice, and he inclined his head in acknowledgement.
‘Lunch will be ready in five minutes,’ she said, cradling her glass of Martini between her fingers. ‘That should give you plenty of time to drive to the airport. What time did you say the flight was due in?'
Jared lowered his glass. ‘Two-thirty. Barring accidents.'
‘Oh, Jared! You shouldn't say things like that.'
‘Why not?’ He shrugged. ‘All right—God willing, then.'
Elizabeth's lips twitched. ‘What God would that be, darling?'
Jared made no reply and moved to stand with his back to the room, staring moodily through the slats in the blind. He was in no mood for idle chatter, and was already bored by the prospect of the wasted afternoon ahead of him.
‘Are you sure you wouldn't like me to arrange a dinner party for this evening, Jared?’ Elizabeth was speaking again. ‘Don't you think it would—well, ease things a little? Laura and her parents would be pleased to come, I know, and Judge Ferris—'
‘No!’ Jared's harsh denial brought a flush of colour to her cheeks. ‘I've told you. There are to be no special parties laid on for Catherine Fulton's benefit.'
‘But, Jared, does that mean we've to stop entertaining for the duration of her stay?'
‘Of course not.’ Jared swung round and swallowed the remainder of the liquid in his glass. ‘Just don't overdo it, that's all.’ He moved to the drinks trolley and dropped his glass carelessly on to the tray. ‘Now—shall we go in to lunch?'
Later that afternoon, driving down the tree-lined road towards the airport, Jared pondered the antagonism he felt towards his dear friend's daughter. Perhaps it was the remembrance that even at fourteen she had had all the instincts of a feline animal, and that now, six years later, she was still attempting to thwart his will with her own. Her choice of the word ‘vegetating’ to describe the life here in Barbados irritated him immensely, particularly as although he had visited England several times, he had never found London especially appealing. It was too noisy, too dirty, the air was too polluted with petrol and diesel fumes. Obviously, it was the company there she preferred, and Jack expected him to play the heavy father now.
He turned the car radio up as if to drown the unpleasantness of that prospect. An American group were playing their latest hit record, a throbbing beat sound that thundered in his ears like the pounding of the surf, and suddenly he relaxed. What was six months after all? One hundred and eighty days. And he could still paint—and swim—and surf! It would soon pass.
An aircraft was droning overhead and he glanced up, wondering whether the flight from Heathrow would land on time. A long and boring journey, he had always found it, usually passing the time by sketching any interesting profile which captured his attention. But sometimes it became embarrassing if he was observed and he had to explain who he was. Publicity, above all things, he abhorred.
Parking the convertible, he vaulted out of his seat, and strolled towards the airport buildings. At this time of the year the airport was invariably busy, with tourists arriving and departing, and the tannoy system working overtime. Somewhere a steel band was playing, its rhythm stirring his blood, and a faintly derisive smile touched the corners of his mouth as he walked slowly into the reception area.
He was not unaware of the several pairs of female eyes which followed his progress. He was not a conceited man, but he had not reached the age of thirty-four without realising his own potential, and for a time he had taken advantage of it. But in recent years he had grown bored with the reputation he had created for himself, and since his engagement to Laura, had avoided any sexual entanglements.
One particular pair of eyes were more persistent than the rest, and he turned to confront their owner with mild impatience. He saw a tall girl with long straight hair streaked in shades of honey and ash blonde. She was slim, but not excessively so, and the tantalising swell of her pointed breasts was visible above the unbuttoned neckline of the striped cotton dress she was wearing. The dress looked like a maternity garment, loose and swinging, its white background striped in shades of violet and purple, the latter exactly matching the colour of her eyes. Her lips parted, as he looked at her, to reveal even white teeth, and there was something familiar about the amusement in her expression. And then he realised why.
Walking towards her, he could feel his whole body stiffening. ‘You're—Miss Fulton, aren't you?'
She nodded and smiled, and he wondered how he could have been in any doubt. Six years ago she had been shorter and plumper, the thick hair confined
